Prescott of Saskatchewan
by Harold Bindloss · English · Gutenberg #25916 · 549,103 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Prescott of Saskatchewan
Author: Harold Bindloss
Illustrator: W. Herbert Dunton
Release date: June 28, 2008 [eBook #25916]
Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25916
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Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN ***
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net
PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN
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[Illustration: "IT SEEMED PRUDENT TO PLACE AS LONG A DISTANCE AS POSSIBLE
BETWEEN THEM AND THE SETTLEMENT"--Page 158]
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PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN
BY
HAROLD BINDLOSS
AUTHOR OF
THE LONG PORTAGE,
RANCHING FOR SYLVIA,
WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE, ETC.
WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BY
W. HERBERT DUNTON
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE, "THE WASTREL"
August, 1913
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. JERNYNGHAM'S HAPPY THOUGHT 1
II. MURIEL SEES THE WEST 12
III. JERNYNGHAM MAKES A DECISION 23
IV. MURIEL FEELS REGRET 35
V. THE MYSTERY OF THE MUSKEG 45
VI. A DEAL IN LAND 57
VII. THE SEARCH 67
VIII. A DAY ON THE PRAIRIE 79
IX. PRESCOTT MAKES A PROMISE 92
X. A NEW CLUE 102
XI. A REVELATION 113
XII. PRESCOTT'S FLIGHT 123
XIII. THE CONSTRUCTION CAMP 131
XIV. ON THE TRAIL 141
XV. MISS FOSTER'S ESCORT 153
XVI. THE MISSIONARY'S ALLY 168
XVII. THE PASSAGE OF THE MOUNTAINS 183
XVIII. DEFEAT 195
XIX. PRESCOTT'S RETURN 206
XX. MURIEL RELIEVES HER MIND 216
XXI. WANDLE TAKES PRECAUTIONS 227
XXII. JERNYNGHAM MAKES A DISCOVERY 237
XXIII. A NIGHT RIDE 249
XXIV. MURIEL PROVES OBDURATE 261
XXV. A WOMAN'S INFLUENCE 272
XXVI. PRESCOTT MAKES INQUIRIES 284
XXVII. STARTLING NEWS 296
XXVIII. THE END OF THE PURSUIT 306
XXIX. JERNYNGHAM BREAKS DOWN 318
XXX. PRESCOTT'S VINDICATION 332
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PRESCOTT, OF SASKATCHEWAN
CHAPTER I
JERNYNGHAM'S HAPPY THOUGHT
The air was cooling down toward evening at Sebastian, where an
unpicturesque collection of wooden houses stand upon a branch line on the
Canadian prairie. The place is not attractive during the earlier portion
of the short northern summer, when for the greater part of every week it
lies sweltering in heat, in spite of the strong west winds that drive
dust-clouds through its rutted streets. As a rule, during the remaining
day or two the temperature sharply falls, thunder crashes between
downpours of heavy rain, and the wet plank sidewalks provide a
badly-needed refuge from the cement-like "gumbo" mire.
The day, however, had been cloudless and unusually hot. Prescott had
driven in from his wheat farm at some distance from the settlement, and
he now walked toward the hotel. He was twenty-eight years old, of average
height and rather spare figure; his face, which had been deeply bronzed
by frost and sun, was what is called open, his gray eyes were clear and
steady, the set of his lips and mould of chin firm. He looked honest and
good-natured, but one who could, when necessary, sturdily hold his own.
His attire was simple: a wide gray hat, a saffron-colored shirt with
flannel collar, and a light tweed suit, something the worse for wear.
As he passed along the sidewalk he looked about. The small, frame houses
were destitute of paint and any pretense of beauty, a number of them had
raised, square fronts which hid the shingled roofs; but beyond the end of
the street there was the prairie stretching back to the horizon. In the
foreground it was a sweep of fading green and pale ocher; farther off it
was tinged with gray and purple; and where it cut the glow of green and
pink on the skyline a long birch bluff ran in a cold blue smear. To the
left of the opening rose three grain elevators: huge wooden towers with
their tops narrowed in and devices of stars and flour-bags painted on
them. At their feet ran the railroad track, encumbered with a string of
freight-cars; a tall water-tank, a grimy stage for unloading coal, and a
small office shack marked the station.
Prescott, however, did not notice much of this; he was more interested in
the signs of conflict on the persons of the men he met. Some looked as if
they had been violently rolled in the dust; others wore torn jackets; and
the faces of several were disfigured by bruises. Empty bottles, which
make handy clubs, were suggestively scattered about the road. All this
was unusual, but Prescott supposed some allowance must be made for the
fact that it was the anniversary of the famous victory of the Boyne.
Moreover, there was a community of foreign immigrants, mixed with some
Irishmen and French Canadians, but all professing the Romish faith,
engaged in some railroad work not far away.
In front of the hotel ran a veranda supported on wooden pillars, and a
row of chairs was set out on the match-strewn sidewalk beneath it. Most
of them were occupied by after-supper loungers, and several of the men
bore scars. Prescott stopped and lighted his pipe.
"Things seem to have been pretty lively here," he remarked. "I came in to
see the implement man and found he couldn't talk straight, with half his
teeth knocked out. It's lucky the Northwest troopers have stopped your
carrying pistols."
One of the men laughed.
"We've had a great day, sure. Quite a few of the Dagos had knives, and
Jernyngham had a sword. Guess he'd be in trouble now, only it wasn't one
you could cut with."
"How did he get the sword?"
"It was King Billy's," explained another man. "Fellow who was acting him
got knocked out with a bottle in his eye. Jernyngham got up on the horse
instead and led the last charge, when we whipped them across the track."
"Where's the Protestant Old Guard now?"
"Some of it's in Clayton's surgery; rest's gone home. When it looked as
if the stores would be wrecked, Reeve Marvin butted in. Telephoned the
railroad boss to send up gravel cars for his boys; told the other crowd
he'd bring the troopers in if they didn't quit. Ordered all strangers off
on the West-bound, and now we're simmering down."
"Where's Jernyngham?"
The man jerked his hand toward the hotel.
"In his room, a bit the worse for wear. Mrs. Jernyngham's nursing him."
Pushing open the wire-mesh mosquito door, Prescott entered the building.
Its interior was shadowy and filled with cigar smoke; flies buzzed
everywhere, and the smell of warm resinous boards pervaded the rank
atmosphere. The place was destitute of floor covering or drapery, and the
passage Prescott walked down was sloppy with soap and water from a row of
wash-basins, near which hung one small wet towel. Ascending the stairs,
he entered a little and very scantily furnished room with walls of
uncovered pine. It contained a bed with a ragged quilt and a couple of
plain wooden chairs, in one of which a man leaned back. He was about
thirty years old and he roughly resembled Prescott, only that his face,
which was a rather handsome one, bore the stamp of indulgence. His
forehead was covered by a dirty bandage, there was dust on his clothes,
and Prescott thought he was not quite sober. In the other chair sat a
young woman with fine dark eyes and glossy black hair, whose appearance
would have been prepossessing had it not been spoiled by her
slatternliness and cheap finery. She smiled at the visitor as he walked
in.
"If you'd come sooner, we might have kep' him out o' trouble," she said.
"He got away from me when things begun to hum."
Her slight accent suggested the French Canadian strain, though Prescott
imagined that there was a trace of Indian blood in her. Her manners were
unfinished, her character was primitive, but Prescott thought she was as
good a consort as Jernyngham deserved. The latter had a small wheat farm
lying back on the prairie, but his erratic temperament prevented his
successfully working it. Prescott was not a censorious person, and he had
a liking and some pity for the man.
"Well," he said, in answer to the woman's remark, "that was certainly
foolish of him. But what had he to do with the row, anyway?"
"Have a drink, and I'll try to explain," said Jernyngham. "A big cool
drink might clear my head, and I feel it needs it."
"You kin have soda, but nothin' else!" the woman broke in. "I'll send it
up; and now that I kin leave you, I'm goin' to the store." She turned to
Prescott. "Nothin' but soda; and see he don't git out!"
She left them and Jernyngham laughed.
"Ellice's a good sort; I sometimes wonder how she puts up with me.
Anyhow, I'm glad you came, because I'm in what might be called a
dilemma."
As this was not a novelty to his companion, Prescott made no comment, and
by and by two tumblers containing iced liquid were brought in. Jernyngham
drained his thirstily and looked up with a grin.
"It isn't exhilarating, but it's cool," he said. "Now, however, you're
curious about my honorable scars--I got them from a bottle. It broke, you
see, but there's some satisfaction in remembering that I knocked out the
other fellow with the flat of the Immortal William's sword."
"You'll get worse hurt some day," Prescott rebuked him severely.
"It's possible, but you're wandering from the point. I'm trying to
remember what led me into the fray in the incongruous company of certain
Hardshell Baptists, Ontario Methodists, and Belfast Presbyterians. As a
young man, my sympathies were with the advanced Anglicans, perhaps
because my people were sternly Evangelical. Then the whole thing's
unreasonable--what have I to do, for instance, with the Protestant
succession?"
"It isn't very plain," said Prescott. "Still, everybody knows what kind
of fool you are."
"I live," declared Jernyngham. "You steady, industrious fellows grow. The
row began at the ball-game--disputed base, I think--and our lot had got
badly whipped at the first round when I stood on the veranda and sang
them, 'No Surrender.' That was enough for the Ulster boys, and three or
four of them go a long way in this kind of scrimmage."
Prescott had no sympathy with Jernyngham's vagaries, but one could not be
angry with him: the man was irresponsible. In a few moments, however,
Jernyngham's face grew graver.
"Jack," he resumed, "I'm in a hole. Never troubled to ask for my letters
until late in the afternoon, and now I don't know what to do unless you
can help me."
"You had better tell me what the trouble is."
"To make you understand, I'll have to go back some time. Everybody round
this place knows what I am now, but I believe I was rather a promising
youngster before I left the old country, a bit of a rebel though, and
inclined to kick against the ultra-conventional. In fact, I think honesty
was my ruin, Jack; I kicked openly."
"Is there any other way? I can't see that there's much use in kicking
unless the opposition feels it."
"Don't interrupt," scowled Jernyngham. "This is rather deep for you, but
I'll try to explain. If you want to get on in the old country, you must
conform to the standard; though you can do what you like at times and
places where people of your proper circle aren't supposed to see you. I
didn't recognize the benefits of the system then--and I suffered for it."
He paused with a curious, half-tender look in his face.
"There was a girl, Jack, good as they're made, I still believe, though
not in our station. Well, I meant to marry her--thought I was strong
enough to defy the system--and she, not knowing what manner of life I was
meant for, was fond of me."
"What manner of life were you meant for?"
Jernyngham laughed harshly.
"The Bar, for a beginning; I'd got my degree. The House later--there was
strong family influence--to assist in propagating the Imperial idea.
Strikes one as amusing, Jack."
Prescott thought his companion would not have spoken so freely had he
been wholly sober, but he had long noticed the purity of the man's
intonation and the refinement that occasionally showed in his manners.
"You're making quite a tale of it," he said.
"Well," resumed Jernyngham, "I didn't know what I was up against; the
system broke me. When the stress came, I hadn't nerve enough to hold out,
and for that I've been punished. My sister--she meant well--got hold of
the girl, persuaded her to give me up--for my sake, Jack. Wouldn't see
me, sent back my letters, and I came to Canada, beaten."
He paused.
"There's a reason why you must try to realize my father and sister. He's
unflinchingly upright, conventional to a degree; Gertrude's a feebler
copy, as just, but perhaps not quite so hard. Well, I've never written to
either, but I've heard from friends and the conclusion seems to be that
as I've never asked for money I must have reformed. There's a desire for
a reconciliation; my father's getting old, and I believe, in their
reserved way, they were fond of me. Don't be impatient; I'm coming to the
point at last. I'd a letter to-day from Colston--though the man's a
relative, I haven't seen him since I left school. He and his wife are
passing through on their way to British Columbia and the idea seems to be
that he should see me and report."
Prescott made a sign of understanding. Jernyngham, stamped with
dissipation and injured in a brawl, and his small homestead where
everything was in disorder and out of repair, were hardly likely to
create a favorable impression on his English relatives. Besides, there
was Mrs. Jernyngham. The effect of her appearance and conversation might
be disastrous.
"Now," continued Jernyngham, "you see how I'm fixed. I haven't much to
thank my people for, but I want to spare them a shock. If it would make
things easier for them, I don't mind their thinking better of me than I
deserve."
His companion pondered this. It was crudely put, but it showed a rather
fine consideration, Prescott thought, for the people who were in part
responsible for the man's downfall; perhaps, too, a certain sense of
shame and contrition. Jernyngham's desire could not be found fault with.
"What are you going to do about it?" he asked.
"Nothing," said Jernyngham with a reckless laugh. "You'll do all that's
needed; I mean to leave my friends to you. Strikes me as a brilliant
idea, though not exactly novel; made a number of excellent comedies. Did
you ever see 'Charley's Aunt'?"
Prescott frowned.
"I don't deal."
"Think! You're not unlike me and we're about the same age; Colston,
hasn't seen me for fourteen years; his wife never!"
"No," objected Prescott. "It can't be done!"
"It's hardly good form to remind you of it, Jack, but there was a time
when we took a grading contract on the line and you got into trouble
close in front of the ballast train."
Prescott's determined expression changed.
"Yes," he conceded; "it gives you a pull on me--I can't go back on that."
He spread out his hands. "Well, if you insist."
"For the old man's sake," said Jernyngham. "I want you to take the
Colstons out to your place and entertain them for a day or two; they
won't stay long. They're coming in by the West-bound this evening."
"Then," exclaimed Prescott, "they'll be here in half an hour, if the
train's on time! If there are any points you can give me about your
family history, you had better be quick!"
"In the first place, I was rather a wild youngster, with an original turn
of mind and was supposed to be a bit of a rake, though that wasn't
correct--my eccentricities were harmless then. Your word 'maverick'
describes me pretty well: I didn't belong to the herd; I wouldn't be
rounded up with the others and let them put the brand on. That's no doubt
why they credited me with vices I didn't possess." Jernyngham laughed.
"Still, you mustn't overdo the thing; you want delicately to convey the
idea that you're now reformed. The part requires some skill; it's a pity
you're not smarter. Jack. But let me think----"
He went into a few details about his family, and then Prescott left him
and, after giving an order to have his team ready, proceeded to the
station. It was getting dark, but the western sky was still a sheet of
wonderful pale green, against which the tall elevators stood out black
and sharp. The head-lamp of a freight locomotive flooded track and
station with a dazzling electric glare, the rails that ran straight and
level across the waste gleaming far back in the silvery radiance. This
helped Prescott to overcome his repugnance to his task, as he remembered
another summer night when he had attempted to hurry his team across the
track before a ballast train came up. Startled by the blaze of the
head-lamp and the scream of the whistle, one of the horses plunged and
kicked; a wheel of the wagon, sinking in the loose ballast, skidded
against a tie; and Prescott stood between the rails, struggling to
extricate the beasts, while the great locomotive rushed down on them.
There was a vein of stubborn tenacity in him and it looked as if he and
the horses would perish together when Jernyngham came running to the
rescue. How they escaped neither of them could afterward remember, but a
moment later they stood beside the track while the train went banging by,
covering them with dust and fragments of gravel. Prescott admitted that
he owed Jernyngham something for that.
Nevertheless there was no doubt that the part he had undertaken to play
would be difficult. He could see its humorous side, but he had not been a
prodigal; indeed he was by temperament and habit steady-going and
industrious. The son of a small business man in Montreal, he had after an
excellent education abandoned city life and gone west, where he had
prospered by frugality and hard work. He was by no means rich, but he was
content and inclined to be optimistic about the future.
When he reached the station, he found that the usual crowd of loungers
had gathered to watch the train come in. Lighting his pipe, he walked up
and down the low platform, wondering uneasily how he would get through
the next few days. Jernyngham, he felt, had placed him in a singularly
embarrassing position.
CHAPTER II
MURIEL SEES THE WEST
The sunlight was fading off the prairie when a party of three sat in a
first-class car as the local train went jolting westward. Henry Colston
leaned back in his seat with a Winnipeg paper on his knee; and his
appearance stamped him as a well-bred Englishman traveling for pleasure.
He was thirty-four; his dress, though dusty, was fastidiously neat; his
expression was pleasant, but there was an air of formality about him. One
would not have expected him to do anything startling or extravagant, even
under stress of emotion. Mrs. Colston resembled him in this respect. She
was a handsome woman, a little reserved in manner, and was tastefully
dressed in traveling tweed, which she had found too hot for the Canadian
summer. Muriel, her sister, was twenty-four, and though the two were
alike, the girl's face was fresher, more ingenuous and perhaps more
intelligent. It was an attractive face, crowned with red-gold hair; broad
brows, straight nose and firm mouth hinted at some force of character,
but her eyes of deep violet were unusually merry, and her warm coloring
suggested a sanguine temperament.
So far, Muriel Hurst had taken life lightly and had foiled Mrs. Colston's
attempts to make a suitable match for her. The daughter of a man of taste
who had died in difficulties, she had not a penny beyond the allowance
provided by her sister's generosity. Nevertheless, she was happy and had
a strong liking and respect for her prosperous brother-in-law, though his
restricted views sometimes irritated her.
She was now trying to arrange her impressions of Canada, which were
mixed. She had looked down on Montreal with its great bridge and broad
river from the wooded mountain, and from there it had struck her as a
beautiful city. Then she had seen the handsome stone houses with their
lawns at the foot of the hill, and afterward the magnificent commercial
buildings round the postoffice. These could scarcely be equaled in
London, but the rest of the town had not impressed her. It was strewn
with sand and cement-dust: they seemed to be pulling down and putting up
buildings and tearing open the streets all over it.
Afterward the Western Express had swept her through a thousand miles of
wilderness, a vast tract of forest filled with rocks and lakes and
rivers; and then she had spent two days in Winnipeg on the verge of the
prairie. This city she found perplexing. The station hall was palatial,
part of wide Main Street and Portage Avenue with their stately banks and
offices could hardly be too much admired, and there were pretty wooden
houses running back to the river among groves of trees. But apart from
this, the place was somehow primitive. There were numerous hard-faced men
hanging about the streets, and it jarred on her to see the rows of
well-dressed loungers in the hotels lolling in wooden chairs close
against the great windows, a foot or two from the street. It gave her a
hint of western characteristics; the people were abrupt, good-naturedly
so, perhaps, but devoid of delicacy.
Last had come the prairie--the land of promise--which seemed to run on
forever, flooded with brilliant sunshine under a sky of dazzling blue.
Banded with miles of wheat, flecked with crimson flowers, it stretched
back, brightly green, until it grew gray and blue on the far horizon. It
was relieved by the neutral purple of poplar bluffs, and little gleaming
lakes; its vastness and openness filled the girl with a sense of liberty.
Narrow restraints, cramping prejudices, must vanish in this wide country;
one's nature could expand and become optimistic here.
Then Colston began to talk.
"We should arrive in the next half-hour and I'll confess to a keen
curiosity about Cyril Jernyngham. He was an amusing and eccentric
scapegrace when I last saw him, though that is a very long time ago."
"You object to eccentricity, don't you?" laughed Muriel.
"Oh, no! Call it originality, and I'll admit that a certain amount is
useful; but it should be kept in check. Indulged in freely, it's apt to
rouse suspicion."
"Which is rather unfair."
"I don't know," Mrs. Colston broke in. "Considered all round, it's an
excellent rule that if you won't do what everybody in your station does,
you must take the consequences."
Colston nodded.
"I agree. One must think of the results to society as a whole."
"Cyril Jernyngham seems to have taken the consequences," Muriel pointed
out. "Isn't there something to be said for the person who does so
uncomplainingly? I understand he never recanted or asked for help."
Mrs. Colston shot a quick glance at her. She did not wish her sister's
sympathy to be enlisted on the black sheep's behalf.
"I believe that's true," she replied. "Perhaps it's hardly to his credit.
His father is an old man who had expected great things of him. If he had
come home, he would have been forgiven and reinstated."
"Yes," said Colston, "though Jernyngham seldom shows his feelings, I know
he has grieved over his son. There can be no question that Cyril should
have returned; I've told him so in my letters."
"I suppose they'd have insisted on a full and abject surrender?"
"Not an abject one," answered Colston. "He would have been expected to
fall in with the family ideas and plans."
"And he wouldn't?" suggested Muriel with a mischievous smile. "I think he
was right." Reading disapproval in her sister's expression, she
continued: "You dear virtuous people are a little narrow in your ideas;
you can't understand that there's room for the greatest difference of
opinion even in a harmonious family, and that it's very silly to drive
the nonconformer into rebellion. Variety's a law of nature and tends to
life."
Colston glanced meaningly at his wife. He was not a hypercritical person,
but it did not please him that his sister-in-law, of whom he was fond,
should champion Jernyngham.
