Title: The Girl from Keller's
Author: Bindloss, Harold, 1866-1945
Language: English
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THE GIRL FROM KELLER'S


By Harold Bindloss



ORIGINAL PREPARER'S NOTE

This text was prepared from an edition, published by Frederick A. Stokes
Company, New York, 1917. It was published in England under the title
"Sadie's Conquest."



THE GIRL FROM KELLER'S



CHAPTER I

THE PORTRAIT

It was getting dark when Festing stopped at the edge of a ravine on the
Saskatchewan prairie. The trail that led up through the leafless
birches was steep, and he had walked fast since he left his work at
the half-finished railroad bridge. Besides, he felt thoughtful, for
something had happened during the visit of a Montreal superintendent
engineer that had given him a hint. It was not exactly disturbing,
because Festing had, to some extent, foreseen the line the
superintendent would take; but a post to which he thought he had a claim
had been offered to somebody else. The post was not remarkably
well paid, but since he was passed over now, he would, no doubt, be
disappointed when he applied for the next, and it was significant that
as he stood at the top of the ravine he first looked back and then
ahead.

In the distance, a dull red glow marked the bridge, where the glare of
the throbbing blast-lamps flickered across a muddy river, swollen by
melting snow. He heard the ring of the riveters' hammers and the clang
of flung-down rails. The whistle of a gravel train came faintly across
the grass, and he knew that for a long distance gangs of men were
smoothing the roughly graded track.

In front, everything was quiet. The pale-green sky was streaked along
the horizon by a band of smoky red, and the gray prairie rolled into the
foreground, checkered by clumps of birches and patches of melting snow.
In one place, the figures of a man and horses moved slowly across the
fading light; but except for this, the wide landscape was without life
and desolate. Festing, however, knew it would not long remain a silent
waste. A change was coming with the railroad; in a few years, the
wilderness would be covered with wheat; and noisy gasoline tractors
would displace the plowman's teams. Moreover, a change was coming to
him; he felt that he had reached the trail fork and now must choose his
path.

He was thirty years of age and a railroad builder, though he hardly
thought he had much talent for his profession. Hard work and stubborn
perseverance had carried him on up to the present, but it looked as
if he could not go much farther. It was eight years since he began by
joining a shovel gang, and he felt the lack of scientific training. He
might continue to fill subordinate posts, but the men who came to the
front had been taught by famous engineers and held certificates.

Yet Festing was ambitious and had abilities that sprang rather from
character than technical knowledge, and now wondered whether he should
leave the railroad and join the breakers of virgin soil. He knew
something about prairie farming and believed that success was largely a
matter of temperament. One must be able to hold on if one meant to win.
Then he dismissed the matter for a time, and set off again with a firm
and vigorous tread.

Spring had come suddenly, as it does on the high Saskatchewan plains,
and he was conscious of a strange, bracing but vaguely disturbing
quality in the keen air. One felt moved to adventure and a longing for
something new. Men with brain and muscle were needed in the wide, silent
land that would soon waken to busy life; but one must not give way to
romantic impulses. Stern experience had taught Festing caution, his
views were utilitarian, and he distrusted sentiment. Still, looking back
on years of strenuous effort that aimed at practical objects, he felt
that there was something he had missed. One must work to live, but
perhaps life had more to offer than the money one earned by toil.

The red glow on the horizon faded and an unbroken arch of dusky blue
stretched above the plain. He passed a poplar bluff where the dead
branches cut against the sky. The undergrowth had withered down and
the wood was very quiet, with the snow-bleached grass growing about its
edge, but he seemed to feel the pulse of returning life. The damp sod
that the frost had lately left had a different smell. Then a faint
measured throbbing came out of the distance, and he knew the beat of
wings before a harsh, clanging call fell from the sky.

He stopped and watched a crescent of small dark bodies plane down on
outstretched wings. The black geese were breaking their long journey
to the marshes by the Arctic Sea; they would rest for a few days in the
prairie sloos and then push on again. Their harsh clamor had a note
of unrest and rang through the dark like a trumpet call, stirring the
blood. The brant and bernicle beat their way North against the roaring
winds, and man with a different instinct pressed on towards the West.

It was a rich land that rolled back before him towards the setting sun.
Birch and poplar bluffs broke the wide expanse; there was good water in
the winding creeks, a black soil that the wheat plant loved lay beneath
the sod, and the hollows held shallow lakes that seldom quite dried up.
Soon the land would be covered with grain; already there were scattered
patches on which the small homesteaders labored to free themselves from
debt. For the most part, their means and tools were inadequate, the
haul to the elevators was long, and many would fall an easy prey to the
mortgage robber. But things would soon be different; the railroad had
come. For all that, Festing resolved that he would not be rash. His pay
was good in the meantime, and he would wait.

By and by a cluster of buildings rose out of the grass. A light or two
twinkled; a frame house, a sod stable, and straw-covered wheat bins that
looked like huge beehives grew into shape. The homestead was good, as
homesteads in the back townships went, but Festing knew the land was
badly worked. Charnock had begun well, with money in the bank, but luck
had been against him and he had got slack. Indeed this was Charnock's
trouble; when a job got difficult, he did not stay with it.

Festing crossed the fall back-set, where the loam from the frost-split
clods stuck to his boots, passed the sod stable, noting that one end was
falling down, and was met on the veranda by Charnock's dogs. They sprang
upon him with welcoming barks, and pushing through them, he entered
the untidy living-room. Charnock sat at a table strewn with papers that
looked like bills, and there was a smear of ink on his chin.

"Hallo!" he said. "Sit down and take a smoke while I get through with
these."

Festing pulled a chair into his favorite corner by the stove and looked
about when he had lighted his pipe. The room was comfortless and bare,
with cracked, board walls, from which beads of resin exuded. A moose
head hung above a rack of expensive English guns, a piano stood in
a corner, and lumps of the _gumbo_ soil that lay about the floor had
gathered among its legs. Greasy supper plates occupied the end of the
table, and the boards round the stove were blackened by the distillate
that dripped from the joint where the pipe went through the ceiling.
These things were significant, particularly the last, since one need not
burn green wood, which had caused the tarry stain, and the joint could
have been made tight.

Then Festing glanced at Charnock. The latter was a handsome man of about
Festing's age. He had a high color and an easy smile, but he had, so
to speak, degenerated since he came to Canada. Festing remembered
his keenness and careless good-humor when he began to farm, but
disappointment had blunted the first, though his carelessness remained.
He had been fastidious, but one now got a hint of a coarse streak and
there was something about his face that indicated dissipation. Yet
Festing admitted that he had charm.

"You don't look happy," he remarked.

"I don't feel particularly happy," Charnock replied. "In fact, the
reckoning I've just made looks very like a notice to quit." He threw
Festing a paper and swept the others into a drawer. "You might examine
the calculations and see if they're right. I'm not fond of figures."

"That was obvious long since. However, if you'll keep quiet for a few
minutes----"

Festing studied the paper, which contained a rough statement of
Charnock's affairs. The balance was against him, but Festing thought
it might be wiped off, or at least pulled down, by economy and
well-directed effort. The trouble was that Charnock disliked economy,
and of late had declined to make a fight. Festing doubted if he could be
roused, but meant to try.

"I see an error of a hundred dollars, but that doesn't make much
difference. Things look pretty bad, but I imagine they could be
straightened out."

"How long would it take you to put them straight?"

"Three years," said Festing, when he had made a rough calculation. "That
is, if I got moderately good crops, but I'd cut out drinks, the pool
game, and some other extravagances. You want to keep away from the
settlement."

"You'd cut out all that makes life bearable," Charnock replied, and
added while his face went hard: "Besides, three years is too long."

Festing thought he understood. The portrait of an English girl hung on
the wall behind the stove, and Charnock had already been some time in
Canada.

"Anyhow," the latter resumed, "you take much for granted if you count
upon a moderately good crop; I haven't got one yet. We're told this is
a great country for the small farmer, and perhaps it is, so long as he
escapes a dry June, summer hail, rust, and autumn frost. As a matter of
fact, I've suffered from the lot!"

"So have others, but they're making good."

"At a price! They sweat, when it's light long enough, sixteen hours a
day, deny themselves everything a man can go without, and when the grain
is sold the storekeeper or implement dealer takes all they get. When the
fellow's sure of their honesty he carried them on, for the sake of the
interest, until, if they're unusually lucky, a bonanza crop helps them
to wipe off the debt. But do you imagine any slave in the old days ever
worked so hard?"

Festing knitted his brows. He felt that Charnock must be answered, and
he was not a philosopher.

"Canada's a pretty hard country, and the man without much capital who
undertakes to break new soil must have nerve. But he has a chance of
making good, and a few years of self-denial do a man no harm. In fact, I
expect he's better for it afterwards. A fool can take life easily and do
himself well while his dollars last."

Charnock smiled sourly. "I've heard something of this kind before!
You're a Spartan; but suppose we admit that a man might stand the
strain, what about a woman?"

"That complicates the thing. I suppose you mean an Englishwoman?"

"I do. An Englishwoman of the kind you used to know at home, for
example. Could she live on rancid pork, molasses, and damaged flour? You
know the stuff the storekeepers supply their debtors. Would you expect
a delicately brought-up girl to cook for you, and mend and wash your
clothes, besides making hers? To struggle with chores that never end,
and be content, for months, with your society?"

Festing pondered. Life on a small prairie farm was certainly hard for
a woman; for a man it was bracing, although it needed pluck and
resolution. Festing had both qualities, perhaps in an unusual degree,
and his point of view was essentially practical. He had grappled with so
many difficulties that he regarded them as problems to be solved and
not troubles to complain about. He believed that what was necessary or
desirable must be done, no matter how hard it was. One considered only
the best way of removing an obstacle, not the effort of mind and body
it cost. Still, he could not explain this to Charnock; he was not a
moralizer or clever at argument.

Then half-consciously he fixed his eyes on the portrait which he had
often studied when the talk flagged. The girl was young, but there was
something in the poise of her head that have her an air of distinction.
Festing did not know if distinction was quite what he meant, but could
not think of a better term. She looked at one with steady eyes; her gaze
was frank and fearless, as if she had confidence in herself. Yet it
was not an aggressive confidence, but rather a calm that sprang from
pride--the right kind of pride. In a way, he knew nothing about her, but
he was sure she would disdain anything that was shabby and mean. He was
not a judge of beauty, but thought the arch of her brows and the lines
of nose and mouth were good. She was pretty, but in admitting this one
did not go far enough. The pleasure he got from studying her picture was
his only romantic weakness, and he could indulge it safely because if he
ever saw her it would be when she had married his friend.

The curious thing was that she had promised to marry Charnock. Bob was a
good sort, but he was not on this girl's level, and if she raised him to
it, would probably feel uncomfortable there. He was slack and took the
easiest way, while a hint of coarseness had recently got more marked.
Festing was not fastidious, but he lived with clear-eyed, wiry men who
could do all that one could expect from flesh and blood. They quarreled
about their wages and sometimes struck a domineering boss, but they did
their work, in spite of scorching heat and biting frost. Raging floods,
snowslides, and rocks that rolled down the mountain side and smashed
the track never daunted them. Their character had something of the clean
hardness of finely tempered steel. But Charnock was different.

"So you think of quitting?" Festing said at length.

