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Ranching for Sylvia

by Harold Bindloss · English · Gutenberg #14698 · 577,995 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Ranching for Sylvia

Author: Harold Bindloss


        
Release date: January 15, 2005 [eBook #14698]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14698

Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RANCHING FOR SYLVIA ***

RANCHING FOR SYLVIA

(Published in England under the Title, _The Trustee_)

by

HAROLD BINDLOSS

Author of _Vane of the Timberlands_, _Alton of Somasco_,
_Thurston of Orchard Valley_, _Masters of the Wheatlands_, etc.

A. L. Burt Company
Publishers   New York

1913







CONTENTS

CHAPTER

      I  A STRONG APPEAL
     II  HIS FRIENDS' OPINION
    III  A MATTER OF DUTY
     IV  GEORGE MAKES FRIENDS
      V  THE PRAIRIE
     VI  GEORGE GETS TO WORK
    VII  A CATTLE DRIVE
   VIII  CONSTABLE FLETT'S SUSPICIONS
     IX  GEORGE TURNS REFORMER
      X  THE LIQUOR-RUNNERS
     XI  DIPLOMACY
    XII  GEORGE FACES DISASTER
   XIII  SYLVIA SEEKS AMUSEMENT
    XIV  BLAND GETS ENTANGLED
     XV  HERBERT MAKES A CLAIM
    XVI  A FORCED RETIREMENT
   XVII  HERBERT IS PATIENT
  XVIII  BLAND MAKES A SACRIFICE
    XIX  AN OPPOSITION MOVE
     XX  A BLIZZARD
    XXI  GRANT COMES TO THE RESCUE
   XXII  THE SPREAD OF DISORDER
  XXIII  A HARMLESS CONSPIRACY
   XXIV  GEORGE FEELS GRATEFUL
    XXV  A COUNTERSTROKE
   XXVI  THE CLIMAX
  XXVII  A SIGN FROM FLETT
 XXVIII  THE LEADING WITNESS
   XXIX  FLORA'S ENLIGHTENMENT
    XXX  THE ESCAPE
   XXXI  THE REACTION
  XXXII  A REVELATION
 XXXIII  GEORGE MAKES UP HIS MIND





CHAPTER I

A STRONG APPEAL

It was evening of early summer.  George Lansing sat by a window of the
library at Brantholme.  The house belonged to his cousin; and George,
having lately reached it after traveling in haste from Norway, awaited
the coming of Mrs. Sylvia Marston in an eagerly expectant mood.  It was
characteristic of him that his expression conveyed little hint of his
feelings, for George was a quiet, self-contained man; but he had not
been so troubled by confused emotions since Sylvia married Marston
three years earlier.  Marston had taken her to Canada; but now he was
dead, and Sylvia, returning to England, had summoned George, who had
been appointed executor of her husband's will.

Outside, beyond the broad sweep of lawn, the quiet English countryside
lay bathed in the evening light: a river gleaming in the foreground,
woods clothed in freshest verdure, and rugged hills running back
through gradations of softening color into the distance.  Inside, a ray
of sunlight stretched across the polished floor, and gleams of
brightness rested on the rows of books and somber paneling.  Brantholme
was old, but modern art had added comfort and toned down its austerity;
and George, fresh from the northern snow peaks, was conscious of its
restful atmosphere.

In the meanwhile, he was listening for a footstep.  Sylvia, he had been
told, would be with him in two or three minutes; he had already been
expecting her for a quarter of an hour.  This, however, did not
surprise him: Sylvia was rarely punctual, and until she married
Marston, he had been accustomed to await her pleasure.

She came at length, clad in a thin black dress that fitted her
perfectly; and he rose and stood looking at her while his heart beat
fast.  Sylvia was slight of figure, but curiously graceful, and her
normal expression was one of innocent candor.  The somber garments
emphasized the colorless purity of her complexion; her hair was fair,
and she had large, pathetic blue eyes.  Her beauty was somehow
heightened by a hint of fragility: in her widow's dress she looked very
forlorn and helpless; and the man yearned to comfort and protect her.
It did not strike him that she had stood for some moments enduring his
compassionate scrutiny with exemplary patience.

"It's so nice to see you, George," she said.  "I knew you would come."

He thrilled at the assurance; but he was not an effusive person.  He
brought a chair for her.

"I started as soon as I got your note," he answered simply.  "I'm glad
you're back again."

He did not think it worth while to mention that he had with difficulty
crossed a snow-barred pass in order to save time, and had left a
companion, who resented his desertion, in the wilds; but Sylvia guessed
that he had spared no effort, and she answered him with a smile.

"Your welcome's worth having, because it's sincere."

Those who understood Sylvia best occasionally said that when she was
unusually gracious it was a sign that she wanted something; but George
would have denied this with indignation.

"If it wouldn't be too painful, you might tell me a little about your
stay in Canada," he said by and by.  "You never wrote, and"--he
hesitated--"I heard only once from Dick."

Dick was her dead husband's name, and she sat silent a few moments
musing, and glancing unobtrusively at George.  He had not changed much
since she last saw him, on her wedding-day, though he looked a little
older, and rather more serious.  There were faint signs of weariness
which she did not remember in his sunburned face.  On the whole,
however, it was a reposeful face, with something in it that suggested a
steadfast disposition.  His gray eyes met one calmly and directly; his
brown hair was short and stiff; the set of his lips and the contour of
his jaw were firm.  George had entered on his thirtieth year.  Though
he was strongly made, his appearance was in no way striking, and it was
seldom that his conversation was characterized by brilliancy.  But his
friends trusted him.

"It's difficult to speak of," Sylvia began.  "When, soon after our
wedding, Dick lost most of his money, and said that we must go to
Canada, I felt almost crushed; but I thought he was right."  She paused
and glanced at George.  "He told me what you wished to do, and I'm glad
that, generous as you are, he wouldn't hear of it."

George looked embarrassed.

"I felt his refusal a little," he said.  "I could have spared the
money, and I was a friend of his."

He had proved a staunch friend, though he had been hardly tried.  For
several years he had been Sylvia's devoted servant, and an admirer of
the more accomplished Marston.  When the girl chose the latter it was a
cruel blow to George, for he had never regarded his comrade as a
possible rival; but after a few weeks of passionate bitterness, he had
quietly acquiesced.  He had endeavored to blame neither; though there
were some who did not hold Sylvia guiltless.  George was, as she well
knew, her faithful servant still; and this was largely why she meant to
tell him her tragic story.

"Well," she said, "when I first went out to the prairie, I was almost
appalled.  Everything was so crude and barbarous--but you know the
country."

George merely nodded.  He had spent a few years in a wheat-growing
settlement, inhabited by well-bred young Englishmen.  The colony,
however, was not conducted on economic lines; and when it came to
grief, George, having come into some property on the death of a
relative, returned to England.

"Still," continued Sylvia, "I tried to be content, and blamed myself
when I found it difficult.  There was always so much to do--cooking,
washing, baking--one could seldom get any help.  I often felt worn out
and longed to lie down and sleep."

"I can understand that," said George, with grave sympathy.  "It's a
very hard country for a woman."

He was troubled by the thought of what she must have borne for it was
difficult to imagine Sylvia engaged in laborious domestic toil.  It had
never occurred to him that her delicate appearance was deceptive.

"Dick," she went on, "was out at work all day; there was nobody to talk
to--our nearest neighbor lived some miles off.  I think now that Dick
was hardly strong enough for his task.  He got restless and moody after
he lost his first crop by frost.  During that long, cruel winter we
were both unhappy: I never think without a shudder of the bitter nights
we spent sitting beside the stove, silent and anxious about the future.
But we persevered; the next harvest was good, and we were brighter when
winter set in.  I shall always be glad of that in view of what came
after."  She paused, and added in a lower voice:

"You heard, of course?"

"Very little; I was away.  It was a heavy blow."

"I couldn't write much," explained Sylvia.  "Even now, I can hardly
talk of it--but you were a dear friend of Dick's.  We had to burn wood;
the nearest bluff where it could be cut was several miles away; and
Dick didn't keep a hired man through the winter.  It was often very
cold, and I got frightened when he drove off if there was any wind.  It
was trying to wait in the quiet house, wondering if he could stand the
exposure.  Then one day something kept him so that he couldn't start
for the bluff until noon; and near dusk the wind got up and the snow
began to fall.  It got thicker, and I could not sit still.  I went out
now and then and called, and was driven back, almost frozen, by the
storm.  I could scarcely see the lights a few yards away; the house
shook.  The memory of that awful night will haunt me all my life!"

She broke off with a shiver, and George looked very compassionate.

"I think," he said gently, "you had better not go on." "Ah!" replied
Sylvia, "I must grapple with the horror and not yield to it; with the
future to be faced, I can't be a coward.  At last I heard the team and
opened the door.  The snow was blinding, but I could dimly see the
horses standing in it.  I called, but Dick didn't answer, and I ran out
and found him lying upon the load of logs.  He was very still, and made
no sign, but I reached up and shook him--I couldn't believe the
dreadful thing.  I think I screamed; the team started suddenly, and
Dick fell at my feet.  Then the truth was clear to me."

A half-choked sob broke from her, but she went on.

"I couldn't move him; I must have gone nearly mad, for I tried to run
to Peterson's, three miles away.  The snow blinded me, and I came back
again; and by and by another team arrived.  Peterson had got lost
driving home from the settlement.  After that, I can't remember
anything; I'm thankful it is so--I couldn't bear it!"

Then there was silence for a few moments until George rose and gently
laid his hand on her shoulder.

"My sympathy's not worth much, Sylvia, but it's yours," he said.  "Can
I help in any practical way?"

Growing calmer, she glanced up at him with tearful eyes.

"I can't tell you just yet; but it's a comfort to have your sympathy.
Don't speak to me for a little while, please."

He went back to his place and watched her with a yearning heart,
longing for the power to soothe her.  She looked so forlorn and
desolate, too frail to bear her load of sorrow.

"I must try to be brave," she smiled up at him at length.  "And you are
my trustee.  Please bring those papers I laid down.  I suppose I must
talk to you about the farm."

It did not strike George that this was a rather sudden change, or that
there was anything incongruous in Sylvia's considering her material
interests in the midst of her grief.  After examining the documents, he
asked her a few questions, to which she gave explicit answers.

"Now you should be able to decide what must be done," she said finally;
"and I'm anxious about it.  I suppose that's natural."

"You have plenty of friends," George reminded her consolingly.

Sylvia rose, and there was bitterness in her expression.

"Friends?  Oh, yes; but I've come back to them a widow, badly provided
for--that's why I spent some months in Montreal before I could nerve
myself to face them."  Then her voice softened as she fixed her eyes on
him.  "It's fortunate there are one or two I can rely on."

Sylvia left him with two clear impressions: her helplessness, and the
fact that she trusted him.  While he sat turning over the papers, his
cousin and co-trustee came in.  Herbert Lansing was a middle-aged
business man, and he was inclined to portliness.  His clean-shaven and
rather fleshy face usually wore a good-humored expression; his manners
were easy and, as a rule, genial.

"We must have a talk," he began, indicating the documents in George's
hand.  "I suppose you have grasped the position, even if Sylvia hasn't
explained it.  She shows an excellent knowledge of details."

There was a hint of dryness in his tone that escaped George's notice.

"So far as I can make out," he answered, "Dick owned a section of a
second-class wheat-land, with a mortgage on the last quarter, some way
back from a railroad.  The part under cultivation gives a poor crop."

"What would you value the property at?"

George made a rough calculation.

"I expected something of the kind," Herbert told him.  "It's all Sylvia
has to live upon, and the interest would hardly cover her dressmaker's
bills." He looked directly at his cousin.  "Of course, it's possible
that she will marry again."

"She must never be forced to contemplate it by any dread of poverty,"
George said shortly.

"How is it to be prevented?"

George merely looked thoughtful and a little stern.  Getting no answer,
Herbert went on:

"So far as I can see, we have only two courses to choose between.  The
first is to sell out as soon as we can find a buyer, with unfortunate
results if your valuation's right; but the second looks more promising.
With immigrants pouring into the country, land's bound to go up, and we
ought to get a largely increased price by holding on a while.  To do
that, I understand, the land should be worked."

"Yes.  It could, no doubt, be improved; which would materially add to
its value."

"I see one difficulty: the cost of superintendence might eat up most of
the profit.  Wages are high on the prairie, are they not?"

George assented, and Herbert continued:

"Then a good deal would depend on the man in charge.  Apart from the
question of his honesty, he would have to take a thorough interest in
the farm."

"He would have to think of nothing else, and be willing to work from
sunrise until dark," said George.  "Successful farming means determined
effort in western Canada."

"Could you put your hands upon a suitable person?"

"I'm very doubtful.  You don't often meet with a man of the kind we
need in search of an engagement at a strictly moderate salary."

"Then it looks as if we must sell out now for enough to provide Sylvia
with a pittance."

"That," George said firmly, "is not to be thought of!"

There was a short silence while he pondered, for his legacy had not
proved an unmixed blessing.  At first he had found idleness irksome,
but by degrees he had grown accustomed to it.  Though he was still
troubled now and then by an idea that he was wasting his time and
making a poor use of such abilities as he possessed, it was pleasant to
feel that, within certain limits, he could do exactly as he wished.
Life in western Canada was strenuous and somewhat primitive; he was
conscious of a strong reluctance to resume it; but he could not bear to
have Sylvia, who had luxurious tastes, left almost penniless.  There
was a way in which he could serve her, and he determined to take it.
George was steadfast in his devotion, and did not shrink from a
sacrifice.

"It strikes me there's only one suitable plan," he said.  "I know
something about western farming.  I wouldn't need a salary; and Sylvia
could trust me to look after her interests.  I'd better go out and take
charge until things are straightened up, or we come across somebody fit
for the post."

Herbert heard him with satisfaction.  He had desired to lead George up
to this decision, and he suspected that Sylvia had made similar
efforts.  It was not difficult to instil an idea into his cousin's mind.

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "the suggestion seems a good one; though
it's rather hard on you, if you really mean to go."

"That's decided," was the brief answer.

"Then, though we can discuss details later, you had better give me
legal authority to look after your affairs while you are away.  There
are those Kaffir shares, for instance; it might be well to part with
them if, they go up a point or two."

"I've wondered why you recommended me to buy them," George said bluntly.

Herbert avoided a direct answer.  He now and then advised George, who
knew little about business, in the management of his property, but his
advice was not always disinterested or intended only for his cousin's
benefit.

"Oh," he replied, "the cleverest operators now and then make mistakes,
and I don't claim exceptional powers of precision.  It's remarkably
difficult to forecast the tendency of the stock-market."

George nodded, as if satisfied.

"I'll arrange things before I sail, and I'd better get off as soon as
possible.  Now, suppose we go down and join the others."




CHAPTER II

HIS FRIENDS' OPINION

On the afternoon following his arrival, George stood thoughtfully
looking about on his cousin's lawn.  Creepers flecked the mellow brick
front of the old house with sprays of tender leaves; purple clematis
hung from a trellis; and lichens tinted the low terrace wall with
subdued coloring.  The grass was flanked by tall beeches, rising in
masses of bright verdure against a sky of clearest blue; and beyond it,
across the sparkling river, smooth meadows ran back to the foot of the
hills.  It was, in spite of the bright sunshine, all so fresh and cool:
a picture that could be enjoyed only in rural England.

George was sensible of the appeal it made to him; now, when he must
shortly change such scenes for the wide levels of western Canada, which
are covered during most of the year with harsh, gray grass, alternately
withered by frost and sun, he felt their charm.  It was one thing to
run across to Norway on a fishing or mountaineering trip and come back
when he wished, but quite another to settle down on the prairie where
he must remain until his work should be done.  Moreover, for Mrs.
Lansing had many friends, the figures scattered about the lawn--young
men and women in light summer attire--enhanced the attractiveness of
the surroundings.  They were nice people, with pleasant English ways;
and George contrasted them with the rather grim, aggressive plainsmen
among whom he would presently have to live: men who toiled in the heat,
half naked, and who would sit down to meals with him in dusty, unwashed
clothes.  He was not a sybarite, but he preferred the society of Mrs.
Lansing's guests.

After a while she beckoned him, and they leaned upon the terrace wall
side by side.  She was a good-natured, simple woman, with strongly
domestic habits and conventional views.

"I'm glad Herbert has got away from business for a few days," she
began.  "He works too hard, and it's telling on him.  How do you think
he is looking?"

George knew she was addicted to displaying a needless anxiety about her
husband's health.  It had struck him that Herbert was getting stouter;
but he now remembered having noticed a hint of care in his face.

"The rest will do him good," he said.

Mrs. Lansing's conversation was often disconnected, and she now changed
the subject.

"Herbert tells me you are going to Canada.  As you're fond of the open
air, you will enjoy it."

"I suppose so," George assented rather dubiously.

"Of course, it's very generous, and Sylvia's fortunate in having you to
look after things"--Mrs. Lansing paused before adding--"but are you
altogether wise in going, George?"

Lansing knew that his hostess loved romance, and sometimes attempted to
assist in one, but he would have preferred another topic.

"I don't see what else I could do," he said.

"That's hardly an answer.  You will forgive me for speaking plainly,
but what I meant was this--your devotion to Sylvia is not a secret."

"I wish it were!" George retorted.  "But I don't intend to deny it."

His companion looked at him reproachfully.

"Don't get restive; I've your best interests at heart.  You're a little
too confiding and too backward, George.  Sylvia slipped through your
fingers once before."

George's brown face colored deeply.  He was angry, but Mrs. Lansing was
not to be deterred.

"Take a hint and stay at home," she went on.  "It might pay you better."

"And let Sylvia's property be sacrificed?"

"Yes, if necessary."  She looked at him directly.  "You have means
enough."

He struggled with his indignation.  Sylvia hated poverty, and it had
been suggested that he should turn the fact to his advantage.  The idea
that she might be more willing to marry him if she were poor was most
unpleasant.

"Sylvia's favor is not to be bought," he said.

Mrs. Lansing's smile was half impatient.

"Oh, well, if you're bent on going, there's nothing to be said.
Sylvia, of course, will stay with us."

The arrangement was a natural one, as Sylvia was a relative of hers;
but George failed to notice that her expression grew thoughtful as she
glanced toward where Sylvia was sitting with a man upon whom the
soldier stamp was plainly set.  George followed her gaze and frowned,
but he said nothing, and his companion presently moved away.  Soon
afterward he crossed the lawn and joined a girl who waited for him.
Ethel West was tall and strongly made.  She was characterized by a keen
intelligence and bluntness of speech.  Being an old friend of George's,
she occasionally assumed the privilege of one.

"I hear you are going to Canada.  What is taking you there again?" she
asked.

"I am going to look after some farming property, for one thing."

Ethel regarded him with amusement.

"Sylvia Marston's, I suppose?"

"Yes," George answered rather shortly.

"Then what's the other purpose you have in view?"

George hesitated.

"I'm not sure I have another motive."

"So I imagined.  You're rather an exceptional man--in some respects."

"If that's true, I wasn't aware of it," George retorted.

Ethel laughed.

"It's hardly worth while to prove my statement; we'll talk of something
else.  Has Herbert told you anything about his business since you came
back?  I suppose you have noticed signs of increased prosperity?"

"I'm afraid I'm not observant, and Herbert isn't communicative."

"Perhaps he's wise.  Still, the fact that he's putting up a big new
orchard-house has some significance.  I understand from Stephen that
he's been speculating largely in rubber shares.  It's a risky game."

"I suppose it is," George agreed.  "But it's most unlikely that Herbert
will come to grief.  He has a very long head; I believe he could, for
example, buy and sell me."

"That wouldn't be very difficult.  I suspect Herbert isn't the only one
of your acquaintances who is capable of doing as much."

Her eyes followed Sylvia, who was then walking across the grass.
Sylvia's movements were always graceful, and she had now a subdued,
pensive air that rendered her appearance slightly pathetic.  Ethel's
face, however, grew quietly scornful.  She knew what Sylvia's forlorn
and helpless look was worth.

"I'm not afraid that anybody will try," George replied.

"Your confidence is admirable." laughed Ethel; "but I mustn't appear
too cynical, and I've a favor to ask.  Will you take Edgar out with
you?"

George felt a little surprised.  Edgar was her brother, a lad of
somewhat erratic habits and ideas, who had been at Oxford when George
last heard of him.

"Yes, if he wants to go, and Stephen approves," he said; for Stephen,
the lawyer, was an elder brother, and the Wests had lost their parents.

"He will be relieved to get him off his hands for a while; but Edgar
will be over to see you during the afternoon.  He's spending a week or
two with the Charltons."

"I remember that young Charlton and he were close acquaintances."

"That was the excuse for the visit; but you had better understand that
there was a certain amount of friction when Edgar came home after some
trouble with the authorities.  In his opinion, Stephen is too fond of
making mountains out of molehills; but I must own that Edgar's
molehills have a way of increasing in size, and the last one caused us
a good deal of uneasiness.  Anyway, we have decided that a year's hard
work in Canada might help to steady him, even if he doesn't follow up
farming.  The main point is that he would be safe with you."

"I'll have a talk with him," George promised; and after a word of
thanks Ethel turned away.