"I don't wish to be severe on Cyril," he rejoined. "As a matter of fact,
I know nothing good or bad about his Canadian life; but he must be
regarded as, so to speak, on probation until he has proved that he
deserves our confidence."
Muriel made no answer. She was looking out of the window toward the west,
and the glow on the vast plain's rim seized her attention. The sunset
flush had faded, but the sky shone a transcendent green. The air was very
clear; every wavy line of bluff was picked out in a wonderful deep blue.
Muriel thought she had never seen such strength and vividness of color.
Then she glanced round the long car. It was comfortable except for the
jolting; the silvery gray of its cane-backed seats contrasted with the
paneling of deep brown. The big lamps and metal fittings gleamed with
nickel. All the girl saw connected her with luxurious civilization, and
she wondered with a stirring of curiosity what awaited her in the wilds,
where man still grappled with nature in primitive fashion.
"Sebastian in three or four minutes!" announced the conductor; and while
Muriel and Mrs. Colston gathered together a few odds and ends a scream of
the whistle broke out.
Prescott heard it on the station platform and with strong misgivings
braced himself for his task. A bright light was speeding down the track,
blending with that flung out by a freight locomotive crossing the
switches. Then amid the clangor of the bell the long cars rolled in and
he saw a man standing on the platform of one. There was no doubt that he
was an Englishman and Prescott hurried toward the car.
"Mr. Henry Colston?" he asked.
The man held out his hand.
"I think Harry is sufficient. Come and speak to Florence; she has been
looking forward to meeting you with interest." He turned. "My dear, this
is Cyril."
Prescott shook hands with the lady on the car platform, and then looked
past her in confused surprise. A girl stood in the vestibule, clad in
garments of pale lilac tint which fell about her figure in long sweeping
lines, emphasizing its fine contour against the dark brown paneling. She
had a large hat of the same color, and it enhanced the attractiveness of
her face, which wore a friendly smile. She was obviously one of the
party, though Jernyngham had not mentioned her, and Prescott pulled
himself together when Colston presented him.
"My sister-in-law, Muriel Hurst," he added.
When they had alighted, Prescott asked for the checks and moved toward
the baggage car. While he waited, watching the trunks being flung out,
Ellice passed him talking to a smartly dressed man. This struck Prescott
as curious, but he knew the man as a traveling salesman for an American
cream-separator, and as he must have called at Jernyngham's homestead on
his round and was no doubt leaving by the train, there was no reason why
Ellice should not speak to him. He thought no more of the matter and
proceeded to carry several trunks and valises across the platform to his
wagon, while his new friends watched him with some surprise. It was a
novel experience in their walk of life to see their host carrying their
baggage, and when Prescott lifted the heaviest trunk Colston hurried
forward to protest.
"Stand aside, please," said the rancher, walking firmly across the boards
with the big trunk on his shoulders. When he had placed it in the wagon
he turned to the ladies with a smile.
"I had thought of putting you up for the night at the hotel, but they're
full, and with good luck we ought to make my place in about three hours.
I dare say this isn't the kind of rig you have been accustomed to driving
in; and somebody will have to sit on a trunk. There's only room for three
on the driving-seat."
Mrs. Colston surveyed the vehicle with misgivings. It was a long, shallow
box set on four tall and very light wheels, and crossed by a seat raised
on springs. Two rough-coated horses were harnessed to it with a pole
between them. She saw this by the glare of the freight locomotive's
head-lamp when the train moved out, and noticed that her husband was
looking at their host in surprise.
"I'll take the trunk," said Colston. "We had dinner down the line not
long ago."
Prescott helped the ladies up and seating himself next to the younger
started his horses. They set off at a rapid trot and the wagon jolted
unpleasantly as it crossed the track. Then the horses broke into a
gallop, raising a dust-cloud in the rutted street, while the light
vehicle rocked in an alarming fashion, and Prescott had some trouble in
restraining them when they ran out on to the dim waste of prairie. Then
the wonderful keen air, faintly scented with wild peppermint, reacted
upon the girl with a curious exhilarating effect. She felt stirred and
excited, expectant of new experiences, perhaps adventures. The wild
barley brushed about the wheels with a silky rustle; the beat of hoofs
rang in a sharp staccato through the deep silence; and the touch of the
faint night wind brought warmth into Muriel's face.
"They're pretty fresh; been in the stable of a farm near here most of the
day," Prescott explained. "Not long off the range, anyhow, and they're
bad to hold."
There was a shrill scream from a dusky shape flitting through the air as
they skirted a marshy pool, and the team again broke into a furious
gallop. The trail was grown with short scrub which smashed beneath the
hoofs, and the vehicle lurched sharply when the wheels left the ruts and
ran through tall, tangled grass. Prescott with some diffidence slipped
his arm round Muriel's waist, while Colston jolted up and down with his
trunk.
"You have still the same taste in horses, Cyril," he remarked. "I suppose
you remember Wildfire?"
"Wildfire?" queried Prescott, and then, having the impression that young
English lads were sometimes given a pony, ventured: "Quite a cute little
beast."
"Little!" exclaimed Colston. "How many hands make a big horse in this
country? I'm speaking of the hunter you cajoled the second groom into
saddling when your father was away. Can't you remember how you insisted
on putting her at the Newby brook?"
"I don't seem to place it somehow," said Prescott in alarm, seeing that
if he were called upon to share any more reminiscences it might lead him
into difficulties. "You know I've been out here a while."
"Long enough to forget, it seems."
Prescott made a bold venture.
"That's so; perhaps it's better. This is a brand new country. One starts
afresh here, looking forward instead of back."
Muriel considered this. The idea was, she thought, appropriate, but the
man's tone and air were not what one would have expected of a reformed
rake. There was no hint of contrition; he spoke with optimistic
cheerfulness.
"Of course," Colston agreed. "I wonder if I might say that you have grown
more Canadian than I expected to find you?"
"More Canadian?" Prescott checked himself in time and laughed. "Is it
surprising? You drive and starve out many a good man who dares to be
original--I've met a number of them. Can you wonder that when they're
welcomed here they're willing to forget you and become one with the
people who took them in?"
"In a way, that's a pity," said Mrs. Colston. "We like to think we
haven't lost you altogether."
Disregarding his horses, Prescott turned toward her with a bow.
"Face the truth, ma'am. If you're ever in a tight place, we'll send you
what help we can, hard men, such as can't be raised in your cities, to
keep the flag flying, but we stop there. Don't think we belong to you--we
stand firm on our own feet, a new free nation. I"--he paused in an
impressive manner--"am a Canadian."
Muriel felt a responsive thrill. His ideas were certainly not English,
nor was his mode of expressing them, but his boldness appealed to her.
Her companions were frankly astonished and rather hurt, which he seemed
to realize, for he resumed with a laugh:
"But we won't talk politics. Things I've heard English people say out
here make one tired."
Then he turned toward the girl, adding softly:
"Was that a very bad break I made?"
"I think it could be forgiven," she told him.
"The years you have spent in Canada seem to have had their full effect on
you," Colston remarked dryly.
Prescott turned his attention to his team, slightly checking their pace.
"What did you mean when you said we should reach your ranch in three
hours, if we had good luck?" Muriel asked.
"Oh," he said, "there are badger burrows about, and a little beast called
a gopher makes almost as bad a hole; they're fond of digging up the
trail. If a horse steps into one of those holes, it's apt to bring him
down. Besides, we trust a good deal to our luck in this country--one has
to run risks that can't be estimated: harvest frost, rust, dry seasons,
winds that blow destroying sand about. I've lost two crops in the eight
years I've been here."
"Can it be eight?" Colston broke in. "If I remember right, you spent
three years in Manitoba."
"It's the same kind of country and the same climate," Prescott rejoined,
conscious that he had nearly betrayed himself again. He felt angry with
Jernyngham for giving him such a difficult part to play.
After this, he carefully avoided any personal topic and talked about
Canadian farming, sitting silent when he could, while Muriel gazed about
with pleasurable curiosity. It is never quite dark on those wide levels in
summertime, and, for there was no moon, the prairie stretched away before
them shadowy, silent, and mysterious. Now they passed a sheet of water,
gleaming wanly among thin willows; then they plunged into the deep gloom
of a poplar bluff; and later, lurching down a steep declivity, swept
through a shallow creek. The air was filled with the smell of dew-damped
soil and unknown aromatic scents, the loneliness was impressive, the
half-obscurity emphasized the strangeness of everything. Muriel felt as if
she had left all that was stereotyped and matter-of-fact far behind. It
was the unexpected and romantic that ought to happen in this virgin land.
Then, worn by several days' journey in the jolting cars, she grew drowsy.
The steady drumming of hoofs, the slapping of the traces, and the rattle
of wheels were strangely soothing. She fancied that once or twice when
they sped furiously down an incline, the driver held her fast, but she
did not resent the support of his arm: it was a steady, reassuring grasp.
At last, as they swung round a poplar bluff, she roused herself, for dim
black buildings loomed up ahead, and one which had lighted windows took
the shape of a small house. The team stopped, there were voices speaking
with a curious accent which reminded her of Norway, and the rancher
helped her down.
Afterward she followed her sister into a simply furnished, pine-boarded
room with a big stove at one end of it, where a middle-aged woman set
food and coffee before them. She spoke English haltingly, but her lined
face lighted up when Muriel thanked her in Norse. Then there followed a
flow of eager words, a few of which the girl caught, until the woman
broke off when their host came in. He was silent, for the most part,
during the meal, and shortly afterward Muriel was shown into a small room
where she went to sleep in a few minutes.
CHAPTER III
JERNYNGHAM MAKES A DECISION
Prescott's guests had spent a week at his homestead with content when
Colston and his wife sat talking one morning.
"I'm frankly puzzled," said Colston, opening his cigar case; "I can't
make Cyril out. He's frugal, remarkably industrious--I think the
description's warranted--and, from all that one can gather, as steady as
a rock. This, of course, is gratifying, but it's by no means what I
expected."
"He certainly doesn't fit in with the picture his sister Gertrude drew
me, though she conveyed the impression that she was softening things
down. There can be no doubt that he was wild. That might, perhaps, be
forgiven, but one or two of the stories I've heard about him filled me
with disgust."
Her husband looked thoughtful. He had not noticed that Muriel was sitting
just outside the open window, though Mrs. Colston, being in a different
position, had done so. She thought their voices would reach the girl, and
if anything strongly in Cyril's disfavor cropped up during the
conversation it might be as well that she should hear it. Mrs. Colston
was willing that he should be reconciled to his relatives, but a reformed
rake was not the kind of man to whom she wished her sister to be
attracted. One could not tell whether the reformation would prove
permanent.
"After all, I never heard any really serious offense proved against him,"
Colston rejoined. "It's sometimes easy to acquire a reputation without
doing anything in particular to deserve it. People are apt to jump at
conclusions."
"When there's a general concurrence of opinion it's wiser to fall in with
it. But what did he say about his father's suggestion that he should go
home?"
"Asked for a day or two to think it over; I fancied that he wished to
consult somebody. Then he promised to give me an answer."
"On the whole, I think they need have no hesitation about taking him back
now," Mrs. Colston responded; and Muriel agreed with her. "There's
another point," she added. "How long shall we stay here?"
"I don't know. I've a growing liking for Cyril, the place is pleasant,
and though things are rather rudimentary, the air's wonderfully bracing.
He urged me to stay some little time, and I felt that he wished it."
Mrs. Colston considered. She was enjoying her visit; everything was
delightfully novel and she felt more cheerful and more vigorous than she
had done for some time. But Muriel seemed to find the prairie pleasant,
and there was a possibility of danger there.
"We might, perhaps, remain another week," she suggested.
As it happened, Colston's suspicion that his host wished to consult
somebody was correct, for Prescott was then driving in to the settlement
to lay his visitor's message before the man it most concerned. He found
him lounging in the hotel bar, and, drawing him into the general-room, he
sat down opposite him in a hard wooden chair. The apartment had no floor
covering and was cheerless and dirty; there was not even a table in it;
and only a railroad time-table and advertisements of land sales hung on
its rough pine walls. Jernyngham, however, looked in keeping with his
surroundings. The dirty bandage still covered his forehead, his clothes
were stained and untidy, and he had an unkempt, dissipated air.
"Well," he asked with a grin, "how are you getting on with your new
friends?"
"I don't know; I'm curious about what they think of me. Anyway, I found
the thing harder than I expected. Why didn't you tell me Mrs. Colston was
bringing her sister?"
"If I ever heard she had one, I forgot it; suppose I couldn't have read
the letter properly. What's she like?"
"Herself," said Prescott. "I can't think of anybody we know I could
compare her with."
He had endeavored to speak carelessly, but something in his voice
betrayed him and Jernyngham laughed.
"That's not surprising. If you want to play your part properly, you had
better make love to her. It's what would be expected of me, and it
couldn't do any harm, because these people would very soon head you off.
Harry Colston's sister-in-law would look for an assured position and at
least five thousand dollars a year. When are they going?"
"I've asked them to stay a little longer and I think they'll agree. But
that is not what I came to see you about. Colston laid a proposition
before me--you're formally invited to return home."
"On what terms?"
Prescott detailed them, watching his companion. The latter sat silent for
a minute or two, and then he said slowly:
"It's a handsome offer, but it was made under a mistake. There's no doubt
that Colston was trusted with powers of discretion. He must be satisfied
with you--don't you feel complimented, Jack?"
"What I feel is outside the question."
"Well," continued Jernyngham thoughtfully, "I suppose if I indulged in a
spell of hard work in the open and practised strict abstinence it might
improve my appearance, and I could, perhaps, keep out of Colston's way,
or if needful, own up to the trick. The old man would hold to his
bargain: he's that kind. It's a strong temptation--you see what I'd stand
to gain--a liberal allowance, a life that's wildly luxurious by
comparison with the one I'm leading, the society of people of the stamp
I've been brought up among. Jack, I feel driven to the point of yielding.
But it's a pity this offer has come too late."
"Is it too late?"
"Think! Would it be fair to go? For a month or two I might keep straight,
then--I've tried to describe my people--you can imagine their feelings at
the inevitable outbreak. Besides, there's a more serious difficulty."
Jernyngham's tense face relaxed into a grim smile. "Can you imagine
Ellice an inmate of an English country house, patronizing local
charities, presiding over prim garden parties? The idea's preposterous!
And that's not all."
Prescott knew little about England, but he could imagine her making an
undesirable sensation in Montreal or Toronto.
"You force me to ask something. Is she Mrs. Jernyngham?" he said,
hesitatingly.
"I used to think so; there's a doubt about the matter now."
"One would have imagined that was a point you would have been sure
about."
"I understood her husband was dead when we were married in Manitoba. She
was a waitress in a second-rate hotel; the brute had ill-used and
deserted her. But there's now some reason to believe he's farming in
Alberta. I haven't made inquiries: I didn't think it would improve
matters."
Prescott said nothing. In face of such a situation, any remarks that he
could make would be superfluous. There was a long silence; and then
Jernyngham spoke again, slowly, but resolutely.
"You see how it is, Jack--where my interest lies. Against that, there's
the feelings of my father and sister to consider. Then my reinstatement
would have to be bought by casting off the woman who has borne with my
failings and stuck to me pluckily. I haven't sunk quite so far as that.
You'll have to tell Colston that I'm staying here!"
He got up and Prescott laid a hand on his arm.
"It's hard; but you're doing the square thing, Cyril."
Jernyngham shook off his hand.
"Don't let us talk in that strain. Come and see Ellice and try to amuse
her. Don't know what's wrong with the woman; she has been moody of late."
"I must get back as soon as I can and I've some business to do."
"Oh, well," acquiesced Jernyngham, walking with him to the bar, which was
the quickest way of leaving.
On reaching it he turned and glanced about sardonically. The room was
dark, filled with flies, and evil smelling, as well as thick with smoke;
half a dozen, untidy men leaned against the counter.
"What a set of loafing swine you are!" he coolly remarked. "It's not to
the point that I'm no better, but if any of you feel insulted, I'll be
happy to make what I've said good."
"Cut it out, Cyril! Can't have a circus here!" exclaimed the bar-tender.
"You needn't be afraid. They look pretty tame," Jernyngham rejoined, and
going on to the door, shook hands with Prescott.
"Tell Colston he has my last word," he said.
Turning away, he proceeded to the untidy parlor where he found Ellice
dawdling over a paper. Her white summer dress was stained in places and
open at the neck, where a button had come off. The short skirt displayed
a hole in one stocking and a shoe from which a strap had been torn.
Jernyngham leaned on the table regarding her with a curious smile.
"What's Jack come about?" she asked.
"To say my fastidious relatives want me to go home, which would mean
leaving you behind."
She looked at him searchingly, and then laughed.
"And you won't go?"
"That's the message I sent."
Ellice's face softened, though there was a hint of indecision in it.
"You're all right, Cyril, only a bit of a fool."
"A bit?" he said dryly. "I'm the whole blamed hog. But enough of that.
We'll pull out for the homestead to-morrow. I expect Wandle is robbing
me."
"He's been robbin' you ever since you bought the ranch. I don't know why
you stopped me from gettin' after him."
"He saves me trouble," explained Jernyngham, and they discussed the
arrangements for their return.
Prescott, arriving home, had a brief private interview with Colston, who
realized with some disappointment that his errand had failed. Then the
rancher harnessed a fresh team and proceeded to a sloo where his
Scandinavian hired man was cutting prairie hay. An hour or two later
Muriel went out on the prairie and walked toward a poplar bluff, in the
shadow of which she gathered ripe red saskatoons, and then sat down to
look about.
The dazzling blue of the sky was broken by rounded masses of silver-edged
clouds that drove along before a fresh northwest breeze. Streaked by
their speeding shadows, the great plain stretched away, checkered by
ranks of marigolds and tall crimson flowers of the lily kind that swayed
as the rippling grasses changed color in the wind. A mile or two distant
stood the trim wooden homestead, with a tall windmill frame near by, girt
by broad sweeps of dark-green wheat and oats. These were interspersed
with stretches of uncovered soil, glowing a deep chocolate-brown, which
Muriel knew was the summer fallow resting after a cereal crop. Beyond the
last strip of rich color, there spread, shining delicately blue, a great
field of flax; and then the dusky green of alfalfa and alsike for the
Hereford cattle, standing knee-deep in a flashing lake. The prairie, she
thought, was beautiful in summer; its wideness was bracing, one was
stirred into cheerfulness and bodily vigor by the rush of its fresh
winds. She felt that she could remain contentedly at the homestead for a
long time; and then her thoughts centered on its owner.
This was perhaps why she rose and strolled on toward the sloo, though she
would not acknowledge that she actually wished to meet him. The man was
something of an enigma and therefore roused in her an interest which was
stronger because of some of the things she had heard to his discredit.
Following the rows of wheelmarks, she brushed through the wild barley,
whose spiky heads whipped her dress, passed a chain of glistening ponds,
a bluff wrapped in blue shadow, and finally descended a long slope to the
basin at its foot where the melting snow had run in spring. Now it had
dried and was covered with tall grass which held many flowers and
fragrant wild peppermint.
A team of horses and a tinkling mower moved through its midst, and at one
edge Prescott was loading the grass into a wagon. Engrossed as he was in
his task, he did not notice her, and she stood a while watching him. He
wore no jacket; the thin yellow shirt, flung open at the neck and tightly
belted at the waist, and the brown duck trousers, showed the lithe grace
of his athletic figure. His poise and swing were admirable, and he was
working with determined energy, his face and uncovered arms the warm
color of the soil.
Muriel drew a little closer and he stopped on seeing her. His brown skin
was singularly clean, his eyes were clear and steady, though they often
gave a humorous twinkle. If this man had ever been a rake, his
reformation must have been drastic and complete, because although she had
a very limited acquaintance with people of that sort, it was reasonable
to conclude that they must bear some sign of indulgence or sensuality.
The rancher had no stamp of either.
He showed his pleasure at her appearance.
"You have had quite a walk," he said. "If you will wait while I put up
the load, I'll take you back."
Muriel sat down and watched him fling the grass in heavy forkfuls on to
the growing pile, until at last he clambered up upon the frame supporting
it and, pulling some out and ramming the rest back, proceeded to excavate
a hollow.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Making a nest for you," he told her with a laugh. "Now, if you'll get
up."
While she mounted by the wheel he stood on the edge of the wagon, leaning
down toward her. There did not seem to be much foothold, the grass looked
slippery, and the hollow he had made was beyond her reach, but she seized
the hand he held out and he swung her up. For a moment his fingers
pressed tightly upon her waist, and then she was safe in the hollow,
smiling at him as he found a precarious seat on the rack.
"You couldn't see how you were going to get up, but you didn't hesitate,"
he said with a soft laugh, when he had started his team.
"No," she smiled back at him. "Somehow you inspire one with confidence. I
didn't think you would let me fall."
"Curious, isn't it?"
She reclined in the recess among the grass, which yielded to her limbs in
a way that gave her a sense of voluptuous ease. Her pose, although
scarcely a conventional one, showed to advantage the fine contour of her
form; and the lilac-tinted dress that flowed in classic lines about her
made a patch of cool restful color on the warm ocher of her surroundings.