"I'm forced to quit; I'm in too deep to get straight. It's possible that
the man I owe most money might give me time, but it would only mean that
I'd slave for another year or two and come down after all. I don't
see why I should sweat and deny myself for somebody else's benefit,
particularly as I'm not fond of doing so for my own."

"Then you have made a plan?"

Charnock laughed. "I'd a notion of applying for a railroad job. The
pay's pretty good, and I daresay you could put me on the track."

"I could. The trouble is that somebody else might afterwards put you
off. However, if you'd like to try--"

"I'll wait a bit. I don't know that it's prudent to plunge into things."

"It is, if you plunge in and stop in until you struggle out with what
you want. Come up to the track and ask for me when you decide to let the
farm go."

"On the whole, I think not," said Charnock, whose look got somewhat
strained. "You see, I expect an offer of another post though nothing's
been fixed yet. We'll let the matter drop in the meantime. Are you going
to the Long Lake picnic?"

Festing looked at him with surprise. "Certainly not! Did you ever know
me leave my job to go to a picnic?"

"It might be better if you did! My opinion is you think too much about
your job."

"You think too little about yours," Festing rejoined. "Anyhow, what
amusement do you think I'd get from lounging round Long Lake all day?"

"The ducks ought to be plentiful and I'd lend you a gun. In fact, I'll
lend you my second team, if you'll drive the Marvin girls over."

"No, thanks," said Festing firmly. "Somebody left Flora Marvin on my
hands at the supper, and I imagine she got very tired. She certainly
looked tired; the girls about the settlement don't hide their feelings.
But who's going with you, since you want the other team?"

"I promised to take Sadie Keller."

"Sadie Keller?" Festing exclaimed and paused, rather awkwardly. "Well,
of course, I don't see why you shouldn't take her, if she wants to go."

Charnock looked at him with amusement. "As she's the chief organizer
of the picnic, Sadie does want to go. For that matter, it was her
suggestion that I should bring you."

"I won't be there; for one thing, I'm too busy," Festing declared, and
soon afterwards got up. "It's time I started back to camp."

Leaving the homestead, he walked thoughtfully across the plain. Charnock
had his faults, but he was his friend and was now in trouble. However,
as he had not the pluck to face his difficulties, Festing did not see
how he could help. Then he did not like Bob's taking Miss Keller to the
picnic, because he had met and thought her dangerous. It was not that
she had tried to flirt with him, although she had done so; he felt that
if he had played up, it might have been difficult afterwards to let the
matter drop. Sadie was not a silly coquette. She had a calculating bent,
ambition, and a resolute character. She would not flirt with anybody who
was, so to speak, not worth powder and shot.

Festing did not know how Miss Keller rated his value, but he was
satisfied to remain a bachelor, and had perhaps allowed her to
understand this, because she had since treated him with cold politeness.
Now it looked as if she had thrown Bob some favor, which was ominous,
because Sadie had generally an object. Of course, if Bob were free and
content to marry a girl from the settlement, Sadie would not be a bad
choice. She certainly had some virtues. But Bob was not free, and it was
unthinkable that a man who had won the love of the girl whose portrait
Festing knew should be satisfied with another of Sadie's type.

Then Festing pulled himself up. He could not warn Bob to be cautious,
or interfere with the girl's plans, supposing that she had made some.
Besides, it was Charnock's affair, not his. By and by he dismissed the
matter and thought about a troublesome job that must be undertaken in
the morning.



CHAPTER II

THE PICNIC

The picnic at Long Lake was an annual function, held as soon as the
weather got warm enough, to celebrate the return of spring. Winter is
long and tedious on the high Western plains, where the frost is often
Arctic and little work can be done, and after sitting by the red-hot
stove through the dark, cold months, the inhabitants of the scattered
homesteads come out with joyful hearts to greet the sunshine. There is,
however, no slow transition. Rushing winds from the North-west sweep
the sky, the snow vanishes, and after a week or two, during which the
prairie trails are impassable, the bleached grass dries and green blades
and flowers spring from the steaming sod.

Moreover, the country round Long Lake has some beauty. To the east,
it runs back, bare and level, with scarcely a tree to break the vast
expanse; but to the west low undulations rise to the edge of the next
tableland. Sandhills mark the summits, but the slopes are checkered with
birches and poplars, and creeks of clear water flow through the hollows
in the shadow of thick bluffs. There are many ponds, and here and there
a shallow lake shines amidst the sweep of grass. The clear air and the
distance the view commands give the landscape a distinctive charm. One
has a sense of space and freedom; all the eye rests upon is clean-cut.

It was a bright morning when Charnock drove up to the door of Keller's
hotel. The street was one-sided, and for the most part of its length,
small, ship-lap-board houses boldly fronted the prairie. A few had
shallow verandas that relieved their bareness, but the rest were frankly
ugly, and in some the front was carried up level with the roof-ridge,
giving them a harsh squareness of outline. A plank sidewalk, raised a
foot or two above the ground, ran along the street, where the black soil
was torn by wagon wheels.

There was nothing attractive about the settlement, and Charnock had once
been repelled by its dreariness. He, however, liked society, and as the
settlement was the only center of human intercourse, had acquired the
habit of spending time there that ought to have been devoted to his
farm. He enjoyed a game of pool, and to sit on the hotel veranda,
bantering the loungers, was a pleasant change from driving the plow or
plodding through the dust that rolled about the harrows. For all that,
he knitted his brows as his light wagon lurched past the Chinese laundry
and the poolroom in the next block. The place looked mean and shabby in
the strong sunlight, and, with feelings he had thought dead re-awaking,
he was conscious of a sharp distaste. There was a choice he must shortly
make, and he knew what it would cost to take the line that might be
forced on him.

It was with a certain shrinking he stopped his team in front of the
hotel. The bare windows were open and the door was hooked back, so that
one could see into the hall, where a row of tin wash-basins stood on
a shelf. Dirty towels were scattered about, and the boarded floor was
splashed. The veranda, on to which the hall opened, was strewn with
cigar-ends and burnt matches, and occupied by a row of cheap wooden
chairs. Above the door was painted _The Keller House_. The grocery in
the next block, and the poolroom, bore the same owner's name.

When Charnock stopped, a man without a coat and with the sleeves of his
fine white shirt rolled up came out. He as rather an old man and
his movements were slack; his face was hard, but on the whole
expressionless.

"Hallo!" he said. "Late again! The others have pulled out a quarter of
an hour since."

"I saw them," Charnock answered with a languid hint of meaning. "Didn't
want to join the procession and thought they might load up my rig if I
got here on time."

Keller looked hard at him, as if he understood, and then asked: "Want a
drink before you start?"

"No, thanks," said Charnock, with an effort; and Keller, going to the
door, shouted: "Sadie!"

A girl came out on the veranda. She was a handsome girl, smartly dressed
in white, with a fashionable hat that had a tall plume. Her hair and
eyes were black, the latter marked by a rather hard sparkle; her nose
was prominent and her mouth firm. Her face was colorless, but her skin
had the clean smoothness of silk. She had a firmly lined, round figure,
and her manner was easy and confident. Sadie Keller was then twenty-one
years of age.

"I thought you had forgotten to come, Bob," she said with a smile.

"Then you were very foolish; you ought to have known me better,"
Charnock replied, and helped her into the wagon.

"Well, you do forget things," she resumed as he started the team.

"Not those I want to remember. Besides, if you really thought I had
forgotten, you'd have been angry."

"How d'you know I'm not angry now?"

Charnock laughed. "When you're angry everybody in the neighborhood
knows."

This was true. Sadie was young, but there was something imperious about
her. She had a strong will, and when it was thwarted was subject to
fits of rage. Reserve was not among her virtues, and Charnock's languid
carelessness sometimes attracted and sometimes annoyed her. It marked
him as different from the young men she knew and gave him what she
called tone, but it had drawbacks.

"Let me have the reins; I want to drive," she said, and added as the
horses trotted across the grass beside the torn-up trail: "You keep a
smart team, but they're too light for much work about the farm."

"That's so. Still, you see, I like fast horses."

"They have to be paid for," Sadie rejoined.

"Very true, but I don't want to talk about such matters now. Then
I've given up trying to make the farm pay. When you find a thing's
impossible, it's better to let it go."

Sadie did not reply. She meant to talk about this later, but preferred
to choose her time. Her education had been rudimentary, but she was
naturally clever. She liked admiration, but was not to be led into
foolishness by vanity. Sadie knew her value. It had for some time been
obvious that a number of the young farmers who dealt at the store and
frequented the hotel did so for her sake, and she was willing to extend
her father's trade. In fact, she helped to manage both businesses as
cleverly as she managed the customers. Her charm was largely physical,
but she used it with caution. One might indulge in banter, and Sadie had
a ringing laugh that young men liked, but there were limits that few who
knew her overstepped. One or two had done so, but had been rebuked in
a way they wished to forget. Sadie had the tricks of an accomplished
coquette, but something of the heart of a prude.

The settlement got indistinct, and crossing a low rise, they drove past
a birch bluff where the twigs were breaking into tiny points of green.
Then they forded a creek and skirted a shallow lake, from which a flock
of ducks rose and flew North in a straggling wedge. Sandhills gleamed
on the ridges, tall cranes stalked about the hollows, and when the team,
laboring through the loose soil, crossed an elevation one could see the
plain roll back into the far distance. It was sharp-cut to the horizon;
only the varying color that changed from soft blue to white and yellow
in the foreground helped the eye to gage its vast extent. The snow had
bleached the grass, which glittered like silver in the strong sunlight.

A boisterous wind from the North-west drove white-edged clouds across
the sky, but the air was soft with a genial warmth that drew earthy
smells from the drying sod. In places, an emerald flush had begun to
spread across the withered grass and small flowers like crocuses were
pushing through. The freshness and hint of returning life reacted on
Charnock, and stirred his blood when he glanced at his companion. He
felt her physical allurement as he had not felt it before, but now and
then he resolutely looked away. Sadie had shown him marked favor, but
there was much he might lose.

She would not have charmed him when he first came to the prairie with
romantic hopes and vague ambitions. He had been fastidious then, and the
image of a very different girl occupied his heart. Even now he knew
the other stood for all that was best in life; for tender romances, and
sweetness, and high purpose. Helen had gracious qualities he had once
half-reverently admired. She loved pictures and books and music, and was
marked by a calm serenity that was very different from Sadie's restless
force. But it looked as if he had lost her, and Sadie, who could break
a horse and manage a hotel, was nearer his level. Yet he hesitated;
he must choose one of two paths, and when he had chosen could not turn
back.

"You don't talk much," Sadie remarked at length. "Guess you must be
thinking about your mortgage."

"I was, in a way. It was rather useless and very rude. However, I won't
think of it again until somebody makes me."

"That's a way of yours. You think too late."

"I'm afraid I sometimes do so," Charnock admitted. "Anyhow, to-day, I'm
not going to think at all."

Sadie noted the reckless humor with which he began to talk, but she led
him on, and they engaged in cheerful banter until Long Lake began to
gleam among the woods ahead. Charnock skirted the trees and pulled up
where a number of picketed teams and rigs stood near the water's edge.
Farther along, a merry party was gathering wood to build a fire, and
Charnock did not find Sadie alone again for some hours after he helped
her down.