A little later she joined Mrs. Lansing, who was sitting alone in the
shadow of a beech.

"I'm afraid I've added to George's responsibilities--he has agreed to
take Edgar out," she said.  "He has some reason for wishing to be
delivered from his friends, though I don't suppose he does so."

"I've felt the same thing.  Of course, I'm not referring to Edgar--his
last scrape was only a trifling matter."

"So he contends," laughed Ethel.  "Stephen doesn't agree with him."

"Well," said Mrs. Lansing, "I've often thought it's a pity George
didn't marry somebody nice and sensible."

"Would you apply that description to Sylvia?"

"Sylvia stands apart," Mrs. Lansing declared.  "She can do what nobody
else would venture on, and yet you feel you must excuse her."

"Have you any particular exploit of hers in your mind?"

"I was thinking of when she accepted Dick Marston.  I believe even Dick
was astonished."

"Sylvia knows how to make herself irresistible," said Ethel, strolling
away a few moments later, somewhat troubled in mind.

She had cherished a half-tender regard for George, which, had it been
reciprocated, might have changed to a deeper feeling.  The man was
steadfast, chivalrous, honest, and she saw in him latent capabilities
which few others suspected.  Still, his devotion to Sylvia had never
been concealed, and Ethel had acquiesced in the situation, though she
retained a strong interest in him.  She believed that in going to
Canada he was doing an injudicious thing; but as his confidence was
hard to shake, he could not be warned--her conversation with him had
made that plainer.  She would not regret it if Sylvia forgot him while
he was absent; but there were other ways in which he might suffer, and
she wished he had not chosen to place the management of his affairs in
Herbert's hands.

In the meanwhile, her brother had arrived, and he and George were
sitting together on the opposite side of the lawn.  Edgar was a
handsome, dark-haired lad, with a mischievous expression, and he
sometimes owned that his capacity for seeing the humorous side of
things was a gift that threatened to be his ruin.  Nevertheless, there
was a vein of sound common sense in him, and he had a strong admiration
for George Lansing.

"Why do you want to go with me?" the latter asked, pretending to be a
bit stern, but liking the youngster all the while.

"That," Edgar laughed, "is a rather euphemistic way of putting it.  My
washes have not been consulted.  I must give my relatives the credit
for the idea.  Still, one must admit they had some provocation."

"It strikes me they have had a good deal of patience," George said
dryly.  "I suppose it's exhausted."

"No," replied Edgar, with a confidential air; "it's mine that has given
out.  I'd better explain that being stuffed with what somebody calls
formulae gets monotonous, and it's a diet they're rather fond of at
Oxford.  Down here in the country they're almost as bad; and pretending
to admire things I don't believe in positively hurts.  That's why I
sometimes protest, with, as a rule, disastrous results."

"Disastrous to the objectionable ideas or customs?"

"No," laughed the lad; "to me.  Have you ever noticed how vindictive
narrow-minded people get when you destroy their pet delusions?"

"I can't remember ever having done so."'

"Then you'll come to it.  If you're honest it's unavoidable; only some
people claim that they make the attack from duty, while I find a
positive pleasure in the thing."

"There's one consolation--you won't have much time for such proceedings
if you come with me.  You'll have to work in Canada."

"I anticipated something of the sort," the lad rejoined.  Then he grew
serious.  "Have you decided who's to look after your affairs while you
are away?  If you haven't, you might do worse than leave them to
Stephen.  He's steady and safe as a rock, and, after all, the three per
cent. you're sure of is better than a handsome dividend you may never
get."

"I can't give Herbert the go-by.  He's the obvious person to do
whatever may be needful."

"I suppose so," Edgar assented, with some reluctance.  "No doubt he'd
feel hurt if you asked anybody else; but I wish you could have got
Stephen."

He changed the subject; and when some of the others came up and joined
them, he resumed his humorous manner.

"I'm not asking for sympathy," he said, in answer to one remark.  "I'm
going out to extend the bounds of the empire, strengthen the ties with
the mother country, and that sort of thing.  It's one of the privileges
that seem to be attached to the possession of a temperament like mine."

"How will you set about the work?" somebody asked.

"With the plow and the land-packer," George broke in.  "He'll have the
satisfaction of driving them twelve hours a day.  It happens to be the
most effective way of doing the things he mentions."

Edgar's laughter followed him as he left the group.

After dinner that evening Herbert invited George into the library.

"Parker has come over about my lease, and his visit will save you a
journey," he explained.  "We may as well get things settled now while
he's here."

George went with him to the library, where the lawyer sat at a
writing-table.  He waited in silence while Herbert gave the lawyer a
few instructions.  A faint draught flowed in through an open window,
and gently stirred the litter of papers; a shaded lamp stood on the
table, and its light revealed the faces of the two men near it with
sharp distinctness, though outside the circle of brightness the big
room was almost dark.

It struck George that his cousin looked eager, as if he were impatient
to get the work finished; but he reflected that this was most likely
because Herbert wished to discuss the matter of the lease.  Then he
remembered with a little irritation what Ethel said during the
afternoon.  It was not very lucid, but he had an idea that she meant to
warn him; and Edgar had gone some length in urging that he should leave
the care of his property to another man.  This was curious, but hardly
to be taken into consideration, Herbert was capable and exact in his
dealings; and yet for a moment or two George was troubled by a faint
doubt.  It appeared irrational, and he drove it out of his mind when
Herbert spoke.

"The deed's ready; you have only to sign," he said, indicating a paper.
Then he added, with a smile: "You quite realize the importance of what
you are doing?"

The lawyer turned to George.

"This document gives Mr. Lansing full authority to dispose of your
possessions as he thinks fit.  In accordance with it, his signature
will be honored as if it were yours."

Parker's expression was severely formal, and his tone businesslike; but
he had known George for a long while, and had served his father.
Again, for a moment, George had an uneasy feeling that he was being
warned; but he had confidence in his friends, and his cousin was
eminently reliable.

"I know that," he answered.  "I've left matters in Herbert's hands on
other occasions, with fortunate results.  Will you give me a pen?"

The lawyer watched him sign with an inscrutable face, but when he laid
down the pen, Herbert drew back out of the strong light.  He was
folding the paper with a sense of satisfaction and relief.




CHAPTER III

A MATTER OF DUTY

On the evening before George's departure, Sylvia stood with him at the
entrance to the Brantholme drive.  He leaned upon the gate, a
broad-shouldered, motionless figure; his eyes fixed moodily upon the
prospect, because he was afraid to let them dwell upon his companion.
In front, across the dim white road, a cornfield ran down to the river,
and on one side of it a wood towered in a shadowy mass against a soft
green streak of light.  Near its foot the water gleamed palely among
overhanging alders, and in the distance the hills faded into the
grayness of the eastern sky.  Except for the low murmur of the stream,
it was very still; and the air was heavy with the smell of dew-damped
soil.

All this had its effect on George.  He loved the quiet English country;
and now, when he must leave it, it strongly called to him.  He had
congenial friends, and occupations in which he took pleasure--sport,
experiments in farming, and stock-raising.  It would be hard to drop
them; but that, after all, was a minor trouble.  He would be separated
from Sylvia until his work should be done.

"What a beautiful night!" she said at length.  Summoning his
resolution, he turned and looked at her.  She stood with one hand
resting on the gate, slender, graceful, and wonderfully attractive, the
black dress emphasizing the pure whiteness of her face and hands.
Sylvia was an artist where dress was concerned, and she had made the
most of her somber garb.  As he looked at her a strong temptation shook
the man.  He might still discover some excuse for remaining to watch
over Sylvia, and seize each opportunity for gaining her esteem.  Then
he remembered that this would entail the sacrifice of her property; and
a faint distrust of her, which he had hitherto refused to admit, seized
him.  Sylvia, threatened by poverty, might yield without affection to
the opportunities of a suitor who would bid high enough for her hand;
and he would not have such a course forced upon her, even if he were
the one to profit.

"You're very quiet; you must feel going away," she said.

"Yes," George admitted; "I feel it a good deal."

"Ah!  I don't know anybody else who would have gone--I feel selfish and
shabby in letting you."

"I don't think you could stop me."

"I haven't tried.  I suppose I'm a coward, but until you promised to
look after matters, I was afraid of the future.  I have friends, but
the tinge of contempt which would creep into their pity would be hard
to bear.  It's hateful to feel that you are being put up with.
Sometimes I thought I'd go back to Canada."

"I've wondered how you stood it as long as you did," George said
incautiously.

"Aren't you forgetting?  I had Dick with me then."  Sylvia paused and
shuddered.  "It would be so different now."

George felt reproved and very compassionate.

"Yes," he said, "I'm afraid I forgot; but the whole thing seems unreal.
It's almost impossible to imagine your living on a farm in western
Canada."

"I dare say it's difficult.  I'll confess I'm fond of ease and comfort
and refinement.  I like to be looked after and waited on; to have
somebody to keep unpleasant things away.  That's dreadfully weak, isn't
it?  And because I haven't more courage, I'm sending you back to the
prairie."

"I'm quite ready to go."

"Oh, I'm sure of that!  It's comforting to remember that you're so
resolute and matter-of-fact.  You wouldn't let troubles daunt
you--perhaps you would scarcely notice them when you had made up your
mind."

The man smiled, rather wistfully.  He could feel things keenly, and he
had his romance; but Sylvia resumed:

"I sometimes wonder if you ever felt really badly hurt?"

"Once," he said quietly.  "I think I have got over it."

"Ah!" she murmured.  "I was afraid you would blame me, but now it seems
that Dick knew you better than I did.  When he made you my trustee, he
said that you were too big to bear him malice."

The blood crept into George's face.

"After the first shock had passed, and I could reason calmly, I don't
think I blamed either of you.  You had promised me nothing; Dick was a
brilliant man, with a charm everybody felt.  By comparison, I was
merely a plodder."

Sylvia mused for a few moments.

"George," she said presently, "I sometimes think you're a little too
diffident.  You plodders who go straight on, stopping for nothing,
generally gain your object in the end."

His heart beat faster.  It looked as if she meant this for a hint.

"I can't thank you properly," she continued; "though I know that all
you undertake will be thoroughly carried out.  I wish I hadn't been
forced to let you go so far away; there is nobody else I can rely on."

He could not tell her that he longed for the right to shelter her
always--it was not very long since the Canadian tragedy--but silence
cost him an effort.  At length she touched his arm.

"It's getting late, and the others will wonder where we are," she
reminded him.

They went back to the house; and when Sylvia joined Mrs. Lansing,
George felt seriously annoyed with himself.  He had been deeply
stirred, but he had preserved an unmoved appearance when he might have
expressed some sympathy of tenderness which could not have been
resented.  Presently Ethel West crossed the room to where he was rather
moodily standing.

"I believe our car is waiting, and, as Edgar won't let me come to the
station to-morrow, I must say good-by now," she told him.  "Both
Stephen and I are glad he is on your hands."

"I must try to deserve your confidence," George said, smiling.  "It's
premature yet."

"Never mind that.  We're alike in some respects: pretty speeches don't
appeal to us.  But there's one thing I must tell you--don't delay out
yonder, come back as soon as you can."

She left him thoughtful.  He had a high opinion of Ethel's
intelligence, but he would entertain no doubts or misgivings.  They
were treasonable to Herbert and, what was worse, to Sylvia.

Going to bed in good time, he had only a few words with Sylvia over his
early breakfast in the morning.  Then he was driven to the station,
where Edgar joined him; and the greater part of their journey proved
uneventful.

Twelve days after leaving Liverpool they were, however, awakened early
one morning by feeling the express-train suddenly slacken speed.  The
big cars shook with a violent jarring, and George hurriedly swung
himself down from his upper berth.  He had some difficulty in getting
into his jacket and putting on his boots, but he pushed through the
startled passengers and sprang down upon the track before the train
quite stopped.  He knew that accidents were not uncommon in the wilds
of northern Ontario.

Ragged firs rose, dripping, against the rosy glow in the eastern sky,
with the narrow gap, hewed out for the line, running through their
midst.  Some had been stripped of their smaller branches by fire, and
leaned, dead and blackened, athwart each other.  Beneath them, shallow
pools gleamed in the hollows of the rocks, which rose in rounded masses
here and there, and the gravel of the graded track was seamed by water
channels.  George remembered having heard the roar of heavy rain and a
crash of thunder during the night, but it was now wonderfully still and
fresh, and the resinous fragrance of the firs filled the chilly air.

Walking forward, clear of the curious passengers who poured from the
cars, he saw a lake running back into the woods.  A tall water-tank
stood on the margin with a shanty, in which George imagined a telegraph
operator was stationed, at its foot.  Ahead, the great locomotive was
pouring out a cloud of sooty smoke.  When George reached it he waited
until the engineer had finished talking to a man on the line.

"What are we stopping for?  Has anything gone wrong?" he asked.

"Freight locomotive jumped the track at a wash-out some miles ahead,"
explained the engineer.  "Took the fireman with her; but I don't know
much about it yet.  Guess they'll want me soon."

George got the man to promise to take him, and then he went back until
he met Edgar, to whom he related what he had heard.

"I'm not astonished," remarked the lad, indicating one of the sleepers.
"Look at that--the rail's only held down by a spike or two; we fasten
them in solid chairs.  They're rough and ready in this country."

It was the characteristic hypercritical attitude of the newly-arrived
Englishman; and George, knowing that the Canadians strongly resent it,
noticed a look of interest in the eyes of a girl standing near them.
She was, he imagined, about twenty-four years of age, and was dressed
in some thin white material, the narrow skirt scarcely reaching to the
tops of her remarkably neat shoes.  Her arms were uncovered to the
elbows; her neck was bare, but this displayed a beautiful skin; and the
face beneath the turned-down brim of the big hat was attractive.
George thought she was amused at Edgar's comment.

"Well," he said, "while we put down a few miles of metals they'd drive
the track across leagues of new country and make a start with the
traffic.  They haven't time to be particular, with the great western
wheat-land waiting for development."

The girl moved away; and when word went around that there would be a
delay of several hours, George sat down beside the lake and watched the
Colonist passengers wash their children's clothes.  It was, he thought,
rather a striking scene--the great train standing in the rugged
wilderness, the wide stretch of gleaming water running back among the
firs, and the swarm of jaded immigrants splashing bare-footed along the
beach.  Their harsh voices and hoarse laughter broke discordantly on
the silence of the woods.

After a while an elderly man, in badly-fitting clothes and an old
wide-brimmed hat, sauntered up with the girl George had noticed, and
stopped to survey the passengers.

"A middling sample; not so many English as usual," he remarked.  "If
they keep on coming in as they're doing, we'll get harvest hands at a
reasonable figure."

"All he thinks about!" Edgar commented, in a lowered voice.  "That's
the uncivil old fellow who smokes the vile leaf tobacco; he drove me
out of the car once or twice.  It's hard to believe he's her father;
but in some ways they're alike."

"I can't help feeling sorry for them," the girl replied.  "Look at
those worn-out women, almost too limp to move.  It's hot and shaky
enough in our cars; the Colonist ones must be dreadful."

"Good enough for the folks who're in them; they're not fastidious,"
said the man.

They strolled on, and George felt mildly curious about them.  The girl
was pretty and graceful, with a stamp of refinement upon her; the man
was essentially rugged and rather grim.  Suddenly, however, a whistle
blast rang out, and George hurried toward the engine.  It was beginning
to move when he reached it but, grasping a hand-rail, he clambered up.
The cab was already full of passengers, but he had found a place on the
frame above the wheels when he saw the girl in the light dress running,
flushed and eager, along the line.  Leaning down as far as possible, he
held out his hand to her.

"Get hold, if you want to come," he called.  "There's a step yonder."

She seized his hand and smiled at him when he drew her up beside him.

"Thanks," she said.  "I was nearly too late."

"Perhaps we had better make for the pilot, where there'll be more
room," George suggested, as two more passengers scrambled up.

They crept forward, holding on by the guard-rail, while the great
engine began to rock as it gathered speed.  The girl, however, was
fearless, and at length they reached the front, and stood beneath the
big head-lamp with the triangular frame of the pilot running down to
the rails at their feet.  The ledge along the top of it was narrow, and
when his companion sat down George felt concerned about her safety.
Her hat had blown back, setting free tresses of glossy hair; her light
skirt fluttered against the sooty pilot.

"You'll have to allow me," he said, tucking the thin fabric beneath her
and passing an arm around her waist.

He thought she bore it well, for her manner was free from prudish alarm
or coquettish submission.  With sound sense, she had calmly acquiesced
in the situation; but George found the latter pleasant.  His companion
was pretty, the swift motion had brought a fine warmth into her cheeks,
and a sparkle into her eyes; and George was slightly vexed when Edgar,
appearing round the front of the engine, unnoticed by the girl,
surveyed him with a grin.

"Is there room for me?" he asked.  "I had to leave the place where I
was, because my fellow passengers didn't seem to mind if they pushed me
off.  A stranger doesn't get much consideration in this country."

The girl looked up at him consideringly and answered, through the roar
of the engine:

"You may sit here, if you'll stop criticizing us."

"It's quite fair," Edgar protested, as he took his place by her side.
"I've been in Canada only three days, but I've several times heard
myself alluded to as an Englishman, as if that were some excuse for me."

"Are you sure you haven't been provoking people by your superior air?"

"I didn't know I possessed one; but I don't see why I should be very
humble because I'm in Canada."

The girl laughed good-humoredly, and turned to George.

"I'm glad I came.  This is delightful," she said.

It was, George admitted, an exhilarating experience.  The big engine
was now running at top speed, rocking down the somewhat roughly laid
line.  Banks of trees and stretches of gleaming water sped past, The
rails ahead came flying back to them.  The sun was on the firs, and the
wind that lashed George's face was filled with their fragrance.  Once
or twice a tress of his companion's hair blew across his cheek, but she
did not appear to notice this.  He thought she was conscious of little
beyond the thrill of speed.

At length the engine stopped where the line crossed a lake on a high
embankment.  A long row of freight-cars stood near a break in the track
into which the rails ran down, and a faint cloud of steam rose from the
gap.

George helped the girl down, anticipating Edgar, who seemed anxious to
offer his assistance, and they walked forward until they could see into
the pit.  It was nearly forty feet in depth, for the embankment,
softened by heavy rain, had slipped into the lake.  In the bottom a
huge locomotive lay shattered and overturned, with half a dozen men
toiling about it.  The girl stopped with a little gasp, for there was
something strangely impressive in the sight of the wreck.

"It's dreadful, isn't it?" she exclaimed.

Then the men who had come with them gathered round.

"Where's the fireman?" one of them asked.  "He was too late when he
jumped.  Have they got him out?"

"Guess not," said another.  "See, they're trying to jack up the front
of her."

"Aren't you mistaken about the man?" George asked, looking at the first
speaker meaningly.

"Why, no," replied the other.  "He's certainly pinned down among the
wreck.  They'll find him before long.  Isn't that a jacket sleeve?"

He broke off with an exclamation, as Edgar drove an elbow hard into his
ribs; but it was too late.  The girl looked around at George, white in
face.

"Is there a man beneath the engine?  Don't try to put me off."

"I'm afraid it's the case."

"Then why did you bring me?" she cried with a shudder.  "Take me away
at once!"

George explained that he had forgotten the serious nature of the
accident.  He hastily helped her up and turned away with her, but when
they had gone a little distance she sat down on a boulder.

"I feel badly startled and ashamed," she exclaimed.  "I was enjoying
it, as a spectacle, and all the time there was a man crushed to death."
Then she recovered her composure.  "Go back and help.  Besides, I think
your friend is getting into trouble."

She was right.  The man Edgar tried to silence had turned upon him,
savage and rather breathless.

"Now," he said, "I'll fix you mighty quick.  Think I'm going to have a
blamed Percy sticking his elbow into me?"

Edgar glanced at the big and brawny man, with a twinge of somewhat
natural uneasiness; but he was not greatly daunted.

"Oh, well," he retorted coolly, "if that's the way you look at it!  But
if you're not in a desperate hurry, I'll take off my jacket."

"What did you prod him for, anyway?" another asked.

"I'm sorry I didn't jab him twice as hard; though I'd have wasted my
energy," Edgar explained.  "The fellow has no sense, but that's no
reason why he should be allowed to frighten a pretty girl."

His antagonist looked as if a light had suddenly dawned on him.

"Is that why you did it?"

"Of course!  Do you think I'd attack a man of nearly twice my weight
without some reason?"

The fellow laughed.

"We'll let it go at that.  You're all right, Percy.  We like you."

"Thanks," said Edgar; "but my name isn't Percy.  Couldn't you think of
something more stylish for a change?"

They greeted this with hoarse laughter; and George, arriving on the
scene, scrambled down into the pit with them to help the men below.  It
was some time later when he rejoined the girl, who was then gathering
berries in the wood.  She saw that his face and hands were grimy and
his clothes were soiled.

"I heard that you found the unfortunate man.  It was very sad," she
said.  "But what have you been doing since?"

"Shoveling a ton or two of gravel.  Then I assisted in jacking up one
side of the engine."

"Why?  Did you enjoy it?"