It was easy to read the man's admiration in his glance, and she became
suddenly filled with mischievous daring.
"Cyril," she said, "you are either an excellent actor, or else--"
"I have been maligned. Is that what you meant?"
"I think I did mean something of the kind."
"Then I'm a very poor actor. That should settle the question."
"I've wondered how you became so very Canadian," she said thoughtfully.
"What's the matter with the Canadians?"
"Nothing. I haven't met very many yet, but on the whole I'm favorably
impressed by them. They're direct, blunt, perhaps less complex than we
are."
"No trimmings," he suggested. "They don't muss up good material so that
it can hardly be recognized. You can tell what a man is when you see him
or hear him talk."
"I don't know," Muriel argued. "I've an idea that it might be difficult,
even in Canada."
He let this pass.
"What do you think of the country?" he asked.
She glanced round. It was late in the afternoon and somewhat cooler than
it had been. Half the plain lay in shadow, but the light was curiously
sharp. A clump of ragged jack-pines stood on a sandhill miles away, and a
lake twinkled in the remote distance. The powerful Clydesdale horses
plodded through short crackling scrub; a fine scent of wild peppermint
floated about.
"Oh," she responded, "it's delightful! And everybody's so energetic! You
move with a spring and verve; and I don't hear any grumbling, though
there seems to be so much to do!"
"And to bear now and then: crops wiped out--I've lost two of them. The
work never slackens, except in winter, when you sit shivering beside the
stove, if you're not hauling in building logs or cordwood through the
arctic frost. At night it's deadly silent, unless there's a blizzard
howling; the plains are very lonely when the snow lies deep. Don't you
think you're better off in England, taking it all 'round?"
He laid respectful fingers on the hem of her skirt, touching the fine
material, as if appraising its worth.
"Our wheat-growers' wives and daughters are lucky if they've a couple of
moderately smart dresses, but I suppose you have several trunks full of
things like this. That and the kind of life it implies must count for
something."
"I believe I have," said Muriel with candor, answering his steady
inquiring glance. "Still, I've felt that we drift along from amusement to
amusement in a purposeless way, doing nothing that's worth while. There
might come a time when one would grow very tired of it."
"It must come and bring trouble then. Here one goes on from task to task,
each one bigger and more venturesome than the last; acre added to acre, a
gasoline tractor to the horse-plow, another quarter-section broken. Mind
and body taxed all day and often half the night. One can't sit down and
mope."
This was, she thought, a curious speech for a man who had been described
as careless, extravagant, and dissolute; but he was getting too serious,
and she laughed.
"You were energetic enough in England, if reports are true. I've often
thought of your right-of-way adventure. It must have been very dramatic
when you appeared at the garden party covered with fresh tar."
"Sounds like that, doesn't it?" he cautiously agreed. "How do they tell
the tale?"
"Something like this--you were at the Hall with Geoffrey when the
townspeople were clamoring about Sir Gilbert's closing the path through
the wood, and for some reason you assisted them in attacking the
barricade. It had been well tarred as a defensive measure, hadn't it?
Then you returned, triumphant, black from head to foot, when you thought
the guests had gone, and plunged into the middle of the last of
them--Maud always laughs when she talks about it. Sir Gilbert was
somewhere out of sight when you related the rabble's brilliant victory,
but he dashed out red in face when he understood and never stopped until
he jumped into his motor. I don't think Geoffrey's wife has forgiven
you."
Prescott smiled.
"Well," he said, "I must have grown very staid since then."
Muriel changed the subject, but they talked with much good-humor until
they reached the homestead, where the man alighted and held out his arms
to her. She hesitated a moment, and then was seized by him and swung
gently to the ground, but she left him with a trace of heightened color
in her face and went quietly into the house.
CHAPTER IV
MURIEL FEELS REGRET
It was pleasantly cool in the shadow of Jernyngham's wooden barn, where
Prescott sat, talking to its owner. Outside the strip of shade, the sun
fell hot upon the parched grass, and the tall wheat that ran close up to
the homestead swayed in waves of changing color before the rush of
breeze. The whitened, weather-worn boards of the house, which faced the
men, seemed steeped in glowing light, and sounds of confused activity
issued from the doorway that was guarded by mosquito-netting. A clatter
of domestic utensils indicated that Ellice was baking, and she made more
noise than she usually did when she was out of temper. Jernyngham
listened with faint amusement as he filled his pipe.
"Sorry I can't ask you in, Jack," he said. "The kitchen is a pretty large
one, but when Ellice starts bread-making, there isn't a spot one can sit
down in. Of course, we've another living-room--I furnished it rather
nicely--but for some reason we seldom use it."
The mosquito door swung back with a crash and Ellice appeared in the
entrance with a hot, angry face, and hands smeared with dough, her hair
hanging partly loose in disorder about her neck, her skirt ungracefully
kilted up.
"Ain't you goin' to bring that water? Have I got to wait another hour?"
she cried, ignoring Prescott.
Jernyngham rose and moved away. Returning, he disappeared into the
kitchen with a dripping pail and Ellice's voice was raised in harsh
upbraiding. Then the man came out, looking a trifle weary, though he sat
down by Prescott with a smile.
"These things should be a warning, Jack," he said. "Still, one has to
make allowances; this hot weather's trying, and Ellice got a letter that
disturbed her by the last mail. I didn't hear what was in it, but I
suspect it was a bill."
Prescott nodded, because he did not know what to say. Mrs. Jernyngham
had, he gathered, been unusually fractious for the last week or two, and
Cyril was invariably forbearing. Indeed, Prescott sometimes wondered at
his patience, for he imagined that his comrade had outgrown what love he
had borne her. The man had his virtues: he was rash, but he seldom failed
to face the consequences with whimsical good-humor.
"Your friends are going to-morrow," Prescott told him. "They understand
that you will write home and explain your reasons for remaining."
"I suppose I'll have to do so, though it will be difficult. You see, to
give the reasons that count most would be cruel. If it's any comfort to
my folks to think favorably of me, I'd rather let them. I've made a
horrible mess of things, but that's no reason why others should suffer."
Prescott glanced round at the dilapidated house, the untidy stable, the
door of which was falling to pieces, and the wagon standing with a broken
wheel. There was no doubt that Jernyngham was right in one respect.
"Jack," Cyril resumed, "your manner gives me the impression that you'll
be sorry to lose your visitors."
"I shall be sorry. I pressed them to stay and I think they'd have done
so, only that Mrs. Colston was against it."
"Ah! That strikes me as significant. You see, I can make a good guess at
her motives; I've suffered from that kind of thing. She evidently
considers you dangerous. Don't you feel flattered?"
"Mrs. Colston has no cause for uneasiness; I could wish she had."
"Then I'm glad my friends are going. It will save you trouble, Jack. A
match between Miss Hurst and you is out of the question."
"I've felt that, so far as my merits go, which is the best way I can put
it," said Prescott gravely. "You speak as if there were stronger
reasons."
"There are; I'm a little surprised you don't see them. Your merits--I
suppose you mean your character and appearance--should go a long way;
we'll admit that you're a man who might have some attraction for even
such a girl as Miss Hurst seems to be, if she didn't pause to think.
Unfortunately for you, however, it's her duty to her relatives to make a
brilliant match and I've no doubt she recognizes it. Girls of her
station--you had better face the truth, Jack--never marry beneath them."
"But a man may."
"A fair shot," laughed Jernyngham. "I can't resent it. But the man
generally suffers, and the price is a heavier one when the girl has to
pay. There's a penalty for breaking caste."
"You seem to tolerate worse things in the old country."
"Not often, after all--you hear of the flagrant offenders, and though I
dare say there are others who are not found out, the bulk against whom
there's no reproach, excite no attention. But we'll let that go. I want
you to understand. You're right, Jack; it's your position that's all
wrong. Girls of the kind we're considering are brought up in luxury,
taught every accomplishment that's economically useless, led to believe
that every comfort they need will somehow be supplied. They're charming
in their proper environment, but it's a cruelty to take them out of it.
They'd be helpless in this grim country, where you must work for all you
want and do without many things even then. Can you imagine Miss Hurst
standing over a hot stove all day and spending her evenings mending your
worn-out shirts?"
Prescott looked up, his face set hard.
"You have said enough."
There was silence after this, until a big man dressed in old brown
overalls stopped his horse near-by.
"I've fixed up with Farrer to send over his gasoline tractor to do the
fall breaking," he said. "Saw the telephone construction people yesterday
and told them I'd let them have two teams to haul in their poles. It's
going to pay us better than keeping them for plowing."
"Quite right, Wandle," replied Jernyngham, and the fellow nodded to
Prescott and rode away.
He lived on the next half-section and assisted Jernyngham in the
management of his ranch, besides sharing the cost of labor, implements
and horses with him, though Prescott had cause for believing that the
arrangement was not to his friend's benefit.
"You'd be better off if you didn't work with that man," he said.
"It's possible," Jernyngham agreed. "I know he robs me, but he saves me
bother. Besides, if we decided to separate and came to a settlement, I
dare say he would claim that I was in his debt; and he might be right.
I'm no good at business. Ranching I don't mind, but I could never learn
how to buy and sell."
"It's a very useful ability," Prescott rejoined with some dryness. "But
as I want to be home for supper, I must get on."
He unhitched his horse and mounted, and Jernyngham walked with him to the
gate in the wire fence.
"You'll remember what I told you, Jack," he said meaningly.
"Yes," Prescott answered with a stern face. "I suppose I ought to thank
you. I'm not likely to forget."
He rode home and arriving in time for supper took his place at the table
with mixed feelings, foremost among which was keen regret. Except for the
company of his Scandinavian hired man and the latter's hard-featured
wife, he had lived alone in Spartan simplicity, thinking of nothing but
his farm; and his guests' arrival had revealed to him the narrowness of
his life. They had brought him new desires and thoughts, besides
recalling ideas he had long forgotten, and among other things had made
the evening meal a pleasant function to be looked forward to, instead of
an opportunity for hurriedly consuming needed food.
The spotless cloth and the flowers on the table were novelties, but they
pleased his eye. Colston with his cheerful, well-bred air and
fastidiousness in dress, talked interestingly; Mrs. Colston with her
gracious dignity, and Muriel, who was wholly alluring, seemed to fill the
room with charm. It was perhaps all the more enjoyable because Prescott
had been accustomed to pleasant society in Montreal, before he abandoned
it with other amenities and went out to a life of stern toil and
frugality in the grim Northwest.
He said little, though it was the last time they would gather tranquilly
round his board--they were to leave for the railroad early on the morrow.
A heavy melancholy oppressed him, though bright sunlight streamed into
the room and an invigorating breeze swept in through the open window,
outside which tall wheat and blue flax rolled away. He could not force
himself to talk, though he laughed at Colston's anecdotes, and it was a
relief when the meal was over. Half an hour later he overtook Muriel
strolling along the edge of the wheat.
"Have you recovered yet?" she asked. "You looked very downcast."
"That's how I feel. It strikes me as perfectly natural. I'll be alone
to-morrow."
"But you were alone before we came."
"Very true; I didn't seem to mind it then. I was happy thinking how I
could put in a bigger crop or raise another bunch of stock. My mind was
fixed on the plow. But you have lifted me out of the furrow. I guess it's
weak, but somehow I hate the thought of going back to the clods."
Remembering Jernyngham's remarks, it struck him that this was not the
line he should have taken, and for a moment or two Muriel turned her
head. Then she looked at him, smiling.
"I shall be very sorry to leave, and I believe Florence and Harry feel
the same."
"But you are going to British Columbia and down the Pacific Coast. You
will revel in new experiences and interesting sights."
"I suppose so," she answered, rather listlessly. "We shall get a glimpse
of a new country, but that will be all. On the steamers we'll meet much
the kind of people we are accustomed to, and no doubt we'll stay at
hotels built especially for luxurious tourists. You see, we take our
usual environment along with us."
"But isn't that what you like?"
"I don't know; perhaps it ought to be." Muriel paused and looked up at
him with candid eyes. "You hinted that we had given you a new and wider
outlook--or brought back the one you used to have, which is what you must
have meant. You don't seem to realize that you have done much the same
thing to me."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"It shouldn't be difficult. You know the kind of people I have hitherto
met, and how we spend our time in a round of amusements that lead to
nothing, with all that could jar on one carefully kept away. This is the
first time I've come into touch with strenuous, normal life."
"And it doesn't seem to have frightened you?"
"No," she said with a smile; "I'm not in the least afraid--why should I
be? I must have more courage than you think, but does one need a great
deal of it to live here?"
He looked at her in grave admiration. There was a hint of pride in her
pose, and her eyes were calm.
"I believe if ever a time of stress came, you wouldn't shrink. But this
is a pretty hard and lonely country, especially in winter."
Muriel changed the subject.
"For all that, I feel you are right in staying, Cyril. Have you written
to your people?"
Prescott felt embarrassed and guilty, as he generally did when, in
confidential moments, she called him by Jernyngham's name. Somehow he
could not imagine her saying Jack.
"No," he rejoined slowly. "Of course, they must be written to."
Muriel did not answer. The turn their conversation had taken had filled
her with a vague unrest as she looked back at the life she had led. Three
or four years ago it had seemed filled with glamour and excitement, and
she had entered on its pleasures with eager zest, but of late she had
begun to find them wearisome. They no longer satisfied her. If this were
the result of a few years' experience, what would she feel when she had
grown jaded with time and everything was stale? Then her glimpse of the
simple, healthful western life had come as a revelation. It was real, a
bracing struggle, in which no effort was wasted but produced tangible
results: broad stretches of splendid wheat, sweeps of azure flax.
But this was not all. She felt drawn to her brown-faced companion, who
had obviously redeemed whatever errors he had been guilty of in the past.
She had known him for only about a fortnight, but she had seen his
admiration for her with a satisfaction that was slightly tempered by
misgivings. She could not tell exactly what she expected from him, but
she had at least looked for some expression of a wish that their
acquaintance should not end abruptly on the morrow. She did not think she
would have resented a carefully modified display of the gallantry Cyril
Jernyngham must be capable of, if reports were true. Considering what his
past was supposed to have been, the grave man who watched her with
troubled eyes was hard to understand.
"Cyril," she asked, "has Harry given you our address at Glacier and
Banff?"
He supposed that this implied permission to write to her, but he could
not do so as Jack Prescott and he already bitterly regretted that he had
allowed her to think of him as Jernyngham.
"Yes," he said, with a carelessness which cost him an effort. "But I'm
afraid I'm not a good correspondent. I'm too busy, for one thing."
"Too busy?" she mocked, with a stronger color in her face. "Can't you
spare half an hour from your plowing to write to your friends?"
"Well," he answered with forced coolness, "it's difficult, except, of
course, in the winter and you'll be back in England then, with so many
festivities on hand that you won't be anxious to hear about Canada."
She looked at him for a moment, puzzled and a little angry, and he
guessed her thoughts. He was behaving like a boor; but it was better that
she should think him one.
"How very un-English you have become!" she said.
"You mean I'm very Canadian? Anyway, I try to be sensible--I've done some
wretchedly foolish things and I've got to pay for them. Of course, this
visit's only an episode to you; something that's soon over and
forgotten."
There was trouble in his voice, though he strove to speak with
indifference, and after a swift glance at him she answered coldly:
"I suppose it is. One impression rubs out another, and no doubt we shall
see something novel and interesting farther on. However, we won't stay in
Canada very long and we shall see your father and sister as soon as we
get home. It's curious that you have scarcely mentioned them."
"Oh, well," he evaded awkwardly, "Harry has told me a good deal."
He turned his head, dreading her curious eyes. His last evening in her
company was proving more trying than he had expected; though usually
tolerant and good-humored, the strain made him bitter. To-morrow he must
put this girl out of his mind. After all, it was to Cyril Jernyngham,
rake and wastrel, but a man of her own station, that she had been
gracious and charming; had she known he was Jack Prescott, she would, no
doubt, have treated him very differently; but in this supposition he did
her wrong.
Puzzled by his lack of responsiveness and with wounded pride, she stopped
and looked out toward the northwest across the prairie. Steeped in strong
coloring, it seemed to run back into immeasurable distance, though a
wonderful blaze of crimson marked its rim. The faint, cool air that
flowed across it was charged with a curious exhilarating quality; there
was a subtle fragrance of herbs in the grass.
"It's getting late," she said; "I must go in. This is the last sunset I
shall watch on the prairie, and in several ways I'm sorry. You have made
our stay here very pleasant."
CHAPTER V
THE MYSTERY OF THE MUSKEG
Colston and his party had been gone a fortnight when Prescott called at
the Jernyngham homestead one afternoon and found its owner sitting
moodily in the kitchen, which presented a chaotic appearance. Unwashed
plates and dishes were scattered about, the wood-box was overturned and
poplar billets strewed the floor, there was no fire in the rusty stove,
and the fragments of a heavy crock lay against the wall. The strong
sunlight that streamed in emphasized the disorder of the room.
"I was passing and thought I'd come in," Prescott explained. "Where's
Mrs. Jernyngham? The look of the place gives one the idea that she's not
at home."
"It's never remarkably tidy." Jernyngham broke into a rueful smile. "I
believe she started for the settlement when I was at work in the summer
fallow this morning. The fact that the horse and buggy are missing points
to it."
"But don't you know whether she has gone or not?"
"I don't," said Jernyngham. "She didn't acquaint me with her intentions.
As I see she has taken some things along, it looks as if she meant to
visit Mrs. Harvey at the store. They're friends now and then."
His manner was suggestive, though he looked more resigned than disturbed,
and Prescott, glancing at the shattered crock, ventured a question which
he feared was not quite judicious:
"How did you break that thing?"
"It ought to be a warning. I didn't break it; it was meant to break on
me. Ellice flung it at my head a day or two ago, and fortunately missed,
though as a rule she's a pretty good shot. I suppose it's significant
that neither of us troubled to pick up the pieces."
Prescott looked sympathetic, and hesitated, with his half-filled pipe in
his hand.
"Shall I go, Cyril? I want to make Sebastian before it's dark."
"Sit still," Jernyngham told him. "I'm in an expansive mood, and I've a
notion that I'm not far off a crisis in my affairs. Ellice has been
fractious lately; I seem to have been getting on her nerves, which
perhaps is not surprising."
Prescott made no comment and after sitting silent a few moments
Jernyngham resumed:
"I was rather rash when I ventured to remonstrate about a bill. Ellice
pointed out, with justice, that so long as I slouched round and let
Wandle rob me, I'd no right to grumble at her for buying a few things.
Most unwisely I maintained my point and"--he indicated the broken crock
and littered table--"you see the consequences."
"Wandle is a bit of a rogue," said Prescott, choosing the safest topic.
"I've told you so."
"You have. For all that, he's useful and I don't mind being robbed in
moderation; I'm a man who's accustomed to losing things." His
half-mocking tone grew serious. "I wrote to my people, as soon as Colston
left, telling them I'd determined to remain in Canada; but if it wasn't
for Ellice, I think I'd quit farming."
Prescott smoked in silence for a while. Jernyngham had made a costly
sacrifice, chiefly on the woman's account, and Prescott felt sorry for
him.
"Perhaps I'd better get on," he said after a while.
For a few moments Jernyngham looked irresolute, and then he got up.
"I'll come with you to Sebastian. I think I'd have gone earlier, only
Ellice had the horse and rig, and Wandle's using the wagon team. It's no
doubt my duty to sue for peace."
They set out shortly afterward and reaching Sebastian late in the evening
drove to the livery-stable, where Jernyngham called the man who took
Prescott's team.
"I suppose you have my horse?" he asked.
"Sure," said the fellow, looking at him curiously. "Mrs. Jernyngham said
we'd better keep him until you came in. She left a note for you with the
boss; he's in the hotel."
Jernyngham crossed the street, followed by his companion, and Prescott
noticed that the loungers in the bar seemed interested when they came in.
Two of them put down their glasses and turned to fix their eyes on
Jernyngham, a third paused in the act of lighting his pipe and dropped
the match. Then the owner of the livery-stable looked up in a hesitating
manner as Jernyngham approached him.
"I believe you have a message for me," Jernyngham said abruptly.
"That's so," the man rejoined gravely. "I'll give it to you outside."
They left the bar, and when they stood under the veranda, Jernyngham tore
open the envelope handed him. A moment later he firmly crumpled up the
note it had held.
"When did she leave?" he asked in a harsh voice.
The liveryman regarded him sympathetically.
"By the afternoon East-bound. I'm mighty sorry, Cyril--guess you know it
isn't a secret in the town."
Jernyngham's face grew darkly flushed.
"Then you can tell me whom she went with?"
"The drummer who was selling the separators. Bought tickets through to
St. Paul. Told Perkins he wasn't coming back here; nothing doing on this
round."
The man tactfully moved away and Jernyngham turned to Prescott, speaking
rather hoarsely.