In summer, Long Lake has no great beauty and shrinks, leaving a
white saline crust on its wide margin of sun-baked mud, but it is a
picturesque stretch of water when the snow melts in spring and the
reflections of the birches quiver on the smooth belt along its windward
edge. Farther out, the shadows of flying clouds chase each other across
the flashing surface. Two or three leaky canoes generally lie among the
trees, and in the afternoon Charnock dragged one down, and helping Sadie
on board, paddled up the lake.

As they crept round a point flocks of ducks left the water and the air
throbbed with a beat of wings that gradually died away. The fire, round
which the others sat, was out of sight, and the rustle of the tossing
birches emphasized the quietness. Charnock let the canoe drift, and
Sadie looked up at him from her low seat among the wagon robes he had
brought.

"What are you going to do about your farm?" she asked.

"I don't know yet, and don't see why I should bore you with my
troubles."

"Pshaw!" said Sadie. "You want to put the thing off; but you know you
can't."

Charnock made a gesture of humorous resignation. "Very well! I expect I
won't be able to carry on the farm."

"No," said Sadie, thoughtfully, "I don't think you could. There are men
who would be able, but not you."

"I dare say you're right, but you're not flattering," Charnock rejoined
with a smile.

Sadie gave him a steady look. "Your trouble is you laugh when you ought
to set your lips and get busy. One has got to hustle in Canada."

"I have hustled. In fact, it's hustling that has brought me low. If I
hadn't spent my money trying to break fresh land, I wouldn't have been
so deep in debt."

"And you'd have had more time to loaf about the settlement?"

"On the whole, I don't think that's kind. If I hadn't come to the
settlement, I wouldn't have seen you, and that's about the only comfort
I have left."

A touch of color crept into Sadie's face, but her thoughtful look did
not change.

"Well," she said, "I'd surely have liked you to make good, and don't
know that we mightn't have got the mortgage held over; but it wouldn't
have been much use. You'd have started again and then got tired and not
have stayed with it." She spread out her hands impatiently. "That's the
kind of man you are!"

"I'm afraid it's true," Charnock admitted. "But I hope you like me all
the same."

Sadie was silent for a few moments, but her color was higher and
Charnock mused. He supposed she meant she could have persuaded her
father to come to his help, and it looked as if she well knew his
failings. Still he felt rather amused than resentful.

"We'll let that go," she resumed. "I want you to quit joking and listen.
We're going to have a boom at the settlement as soon as the railroad's
opened, and I and the old man can hardly manage the store and hotel.
We've got to have help; somebody the boys like and we can trust. Well,
if you took hold the right way----"

She stopped, but Charnock understood. Keller was often ill and was
getting old. He could not carry on his rapidly extending business much
longer, and Charnock might presently take his place. But this was not
all, and he hesitated.

"Do you think I'm fit for the job?" he asked.

"You could do it if you tried."

Charnock smiled. "It's comforting to feel somebody trusts me, and I see
advantages in the plan. You keep the books, I think. It's very nice in
the little back office when the lamps are lit and the store is shut. We
could make up the bills together."

Sadie blushed, and he thought he had not seen her look so attractive.
She was remarkably pretty, although there was now something about her
that puzzled him. It was something elusive that acted like a barrier,
keeping him away. Yet he knew the girl was fond of him; if he wanted
her, he had but to ask, and it was not on this account he hesitated. He
thought of a creeper-covered house in England; a house that had an air
of quiet dignity. He remembered the old silver, the flowers in the shady
rooms, and the pictures. The girl who moved about the rooms harmonized
with her surroundings; her voice was low and clear, she had a touch of
stateliness. Well, he was ruined, and she was far away, but Sadie was
close by, waiting for him. For a moment he set his lips, and then, while
his nerves tingled, banished the disturbing doubts.

Dropping the paddle, he leaned forward, put his hand on the girl's
waist, and drew her towards him. He felt her yield, and heard her draw
a fluttering breath. Her head drooped so that he could not see her face;
she was slipping into his arms, and then, in the moment of surrender, he
felt her body stiffen. She put her hands on his shoulder and pushed him
back; the canoe lurched and he had some trouble to prevent a capsize.
The water splashed against the rocking craft, and Sadie, drawing away,
fixed her eyes on him. She was breathless, but rather from emotion than
effort.

"Don't do that again!" she said.

Charnock saw she meant it, which was strange. Sadie knew and sometimes
used her power of attraction, but it was obvious that she was angry. It
looked as if he had chosen the wrong moment, and he felt worse baffled
and disappointed than he had thought possible.

"I won't," he said as carelessly as he could. "You nearly threw us both
into the water."

"I guess that's what I meant to do," she answered fiercely.

"Well, I expect I'd have been able to pull you out. Suppose I ought to
say I'm sorry; but I'm not. In fact, Sadie, I don't quite understand--"

"No," she said, "you don't understand at all! That's the trouble."

Charnock took out his tobacco pouch and began to make a cigarette.
Sadie's cold dignity was something new and he thought she could not keep
it up. If she did not break out in passionate anger, she would soon
come round. As he finished the cigarette she turned to him with flashing
eyes.

"Put that tobacco away or I'll throw it in the lake! Do you think you
can kiss me when you like?"

"I wish I could," said Charnock. "As a matter of fact, I haven't kissed
you yet. But I'm sorry if you're vexed."

For a moment Sadie hesitated and then fixed him with a fierce, scornful
gaze.

"Oh," she said, "you're cheap, and you'd make me as cheap as you! You
want things for nothing; they must be given, where other men would work
and fight. But you can't amuse yourself by making love to me."

Charnock felt humiliated. If he had really offended her, she could have
rebuked him with a look or sign. Her unnecessary frankness jarred.

"Very well; I must ask you to forget it. Of course, I was wrong, but
I'll try not to vex you again. What are we going to do now?"

"Paddle back to the others as quick as you can."

Throwing his cigarette into the water, Charnock turned the canoe. It was
a relief to be energetic, because Sadie's demand for speed stung him. He
glanced at her now and then, but she gave no sign of relenting; her face
was whiter than usual and her look was strained. Getting angry, he drove
the canoe down the lake with a curling wave at her bow, until the paddle
snapped in a savage stroke and he flung the haft away. For a moment, he
hoped Sadie would laugh, but she did not.

"Now you'll have to paddle with your hands until you pick up the broken
blade," she said.

Charnock did so and afterwards awkwardly propelled the craft towards
the camp fire. He thought Sadie might have suggested their landing and
walking back, but she was silent and calmly watched his clumsy efforts.
He was glad when they reached the beach where the others were and he
helped her out. An hour or two later he drove her home, but she did
not talk. Her anger had gone, but she seemed strangely distant. After
helping her down at the hotel he waited a moment.

"Can't we make this up and be friends again?" he asked.

She gave him a curious steady glance. "Not now. It looks as if you
didn't know me yet."

Then she left him, and Charnock drove home in a thoughtful mood. He
had some idea about what she meant and had been rather surprised by the
pride she had shown. Sadie had certainly led him on; but she was not
altogether the girl he had thought.



CHAPTER III

KELLER INTERFERES

For two or three weeks after the picnic Charnock did not meet Sadie. The
rebuff he had got did not rankle much, and was rather provocative than
daunting, but he understood why she had told him he made her cheap. She
meant to keep her caresses for her husband or declared lover, and if he
wanted her, he must pay the regular price. This was very proper, from
her point of view, but from his the price was high.

Sadie was pretty, capable, and amusing, but he was not sure he would
like to see her every day, in his house and at his table. Besides, the
house would really be hers, and Sadie would not forget this. She was
determined and liked her own way. He had promised to marry another girl,
of a very different stamp, but his conscience was clear on that point.
It was better for Helen's sake that he should give her up, because he
was on the edge of ruin and she was much too good for him. Irresolution,
however, was perhaps his greatest failing, and now he must decide, he
wavered and thought about what he had lost.

There were days when he would not admit that all was lost, and
harnessing his team in the early morning, drove the gang-plow through
the soil until the red sunset faded off the plain. In his heart, he
knew the fight was hopeless; Festing, for example, in his place, might
perhaps make good, but he had not the stamina for the long struggle.
All the same, he worked with savage energy until his mood changed and
he went off to hunt sandhill cranes. He would sooner have gone to the
poolroom, but there was a risk of his meeting Sadie at the settlement.

In the meantime the days got warmer and a flush of vivid green spread
across the grass. The roaring wind that swept the tableland drove clouds
that never broke across the dazzling sky, and where there were belts
of plowed land the harrows clanked across the furrows amidst a haze of
blowing dust. The ducks and geese had gone, and red lilies began to sway
above the rolling waves of grass. Farmer and hired man worked with tense
activity, but Charnock's efforts were spasmodic and often slack.

In the meantime, trade was brisk at the settlement, and Keller found his
business made demands on him that he could hardly meet. It was rapidly
growing, and his strength got less. Indeed, he would have sold out but
for Sadie. The girl was clever and had tone; he wanted her to find life
smooth and taste pleasure her mother had not enjoyed. The latter had
helped him in a hard fight when dollars were very scarce, and died, worn
out, just before the tide turned. Since then he had schemed and sweated
to make her child's future safe.

Now he thought he had done so, but it had been a struggle, and he knew
he had held on too long. Keeping store in a wheat-growing district was
not a simple matter of selling groceries; one was in reality a banker.
Bills were not often paid until the crop was harvested, farmers began
without much money, and one must know whom to trust. Indeed, one often
financed a hustler who had no capital, and kept an honest man who had
lost a crop on his feet; but the risk was great, and one felt the strain
when there was rust and autumn frost.

One bright afternoon Keller stood on the sidewalk in front of the store.
He was not old, but his hair was gray and his face was pinched. It
was rather a hard face, for Keller's glance was keen and his lips were
generally firmly set. Yet he was liked by his customers. Now he was
breathing hard because he had helped a farmer to put a heavy bag of
flour in his wagon. The farmer drove away and a cloud of dust the team
stirred up blew down the street. The fronts of the wooden houses were
cracking in the hot sun; there was not a tree to relieve the bare
ugliness of the place, and the glare was dazzling. Keller at first
imagined this was why he could not see the wagon well, but after a few
moments he knew better.

He went into the store with a staggering step, and the rank smell of
cheese and salt-pork nauseated him. The room felt very hot and was full
of flies that buzzed in a tormenting cloud round his head. He wanted
quietness and made his way to the dark back office, where he dropped
into a chair.

"Go to the hotel," he ordered the clerk who entered after him. "Tell
Jake to give you a big glass of the special whisky. Be quick, but don't
run and spill the stuff."

The clerk came back in a few minutes, and Keller pulled himself together
when he had drained the glass, though his forehead was damp with sweat.

"Now where's the list of the truck Gascoyne got?" he said. "I'll look it
up."

"Sure you feel all right?" the clerk inquired.

"Get the list," said Keller. "Take that glass away."

He picked up a pen, but put it down when he found his hand shook, and
told the clerk to charge the goods. When the latter had gone, he sat
still for some minutes and then opened a book of accounts. He had
had another warning, sharper than the last, and had better put things
straight while he could. With this object he worked later than usual,
and when he returned to the hotel called Sadie into his private room.
The girl sat down, and he studied her, leaning his elbow heavily on the
table.

Sadie had a strained look and had been quiet for the last week or two
except when she was angry. This indicated that her nerves were on edge,
and Keller thought he knew why.

"I guess we've got to have a talk," he said. "I've put it off, but now's
the time."