George laughed; he had, as it happened, experienced a curious pleasure
in the work.  He was accustomed to the more vigorous sports; but, after
all, they led to no tangible results, and in this respect his recent
task was different--one, as he thought of it, could see what one had
done.  He had been endowed with some ability of strictly practical
description, though it had so far escaped development.

"Yes," he responded.  "I enjoyed it very much."

The girl regarded him with a trace of curiosity.

"Was that because work of the kind is new to you?"

"No," George answered.  "It isn't altogether a novelty.  I once spent
three years in manual labor; and now when I look back at them, I
believe I was happy then."

She nodded as if she understood.

"Shall we walk back?" she suggested.

They went on together, and though the sun was now fiercely hot and the
distance long, George enjoyed the walk.  Once they met a ballast train,
with a steam plow mounted at one end of it, and a crowd of men riding
on the open cars; but when it had passed there was nothing to break the
deep silence of the woods.  The dark firs shut in the narrow track
except when here and there a winding lake or frothing river filled a
sunny opening.

Soon after George and his companion reached the train, the engine came
back with a row of freightcars, and during the afternoon the western
express pulled out again, and sped furiously through the shadowy bush.




CHAPTER IV

GEORGE MAKES FRIENDS

It was nearing midnight when George walked impatiently up and down the
waiting-room in Winnipeg station, for the western express was very
late, and nobody seemed to know when it would start.  George was
nevertheless interested in his surroundings, and with some reason.  The
great room was built in palatial style, with domed roof, tessellated
marble floor, and stately pillars: it was brilliantly lighted; and
massively-framed paintings of snow-capped peaks and river gorges
adorned the walls.  An excursion-train from Winnipeg Beach had just
come in, and streams of young men and women in summer attire were
passing through the room.  They all looked happy and prosperous: he
thought the girls' light dresses were gayer and smarter than those
usually seen among a crowd of English passengers; but there was another
side to the picture.

Rows of artistic seats ran here and there, and each was occupied by
jaded immigrants, worn out by their journey in the sweltering Colonist
cars.  Piles of dilapidated baggage surrounded them, and among it
exhausted children lay asleep.  Drowsy, dusty women, with careworn
faces, were huddled beside them; men bearing the stamp of ill-paid toil
sat in dejected apathy; and all about each group the floor, which was
wet with drippings from the roof, was strewn with banana skins, crumbs,
and scraps of food.  There had been heavy rains, and the atmosphere was
hot and humid.  It was, however, the silence of these newcomers that
struck George most.  There was no grumbling among them--they scarcely
seemed vigorous enough for that--but as he passed one row he heard a
woman's low sobbing and the wail of a fretful child.

After a while the girl he had met on the train appeared and intimated
by a smile that he might join her.  They found an unoccupied seat, and
a smartly-attired young man who was approaching it stopped when he saw
them.

"Well," he said coolly, "I guess I won't intrude."

George felt seriously annoyed with him, but he was reassured when his
companion laughed with candid amusement.  Though there was no doubt of
her prettiness, he had already noticed that she did not impress one
most forcibly with the fact that she was an attractive young woman.  It
seemed to sink into the background when one spoke to her.

"It was rather tedious waiting in the hotel," she explained.  "There
was nobody I could talk to; my father is busy with a grain broker."

"Then he is a farmer?"

"Yes," said the girl, "he has a farm."

"And you live out in the West with him?"

"Of course," she said, smiling.  "Still, I have been in Montreal, and
England."  Then she turned and glanced at the jaded immigrants.  "One
feels sorry for them; they have so much to bear."

George felt that she wished to change the subject, and he followed her
lead.

"I feel inclined to wonder where they all go to and how you employ
them.  Your people still seem anxious to bring them in."

"Yes," she replied thoughtfully, "It's rather a difficult question.  Of
course, we pay high wages--people who say they must dispense with help
and can't carry out useful projects would like to see them lower--but
there's the long winter when, out West at least, very few men can work.
Then what the others have earned in summer rapidly melts."

"But what do the Canadian farm-hands and mechanics think?  It wouldn't
suit them to have wages broken down."

West had come up a few moments earlier.

"It doesn't matter," he laughed; "they won't be consulted.  It's the
other people who pull the strings, and they're adopting a forward
policy--rush them all in; it's their lookout when they get here.
That's my opinion; though I'll own that I know remarkably little about
western Canada."

"You won't admit he's right," George said to the girl.

She looked grave.

"Sometimes," she answered, "I wonder."

Then she turned to West.

"You don't seem impressed with the country," she said.

"As a rule, I try to be truthful.  The country strikes me as being
pretty mixed, full of contrasts.  There's this place, for instance; one
could imagine they had meant to build a Greek temple, and now it looks
more like a swimming-bath.  After planning the rest magnificently, why
couldn't they put on a roof that wouldn't leak?"

"It has been an exceptionally heavy rain," the girl reminded him.

"Just so.  But couldn't somebody get a broom and sweep the water out?
Our unimaginative English folk could rise as far as that."

She laughed good-humoredly, and her father sauntered up to them.

"Any news of the train yet?" he asked.

"No, sir," said Edgar.  "In my opinion, any attempt to extract reliable
information from a Canadian railroad-hand is a waste of time.  No
doubt, it's so scarce that it hurts them to part with it."

The Westerner looked at him with a little hard smile.  He was tall and
gaunt and dressed in baggy clothes, but there was a hint of power in
his face, which was lined, and deeply bronzed by exposure to the
weather.

"Well," he retorted, "what do you expect, Percy, if you talk to them
like that?  But I want to thank you and your partner for taking care of
my girl when she went to see the wreck.  Fellow on the cars told
me--said you were a gritty pup!"

Edgar looked confused, but the man drew an old skin bag out of his
pocket.

"It's domestic leaf; take a smoke."

"No, thanks," said Edgar quickly.  "I've no doubt it's excellent, but I
really prefer the common Virginia stuff."

"Matter of habit," replied the other.  "I don't carry cigars; they're
expensive.  Going far West?"

"We get off at Sage Butte."

"It's called Butte.  I'm located in that district."

"Then I wonder if you knew an Englishman named Marston?" George
interposed.

"I certainly did; he died last winter.  Oughtn't to have come out
farming; he hadn't the grip."

George felt surprised.  He had always admired Marston, who had excelled
in whatever he took in hand.  It was strange and disconcerting to hear
him disparaged.

"Will you tell me what you mean by that?" he asked.

"Why, yes.  I've nothing against the man.  I liked him--guess everybody
did--but the contract he was up against was too big for him.  Had his
first crop frozen, and lost his nerve and judgment after that--the man
who gets ahead here must have the grit to stand up against a few bad
seasons.  Marston acted foolishly; wasted his money buying machines and
teams he could have done without, and then let up when he saw it
wouldn't pay him to use them right off; but that was part his wife's
fault.  She drove him pretty hard--though, in some ways, I guess he
needed it."

George frowned.  Sylvia, he admitted, was ambitious, and she might have
put a little pressure upon Marston now and then; but that she should
have urged him on toward ruin in her eagerness to get rich was
incredible.

"I think you must be mistaken about his wife," he remarked.

"Well," drawled the Canadian, "I'm not always right."

Then a bell tolled outside, an official shouted the names of towns, and
there was a sudden stir and murmur of voices in the great waiting-room.
Men seized their bags and bundles, women dragged sleepy children to
their feet, and a crowd began to press about the outlet.

"Guess that's our train.  She's going to be pretty full," said the
Canadian.

The party joined a stream of hurrying passengers, and regretted their
haste when they were violently driven through the door and into a
railed-off space on the platform, where shouting railroad-hands were
endeavoring to restrain the surging crowd.  Nobody heeded them; the
immigrants' patience was exhausted, and they had suddenly changed from
a dully apathetic multitude waiting in various stages of dejection to a
savage mob fired by one determined purpose.  Near by stood a long row
of lighted cars, and the immigrants meant to get on board them without
loss of time.  There were two gates, guarded by officials who
endeavored to discriminate between the holders of first and second
class tickets, but the crowd was in no mood to submit to the separation.

It raged behind the barrier, and when one gate was rashly pushed back a
little too far, a clamorous, jostling mass of humanity stormed the
opening.  Its guardians were flung aside, helpless, and the foremost of
the mob poured out upon the platform, while the pressure about the gap
grew insupportable.  Women screamed, children were reft away from their
mothers, panting men trampled over bags and bundles torn from their
owners' hands, and George and the elderly Canadian struggled
determinedly to prevent the girl's being badly crushed.  Edgar had
disappeared, though they once heard his voice, raised in angry protest.

They were forced close up to the outlet, when there was a check.  More
officials had been summoned; somebody had dropped a heavy box which
obstructed the passage, and a group of passengers began a savage fight
for its recovery.  George seized a man who was jostling the girl and
thrust him backward; but the next moment he was struck by somebody, and
he saw nothing of his companions when, after being violently driven to
and fro, he reached the gate.  A woman with two screaming children
clinging to her appeared beside him, and he held a man so that she
might pass.  He was breathless, and almost exhausted, but he secured
her a little room; and then the pressure suddenly slackened.  The crowd
swept out like a flood from a broken dam, and in a few more moments
George stood, gasping, on the platform amid a thinner stream of running
people.  There was no sign of the Canadian or his daughter; the cars
were besieged; and George waited until Edgar joined him, flushed and
disheveled.

"I suppose I was lucky in getting through with only my jacket badly
torn," said the lad, "I wondered why the railroad people caged up their
passengers behind iron bars, but now I know."

George laughed.

"I don't think this kind of thing is altogether usual.  Owing to the
accident, they've no doubt had two trainloads to handle instead of one.
But the platform's emptying; shall we look for a place?"

They managed to enter a car, though the stream of passengers, pouring
in by the two vestibules, met within in dire confusion, choking up the
passage with their baggage.  Order was, however, restored at last; and,
with the tolling of the bell, and a jerk that flung those unprepared
off their feet, the great express got off.

"Nobody left behind," Edgar announced, after a glance through the
window.  "I can't imagine where they put them all; though I've never
seen a train like this.  But what has become of our Canadian friends?"

George said he did not know, and Edgar resumed:

"I'm rather taken with the girl--strikes me as intelligent as well as
fetching.  The man's a grim old savage, but I'm inclined to think he's
prosperous; when a fellow says he can't afford cigars I generally
suspect him of being rich.  It's a pity that stinginess is one of the
roads to affluence."

The car, glaringly lighted by huge lamps, was crowded and very hot, and
after a while George went out on to the rear platform for a breath of
air.  The train had now left the city, and glancing back as it swung
around a curve, he wondered how one locomotive could haul the long row
of heavy cars.  Then he looked out across the wide expanse of grass
that stretched away in the moonlight to the dim blur of woods on the
horizon.  Here and there clumps of willows dotted the waste, but it lay
silent and empty, without sign of human life.  The air was pleasantly
fresh after heavy rain; and the stillness of the vast prairie was
soothing by contrast with the tumult from which they had recently
escaped.

Lighting his pipe, George leaned contentedly on the rail.  Then
remembering what the Canadian had said, he thought of his old friend
Marston, a man of charm and varied talents, whom he had long admired
and often rather humbly referred to.  It was hard to understand how
Dick had failed in Canada, and harder still to see why he had made his
plodding comrade his executor; for George, having seldom had occasion
to exert his abilities, had no great belief in them.  He had suffered
keenly when Sylvia married Dick, but the homage he had offered her had
always been characterized by diffidence, springing from a doubt that
she could be content with him; and after a sharp struggle he succeeded
in convincing himself that his wound did not matter if she were happier
with the more brilliant man.  He had entertained no hard thoughts of
her: Sylvia could do no wrong.  His love for her sprang rather from
respect than passion; in his eyes she was all that a woman ought to be.

In the meanwhile his new friends were discussing him in a car farther
back along the train.

"I'm glad I had that Englishman by me in the crowd," the man remarked.
"He's cool and kept his head, did what was needed and nothing else.  I
allow you owe him something for bringing you through."

"Yes," said the girl; "he was quick and resolute."  Then reserving the
rest of her thoughts, she added: "His friend's amusing."

"Percy?  Oh, yes," agreed her father.  "Nothing to notice about
him--he's just one of the boys.  The other's different.  What that
fellow takes in hand he'll go through with."

"You haven't much to form an opinion on."

"That doesn't count.  I can tell if a man's to be trusted when I see
him."

"You're generally right," the girl admitted.  "You were about Marston.
I was rather impressed by him when he first came out."

Her father smiled.

"Just so.  Marston had only one trouble--he was all on top.  You saw
all his good points in the first few minutes.  It was rough on him that
they weren't the ones that are needed in this country."

"It's a country that demands a great deal," the girl said thoughtfully.

"Sure," was the dry reply.  "The prairie breaks the weak and shiftless
pretty quick; we only have room for hard men who'll stand up against
whatever comes along."

"And do you think that description fits the Englishman we met?"

"Well," said her father, "I guess he wouldn't back down if things went
against him."

He went out for a smoke, and the girl considered what he had said.  It
was not a matter of much consequence, but she knew he seldom made
mistakes, and in this instance she agreed with him.  As it happened,
George's English relatives included one or two clever people, but none
of them held his talents in much esteem.  They thought him honest,
rather painstaking, and good-natured, but that was all.  It was left
for two strangers to form a juster opinion; which was, perhaps, a not
altogether unusual thing.  Besides, the standards are different in
western Canada.  There, a man is judged by what he can do.




CHAPTER V

THE PRAIRIE

After a hot and tedious journey, George and his companion alighted one
afternoon at a little station on a branch line, and Edgar looked about
with interest when the train went on again.  A telegraph office with a
baggage-room attached occupied the middle of the low platform, a tall
water-tank stood at the end, and three grain elevators towered high
above a neighboring side-track.  Facing the track, stood a row of
wooden buildings varying in size and style: they included a
double-storied hotel with a veranda in front of it, and several untidy
shacks.  Running back from them, two short streets, thinly lined with
small houses, led to a sea of grass.

"Sage Butte doesn't strike one as a very exhilarating place," George
remarked.  "We'll stroll round it, and then see about rooms, since we
have to stay the night."

They left the station, but the main street had few attractions to
offer.  Three stores, with strangely-assorted, dusty goods in their
windows fronted the rickety plankwalk; beyond these stood a livery
stable, a Chinese laundry, and a few dwelling-houses.  Several
dilapidated wagons and buggies were scattered about the uneven road.
In the side street, disorderly rows of agricultural implements
surrounded a store, and here and there little board dwellings with wire
mosquito-doors and net-guarded windows, stood among low trees.  Farther
back were four very small wooden churches.  It was unpleasantly hot,
though a fresh breeze blew clouds of dust through the place.

"I've seen enough," said Edgar.  "The Butte isn't pretty; we'll assume
it's prosperous, though I haven't noticed much sign of activity yet.
Let's go to the hotel."

When they reached it, several untidy loungers sat half asleep in the
shade of the veranda, and though they obstructed the approach to the
entrance none of them moved.  Passing behind them, George opened a door
filled in with wire-mesh, and they entered a hot room with a bare
floor, furnished with a row of plain wooden chairs.  After they had
rung a bell for several minutes, a man appeared and looked at them with
languid interest from behind a short counter.

"Can you put us up?" George inquired.

"Sure," was the answer.

The man flung down a labeled key, twisted round his register, which was
fitted in a swivel frame, and handed George a pen.

"We want two rooms," Edgar objected.

"Can't help that.  We've only got one."

"I suppose we'd better take it.  Where can one get a drink?"

"Bar," replied the other, indicating a gap in a neighboring partition.

"They're laconic in this country," Edgar remarked.

"Ever since I arrived in it, I've felt as if I were a mere piece of
baggage, to be hustled along anyway without my wishes counting."

"You'll get used to it after a while," George consoled him.

Entering the dark bar, Edgar refreshed himself with several ice-cooled
drinks, served in what he thought were unusually small glasses.  He
felt somewhat astonished when he paid for them.

"Thirst's expensive on the prairie," he commented.

"Pump outside," drawled the attendant.  "It's rather mean water."

They went upstairs to a very scantily furnished, doubled-bedded room.
George, warned by previous experience, glanced around.

"There's soap and a towel, anyway; but I don't see any water," he
remarked.  "I'll take the jar; they'll have a rain-tank somewhere
about."

Edgar did not answer him.  He was looking out of the open window, and
now that there was little to obstruct his view, the prospect interested
him.  It had been a wet spring, and round the vast half-circle he
commanded the prairie ran back to the horizon, brightly green, until
its strong coloring gave place in the distance to soft neutral tones.
It was blotched with crimson flowers; in the marshy spots there were
streaks of purple; broad squares of darker wheat checkered the sweep of
grass, and dwarf woods straggled across it in broken lines.  In one
place was the gleam of a little lake.  Over it all there hung a sky of
dazzling blue, across which great rounded cloud-masses rolled.

Edgar looked around as George came in with the water.

"That's great!" he exclaimed, indicating the prairie; and then, turning
toward the wooden town, he added: "What a frightful mess man can make
of pretty things!  Still, I've no doubt the people who built the Butte
are proud of it."

"If you talk to them in that style, you'll soon discover their
opinion," George laughed; "but I don't think it would be wise."

Soon afterward a bell rang for supper, and going down to a big room,
they found seats at a table which had several other occupants.  Two of
them, who appeared to be railroad-hands, were simply dressed in
trousers and slate-colored shirts, and when they rested their elbows on
the tablecloth, they left grimy smears.  George thought the third man
of the party, who was neatly attired, must be the station-agent; the
fourth was unmistakably a newly-arrived Englishman.  As soon as they
were seated, a very smart young woman came up and rattled off the names
of various unfamiliar dishes.

"I think I'll have a steak; I know what that is," Edgar told her.

She withdrew, and presently surrounded him with an array of little
plates, at which he glanced dubiously before he attacked the thin, hard
steak with a nickeled knife which failed to make a mark on it.  When he
made a more determined effort, it slid away from him, sweeping some
greasy fried potatoes off his plate, and he grew hot under the stern
gaze of the girl, who reappeared with some coffee he had not ordered.

"Perhaps you had better take it away before I do more damage, and let
me have some fish," he said humbly.

"Another time you'll say what you want at first.  You can't prospect
right through the menu," she rebuked him.

In the meanwhile George had been describing his companions on the train
to one of the men opposite.

"He told me he was located in the district, but I didn't learn his
name, and he didn't get off here," he explained.  "Do you know him?"

"Sure," said the other.  "It's Alan Grant, of Poplar, 'bout eighteen
miles back.  Guess he went on to the next station--a little farther,
but it's easier driving, now they're dumping straw on the trail."

"Putting straw on the road?" Edgar broke in.  "Why are they doing that?"

"You'll see, if you drive out north," the man answered shortly.  Then
he turned to his better-dressed companion.  "What are you going to do
with that carload of lumber we got for Grant?"

"Send the car on to Benton."

"She's billed here."

"Can't help that--the road's mistake.  Grant ordered all his stuff to
Benton.  What he says goes."

This struck George as significant--it was only a man of importance
whose instructions would be treated with so much deference.  Then the
agent turned to Edgar.

"What do you think of this country?"

"The country's very nice.  So far as I've seen them, I can't say as
much for the towns; they might be prettier."

"Might be prettier?" exclaimed the agent.  "If they're not good enough
for you, why did you come here?"

"I'm not sure it was a very judicious move.  But, you see, I didn't
know what the place was like; and, after all, an experience of this
kind is supposed to be bracing."

The agent ignored Edgar after this.  He talked to George, and elicited
the information that the latter meant to farm.  Then he got up,
followed by two of the others, and the remaining man with the English
appearance turned to George diffidently.

"Do you happen to want a teamster?" he asked.

"I believe I'll want two," was the answer.  "But I'm afraid I'll have
to hire Canadians."

The man's face fell.  He looked anxious, and George remembered having
seen a careworn woman tearfully embracing him before their steamer
sailed.  Her shabby clothes and despairing face had roused George's
sympathy.

"Well," said the man dejectedly, "that's for you to decide; but I've
driven horses most of my life, and until I get used to things I'd be
reasonable about the pay.  I was told these little places were the best
to strike a job in; but, so far as I can find out, there's not much
chance here."

George felt sorry for him.  He suddenly made up his mind.

"What are farm teamsters getting now?" he asked a man who was leaving
an adjacent table.

"Thirty dollars a month," was the answer.

"Thanks," said George, turning again to the Englishman.  "Be ready to
start with us to-morrow.  I'll take you at thirty dollars; but if I
don't get my value out of you, we'll have to part."

"No fear of that, sir," replied the other, in a tone of keen
satisfaction.

When they got outside, Edgar looked at George with a smile.

"I'm glad you engaged the fellow," he said; "but considering that
you'll have to teach him, were you not a little rash?"

"I'll find out by and by."  George paused, and continued gravely: "It's
a big adventure these people make.  Think of it--the raising of the
passage money by some desperate economy, the woman left behind with
hardly enough to keep her a month or two, the man's fierce anxiety to
find some work!  When I saw how he was watching me, I felt I had to
hire him."