"She's gone--that's the end of it!"
He dropped into one of the chairs scattered about and a few moments later
broke into a bitter laugh.
"It would have been more flattering if she had chosen you or Wandle
instead of that blasted weedy drummer. Still, there the thing is, and it
has to be faced." Then he surprised his companion, for his voice and
expression became suddenly normal. "Go in and get me a cigar."
He lighted it carefully when it was brought to him and leaned back in his
chair.
"Jack," he said, "I've got to hold myself in hand--if I start off on the
jag now, it will be a dangerous one. Have you noticed that I've been
practising strict abstinence since Colston left?"
Prescott, not knowing how to regard his ironic calmness, said nothing,
and Jernyngham continued:
"It's a bitter pill. I was very fond of her once, and there's not much
consolation in reflecting that she'll probably scare the fellow out of
his wits the first time she breaks out in one of her rages." Then his
voice grew regretful. "Ellice's far from perfect, but she's much too good
for him."
Remembering that it was on the woman's account his friend had remained on
the prairie, Prescott made a venture:
"Since she has gone, it's a pity she didn't go a few weeks earlier."
"That doesn't count," declared Jernyngham. "She has cause to blame me as
much for marrying her--one must try to be just. I thought of her when I
determined to stay, but my own weaknesses played as big a part in
deciding me."
He sat silent a while, and then indicated his surroundings with a
contemptuous sweep of his hand--the dirty sidewalk strewn with cigar ends
and banana peelings, the straggling houses with their cracked board walls
and ugly square fronts, the rutted street down which drifted clouds of
dust.
"Jack," he said, "I'm very sick of all this, and I can't face the lonely
homestead now Ellice's gone. I must have a change and something to brace
me; something that has a keener bite than drink. Think I'll take a
haulage job on the new railroad, where there ought to be rough and risky
work, and I'll leave this place to-night. Come across with me to
Morant's, and I'll see what I can borrow on the land."
The sudden unreasoning decision was characteristic of him, but Prescott
expostulated.
"You can't clear out in this eccentric fashion; there are a number of
things to be settled first."
"I think I can," Jernyngham retorted dryly. "It's certain that I can't
stay here."
He took his companion with him to call on a land-agent and mortgage-broker,
and when they left the office Jernyngham had a bulky roll of bills in his
pocket.
"Jack," he requested, "you'll run my place and pay Morant off after
harvest; if Wandle gets his hands on it, there'll be very little left
when I come back. You may have trouble with him, but you must hold out.
Charge me with all expenses and pay as much of the surplus as you think
I'm entitled to into my bank when you have sold the crop. Now if you'll
come into the hotel, I'll give you a written authority and get Perkins to
witness it."
Prescott demurred at first, but eventually yielded because he believed
his friend's interest would need looking after in his absence. After some
discussion they agreed on a workable scheme, which was put down in
writing and witnessed by the hotel-keeper. Then Jernyngham borrowed a
saddle and sent for his horse.
"I'll pull out for the railroad now; it's cooler riding at night and
there's a good moon," he said. "As I'll pass close to your place, you may
as well drive so far with me."
They set off, Prescott seated on the front of his jolting wagon,
Jernyngham riding as near it as the roughness of the trail permitted,
with a blanket and a package of provisions strapped to his saddle. He was
wearing a hat of extra-thick felt and uncommon shape which had been given
him by a man who had broken his journey for the purpose of seeing the
country when returning from Hong Kong by the Canadian Pacific route. Soon
after they left Sebastian, a young trooper of the Northwest Police
dressed in khaki uniform came trotting up in the moonlight and joined
them.
"Where are you off to, Jernyngham?" he asked, glancing at the rolled up
blanket. "Looks as if you meant to camp on the trail."
"I'll have to, most likely," said Jernyngham. "I'm leaving the farm to
Prescott for a while and heading for Nelson's Butte on the new road."
"What are you going to do there?"
"Thought I'd pick up a horse or two at one of the ranches I'll pass and
apply for a teaming job. Contractor was asking for haulage tenders; he's
having trouble among the sandhills and muskegs."
"Then you'll be taking a wad of money along?"
Jernyngham assented and the trooper looked thoughtful.
"Now," he cautioned, "there's a pretty tough crowd at Nelson, and though
we stopped any licenses being issued, we've had trouble over the
running-in of liquor. Then you have a long ride before you through a
thinly-settled country. You want to be careful about that money."
"The settlers are to be trusted."
"That's so, but we have reason to believe the rustlers are at work in the
district; seem to have been going into the liquor business, and I've
heard of horses missing. Now that the boys have stopped their branding
other people's calves in Alberta and corralled their leaders, it looks as
if the fellows were beginning the game in this part of the country."
"Thanks," said Jernyngham. "I may as well take precautions. How would you
recommend my carrying the money?"
The trooper made one or two ingenious suggestions as to the safest way of
secreting the bills, and Jernyngham, dismounting, carried them out. Soon
afterward the trooper struck off across the plain, and the others, riding
on, met a farmer who spoke to them as he passed. At length Prescott
pulled up his team at the spot where his companion must leave the trail.
"I'll do what I can with the land, Cyril, and keep an account," he said.
"You might write and let me know how you are getting on."
They shook hands and Jernyngham trotted away, while Prescott sat watching
him for a minute or two. Man and horse were sharply outlined against the
moonlit grass. Jernyngham looked very lonely as he rode out into the
wilderness. He could hardly have been happy, Prescott thought, in his
untidy and comfortless house at the farm; but, after all, it had been a
home, and now he was rudely flung adrift. It was true that the man was
largely responsible for the troubles that had fallen upon him, but this
was no reason for refusing him pity, and Cyril had his strong points. He
had staunchly declined to profit by a felicitous change of fortune out of
consideration for the relatives who had once disowned and the woman who
had deserted him. Jernyngham had been a careless fool, and Prescott
suspected that he was not likely to alter much in this respect, but he
did not expect others to pay for his recklessness when the reckoning
came. Then Prescott started his team.
Two days later, he was busy in front of his homestead putting together a
new binder which had just arrived from the settlement. It was the latest
type of harvesting implement and designed to cut an unusually broad
swath. While he was engaged, the trooper he had met when accompanying
Jernyngham rode up with a corporal following. He stopped his horse and
glanced at the binder with admiration.
"She's a daisy, Jack; I guess she cost a pile," he said. "Where did you
get the money to buy a machine of that kind?"
"It wasn't easy to raise it," Prescott replied. "But I'll save something
in labor--harvest wages are high--and I've long wanted this binder. When
Trant came round from the implement store yesterday morning I thought I'd
risk the deal. Will you wait for dinner?"
"No, thanks," the corporal broke in. "We're making a patrol north; just
called to look at your guards. Several big grass fires have been reported
in the last few days."
Prescott pointed to the rows of plowed furrows which cut off his holding
from the prairie. The strip of brown clods, which was two or three yards
in width, seemed an adequate defense, and after a glance at it the
corporal nodded his satisfaction.
"Good enough," he said. "We'll take the trail."
He trotted away with his companion and it was evening when they rode
along the edge of a ravine which pierced a high tract of rolling country.
The crest of the slope they followed commanded a vast circle of grass
that was changing in the foreground from green to ocher and silvery
white. Farther back, it ran on toward the sunset, a sweep of blue and
neutral gray, flecked with dusky lines of bluffs, interspersed with
gleaming strips of water, but nowhere in the wide landscape was there a
sign of human habitation. Small birches and poplars, with an undergrowth
of nut bushes, clothed the sides of the ravine, but some distance ahead
it broadened out and the stream that flowed through it turned the hollow
into a muskeg. There harsh grass and reeds grew three or four feet high,
hiding the stretch of mire.
The police were young men with deeply bronzed faces, dressed in smart
khaki uniform with broad Stetson hats of the same color.
"What's that?" exclaimed Corporal Curtis, pointing to an indistinct
object lying among a patch of scrub some distance off.
"Looks like a hat," replied Private Stanton. "Some settler prospecting
for a homestead location must have lost it."
"You jump at things!" said the corporal. "How'd the man lose it? Guess it
wouldn't drop off without his knowing it, and with the sun we've been
having he'd want it pretty bad. He wouldn't throw it away, when he knew
he couldn't get another. We'll go along and see."
They dismounted a minute or two later and made a startling discovery. The
hat was a good one, but in one place the soft gray felt had been crushed
and partly cut as though by a heavy blow. On turning it over, they saw
that the inside was stained a dull red.
"Blood!" said Curtis significantly, and swept a searching glance about.
"More of it," he added. "See here--on the brush."
Moving forward, they found a succession of crimson spots and splashes on
the leaves of the willow scrub and withering grass.
"Picket the horses. Stanton; we've got to look into this," the corporal
said.
"I'd better lead them back a piece," responded his companion. "We don't
want to muss up things by making fresh tracks."
When he had done so, they set about the examination systematically. They
were men who lived, for the most part, in the open, and made long
journeys through the wilds, sleeping where they could find shelter in
ravine or bluff. Such things as a broken twig, a bruised tuft of grass,
or a mark in loose soil had a meaning to them, and here they had
plentiful material to work upon. Counting footprints and hoofmarks,
measuring distances, they constructed bit by bit the drama that had taken
place, but half an hour had passed before they sat down to talk it over
and took out their pipes. The afterglow shone about them; their hands and
thoughtful faces showed the same warm color as the brown grass in the
ruddy light. In the hat lay a five-dollar bill and a coat button.
"There were two men here," Curtis remarked. "Both were mounted and came
up the trail from the settlement, but it looks as if the first one had
picketed his horse and started to make camp when the other joined him."
"That's so," Private Stanton agreed.
"Then there was trouble, but the men didn't clinch. One fellow hit the
other with something heavy enough to drop him in his tracks, then got
into the saddle and rode off, leading the other horse."
The evidence on which he arrived at this conclusion was slender, but
Stanton signified assent.
"Well," he said, "where's the hurt man?"
"I've a notion he's in yonder muskeg. The other fellow could have packed
him there on the led horse--the blood spots point to it--though he might
have hid him farther on in a bluff. It's getting too dark to search now;
we'll try to-morrow. But I guess we know who he is."
"Sure," said Stanton. "I'll swear to the hat. Chaffed Jernyngham about it
one day, and he put it in my hands and said there wasn't another of the
kind in the country. A man from Hong Kong gave it to him."
Curtis took up the bill.
"Five dollars, Merchants' Bank, and quite clean; not been issued long.
We'll find out if they've a branch at Regina or Saskatoon and trace up
the fellow they paid it to. The button doesn't count--quite a common
pattern. Now if you'll fill the kettle at the creek, I'll start a fire.
We'll camp near the birch scrub yonder."
CHAPTER VI
A DEAL IN LAND
On the morning after the corporal's discovery, Gustave Wandle was leading
his team to a drinking pool on the creek that crossed his farm. He was a
big, reserved, fair-haired man, with a fleshy face that was redeemed from
heaviness by his eyes, which were restless and keen. Though supposed to
be an Austrian, little was known about him or his antecedents except that
he owned the next half-section of land to Jernyngham's and farmed it
successfully. It was, however, believed that he was of an unusually
grasping nature, and his neighbors took precautions when they made a deal
with him. He had reached the shadow of a poplar bluff when he heard
hurried footsteps and a man with a hot face came into sight.
"I'm going across your place to save time; I want my horse," he explained
hastily. "Curtis, the policeman, has ridden in to the settlement and told
me to go up and search a muskeg near the north trail with Stanton.
Somebody's killed Jernyngham and hidden him there."
"So!" exclaimed Wandle. "Jernyngham murdered! You tell me that?"
"Sure thing!" the other replied. "The police have figured out how it all
happened and I'm going to look for the body while Curtis reports to his
bosses. A blamed pity! I liked Jernyngham. Well, I must get to the muskeg
soon as I can!"
He ran on, and Wandle led his horses to the pool and stood thinking hard
while they drank. He was well versed in Jernyngham's affairs and knew
that he had once bought a cheap quarter-section of land in an arid belt
some distance off. A railroad had since entered the district, irrigation
work had been begun, and the holding must have risen in value. Now, it
seemed, Jernyngham was dead, which was unfortunate, because Wandle had
found their joint operations profitable, and it was very probable that
Ellice and himself were the only persons who knew about the land. Wandle
mounted one of the horses and set out for Jernyngham's homestead at its
fastest pace.
On reaching it, he soon found an iron cash-box in a cupboard and succeeded
in forcing it with a screw-driver. It contained a few papers, among which
were one or two relating to the purchase of the quarter-section, and
Wandle put these in his pocket. The others he threw into the
cupboard--Jernyngham's carelessness was well known--and then hastily
studied a railroad time-table. By starting promptly, he could catch a
train at the station next after Sebastian, which he thought would be
wiser, and reach a new wooden town of some importance in the evening.
Having ascertained this, he hurried out and rode home, taking the cash-box
with him. On arriving, he smashed it flat with an ax and flung it into his
stove in which a fire was burning; then he made a hasty meal, changed his
clothes, and saddling a horse, rode hard across the prairie. There was, he
realized, some risk in what he meant to do, but it was not a very serious
one, and he was thankful that the sale of land is attended by few
formalities in western Canada.
When he reached his destination, business premises were closed for the
night, but after making inquiries he found a land agent who was
recommended as respectable and trustworthy at a smart hotel. Wandle led
him to the far end of the lobby, where they would not be disturbed, and
sitting down at a table took out the papers.
"What's that quarter-section worth?" he asked.
The agent told him and Wandle lighted his pipe and affected to consider.
He thought Jernyngham had not suspected its value.
"Don't you think you could get another three dollars an acre?" he
suggested.
"It's possible, if you will leave the sale in my hands; but I may have to
wait for a suitable opportunity. There's a good demand for land in the
district now that they're getting on with the irrigation scheme, but to
insist on the top price will mean delay."
"Could you sell it for me promptly at the figure you mentioned?"
"Why, yes," said the agent. "I've a number of inquiries for farming land
on my books. I shouldn't wonder if I fixed the thing up in a week."
"I can't wait a week. There's a pretty good haulage contract I could get,
but it will take some financing, which is what brought me along; because
I ought to see about it in the next few days. Now I'll tell you what I'll
do--I'll sell you that land to-night at the lower figure."
The agent pondered.
"No, sir," he said, irresolutely. "I'd only make a few dollars an acre on
the deal, and I can get ten per cent. on my money right in this hotel."
"You'd have to wait a year for it, wouldn't you? What price will give you
ten per cent. profit on this quarter-section? You want to remember that
you may get it in a few weeks, and you'd have first-class security."
After making a rough calculation in his notebook, the agent looked up.
"As a rule, I prefer to buy for other people, but I can't go back on what
I said about land being in strong demand, and I'll make you a bid. This
is the most I can do."
Wandle, after trying to raise the price, made a sign of acquiescence.
"We'll let it go at that. I'll get things fixed up as soon as the
land-office is open in the morning."
He left the hotel, satisfied on the whole, though he had sacrificed a
dollar or two an acre and there was an element of danger in what he had
done. The sale of the land must be registered, and the date would be two
or three days after the one on which Jernyngham was killed. The latter's
homestead was, however, a long distance off, there was only one small
weekly newspaper published in the district, and it was very probable that
the agent would not hear of the affair until some time had elapsed, and
then might not attach any importance to the fact that the victim's name
was that of his customer. Even if he did so, the small discrepancy in the
dates would, no doubt, escape his attention. Wandle did not think he had
much cause for uneasiness.
Reaching home the next day, he raked out his stove and found the
cash-box. It had not fallen to pieces as he had expected, and he doubled
it up again with the ax before he flung it into the ash pail. Then he
lighted the stove and set about getting supper, for it was late in the
evening. After finishing the meal, he threw some fragments of potatoes
and a rind of pork into the pail and took it up to carry it to the refuse
heap, but stopped with a start when he left the house. It was getting
dark, but two shadowy figures were riding up the trail and by the way
they sat their horses he recognized them as police troopers. Putting down
the pail, he waited until they dismounted near-by.
"You're too late for supper, Curtis," he said coolly. "I've just cleaned
it up."
The corporal glanced at the pail and in the dim light noticed only the
domestic refuse.
"I've had some," he answered. "I want a few minutes' talk." Then he
motioned to his companion. "Hitch the horses, Stanton, and come in when
you're ready."
They entered the house, followed presently by the trooper, and Wandle
lighted his pipe. He felt more at ease with it in his hand and he
suspected that he would need all his collectedness.
"Well," he said, "what's the trouble?"
"I suppose you know that Jernyngham's missing?"
"I heard that he was killed."
"Looks like it," said Curtis. "You know the muskeg where the creek
spreads out, about fourteen miles north?"
"I don't; never been up so far."
Curtis noticed the prompt disclaimer.
"Anyway, Jernyngham rode there and was knocked out with something heavy
that must have left him stunned, if it didn't make an end of him. He
didn't ride away after it, though his horse went on. The point is that it
was led."
"How do you know that?" Wandle asked.
"It's my business to know these things. Think we can't tell the
difference between the tracks of a led horse and a ridden one? The only
times two horses trot close together at an even distance is when one's
rider has both bridles, or when they're yoked to a wagon pole. However,
I've come to ask if you can throw any light on the matter? You and
Jernyngham were partners, in a way, weren't you?"
"That's so. Now and then we bought implements and horses, or hired a
tractor plow, between us. As a matter of fact, Jernyngham owed me about
five hundred dollars. Anyhow, I'm as puzzled about the thing as you must
be."
"Then you think we're puzzled?" Curtis said in a significant tone.
Wandle laughed.
"It struck me as likely. You know there's not a rancher in the district
who would hurt the man. He was easy to get on with."
"Did you know that he borrowed money on his holding and took it with him
the night he disappeared?"
"I didn't," said Wandle, starting. "I'm not pleased to hear it now. I've
a claim on the place and there are some pretty big storekeepers' bills to
come in."
Curtis asked a few more questions before he took his leave. He passed
near the ash pail as he went out and Stanton touched it with his foot,
but they had mounted and reached the trail before either of them spoke.
"Well?" said Curtis.
Stanton smiled.
"Nothing much to be learned from him; the fellow's about as sly and hard
to get at as a coyote."
"A sure thing," Curtis agreed. "We'll keep an eye on him; I've a
suspicion he knows something."
Then they trotted away in the moonlight, for it was a long ride to their
camp beside the muskeg, which with the assistance of several men they
were engaged in searching.
On the next afternoon, Prescott was at work in the summer fallow, sitting
in the iron saddle of a gangplow, which four powerful horses hauled
through the crackling stubble. It was fiercely hot and he was lightly
clad in thin yellow shirt and overalls. A cloud of dust rose about him
from the parched soil, and the broad expanse of wheat which the fallow
divided glowed with varied colors as it rippled before the rush of
breeze, the strong greens changing to a silvery luster as the lush blades
bent and caught the light. Farther on, there were faint streaks of yellow
among the oats; the great stretch of grass was white and delicate gray,
the rows of clods behind the plow rich chocolate-brown.
Prescott, however, paid little attention to his surroundings. He was
perhaps the only man in the district who had known Jernyngham intimately;
he felt troubled about his disappearance, and he had had a disturbing
interview with Wandle during the morning. The Austrian had contested his
right to manage the farm, declaring that Jernyngham owed him money and
had made certain plans for the joint working of their land which must be
carried out. This did not so much matter, in a sense, if one could take
Jernyngham's death for granted; but Prescott could not do so and had,
moreover, no intention of letting his property fall into the hands of a
cunning, grasping fellow, who, he was fully persuaded, had no real right
to it. If Jernyngham did not turn up, Prescott meant to discharge all his
debts after harvest and, as the crop promised well, to send the balance
to England as a proof that his friend had not been a failure in Canada.
This might be some comfort to Jernyngham's people.
He was considering the matter when he heard the stubble crackle behind
him and, looking around, saw Curtis riding up. Stopping his team, he
waited until the corporal drew bridle.
"Have you found him yet?" he asked.
"We have not," said Curtis. "It's a big muskeg and quite deep. You know
the place?"
"Oh, yes, I know it pretty well."
Curtis looked at him sharply, but Prescott seemed to be musing.
"It's a sad thing when you think of it," he said after a few moments.
"From the little he told me, the man had hard luck all through; and that
Mrs. Jernyngham should leave him just after he'd sacrificed his future
for her must have been a knock-out blow. Yet I've an idea that instead of
crushing it braced him. It pulled him up; he showed signs of turning into
a different man."
"You knew him better than I did," Curtis replied. "I heard at the hotel
he'd asked you to look after his place, given you a share in the crop."
"He did. I'd some words with Wandle about the matter this morning;
Jernyngham warned me he might pretend he had a claim. However, that's not
to the purpose; somehow I feel convinced he'll turn up again. What motive
could any one have for killing him? The only man we might have
suspected--the fellow who went off with Ellice--must have been on the
train bound for St. Paul."