Sadie waited calmly. She had courage and knew she must be frank with
her father. He did not, as a rule, say much, but he noted things and
understood.

"Well," he resumed, "I've built up a pretty good business here, but I'll
have to quit and leave you some day, and reckon you won't be satisfied
to stop at the hotel all your life. You're smart and a looker, and I
guess you want to go out and see the world. That's all right, and you'll
be able, as far as dollars count; but I can't go with you and you can't
go alone."

Sadie shivered. Keller's face was pinched, and she knew his health was
not good, although she did not know how bad it really was.

"I couldn't leave you, anyway, and hope you'll be with me a long time
yet."

"It's possible," said Keller. "All the same, I can't keep my grip on
the business long and want a man to help. But I'm not going to trust a
stranger or a hired man. You see where this leads?"

Sadie saw and made a vague gesture, though her glance was level.

"Very well. The man who carries on my business must be your husband.
Now there are three or four of the boys in the settlement who could
be taught to run the store and hotel, but I allow you don't want me to
choose from them. Have I got that right?"

"Yes," said Sadie with quiet calm, although her heart beat. "None of
them would suit."

Keller knitted his brows and his look was grave. "They're good boys, and
if you had taken one of that bunch, I'd have been satisfied. I reckon
the trouble is they're my kind and belong where I do, while you mean
to go higher. Well, that's right; I've put up the dollars to give you a
good time, but you can't get where you want on your own feet." He paused
with a dry smile. "I allow you're smart enough to figure this out."

"I have," said Sadie. "There's much I don't know and couldn't learn
here. If I'm to move up, my husband must help."

"Then I only know two men round the settlement who could help. Festing's
my choice."

A wave of color flushed Sadie's white skin, but her voice was quiet. "He
isn't mine. I allow, in some ways, he's the better man, but that doesn't
count."

Keller looked hard at her. "I used to think your head would guide you,
not your heart; but it seems you're like the rest--well, I was a very
poor man when your mother married me! Now I like Charnock and he has
tone; but if you take him, there's a risk--"

"I know the risk."

"It's plain! I'd stop the thing right now if you were a different girl,
but you know what you want and how to keep it when it's got. It looks as
if you had made up your mind?"

Sadie's hands moved nervously. She made a sign of agreement, but did not
speak, and Keller went on:

"Anyhow, you'd better understand what you're up against. Sometimes
you'll have to hustle Charnock and sometimes hold him tight. You must
keep him off the liquor, and maybe stop him getting after other girls.
Then when you sell out the business, you'll hold the dollars."

For a moment Sadie turned her head and then got up and stood by her
father's chair. Her look was strained but resolute as she put her hand
on his arm.

"I know all that! Bob has plenty of faults, but he's the man I love."

Keller took and pressed her hand. He had some misgivings, but he knew
his daughter.

"We all like Charnock, and though I wouldn't trust him far, I can trust
you. I think you've got that right and won't forget. Very well, since
you want Charnock I'll get him for you."

Sadie stooped and kissed him and then went out. She was moved, but there
was nothing to be said. Her father was not a sentimentalist, but he had
never failed her and would not do so now. When she sat down in her room,
however, her face was grave. Her courage was high, but she felt
half afraid. Although she loved Bob Charnock, life with him might be
difficult. He was older than she and knew much more, but she must lead
him and be firm where he was weak. It was a hard task for an ignorant
girl, but she resolved to carry it out.

Next morning Keller went down the street and entered a wooden building
filled with gaudily painted mowers and plows. He was not the man to
waste time when he had made a plan, and moreover felt that he had not
much time to lose. Finding the implement dealer in his office, he sat
down, breathing rather hard.

"You don't look very spry this morning," the dealer remarked.

"I don't feel so bright. The boys have been rushing me the last week or
two. Say, trade is booming now!"

"It surely is. I could sell more machines than I've got, but I've got
a lot of money standing out, and after the bad harvest last fall, don't
know who to trust."

They compared notes about their customers, and presently the dealer
remarked: "Charnock was in a few days ago, asking about a new wagon, a
mower, and some small tools."

"Ah!" said Keller, rather sharply. "Then it looks as if he meant to hold
on! He reckoned, not long since, that he'd have to quit. But what did
you tell him?"

"To come again. I'd like to keep Bob Charnock up, but guess it's
dangerous. Owes me a pile. How does he stand with you?"

Keller supplied the information, and the other looked thoughtful.
"Didn't know it was quite so bad as that. I allow I'd better not let him
have the goods."

"Well, I reckon he's trying the new man at Concord. Smith said he met
him there yesterday."

The dealer frowned. He hated to think of a customer going to somebody
else. In fact, this was, for a debtor, an unpardonable offense.

"Charnock's trouble is that he's not quite straight. Ought to have
stayed with me, told me how he was fixed, and let me see what I could
do. If he's going to deal with the new man, I'd better pull him up and
try to get my money back."

"You can't get it," said Keller dryly. "He can't pay now, and if you let
him go on until harvest, you'll have a crowd of others with long bills
fighting for what's left."

"Looks like that," the dealer agreed. "Well, I'd have liked to keep him
going if he'd stayed with me, but I can't stand for losing the dollars
he owes. What are we going to do about the thing?"

Keller explained his plans, and after some argument the other agreed.
The decision they came to would bring Charnock's farming to an end,
but Keller left the office with some doubts. His scheme was going to
succeed, but he wondered whether he had indulged Sadie too far. Much
depended on her firmness, and she might find the job harder than she
thought; but on the whole he imagined she would be equal to the strain.

A week later, Charnock sat, one afternoon, in the saddle of his
gang-plow, tearing a row of furrows through the dusty sod. The sweating
horses moved leisurely, and he did not urge them as he moodily watched
the tangled grass part before the shares and vanish beneath the polished
surface of the turned-up clods. He was breaking new soil, doing work
that would be paid for in the future, and knew the reward of his labor
might never be his. When he reached the end of the plowing he stopped
and let the horses rest while he looked about.

One side of the long furrows gleamed in the strong light, and another
team was moving towards him from the opposite end. The sun was hot, but
the wind was fresh, and thin clouds of dust blew across the plain. Still
the belt he was plowing was good soil; the firm black _gumbo_ that holds
the moisture the wheat plant needs. There was something exhilarating in
the rushing breeze and glow of light, but Charnock frowned and wondered
why he had worked so long. He had no real hope, and admitted that he had
continued his spasmodic efforts because he could not face defeat.

For all that, he had not been fighting entirely for his farm. He
wanted to keep his freedom; to break through trammels that were getting
tighter, and try to regain something that he had lost. Sometimes he felt
desperate, but now and then saw an elusive ray of hope. If he could hold
out until harvest and reap a record crop----

Then his hired man, driving the other plow, waved his arm, and Charnock
saw a rig lurch across a rise amidst a cloud of sand. It was the
mail-carrier going his round, but he would not have come that way unless
he had letters, and Charnock waited until the man arrived.

"Here's your lot," he said, taking out three or four envelopes.

Charnock's hand shook as he opened the first, it was large and had an
official look, and he found a number of unpaid accounts inside. Besides
these, there was a lawyer's letter, stating that certain dealers had
instructed him to recover payment of the debts Charnock owed. He crushed
the letter in his clenched hand and the veins stood out on his forehead,
while his face got red. The blow he feared had fallen and he was
ruined; but when the shock began to pass he felt a faint relief. It
was something to be free from doubt and anxiety, and there were
consolations. Now he was beaten, the line he must take was plain, and it
had some advantages.

"You can quit plowing and put the teams in the stable," he said to the
hired man.

"Quit now!" exclaimed the other. "What about the machines?"

"Let them stop," said Charnock. "It seems they belong to my creditors,
who can look after them. I'm going to Concord and don't know when I'll
be back."

He went off towards the homestead and half an hour later drove away
across the plain.



CHAPTER IV

FESTING COMMITS THEFT

The air was sharp and wonderfully invigorating when Festing stopped
for a few moments, one evening, outside Charnock's homestead. A row of
sandhills glimmered faintly against the blue haze in the east, but the
western edge of the plain ran in a hard black line beneath a blaze
of smoky red. It was not dark, but the house was shadowy, and Festing
noticed a smell of burning as he entered.

The top was off the stove in Charnock's room, and the flame that
licked about the hole showed that the floor was strewn with torn paper.
Charnock was busy picking up the pieces, and when he threw a handful
into the stove a blaze streamed out and the light shone upon the wall.
Festing noted that the portrait that had hung there had gone, and
looking round in search of it, saw a piece of the broken frame lying on
the stove. It was half burned and a thin streak of smoke rose from its
glowing end. Festing remarked this with a sense of anger.

"What are you doing, Bob?" he asked.

"Cleaning up," Charnock answered, with a hoarse laugh, as he sat down
among the litter. "Proper thing when you mean to make a fresh start!
Suppose you take a drink and help."

A whisky bottle and a glass stood on the table, and Festing thought
Charnock had taken some liquor, although he was not drunk. Stooping
down, he began to pick up the papers, which, for the most part, looked
like bills. There were, however, a few letters in a woman's hand, and
by and by he found a bit of riband, a glove, and a locket that seemed to
have been trampled on.

"Are these to be burned?" he asked.

"Yes," said Charnock. "Don't want them about to remind me----Burn the
lot."

Festing, with some reluctance, threw them into the stove. He was not,
as a rule, romantic, but it jarred him to see the things destroyed. They
had, no doubt, once been valued for the giver's sake; dainty hands had
touched them; the locket had rested on somebody's white skin. They
were pledges of trust and affection, and he had found them, trampled by
Charnock's heavy boots, among the dust and rubbish.

"You'd get on faster if you used a brush," he suggested.

"Can't find the brush. Confounded thing's hidden itself somewhere. Can't
remember where I put anything to-night. Suppose you don't see a small
lace handkerchief about?"

Festing said he did not, and Charnock made a gesture of resignation.
"Looks as if I'd burned it with the other truck, but I got that from
Sadie, and there'll be trouble if she wants to know where it's gone. She
may want to know some time. Sadie doesn't forget."

"Did Sadie give you the locket?"

"She did not," said Charnock. "You're a tactless brute. But there's
something else I want, and I don't know where it can have got."

He upset a chair as he turned over some rubbish near the table, under
which he presently crawled, while Festing looking about, noted a small
white square laying half hidden by the stove. Picking it up, he saw
it was the portrait of the English girl, and resolved with a thrill
of indignation that Charnock should not burn this. He felt that its
destruction would be something of an outrage.

He glanced at Charnock, but the latter's legs alone stuck out from under
the table, and as it was obvious that he could not see, Festing dusted
the portrait and put it in his pocket. By and by Charnock crept out and
got upon his feet. It was dark now, but the glow of the burning paper
flickered about the room and touched his face. His hair was ruffled, his
eyes were dull, and his mouth had a slack droop. Festing felt some pity
for the man, though he was also sensible of scornful impatience. The
smell of burned paper disturbed him with its hint of vanished romance.
Putting the lid on the stove, he took the lamp from Charnock's unsteady
hand, and, when he had lighted it, found a brush and set to work.
Presently Charnock made a vague sign of relief as he looked at the swept
floor.

"All gone!" he remarked. "There was something I couldn't find. Suppose I
burned it, though I don't remember."

"There's nothing left," said Festing, who felt guilty. "Why did you
destroy the things?"