"Just so," responded Edgar.  "I suppose I ought to warn you that doing
things of the kind may get you into trouble some day; but cold-blooded
prudence never did appeal to me."  He took one of the chairs in front
of the building and filled his pipe before he continued: "We'll sit
here a while, and then we might as well stroll across the plain.  The
general-room doesn't strike me as an attractive place to spend the
evening in."

An hour later they left the tall elevators and straggling town behind,
and after brushing through a belt of crimson flowers, they followed the
torn-up black trail that led into the waste.  After a mile or two it
broke into several divergent rows of ruts, and they went on toward a
winding line of bluff across the short grass.  Reaching that, they
pushed through the thin wood of dwarf birch and poplar, skirting little
pools from which mallard rose: and then, crossing a long rise, they sat
down to smoke on its farther side.  Sage Butte had disappeared, the sun
had dipped, and the air was growing wonderfully fresh and cool.  Here
and there a house or barn rose from the sweep of grass; but for the
most part it ran back into the distance lonely and empty.  It was
steeped in strong, cold coloring, but on its western rim there burned a
vivid flush of rose and saffron.  Edgar was impressed by its vastness
and silence.

"This," he said thoughtfully, "makes up for a good deal.  Once you get
clear of the railroad, it's a captivating country."

"Have you decided yet what you're going to do in it?"

"It's too soon," Edgar rejoined.  "The family idea was that I should
stay about twelve months, and then go back and enter some profession.
Ethel seems quite convinced that a little roughing it will prove
beneficial.  I might, however, stop out and try farming, which is one
reason why you can have my services for nothing for a time.
Considering what local wages are, don't you think you're lucky?"

"That," laughed George, "remains to be seen."

"Anyhow, there's no doubt that Sylvia Marston scores in securing you on
the same favorable terms.  It has struck me that she's a woman who gets
things easily."

"She hasn't always done so.  Can you imagine, for instance, what two
years on a prairie farm must have been to a delicate, fastidious girl,
brought up in luxury?"

"I've an idea that Sylvia would manage to avoid a good many of the
hardships."

"Sylvia would never shirk a duty," George declared firmly.

Edgar refilled his pipe.

"I've been thinking about Dick Marston," he said.  "After the way he
was generally regarded at home, it was strange to hear that Canadian's
opinions; but I've a notion that this country's a pretty severe
touchstone.  I mean that the sort of qualities that make one popular in
England may not prove of much use here."

"Dick lost his crop; that accounts for a good deal," George said
shortly.

Edgar, knowing how staunch he was to his friends, changed the subject;
and when the light grew dim they went back to the hotel.  Breakfasting
soon after six the next morning, they took their places in a light,
four-wheeled vehicle, for which three persons' baggage made a rather
heavy load, and drove away with the hired man.  The grass was wet with
dew, the air invigoratingly cool, and for a time the fresh team carried
them across the waste at an excellent pace.  When he had got used to
the frantic jolting, Edgar found the drive exhilarating.  Poplar
bluffs, little ponds, a lake shining amid tall sedges, belts of
darkgreen wheat, went by; and while the horses plunged through tall
barley-grass or hauled the vehicle over clods and ruts, the same vast
prospect stretched away ahead.  It filled the lad with a curious sense
of freedom: there was no limit to the prairies--one could go on and on,
across still wider stretches beyond the horizon.

By and by, however, they ran in among low sandy hills, dotted with
dwarf pines here and there, and the pace slackened.  The grass was
thin, the wheels sank in deep, loose sand, and the sun was getting
unpleasantly hot.  For half an hour they drove on; and then the team
came to a standstill, necked with spume, at the foot of a short, steep
rise.  Edgar alighted and found the heat almost insupportable.  There
was glaring sand all about him, and the breeze which swept the prairie
was cut off by the hill in front.

"You'll have to help the team," George told him, as he went to the
horses' heads.

Edgar and the hired man each seized a wheel and endeavored to start the
vehicle, while the horses plunged in the slipping sand.  They made a
few yards, with clouds of grit flying up about them, and afterward came
to a stop again.  Next they tried pushing; and after several rests they
arrived, breathless and gasping, at the crest of the rise.  There was a
big hollow in front, and on the opposite side a ridge which looked
steeper than the last one.

"How much do you think there is of this?" Edgar inquired.

"I can't say," George answered.  "I know of one belt that runs for
forty miles."

Even walking downhill was laborious, for they sank ankle-deep, but it
was very much worse when they faced the ascent.  Short as the hill was,
it took them some time to climb; and, with the hired man's assistance,
Edgar carried a heavy trunk up the last part of it.  Then he sat down.

"I'm not sure I can smoke, but I intend to try," he said.  "If you mean
to rush the next hill right off, you will go without me."  He turned to
the hired man.  "What do you think of these roads, Grierson?"

"I've seen better, sir," the other answered cautiously.  "Perhaps the
hills don't go on very far."

Edgar ruefully glanced ahead at scattered pines, clumps of brush, and
ridges of gleaming sand.

"It's my opinion there's no end to them!  Hauling a load of wheat
through this kind of country must be a bit of an undertaking."

After a short rest, they toiled for an hour through the sand; and then
rode slowly over a road thickly strewn with straw, which bore the
wheels.  It led them across lower ground to a strong wire fence, where
it forked: one branch skirting the barrier along the edge of a muskeg,
the other running through the enclosed land.  Deciding to take the
latter, George got down at the entrance, which was barred by several
strands of wire, firmly fastened.

"Half an hour's work here," Edgar commented.  "Driving's rather an
arduous pastime in western Canada."

They crossed a long field of barley, a breadth of wheat, and passed an
empty house; then wound through a poplar wood until they reached the
grass again.  It was long and rank, hiding the ruts and hollows in the
trail; but after stopping a while for dinner in the shadow of a bluff,
they jolted on, and in the afternoon they reached a smoother track.
Crossing a low rise, they saw a wide stretch of wheat beneath them,
with a house and other buildings near its margin.

"That," said George, "is Sylvia's farm."

Half an hour later, they drove through the wheat, at which George
glanced dubiously; and then, traversing a belt of light sandy clods
partly grown with weeds, they drew up before the house.  It was
double-storied, roomy, and neatly built of wood; but it was in very bad
repair, and the barn and stables had a neglected and half-ruinous look.
Implements and wagons which had suffered from exposure to the weather,
stood about outside.  Edgar noticed that George's face was grave.

"I am afraid we have our work cut out," he said.  "We'll put up the
team, and then look round the place and see what needs doing first."




CHAPTER VI

GEORGE GETS TO WORK

It was an oppressive evening, after a day of unusual heat.  Edgar sat
smoking outside the homestead.  He had been busy since six o'clock that
morning, and he felt tired and downcast.  Massed thunder-clouds brooded
over the silent prairie, wheat and grass had faded to dingy green and
lifeless gray, and Edgar tried to persuade himself that his moodiness
was the effect of the weather.  This was partly the case, but he was
also suffering from homesickness and a shrinking from what was new and
strange.

The wooden house had a dreary, dilapidated look; the weathered,
neglected appearance of barns and stables was depressing.  It was
through a neighboring gap in the fence that Marston's team had brought
their lifeless master home; and Edgar had seen enough to realize that
the man must have grown slack and nerveless before he had succumbed.
The farm had broken down Marston's strength and courage, and now
another man, less gifted in many ways, had taken it in charge.  Edgar
wondered how he would succeed; but in spite of a few misgivings he had
confidence in George.

After a while the latter, who had been examining Marston's farming
books, came out, looking grave; he had worn a serious air since their
arrival.

"There'll have to be a change," he said.  "Dick's accounts have given
me something to think about.  I believe I'm beginning to understand now
how his money went."

"I suppose you haven't got the new program cut and dried yet?" Edgar
suggested.

George was seldom precipitate.

"No," he answered.  "I've a few ideas in my mind."

"Won't you have some trouble about finances, if the alterations are
extensive?"

"I'll have to draw on my private account, unless Herbert will assist."

"Herbert won't do anything of the kind," said Edgar decidedly.

George, making no answer, called Grierson from the stable.

"You'll drive in to the settlement after breakfast to-morrow, Tom," he
said.  "Tell the man I'll keep the team, if he'll knock off twenty
dollars, and he can have his check when he likes.  Then bring out the
flour and groceries."

"I suppose I won't be going in again for a while; we'll be too busy?"

"It's very likely," said Edgar, knowing his comrade's temperament.

"Then I wonder if I could draw a pound or two?" asked Grierson
diffidently.

"Why?" George questioned him.  "The Immigration people would see that
you had some money before they let you in."

"I've four pounds now; I want to send something home at once."

"Ah!" said George.  "I see.  How much did you leave your wife?"

"About three pounds, sir; I had to bring enough to pass me at Quebec."

"Then if you give me what you have, I'll let you have a check for twice
as much on an English bank.  Better get your letter written."

Grierson's look was very expressive as he turned away with a word of
thanks; and Edgar smiled at George.

"You have bought that fellow--for an advance of four pounds," he said.

George showed a little embarrassment.

"I was thinking of the woman," he explained.

Then he pointed to the prairie.

"There's a rig coming.  It looks like visitors."

Soon afterward, Grant, whom they had met on the train, drew up his team
and helped his daughter down.

"We were passing and thought we'd look in," he said.  "Found out
yesterday that you were located here."

George called Grierson to take the team, and leading the new arrivals
to the house, which was still in disorder, he found them seats in the
kitchen.  It was rather roughly and inadequately furnished, and Edgar
had decided that Sylvia had spent little of her time there.  After they
had talked for a while, a man, dressed in blue duck trousers, a
saffron-colored shirt, and an old slouch hat, which he did not remove,
walked in, carrying a riding quirt.  Grant returned his greeting
curtly, and then the man addressed George.

"I heard you were running this place," he said.

"That's correct."

"Then I put in the wheat on your summer fallow; Mrs. Marston told me
to.  Thought I'd come along and let you have the bill."

His manner was assertively offhand, and George did not ask him to sit
down.

"It's a very second-rate piece of work," George said.  "You might have
used the land-packer more than you did."

"It's good enough.  Anyway, I'll trouble you for the money."

Edgar was sensible of indignation mixed with amusement.  This
overbearing fellow did not know George Lansing.

"I think you had better take off your hat before we go any
farther--it's customary.  Then you may tell me what I owe you."

The man looked astonished, but he complied with the suggestion, and
afterward stated his charge, which was unusually high.  Edgar noticed
that Grant was watching George with quiet interest.

"I suppose you have a note from Mrs. Marston fixing the price?"

The other explained that the matter had been arranged verbally.

"Was anybody else present when you came to terms?" George asked.

"You can quit feeling, and pay up!" exclaimed the stranger.  "I've told
you how much it is."

"The trouble is that you're asking nearly double the usual charge per
acre."

Grant smiled approvingly, but the man advanced with a truculent air to
the table at which George was sitting.

"I've done the work; that's good enough for me."

"You have done it badly, but I'll give you a check now, based on the
regular charge, which should come to"--George made a quick calculation
on a strip of paper and handed it to the man.  "This is merely because
you seem in a hurry.  If you're not satisfied, you can wait until I get
an answer from Mrs. Marston; or I'll ask some of my neighbors to
arbitrate."

The man hesitated, with anger in his face.

"I guess I'll take the check," he said sullenly.

Crossing the floor, George took a pen and some paper from a shelf.

"Sit here," he said, when he came back, "and write me a receipt."

The other did as he was bidden, and George pointed toward the door.

"That's settled; I won't keep you."

The man looked hard at him, and then went quietly out; and Grant leaned
back in his seat with a soft laugh.

"You fixed him," he remarked.  "He has the name of being a tough."

"I suppose an Englishman newly out is considered lawful prey."

"A few of them deserve it," Grant returned dryly.  "But let that go.
What do you think of the place?"

George felt that he could trust the farmer.  He had spent a depressing
day, during which all he saw had discouraged him.  Marston had farmed
in a singularly wasteful manner; fences and outbuildings were in very
bad repair; half the implements were useless; and it would be a long
and costly task to put things straight.

"I feel that I'll have my hands full.  In fact, I'm a little worried
about it; there are so many changes that must be made."

"Sure.  Where are you going to begin?"

"By getting as much summer fallowing as possible done on the second
quarter-section.  The first has been growing wheat for some time; I'll
sew part of that with timothy.  There's one bit of stiff land I might
put in flax.  I've thought of trying corn for the silo."

"Timothy and a silo?" commented Grant.

"You're going in for stock, then?  It means laying out money, and a
slow return."

"I'm afraid so.  Still, you can't grow cereals year after year on this
light soil.  It's a wasteful practise that will have to be abandoned,
as people here seem to be discovering.  Grain won't pay at sixteen
bushels to the acre."

"A sure thing," Grant agreed.  "I'm sticking right to wheat, but that's
because I'm too old to change my system, and I'm on black soil, which
holds out longer."

"But you're taking the nature out of it."

"It will see me through if I fallow," said Grant.  "When I've done with
it and sell out, somebody else can experiment with mixed crops and
stock-raising.  That's going to become the general plan, but it's
costly at the beginning."  Then he rose.  "I'll walk round the place
with you."

They went out, and the girl fell behind with Edgar.  He had learned
that her name was Flora.

"Mr. Lansing seems to understand farming," she remarked.  "He didn't
tell us he had been on the prairie before."

"He hasn't told you now," Edgar pointed out.

"George never does tell things about himself unless there's a reason."

"He soon got rid of the fellow who sowed the crop."

Edgar laughed.

"I knew the man would meet with a surprise.  George's abilities are
not, as a rule, obvious at first sight.  People find them out by
accident, and then they're somewhat startled."

"You're evidently an admirer of his.  Do you mean to go in for farming?"

"I am, though I wouldn't have him suspect it," said Edgar.  "In answer
to the other question, I haven't made up my mind.  Farming as it's
carried on in this country seems to be a rather arduous occupation.  In
the meanwhile, I'm undergoing what English people seem to think of as
the Canadian cure; that is, I've been given a chance for readjusting my
ideas and developing my character."

"Under Mr. Lansing's guidance?"

Edgar realized that the girl was less interested in him than in George,
but he did not resent this.

"You're smart.  I believe my people entertained some idea of that
nature; George is considered safe.  Still, to prevent any
misapprehension, I'd better point out that my chief failings are a
fondness for looking at the amusing side of things and a slackness in
availing myself of my opportunities.  As an instance of the latter
defect, I'm boring you by talking about Lansing."

Flora regarded him with a quiet smile.

"It struck me that you were saying something about yourself."

"I suppose that's true," Edgar admitted.  "It clears the ground."

"For what?"

"For an extension of our acquaintance, among other things."

"Do you want it extended?"

They had stopped at the edge of a hollow filled with tall, harsh grass,
and Edgar studied her while he considered his answer.  There was
nothing that suggested coquetry in the faint amusement she displayed;
this was a girl with some depth of character, though he realized that
she was pretty.  She carried herself well; she was finely and strongly
made; her gray eyes were searching; and she had a rather commanding
manner.  Her hair was a warm brown, clustering low on a smooth
forehead; nose and lips and chin were firmly molded.

"Yes," he answered candidly; "I'm feeling the strangeness of the
country, and I've an idea that both George and I may need friends in
it.  It strikes me that you and your father would prove useful ones."

"Well," she said, "he's sometimes called hard, and he's a little
prejudiced on certain points, but he can be very staunch to those he
takes a liking to."

"I believe," Edgar rejoined, "that also applies to you; I don't mean
the first of it."

Flora changed the subject.

"I gather that you're not favorably impressed with the place."

"I'm not.  If I had to farm it, I'd feel scared; and I don't think
George is happy.  It's hard to understand how Marston let it get into
such a state."

"He was unfitted for the work, and he was further handicapped."

"How?" Edgar asked.

"You may have noticed that while economy ruled outside, the house is
remarkably well furnished.  The money Marston spent in Winnipeg stores
should have gone into the land."

Edgar nodded; he did not agree with George's opinion of Sylvia.

"You don't seem to approve of the way Mrs. Marston managed things.
It's rather curious.  I always thought her pretty capable in some
respects."

"That's very possible," said Flora with a hint of dryness.

"After all, it may not have been her fault," Edgar suggested.  "Marston
was a generous fellow; he may have insisted on thinking first of her
comfort."

"Then she ought to have stopped him," said Flora firmly.  "Do you think
a woman should let a man spoil his one chance of success in order to
surround her with luxury?"

"The answer's obvious."

A dazzling flash of lightning leaped from the mass of somber cloud
overhead, and they turned back toward the house, which George and Grant
reached soon afterward.  Grant said that he must get home before the
storm broke, and Grierson brought out his spirited team.  It had grown
nearly dark; a curious leaden haze obscured the prairie; and when the
man was getting into his light, spring-seated wagon, a jagged streak of
lightning suddenly reft the gloom and there was a deafening roll of
thunder.  The horses started.  Grant fell backward from the step,
dropping the reins; and while the others stood dazzled by the flash,
the terrified animals backed the vehicle with a crash against the
stable.  Then they plunged madly forward toward the fence, with the
reins trailing along the ground.  Flora had got in before her father,
and she was now helpless.

It was too late when Grant got up; Grierson and Edgar were too far
away, and the latter stood still, wondering with a thrill of horror
what the end would be; he did not think the horses saw the thin wire
fence, and the gap in it was narrow.  If they struck a post in going
through, the vehicle would overturn.  Then George, running furiously,
sprang at the horses' heads, and went down, still holding on.  He was
dragged along a few yards, but the pace slackened, and Edgar ran
forward with Grierson behind him.  For a few moments there was a savage
struggle, but they stopped and held the team, until Grant coolly
cleared the reins and flung them to his daughter.

"Stick tight while I get up, and then watch out," he said to the others.

He was seated in another moment, the girl quietly making room for him;
then, to Edgar's astonishment, he lashed the frantic horses with the
whip, and, plunging forward, they swept madly through the opening in
the fence, with the wagon jolting from rut to rut.  A minute or two
afterward they had vanished into the thick obscurity that veiled the
waste of grass, and there was a dazzling flash and a stunning roll of
thunder.  George, flushed and breathless, looked around with a soft
laugh.

"Grant has pretty good nerve," he said.

"That's so, sir," Grierson agreed.  "Strikes me he'll take some of the
wickedness out of his team before he gets them home.  I noticed that
Miss Grant didn't look the least bit afraid."

Then a deluge of rain drove them into the house, where Edgar sat
smoking thoughtfully; for what Flora Grant had said about Sylvia had a
disturbing effect on him.  It looked as if her selfish regard for her
comfort had hampered Marston in his struggle; and though Edgar had
never had much faith in Sylvia, this was painful to contemplate.
Moreover, George cherished a steadfast regard for her, which
complicated things; but Edgar prudently decided that the matter was a
delicate one and must be left to the people most concerned.  After all,
Miss Grant might be mistaken.




CHAPTER VII

A CATTLE DRIVE

George was summer fallowing, sitting in the iron saddle of a plow which
a heavy Clydesdale team hauled through the stubble.  The work should
have been done earlier, for the soil on the Marston farm was very
light, and, as it had already grown several crops of cereals, George
was anxious to expose it to the influence of sun and wind as soon as
possible.  It was about the middle of the afternoon and very hot.
Rounded cloud-masses overhung the plain, but dazzling sunshine fell on
grass and stubble, and a haze of dust surrounded the team, while now
and then the fine soil and sand, blown from the rest of the fallow by
the fresh breeze, swept by in streams.  George wore motor-goggles to
protect his eyes, but his face and hands felt scorched and sore.
Farther back, Edgar plodded behind a lighter team, making very poor
progress.

Presently George looked up and saw Flora Grant riding toward him.  She
sat astride, but her skirt fell in becoming lines, and he thought the
gray blouse and wide Stetson hat, with a red band round it, most
effective.  She reined up her horse near the plow, and George got down.

"I was passing--going on to Forsyth's place--and my father asked me to
call," she said.  "You were talking about buying cattle, and a man at
Dunblane has some good Herefords to sell.  Father thinks they would
suit you."

"His recommendation carries weight," said George.

"I'll go and see them.  I must thank you for bringing me word."

"I've another message.  It's this--when you're buying stock, be
cautious how you bid."

"As I'm not well up in local prices, I wish Mr. Grant had been a little
plainer."

"He went farther than I expected.  You see, as a friend of the seller,
he's awkwardly fixed."

"Just so," said George.  "But, if you're not in the same position, you
might give me a hint.  How much is the value of Canadian cattle usually
below the price likely to be asked of a new arrival?"

"In this case, I should say about fifty per cent," Flora answered, with
a laugh.

"Thank you," responded George.  "I am sure your opinion's to be relied
on."

Edgar stopped his team near by, and Flora regarded him with amusement
as he came toward them, his red face streaked with dust.

"You look a good deal more like a western farmer than you did when I
saw you last," she laughed.

Edgar removed his goggles and surveyed his working attire somewhat
disgustedly.

"I wonder whether that's a compliment; but now that I've made the first
plunge, I'd better go through with it--get a flappy hat and a black
shirt, or one of those brilliant orange ones."

"The latter are more decorative.  But, as you are going on a two days'
journey to drive some cattle, I'll tell you how to find the way."

"You had better tell George.  I can only remember the things that
interest me."