"He was; we wired the conductor. But the thing's quite simple--the motive
was robbery. You remember that wad of bills?" The corporal paused before
he added: "Where did you last see Jernyngham?"
"At the trail-forks near my place. He rode right on; I took the turning."
"Did you see your man, Svendsen, or his wife when you got home?"
"I didn't; they live at the back of the house. I put up the horses,
slipped in quietly, and went to bed."
"Then you can't fix the time you got back?"
Prescott moved sharply, lifting his head, while an angry color suffused
his face.
"Curtis, you can't think--Jernyngham was my best friend!" Then he laughed
indignantly. "You always struck me as a sensible man."
The corporal regarded him with scrutinizing eyes, his manner stamped with
official austerity.
"I'm forming no opinions--yet. It's my duty to find out all I can about
the matter and report. If there's anything you're open to tell me, I'll
make a note of it."
Prescott's face grew stern and his glance very steady.
"I can add nothing to what I've said, and I'm busy."
Curtis rode away, but when he was out of the rancher's sight he broke
into a dry smile. He was an astute young man and knew his business, which
was merely to investigate and follow the instruction of his chiefs at
Regina. Unembroidered facts were what they required in the first
instance, but later he might be permitted to theorize.
When the corporal had gone, Prescott went on with his plowing, but the
crackle of the stubble and the thud of the heavy Clydesdales' hoofs fell
unheeded on his ears, and it was half-consciously that he turned his team
at the head-land. He had a good deal to think about and his thoughts were
far from pleasant. To begin with, the memory of Muriel Hurst had haunted
him since she left; he recalled her with a regretful longing that seemed
to grow steadily stronger instead of diminishing. He thought she had left
an indelible mark on his life. Then there was his impersonation of
Jernyngham, which he had rashly agreed to, but did not now regret. If
Colston had met Cyril on the night of the riot and had gone to his untidy
dwelling, he would have been forced to send home an adverse report.
Prescott was glad to think he had saved his friend from a farther fall in
his English relatives' esteem, though, knowing a little of the man's
story, he held them largely responsible for his reckless career. Their
censoriousness and suspicion had, no doubt, driven him into wilder
rashness.
Besides all this, the corporal's manner rankled in his mind. He knew
Curtis well and had a good opinion of his ability. It seemed preposterous
that such a man could imagine that he had had any hand in Jernyngham's
death. Yet the corporal's tone had been significant and the facts had an
ugly look. He had seen Jernyngham secrete his money and had afterward
ridden on with him, unaccompanied by anybody else. He could not prove
when he returned to his farm, and it might be said that he stood to
benefit by securing the management of Jernyngham's property.
When he reached the end of the furrows his face was grim, but he steadily
continued his plowing.
CHAPTER VII
THE SEARCH
Prescott dismounted and turned loose his horse, short-hobbled, near the
muskeg about two o'clock one hot afternoon. He had begun work at four
that morning, and, with harvest drawing near, time was precious to him,
but he was filled with a keen curiosity to see what progress Curtis had
made in his search. He had a strong personal interest in the matter,
because it seemed that some suspicion might rest on him; though he was
far from sharing the corporal's conviction that Jernyngham was dead.
Stopping at the edge of the ravine, he looked about, taking in the
details of the scene.
Though the prairie had lost its greenness and the flowers had died, it
stretched away, flooded with dazzling light, a great expanse of silvery
gray, flecked with faint lemon and brown. In the swampy hollow, however,
the grass grew tall and green among the shining pools, and Prescott
noticed to his astonishment a dozen men working assiduously lower down.
They had discarded most of their clothing, their brown arms were bare,
and the stiff, dark-colored soil they flung up with their shovels
cumbered the bank of the ravine, which had narrowed in again. Prescott
saw that they were cutting a deeper channel for the creek, with the
object of draining the swamp.
Moving farther along the bank, he came upon the two policemen, who looked
very hot and somewhat muddy, which, as they were usually fastidiously
neat, was noticeable. He felt some hesitation in accosting them, as he
recalled the corporal's attitude when they last met, but he was curious.
"I suppose you have found nothing?" he said, and when Curtis made a sign
of negation continued: "How did you get so many of the boys here?"
Putting his hand in his pocket, the policeman gave him a printed circular
which announced that a reward of one thousand dollars would be paid for
the discovery of Cyril Jernyngham's remains.
"His people in the old country cabled it over," he explained.
"Well," Prescott said thoughtfully, "I don't believe he's here; but he
was a friend of mine, and I'm as anxious to have the question answered as
you are."
Private Stanton, who was sitting in the grass, looked up with a rather
significant smile. Indeed, there was a certain reserve in the manner of
both men which exasperated the rancher.
"It's quite likely you'll have to wait," Curtis rejoined. "Even when
we've run the water out, it may take a long while to search the mushy
stuff it will leave, and if we're beaten here, we'll have to try the
bluffs." He looked hard at Prescott. "We don't let up until we find him."
"Tell me where I can get a shovel and I'll help the boys."
Stanton brought him one and for the next two hours he worked savagely,
standing knee-deep in water in a trench, hacking out clods of the "gumbo"
soil, which covers much of the prairie and grows the finest wheat. When
dry it sets like stone, when wet it assumes a glutinous stickiness which
makes it exceptionally difficult to deal with. Fierce sunshine poured
down on Prescott's bent head and shoulders, his hands grew sore, and mire
and water splashed upon him, but he was hard and leanly muscular and,
driven as he was by a keen desire to test the corporal's theory, he would
have toiled on until the next morning, had it been needful. At length,
however, there was a warning cry from one of the men nearer the swamp.
"Watch out! Let her go!"
Prescott leaped from the trench. There was a roar higher up the ravine,
and a turgid flood, streaked with frothy lines, came pouring down the new
channel, bearing with it small nut bushes and great clumps of matted
grass. By degrees it subsided, and the men, gathering about the edge of
the muskeg, hot and splashed with mire, lay down to smoke and wait, while
the pools that still remained grew smaller. They had been working hard
since early morning and they did not talk much, but Prescott, sitting a
little away from them, was conscious of an unpleasant tension. It was
possible that the search might prove Curtis right. The corporal stood
higher up the bank, scanning each clump of grass and reeds with keenly
scrutinizing eyes. At length, however, he approached the others.
"I guess you've made a job, boys," he told them. "The soft spots ought to
dry out in about a week, but we can't wait till then. You want to
remember there's a thousand dollars for the man who finds him."
They glanced at the morass hesitatingly. It did not look inviting. In
places the reeds grew as high as their heads, and one could not tell what
depths they hid. In other spots there were tracks of slimy ooze in which
one might sink a long way. None of them, however, was fastidious, and
they waded out into the mire, shouting warnings to one another,
disappearing now and then among the grass. The search was partially
rewarded, for while Prescott and a companion were skirting a clump of
reeds they saw part of a soaked garment protruding from the slime. For a
few moments they stood looking at it irresolutely; and then Prescott,
mustering his courage, advanced and seized the stained material. It came
away more readily than he had expected, and he turned to his companion,
conscious of keen relief, with a brown overall jacket in his hand. A
further examination, shrinkingly made, revealed nothing else, and after
marking the place they waded to the bank. The garment was carefully
washed in the creek and the men gathered in a ring round Curtis when he
inspected it.
"Have any of you seen this thing before?" he asked, holding it up.
None of them would identify it. Thin duck overalls are commonly worn by
ranchers and working people, in place of heavier clothing, during the hot
weather. Then Curtis turned to Prescott.
"What's your idea?"
"It isn't Jernyngham's," the rancher said decidedly. "It's too old, for
one thing; looks as if it had been in the water quite a while."
"Hard to tell," commented Curtis. "But go on."
Prescott took the jacket and held it so that the others could see the
inside of the collar.
"No maker's tag," he continued. "Now Cyril always bought the kind they
give you a doll with."
One of the others laughed and supplied the name of the manufacturer,
which was attached to every garment.
"I've seen three or four of those dolls and golliwog things in his
house," the man added. "Used to guy him about keeping them, as he had no
kids."
"We can fix the thing by inquiring at the dry goods store," Curtis
rejoined.
"Can't see whose it was, if it wasn't Jernyngham's," another broke in.
"There's no homestead anywhere near the creek and mighty few people come
up here!"
The policeman took from his pocket a wet envelope, upon which the blurred
writing was still legible.
"Well," he said coolly, "there's no doubt about whose this is." He handed
it to Prescott. "Ever see it in Jernyngham's possession?"
"Yes," answered Prescott with some hesitation. "I recognize the address,
though the English stamp has gone. It was lying near when he was talking
to me on the night of the trouble in Sebastian."
He was filled with uneasiness. The police would certainly attempt to read
the letter, which was the one Colston had written announcing his arrival.
If they succeeded, they would no doubt wonder why the Englishman had not
stayed with Jernyngham, and investigation might lead to a discovery of
the part Prescott had played.
"We've begun quite satisfactorily," said the corporal, "and there's
nothing more to be done to-night. I guess you can quit and have supper,
boys."
In a little while trails of gray smoke floated across the ravine, and
after a meal with one of his neighbors Prescott rode back to his
homestead, feeling much disturbed. For all that, and in spite of the
letter, he did not think Jernyngham would be found in the swamp.
On the following evening a commissioned officer of the police, who had
made the journey from headquarters at Regina and spent an hour or two
examining the scene of the supposititious tragedy, sat with Curtis in a
very hot private room of the hotel at Sebastian. Its raw board walls gave
out a resinous smell; the opening in the window was filled with
mosquito-netting, so that little air crept in. On the table lay a
carefully made diagram; a boot, and one or two paper patterns
representing footprints were on the floor. The officer's hair was turning
gray and he had a quiet brown face with a look of command in it.
"Taking it for granted that your theory's right, suspicion seems to fall
on the men you mentioned," he said. "Whom do you suspect?"
Curtis considered. He was reluctant to express a decided opinion in the
presence of his superior, who was famous for his acumen.
"So far as we have any evidence, I think it points to Prescott," he
responded. "He saw Jernyngham hide his money; he went on alone with him,
and can't prove when he got home. Then several of the footprints marked
on the plan might have been made by him."
The officer took up the boot and one of the paper patterns.
"There's a doubt. I suppose he knows you have his boot?"
The corporal's eyes twinkled faintly.
"I guess he'll miss it sometime."
"It's possible. But what else have you against him?"
"Prescott stands to profit by Jernyngham's death: he has control of the
holding until the year's up, and it's a pretty good crop. He declares the
jacket isn't Jernyngham's; he won't allow the man can be in the muskeg. A
day or two after Jernyngham disappeared he bought one of the new
wide-swath binders. Paid the money down in new bills, which was what
Jernyngham had, though the implement agent didn't note the numbers."
"Pretty strong points. What's your private opinion? Out with it."
The man's tone was commanding and Curtis complied.
"On the whole, I'm inclined to blame the other fellow, Wandle."
"Against the evidence?" asked his superior in quiet surprise. "You of
course remember your instructions and know what your duty is."
"Yes, sir," said Curtis. "Still, I think----" He paused and continued
diffidently: "You would have an answer."
The other leaned back in his chair with a meditative expression.
"We'll let it go at that," he said. "Perhaps you had better follow the
waiting course you seem to have decided on, but if suspicion gathers
round Prescott it won't be a drawback and you needn't discountenance it.
For one thing, it may divert attention, and after all he may be the right
man."
A look of comprehension shone in the corporal's eyes. He believed that
his superior, who never expressed a strong opinion prematurely, agreed
with him.
"Suppose either of the men lights out?" he suggested.
"You'll have to guard against it. If it happens, apply for a warrant and
follow him."
The officer returned to Regina the next day; and a week or two, during
which Curtis and his assistants laboriously searched the drying swamp,
passed uneventfully. Then one morning Prescott sat somewhat moodily in
the saddle of his binder which a powerful team hauled along the edge of
the wheat. The great stretch of grain blazed with color as it swayed with
a harsh rustle of warm-tinted ears before the breeze, but now and then
broad cool shadows sped across it as the white-edged clouds drove by.
Behind him followed two more teams and machines, half covered by falling
sheets of yellow grain, while their whirling wooden arms flashed in the
dazzling sunlight as they flung out the sheaves. Bare-armed and very
scantily attired men came after them, piling the stocks together.
Disturbed as he was, Prescott felt cheered by the prospect of harvesting
a record crop.
He had turned a corner and was proceeding along another side of the great
oblong when he noticed a wagon approaching, carrying two strangers and
several large trunks. As their dress differed from that usually worn on
the prairie, he wondered who they were and why they were driving toward
his ranch. The liveryman, who held the reins, presently pulled up his
team and Prescott; stopping his binder, waited to be addressed. An old
soft hat fell shapelessly forward over his deeply bronzed face, his neck
and most of his arms were uncovered. Before him the four powerful horses
stood fidgeting in the heat, a black cloud of flies about their heads.
Though not a man of striking appearance, he was in harmony with his
surroundings, and formed a fine central figure in the great harvest
field: a worthy type of the new nation that is rising in the West.
For a moment or two the strangers studied him carefully from the wagon.
The one nearest him was a woman of thirty, he thought, of tall and
chastely lined figure, with a colorless and rather expressionless face,
though her features were excellent. She wore a tight-fitting dark dress
which seemed to have been made all in one piece, and gave an impression
of prim coldness and careful restraint. The man in the soft hat was
obviously her father. He had gray hair; his face, which was finely
chiseled, suggested a formal, decided, and perhaps domineering,
character; his gray tweed traveling suit was immaculately neat. There was
no doubt that they were English, and Prescott wondered whom they reminded
him of, until the truth flashed upon him with a disconcerting shock--they
were Jernyngham's father and sister!
"Mr. Prescott?" inquired the man.
Prescott bowed, and the teamster, jumping down, handed him two cards.
"I understand that you knew my unfortunate son," the newcomer continued.
"I did," Prescott replied guardedly.
"Then can I have a word or two with you in private?"
Getting down from the binder, Prescott helped the other to alight from
the high wagon; the man was not agile, though he carried himself well.
They walked back some distance along the edge of the wheat. Then the
rancher stopped and from force of habit felt for his pipe.
"I must be to some extent confidential," began Jernyngham. "You must
guess why I came."
The strong light fell searchingly on his face, revealing lines on it
which Prescott thought had lately been deepened by pain, but his eyes
were very keen and hard.
"I suppose the recent calamity brought you," the rancher ventured.
"Yes; I have come to see justice done. But we will not discuss that yet.
We arrived yesterday evening and found it was impossible that my daughter
should be comfortable at the hotel; besides which, it is rather too far
away. I accordingly determined to look for quarters at one of the
ranches, but succeeded in getting shelter for only the one night."
Prescott felt amused. Jernyngham and his daughter were not the kind of
people the somewhat primitive prairie ranchers would welcome; their
request for accommodation was more likely to cause astonishment and
alarm.
"People are very busy, now that harvest's coming on, and they've extra
hands to cook for," he explained.
"I understand," continued Jernyngham, "that my son's homestead is in this
neighborhood, and domestics might be hired; but after what has happened,
I fear my daughter would find living there a painful strain. That was why
I thought of applying to you."
The announcement filled Prescott with dismay. The presence of the
Jernynghams might involve him in further complications.
"I'm sorry, but we live very simply," he said hastily. "My place is only
half furnished; we have no time to make it comfortable--and I'm sure
you'd find our cooking barbarous. I'm afraid Miss Jernyngham couldn't put
up with the accommodation we could offer her."
"We only want quietness, fresh air, and a little privacy, none of which
seems to be obtainable at Sebastian. While the question of terms is no
consideration, I recognize that I must make my appeal to your
generosity."
Prescott did not answer, and Jernyngham resumed in a more urgent tone:
"I must beg you not to make difficulties; I'm told there is nobody else
in the neighborhood who could take us in. We will require very little
attention and will promise to give you no trouble."
Prescott wavered. The man was keenly anxious; it was hard to resist his
appeal, and there was, after all, only a small risk that he might hear of
Colston's visit. Svendsen and his wife, who attended to the housekeeping,
were Scandinavians, and could scarcely converse in English. When they
addressed him by any distinguishing epithet it was always as "Boss."
"Well," he said doubtfully, "I can't refuse you shelter. You can stay for
a while, anyway, until we see how we get on. I'll go up to the homestead
with you."
He had an interview with his housekeeper, who protested in broken English
that harvest was a singularly inconvenient time to entertain strangers,
but eventually gave away. The extra hands lately hired could be put up in
the barn, and there were two rooms that could be spared. Prescott showed
his visitors in and afterward watched with some amusement their surprise
when they sat down to the midday meal with the lightly clad toilers from
the field. During the afternoon and until late in the evening, he worked
hard among the grain, but when the light was failing and he leaned on a
wire fence, hot and tired after the long day of effort, Jernyngham came
toward him.
"We have had very little talk so far," he said. "My daughter, however,
desires me to convey her thanks to you. She believes she will be
perfectly comfortable."
He was irritatingly formal, his tone was precise, but it changed as he
added:
"So you knew Cyril!"
"Yes," Prescott said gravely. "I was fond of him."
Jernyngham seemed to be struggling with some stirring of his deeper
nature beneath the crust of mannerisms.
"Mr. Prescott," he said, "I may tell you that I now fear I treated the
lad injudiciously, and perhaps with needless harshness. I looked upon
extravagance and eccentricity as signs of depravity. It was a vast relief
when I heard from Colston, whom you may have met; that Cyril had
prospered and was leading an exemplary life in Canada."
The blood crept into Prescott's face, and Jernyngham glanced at him
curiously before he proceeded.
"We were somewhat hurt that he would not come home; but after past
mistakes I could not urge him, and it seemed possible that he might
change his mind later. Then the dreadful blow fell--crushing and filling
me with all the bitterness of useless regret. I had spoken too late; the
opportunity I would not use in time had gone."
He broke off, and his face had grown white and stern when he went on
again:
"There is only one thing I can do, but if needful, I will devote the rest
of my life to it--that is, to track down the man who killed my son!"
He was silent for the next few minutes, and then, after a few words on
indifferent subjects, intended, Prescott thought, to cover his display of
feeling, he turned away, leaving the rancher smoking thoughtfully.
CHAPTER VIII
A DAY ON THE PRAIRIE
A week after Jernyngham's arrival at the homestead he sat among the
sheaves in the harvest field late one afternoon studying a letter which
the mail-carrier had just brought him. His daughter, sheltered from the
strong sunlight by the tall stocked sheaves, was reading an elegantly
bound book of philosophy. Gertrude Jernyngham had strict rules of life
and spent an hour or two of every day in improving her mind, without, so
far as her friends had discovered, any enlargement of her outlook. Among
her numerous virtues was an affectionate solicitude about her father's
health, which was variable. Though still muscularly vigorous, Jernyngham
was getting an old man, and he had been out of sorts of late.
"I'm glad you are looking much better than you did this morning," she
said, glancing at him after a while.
"Thank you," Jernyngham rejoined punctiliously. "I suppose it was the
strain of the past few weeks that tried me, and perhaps I have been doing
too much, traveling backward and forward between here and the muskeg."
Then with an effort he banished his painful thoughts and smiled. "I
wonder how many years it is since I spent an afternoon in a harvest
field! I'll confess that I find much to interest me."
Gertrude laid down her book and glanced about. She was of a practical
disposition and almost devoid of artistic susceptibilities, but the
richness and color of the scene impressed her. Far away in front ran the
long ranks of sheaves, gleaming in the sunshine amid the golden stubble
which was flecked by their deep-blue shadows. The air was cooling, but
the light was brilliant and the standing wheat was picked out with tints
of burnished copper. By comparison with it, the oat stocks shone pale and
silvery. Round the edge of the grain moved the binders, clashing and
tinkling musically, while their whirling arms flashed in the sunlight.
Prescott, lightly clad, drove the foremost machine. The fine modeling of
his lean, muscular figure was effectively displayed; his uncovered arms
and face were the color of the soil. Seated behind the big horses, he
looked wonderfully virile. The man seemed filled with primitive vigor; he
was a type that was new to Gertrude Jernyngham.
"Our host," remarked her father, "strikes one as tireless; though I'm
inclined to think that during harvest everybody here works at a higher
tension than would be borne at home. Their methods are rather
wasteful--this tall stubble, for instance, continuous cereal crops,
except for the short summer fallow--but they're no doubt adapted to the
needs of the country. Having some experience in these matters, I should
say this farm was excellently managed."
In place of answering, Gertrude watched the rancher. The physical
perfection of the man had an effect on her, though she was essentially
prudish.
"I ought to drive in to the settlement and send off a cablegram, though I
expect it will be difficult to get a team," Jernyngham resumed, returning
to his letter. "Cranford wants instructions about a matter of importance
that has cropped up since we left."
"It wouldn't be wise for you to drive so far," Gertrude said firmly. "I
might go instead; we'll speak to Mr. Prescott about it this evening."