Charnock sat down and awkwardly lighted his pipe. "Wanted to begin again
with what they call a clean slate. Besides, the stove's the best place
for bills that bother you."

"You can't get rid of the debts by burning the bills."

"That's true," said Charnock with a grin. "Unfortunately obvious, in
fact! However, I cut up my account book."

"I don't see how that would help."

"My creditors can now amuse themselves by finding out how I stand."

Festing frowned impatiently. "A rather childish trick! It doesn't strike
me as humorous."

"You're a disgustingly serious fellow," Charnock rejoined. "But you
might be a bit sympathetic, because I've had a nasty knock. My creditors
have come down on me, and I'm going to be married."

Festing smiled. He had some sense of humor, and Charnock's manner seemed
to indicate that he felt he was confronted with two misfortunes.

"You must have known your creditors would pull you up unless you came
to terms with them, but one would expect you to please yourself about
getting married."

"I'm not sure your joke's in good taste," Charnock answered sullenly.
"But in a way, one thing depended on the other. Perhaps I oughtn't to
have said so, but I'm upset to-night. Though I did expect to be pulled
up, it was a knock."

"No doubt. Are you going to marry Sadie?"

"I am. Have you any reason to disapprove?"

"Certainly not," said Festing. "Sadie's rather a friend of mine."

In a sense, this was true. When Festing first came to the prairie from
a mountain construction camp, where he had not seen a woman for twelve
months, he had felt Sadie's charm. Moreover, he imagined that the
girl liked him and consciously used her power, although with a certain
reserve and modesty. For all that, he fought against his inclination and
conquered without much effort. Marriage had not much attraction for him,
but if he did marry, he meant to choose a wife of a different type.

"Sadie's a very good sort," Charnock resumed. "She knows what we are,
and doesn't expect too much; not the kind of girl to make ridiculous
demands. In fact, Sadie can make allowances."

Festing thought this was doubtful praise, although it bore out his
opinion of the girl. For all that, Sadie might not be so willing to
make allowances for her husband as for a lover of whom she was not quite
sure.

"Perhaps that kind of thing has advantages," he said. "But I don't
know--"

"I do know," said Charnock; "I've tried the other way. The feeling that
you're expected to keep on a high plane soon gets tiresome; besides, it
isn't natural. It's better to be taken for what you are."

"I suppose so," Festing assented. "Anyway, if Sadie's satisfied----"

Charnock grinned, although there was a touch of color in his face.

"You're not given to flattery, but might use a little tact. I've had a
knock and am not quite sober, so I can't argue the point. Then it isn't
your business if Sadie's satisfied or not."

"That's so. But what are you going to do when your creditors turn you
out?"

"Everything's arranged. I'm going to help Keller at the hotel and
store."

Festing got up. "Well, I've stopped longer than I meant. I wish you good
luck!"

"We'll have a drink," said Charnock, reaching for the bottle with an
unsteady hand. Then he paused and gave Festing a suspicious look. "It's
curious about that portrait! I used to see you gazing at it, and don't
remember that I picked it up."

"No, thanks," said Festing, refusing the glass. "I think you've had
enough. In fact, it might have been better when you were wiping the
slate clean if you had put the bottle in the stove."

He went out and walked back to the camp in the moonlight, thinking hard.
He was angry with Charnock, but vaguely sorry. Bob had some virtues and
was throwing himself away, although, when one came to think of it, this
was only true to some extent. What one meant was that he was throwing
away his opportunities of rising to a higher plane; while Bob was
satisfied with his present level Sadie was good enough for him, perhaps
too good. Life together might be hard for both, and there was a touch of
pathos in his burning all the tender tokens that bound him to the past,
though it was ominous that he kept the whisky. He could, however, get as
much liquor as he wanted at the hotel; that is, if Sadie allowed it, but
there was some comfort in the thought that the girl was clever and firm.

Festing dismissed the matter, and when he reached his shack at the
bridge put the portrait on the table and sat down opposite. He felt that
he knew this girl, whom he had never met, very well. Something in her
look had cheered him when he had difficulties to overcome; he felt that
they were friends. She was calm and fearless and would face trouble with
the level glance he knew, although now and then, when the lamp flickered
in the draught, he had thought she smiled. They had been companions
on evenings when Charnock wanted to read the newspaper or the talk
had flagged. Sometimes the window and door were open and the smell of
parched grass came in; sometimes the stove was red-hot and the house
shook in the icy blast. Festing admitted that it was not altogether for
Charnock's society he had visited the homestead.

Then he began to puzzle about a likeness to somebody he knew. He
had remarked this before, but the likeness was faint and eluded him.
Lighting his pipe, he tried to concentrate his thoughts, and by and by
made an abrupt movement. He had it! When he was in British Columbia,
engaged on the construction of a section of the railroad that was
being built among the mountains, he met a young Englishman at a mining
settlement. The lad had been ill and was not strong enough to undertake
manual labor, which was the only occupation to be found in the
neighborhood. Moreover, he had lost his money, in consequence, Festing
gathered, of his trusting dangerous companions.

Festing, finding that he had been well educated and articled to a civil
engineer, got him a post on the railroad, where he helped the surveyors.
Dalton did well and showed himself grateful, but when Festing went to
the prairie he lost touch with the lad. The latter wrote to him once or
twice, but he was too busy to keep up the correspondence. Now he knew
it was something in Dalton's face he found familiar in the portrait.
The girl had a steady level glance, and the lad looked at one like that.
Indeed, it was his air of frankness that had persuaded Festing to get
him the post.

But this led him nowhere. He did not know the girl's name, and if it
was the same as the lad's, it would not prove that they were related. He
pushed back his chair and got up. It looked as if he was in some danger
of becoming a romantic fool, but he put the portrait carefully away,
Soon after he had done so a man came in, and sitting down, lighted a
cigarette.

"I wanted to see you, Festing, but hadn't a chance all day," he said.
"Probably you haven't heard that I've got orders where to send the staff
when the bridge is finished, as it will be soon."

Festing looked up sharply. Kerr was his superior in the company's
service, but they were on good terms.

"I haven't heard. I'm anxious to know."

Kerr told him, and Festing's face hardened.

"So Marvin and I go on to the next prairie section! Since they want the
best men on the difficult work in the mountains, it means that we're
passed over."

"It does, in a sense," Kerr agreed.

"Then I think I know why you came," said Festing, who pondered for a
few moments. He had courage and decision, and it was his habit to face
a crisis boldly. "Now," he resumed, "I'm going to ask your opinion of my
prospects if I stay on the road?"

"Your record's good. You're sure of a post, so long as there's any
construction work going on."

"A post of a kind! Not the best kind, where a man would have a chance of
making his mark?"

"Well," said Kerr, "I think that's what I meant. The headquarters
bosses don't know us personally, and judge by a man's training and the
certificates he's got. Of course, in spite of this, talent will find its
way, and sometimes one gets there by a stroke of luck."

Festing smiled, rather bitterly. "I have no marked talent, and haven't
found it pay to trust to luck. In fact, my only recommendations are a
kind of practical ability and a capacity for hard work. I got on the
road by doing chores and fought my way up."

"You are practical," Kerr agreed. "It's your strong point, but I've
thought it sometimes kept you back."

He paused when Festing looked at him with surprise, but resumed in a
thoughtful voice: "When your job's in front of you, you see what must be
done, and do it well; there's not a man on my section does that kind of
thing better. Still, I'm not sure you always see quite far enough. You
miss what lies ahead and sometimes, so to speak, what's lying all round.
Concentration's good, but one can concentrate too much. However, I
didn't come to find fault, but to let you know how matters are."

"Thanks. I'm going to look ahead and all round now, and the situation
strikes me as much like this: If I'm content with a second or third best
post, I can stop; if I want to go as far as my power of concentration
may take me and find a place where I can use my independent judgment,
I'd better quit. Have I got that right?"

"It's what I tried to hint. You can count on my recommendation when
it's likely to be of use, but you said something that was rather
illuminating. You want to use your judgment?"

Festing laughed. "I don't know that I've thought much about these
matters, but I am an individualist. You get up against useless rules,
empty formalities, and much general stupidity in organized effort, and
good work is often wasted. When you see things that demand to be done,
you want to begin right there and get at the job. If you wait to see if
it's yours or somebody else's, you're apt not to start at all."

"Your plan has drawbacks now and then," Kerr remarked. "But what are you
going to do about the other matter?"

Festing was silent for a few moments. He had to make a momentous choice,
but had known that he must do so and did not hesitate.

"I'm going to quit and try farming. After all, I don't know very much
about railroad building; up to now I've got on rather by determination
than knowledge. Then, if I stop with you, I'll come up against a locked
door whenever I try to push ahead."

"There are locked doors in other professions."

"That's so; but in a big organization you must knock and ask somebody
to let you through, and unless you have a properly stamped ticket, they
turn you back. When the job's your own you beat down the door."

"I've seen farmers who tried that plan left outside with badly jarred
hands. Frost and rust and driving sand are difficult obstacles."

"Oh, yes," said Festing. "But they're natural obstacles; you know what
you're up against and can overcome them, if you're stubborn enough.
What I really mean is, you don't trust to somebody else's good opinion;
whether you fail or not depends upon yourself."

"Well," said Kerr, getting up, "I think you're making the right choice,
but hope you won't forget me when you leave us. You'll have a friend in
the company's service as long as I'm on the road."

He went out and Festing lighted his pipe. Now he had come to a decision,
there was much that needed thought; but, to begin with, he knew of a
suitable piece of land. Living in camp, he had saved the most part of
his pay, and had inherited a small sum from an English relative. In
consequence, he could buy the land, build a comfortable wooden house,
and have something over to carry him on until he sold his first crop.

He resolved to buy the land and set the carpenters to work, but could
not leave the railroad for a month, when it would be rather late to make
a start. Then he had worked without a break for twelve years, for the
most part at camps where no amusement was possible, and resolved to
take a holiday. He would go back to England, where he had a few friends,
although his relatives were dead. This was, of course, an extravagance;
but after the self-denial he had practised there was some satisfaction
in being rash. Lighting another pipe, he abandoned himself to pleasant
dreams of his first holiday.



CHAPTER V

A RASH PROMISE

A few days before he started for England, Festing went over to
Charnock's homestead, which was shortly to be sold. The evenings were
getting light, and although Festing had finished his day's work before
he left the bridge, the glow of sunset flooded Charnock's living-room.
The strong red light searched out the signs of neglect and dilapidation,
the broken boots and harness that needed mending, the dust sticking to
the resin-stains on the cracked walls, and the _gumbo_ soil on the dirty
floor. As Charnock glanced up a level ray touched his face and showed
a certain sensual coarseness that one missed when the light was normal.
Festing, however, knew the look, and although he had not remarked it
when he first met Charnock, thought it had always been there.

The change he had noted in his friend was only on the surface. Charnock
had not really deteriorated in Canada; the qualities that had brought
him down had been overlaid by a spurious grace and charm, but it now
looked as if moral slackness might develop into active vice. On the
whole, he thought Sadie would have trouble with Bob, but this was not
his business.

"I've come to say good-bye," he remarked. "I won't see you again until
my return, and expect you'll be married then."

"Yes," said Charnock, shortly. "I suppose you have made some plans for
your trip. Where are you going to stop in England?"

Festing told him and he looked surprised. "I didn't know you had friends
in that neighborhood. Will you be with them some time?"