Flora gave them clear instructions, and when she rode away George
turned to Edgar.

"You'll have to come, and we'll start at once.  Grierson can go on
plowing with the Clydesdales, which is more than you could do."

"I'm afraid I must admit it," said Edgar, glancing at his ragged
furrow.  "But I'm going to have my supper and put up some provisions
before I leave the place."

They set out an hour later, and safely reached their destination, where
George purchased a dozen cattle.  They were big, red and white,
long-horned animals, accustomed to freedom, for fences are still scarce
on tracts of the prairie, and they ranged about the corral in a
restless manner.  Edgar, leaning on the rails, watched them dubiously.

"They look unusually active," he remarked.  "I'm not an expert at
cattle-driving, but I suppose two of us ought to take them home."

The rancher laughed.

"Two's quite a good allowance for that small bunch, but if you keep
north among the scrub poplar, you won't be bothered by many fences.
It's pretty dry in summer, but you'll get good water in Baxter's well,
if you head for the big bluff you'll see tomorrow afternoon.  We'll let
them out when you're ready."

As soon as the rails were flung down, the cattle rushed out
tumultuously, as if rejoicing in their restored freedom.  Then, while
George and his companion mounted, they started off across the prairie
at a steady trot.

"A mettlesome lot; seem to be in good training," Edgar commented.
"Have you any idea where they're going?"

"Guess they're heading for a creek two miles back; water's scarce,"
explained the rancher.  "As it's near the trail, you had better let
them go.  You'll round them up quite easy when they've had a drink."

George and Edgar rode after the cattle.  The sun was getting low, but
the temperature showed no signs of falling, and the men were soon
soaked in perspiration.  The herd went on at a good pace, making for a
wavy line of timber, and on reaching it, plunged down the side of a
declivity among little scattered trees.  A stream trickled through
willow bushes and tall grass in the bottom of the hollow, and the men.
had trouble in forcing the cattle to leave the water.  Before they
accomplished it, Edgar had got very wet and had scratched himself badly
in scrambling through the brush.

"Driving stock is by no means so easy as it looks," he grumbled, when
they had climbed the opposite ascent, leading their horses.  "The way
these beasts jump about among the bushes confuses you; I'd have sworn
there were forty of them in the ravine."

"I see only nine now," George said pointedly.

Edgar looked back into the hollow.

"There are three of the brutes slipping away upstream as fast as they
can go!  You're smarter at the thing than I am--hadn't you better go
after them?"

"I expect I'll be needed to keep this bunch together," George rejoined.

Edgar strode away, but it was half an hour later when he came back, hot
and angry, with the cattle crashing through the brush in front of him.
Then the reunited herd set off at a smart pace across the plain.

"They seem fond of an evening gallop," Edgar remarked.  "Anyhow,
they're going the right way, which strikes me as something to be
thankful for."

They rode on, and it was getting dark when they checked the herd near a
straggling poplar bluff.  The grass was good, the beasts began to feed
quietly, and after picketing their horses the men lay down on their
blankets.  It was growing cooler, a vivid band of green still flickered
along the prairie's rim, and the deep silence was intensified by the
soft sound the cattle made cropping the dew-damped herbage.

"I wonder if they go to sleep," mused Edgar.  "I'm beginning to think
this kind of thing must be rather fine when one gets used to it.  It's
a glorious night."

By and by he drew his blanket round him and sank into slumber; but for
a while George, who had paid a high price for a Hereford bull, lay
awake, thinking and calculating.  It would cost a good deal more than
he had anticipated to work the farm; Sylvia had no funds that could be
drawn upon, and his means were not large.  Economy and good management
would be needed, but he was determined to make a success of his
undertaking.  At last, seeing that the herd showed no signs of moving,
he went to sleep.

Awakening at sunrise George found that, except for the horses, there
was not a beast in sight.  For an hour he and West hunted them through
the bluff; and then, after making a hurried breakfast, they went on
their way again.  It rapidly got hotter, the stock traveled quietly,
and, with a halt or two where a clump of poplars offered a little
shade, they rode, scorched by dazzling sunshine, across the limitless
plain.  In the afternoon George began to look eagerly for the bluff
that the rancher mentioned.  They had found no water, and the cattle
seemed distressed.  The glare and heat were getting intolerable, but
the vast, gradual rise in front of them ran on, unbroken, to the
skyline.  Its crest, however, must be crossed before evening; and they
toiled on.

At last, the long ascent was made, and George felt relieved when he saw
a dark line of trees in the wide basin below him.

"That must be the big bluff where the well is; though I don't see a
house," he said.

They had some trouble in urging the herd down the slope, but after a
while they reached the welcome shadow of the trees, and Edgar broke
into a shout when he saw a rude wooden platform with a windlass upon it
and a trough near by.

"Ride ahead with the horses and water them," said George, dismounting.

Edgar did as he was bidden, but presently the herd, attracted by the
sight of water, came surging round the trough, savagely jostling one
another.  The lad worked hard with the windlass, but he could not keep
them supplied, and they crowded on the low platform covering the well,
with heads stretched out eagerly toward the dripping bucket.  After
being flung against the windlass by a thirsty beast, Edgar called to
his companion.

"They'll break through if you're not quick!  It's my opinion they're
bent on getting down the well!"

George came to his assistance with his riding quirt, but when they were
supplying the last two or three unsatisfied animals, a man ran out of
the bluff.

"What in thunder are you doing with our water?" he cried.

"He looks angry," Edgar commented.  "When that rancher fellow told us
about the well, he didn't mention the necessity of asking Mr. Baxter's
permission."  Then he waved his hand to the stranger.

"Come here and have a talk!"

The man came on at a quicker run.  His face was hot with indignation,
and on reaching them he broke into breathless and pointed
expostulations.

"When you're quite through, we'll assess the damages," George quietly
told him.

The farmer's anger began to dissipate.

"No," he said; "that would be taking a pretty mean pull on you; but
water's scarce, and you can't have any more."

"Well," requested George, "have you a paddock or corral you could let
me put this bunch of cattle into until the morning?  I'm willing to pay
for the accommodation."

"I can't do it," replied the other.  "I want all the fenced grass I've
got.  Take them right along, and you'll strike a creek about six miles
ahead.  Then you ought to make the river to-morrow night."

It was obvious that he desired to be rid of them; and as it was getting
cooler George resumed his journey.  He found the creek early the next
morning, and as the day promised to be unusually hot he delayed only
until he had watered the stock.  In an hour or two the sun was hidden
by banks of leaden cloud, but the temperature did not fall and there
was an oppressive heaviness in the air.  The prairie had faded to a
sweep of lifeless gray, obscured above its verge.  The men made
progress, however; and late in the afternoon a winding line of timber
that marked the river's course appeared ahead.  Shortly afterward,
Edgar looked around.

"That's a curious streak of haze in the distance," he remarked.

"It's smoke," said George.  "Grass fires are not uncommon in hot
weather.  It looks like a big one."

They urged the cattle on a little faster, but it was evening when they
reached the first of the trees.  George rode forward between them and
pulled up his horse in some concern.  The ford had been difficult when
they crossed it on the outward journey, but now the space between bank
and bank was filled by an angry flood.  It rolled by furiously, lapping
in frothy ripples upon the steep slope that led down to it.

"Nearly an extra three feet of water; there'd be a risk in crossing,"
he said, when Edgar joined him.

"We couldn't make the place where the trail runs in, and the landing
down-stream from it looks bad."

"Then what ought we to do?" Edgar inquired.

"Wait until to-morrow.  There's no doubt been a heavy thunderstorm
higher up, but the water should soon run down."  George glanced back
toward the prairie dubiously.  "I'm a little anxious about the fire;
but, after all, it may not come near us."

The cattle did not wander far after drinking, and the men ate their
supper.  It grew dark, but the heat did not lessen, and the oppressive
air was filled with a smell of burning.  Looking back between the
trees, they could see a long streak of yellow radiance leaping up, and
growing dim when the view was obstructed by clouds of smoke.

"It's an awkward situation, and, as if it were not bad enough, there's
a big thunderstorm brewing," Edgar said at length.  "I'll go along and
look at the mark you made upon the bank."

He strode away among the trees.  It was very dark.  The tethered horses
were moving restlessly; but, so far as Edgar could make out, the cattle
were bunched together.  After lighting a match he came back.

"The water's falling, but only slowly," he reported.  "Should we try to
drive the stock along the bank?"

"We couldn't herd them in the dark.  Besides, it's an extensive fire,
and I'm doubtful whether we could get down to the water farther along."

They waited for an hour, keeping the cattle together with some trouble,
and watching the blaze, which grew brighter rapidly.  At last, wisps of
pungent smoke rolled into the bluff.

"The beasts are ready to stampede!" George suddenly called to Edgar.
"We'll have to make a start!  Get into the saddle and drive them toward
the ford!"

They were very busy for a while.  Their horses were hard to manage, the
timber was thick, and the herd attempted to break away through it; but
at last they reached the steep dip to the waterside.  One beast plunged
in and vanished, more followed, and George, plying his quirt and
shouting, rode in among the diminishing drove.  He felt the water
lapping about his boots, and then the horse lost its footing.  George
dropped from the saddle and seized a stirrup.  For some minutes he
could see a few dark objects about him, but they disappeared, and he
and the horse were swept away down-stream.

He kept hold--the animal was swimming strongly--and after a time a
lurid flash of lightning showed him a black mass of trees close ahead.
They vanished, the succeeding darkness was impenetrable, and the crash
of thunder was deadened by the roar of water.  For a moment or two his
head was driven under, but when he got it clear, another dazzling flash
revealed a high bank only a few yards away, and when thick darkness
followed he felt the horse rise to its feet.  Then he touched soft
bottom, and a little later scrambled up an almost precipitous slope
with the bridle in his hand and the horse floundering behind him.  They
reached the summit, and, stopping among thin timber, it was with strong
relief that he heard Edgar's shout.  Shortly afterward the lad
appeared, leading his horse.

"There's some of the drove on this side; I don't see the rest," he
said, glancing toward the opposite bank, where dark trees stood out
against a strong red glare.

"It strikes me we only got across in time."

Then torrential rain broke upon them, and while they stood, unable to
move forward, a cry reached them faintly through the roar of the
deluge.  It came again when George answered, and was followed by a
crackling and snapping of underbrush.  Then, as a blaze of lightning
filled the bluff with radiance, two men appeared for a moment, leading
their horses among the slender trunks.  They were immediately lost to
sight again, but presently they came up, and George recognized Grant by
his voice.

"So you have got through, Lansing," he cried.  "I met Constable Flett
on the trail, and, as he told me the river was rising and there was a
big fire west, I figured you must be up against trouble."

He asked a few questions and then resumed:

"As you got the stock started, they'll have swum across; but we can't
round them up until it's light.  There's a deserted shack not far off,
and I guess we'll head for it."

The constable agreed; and, mounting when they had got out of the
timber, they rode off through the rain.




CHAPTER VIII

CONSTABLE FLETT'S SUSPICIONS

It was nearly six o'clock in the evening when George and his
companions, who had spent part of the day looking for the straying
stock, rode up to the Grant homestead through a vast stretch of grain.
This grew on the rich black soil they call "gumbo" in the West; but
here and there a belt of dark-colored summer fallow checkered the
strong green of the wheat and oats.  Though he clung to the one-crop
system, Alan Grant was careful of his land.  The fine brick house and
range of smart wooden buildings, the costly implements, which included
a gasoline tractor-plow, all indicated prosperity, and George
recognized that the rugged-faced man beside him had made a marked
success of his farming.

When the cattle had been secured, Flora Grant welcomed the new arrivals
graciously, and after a while they sat down to supper with the hired
men in a big room.  It was plainly furnished, but there was everything
that comfort demanded, for the happy mean between bareness and
superfluity had been cleverly hit, and George thought Miss Grant was
responsible for this.  He sat beside her at the foot of the long table
and noticed the hired hands' attitude toward her.  It was respectful,
but not diffident.  The girl had no need to assert herself; she was on
excellent terms with the sturdy toilers, who nevertheless cheerfully
submitted to her rule.

When the meal was over, Grant led his guests into a smaller room, and
produced a bag of domestic tobacco.

"The stock have gone far enough," he said.  "You'll stay here to-night."

Flett looked doubtful, though it was obvious that he wished to remain.
He was a young, brown-faced man, and his smart khaki uniform proclaimed
him a trooper of the Northwest Mounted Police.

"The trouble is that I'm a bit late on my round already," he protested.

"That's soon fixed," said Grant.

He opened a roll-top desk, and wrote a note which he read out:


"'Constable Flett has been detained in the neighborhood of this
homestead through having rendered, at my request, valuable assistance
in rounding up a bunch of cattle, scattered in crossing the flooded
river.'"


"Thanks," said Flett.  "That kind of thing counts when they're choosing
a corporal."

Grant turned to George with a smile.

"Keep in with the police, Lansing--I've known a good supper now and
then go a long way.  They may worry you about fireguards and fencing,
but they'll stand by you when you're in trouble, if you treat them
right.  If it's a matter of straying stock, a sick horse, or you don't
know how to roof a new barn, you have only to send for the nearest
trooper."

"Aren't these things a little outside their duties?" Edgar asked.

The constable grinned.

"Most anything that wants doing badly is right in our line."

"Sure," said Grant.  "It's not long since Flett went two hundred miles
over the snow with a dog-team to settle a little difference between an
Indian and his wife.  Then he once brought a hurt trapper a fortnight's
journey on his sledge, sleeping in the snow, in the bitterest weather.
They were quite alone, and the hurt man was crazy most of the time."

"Then you're supposed to look after the settlers, as well as to keep
order?" suggested Edgar, looking admiringly at the sturdy young
constable.

"That's so," replied Flett.  "They certainly need it.  Last winter we
struck one crowd in a lonely shack up north--man, woman, and several
children huddled on the floor, with nothing to eat, and the stove
out--at forty degrees below.  There was a bluff a few miles off, but
they hadn't a tool of any kind to cut cordwood with.  Took us quite a
while to haul them up some stores, though we made twelve-hour marches
between our camps in the snow.  We had to hustle that trip."

He paused and resumed:

"Better keep an eye on that bunch of young horses, Mr. Grant; bring
them up nearer the house when the nights get darker.  Those Clydesdales
are mighty fine beasts and prices are high."

Grant looked astonished.

"I've been here a good many years, and I've never lost a horse," he
declared.

"It doesn't follow you'll always be as lucky," the trooper said
pointedly.

"I was told that property is as safe in the West as it is in England,"
Edgar broke in.

"Just so," remarked the trooper.  "They say that kind of thing.  I
never was in the old country, but young mavericks aren't the only stock
to go missing in Alberta, which isn't a long way off.  The boys there
have their hands full now and then, and we have three or four of the
worst toughs I've struck right in Sage Butte."

Grant leaned forward on the table, looking steadily at him.

"Hadn't you better tell me what you have in your mind?"

"I can't give you much information, but we got a hint from Regina to
keep our eyes open, and from things I've heard it's my idea that now
that the boys have nearly stopped the running of Alberta cattle across
the frontier, some of the toughs they couldn't track mean to start the
same game farther east.  Some of you ranchers run stock outside the
fences, and I guess one could still find a lonely trail to the American
border."

"Well," said Grant, "I'm glad you told me."  He turned to George.  "Be
careful, Lansing; you would be an easier mark."

They strolled outside; and after a while George joined Flora, and
sauntered away across the grass with her.  It was a clear, still
evening, and the air was wonderfully fresh.

"Though he wouldn't let me thank him, I feel I'm seriously indebted to
your father, Miss Grant," he said.  "Our horses were worn out, and the
stock had all scattered when he turned up with the trooper."

"I believe he enjoyed the ride, and the night in the rain," replied
Flora.  "You see, he had once to work very hard here, and now that
things have changed, he finds it rather tame.  He likes to feel he's
still capable of a little exertion."

"I shouldn't consider him an idle man."

Flora laughed.

"That would be very wrong; but the need for continual effort and the
strain of making ends meet, with the chance of being ruined by a frozen
crop, have passed.  I believe he misses the excitement of it."

"Then I gather that he built up this great farm?"

"Yes; from a free quarter-section.  He and my mother started in a
two-roomed shack.  They were both from Ontario, but she died several
years ago."  The girl paused.  "Sometimes I think she must have had
remarkable courage, I can remember her as always ready in an emergency,
always tranquil."

George glanced at her as she stood, finely posed, looking out across
the waste of grass with gravely steady eyes, and it occurred to him
that she resembled her mother in the respects she had mentioned.
Nevertheless, he felt inclined to wonder how she had got her grace and
refinement.  Alan Grant was forceful and rather primitive.

"Have you spent much of your time here?" he asked.

"No," she answered.  "My mother was once a school-teacher, and she must
have had ambitious views for me.  When the farm began to prosper, I was
sent to Toronto.  After that I went to Montreal, and finally to
England."

"You must be fond of traveling."

"Oh," she said, with some reserve, "I had thought of taking up a
profession."

"And you have abandoned the idea?"

She looked at him quietly, wondering whether she should answer.

"I had no alternative," she said.  "I began to realize it after my
mother's death.  Then my father was badly hurt in an accident with a
team, and I came back.  He has nobody else to look after him, and he is
getting on in life."

Her words conveyed no hint of the stern struggle between duty and
inclination, but George guessed it.  This girl, he thought, was one not
to give up lightly the career she had chosen.

Then she changed the subject with a smile.

"I suspect that my father approves of you, perhaps because of what you
are doing with the land.  I think I may say that if you have any little
difficulty, or are short of any implements that would be useful, you
need only come across to us."

"Thank you," George responded quietly.

"Mr. West mentioned that you were on a farm in this country once
before.  Why did you give it up?"

"Somebody left me a little money."

"Then what brought you back?"

She was rather direct, but that is not unusual in the West, and George
was mildly flattered by the interest she displayed.

"It's a little difficult to answer.  For one thing, I was beginning to
feel that I was taking life too easily in England, It's a habit that
grows on one."

He had no desire to conceal the fact that he had come out on Sylvia's
behalf--it never occurred to him to mention it.  He was trying to
analyze the feelings which had rendered the sacrifice he made in
leaving home a little easier.

"I don't think the dread of acquiring that habit is common among your
people," Flora said mischievously.  "It doesn't sound like a very
convincing reason."

"No," replied George, with a smile.  "Still, it had some weight.  You
see, it isn't difficult to get lazy and slack, and I'd done nothing
except a little fishing and shooting for several years.  I didn't want
to sink into a mere lounger about country houses and clubs.  It's
pleasant, but too much of it is apt to unfit one for anything else."

"You believe it's safer, for example, to haul stovewood home through
the Canadian frost or drive a plow under the scorching sun?"

"Yes; I think I feel something of the kind."

Flora somewhat astonished him by her scornful laugh.

"You're wise," she said.  "We have had sportsmen here from your
country, and I've a vivid memory of one or two.  One could see by their
coarse faces that they ate and drank too much; and they seemed
determined to avoid discomfort at any cost.  I suppose they could
shoot, but they could neither strip a gun nor carry it on a long day's
march.  The last party thought it needful to take a teamload of
supplies when they went north after moose.  It would have been a
catastrophe if they had missed their dinner."

"Going without one's dinner has its inconveniences," said George.

"And thinking too much about it has its perils," she retorted.

George nodded.  He thought he knew what she meant, and he agreed with
it.  He could recall companions who, living for pleasure, had by
degrees lost all zest for the more or less wholesome amusements to
which they had confined their efforts.  Some had become mere club
loungers and tattlers; one or two had sunk into gross indulgence.  This
had had its effect on him: he did not wish to grow red-faced, slothful,
and fleshy, as they had done, nor to busy himself with trivialities
until such capacities for useful work as he possessed had atrophied.

"Well," he said, "nobody could call this a good country for the
pampered loafer."

Flora smiled, and pointed out across the prairie.  In the foreground it
was flecked with crimson flowers; farther back willow and poplar bluffs
stretched in bluish smears across the sweep of grass that ran on beyond
them toward the vivid glow of color on the skyline.  It was almost
beautiful in the soft evening light, but it conveyed most clearly a
sense of vastness and solitude.  The effect was somehow daunting.  One
thought of the Arctic winter and the savage storms that swept the wilds.

"I've heard it called hard," she said.  "It undoubtedly needs hard men;
there is nothing here that can be easily won.  That's a fact that the
people you're sending over ought to recognize."

"They soon discover it when they get out.  When they've had a crop
hailed or frozen, the thing becomes obvious."

"Did you lose one?"

"I did," George rejoined rather gloomily.  "I've a suspicion that if we
get much dry weather and the usual strong winds, I may lose another.
The wheat's getting badly cut by driving sand; that's a trouble we
don't have to put up with in the old country."

"I'm sorry," said Flora; and he knew she meant it.  "But you won't be
beaten by one bad season?"

"No," George answered with quiet determination.  "I must make a success
of this venture, whatever it costs."

She was a little puzzled by his manner, for she did not think he was
addicted to being needlessly emphatic; but she asked no questions, and
soon afterward the others joined them and they went back to the house.
Early on the following morning, George started homeward with his
cattle, and as they rode slowly through the barley-grass that fringed
the trail, Edgar looked at him with a smile.