Shortly afterward there was a harsh clanking sound and Prescott, pulling
up his team, sprang down from the binder. He became busy with hammer and
spanner, and in a few minutes the stubble was strewn with pinion wheels,
little shafts, and driving-chains. Then, while his guests watched him
with growing interest, he put the machine together, started his team and
stopped it, and again dismembered the complicated gear. This, as Gertrude
realized, was work that needed a certain amount of skill. Finally, when
the overtaking binders had stopped near-by, he took out a small shaft and
held it up so that the harvesters could see it.
"Journal's bent; I'll have to go get a new piece," he said. "Go ahead
with your teams."
After that he unhitched his horses and was leading them past the place
where the Jernynghams sat, when Gertrude spoke to him.
"I'm sorry you had an accident, and I suppose you will have to send the
broken part to Sebastian. May I go with the team?"
"Why, of course," he said. "I'll drive you in to-morrow. As it's a pretty
long way, I'll try to borrow a comfortable rig."
He went on with the horses and she saw no more of him that day, but early
the next morning he brought up a light, four-wheeled vehicle, which would
carry two people and had a hood that could be drawn up. Gertrude thought
it a great improvement on the prairie wagon, and she admired the restive
team which he had some trouble in holding. When she got in, he sprang to
the seat beside her, the horses bounded forward, and they sped out
through a gap in the fence, the vehicle lurching wildly among the ruts.
For a while Gertrude was occupied, to the exclusion of everything else,
in trying to keep her place, but when Prescott turned the team on to a
stretch of smooth short grass she began to look about. It was a clear,
cool morning, the sky was a wonderful blue, and bluffs miles away showed
up with sharp distinctness. In the foreground the gray grass was bathed
in a soft light which was restful to the eyes. Then Gertrude examined the
rig, as the man had called it, which struck her as remarkably light and
fragile; and the same thing was noticeable about the harness. The horses
moved as if they were drawing no load, swinging along at a fast and
springy trot, while the vehicle ran lightly up and down the slight
undulations, the wheels jarring now and then into a hollow or smashing
through dwarf scrub. The pace was exhilarating, the fine air invigorated
the girl, and her usual prim reserve melted away.
"I am fortunate in getting in to Sebastian," she said. "There's a
cablegram it's necessary that my father should send."
"Glad to take you," Prescott rejoined. "Is Mr. Jernyngham in business?"
"Oh, no; not as you would understand it. We spend most of our time in the
country, where he manages the estate. It's small, but there are two
quarries which need looking after. Then he's director of a company. He
doesn't believe that a man should be idle."
Prescott smiled. He had read a good deal about England, and he could
imagine Jernyngham's firm control of his property. His rule would, no
doubt, be just, but it would be enforced on autocratic and highly
conventional lines. His daughter, the rancher thought, resembled him in
some respects. She was handsome and dignified in a colorless way; she
might have been charming if she were only a trifle less correct in manner
and there were more life in her.
"Well," he said, in answer to her last remark, "that's a notion you'll
find lived up to here. The man who won't work mighty hard very soon goes
broke. It's a truth you in the old country ought to impress on the men
you're sending out to us."
She liked his easy phraseology; which she supposed was western, and there
was nothing harsh in his intonation. It was that of a well-educated man,
and the Jernynghams were exacting in such matters.
"I think there must be something in the air which makes toil less
arduous," she said. "The people I've met have a cheerful, optimistic
look." She hesitated, and added in a confidential tone: "I like to
imagine that my brother wore the same expression, though he was always
carelessly gay. He seems to have made a capable rancher. It was a great
relief to us when we were told of it."
Prescott grew hot and embarrassed, but he thought he could understand how
Cyril Jernyngham had entered on a course of recklessness. It was a
reaction against the overwhelming propriety of his father and sister.
"I don't think you need grieve for your brother yet," he said gravely.
"Although nobody here seems to agree with me, I find it impossible to
believe that he is dead."
Gertrude gave him a grateful look.
"I'm glad to hear you say so--there is at least a doubt, and that is
comforting; though I'm afraid my father can't be made to realize it."
"Can't you persuade him not to take too much for granted?"
"I wish I could." Gertrude's tone was sad. "He has been brooding over the
dreadful news ever since it reached us. It has possessed him absolutely;
he can think of nothing else, and there will be no relief for him until
he finds the guilty person, or it is proved beyond all doubt that the
police are mistaken." She paused before she went on. "If they're right, I
think I should feel as merciless as he does. Cyril was my only brother; I
was very fond of him."
Her voice trembled a little, though her eyes were hard, and Prescott felt
sorry for her. She was not of emotional nature; he could imagine her
shrinking from any display of tenderness. Nevertheless, it was obvious
that she was a prey to fear and grief.
"So was I," he said. "I wonder if I may point out that he struck me as
being different from you and your father?"
"I think I know what you mean. Cyril was like my mother--she died a long
while ago, but I remember her as gentle, sympathetic, and perhaps more
variable than I am. Cyril was swayed by feeling rather than by judgment."
Prescott knew this was correct, but he found his companion an interesting
study. She was wrapped up in cold propriety; she must have led an
uneventful life, looked up to and obeyed by the small community that
owned her father's rule. Romance could not have touched her; she was not
imaginative; but he thought there were warmth and passion lying dormant
somewhere in her nature. She could not have wholly escaped the
consequences of being Cyril Jernyngham's sister.
Nothing further was said for a while, and presently the team toiled
through a belt of sandy ridges, furrowed by the wind, where the summits
were crested here and there by small jack-pines. Looking up as they
crossed one elevation, Gertrude noticed a wedge of small dark bodies
outlined against the soft blue sky.
"What are those?" she asked.
"Wild geese; the forerunners of the host that will soon come down from
the marshes by the Polar Sea."
"But do they go so far?"
He laughed.
"They cross this continent twice a year; up from the steaming lagoons on
the Gulf to the frozen muskegs of the North, and back again. They're
filled with a grand unrest and wholly free; travelers of the high air,
always going somewhere."
"Ah!" responded Gertrude. "To be always doing something is good. But the
other--the ceaseless wandering----"
"Going on and on, beating a passage through the icy winds, rejoicing in
the sun, seeking for adventure. Is there no charm in that?"
She looked at him uneasily, as if his words had awakened some
half-understood response.
"I think Cyril must have felt something of the kind. So far it has never
stirred me. Isn't it wise to hold fast by what is safe and familiar?"
"Oh, I don't know," Prescott answered with a smile. "I follow the course
you mention, because I have to. It's my business to drive the plow, and
the hazard of having a crop hailed out is adventure enough. But I don't
think it should make one hard on the people who prefer the other thing.
After all, they may be right; the life they take pleasure in may be the
best for them, though it wouldn't appeal to you or me."
"I'm not sure that toleration should be encouraged. It often means
indifference, perhaps a lack of principle."
She grasped tightly the rail around the seat, for the horses plunged down
a sandy slope at a wild gallop, passing at the bottom a horse and buggy
in which sat a man dressed in a dark gray suit, to whom Prescott waved
his hand.
"Is he a clergyman?" asked Gertrude.
"Well," Prescott smiled, "he's a Presbyterian minister. I suppose you
think there's a difference?"
His companion with unusual forbearance let this pass.
"Then you have churches at Sebastian?"
"Four. I can't say they're crowded; but, while we're liberal-minded on
many points, the flocks won't mix. Strikes me as a pity."
"It is a pity; there should be only one strong and united church in every
place."
"And that the right one?" Prescott's eyes twinkled mischievously. "You're
thinking of the one we call Episcopalian?"
"Yes," said Gertrude severely; "the Church."
"I'll admit that I'm on pretty good terms with the lot, but Father
Dillon's my favorite. For one thing, he's a practical farmer as well as a
fine classical scholar. His crowd, for the most part, are hard-up
foreigners; and he shows them how to build decent homes and put their
crops in. All the same, I've quite a high opinion of the Methodist and
the Presbyterian, who are at the opposite end of the scale."
Gertrude showed signs of disapproval.
"In these matters, broad-mindedness may be dangerous. One can't
compromise."
"Well," he said, "even the Roman Curia tried it before the council of
Trent, and your people made an attempt to conciliate the English
Calvinists about Elizabeth's time; you were inclined to Genevan
Protestantism once or twice afterward."
His companion's surprise was evident, and he laughed as he read her
thoughts.
"Oh," he explained, "I used to take some interest in these matters once
upon a time. You see, I was at McGill."
"McGill? I seem to have heard the name, but what does it stand for?"
Prescott looked amused.
"I don't know that it quite means what Oxford does to you, but it's
something of the kind; you might have seen the fine buildings at the foot
of the mountain, if you had stayed in Montreal. Then we have Toronto;
with deference to the Toronto men, I'll compare that to Cambridge. Still,
so far as I understand your English ideas, there's a difference--our boys
go to McGill or Toronto with the intention of learning something that
will open up a career. They certainly play football and one or two other
games pretty well, but that's a very secondary object; so's the acquiring
of a polished style. In fact, it's not altogether unusual on this side of
the Atlantic to find university men spending a vacation as waiters in the
summer hotels."
"But why do they do that?" Gertrude asked with a shocked expression.
"For money," Prescott answered dryly. "One gathers that the St. Andrew
boys did something of the same kind in Scotland in your grandfather's
time; and no logical objection could be made to it, anyway. Isn't it a
pretty good test of a man's determination? It's hard to see why he should
make a worse doctor, engineer, or preacher, because he has the grit to
earn his training by carrying plates, or chopping trees, which some of
our boys take to."
This was difficult to answer, and Gertrude did not attempt it; her
prejudices were stronger than her powers of reasoning. Looking southward,
she saw the turreted tops of the Sebastian elevators rising from the sea
of grass like cathedral towers. Their smallness emphasized the vastness
of the plain, which was beginning to have a stimulating effect on her
mind. She thought it might explain the broadness of her companion's
views, which, while erroneous, were becoming comprehensible. He lived in
the open, beyond the bounds of walls and fences, breathing this wonderful
invigorating air. Nevertheless, he was obviously a man of varied and
extensive information, which struck her as somewhat curious in face of
his severely practical abilities. He could mend harness, plow a straight
furrow, break horses, and strip a complicated machine. As a new type, he
deserved attention.
After a while they struck into a well-beaten track which had been graded
where it crossed a muskeg. The rude work, however, had suffered from
frost and rain: the ruts in the hard black soil were deep and there were
dangerous holes. To make matters worse, a big gasoline tractor, intended
to assist in some harvesting operations, had got into difficulties near
the middle of the graded track. It was making an alarming noise and
diffusing a pungent odor, while two men thrust bits of board beneath the
wheels for it to climb out of the hole on. Prescott's team slackened
their pace, jerking their heads and pricking their ears. They were young
range horses that had roamed over wide spaces, and were badly broken.
Getting a tight grip on the reins he turned to his companion.
"We can't get around--the muskeg's too soft. I'd put you down, only that
I may not be able to hold the team after we get past that machine." He
raised his voice. "Can't you stop her, boys?"
"No, sir!" cried a grimy man. "Soon as we cut out the engine she'd run
back into the hole! We've been here two hours already!"
"Hold tight!" Prescott cautioned Gertrude, and urged the horses forward.
As they approached the tractor the noise suddenly increased, and its
wheels spun faster, grinding on the skids. One of the horses reared,
swinging up the pole, which nearly threw its fellow; then there was a
frantic thud of hoofs against the frame of the vehicle, and the team,
swinging half around, threatened to overturn it into the swamp. Prescott
plied the whip; the beasts plunged. One pair of wheels left the road, and
the rig slanted alarmingly. A violent crash and jolt followed; Gertrude
came near to being flung out of her seat; and they passed the tractor and
sped across the graded stretch at a furious pace. Prescott was braced
backward, his feet pressed hard against a bar, his lips tightly set,
while Gertrude, shrinking from the disaster that seemed imminent,
wondered how he swung the panic-stricken beasts clear of the worst holes.
She gasped with relief when they had passed the muskeg, but the trail was
still in a dangerous state, and Prescott turned the team upon the grass,
where they galloped on while the wheels smashed through short scrub,
until at last the speed began to slacken. The horses' coats were foul and
flecked with spume when Gertrude looked backward and saw the tractor far
away in the distance.
"They've had enough," Prescott remarked. "We made the last mile at a
pretty good clip; I kept them at it. Guess they won't start another
circus if we meet a freight locomotive on the switches."
The settlement was reached without further mis-adventure, and Prescott,
as a special favor, secured a separate table at the hotel, where Gertrude
was served with an excellent meal. Afterward he showed her how to
despatch her father's message, and as she turned away the telegraph
operator grinned at Prescott.
"Where are all these high-toned English girls coming from, Jack?" he
said. "You have brought another one this time."
Leaving the man without an answer, Prescott rejoined his companion.
"Are there any English people staying near the settlement?" she asked.
"The fellow was alluding to Miss Hurst."
"Muriel Hurst?" Gertrude exclaimed sharply. "Was she here with you?"
"Yes." Prescott regretted that she had asked for an explanation of the
operator's remarks. "I once drove her in; Cyril's team was doing
something else. But you said you wanted to visit the drygoods store,
didn't you?"
Gertrude accompanied him there and when he left her in the hands of a
lady clerk she fancied that she was favored with somewhat unusual
attention on his account. The man seemed to be a favorite in the
settlement. She spent a tedious afternoon in the hotel parlor while he
went about the business that had brought him in and the team rested. It
was a relief when he reappeared in time for supper; and after that they
set out again. The sun set before they reached the homestead, the air
grew bracingly cool, and the prairie rolled away before them, dim and
mysterious, streaked with shadowy blurs of bluffs until a full moon rose
and flooded it with silvery light. There was strange, deep silence except
for the thud of hoofs which rose and fell in sharp staccato rhythm.
Gertrude was tired when Prescott helped her down at the homestead, but
all her senses were unusually alert. She had enjoyed what she felt had
been an invigorating day, and she admitted that, although she by no means
agreed with all the rancher said, his breezy talk had added to its zest.
CHAPTER IX
PRESCOTT MAKES A PROMISE
The fortnight that followed Gertrude's drive to Sebastian passed
uneventfully, though the minds of three of the occupants of the homestead
were filled with disturbing thoughts. Prescott spent the time working
hard at his harvest, but he wished that something might relieve him of
his guests, whose presence he found embarrassing, since it forced him to
be continually on his guard. In spite of this, he was conscious of strong
sympathy for them and did what he could to ensure their comfort. He was
getting uneasy, for he saw that Cyril Jernyngham had involved him in a
maze of complications from which there seemed to be no escape. It was
obvious that appearances were against him; the evidence that Curtis had
obtained pointed to his being implicated in the death of his friend, and
the painstaking corporal might discover something more damaging. Prescott
fancied that one or two of his acquaintances who now and then rode across
his farm on different errands returned his greeting with a new and
significant coldness.
Jernyngham spent much of his time at the muskeg, encouraging the men who
searched it and often assisting in the work. The whole morass was being
systematically turned over with the spade, but no further discoveries had
been made. In addition to this, Jernyngham rode to and fro about the
prairie, talking to the farmers whom he met on the trail or found at work
in the fields. They were all sorry for him, but there was something
deterrent in his sternness and his formal English manner, and they were
less communicative than they might have been. This was why he failed to
learn that the Colstons had stayed at Prescott's homestead, though, for
that matter, the fact was not generally known. The man could not rest;
tormented by regrets for his past harshness, he was bent on making the
only amend he could by hunting down the slayer of his son. His whole mind
was fixed on the task, and he brooded over it in a manner that aroused
his daughter's concern. She dreaded the effect a continuance of the
strain might have.
Gertrude, however, was relieved of a more pressing anxiety. Though her
father steadfastly refused to entertain it, she shared Prescott's belief
that her brother was not dead. For one thing, Cyril was not the man to
come badly to grief; he had done many reckless things and somehow escaped
the worst results. Illogical as the idea was, she felt that his luck was
good. It was a comforting reflection and she was sensible of a growing
confidence in the farmer, who encouraged her to cling to it.
One afternoon she left the house and strolled across the harvest fields,
which had greatly changed in appearance since she had first seen them.
The oats were all stooked and stood in silvery sheaves, ready for the
thrasher; the great stretch of wheat had melted down to a narrow oblong,
round which the binders were working. Gertrude stopped to watch them. The
plodding horses, the bent figures of the men, the play of light on
falling grain, and the revolving arms of the machines fixed her eyes; the
rustle of sheaves, the crackle of stubble, and the musical tinkle of
metal, fell pleasantly on her ears. The mornings and evenings were cold
now, but the days were hot and bright, and the scene was steeped in vivid
hues: ocher, lemon, and coppery red below, dazzling blue above.
Prescott drove the leading binder and when it drew nearer she followed
his movements with careful scrutiny. She admitted that the man aroused
her interest. He was wonderfully virile, sanguine, and hopeful, with a
trace of what she thought of as the primitive strain; which tended toward
physical perfection; his vigor and muscular symmetry had their effect on
her. Though her father was a man of means and influence, her circle of
acquaintances had been restricted by the narrowness of his views; and the
men with whom she had been brought into contact were, for the most part,
distinguished rather by unexceptional morals and sound opinions than by
bodily grace and original thought.
By disposition as well as training Gertrude was a formalist and a prude,
but she was human and she unconsciously obeyed a law of nature which
ordains the union of the dissimilar. This was why, having met only men of
her own kind hitherto, she had escaped the touch of passion and now felt
drawn toward one who greatly differed from her.
After a while Prescott stopped his binder and opened a box attached to
it. He closed it sharply, as if annoyed, called to one of the men
gathering up the sheaves, and then walked toward the house.
"Run out of twine; I'll have to get some," he explained to Gertrude.
"You look tired," she said, stopping him. "You have been working very
hard."
"I don't feel quite as bright as usual," he confessed. "It's the heat, I
think, but I've turned out at four o'clock every morning since harvest
began."
"Then why not take a few minutes' rest? I'll make you a cup of tea; I was
going in to get some ready. It's an English custom."
He indicated his attire.
"I'd be glad, but I haven't time to make myself presentable."
"I'll excuse that." Gertrude smiled and added with unusual boldness: "You
don't seem to know that your dress is really most artistic. It suits
you."
He bowed to her.
"I'm flattered. This costume was adopted with a view to economy and
comfort. The worst of a man's wearing smart clothes is that whenever he
wants to do anything useful he has to take them off."
"Is that a great trouble?"
"It takes a lot of valuable time," he answered with a smile.
They turned toward the house, and after getting the twine he joined her
in a cool, shadowy room. Gertrude was watching a silver spirit-lamp; near
which two dainty cups and plates were laid out.
"That's a very pretty outfit," he remarked. "Is it English?"
"No; I bought it at a big store in Winnipeg--on Portage Avenue, I think."
"I know the place. So they're selling this kind of thing there! It's
significant. A few years ago they'd have got nobody to buy such truck."
He picked up a cup and held it to the light after examining the chaste
color, design, and stamp. "Anyway, it's English; the genuine article. I
believe the biscuit can't be imitated."
Gertrude had not expected him to understand artistic china.
"I've read about these things," he explained with a good-humored laugh;
"and I've a way of remembering. We have time in winter, and one is glad
to study anything that comes along. Still, I'll allow that I found
five-cent cans quite good enough when I first came out."
This was not a point of much importance, but it fixed Gertrude's
attention. She was in the habit of roughly sorting people into different
groups; there were, for example, those who appreciated beautiful things
and had been endowed with them as a reward of merit, and those of coarser
nature on whom they would be wasted, which was, no doubt, why they had
none. Yet here was a man with artistic taste, who was nevertheless
engaged in hard manual labor and had drunk contentedly out of common
cans. It did not fit in with her theories.
"I suppose this country has its influence on one?" she said, searching
for an explanation.
"That's so; the influence is strong and good, on the whole."
She considered this, quietly studying him. It was the first time she had
entertained at table a man in outdoor working attire; Prescott, out of
deference to his guests, had made some preparation for the meals they
shared. Still, the simple dress became him; he was, as she vaguely
thought of it, admirable, in a way. His hands and wrists were
well-shaped, though scarred and roughened by the rasp of the hot straw.
The warmth of the sun seemed to cling to his brown face; a joyous
vitality emanated from him, and he had mental gifts. She felt lightly
thrilled by his propinquity.
"But everything out here is still very crude," she said.
"That's where our strength lies; we're a new people, raised on virgin
soil out in the rushing winds. We haven't simmered down yet; we're
charged with unexhausted energies, which show themselves in novel ways.
In our cities you'll find semibarbarous rawness side by side with
splendor and art, and complicated machines run by men who haven't much
regard for the fastidious niceties of civilization, though they're
unexcelled in their engineering skill. We undertake big works in an
unconsidered manner that would scare your cautious English minds, make
wild blunders, and go ahead without counting the damage. We come down
pretty hard often, but it never brings us to a stop."
He saw that she did not grasp all he meant to convey, and he leaned back
in his chair with a laugh.
"This is the kind of fool talk you would expect from a boastful
Westerner, isn't it?"