"A month, anyway. Then I may come and go."

Charnock pushed his chair back out of the light. "Well, this makes it
easier; there's something I want to ask. We are friends and I've let you
give me good advice, though I haven't always acted on it. I don't know
if this gives me a claim."

"If there's anything I can do----"

"There is," said Charnock, who hesitated for a few moments. "I want you
to go and see Helen Dalton. She's the girl I ought to have married, and
doesn't live very far from your friends."

"Ah!" said Festing with a start. "It was her portrait you meant to
burn?"

Charnock gave him a sharp glance. "Just so. I imagine I did burn it,
because I couldn't find it afterwards."

There was silence for a few moments while Festing wondered whether the
other suspected him. Bob had an air of frankness, but was sometimes
cunning. This, however, was not important, and Festing was strongly
moved by the thought that he might see the girl.

"Why do you want me to go?" he asked.

"In order that you can tell her how I was situated. I want her to know
why I was forced to give her up."

"But you have written and stated your reasons."

"Of course. But I've no talent for explanation, and in a letter you say
too little or too much; probably I didn't say enough. Then you can't
tell how far the person written to will understand, and questions rise.
But will you go?"

Festing wanted to go, although he saw his task might be embarrassing. He
had been some time in Western Canada, where people are frank and do not
shrink from dealing with delicate matters. Then Charnock was his friend.

"It will be an awkward job, but you can indicate the line you think I
ought to take."

"The line is plain. You will tell Helen what it means to lose one's
crop, and try to make her understand the struggle I've had--how the
weather was against me, and the debts kept piling up until I was ruined.
You can describe the havoc made by drought, and frost, and cutting sand.
Then there's the other side of the matter; the hardships a woman must
bear on the plains when money's scarce. The loneliness, the monotonous
drudgery, the heat, the Arctic cold."

"Miss Dalton looks as if she had pluck. She wouldn't be easily daunted."

"Do you think I don't know? But when you meet her you'll see that the
life we lead is impossible for a girl like that."

"It looks as if you wanted me to be your advocate," Festing remarked
rather dryly. "I'm to make all the excuses for you I can, and prove that
you were justified in breaking your engagement. I doubt if I'm clever
enough--"

Charnock stopped him. "No! Perhaps I used excuses, but my object is not
to clear myself." He paused and colored. "We'll admit that Helen lost
nothing when I gave her up; but a girl, particularly a young, romantic
girl, feels that kind of thing, and it might hurt worse if she thought
she had loved a wastrel. I want her to feel that I broke my engagement
for her sake, when nothing else was possible. That might soften the
blow, and I really think it's true."

"How much of it is true?" Festing asked bluntly.

"Ah," said Charnock, "you're an uncompromising fellow. You meant that if
you'd had my debts and difficulties, you could have made good?"

"I might; but we both know two or three other men whom I'd have backed
to do so."

"For all that, you'll admit that the thing was impossible for me?"

Festing knitted his brows. "I believe you could have overcome your
difficulties; that is, if you had really made an effort and faced the
situation earlier. But since you hadn't nerve enough, I dare say it was
impossible."

"You forget one thing; I hadn't time. At the best, it would have
taken me three or four years to get straight, and as you haven't much
imagination, I suppose you don't realize what Helen's trials would have
been in the meanwhile. An engaged girl's situation isn't easy when her
lover is away. She stands apart, forbidden much others may enjoy, and
Helen would have had to bear her friends' contemptuous pity for being
bound to a man who had turned out a failure or worse."

"I expect that's true," Festing agreed. "However, there's another
difficulty. Suppose I persuade Miss Dalton that you made a plucky fight
and only gave her up when you were beaten? She may refuse to let you go,
and insist on coming out to help."

Charnock started, but with a rather obvious effort recovered his calm.
"You must see your suggestion's stupid. Helen can't come out; I'm going
to marry Sadie."

"I forgot," said Festing. "Well, since you urge me, I'll do what I can,
although I don't like the job."

He left the homestead shortly afterwards, but felt puzzled as he walked
across the plain. When he suggested that Miss Dalton might resolve to
join and help her lover, Charnock had looked alarmed. This was strange,
because although Festing had, for a moment, forgotten Sadie, it was
ridiculous to imagine that Bob had done so. Then why had he started.
There were, however, one or two other things that disturbed Festing, who
felt that he had made a rash promise. But the promise had been made, and
he must do his best to carry it out.

He had a fine voyage, and a week after his arrival in the Old Country
walked up and down the terrace of a house among the hills in the North
of England. His host was an old friend of the family who had shown
Festing some kindness when he was young, and his daughter, Muriel,
approved her father's guest. She liked the rather frank, brown-skinned,
athletic man, whom she had joined on the terrace. He was a new and
interesting type; but although she was two or three years the younger
and attractive, their growing friendship was free from possible
complications. Muriel, as Festing had learned, was going to marry the
curate.

After the roar of activity at the bridge, where the hammers rang all day
and often far into the night, he found his new surroundings strangely
pleasant. In Canada, he had lived in the wilds; on the vast bare plains,
and among snowy mountains where man grappled with Nature in her sternest
mood. Thundering snowslides swept away one's work, icy rocks must be cut
through, and savage green floods threatened the half-built track when
the glaciers began to melt. Every day had brought a fresh anxiety, and
now he welcomed the slackening of the strain. The struggle had left
its mark on him; one saw it in his lean, muscular symmetry, his quiet
alertness, and self-confidence. But he could relax, and found the
English countryside had a soothing charm.

The sun was low and rugged hills cut against the pale-saffron sky. The
valley between was filled with blue shadow, but in the foreground a
river twinkled in the fading light. Feathery larches grew close up to
the house, and a beck splashed in the gloom among their trunks. Farther
off, a dog barked, and there was a confused bleating of sheep, but this
seemed to emphasize the peaceful calm.

"It's wonderfully quiet," Festing remarked. "I can't get used to the
stillness; I feel as if I was dreaming and would wake up to hear the din
of the rivers and the ballast roaring off the gravel cars. However, I
have some business to do to-morrow that I'm not keen about. Can one see
Knott Scar from here?"

"It's the blue ridge, about six miles off. The dark patch on its slope
is a big beech wood."

"Then do you know the Daltons?"

"Oh, yes," said Muriel. "Helen Dalton is a friend of mine. Although the
Scar's some way off, I see her now and then. But are you going there?"

"I am; I wish it wasn't needful," Festing answered rather gloomily.

"Ah!" said Muriel, giving him a sharp glance. "Helen was to have married
a man in Canada, but the engagement was broken off. Do you know him?"

"I do. That's why I'm going to the Scar. I've promised to explain
matters as far as I can."

Muriel studied his disturbed face with a twinkle of amusement. "Well,
I'm sorry for Helen; it must have been a shock. For all that, I thought
the engagement a mistake."

"Then you have seen Charnock?"

"Once. He's a friend of some people Helen used to stay with in the
South, but I met him at the Scar. Handsome, and charming, in a way, but
I thought him weak."

"What are Miss Dalton's people like?"

"Don't you want to know what Helen is like?"

"No," said Festing. "I know her already; that is, I've seen her
picture."

Muriel, glancing at him keenly, did not understand his look, but
replied: "Helen lives with her mother and aunt, but it's hard to
describe them. They are not old, but seem to date back to other times.
In fact, they're rather unique nowadays. Like very dainty old china;
you'd expect them to break if they were rudely jarred. You feel they
ought to smell of orris and lavender."

"Ah," said Festing. "I was a fool to promise Charnock. I've never met
people like that, and am afraid they'll get a jar to-morrow."

"I don't think you need be afraid," Muriel replied. "They're not really
prudish or censorious, though they are fastidious."

"And is Miss Dalton like her mother and aunt?"

"In a way. Helen has their refinement, but she's made of harder stuff.
She would wear better among strains and shocks."

Festing shook his head. "Girls like her ought to be sheltered and kept
from shocks. After all, there's something to be said for Charnock's
point of view. Your delicate English grace and bloom ought to be
protected and not rubbed off by the rough cares of life."

"I don't know if you're nice or not," Muriel rejoined with a laugh.
"Anyway, you don't know many English girls, and your ideas about us are
old-fashioned. We are not kept in lavender now. Besides, it isn't the
surface bloom that matters, and fine stuff does not wear out. It takes
a keener edge and brighter polish from strenuous use. And Helen is fine
stuff."

"So I thought," said Festing quietly, and stopped at the end of the
terrace. The bleating of sheep had died away, and except for the splash
of the beck a deep silence brooded over the dale. The sun had set and
the landscape was steeped in soft blues and grays, into which woods and
hills slowly melted.

"It's remarkably pleasant here," he said. "Not a sign of strain and
hurry; things seem to run on well-oiled wheels! Perhaps the greatest
change is to feel that one has nothing to do."

"But you had holidays now and then in Canada."

"No," said Festing. "Anyhow I've had none for a very long time. Of
course there are lonely places, and in winter the homesteads on the
plains are deadly quiet, but I was always where some big job was rushed
along. Hauling logs across the snow, driving them down rivers, and after
I joined the railroad, checking calculations, and track-grading in the
rain. It was a fierce hustle from sunrise to dark, with all your senses
highly strung and your efforts speeded up."

"Then one can understand why it's a relief to lounge. But would that
satisfy you long?"

Festing laughed. "It would certainly satisfy me for a time, but after
that I don't know. It's a busy world, and there's much to be done."

Muriel studied him as they walked back along the terrace. He wore no
hat, and she liked the way he held his head and his light, springy step,
though she smiled as she noted that he pulled himself up to keep pace
with her. It was obvious that he was not used to moving leisurely. Then
his figure, although spare, was well proportioned, and his rather
thin face was frank. He had what she called a fined-down look,
but concentrated effort of mind and body had given him a hint of
distinction. He was a man who did things, and she wondered what Helen,
who was something of a romantic dreamer, would think of him. Then she
reflected with a touch of amusement that he would probably find the
errand his friend had given him embarrassing.

"You don't look forward to seeing the Daltons to-morrow," she remarked.

"That's so," Festing admitted. "I didn't quite know what I'd undertaken
when I gave my promise. The thing looks worse in England. In fact, it
looks very nearly impossible just now."

"But you are going?"

Festing spread out his hands. "Certainly. What can I do? Charnock
hustled me into it; he has a way of getting somebody else to do the
things he shirks. But I gave him my word."

"And that's binding!" remarked Muriel, who was half amused by his
indignation. She thought Charnock deserved it, but Festing could be
trusted.

"I wish I could ask your advice," he resumed. "You could tell me what to
say; but as I don't know if Charnock would approve, it mightn't be the
proper thing."

Muriel was keenly curious to learn the truth about her friend's love
affair, but she resisted the temptation. Because she liked Festing, she
would not persuade him to do something for which he might afterwards
reproach himself.

"No," she said, "perhaps you oughtn't to tell me. But I don't think you
need be nervous. If you have the right feeling, you will take the proper
line."

Then they went into the house where the curate was talking to Gardiner.



CHAPTER VI

FESTING KEEPS HIS WORD

Next afternoon Festing leaned his borrowed bicycle against the gate at
Knott Scar and walked up the drive. He had grave misgivings, but it was
too late to indulge them, and he braced himself and looked about with
keen curiosity. The drive curved and a bank of shrubs on one side
obstructed his view, but the Scar rose in front, with patches of heather
glowing a rich crimson among the gray rocks. Beneath these, a dark
beech wood rolled down the hill. On the other side there was a lawn that
looked like green velvet. His trained eye could detect no unevenness;
the smooth surface might have been laid with a spirit level. Festing had
seen no grass like this in Canada and wondered how much labor it cost.