"You spent some time in Miss Grant's company," he remarked.  "How did
she strike you?"

"I like her.  She's interesting--I think that's the right word for it.
Seems to understand things; talks to you like a man."

"Just so," Edgar rejoined, with a laugh.  "She's a lady I've a high
opinion of; in fact, I'm a little afraid of her.  Though I'm nearly as
old as she is, she makes me feel callow.  It's a sensation that's new
to me."

"And you're a man of experience, aren't you?"

"I suppose I was rather a favorite at home," Edgar owned with humorous
modesty.  "For all that, I don't feel myself quite up to Miss Grant's
standard."

"I didn't notice any assumption of superiority on her part."

"Oh, no," said Edgar.  "She doesn't require to assume it; the
superiority's obvious; that's the trouble.  One hesitates about
offering her the small change of compliments that generally went well
at home.  If you try to say something smart, she looks at you as if she
were amused, not at what you said, but at you.  There's an embarrassing
difference between the things."

"The remedy's simple.  Don't try to be smart."

"You would find that easy," Edgar retorted.  "Now, in my opinion, Miss
Grant is intellectual, which is more than anybody ever accused you of
being, but I suspect you would make more progress with her than I could
do.  Extremes have a way of meeting, and perhaps it isn't really
curious that your direct and simple views should now and then recommend
you to a more complex person."

"I notice a couple of beasts straying yonder," George said dryly.

Edgar rode off to drive the animals up to the herd.  George, he
thought, was painfully practical; only such a man could break off the
discussion of a girl like Miss Grant to interest himself in the
movements of a wandering steer.  For all that, the beasts must be
turned, and they gave Edgar a hard gallop through willow scrub and tall
grass before he could head them off and afterward overtake the drove.




CHAPTER IX

GEORGE TURNS REFORMER

George was working in the summer fallow a few days after his return
from Grant's homestead, when a man rode across the plowing and pulled
up his horse beside him.  He was on the whole a handsome fellow, well
mounted and smartly dressed, but there was a hint of hardness in his
expression.  George recognized him as the landlord of a hotel at the
settlement.

"Your crop's not looking too good," the stranger greeted him.

"No," returned George.  "It was badly put in, and we've had unusually
dry weather."

"I forgot," the other rejoined.  "You're the fellow Jake Gillet had the
trouble with.  Beat him down on the price, didn't you?  He's a bad man
to bluff."

"The point that concerned me was that he asked a good deal more than
his work was worth."

The man looked at George curiously.

"That's quite possible, but you might have let him down more gently
than you did.  As a newcomer, you don't want to kick too much or run up
against things other folks put up with."

George wondered where the hint he had been given led.

"I rode over to bring this paper for you to sign," the man went on.

Glancing through it, George saw that it was a petition against any
curtailment of the licenses at Sage Butte, and a testimonial to the
excellent manner in which the Sachem Hotel was conducted by its owner,
Oliver Beamish.  George had only once entered the place, but it had
struck him as being badly kept and frequented by rather undesirable
customers.

"Some fool temperance folks are starting a campaign--want to shut the
hotels," his visitor explained.  "You'll put your name to this."

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Mr. Beamish.  I can't form an
opinion; I haven't heard the other side yet."

"Do you want to hear them?  Do you like that kind of talk?"

George smiled, though he was not favorably impressed by the man.  His
tone was too dictatorial; George expected civility when asked a favor.

"After all," he said, "it would only be fair."

"Then you won't sign?"

"No."

Beamish sat silent a moment or two, regarding George steadily.

"One name more or less doesn't matter much, but I'll own that the
opinion of you farmers who use my hotel as a stopping-place counts with
the authorities," he told him.  "I've got quite a few signatures.  You
want to remember that it won't pay you to go against the general wish."

There was a threat in his manner, and George's face hardened.

"That consideration hasn't much weight with me," he said.

"Well," returned Beamish, "I guess you're wrong; but as there's nothing
doing here, I'll get on."

He rode away, and George thought no more of the matter for several
days.  Then as he was riding home with Edgar from a visit to a neighbor
who had a team to sell, they stopped to rest a few minutes in the shade
of a poplar bluff.  It was fiercely hot on the prairie, but the wood
was dim and cool, and George followed Edgar through it in search of
saskatoons.  The red berries were plentiful, and they had gone farther
than they intended when George stopped waist-deep in the grass of a dry
sloo, where shallow water had lain in the spring.  He nearly fell over
something large and hard.  Stooping down, he saw with some surprise
that it was a wooden case.

"I wonder what's in it?" he said.

"Bottles," reported Edgar, pulling up a board of the lid.  "One of the
cure-everything tonics, according to the labels.  It strikes me as a
curious place to leave it in."

George carefully looked about.  He could distinguish a faint track,
where the grasses had been disturbed, running straight across the sloo
past the spot he occupied; but he thought that the person who had made
the track had endeavored to leave as little mark as possible.  Then he
glanced out between the poplar trunks across the sunlit prairie.  There
was not a house on it; scarcely a clump of timber broke its even
surface.  The bluff was very lonely; and George remembered that a trail
which ran near by led to an Indian reservation some distance to the
north.  While he considered, Edgar broke in:

"As neither of us requires a pick-me-up, it might be better to leave
the thing where it is."

"That," replied George, "is my own idea."

Edgar looked thoughtful.

"The case didn't come here by accident; and one wouldn't imagine that
tonics are in great demand in this locality.  I have, however, heard
the liquor laws denounced; and as a rule it's wise to leave matters
that don't concern you severely alone."

"Just so," said George.  "We'll get on again, if you have had enough
berries."

On reaching the homestead, they found a note from Miss Grant inviting
them to come over in the evening; and both were glad to comply with it.
When they arrived, the girl led them into a room where a lady of
middle-age and a young man in clerical attire were sitting with her
father.

"Mrs. Nelson has come over from Sage Butte on a mission," she said,
when she presented them.  "Mr. Hardie, who is the Methodist minister
there, is anxious to meet you."

The lady was short and slight in figure but was marked by a most
resolute expression.

"The mission is Mr. Hardie's," she said.  "I'm merely his assistant.  I
suppose you're a temperance reformer, Mr. Lansing?"

"No," George answered meekly; "I can't say I am."

"Then you'll have to become one.  How long is it since you indulged in
drink?"

George felt a little embarrassed, but Edgar, seeing Flora's smile and
the twinkle in her father's eyes, hastily came to his rescue.

"Nearly a month, to my knowledge.  That is, if you don't object to
strong green tea, consumed in large quantities."

"One should practise moderation in everything.  _Everything_!"

"It has struck me," said Edgar thoughtfully, "that moderation is now
and then desirable in temperance reform."

Mrs. Nelson fixed her eyes on him with a severe expression.

"Are you a scoffer?"

"No," said Edgar; "as a matter of fact, I'm open to conviction,
especially if you intend to reform the Butte.  In my opinion, it needs
it."

"Well," responded the lady, "you're a signature, anyway; and we want as
many as we can get.  But we'll proceed to business.  Will you state our
views, Mr. Hardie?"

The man began quietly, and George was favorably impressed by him.  He
had a pleasant, sun-burned face, and a well-knit but rather thin
figure, which suggested that he was accustomed to physical exertion.
As he could not afford a horse, he made long rounds on foot to visit
his scattered congregation, under scorching sun and in the stinging
frost.

"There are four churches in Sage Butte, but I sometimes fear that most
of the good they do is undone in the pool room and the saloons," he
said.  "Of the latter, one cannot, perhaps, strongly object to the
Queen's."

"One should always object to a saloon," Mrs. Nelson corrected him.

Hardie smiled good-humoredly.

"After all, the other's the more pressing evil.  There's no doubt about
the unfortunate influence of the Sachem."

"That's so," Grant agreed.  "When I first came out from Ontario, there
wasn't a loafer in the town.  When the boys were through with their
day's job, they had a quiet talk and smoke and went to bed; they came
here to work.  Now the Sachem bar's full of slouchers every night, and
quite a few of them don't do anything worth speaking of in the daytime,
except make trouble for decent folks.  If the boys try to put the screw
on a farmer at harvest or when he has extra wheat to haul, you'll find
they hatched the mischief at Beamish's saloon.  But I've no use for
giving those fellows tracts with warning pictures."

"That," said Mrs. Nelson, "is by no means what we intend to do."

"I'm afraid that admonition hasn't had much effect, and I agree with
Mr. Grant that the Sachem is a gathering place for doubtful
characters," Hardie went on.  "What's worse, I've reasons for supposing
that Beamish gets some of them to help him in supplying the Indians on
the reservation with liquor."

This was a serious offense, and there was a pause, during which Edgar
glanced meaningly at George.  Then he made a pertinent remark.

"Four churches to two saloons is pretty long odds.  Why do you think it
needful to call in the farmers?"

Hardie looked troubled, but he showed that he was honest.

"The churches are thinly attended; I'm the only resident clergyman, and
I'm sorry I must confess that some of our people are indifferent:
reluctant, or perhaps half afraid, to interfere.  They want a clear
lead; if we could get a big determined meeting it might decide the
waverers."

"Then you're not sure of winning?" asked Grant.

"No," replied Hardie.  "There'll be strong and well-managed opposition;
in fact, we have nearly everything against us.  I've been urged to
wait, but the evil's increasing; those against us are growing stronger."

"If you lose, you and your friends will find the Butte pretty hot.  But
you feel you have a chance, a fighting chance, and you mean to take it?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm with you,"' Grant declared with a grim smile.  "Don't mistake
me: I take my glass of lager when I feel like it--there's some right
here in the house--but, if it's needful, I can do without.  I'm not
going into this thing to help you in preaching to whisky-tanks and
toughs--it's the law I'm standing for.  If what you suspect is going
on, we'll soon have our colts rebranded and our calves missing.  We
have got to clean out Beamish's crowd."

"Thanks," said Hardie, with keen satisfaction.

He turned to George.

"I'd be glad of your support, Mr. Lansing."

George sat silent a moment or two while Flora watched him.  Then he
said quietly:

"My position's much the same as Mr. Grant's--I can do without.  After
what you have said about the Sachem, I'll join you."

"And you?" Hardie asked Edgar.

The lad laughed.

"I follow my leader.  The loungers about the Sachem weren't civil to
me; said unpleasant things about my appearance and my English clothes.
To help to make them abstainers strikes me as a happy thought."

Flora glanced at him in amused reproof, and Hardie turned to Grant.

"What about your hired men?"

"Count them in; they go with me.  If you have brought any memorial
along, I'll see they sign it."

"I wish all our supporters had your determination," Mrs. Nelson
remarked approvingly.

Hardie ventured a protest.

"I don't want any pressure put upon them, Mr. Grant."

"Pressure?" queried the farmer.  "I'll just ask them to sign."

"I wonder if you're quite satisfied with the purity of all your allies'
motives, Mr. Hardie?" Edgar inquired.

A smile crept into the clergyman's face.

"I don't think a leader's often in that position, Mr. West; and
considering what I'm up against, I can't refuse any support that's
offered me.  It's one reason why I've taken yours."

"Now that I've joined you, I'd better mention a little discovery West
and I made this afternoon," said George.

Hardie's expression grew eager as he listened.

"It's certainly liquor--for the reservation Indians," he broke out.
"If we can fix the thing on Beamish--I haven't a doubt that he's
responsible--we can close the Sachem."

"Then we had better decide how it's to be done," Grant said curtly.

He ruled out several suggestions, and finally said:

"I expect the case will be sent for to-night, and we want two witnesses
who'll lie by in the sloo.  One of them ought to be a farmer; but we'll
see about that.  Guess your part is to find out how the liquor left the
Butte, Mr. Hardie.  What do you think of the plan, ma'am?"

"I leave it to you," said Mrs. Nelson, half reluctantly.  "But be
warned--if the men can't close the Sachem, the women of Sage Butte will
undertake the thing."

"Then we have only to decide who is to watch the bluff," said Hardie.

"As I first mentioned the matter, I'll go, for one," George volunteered.

"You're the right man," declared Grant.  "As a newcomer who's never
been mixed up with local affairs, your word would carry more weight
with the court.  The opposition couldn't make you out a partizan.  But
you want to recognize what you're doing--after this, you'll find
yourself up against all the Sachem toughs.  It's quite likely they'll
make trouble for you."

"I wonder whether such reasons count for much with Mr. Lansing?" Flora
said suggestively.

George made no reply, but Edgar laughed.

"They don't, Miss Grant; you can set your mind at rest on that.  You
don't seem curious whether they count with me."

"You're not going," Grant told him.  "We must have two men who can be
relied on, and I can put my hand on another who's younger and a little
more wiry than I am."  He turned to George.  "What you have to do is to
lie close in the sloo grass until the fellows come for the liquor, when
you'll follow them to the reservation, without their seeing you.  Then
you'll ride up and make sure you would know them again.  They should
get there soon after daylight, as they won't strike the bluff until
it's dark, but there's thick brush in the ravine the trail follows for
the last few miles.  It won't matter if they light out, because Flett
will pick up their trail.  I'll send for him right off, but he could
hardly get through before morning."

The party broke up shortly afterward, and George rode home, wondering
why he had allowed himself to become involved in what might prove to be
a troublesome matter.  His ideas on the subject were not very clear,
but he felt that Flora Grant had expected him to take a part.  Then he
had been impressed in Hardie's favor; the man was in earnest, ready to
court popular hostility, but he was nevertheless genial and free from
dogmatic narrow-mindedness.  Behind all this, there was in George a
detestation of vicious idleness and indulgence, and a respect for right
and order.  Since he had been warned that the badly-kept hotel
sheltered a gang of loafers plotting mischief and willing to prey upon
men who toiled strenuously, he was ready for an attempt to turn them
out.  He agreed with Grant: the gang must be put down.




CHAPTER X

THE LIQUOR-RUNNERS

Dusk was closing in when George and the hired man whom Grant had sent
with him reached the bluff and tethered their horses where they would
be hidden among the trees.  This done, George stood still for a few
moments, looking about.  A dark, cloud-barred sky hung over the
prairie, which was fast fading into dimness; the wood looked desolate
and forbidding in the dying light.  He did not think any one could have
seen him and his companion enter it.  Then he and the man floundered
through the undergrowth until they reached the sloo, where they hid
themselves among the grass at some distance from the case, which had
not been removed.

There was no moon, and a fresh breeze swept through the wood, waking
eerie sounds and sharp rustlings among the trees.  Once or twice George
started, imagining that somebody was creeping through the bushes behind
him, but he was glad of the confused sounds, because they would cover
his movements when the time for action came.  His companion, a teamster
born on the prairie, lay beside him amid the tall harsh grass that
swayed to and fro with a curious dry clashing.  He broke into a soft
laugh when George suddenly raised his head.

"Only a cottontail hustling through the brush.  Whoever's coming will
strike the bluff on the other side," he said.  "Night's kind of wild;
pity it won't rain.  Crops on light soil are getting badly cut."

George glanced up at the patch of sky above the dark mass of trees.
Black and threatening clouds drove across it; but during the past few
weeks he had watched them roll up from the west a little after noon
almost every day.  For a while, they shadowed the prairie, promising
the deluge he eagerly longed for; and then, toward evening, they
cleared away, and pitiless sunshine once more scorched the plain.
Grain grown upon the stiff black loam withstood the drought, but the
light soil of the Marston farm was lifted by the wind, and the sharp
sand in it abraded the tender stalks.  It might cut them through if the
dry weather and strong breeze continued; and then the crop which was to
cover his first expenses would yield him nothing.

"Yes," he returned moodily.  "It looks as if it couldn't rain.  We
ought to go in more for stock-raising; it's safer."

"Costs quite a pile to start with, and the ranchers farther west
certainly have their troubles.  We had a good many calves missing, and
now and then prime steers driven off, when I was range-riding."

"I haven't heard of any cattle-stealing about here."

"No," said the teamster.  "Still, I guess we may come to it; there are
more toughs about the settlement than there used to be.  Indians have
been pretty good, but I've known them make lots of trouble in other
districts by killing beasts for meat and picking up stray horses.  But
that was where they had mean whites willing to trade with them."

George considered this.  It had struck him that the morality of the
country had not improved since he had last visited it; though this was
not surprising in view of the swarm of immigrants that were pouring in.
Grant had pithily said that once upon a time the boys had come there to
work; but it now looked as if a certain proportion had arrived on the
prairie because nobody could tolerate them at home.  Flett and the
Methodist preacher seemed convinced that there were a number of these
undesirables hanging about Sage Butte, ready for mischief.

"Well," he said, "I suppose the first thing to be done is to stop this
liquor-running."

They had no further conversation for another hour.  The poplars rustled
behind them and the grass rippled and clashed, but now and then the
breeze died away for a few moments, and there was a curious and almost
disconcerting stillness.  At last, in one of these intervals, the
Canadian, partly rising, lifted his hand.

"Listen!" he said.  "Guess I hear a team."

A low rhythmic drumming that suggested the beat of hoofs rose from the
waste, but it was lost as the branches rattled and the long grass
swayed noisily before a rush of breeze.  George thought the sound had
come from somewhere half a mile away.

"If they're Indians, would they bring a wagon?" he asked.

"It's quite likely.  Some of the bucks keep smart teams; they do a
little rough farming on the reservation.  It would look as if they were
going for sloo hay, if anybody saw them."

George waited in silence, wishing he could hear the thud of hoofs
again.  It was slightly daunting to lie still and wonder where the men
were.  It is never very dark in summer on the western prairie, and
George could see across the sloo, but there was no movement that the
wind would not account for among the black trees that shut it in.
Several minutes passed, and George looked around again with strained
attention.

Suddenly a dim figure emerged from the gloom.  Another followed it, but
they made no sound that could be heard through the rustle of the
leaves, and George felt his heart beat and his nerves tingle as he
watched them flit, half seen, through the grass.  Then one of the
shadowy objects stooped, lifting something, and they went back as
noiselessly as they had come.  In a few more moments they had vanished,
and the branches about them clashed in a rush of wind.  It died away,
and there was no sound or sign of human presence in all the silent
wood.  George, glad that the strain was over, was about to rise, but
his companion laid a hand on his arm.

"Give 'em time to get clear.  We don't want to come up until there's
light enough to swear to them or they make the reservation."

They waited several minutes, and then, traversing the wood, found their
horses and mounted.  The grass stretched away, blurred and shadowy, and
though they could see nothing that moved upon it, a beat of hoofs came
softly back to them.

"Wind's bringing the sound," said the teamster.  "Guess they won't hear
us."

They rode out into the gray obscurity, losing the sound now and then.
They had gone several leagues when they came to the edge of a dark
bluff.  Drawing bridle, they sat and listened, until the teamster broke
the silence.

"There's a trail runs through; we'll try it."

The trail was difficult to find and bad to follow, for long grass and
willow-scrub partly covered it, and in spite of their caution the men
made a good deal of noise.  That, however, seemed of less importance,
for they could hear nothing ahead, and George looked about carefully as
they crossed a more open space.  The trees were getting blacker and
more distinct; he could see their tops clearly against the sky, and
guessed that dawn was near.  How far it was to the reservation he did
not know, but there would be light enough in another hour to see the
men who had carried off the liquor.  Then he began to wonder where the
latter were, for there was now no sign of them.

Suddenly, when the wind dropped for a moment, a faint rattle of wheels
reached them from the depths of the wood, and the teamster raised his
hand.

"Pretty close," he said.  "Come on as cautious as you can.  The
reservation's not far away, and we don't want them to get there much
before us."

They rode a little more slowly; but when the rattle of wheels and thud
of hoofs grew sharply distinct in another lull, the man struck his
horse.

"They've heard us!" he cried.  "We've got to run them down!"

George urged his beast, and there was a crackle of brush about him as
the black trees streamed past.  The thrill of the pursuit possessed
him; after weeks of patient labor, he felt the exhilaration of the wild
night ride.  The trail, he knew, was riddled here and there with gopher
holes and partly grown with brush that might bring his horse down, but
this did not count.  He was glad, however, that the teamster was behind
him, because he could see the dim gap ahead between the mass of trees,
and he thought that it was rapidly becoming less shadowy.  The sound of
hoofs and wheels was growing louder; they were coming up with the
fugitives.

"Keep them on the run!" gasped the man behind.  "If one of us gets
thrown, the other fellow will hold right on!"

A few minutes later George's horse plunged with a crash through a break.

"We're off the trail!" his companion cried.  "Guess it switches round a
sloo!"

They floundered through crackling brushwood until they struck the
track, and afterward rode furiously to make up the lost time, with the
sound of wheels leading them on.  Then in the gap before them they saw
what seemed to be the back of a wagon which, to George's surprise,
suddenly disappeared.  The next moment a figure carrying something
crossed the trail.

"To the right!" cried the teamster.

George did not think his companion had seen the man.  He rode after him
into the brush, and saw the fellow hurrying through it with a load in
his arms.  The man looked around.  George could dimly make out his dark
face; and his figure was almost clear.  He was an Indian and unusually
tall.  Then he plunged into a screen of bushes, and George, riding
savagely, drove his horse at the obstacle.