"No," she replied somewhat formally; "that isn't what I thought. I find
everything I see and hear interesting, but there's much I can't
understand. One has to feel for its meaning."
"It's a very proper attitude," he rejoined with amusement. "So long as
you don't bring over a ready-made standard to measure our shortcomings
by, we'll explain all we can. In fact, it's a thing we're fond of doing."
Then his tone grew grave. "But I haven't seen your father since this
morning. Is he at the muskeg?"
"Yes. I'm getting anxious about him; the trouble is preying on his mind.
Grief, of course, is a natural feeling, but he thinks of nothing except
revenge. He's growing haggard and losing his judgment. I'm almost afraid
to think what may happen if he finds anything that looks like a clue. The
shock has shaken him terribly."
"And you?"
"I feel half guilty because I've been so calm since I came here, but I
can't believe the worst. You have reassured me." She paused and added
softly: "And I'm very grateful."
"I'm glad." Prescott's tone was sympathetic. "But I can imagine what your
father feels. From a few things he has told me, he seems to have led a
smooth, well-ordered life; no doubt he made too much of the trouble your
brother caused him."
"Yes; I think so now."
"Perhaps he half-consciously formed an idea that things would always go
tranquilly with him, and when it came without warning the shock of
Cyril's disappearance was too strong. And yet I firmly believe he's
mistaken in his fears."
Gertrude made a sign of agreement.
"Nothing I can say calms him. One can only wait."
"And that's always hard," Prescott said gently.
She roused him to strong compassion. She had, he thought, no great depth
of character, but her development had been checked by many restraints.
Her father had curbed each natural impulse, until the little originality
in her withered and died; she had grown up cold and colorless, with
narrow views, and petty, if quite blameless, aims. Prescott, however, was
wrong in crediting Jernyngham with too great a success. Gertrude's nature
had not been utterly repressed and stunted, and now, in time of stress,
it was expanding.
Romance had come late to her, but she was dimly conscious of it at last.
Her senses were stirring and she felt a half-guilty pleasure at seeing
the bronzed rancher's eyes bent on her tenderly. To think of him except
as her host for a few weeks was, of course, folly; but there was a
fascination in the gentleness he showed her. She was beginning to
understand and sympathize with Cyril's rash daring and contempt for
restraints. She felt tempted to follow her impulses; her frigid reserve
was melting.
"Will you have more tea?" she asked, shrinking back to safe ground.
"Thank you," he said, holding out the dainty cup.
"Hot water? It's rather strong."
"Before I had a housekeeper we made it black and drank it by the
kettleful."
"But the effect on your nerves!"
"Nerves?" he laughed. "We don't cultivate them in this country. Mine make
no trouble."
"You're to be envied," she said, and looked up sharply at a sound of
footsteps as her father came in.
His clothes were dusty and creased; the neatness which had characterized
him on his arrival had gone. His face had grown brown, but it was
haggard, hotly flushed, and beaded with perspiration; his lips were
tightly set, his eyes had an ominous glitter. Throwing down a riding
quirt he carried, he sat down; resting his arms on the table, in an
attitude of blank dejection.
"Nothing yet," he said listlessly. "It's hard to bear."
"There's a suggestion I want to make." Prescott spoke quietly. "The offer
of a reward here has led to nothing; send another round to the Alberta
and British Columbia papers, with a description of your son, saying
you'll pay a hundred dollars for trustworthy information about him. I
believe it will bring you good news."
Jernyngham turned to him in keen impatience.
"It would be useless--my son is dead! The police have proved that beyond
a doubt, and I cannot understand why you should persist in denying it!"
His eyes grew hard with sudden suspicion. "It looks as if you had some
motive."
"I'm afraid you're hardly just," Gertrude broke in. "Mr. Prescott only
wishes to lessen your anxiety, but he's convinced of what he says."
It was a rare thing for her to oppose him, but Jernyngham was too
preoccupied to be surprised at her boldness, and he made a gesture of
deprecation.
"You must forgive me, Mr. Prescott--my daughter's right. But to offer me
assurances that must prove false is rank cruelty. I have faced the worst;
I'm not strong enough to bear a second blow, which is what must follow if
I listen to you. As it is, the strain is merciless."
His voice and bearing showed it. Indeed, one could have imagined that it
would have been better had he yielded a little more, but his eyes
expressed a grim, vengeful determination. He was not the man to weaken,
he would hold out until he broke down; but his daughter and Prescott were
filled with fears for him.
"I'm sorry," said the rancher. "Has Curtis thought of anything new?"
"No," Jernyngham answered harshly. "The police can entertain only one
idea at a time; they can read the meaning of footprints and there their
ability ends. They have no power of organization; I can't force them to
make investigations on a proper scale, and I'm helpless until harvest's
over. Then, when men can be hired, I'll have every bluff and ravine in
the country searched. If I spend the rest of my life here, I'll find the
guilty man!"
He said nothing further, and there was a strained silence while he sat,
leaning forward limply, with bent head, and a thin hand clenched hard
upon the table. Rousing himself by and by, he took the cup of tea
Gertrude passed to him, and set it down without drinking. It made a sharp
clatter, but he left it setting near him as if he had forgotten it.
Unable to bear the sight of his distress, Prescott went quietly out, and
when he was leaving the house Gertrude joined him.
"Perhaps I should have stayed with him, but I was afraid to speak," she
said. "Besides, there was nothing to be said."
"This can't go on," Prescott declared. "It's too much for him. I can't
leave here until the harvest's over, and then the grain ought to be
hauled in, but I've thought of making a tour of inquiry along the new
railroad and round the Alberta ranches and the mines in British
Columbia."
Gertrude looked grateful.
"It would be a great relief to feel that something was being done. But--"
she added hesitatingly, "your time is valuable and there would be
expense. I have some means, Mr. Prescott, and though I dare not speak to
my father about it, you must draw on me."
"We'll talk about it later. I wish I could go now, but that's impossible,
and there's no use in suggesting that Mr. Jernyngham should send somebody
else. Besides, I believe I'd have the best chance of picking up the right
trail. You won't mind my saying that I'm very sorry for you?"
Her eyes grew soft and her whole expression gentle. It was an attractive
face Prescott looked into.
"I value your sympathy," she said softly. "Indeed, I can't tell you what
a comfort you have been. But you will undertake this search as soon as
possible, won't you?"
"Yes," Prescott replied firmly; "you can count on that. If I've made
things easier for you, I'm very glad."
Then he turned away and hurried back to the binder.
CHAPTER X
A NEW CLUE
It was a clear, cool morning and Prescott was busily engaged throwing
sheaves into his wagon. He had finished his harvest and, in accordance
with western custom, had immediately begun the thrashing. Part of the
great field was already stripped to a belt of tall stubble, though long
ranks of stooks still stretched across the rest, and dusty men were hard
at work among them. Wagons rolled through the crackling straw--going
slowly, piled high with rustling loads; returning light, jolting wildly,
as fast as the teams could trot, for the thrashers were paid by the
bushel and would brook no delay. In the background stood their big
machine, pouring out a cloud of smoke that stretched in a gray trail
across the prairie, and filling the air with its harsh clatter.
It was a scene of strenuous activity, filled with hurriedly moving
figures, but its coloring had lost something of its former vividness. The
blue of the sky was softer, the light less strong; the varying hues of
lemon and copper and ocher had become subdued; the shadows were no longer
darkly blue but a cool restful gray. The rushing winds that had swept the
wide plain all summer had come to rest; the air was sharp and still.
The last week or two, however, had brought no change to the inmates of
the homestead. Jernyngham still brooded over his loss and worried the
police, his daughter looked to her host for comfort, and Prescott did
what he could to cheer her. Gertrude, indeed, was sensible of a rapidly
growing confidence in him and of the abandonment of many long-held ideas.
The man was not of her station: he was a working farmer, his views at
first had jarred on her; and yet the attraction he had for her was
steadily increasing. She made a feeble fight against it. In England she
had stood on safe ground, hedged in by conventions, ruled by the opinions
of a narrow circle of friends. Now all was different; she had lost these
supports and restraints and she was helpless without them. Passion was
beginning to touch her and she mistook the rancher's gentleness and
sympathy.
When Prescott had loaded his wagon she joined him as he led his team
between the ranks of stooks, but while she walked by his side he thought
of another Englishwoman whom he had once brought home with the prairie
hay. He remembered how Muriel Hurst had nestled among the yielding grass,
with something delightful in every line of her figure. He recalled her
bright good-humor, the music of her laugh, the soft tones of her voice,
the hint of courage he had seen in her eyes; and there was pain in the
recollection. Gertrude Jernyngham was powerless to move him as Muriel had
done, but he was sorry for Cyril's sister and very considerate of her.
"We'll have the crop off the ground before long," he said. "Then I'll
start for Alberta, as I promised."
"You will be away some time?"
"I'm afraid so. It's a big province, though there are not a great many
settlements in it yet; and I may have to cross over into British
Columbia."
Gertrude looked down.
"It is very generous of you to go, but I shall miss you. I shall feel as
if I had lost my chief support."
"So far, I've done nothing but talk; and talk is cheap," he laughed.
"You have given me courage," she said with shy hesitation. "And sympathy
is worth a good deal."
He did not respond as she thought he might have done, and she continued:
"If my father had been less obstinate, you need not have gone; he could
have hired a professional inquiry agent. But you had better not say
anything about your object to him--it must be a secret between us."
"Yes," assented Prescott thoughtfully, "I guess that would be wiser. You
want to keep his mind at rest as far as you can. Of course, there's a big
chance that I may fail."
Gertrude turned to him with a smile.
"Oh, no! You are not one to fail!"
Prescott was slightly embarrassed. He had a feeling that he was being
gently led on toward a closer acquaintance with his companion. She was
dropping the reserve she had at first displayed and seemed to invite him
tacitly into her confidence. He admitted that this idea might be
incorrect, but it had troubled him once or twice before.
"I expect you'll be comfortable enough while I'm away," he said. "Mrs.
Svendsen's trustworthy, and everything will be quiet after the harvesters
have gone."
Gertrude did not answer, and they went on in silence to the noisy
separator. Perspiring men, stripped of their heavier garments, were
tossing the sheaves amid a cloud of dust; cleaned grain poured out into
open bags, and as each was filled two panting toilers flung it into a
wagon. Near-by stood a great and growing pile of bags, over which the
short straw would be spread a number of feet thick, to form a granary.
Gertrude joined her father, who was standing near the machine, moodily
looking on, and before Prescott had unloaded his wagon Curtis rode up
with Private Stanton.
"Nothing new at the muskeg, sir," he reported to Jernyngham rather
curtly, and walked his horse toward Prescott.
"We were passing," he told him, and indicated the pile of grain. "You're
not selling right away?"
"No; I'm not ready to haul the crop in to the elevators yet. I've one or
two more pressing things to do."
"Mayn't you miss a chance? Prices are pretty good."
Prescott was on his guard; he felt that Curtis suspected him.
"I don't know," he answered. "I guess they won't fall much."
"Your neighbors mean to sell, though it's quite likely that's to meet
their bills, and you always tried to get in on the first of the market
until this year. It must have cost you a pile to put in that big crop."
"It did."
"Then how have you got so prosperous since last fall?"
It was a pointed question, because everybody in the district knew that
Prescott had sold only a few head of cattle and a horse or two, while he
would shortly have his accounts to meet.
"It's a matter of management," he replied. "I've been working on a
different system this spring, and I find it pays." Then he looked
steadily at the corporal, "Besides, running Jernyngham's place along with
mine made it easier to cut expenses."
"It's a great crop. But we must be getting on."
He rode off and when they had left the stubble, Private Stanton looked at
him.
"His being able to hold his wheat; which he couldn't do last year, is a
pretty strong count against the man. You gave him his chance for
explaining and he made a mighty bad show. Looks as if he'd got some money
he couldn't account for since last fall."
"Not proved," returned Curtis. "There's something in what he said.
Anyway, he isn't afraid of us, since he's putting up his grain."
"I don't quite catch on."
Curtis smiled.
"You're young. A guilty man would have rushed his crop into the elevators
and had his money ready to light out with. If Prescott pulls out
suddenly, he'll have to leave his property behind."
"The thing's between him and Wandle," Stanton persisted.
"Looks like that. Anyway, as the Austrian's at the settlement, we'll have
a good look round his homestead. It's possible that we'll find
something."
"What made you think of searching the place again? Anything in the last
instructions you got from Regina? You didn't show them to me."
"That's so. It isn't a part of my duty to consult you, and you're a bit
of a hustler. However, this is what I heard--a land agent in Navarino
sent for the district sergeant; told him he'd run across a man from
Sebastian at the hotel and the fellow got talking about Jernyngham. It
was the first the land agent had heard of the matter; but he was struck
by the date on which Jernyngham disappeared, because he'd had a deal with
him three days later."
"That's mighty strange. If he's right, Jernyngham couldn't have been
killed."
"Don't hustle!" said Curtis. "The fellow showed the sergeant the sale
record, but he described Jernyngham as a big, rather stout man with light
hair."
"Wandle!" exclaimed Stanton. "Are you going to arrest him?"
"Not yet. We might get him sent up for fraud and forgery, but if he had
anything to do with knocking Jernyngham out, he'll be more likely to give
us a clue of some kind while he's at large."
They rode on and reaching Wandle's farm searched the house carefully,
replacing everything exactly as they found it. They discovered nothing of
importance, but as they went out Curtis glanced at the ash and refuse
heap.
"We might have thought of that earlier," he said. "I've heard of people
trying to burn up things it might be dangerous to leave about."
Setting to work with a fork and shovel, they presently unearthed a rusty
iron object which Stanton picked up.
"Looks like a big meat can," he remarked. "Kind of curious that Wandle
should double it over this way and flatten it down."
Curtis took it from him and examined it carefully.
"It isn't a meat can; top edges are turned over a wire--here's a bit
sticking out--and it's had a handle. There's a hinge in another place.
The thing has been a box--a cash-box, I guess--one of the rubbishy kind
they sell for about a dollar."
"But what would make a man smash up his cash-box?"
"I don't know; guess it doesn't apply. I could understand his wanting to
get rid of one that belonged to somebody else, after he'd cleaned it out.
Aren't you beginning to understand?"
"Sure," said Stanton eagerly. "The box was Jernyngham's--we'll find out
when he bought it at the hardware store. Then we'll get after Wandle."
"You hustle too much!" Curtis rebuked him, and then sat down with knitted
brows. "Now see here--in a general way, it's convictions we're out for;
you want to count on your verdict before you arrest a man. It comes to
this: he's tried first by us, and if he's to be let off, it saves trouble
if we decide the thing, instead of leaving it to the jury. They won't
tell you that at Regina, but, in practise, you'll find that a police
trooper is expected to use some judgment. Still, there are exceptions to
what I've said about holding back. In the interests of justice, one might
have to corral an innocent man."
"How's that going to serve the interests of justice?"
The corporal's eyes twinkled with dry amusement.
"For one thing, it might lead the fellow we were really after to think we
hadn't struck his trail. But that's not the point. How much ash would you
figure Wandle takes out of his stove each time he lights it?"
"About a bucketful, burning wood."
"Not quite, but there's a bucket yonder. See how many times you can fill
it with the stuff we shoveled off, while I take a smoke. Build up the
pile to look as if we hadn't disturbed it."
Stanton did as he was bidden, counting each bucketful he replaced, and
then Curtis sent him to clean out the stove and estimate the quantity of
ash before he put it back. Then he made a calculation.
"Allowing for some of the ash slipping down the pile and for our having
moved a little that was there before Wandle threw the cash-box in, it
fixes the time he did so pretty close to Jernyngham's disappearance," he
remarked. "Looks bad against the Austrian, doesn't it?"
"You have quite as much against Prescott."
"Yes," Curtis admitted regretfully; "that's the trouble. It isn't quite
so easy being a policeman as folks seem to think. Now we'll ride along
and call on the hardware man."
They mounted and soon afterward saw a buggy emerge from the short pines
on the crest of a distant rise, whereupon Curtis rode hard for a poplar
bluff, which he kept between himself and the vehicle.
"Looks like Wandle coming back," he said to Stanton, who had followed
him. "I can't see any reason he should know we've been prospecting round
his place."
Reaching the settlement they visited the hardware dealer, who remembered
having sold Jernyngham a small cheap cash-box about twelve months
earlier. On being shown the bent-up iron, he expressed his belief that it
was the article in question.
A day or two after the corporal's discovery, the mail-carrier left some
letters at the Prescott homestead, and when it was getting dusk Gertrude
strolled out on the prairie, thinking of one she had received. After a
while Prescott joined her and she greeted him with a smile.
"My team was looking a bit played out and the boys will be able to keep
the separator gang going as long as they can see," he said.
"Do you feel that you have to make excuses for stopping work, after
twelve hours of it?" Gertrude asked.
"Yes," he laughed; "I do feel something of the kind. There's so much to
do and the days are getting shorter fast."
He glanced at her with appreciation. She wore a thin, black dress made
after the latest London mode, which showed to advantage the graceful
lines of her tall figure; the Jernynghams, who seldom departed from an
established custom, changed their attire every evening. Gertrude had on
no hat, and the fading light shone into her face. It was finely cut but
cold, the features unusually good. She was a handsome woman, but she
lacked warmth and softness.
"I'm in a difficulty," she told him. "Perhaps you can help--you're a man
of many resources."
"I'll be glad to do what I can."
"We are expecting a visit from three old friends of ours who heard in
America of the trouble we are in and want to see us. What can we do with
them?"
"I haven't room," Prescott answered. "But let me think--Leslie has quite
a big house, and it's only three miles from here. Now that he will have
got rid of the harvesters, he might be willing to take your friends in.
He and his wife are pleasant people; but I think you met her."
"Yes. I knew you wouldn't fail us," Gertrude said gratefully. "But, after
all, I feel inclined to wish they were not coming."
There was an elusive something in her tone which did not escape
Prescott's notice.
"Why do you wish that?" he asked.
"Oh," she said, "it's difficult to explain, but we have got used to the
mode of life here: the few people we meet seem to understand our
feelings, and we have learned to trust them. Strangers would rather spoil
it all; in a sense, their visit would be an intrusion."
Prescott realized that this was complimentary to him. She had made it
clear that he was not a stranger, but one of the people she trusted. The
effect was to render him somewhat embarrassed, but Gertrude resumed:
"I think we owe you a good deal. I don't know what we should have done
had we fallen into less considerate hands."
"I'm yours to command," he replied; and they walked on in silence for a
while, Gertrude glancing at him unobtrusively now and then.
She did not believe her brother dead--Prescott had reassured her; and now
she felt strongly attracted by the rancher. She had thrown off the
restraints in which she had long acquiesced; she was driven by a passion
which was rapidly overpowering her.
"You don't suggest that the Leslies should take us all," she said.
"No," Prescott answered gravely; "I'd rather keep you and your father
here."
"Then you're no longer anxious to get rid of us?"
He colored.
"That's true. I begin to feel I'm one of the party. Then, you see,
Leslie's pretty talkative and agrees with Curtis. He might have a bad
effect on your father; he might even shake your confidence."
"Oh," she begged, "don't labor the explanation. You are one of the party
and our friend."
Prescott bowed.
"I'll try to make that good. I'm going off to look for your brother in a
few more days, but it will cost me something to leave the homestead now."
He had spoken the truth. Until lately the man had been bereft of all the
amenities of life, but he had now grown to appreciate the society of
cultured people; the task of cheering and encouraging his guests had
become familiar; he might even have been drawn to the beautiful woman he
had comforted had not his heart been filled with the image of Muriel.
"But after the summer's hard monotonous work, a change must be nice," she
suggested.
"Yes; in a way. The trouble is that I must leave my guests."
Gertrude's eyes grew soft as they rested on him.
"We shall miss you," she murmured. "But you must go and find out all you
can; I'm afraid the mystery and suspense are breaking my father down."
They walked on in silence for a while, and then Svendsen appeared near
the homestead, waving his arm.
"Looks as if I were wanted," Prescott remarked; "I believe there's a
wagon to be fixed. Will you excuse me? I'll ride over and have a talk
with Leslie in the morning."
CHAPTER XI
A REVELATION
The sun had just dipped, leaving a rim of flaring color on the edge of
the vast plain, when Prescott sat smoking on the stoop of the Leslie
homestead a week after his evening walk with Gertrude. Leslie and his
wife were simple people from Ontario, who had prospered in the last few
years. Their crops had escaped rust and hail and autumn frost, and as a
result of this, the rancher had replaced his rude frame dwelling with a
commodious house, built, with lower walls of brick and wood above, in a
somewhat ornate style copied from the small villas which are springing up
on the outskirts of the western towns.
Leslie, an elderly, brown-faced man, sat near Prescott; the Jernynghams,
who had driven over to welcome his friends, were inside, talking to Mrs.
Leslie.
"Guess you don't know much about the English people we're expecting?"
Leslie asked.