Then he came to the end of the shrubs and saw a small, creeper-covered
house, with a low wall, pierced where shallow steps went up, along the
terrace. The creeper was in full leaf and dark, but roses bloomed about
the windows and bright-red geraniums in urns grew upon the wall. He
heard bees humming and a faint wind in the beech tops, but the shadows
scarcely moved upon the grass, and a strange, drowsy quietness brooded
over the place. Indeed, the calm was daunting; he felt he belonged
to another world and was intruding there, but went resolutely up the
shallow steps.

Two white-haired ladies received him in a shady, old-fashioned room with
a low ceiling. There was a smell of flowers, but it was faint, and
he thought it harmonized with the subdued lighting of the room. A
horizontal piano stood in a corner and the dark, polished rosewood had
dull reflections; some music lay about, but not in disorder, and he
noted the delicate modeling of the cabinet with diamond panes it had
been taken from. He knew nothing about furniture, but he had an eye for
line and remarked the taste that characterized the rest of the articles.
There were a few landscapes in water-color, and one or two pieces of old
china, of a deep blue that struck the right note of contrast with the
pale-yellow wall.

Festing felt that the house had an influence; a gracious influence
perhaps, but vaguely antagonistic to him. He had thought of a house as
a place in which one ate and slept, but did not expect it to mold one's
character. Surroundings like this were no doubt Helen Dalton's proper
environment, but he came from the outside turmoil, where men sweated and
struggled and took hard knocks.

In the meantime, he talked to and studied the two ladies. Although they
had white hair, they were younger than he thought at first and much
alike. It was as if they had faded prematurely from breathing too
rarefied an atmosphere and shutting out rude but bracing blasts. Still
they had a curious charm, and he had felt a hint of warmth in Mrs.
Dalton's welcome that puzzled him.

"We have been expecting you. Bob told us you would come," she said in a
low, sweet voice, and added with a smile: "I wanted to meet you."

Festing wondered what Bob had said about him, but for a time they
tactfully avoided the object of his visit and asked him questions about
his journey. Then Mrs. Dalton got up.

"Helen is in the garden. Shall we look for her?"

She took him across the lawn to a bench beneath a copper beech, and
Festing braced himself when a girl got up. She wore white and the shadow
of the leaves checkered the plain dress. He noted the unconscious grace
of her pose as she turned towards him, and her warm color, which seemed
to indicate a sanguine temperament. Helen Dalton was all that he had
thought, and something more. He knew her level, penetrating glance, but
she had a virility he had not expected. The girl was somehow stronger
than he portrait.

"Perhaps I had better leave you to talk to Mr. Festing," Mrs. Dalton
said presently and moved away.

Helen waited with a calm that Festing thought must cost her much, and
moving a folding chair, he sat down opposite.

"I understand Bob told you I would come," he said. "You see, he is a
friend of mine."

"Yes," she replied with a faint sparkle in her eyes. "He hinted that you
would explain matters. I think he meant you would make some defense for
him."

Festing noted that her voice was low like her mother's, but it had a
firmer note. He could be frank with her, but there was a risk that he
might say too much.

"Well," he said, "I may make mistakes. In fact, it was with much
reluctance I promised to come, and if Bob hadn't insisted----" He paused
and pulled himself together. "On the surface, of course, his conduct
looks inexcusable, but he really has some defense, and I think you ought
to hear it, for your own sake."

"Perhaps I ought," she agreed quietly. "Well, I am willing."

Festing began by relating Charnock's troubles. He meant her to
understand the situation and supplied rather confusing particulars
about prairie farming and mortgages. For all that, the line he took was
strong; he showed how Charnock's embarrassments prevented his offering
her comforts she would find needful and saving her from the monotonous
toil an impoverished farmer's wife must undertake. In the meantime, but
unconsciously, he threw some light on Charnock's vacillating character.

When he stopped Helen mused for a few minutes. Although she had got a
shock when Charnock gave her up, she knew her lover better than when she
had promised to marry him. He came home once in the winter and she had
remarked a change. Bob was not altogether the man she had thought; there
were things that jarred, and his letters gradually made this plainer.
Still she had meant to keep her promise, and his withdrawal hurt. She
had borne something for his sake, because her mother and her relations
had not approved the engagement. Then she roused herself and turned to
Festing.

"You have done your best for your friend and Bob ought to be grateful,
but you both start from a wrong point. Why do you take it for granted
that I would shrink from hardship?"

"I didn't imagine you would shrink," Festing declared. "For all that,
Bob was right. The life is too hard for a girl brought up like you." He
hesitated a moment. "I mean for a girl brought up in your surroundings."

Helen smiled and he knew it was a sign of courage, but had a vague
feeling that he understood why she did so as he looked about. The
sighing in the beech tops had died away and the shadows did not move
upon the lawn. A heavy smell of flowers came from the borders and
the house seemed to be sleeping in the hot sunshine. Everything was
beautiful, well-ordered, and tranquil, but he knew if he stayed
there long he would hear the cry of the black geese and the clang of
flung-down rails ring through the soporific calm. Something in the
girl's face indicated that she might find the calm oppressive and
sympathize with him.

"What is Bob going to do now he has lost his farm?" she asked after a
time.

"In one respect, he won't be much worse off. They expect a boom at
the settlement, and he'll manage the hotel and store and poolroom for
Keller. The old man will probably retire soon and Bob will get the
business."

"But why should the proprietor give the business to Bob?"

"He's Sadie's father," Festing answered with some surprise.

"But who is Sadie?"

Festing looked up sharply and saw that Helen was puzzled and suspicious.
Her eyes were harder and her mouth was set.

"Ah!" he said. "Don't you know?"

A wave of color flushed Helen's face, but her voice was level. "I don't
know! It looks as if Bob had not told me the most important thing. Do
you mean that he is going to marry Miss Keller?"

Festing felt pitiful. He saw that she had got a shock, but she bore it
pluckily, and he tried to conquer his indignant rage. Charnock had let
him believe he had told her; he ought to have realized that the fellow
could not act straight.

"I thought you knew," he stammered.

"That's obvious," Helen replied with an effort for calm. "But tell me
something about Miss Keller."

"Sadie runs the hotel and helps at the store. She's rather pretty and
intelligent. In fact, she's generally capable and a good manager."

"You seem to know her well since you call her Sadie."

"Oh," said Festing, "everybody calls her Sadie!"

"You mean in the bar and poolroom? I understand the latter's a public
billiard-saloon!"

Festing felt that he must do Sadie justice. She had her virtues, and
although he was very angry with Charnock he did not want Helen to think
the fellow had given her up for a worthless rival. Still he was not sure
if his putting the girl in a favorable light would soften the blow or
not.

"To begin with, they don't employ women in a Canadian bar. Then Sadie's
quite a good sort and understands Bob--perhaps better than an English
girl could. She was brought up on the plains and knows all about the
life we lead."

"You imply that she is not fastidious, and will be lenient to her
husband's faults? That she will bring him down to her level?"

"Well," said Festing, who thought Helen did not know Charnock's
dissipated habits, "I imagine she'll keep him there, and that's
something. I mean she won't let him sink below her level; Sadie's shrewd
and determined. Then marriage is a problem to men like Bob farming the
plains. Girls of the type they have been used to and would naturally
choose couldn't stand the hardships."

"So they are satisfied with a lower type? With any girl who pleases
their eye?"

"I don't think that's quite fair," Festing objected. "Besides, lower is
rather vague."

"Then would you, for example, be satisfied with a girl like Miss
Keller?"

"Certainly not," said Festing, with incautious firmness. "Anyway, not
now I've seen a different kind in the Old Country."

Helen turned her head and said nothing for a few moments. Then she got
up.

"I think you have had a difficult task, Mr. Festing, and I must thank
you for the way you have carried it out. We won't speak of it again; but
perhaps if Muriel Gardiner----"

"She hasn't asked me any questions or hinted that she is curious."

There was a gleam of amusement in Helen's eyes. "So you imagined she
wasn't interested! Well, you can tell her about Bob's losses and farming
troubles. You understand these matters, and it will save me something."

Festing made a sign of agreement and Helen went with him to the terrace,
where Mrs. Dalton told him when he would find them at home if he wished
to come again. He was glad to leave because he thought the interview had
been difficult for Helen, but her mother had made him feel that if he
came back he would be welcome. This was not altogether conventional
politeness; he imagined she wanted to see him, although she was
obviously willing to let him go then.

He puzzled about it and other matters as he rode back. Helen Dalton was
finer than her picture. He had, no doubt, been awkward and had hurt her
by his clumsiness, while she had got a painful shock, but had borne it
with unflinching pluck. Her calm had not deceived him, since he knew
what it cost, and her smile had roused his pity because it was so brave.
Then his anger against Charnock returned with extra force. The fellow,
as usual, had shirked his duty, and left him to tell the girl he had
really given her up because he meant to marry somebody else. Festing
thought she was too just to blame him for Bob's fault, but he had been
forced to witness her humiliation, and she would, no doubt, avoid him
because of this. Well, he had done with Bob, although he would see him
once on his return and tell him what he thought.

Then he heard a shout and saw a farmer trying to move a loaded cart out
of his way. He had not noticed that he was riding furiously down a hill,
but he sped past the cart upon the grassy margin of the road and laughed
as he went on. His mood had changed and he resolved that he would go
back to the creeper-covered house when Helen had had time to recover and
his society would be less disturbing. After all, Mrs. Dalton had told
him he might come.

In the evening he walked up and down the terrace with Muriel, and
told her why he had gone to Knott Scar, although he was satisfied
with relating Charnock's financial troubles and said nothing about his
engagement to Sadie. He could not say that Muriel actually led him on,
but he felt that she would be disappointed if he did not take her into
his confidence.

"Of course I saw you knew all about it," she said when he stopped.
"Besides, I expected that Helen would give you leave to tell me. It
would make things easier for her and be more authentic."

"I should expect Miss Dalton to think of that."

Muriel smiled. "Perhaps not. Well, I imagine it's lucky Charnock
released her; Helen is much too good for him. I suppose you thought
you took the proper line in laying all the stress you could upon the
hardships?"

"I did. I thought she couldn't stand the strain she would have had to
bear."

"How did she take that?"

"She seemed surprised, as if she didn't think it much of a reason for
Charnock letting her go."

"Frankly, I don't think it was."

"You haven't been to Canada. The life is hard."

"It doesn't seem to have broken down your health or nerve."

"That's different. A man gets used to hardships and discomfort. They're
sometimes bracing."

"A very masculine attitude! Then men alone have pluck and endurance?"

"There are two kinds of pluck," Festing rejoined. "I dare say you
surpass us in the moral kind--I'm sure Miss Dalton has more than
Charnock. But there's the other; physical courage, and if you like,
physical strength."

Muriel looked amused. "And you imagine Helen is deficient there? Well, I
suppose you don't know she's the best tennis player in the county and a
daring rock-climber. Girls are taking to mountaineering now, you know.
But are you going back to the Daltons?"

Festing thought she gave him a keen glance, but answered steadily: "I am
going back, but not for some time. I want to go, but it might be kinder
if I kept away."