He heard the twigs snap beneath him, a drooping branch struck him hard;
and then he gasped with horror.  In front there opened up a deep black
rift in which appeared the tops of trees.  Seeing it was too late to
pull up, he shook his feet clear of the stirrups.  He felt the horse
plunge down, there was a shock, and he was flung violently from the
saddle.  He struck a precipitous slope and rolled down it, clutching at
twigs, which broke, and grass, until he felt a violent blow on his
head.  After that he knew nothing.

It was broad daylight when consciousness returned, and he found himself
lying half-way down a steep declivity.  At the foot of it tall reeds
and sedges indicated the presence of water, and he realized that he had
fallen into a ravine.  There was a small tree near by, against which he
supposed he had struck his head; but somewhat to his astonishment he
could not see his horse.  It had apparently escaped better than he had,
for he felt dizzy and shaky and averse to making an effort to get up,
though he did not think he had broken any bones.

After a while he fumbled for his pipe and found some difficulty in
lighting it, but he persevered, and lay quiet while he smoked it out.
The sunlight was creeping down the gully, it was getting pleasantly
warm, and George felt dull and lethargic.  Some time had passed when he
heard the teamster's shout and saw the man scrambling down the side of
the ravine.

"Badly hurt?" he asked, on reaching George.

"No," said George; "I don't think it's serious; I feel half asleep and
stupid.  Suppose that's because I hit my head."

The other looked at him searchingly.  His eyes were heavy and his face
had lost its usual color.

"You want to get back to your homestead and lie quiet a while.  I
didn't miss you until I'd got out of the bluff, and then the wagon was
close ahead."

"How was it you avoided falling in after me?"

"That's easy understood in the daylight.  The trail twists sharply and
runs along the edge of the ravine.  I stuck to it; instead of turning,
you went straight on."

"Yes," said George, and mentioned having seen the Indian who left the
wagon.  Then he asked: "But what about the fellow you followed?"

His companion hesitated.

"Guess I've been badly fooled.  I came up with him outside the bluff
when it was getting light, and he stopped his team.  Said he was
quietly driving home when he heard somebody riding after him, and as
he'd once been roughly handled by mean whites, he tried to get away.
Then as I didn't know what to do, I allowed I'd keep him in sight until
Constable Flett turned up, and by and by we came to a deserted shack.
There's a well in the bluff behind it, and the buck said his team
wanted a drink; they certainly looked a bit played out, and my mare was
thirsty.  He found an old bucket and asked me to fill it."

"You didn't leave him with the horses!"

"No, sir; but what I did was most as foolish.  I let him go and he
didn't come back.  See how I was fixed?  If I'd gone into the bluff to
look for him, he might have slipped out and driven off, so I stood by
the beasts quite a while.  It strikes me that team wasn't his.  At last
Flett rode up with another trooper.  It seems Steve met them on the
trail."

George nodded.  Flett had arrived before he was expected, because
Grant's messenger had been saved a long ride to his station.

"Well?" he said.

"When we couldn't find the buck, Flett sent his partner off to pick up
his trail, and then said we'd better take the team along and look for
you.  I left where the trail forks; he was to wait a bit.  Now, do you
think you can get up?"

George did so, and managed with some assistance to climb the slope,
where his companion left him and went off for the constable.  Flett
arrived presently, and made George tell his story.

"The thing's quite plain," he said.  "The fellow you saw jumped off
with the liquor, though one wouldn't expect him to carry it far.  You
say he was tall; did he walk a little lame?"

"It was too dark to tell.  I'm inclined to think I would know him
again."

"Well," explained Flett, "this is the kind of thing Little Ax is likely
to have a hand in, and he's the tallest buck in the crowd.  I'll stick
to the team until we come across somebody who knows its owner.  The
first thing we have to do is to find that case of liquor."

Half an hour later the teamster came back carrying it, and set it down
before the constable with a grin.

"Guess it's your duty to see what's in these bottles," he remarked.
"Shall I get one out?"

"You needn't; I've a pretty good idea," answered Flett; adding
meaningly, "besides, it's the kind of stuff a white man can't drink."
Then he turned to George.  "I'd better take you home.  You look kind of
shaky."

"What about my horse?" George asked.

"Guess he's made for home," said the teamster.  "I struck his trail,
and it led right out of the woods."

George got into the wagon with some trouble, and the teamster rode
beside it when they set off.

"You haven't much to put before a court," he said to Flett.

"No," the constable replied thoughtfully.  "I'm not sure our people
will take this matter up; anyway, it looks as if we could only fix it
on the Indians.  This is what comes of you folks fooling things,
instead of leaving them to us."

"The police certainly like a conviction," rejoined the teamster,
grinning.  "They feel real bad when the court lets a fellow off; seem
to think that's their business.  Guess it's why a few of their
prisoners escape."

Flett ignored this, and the teamster turned to George.

"I'll tell you what once happened to me.  I was working for a blamed
hard boss, and it doesn't matter why I quit without getting my wages
out of him, but he wasn't feeling good when I lit out behind a
freight-car.  By bad luck, there was a trooper handy when a train-hand
found me at a lonely side-track.  Well, that policeman didn't know what
to do with me.  It was quite a way to the nearest guard-room; they
don't get medals for corraling a man who's only stolen a ride, and he
had to watch out for some cattle rustlers; so wherever he went I had to
go along with him.  We got quite friendly, and one night he said to me,
'There's a freight that stops here nearly due.  I'll go to sleep while
you get out on her.'"

The teamster paused and added with a laugh:

"That's what I did, and I'd be mighty glad to set the drinks up if I
ever meet that man off duty.  We'd both have a full-size jag on before
we quit."

"And you're one of the fellows who're running Hardie's temperance
campaign!" Flett said dryly.




CHAPTER XI

DIPLOMACY

Flett left the team at George's homestead.  Bidding him take good care
of it, and borrowing a fresh team, he drove away with the wagon.  When
he reached Sage Butte it was getting dusk.  He hitched the horses
outside of the better of the two hotels and entered in search of food,
as he had still a long ride before him.  Supper had long been finished,
and Flett was kept waiting for some time, but he now and then glanced
at the wagon.  It was dark when he drove away, after seeing that the
case lay where he had left it, and he had reached his post before he
made a startling discovery.  When he carried the case into the
lamplight, it looked smaller, and on hastily opening it he found it was
filled with soil!

He sat down and thought; though on the surface the matter was clear--he
had been cleverly outwitted by somebody who had exchanged the case
while he got his meal.  This, as he reflected, was not the kind of
thing for which a constable got promoted; but there were other points
that required attention.  The substitution had not been effected by
anybody connected with the Queen's; it was, he suspected, the work of
some of the frequenters of the Sachem; and he and his superiors had to
contend with a well-organized gang.  News of what had happened in the
bluff had obviously been transmitted to the settlement while he had
rested at Lansing's homestead.  He had, however, made a long journey,
and as he would have to ride on and report the matter to his sergeant
in the morning, he went to sleep.

The next day George was setting out on a visit to Grant when a man rode
up and asked for the team.

"Flett can't get over, but he wants the horses at the post, so as to
have them handy if he finds anybody who can recognize them," he
explained.

That sounded plausible, but George hesitated.  The animals would be of
service as a clue to their owner and a proof of his complicity in the
affair.  As they had not been identified, it would embarrass the police
if they were missing.

"I can only hand them over to a constable, unless you have brought a
note from Flett," he replied.

"Then, as I haven't one, you'll beat me out of a day's pay, and make
Flett mighty mad.  Do you think he'd get anybody who might know the
team to waste a day riding out to your place?  Guess the folks round
here are too busy, and they'd be glad of the excuse that it was so far.
They won't want to mix themselves up in this thing."

George could find no fault with this reasoning, but he thought the
fellow was a little too eager to secure the horses.

"Well," he said, "as I'm going to call on Mr. Grant, I'll see what he
has to say.  If I'm not back in time, Mr. West will give you supper."

"Then Grant's standing in with you and the temperance folks?"

It struck George that he had been incautious, but he could not
determine whether the man had blundered or not.  His question suggested
some knowledge of the situation, but an accomplice of the offenders
would, no doubt, have heard of the part Grant's hired man had played.

"I don't see how that concerns you," he replied.  "You'll have to wait
until I return if you want the team."

He rode on, but he had not gone far when he met Beamish, of the Sachem.

"I was coming over to see you," the man told him.  "You bought that
young Hereford bull of Broughton's, didn't you?"

George was surprised at the question, but he answered that he had done
so.

"Then would you sell him?"

"I hadn't thought of it."

"Guess that means I'll have to tempt you," Beamish said.  "I want the
beast."

He named a price that struck George as being in excess of the animal's
value; and then explained:

"I've seen him once or twice before he fell into Broughton's hands; the
imported Red Rover strain is marked in him, and a friend of mine, who's
going in for Herefords, told me not to stick at a few dollars if I
could pick up such a bull."

This was plausible, but not altogether satisfactory, and George,
reflecting that a buyer does not really praise what he means to
purchase, imagined that there was something behind it.

"I'm not likely to get a better bid," he admitted.  "But I must ask if
the transaction would be complete?  Would you expect anything further
from me in return?"

Beamish regarded him keenly, with a faint smile.

"Well," he said, "I certainly want the bull, but you seem to
understand.  Leave it at that; I'm offering to treat you pretty
liberally."

"So as to prevent my assisting Flett in any way or taking a part in
Hardie's campaign?"

"I wouldn't consider it the square thing for you to do," Beamish
returned quietly.

George thought of the man who was waiting at the homestead for the
team.  It was obvious that an attempt was being made to buy him, and he
strongly resented it.

"Then I can only tell you that I won't make this deal.  That's the end
of the matter."

Beamish nodded and started his horse, but he looked back as he rode off.

"Well," he called, in a meaning tone, "you may be sorry."

George rode on to Grant's homestead, and finding him at work in the
fallow, told him what had passed.

"I fail to see why they're so eager to get hold of me," he concluded.

Grant, sitting in the saddle of the big plow, thoughtfully filled his
pipe.

"Of course," he said, "it wasn't a coincidence that Beamish came over
soon after the fellow turned up for the horses.  It would have been
worth while buying the bull if you had let them go--especially as I
believe it's right about a friend of his wanting one--and nobody could
have blamed you for selling.  The fact is, your position counts.  The
bluff would make a handy place for a depot, and, while there's nobody
else near, you command the trails to it and the reservation.  Nobody
could get by from the settlement without being seen, unless they made a
big round, if you watched out."

"I'm beginning to understand.  What you say implies that they're doing
a good trade."

"That's so," Grant assented.  "I wouldn't have believed it was so big
before Hardie put me on the track and I began to look around.  But you
want to remember that what you're doing may cost you something.  I'm
your nearest neighbor, you're running stock that are often out of
sight, and you're up against a determined crowd."

"It's true," George admitted.  "Still, I can't back out."

Grant cast a keen, approving glance at him.  George sat quietly in his
saddle with a smile on his brown face; his pose was easy but virile:
there was a stamp of refinement and old country breeding upon him.  His
eyes were suggestively steady; his skin was clear; he looked forceful
in an unemphatic manner.  The farmer was to some extent prejudiced
against the type, but he could make exceptions.  He had liked Lansing
from the beginning, and he knew that he could work.

"No," he said; "I guess you're not that kind of man.  But won't you get
down and go along to the house?  Flora will be glad to talk with you,
and I'll be in for supper soon."

George thanked him, and did as he suggested.  He was beginning to find
pleasure in the conversation of Flora Grant.

It was two hours later when he took his leave and the farmer went out
with him.

"I don't know what Hardie's doing, but I've an idea that Mrs. Nelson
means to make some move at the Farmers' Club fair," he said.  "She's a
mighty determined and enterprising woman.  If you can spare the time,
you'd better ride in and see what's going on."

On reaching home, George was not surprised to find that the man who had
come for the horses had departed without waiting for his answer.  The
next day he received an intimation that the annual exhibition of the
Sage Butte Farmers' Club would shortly be held; and one morning a
fortnight later he and Edgar rode off to the settlement.

They found the little town rudely decorated with flags and arches of
poplar boughs, and a good-humored crowd assembled.  The one-sided
street that faced the track was lined with buggies, wagons, and a few
automobiles; horses and two or three yoke of oxen were tethered outside
the overfull livery stables.

A strong breeze drove blinding dust-clouds through the place, but even
in the wind the sunshine was scorching.

As he strolled toward the fair-ground, George became interested in the
crowd.  It was largely composed of small farmers, and almost without
exception they and their wives were smartly attired; they looked
contented and prosperous.  Mingling with them were teamsters, many as
neatly dressed as their masters, though some wore blue-jean and
saffron-colored shirts; and there were railroad-hands, mechanics, and
store-keepers.  All of them were cheerful; a few good years, free from
harvest frost and blight, had made a marked improvement in everybody's
lot.

Yet, there was another side to the picture.  Odd groups of loungers
indulged in scurrilous jests; hoarse laughter and an occasional angry
uproar issued from the hotels, and shabby men with hard faces slouched
about the veranda of one.  George noticed this, but he presently
reached the fair-ground, where he inspected the animals and implements;
and then, toward supper-time, he strolled back with Grant.  They were
walking up one of the side-streets when shouts broke out behind them.

George looked around but for a moment he could see very little through
the cloud of dust that swept the street.  When it blew away it revealed
a row of women advancing two by two along the plank sidewalk.  They
were of different ages and stations in life, but they all came on as if
with a fixed purpose, and they had resolute faces.  Mrs. Nelson led
them, carrying a riding quirt, and though George was not astonished to
see her, he started when he noticed Flora Grant near the end of the
procession.  She was paler than usual, and she walked quietly with a
rather strained expression.

Grant touched George's shoulder.

"This is certainly more than I figured on," he said; "but I guess
there's no use in my objecting.  Now she's started, she'll go through
with it.  They're making for the Sachem; we had better go along."

Shortly afterward, a gathering crowd blocked the street.

"Speech!" somebody cried; and there was ironical applause.

Mrs. Nelson raised her hand, and when the procession stopped, she
looked sternly at the men before her.

"No," she answered; "speeches are wasted on such folks; we're here to
act!"

She waved the quirt commandingly.

"Let us pass!"

She was obeyed.  The women moved on; and George and Grant managed to
enter the hotel behind them before the throng closed in.  The big
general-room was hot and its atmosphere almost intolerably foul; the
bar, which opened off it, was shadowy, and the crowded figures of
lounging men showed dimly through thick cigar smoke.  The hum of their
voices died away and there was a curious silence as the women came in.
Edging forward, George saw Beamish leaning on his counter, looking
quietly self-possessed and very dapper in his white shirt and well-cut
clothes.

"Well," he said, "what do you ladies want with me?"

Their leader faced him, a small and yet commanding figure, with an
imperious expression and sparkling eyes.

"You got a notice that from supper-time this bar must be shut!"

"I did, ma'am.  It was signed by you.  Now, so far as I know, the
magistrates are the only people who can close my hotel."

"That's so!" shouted somebody; and there were confused murmurs and
harsh laughter which suggested that some of the loungers were not quite
sober.

"Fire them out!" cried another man.  "Guess this is why Nelson gets
cold potatoes for his supper.  Ought to be at home mending socks or
washing their men's clothes."

The lady turned sternly on the last speaker.

"Yes," she said; "that's the kind of idea you would hold.  It's getting
played out now."

George was conscious of slight amusement.  The affair had its humorous
side, and, though he was ready to interfere if the women were roughly
handled, he did not think they ran any serious risk.  Beamish looked
capable of dealing with the situation.

"You don't require to butt in, boys," he said.  "Leave me to talk to
these ladies; I guess their intentions are good."  He bowed to Mrs.
Nelson.  "You can go on, ma'am."

"I've only this to say--you must close your bar right now!"

"Suppose I'm not willing?  It will mean a big loss to me."

"That," answered Mrs. Nelson firmly, "doesn't count; the bigger the
loss, the better.  You will stop the sale of drink until to-morrow, or
take the consequences."

Another woman, who looked careworn and haggard, and was shabbily
dressed, stood forward.

"We and the children have borne enough!" she broke out.  "We have to
save the cord-wood in the bitter cold; we have to send the kiddies out
in old, thin clothes, while the money that would make home worth living
in goes into your register.  Where are the boys--our husbands and
sons--who once held steady jobs and did good work?"  She raised an
accusing hand, with despair in her pinched face.  "Oh!  I needn't tell
you--they're rebranding farmers' calves or hiding from the police!
Don't you know of one who walked to his death through the big trestle,
dazed with liquor?  For these things the men who tempted them will have
to answer!"

"True, but not quite to the point," Mrs. Nelson interposed.  "We have
found remonstrance useless; the time for words has passed.  This fellow
has had his warning; we're waiting for him to comply with it."

There was an uproar outside from the crowd that was struggling to get
in and demanding to be told what was going on; but Beamish made a sign
of resignation.

"It looks as if I couldn't refuse you; and anyway it wouldn't be
polite."  He turned to his customers.

"Boys, it's not my fault, but you'll get no more drinks to-day.  For
all that, I must make a point of asking you to treat these ladies with
respect."

"Smart," Grant remarked to George.  "He has handled the thing right.
This means trouble for Hardie."

Then Beamish once more addressed the intruders.

"Now that I've given in, has it struck you that there isn't much use in
closing my place if you leave the Queen's open?"

"We'll shut them both!" Mrs. Nelson declared.

"Then there's just another point--I've folks who have driven a long
way, staying the night with me, and there's quite a crowd coming in for
supper.  How am I to treat them?"

"They can have all they want to eat," Mrs. Nelson told him graciously;
"but no liquor."

"I can't refuse to supply them without a reason.  What am I to say?"

"Tell them that the Women's Reform League has compelled you to close
your bar."

"And I've been given the orders by their acknowledged secretary?"

"Yes.  I'm proud of being their leader, and of the duty I've
discharged."

Beamish turned to his customers.

"You'll remember what she has told me, boys!"

Grant drew George away.

"She walked right into the trap; you couldn't have stopped her.  I'm
sorry for Hardie.  But we may as well get out now; there'll be no
trouble."

The street was blocked when the women left, but a passage was made for
them; and, followed by everybody in the settlement, they proceeded to
the other hotel, whose proprietor capitulated.  Then Mrs. Nelson made a
speech, in which she pointed out that for once the festival would not
be marked by the orgies which had on previous occasions disgraced the
town.  Her words, by no means conciliatory, and her aggressive air
provoked the crowd, which had, for the most part, watched the
proceedings with amusement.  There were cries of indignant dissent,
angry shouts, and the throng began to close in upon the speaker.  Then
there was sudden silence, and the concourse split apart.  Into the gap
rode a slim young man in khaki, with a wide hat of the same color, who
pulled up and sat looking at the people with his hand on his hip.
George recognized him as the constable who shared the extensive beat
with Flett.

"Now," he said good-humoredly, "what's all this fuss about?"

Several of them informed him and he listened gravely before he called
one of the farmer's stewards, and spoke a few words to him.

"It strikes me," he said, "that you had all better go back to the
fair-ground, while I look into things.  There's an item or two on the
program Mr. Carson wants to work off before supper."

He had taken the right tone, and when they began to disperse he rode on
to the Sachem.

"I want your account of this disturbance," he said to the proprietor.

Beamish related what had taken place and the constable looked surprised.

"Am I to understand that you're afraid to open your bar because of the
women?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," replied Beamish, coolly; "that's about the size of it.
You'd have been scared, too; they're a mighty determined crowd."

"Nobody except the authorities has any right to interfere."

"That's my opinion, but what am I to do about it?  Suppose these women
come back, will you stand at the door and keep them out?  They're
capable of mobbing you."

The constable looked dubious, and Beamish continued:

"Besides, I've given them my word I'd shut up--they made me."

"Then how do you expect us to help?"

"So far as I can see, you can only report the matter to your bosses."

The constable felt inclined to agree with this.  He asked for the names
of the ladies, and Beamish hesitated.

"I was too taken up with Mrs. Nelson to notice the rest, and the place
was rather dark.  Anyway, about half of them were foolish girls with
notions; I don't want to drag them in."

"You blame somebody for setting them on?"

"I do," said Beamish, without a trace of rancor.  "There's Mrs.
Nelson--everybody knows she's a crank--and Hardie, the Methodist
minister.  They've been trying to make trouble for the hotels for quite
a while."

The constable made a note of this and presently called on Hardie, who
had just returned to town after visiting a sick farmer.  The former
listened to what the minister had to say, but was not much impressed.
Beamish had cleverly made him his partizan.

After supper George and Grant called on Hardie and found him looking
distressed.

"I'm much afraid that the result of three or four months' earnest work
has been destroyed this afternoon," he said.  "Our allies have stirred
up popular prejudice against us.  We'll meet with opposition whichever
way we turn."

"There's something in that," Grant agreed.  "Mrs. Nelson's a lady who
would wreck any cause.  Still, she has closed the hotels."

"For one night.  As a result of this afternoon's work, they will
probably be kept open altogether.  You can imagine how the authorities
will receive any representations we can make, after our being
implicated in this disturbance."

"Have you thought of disowning the ladies?  You could do so--you had no
hand in the thing."

