Ridgwell Cullum - The Watchers of the Plains - A Tale of the Western Prairies

Jimmy Parker, as he was familiarly called, greeted him cordially in his abrupt fashion.

“Ah, howdy,” he said. “Prowling, Seth?” His words were accompanied by a quick look that asked a dozen questions, all of which he knew would remain unanswered. Seth and he were old friends and understood one another.

“Takin’ a spell off,” replied the farmer.

“Ah. And putting it in on the Reservation.”

The Agent smiled briefly. His face seemed to have worn itself into a serious caste which required effort to change.

“Many huntin’ ’passes’ these times?” Seth inquired presently.

“None. Only Little Black Fox says he’s going hunting soon.” The Agent’s eyes were fixed on the other’s face.

“See you’ve got Jim Crow workin’ around – south.” Seth waved an arm in the direction whence he had come.

“Yes.” Again came the Agent’s swiftly passing smile. “We’re a good distance from the southern boundary. Jim Crow’s smart enough. How did you know?”

“Saw his tepee.”

“Ah. You’ve been south?”

“Yes. There’s a fine open country that aways.”

They passed into the Agency, and Parker’s sister and housekeeper brought the visitor coffee. The house was very plain, roomy, and comfortable. The two men were sitting in the office.

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