"No," said Prescott; "only that they're friends of the Jernynghams. I
don't think I've even heard their names yet."
"Mrs. Leslie knows," rejoined the farmer; "I forget it. I feel kind of
sorry now that she agreed to take them in, but you made a point of it,
and if the man's not so blamed stand-offish, I'll have somebody to talk
to."
"I wouldn't talk too much about Cyril Jernyngham."
Leslie looked hard at him.
"There's one point, Jack, where I can't agree with you--you're the only
man in this district who doesn't believe Jernyngham's dead. It strikes me
that you know more about the thing than you have told anybody yet."
"Let it go at that," said Prescott awkwardly, "All I could say would only
bring more trouble on his people, and they've had quite enough."
"Sure," agreed Leslie, raising his hand in warning. "Sh-h! They're coming
out."
The next moment Gertrude and her father joined the men, and after a few
words with them stood still, listening. A long bluff, through which the
trail from the settlement led, ran close up to the homestead, cutting
against the pale green glow of the sky. For a few minutes there was a
deep silence, intensified by the musical clash of cowbells in the
distance, and then a measured, drumming sound rose softly from behind the
trees.
"Guess that's your friends," Leslie said to Jernyngham. "Jim's made
pretty good time."
The beat of hoofs grew nearer until the listeners could hear the rattle
of wheels. Then a light, four-wheeled vehicle came lurching out of the
bluff and Jernyngham hurried down the steps. Prescott had entered the
house to tell Mrs. Leslie, and he came out as the driver pulled up his
team. The occupants of the wagon, which had run a little past the door,
had their backs to him, but seeing a girl about to alight he sprang
forward. Her head was turned away from him at first, but she glanced
round when he offered to assist her; and he forgot what the consequences
of the meeting must be as he looked into the eyes of Muriel Hurst. He was
conscious of an overwhelming delight, which showed itself in his shining
eyes and the warm color that suddenly flushed his face; Gertrude
Jernyngham, standing beside him, read what was in his heart.
The effect on Muriel was as marked. He had seized her hand and as she was
standing precariously poised, ready to descend, he swung her down. Then
she recoiled from him, startled, but with strong relief in her
expression.
"Cyril!" she cried in a strained voice. "Why didn't you write and tell us
that it was all a mistake? We heard that you were dead!"
Then Prescott remembered and his heart sank, but he strove to gather his
courage, for there was a crisis to be faced. He stood silent, with one
hand clenched tight, while Gertrude watched him with hard, unwavering
eyes. Jernyngham, however, had heard Muriel's startled exclamation and
hurried toward her.
"What's this?" he asked harshly. "You called my son's name!"
The girl looked at Prescott; troubled and surprised by the confused
emotions his face betrayed. There was obviously something wrong, but she
could not imagine what it was.
"Yes," she said, "I called him Cyril. Why shouldn't I?"
Colston and his wife joined the group, while the driver looked on from
the wagon and the Leslies from the stoop. Prescott and the girl stood a
little distance apart and Muriel was sensible of a nervous shiver. When
Prescott had first held up his hand to her, she had seen his keen
pleasure and her heart had responded to it; now, however, she was filled
with dismay.
Jernyngham answered her in curt, stern tones:
"There's one very good reason--this is not my son!"
"Not Cyril!" Colston broke in. "But he made us believe he was; he's the
man we stayed with!" He made a puzzled gesture. "I can't understand the
thing."
"Nor I," replied Jernyngham. "Is this the man you wrote to us about?"
"Of course!" said Colston stupidly. "I thought he was Cyril; so did we
all. We had no cause to doubt it."
Jernyngham turned in fury to the Leslies.
"Who is the fellow?" he demanded.
Prescott braced himself.
"I'll answer that--Jack Prescott. Mr. Colston stayed at my homestead."
"And you personated my son? I suppose you had some motive for doing so
and must see that we are entitled to an explanation?"
"Yes," Prescott returned quietly. "This isn't the place to make it.
Hadn't you better take your friends in?"
They entered the house, which was getting dark, and while the hired man
carried in the baggage Leslie lighted a lamp in his sitting-room. It was
spacious, roughly paneled in cedar, with an uncovered floor. There were a
few chairs scattered about and a plain pine table. Jernyngham sat by the
table and the others found seats here and there, except Prescott, who
stood quietly opposite the old man. At a curt sign from Jernyngham,
Leslie and his wife left the room.
"Mr. Prescott," Jernyngham began, "you have deceived my friends here and
I think they should remain to hear what you have to say, but I will
dismiss them if you prefer it. You are responsible to me and I must ask
for a full account of your conduct."
Prescott glanced round the room, which reminded him of a court. Gertrude
Jernyngham's eyes were fixed on him, and there was a hardness that hinted
at cruelty in them; she looked very dignified and cold. Mrs. Colston he
could not see, but her husband seemed disturbed and uneasy. Muriel leaned
forward in her chair, with wonder, apprehension, and pity curiously
mingled in her expression. All of them were very still, the silence was
disconcerting, but Prescott roused himself to make what defense he could.
"I passed for Cyril Jernyngham at his request," he said.
"An extraordinary statement!" Jernyngham remarked with ironical
incredulity. "May one ask if he gave any reasons for wishing you to do
so?"
Prescott hesitated, which counted against him.
"Well," he said, "Cyril had got hurt in a row at the settlement a few
hours before Mr. Colston's arrival. His head was badly cut; he thought it
might make a bad impression."
"That doesn't sound very convincing. Had he no better reason?"
The rancher paused to think. He would not explain that his friend's mode
of life would not have borne a critical examination, but he had a duty to
himself and something must be urged.
"I think he meant to hide the fact that he was married. He did not wish
your friends to meet his wife."
Colston started and it was obvious that the others were keenly
interested, but Jernyngham's face grew darker and marked by signs of
pain, for he had learned a little about Ellice. He was struggling with an
overwhelming humiliation.
"We'll let that pass," he said. "It's a matter that cannot be discussed.
Was Mr. Colston's visit the only time you personated my son?"
"Certainly! Nothing would induce me to play the part again."
"Then you will be surprised to hear that shortly after Cyril's
disappearance a man sold some land of his at a town farther along the
line?"
"I am surprised, but I believe it must have been Cyril."
"Then his handwriting must have totally changed, which I believe is a
very unusual thing," Jernyngham rejoined sarcastically. "I have been
shown some documents which he is supposed to have filled in."
Prescott began to realize that appearances were very strongly against
him. He had admitted having once impersonated his friend and it would be
difficult to convince those who had heard his confession that he had not
done so again, when there was a strong motive for it in the price of the
land.
"Well," he said firmly; "if the handwriting wasn't Cyril's, I can't tell
whose it was; it certainly wasn't mine. There's one thing I'm convinced
of--your son is not dead."
Jernyngham looked at him; with the veins on his forehead swollen and his
face tense with anger, but he held himself in hand.
"You have said so often. I did not believe you; I do not believe you now;
but your object in making the statement is easy to understand. I've no
doubt you realize that you lie open to a very ugly suspicion."
"No!" a strained voice broke in. "That is not just!"
Looking up, Prescott saw that it was Muriel who had spoken. Her eyes were
bright with indignation and her face was hot, but none of the others
showed him any sympathy. Colston's face was grave and troubled, his
wife's expressionless; Gertrude Jernyngham looked more determined and
more merciless than her father. She sat very still, coldly watching him.
"Thank you," he said to Muriel. "It's comforting to find one person who
does not think the worst of me."
"Silence, sir!" Jernyngham exclaimed with the air of a judge rebuking a
prisoner of whose guilt he is convinced. "You cannot be permitted to
speak to this lady."
"I think that is a point for Mrs. Colston to decide, but we'll let it
drop. Out of consideration for you, I've answered your questions; but you
have gone too far, and this must end." Prescott's expression grew as
stern as the old man's and he looked about with pride. "I tell you it
must stop! What right have you to fling these infamous hints at me?"
Jernyngham broke into a harsh laugh.
"The part of an innocent man is too much for you to play; we won't force
you into it. It will be a favor if you will have our baggage sent across
here; needless to say, neither my daughter nor I can re-enter your
house." Then his self-control deserted him and he broke out in hot fury:
"I firmly believe you are the man who killed my son, and you shall not
escape!"
"I think," said Colston quietly, "that is going too far."
Making no answer, Prescott left them; and he was harnessing his horse
outside when, somewhat to his astonishment, Muriel came toward him. A
half-moon hung low above the bluff and the silvery light shone into her
face, showing her warmth of color and the sparkle in her eyes. He thought
she looked wonderfully attractive and his heart throbbed faster, but he
knew he must hold himself in hand.
"Hadn't you better go back?" he asked. "You have heard what your friends
think of me."
"What does that matter?" she exclaimed with feeling. "I'm very angry with
them. I can't let you go without saying that I know you could not have
done what you have been wickedly accused of."
"I'm glad. Thank you. It's a big relief to feel that you believe in me.
So long as I have that assurance nothing else counts."
"Harry Colston's not convinced; I believe he's trying to keep an open
mind."
"Is that so?" said Prescott. "I don't expect much from him. He's the kind
of man who's guided by appearances and seldom does anything out of the
common."
Muriel disregarded this.
"But you were very foolish in deceiving us. I can't understand yet why
you did so."
"I can only tell you that it was for Cyril's sake."
"Oh," she cried, "it could not have been because of any benefit that you
would get! That would never have tempted you."
He read unshaken confidence in her eyes and it cost him a stern effort to
refrain from reckless speech. Muriel was beautiful, but that was not all:
she was generous and fearless, a loyal friend and a staunch partizan.
"Well," Prescott confessed, "when I explained, I was more afraid of you
than of Jernyngham. I wanted to keep your good opinion, and I wondered
whether you had only given it to me because you thought I was Cyril
Jernyngham. From your friends' point of view Jack Prescott is a very
different kind of person."
Muriel blushed.
"Is it unpardonable that I was angry when I first found out the mistake?
Try to imagine with what ideas I have been brought up. But the feeling
left me when I saw how merciless Jernyngham was; his hard words turned it
into sympathy."
"That is something to be thankful for, though it doesn't content me. I
think you would be sorry for any one, even an enemy, who was in trouble
and getting hurt."
She grasped his meaning and looked at him steadily with an air of pride.
"Then must I tell you that I have as much faith in Jack Prescott as I had
in the man whom I supposed to be Cyril Jernyngham? But you must justify
my confidence. You have been wrongly and cruelly accused; don't you see
the duty that lies on you?"
"Yes," Prescott answered gravely; "I have to clear myself. If there were
no other reason than the one you have given, it would have to be done.
It's going to be a tough proposition, but I'll get about it very soon."
"You know that I wish you all success," she told him softly.
Then she held out her hand and turned away. When she had gone Prescott
went on with his work and after buckling the last strap he found that he
had forgotten a parcel Mrs. Leslie had asked him to deliver. Hurrying
back to the house for it, he met Gertrude Jernyngham in the hall and she
stopped where the light fell on her, instead of avoiding him as he had
expected. There was suspicion in her eyes.
"I see you agree with your father," he said boldly.
"Yes," she replied in a scornful tone. "You can pose rather cleverly--you
tricked me into trusting you, but your ability is limited, after all.
When the strain comes, you break down. Could anything have been feebler
than the defense you made?"
"It was pretty lame, but every word was true."
"Oh," she cried with disgust and impatience, "one wouldn't expect you to
say it was false! You don't seem to have anything more convincing to
add."
"I'm going to add nothing. It isn't very long since you were willing to
take my word."
"I'm afraid I was easily deceived," Gertrude said bitterly. "I didn't
know you had twice passed yourself off as my brother, and you can't
complain if we see an obvious motive for your doing so the second time."
"You mean that I stole the price of Cyril's land?" Prescott asked
sternly.
"Yes," she said, watching him with cruel eyes. "That, however, is not the
worst." She struggled with rising passion before she resumed: "I
believe----"
Prescott raised his hand commandingly.
"Stop! I'm going away to find your brother."
"One can understand your going away!" she flung back at him as she passed
on down the hall.
Prescott drove home at a reckless pace. Facing the situation boldly, he
recognized that the outlook was very dark.
CHAPTER XII
PRESCOTT'S FLIGHT
Two days after the arrival of the Colstons, Gertrude Jernyngham walked
down the trail from the Leslie homestead in a very bitter mood. During
the last few weeks her cold nature had kindled into sudden warmth; love
had most unexpectedly crept into her heart. At first she had struggled
against and been ashamed of it, for its object was a man beneath her in
rank and of widely different mode of thought; but by degrees the judgment
she had hitherto exercised had given place to passion. After the narrow,
conventional life she had led, there was a strange exhilaration and
excitement in yielding to her impulses; the virility of Prescott's
character and his physical perfection stirred her. She desired him and
had boldly used such charms as she possessed in his subjugation. Misled
by his gentleness, she imagined him responsive, and then Muriel had
appeared on the scene and the truth was plain to her when she saw his
face light up at sight of the girl. She had read warm love in his eager
glance.
Now Gertrude was crushed and humbled. She had cheapened herself, as she
thought of it, to this rancher, only to find that he preferred another.
Her punishment was severe, but she felt that it was deserved, and her
ripening passion had turned to something very much like hate. Whether he
had really had any hand in her brother's death was a point she would not
calmly reason out, though she had a half-conscious feeling that he could
not be charged with this. She wanted to think him base: to believe in his
guilt would be an excuse for making him suffer.
While she walked, she cast quick glances across the waste of grass,
looking for a mounted figure that did not appear, until at last she
turned with a start at the sound of footsteps as Muriel came up.
"I saw you alone and thought I would join you," Muriel said.
"It's a relief to be by oneself now and then," Gertrude answered with
curt ungraciousness.
"One can understand that. I tried to give Harry a hint that our visit
might be an intrusion, when he talked of joining your father; but he
thought it would be some comfort for you to have your friends about you."
"He was some time in putting his idea into practise."
"We started as soon as we heard of your trouble," said Muriel. "We were
in Mexico then, and as we had moved about a good deal there was some
delay in our letters. Has your father decided to stay with the Leslies?"
"Yes, for a while. It was, of course, impossible for us to remain with
Mr. Prescott."
"Why could you not?" Muriel asked with sparkling eyes.
"Isn't it obvious, after what you heard the man admit?"
Muriel stopped, the color creeping into her face, which was filled with
anger.
"It's impossible that Mr. Prescott could have had any connection with
Cyril's disappearance. It's wicked and cruel to suspect him!"
"You seem strangely convinced of his innocence," Gertrude retorted with a
somber glance at her. "We shall see by and by whether you or my father is
right."
They walked on slowly, and shortly afterward two mounted figures appeared
on the plain. Gertrude watched them draw near, and then turned to her
companion.
"The police; we have been expecting them," she said. "My father sent a
message to the corporal after Prescott had gone."
"Then he will be deeply ashamed of his harshness before long," Muriel
declared as she abruptly moved away.
Gertrude let her go with a cruel smile. She thought she knew how matters
stood, and if the girl were suffering, she had no pity for her. Then she
waited until the police trotted by, and afterward walked slowly toward
the house. On reaching it, she met Curtis coming out and he asked for a
word with her.
"I understand you were the last person to see Prescott when he left this
place the other night," he said.
Gertrude admitted it, watching the man. He looked disturbed, as if he did
not know what to think. Private Stanton was sitting in his saddle with an
expressionless face a few yards away, but she imagined it was intended
that he should hear her answers.
"Well," Curtis resumed, "I have to ask what he said to you; anyway, so
far as it bears on the business we have in hand. You know why I was sent
for?"
Gertrude hesitated. She was very angry with Prescott, and there was a
statement he had made which would prove damaging to him if she repeated
part of it without the rest. She shrank from this course, but her rancor
against the man suddenly grew too strong for her.
"I suppose I must answer that?"
"It's your duty."
"Then," she said in a strained voice, "Mr. Prescott told me he was going
away."
"Going away!" Curtis looked astonished. "I guess you realize that this is
a serious matter. Did he mention when?"
"I understood it would be very soon." Gertrude looked at the man
haughtily. "That is all I have to tell."
She went into the house, feeling that she had said enough, and Curtis
motioned to his companion and rode away. They had gone some distance when
Stanton turned to his superior.
"Pretty significant. What are you going to do about it?" he asked.
"I'll have to apply for a warrant."
"You certainly will."
"Well," Curtis went on, "this thing isn't quite so simple as it seems. To
begin with, it's my idea that Miss Jernyngham hasn't told us all she
knows; you want to remember that Prescott's a good-looking fellow with a
taking manner. I can see complications, though I can't get the right
drift of them."
"Guess the matter will be worse mussed up if Prescott lights out. Now
that Bardsley's gone down the line, you can't get your warrant for a day
or two."
"That's so," Curtis agreed. "I'll make for the settlement and wire
Bardsley and our bosses at Regina; you'll ride on and keep Prescott in
sight--though it would be better if you didn't let him know you were
watching him. When he clears, take the trail behind him and send back
word to Sebastian. Soon as I get the warrant or instructions, I'll come
after you."
They separated and some time later Stanton took up his station in a bluff
which commanded a view of the Prescott homestead. Lying hidden with his
horse, he saw the rancher drive up and disappear within the house.
Prescott had been very busy during the past two days and had found
strenuous application something of a relief. He recognized that suspicion
was centering on him and that he might expect a visit from the police,
but the only way of proving his innocence that he could see was to
produce his supposed victim. He foresaw that it might take a long while
to find the man, and he must make preparations for a lengthy absence. The
risk he ran in remaining until he had completed them was grave, but there
was a vein of dogged persistency in him and he would not go before he was
ready.
He had, however, other matters to think of. Miss Jernyngham had turned
against him; after the confidence she had expressed, he could not
understand why she had done so. Muriel Hurst, however, still believed in
him, which was a comforting thought, though he would not permit himself
to dwell on it. He loved the girl, but it seemed impossible that she
should marry him. There was so much against this: the mode of life to
which she had been accustomed, his obscure position, the prejudices of
her relations. He blamed himself for not struggling more determinedly
against the charm she had exerted on him; but it was too late to regret
this now. He must bear his trouble and try to think of her as seldom as
possible, which would be the easier, inasmuch as the work that waited him
would demand his close attention. As soon as it grew dark that evening,
he must set off on his search for Cyril Jernyngham.
Dusk was falling when he rode away from the homestead with a couple of
blankets and provisions for a few days strapped to his saddle. Though he
could trust Svendsen to look after things in his absence, he was anxious
and dejected, and it was with keen regret that he cast a last glance
across the sweep of shadowy stubble toward the lighted windows of the
house. All he saw belonged to him; he had by patient labor in frost and
scorching sun built up the farm, and he was conscious of a strong love
for it. It was hard to go away, an outcast, branded with black suspicion,
leaving the place in another's charge; but there was no remedy.
The sky was faintly clouded, the moon, which was near its setting,
obscured; the prairie ran back, dim and blurred; the air was keen and
still. Prescott thought he heard a soft beat of hoofs behind him. He
could, however, see nobody, and he rode on faster, heading for the house
of a neighbor with whom he had some business, near the trail to the
settlement. After a while he pulled up, and listening carefully heard the
sound again. It looked as if he were being followed and he thought that
if the police were on his trail, they would expect him to make for the
American frontier, and to do that he must pass through or near Sebastian.
If they believed this was his object, it might save him trouble, for he
meant to ride north in search of Jernyngham after calling at the farm.
Checking his horse, he rode on without haste until it became obvious that
the man behind was drawing up, then he set off at a gallop. Behind the
farm he meant to visit lay a belt of broken ground, marked by scrub and
scattered bluffs, where it should not be difficult to evade his pursuer.
The staccato thud of the gallop would ring far through the still, night
air, but this was of no consequence; he was some distance ahead and his
horse was fresh and powerful. In a few minutes he believed that he was
gaining and when he rode into sight of the little wooden house, which
showed up black against the sky with one dim light in it, he was seized
by a new idea. A horse stood outside the door, and he supposed the
rancher had just returned. The man was a friend of Prescott's and
believed in his innocence.
"Larry," he cried as he rode up, and added when a shadowy figure came
out: "You can send along your teams and do that breaking we were speaking
of. Svendsen will pay you when you're through with it. I'm off to the
north."
"Ah!" exclaimed the other sharply. "I guess I know what you're after. It
strikes me you should have gone before."
He paused with a lifted hand as he heard the drumming of hoofs, and
Prescott laughed.
"That's so. I believe you'll have a police trooper here in the next few
minutes. Your horse is still saddled?"
"Yes; I've just come back from Gillom's."
"Then get up and ride for the settlement. Mail an order for some harness
or anything useful to Regina by the night train, when you get there; you
can let Svendsen have the bill. You had better go pretty fast and keep
ahead of the trooper as long as you can. I guess you understand."
"Sure," grinned the other, and getting into the saddle, rode away at a
smart trot, while Prescott dismounted and led his horse quietly toward
the nearest bluff.
On reachin
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