The young clergyman flushed hotly.

"I'd have stopped this rashness, if I'd heard of it; but, after all,
I'm the real instigator, since I started the campaign.  I'm willing to
face my share of the blame."

"You mean you'll let Beamish make you responsible?"

"Of course," said Hardie.  "I can't deny I'm leader.  The move was a
mistake, considered prudentially; but it was morally justifiable.  I'll
defend it as strongly as I'm able."

Grant nodded, and Flora and Mrs. Nelson came in.

"Are you satisfied with what you've done?" Grant said to the girl.
"You might have given me a hint of it."

Flora smiled.

"I'm afraid Beamish was too clever for us.  From an outsider's point of
view, he behaved exceptionally well, and in doing so he put us in the
wrong.  I didn't know what had been planned when I left home, but, as
one of the league, I couldn't draw back when I heard of it."

"You think he was too clever?" Mrs. Nelson broke in.  "How absurd to
say that!  We have won a brilliant victory!"

Grant made a little gesture.

"If you're convinced of that, ma'am, we'll leave you to talk it over."

He led George toward the door.

"I like that man Hardie," he resumed when they reached the street.
"Beamish has him beaten for the present, but I'm thankful there'll be
no women about when we come to grips with his crowd.  It may take a
while, but those fellows have got to be downed."




CHAPTER XII

GEORGE FACES DISASTER

A fortnight had passed since the affair at the settlement when Hardie
arrived at the Marston homestead toward supper-time.  After the meal
was over, he accompanied his host and Edgar to the little room used for
an office.

"As I've been busy since four this morning, I don't mean to do anything
more," said George, "I suppose you don't smoke?"

"No," Hardie answered.  "It's a concession I can make without much
effort to our stricter brethren.  I'm inclined to believe they consider
smoking almost as bad as drink.  You agree with them about the latter?"

"We try to be consistent," Edgar told him.  "You see, I couldn't very
well indulge in an occasional drink when I've undertaken to make those
Sage Butte fellows abstainers.  Anyhow, though you're by no means
liberal in your view, you're practical people.  As soon as I landed at
Montreal, a pleasant young man, wearing a silver monogram came up to
me, and offered me introductions to people who might find me a job.
Though I didn't want one, I was grateful; and when I told him I wasn't
one of his flock, he said it didn't matter.  That kind of thing makes a
good impression."

"How are you getting on at the settlement?"

George interposed.

Hardie sat silent for a few moments, and George saw that his eyes were
anxious and his face looked worn.

"Badly," he said.  "I feel I can talk to you freely, and that's really
why I came, though I had another call to make."

"You're having trouble?"

"Plenty of it.  I've had another visit from the police, though that's
not a very important matter; and Mrs. Nelson's action has raised a
storm of indignation.  It would be useless to move any further against
the Sachem.  Even this is not the worst.  Our people are split up by
disagreements; I've been taken to task; my staunchest supporters are
falling away."

"They'll rally," said George.  "Leave those who haven't the courage to
do so alone; you're better rid of them.  I suppose it's apt to make a
difference in your finances."

The clergyman colored.

"That's true, though it's hard to own.  It subjects one to a strong
temptation.  After all, we're expected to keep our churches full--it's
necessary."

"The road to success," Edgar remarked, "is comparatively easy.  Always
proclaim the popular view, but be a little more emphatic and go a
little farther than the rest.  Then they'll think you a genius and make
haste to follow your lead."

Hardie looked at him quietly.

"There's another way, Mr. West, and the gate of it is narrow.  I think
it seldom leads to worldly fame."  He paused and sighed.  "It needs
courage to enter, and one often shrinks."

"Well," said Edgar, "I'll confess that I find the popular idea,
whatever it may happen to be, irritating; I like to annoy the people
who hold it by pointing out their foolishness, which is partly why I'm
now farming in western Canada.  George, of course, is more altruistic;
though I don't think he ever analyzes his feelings.  As soon as he sees
anybody in trouble and getting beaten, he begins to strip.  I've a
suspicion that he enjoys a fight!"

"If you would stop talking rot, we'd get on better," George said
curtly, and then turned to his visitor.  "I gather that you're afraid
of wrecking your church.  It's an awkward situation, but I suppose you
have made up your mind?"

"Yes; I must go on, if I go alone."

The man, as the others recognized, had no intention of being dramatic,
but his quiet announcement had its effect, and there was silence for a
moment or two.  Then Edgar, who was impatient of any display of strong
feeling, made an abrupt movement.

"After all," he said cheerfully, "you'll have Mrs. Nelson beside you,
and I'm inclined to think she would enliven any solitude."

Hardie smiled, and the lad continued:

"Now we had, perhaps, better be practical and consider how to get over
the difficulties."

He grew less discursive when they fell in with his suggestion.  George
possessed sound sense and some power of leading, and for a while they
were busy elaborating a plan of campaign, in which his advice was
largely deferred to.  Then there was an interruption, for Grierson, his
hired man, came in.

"I was hauling hay from the big sloo when I saw the Hereford bull," he
said.  "He was by himself and bleeding from the shoulder.  Thought I'd
better bring him home, though he walked very lame."

"Ah!" exclaimed George sharply.  "I'll come and look at him."

The others followed and on reaching the wire-fenced corral they found
the animal lying down, with its forequarter stained with blood.  George
sent for some water, and he soon found the wound, which was very small
and round.

"It's a curious mark," Hardie commented.

"Yes," said George; "it's a bullet hole."

The surprise of the others was obvious.

"I think it's a hint," George explained.  "We'll try to get him on his
feet."

They succeeded, and when the beast had been led into a stall, George
turned to Hardie.

"As you said you wouldn't stay the night, would you mind starting for
the settlement now?  The livery stable fellow is said to be clever at
veterinary work; you might send him out, and mail a note I'll give you
to the police."

Hardie professed his willingness to be of service, and on getting into
his buggy said, with some hesitation:

"I'm afraid you're right in your suspicions, and I'm particularly
sorry.  In a way, I'm responsible for this."

George smiled, rather grimly.

"One can't go into a fight without getting hurt; and we haven't come to
the end of it yet.  This affair won't cost you my support."

The clergyman's eyes sparkled as he held out his hand.

"I never imagined it--you have my sympathy, Mr. Lansing.  It would give
me the greatest pleasure to see the cowardly brute who fired that shot
brought to justice."

He drove away, and George went moodily back to the house with Edgar.

"That's a man who has had to choose between his duty and his interest,"
George said; "but just now we have other things to think about.  It's a
pity I can't get the bullet out until help arrives."

The livery man turned up on the following day and succeeded in
extracting it; and Flett made his appearance the morning after.  He
examined the wounded animal.

"It may have been done by accident; but, if so, it's curious the beast
should have been hit close to a place where it would have killed him,"
he remarked.

"What's your private opinion?" George asked.

The constable smiled.

"As we haven't gone very far yet, I'll reserve it."  He took up the
bullet.  "Winchester or Marlin; usual caliber; nothing to be made of
that.  Now let's go and take a look at the place where the shot was
fired."

They traced back the path of the wounded beast from the spot where
Grierson had found it, by the red splashes that here and there stained
the short grass of the unfenced prairie.  At last they stopped where
the ground was broken by a few low sandy ridges sprinkled with small
birches and poplars, and Flett pointed to the mark of hoofs in a strip
of almost bare, light soil.

"This is where he was hit," he said.  "You can see how he started off,
going as hard as he could.  Next, we've got to find the spot the man
fired from."

It proved difficult.  The dry grass revealed nothing, and they vainly
searched several of the neighboring hillocks, where it grew less
thickly.  Scorching sunshine beat down on them and a strong breeze blew
the sand about.  At length Flett pointed to a few half-obliterated
footprints on the bare summit of a small rise.

"The fellow stopped here with his feet well apart.  He'd stand like
that while he put up his gun.  Sit down and smoke while I copy these
marks."

He proceeded to do so carefully, having brought some paper from the
homestead.

"Have you any reason for thinking it was a standing shot he took?"
George asked.

"I haven't; I wish I had.  Quite a lot depends upon his position."

George nodded.

"So it struck me.  We'll look round for some more conclusive signs when
you have finished."

Before this happened.  Flora Grant rode up.

"I was going back from Forster's when I noticed you moving about the
hills," she explained.  "I made this round to find out what you were
doing."

George told her, and her sympathy was obvious.

"I'm very sorry; but my father warned you," she said.  "I'm afraid
you're finding this an expensive campaign."

"I can put up with it, so long as I have my friends' support."

"I think you can count on that," she smiled.  "But what is Flett's
theory?"

"If he has one, he's clever at hiding it," Edgar broke in; "but I'm
doubtful.  In my opinion, he knows the value of the professional air of
mystery."

"When I see any use in it, I can talk," retorted Flett.  "What's your
notion, Mr. Lansing?  You don't agree that the fellow shot your beast
from here?"

"No," answered George.  "Of course, there are only two explanations of
the thing, and the first is that it was an accident.  In that case, the
fellow must have been out after antelope or cranes."

"There's an objection: it's close season; though I wouldn't count too
much on that.  You farmers aren't particular when there's nobody
around.  Now, it's possible that a man who'd been creeping up on an
antelope would work in behind this rise and take a quick shot,
standing, when he reached the top of it.  If so, I guess he'd have his
eyes only on what he was firing at.  Suppose he missed, and your beast
happened to be in line with him?"

Flora smiled.

"It's not convincing, Mr. Flett.  Seen from here, the bull would be in
the open, conspicuous against white grass and sand."

"I didn't say the thing was likely.  Won't you go on, Mr. Lansing?"

"The other explanation is that the fellow meant to kill or mark the
bull; the place where it was hit points to the former.  If that was his
intention, he'd lie down or kneel to get a steadier aim.  We had better
look for the spot."

They spent some time before Flett thought he had found it.

"Somebody lay down here, and the bull would be up against a background
of poplar scrub," he said.  "I'll measure off the distance and make a
plan."

He counted his paces, and had set to work with his notebook, when Flora
interrupted.

"Wouldn't a sketch be better?  Give me a sheet of paper; and has
anybody another pencil?"

George gave her one, and after walking up and down and standing for a
few moments on a low mound, she chose a position and began the sketch.
It was soon finished, but it depicted the scene with distinctness, with
the bull standing in the open a little to one side of the clump of
scrub.  George started as he saw that she had roughly indicated the
figure of a man lying upon the little mound with a rifle in his hand.
It struck him that she was right.

"It's a picture," said the constable; "but why did you put that fellow
yonder?"

"Come and see."

They followed her to the mound, and after an inspection of it, Flett
nodded.

"You'd make a mighty smart tracker, Miss Grant.  I was against this
mound being the firing place, because, to get to it, the fellow would
have to come out into the open."

"Would that count?  It was a bull he was after."

"It was," Flett agreed.  "This fixes the thing."

George looked at him meaningly.

"Have you made up your mind about anything else?"

"Oh, yes," said Flett.  "It was done with malicious mischief.  If a
poor white or an Indian meant to kill a beast for meat, he wouldn't
pick a bull worth a pile of money, at least while there was common beef
stock about."

"Then what do you mean to do?"

Flett smiled.

"Sooner or later, I'm going to put handcuffs on the man who did this
thing.  If you'll give me the sketch, Miss Grant, I'll take it along."

Flora handed it to him, and he and Edgar went away shortly afterward,
leaving George with the girl.  She sat still, looking down at him when
he had helped her to the saddle.

"I'm afraid you have a good many difficulties to face," she said.

"Yes," assented George.  "A dry summer is bad for wheat on my light
soil, and that is why I thought of going in for stock."  He paused with
a rueful smile.  "It doesn't promise to be a great improvement, if I'm
to have my best beasts shot."

She pointed to the west.  The grass about them was still scorched with
fierce sunshine, but leaden cloud-masses, darkly rolled together with a
curious bluish gleam in them, covered part of the sky.

"This time it will rain," she said.  "We will be fortunate if we get no
more than that.  Try to remember, Mr. Lansing, that bad seasons are not
the rule in western Canada, and one good one wipes out the results of
several lean years."

Then she rode away, and George joined Edgar.  He felt that he had been
given a warning.  On reaching home, he harnessed a team and drove off
to a sloo to haul in hay, but while he worked he cast anxious glances
at the clouds.  They rolled on above him in an endless procession,
opening out to emit a passing blaze of sunshine, and closing in again.
The horses were restless, he could hardly get them to stand; the
grasses stirred and rustled in a curious manner; and even the little
gophers that scurried away from the wagon wheels displayed an unusual
and feverish activity.  Yet there was not a drop of rain, and the man
toiled on in savage impatience, wondering whether he must once more
resign himself to see the promised deluge pass away.

It was a question of serious import.  A night's heavy rain would
consolidate the soil that blew about with every breeze, revive the
suffering wheat and strengthen its abraded stalks against any further
attack by the driving sand.  Indeed, he thought it would place the crop
in security.

He came home for supper, jaded, dusty, and morose, and found that he
could scarcely eat when he sat down to the meal.  He could not rest
when it was over, though he was aching from heavy toil; nor could he
fix his attention on any new task; and when dusk was getting near he
strolled up and down before the homestead with Edgar.  There was a
change in the looks of the buildings--all that could be done had been
effected--but there was also a change in the man.  He was leaner, his
face was getting thin, and he looked worn; but he maintained a forced
tranquillity.

The sky was barred with cloud now; the great breadth of grain had faded
to a leaden hue, the prairie to shadowy gray.  The wind had dropped,
the air was tense and still; a strange, impressive silence brooded over
everything.

Presently Edgar looked up at the clouds.

"They must break at last," he said.  "One can't help thinking of what
they hold--endless carloads of grain, wads of dollar bills for the
storekeepers, prosperity for three big provinces.  It's much the same
weather right along to the Rockies."

"I wasn't considering the three provinces," said George.

"No," retorted Edgar.  "Your attention was confined to the improvement
the rain would make in Sylvia Marston's affairs.  You're looking
forward to sending her a big check after harvest."

"So far, it has looked more like facing a big deficit."

"You mean your facing it."

George frowned.

"Sylvia has nothing except this land."

"It strikes me she's pretty fortunate, in one way.  You find the
working capital and bear the loss, if there is one.  I wonder what
arrangements you made about dividing a surplus."

"That," said George, "is a thing I've no intention of discussing with
anybody but my co-trustee."

Edgar smiled; he had hardly expected to elicit much information upon
the point, having failed to do so once or twice already.

"Well," he said, "I believe we'll see the rain before an hour has
passed."

Soon after he had spoken, a flash leaped from overhead and the prairie
was flooded with dazzling radiance.  It was followed by a roll of
thunder, and a roar as the rain came down.  For a few moments the dust
whirled up and there was a strong smell of earth; then the air was
filled with falling water.  George stood still in the deluge,
rejoicing, while the great drops lashed his upturned face, until Edgar
laughingly pushed him toward the house.

"As I'm wet through, I think I'll go to bed.  At last, you can rest
content."

George, following his example, lay down with a deep sense of
thankfulness.  His cares had gone, the flood that roared against the
board walls had banished them.  Now that relief had come, he felt
strangely weary, and in a few minutes he was sound asleep.  He did not
hear the thunder, which broke out again, nor feel the house shake in
the rush of icy wind that suddenly followed; the ominous rattle on roof
and walls, different from and sharper than the lashing of the rain,
began and died away unnoticed by him.  He was wrapped in the deep,
healing slumber that follows the slackening of severe mental and bodily
strain; he knew nothing of the banks of ragged ice-lumps that lay
melting to lee of the building.

It was very cold the next morning, though the sun was rising above the
edge of the scourged plain, when Edgar, partly dressed and wearing wet
boots and leggings, came into the room and looked down at George
compassionately.

The brown face struck him as looking worn; George had flung off part of
the coverings, and there was something that suggested limp relaxation
in his attitude; but Edgar knew that his comrade must bear his load
again.

"George," he said, touching him, "you had better get up."

The man stirred, and looking at him became at once intent as he saw his
face.

"Ah!" he exclaimed.  "Something else gone wrong?"

Edgar nodded.

"I'm sorry," he answered simply.  "Put on your things and come out.
You had better get it over with."

In three or four minutes George left the house.  Holding himself
steadily in hand, he walked through the drenched grass toward the
wheat.  On reaching it, he set his lips tight and stood very still.
The great field of grain had gone; short, severed stalks, half-buried
in a mass of rent and torn-up blades, covered the wide stretch of soil
where the wheat had been.  The crop had been utterly wiped out by the
merciless hail.  Edgar did not venture to speak; any sympathy he could
express would have looked like mockery; and for a while there was
strained silence.  Then George showed of what tough fiber he was made.

"Well," he said, "it has to be faced.  After this, we'll try another
plan; more stock, for one thing." He paused and then resumed: "Tell
Grierson to hurry breakfast.  I must drive in to the Butte; there's a
good deal to be done."

Edgar moved away, feeling relieved.  George, instead of despairing, was
considering new measures.  He was far from beaten yet.




CHAPTER XIII

SYLVIA SEEKS AMUSEMENT

It was a fine September afternoon and Sylvia reclined pensively in a
canvas hammock on Herbert Lansing's lawn with one or two opened letters
in her hand.  Bright sunshine lay upon the grass, but it was pleasantly
cool in the shadow of the big copper beech.  A neighboring border
glowed with autumn flowers: ribands of asters, spikes of crimson
gladiolus, ranks of dahlias.  Across the lawn a Virginia creeper draped
the house with vivid tints.  The scene had nothing of the grim bareness
of the western prairie of which Sylvia was languidly thinking; her
surroundings shone with strong color, and beyond them a peaceful
English landscape stretched away.  She could look out upon
heavily-massed trees, yellow fields with sheaves in them, and the
winding streak of a flashing river.

Yet Sylvia was far from satisfied.  The valley was getting dull; she
needed distraction, and her letters suggested both the means of getting
it and a difficulty.  She wore black, but it had an artistic, almost
coquettish, effect, and the big hat became her well, in spite of its
simple trimming.  Sylvia bestowed a good deal of thought upon her
appearance.

After a while Mrs. Lansing came out and joined her.

"Is there any news in your letters?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Sylvia; "there's one from George--it's a little
disappointing, but you can read it.  As usual, he's laconic."

George's curtness was accounted for by the fact that he had been afraid
of saying too much, but Sylvia carelessly handed the letter to her
companion.

"After all, he shows a nice feeling," Mrs. Lansing remarked.  "He seems
to regret very much his inability to send you a larger check."

"So do I," said Sylvia with a petulant air.

"He points out that it has been a bad season and he has lost his crop."

"Bad seasons are common in western Canada; I've met farmers who seemed
to thrive on them."

"No doubt they didn't do so all at once."

"I dare say that's true," Sylvia agreed.  "It's very likely that if I
give him plenty of time, George will get everything right--he's one of
the plodding, persistent people who generally succeed in the end--but
what use will there be in that?  I'm not growing younger--I want some
enjoyment now!"  She spread out her hands with a gesture that appealed
for sympathy.  "One gets so tired of petty economy and self-denial."

"But George and Herbert arranged that you should have a sufficient
allowance."

"Sufficient," said Sylvia, "is a purely relative term.  So much depends
upon one's temperament, doesn't it?  Perhaps I am a little extravagant,
and that's why I'm disappointed."

"After all, you have very few necessary expenses."

Sylvia laughed.

"It's having only the necessary ones that makes it so dull.  Now, I've
thought of going to stay a while with Susan Kettering; there's a letter
from her, asking when I'll come."

Mrs. Lansing was a lady of strict conventional views, and she showed
some disapproval.

"But you can hardly make visits yet!"

"I don't see why I can't visit Susan.  She's a relative, and it isn't
as if she were entertaining a number of people.  She says she's very
quiet; she has hardly asked anybody, only one or two intimate friends."

"She'll have three or four men down for the partridge shooting."

"After all," said Sylvia, "I can't make her send them away.  You have
once or twice had men from town here."

"Susan leads a very different life from mine," Mrs. Lansing persisted.
"She's a little too fond of amusement, and I don't approve of all her
friends."  She paused as an idea struck her.  "Is Captain Bland going
there for the shooting?"

"I really can't tell you.  Is there any reason why she shouldn't invite
him?"

Mrs. Lansing would have preferred that Sylvia should not see so much of
Bland as she was likely to do if she stayed in the same house with him,
though she knew of nothing in particular to his discredit.  He had
served without distinction in two campaigns, he lived extravagantly,
and was supposed to be something of a philanderer.  Indeed, not long
ago, an announcement of his engagement to a lady of station had been
confidently expected; but the affair had, for some unknown reason,
suddenly fallen through.  Mrs. Lansing was puzzled about him.  If the
man were looking for a wealthy wife, why should he be attracted, as she
thought he was, by Sylvia, who had practically nothing.

"I'd really rather have you remain with us; but of course I can't
object to your going," she said.

"I knew you would be nice about it," Sylvia exclaimed.  "I must have a
talk with Herbert; you said he would be home this evening."

Lansing's business occasionally prevented his nightly return from the
nearest large town, but he arrived some hours later, and after dinner
Sylvia found him in his smoking-room.  He looked up with a sm

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