"Well, it's a very proper feeling and you're rather nice. But you talked
about going to see the mountains for a few days. When do you start?"

"I don't know yet. Everything here is so charming, and I'm getting the
habit of lazy enjoyment. It will need an effort to go away."

"You're certainly nice," Muriel rejoined, smiling. "However, you might
tell me when you do think of starting. I don't want you to be away
when we have arranged something to amuse you; and then, as I know the
mountains, I can indicate an interesting tour. You might miss much if
you didn't know where to go and what you ought to see."

Festing promised, and she left him and went back to the house with a
thoughtful smile that hinted that she had begun to make an amusing plan.
Muriel was romantic and rather fond of managing her friends' affairs for
their good.



CHAPTER VII

HELEN TAKES THE LEAD

Festing was glad to sit down when he reached the bottom of a chasm that
divided the summits of two towering fells. He had crossed the higher of
the two without much trouble except for a laborious scramble over large,
rough stones, but the ascent of the other threatened to be difficult.
It rose in front, a wall of splintered crag, seamed by deep gullies,
for the strata was tilted up nearly perpendicular. All the gullies were
climbed by expert mountaineers, but this needed a party and a rope, and
the other way, round the shoulder of the great rock, was almost as hard.
Festing knew the easiest plan was to descend a neighboring hollow, from
which he would find a steep path to the top.

Lighting his pipe, he glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock in the
afternoon, and having been on his feet since breakfast, he felt tired.
The nails he had had driven into his light American boots hurt his feet,
and the boots were much the worse for the last few days' wear. Muriel
had carefully planned the trip, and then delayed his start by a week
because she wanted to take him to a tennis party. Since he could not
play tennis much, Festing did not see why she had done so, but agreed
when she insisted.

So far, he had followed her instructions and admitted that she had
directed him well, because it was hard to imagine there was anything in
England finer than the country he had seen. The mountains had not the
majestic grandeur of the British Columbian ranges, but they were wild
enough, and pierced by dales steeped in sylvan beauty. The chasm in
which he now rested had an impressive ruggedness.

Blinks of sunshine touched the lower face of the crag, and in their
track the dark rock glittered with a steely luster, but trails of mist
rolled among the crannies above. Below, a precipitous slope of small
stones that the dalesmen call a scree ran down to a hollow strewn with
broken rocks, and across this he could distinguish the blurred flat top
of another height. The mountain dropped to a dale that looked profoundly
deep, although he could not see its bottom.

The light was puzzling. For the most part, the sky was clear and the
gleams of sun were hot, but heavy, black clouds drifted about, and
a thick gray haze obscured the lower ground. Rain and mist would be
dangerous obstacles, but Festing understood that he could reach the dale
in about two hours' steady walking. Muriel had told him where to stop;
indeed, she had been rather particular about this, and had recommended
him to spend two days in the neighborhood. Luckily, there would be no
crags to climb if he kept the path across the summit, for he had found
it easier to reach the top of the hills than get down by a different
line.

A rattle of stones made him look up, and he saw two girls silhouetted in
a flash of sunshine against the face of the crag. They carried bulging
rucksacks and were coming down towards him, picking their way among the
tumbled rocks. He could not see the face of the first, but noticed her
light poise and graceful movements as she sprang from stone to stone.
The other followed cautiously and Festing thought she limped, but when
the first stopped to wait for her and lifted her head he felt a curious
thrill. It was Helen Dalton.

He sat still, knowing his gray clothes would be hard to distinguish
among the stones, and wondering what to do. He did not want to force his
society upon the girl just yet, but would be disappointed if she passed.
She came on, and when her eyes rested on him he got up. A flush of
embarrassment colored her face, but she stopped and greeted him with a
smile.

"Mr. Festing! How did you get here?"

"I came over the Pike," said Festing. "I'm going to the dale."

"So are we," said Helen, who presented him to her companion.

Festing remarked that they wore jackets that had a tanned look,
unusually short skirts, and thick nailed boots. Then he thought Helen's
eyes twinkled.

"You would not have expected to find me engaged in anything so strenuous
as this?"

"It is rather strenuous," Miss Jardine broke in. "You can stand if you
like; I'm going to sit down."

They found a flat stone, and when Festing leaned against another Helen
resumed: "We meant to try the Stairs, but have had a hard day and Alison
is lame."

"I hurt my foot," Miss Jardine explained. "Besides, I'm from the level
Midlands and we have been walking since breakfast. That doesn't matter
to Helen; she is never tired."

Festing thought Helen looked remarkably fresh. Exertion and the mountain
air had brought a fine color to her face, her eyes were bright, and
there was a hint of vigor in her resting pose. Moreover, he had studied
the Stairs, which led behind the shoulder of the crag to the summit. One
could get up, if one was thin enough to squeeze through a gap between
two rocks, but nerve and agility would be required.

"But you must climb pretty well, if you meant to get up the Stairs," he
said.

"I know the Carnarvon range, but only go there now and then, and one
needs some training to keep pace with people born among the fells who
walk like mountain goats."

Had she said a mountain deer, Festing would have approved, for he had
noted Helen's easy balance and fearless grace as she crossed the ragged
blocks of stone. Then a rumble of distant thunder rolled among the crags
and Miss Jardine resumed: "We ought to fix upon the best way down."

"The best is a rather elastic term," Helen rejoined. "The easiest would
be to go back by the way we came."

"It's much too far."

"The shortest is up the crag by the Stairs or the gully on the other
side. The regular track takes us down near the bottom of the next dale,
and then back over the top."

"That's unthinkable," Miss Jardine declared.

"Well," said Helen thoughtfully, "there's a short line down the scree
and across the shoulder of the fell below, but it's steep and rough.
There are some small crags, too, but they're not much of an obstacle
when they're dry."

They set off and Festing noticed Helen's confidence on the scree. The
descent was safe, but looked daunting, because their figures made a
sharp angle with the gravel slope, and now and then a mass of dislodged
stones rushed down hill. Sometimes the girl allowed herself to slide,
sometimes she ran a few yards and sprang, but she did not stumble or
lose her balance. Miss Jardine was cautious, and Festing kept near her,
carrying her sack.

At the bottom they came to a wide belt of massive stones, fallen from
the heights above, and their progress was slow. One had to measure the
gaps between the blocks and step carefully across, while the stones were
ragged and had sharp corners. Festing was unable to look up and followed
Helen, but after a time Miss Jardine stopped, and he saw that the crags
were smothered in leaden cloud and all the sky was dark.

"I must have a few minutes' rest," the tired girl declared.

As they sat down on the edge of a ponderous slab there was a crash of
thunder that rolled from rock to rock, and a few big drops fell. Then
as the echoes died away the hillside was hidden by a curtain of driving
rain. One end of the slab was tilted and they crept into the hollow
underneath.

"It will be awkward if this goes on," Miss Jardine remarked.

"These thunderstorms seldom last," said Helen. "I expect we have seen
the worst, and we must start again as soon as we can see."

Festing thought she was anxious to get down, but Miss Jardine grumbled
about the rain, and then turned to him.

"It was a relief to give you my sack, and I was glad to see it didn't
bother you. I suppose you are used to these mountains."

"No," said Festing. "This is the first time I've climbed a hill for
amusement."

"But you are a climber. You have balance, trust your feet and not your
hands, and know how to step on a loose stone."

Festing laughed. "I used to do something of the kind as a matter of
business. You see, I helped mark out the line for a new railroad in
British Columbia, and rocks are plentiful in that country."

"It must be a wonderful place," said Helen. "I have a photograph of the
gorge at the foot of the glacier, where the line went through. You had
stern work when you laid the rails in winter."

Festing looked at her in surprise, for he had worked to the edge of
exhaustion and run many risks at the spot, but while he wondered how she
knew Helen got up.

"I think the rain is stopping and we can start," she said.

There was not much rain, but thick mist rolled across the top of the
hill they were now level with, and everything below was blotted out.
Leaving the stones, they crossed a belt of boggy grass where their feet
sank, but Festing felt it a relief to have done with the rocks. The
narrow tableland they were crossing was comfortingly flat, and he looked
forward to descending a long grassy slope. When they reached the edge,
however, he got a rude disappointment, for the mist rolled up in waves
with intervals between, and when a white cloud passed a gray light shone
down into the gulf at his feet.

In the foreground there was a steep slope where rock ledges broke
through the wet turf, and in one place a chasm cleft the hill. He could
not see the bottom, for it was filled with mist, but the height of the
rock wall hinted at its depth. A transverse ravine ran into the chasm,
and he could hear the roar of a waterfall. Then the mist rolled up in a
white smother and blotted everything out.

"We cross the beck," said Helen. "Then we go nearly straight down,
keeping this side of the big ghyll."

"As far away as possible, I hope. I don't like its look," Miss Jardine
remarked.

Festing agreed with her. So far as he could see, the descent looked
forbidding, but there was no sign of the sky's clearing, and it was
obvious that they must get down. The thunder had gone, but the mist
brought a curious, searching damp, and a cold wind had begun to blow. He
was glad to think Helen knew the way.

She took them down a steep pitch where small rocky ledges dropped nearly
vertical among patches of rotten turf and it was needful to get a good
grip with one's hands as well as with one's feet. Festing helped Miss
Jardine when he could, but he had an unpleasant feeling that a rash
step might take him over the edge of a precipice. Sometimes he could see
Helen in front, and sometimes, for a few moments, her figure was lost
in the mist. He was glad to note that she was apparently going down with
confidence.

After a time the slope got easier and she stopped, lifting her hand.
Festing found her looking into a ravine through which water flowed. It
was not very deep, but its sides were perpendicular. Seeing that Miss
Jardine was some distance behind, she looked at Festing with a quiet
smile.

"There is a place where one can cross without much trouble, but I don't
know whether to go up or down."

Festing felt his heart beat. It looked as if she had taken him into her
confidence and asked his help.

"Not down, I think. That would take us to the big ghyll. Let's try up,
and cross at the first practicable spot."

Helen made a sign of agreement, and when Miss Jardine joined them they
turned back along the edge of the ravine. By and by Helen stopped where
patches of wet soil checkered the steep rock and a mountain-ash offered
a hold. Almost immediately below the spot, the stream plunged over a
ledge and vanished into the mist.

Festing looked at Helen. The descent would be awkward, if not dangerous,
but he could trust her judgment. It was the first time he had allowed a
woman to give him a lead in a difficulty, and he admitted that he would
not have done so had his guide been anybody else.

"I think we can get across, and I don't want to go too far up," she
said. "If you don't mind helping Alison--"

"I'll throw the sacks across first," Festing replied.

He swung them round by the straps and let them go, and when the last
splashed into a boggy patch on the other side Miss Jardine laughed.

"I'm selfishly glad that one is yours. If Helen's had fallen a foot
short, it would have gone over the fall, but I expect she had a reason
for taking the risk. Where our clothes have gone we must follow."

Helen seized a tuft of heather, and sliding down, reached a narrow shelf
four or five feet below. Then a small mountain-ash gave her a fresh hold
and she dropped to the top of a projecting stone. Below this there was
another shelf and some boggy grass, after which a bank of earth dropped
nearly straight to the stream.

"How we shall get down the last pitch isn't very obvious," Miss Jardine
remarked. "I suppose we will see when we arrive. It isn't my resolution
that gives way, but my foot. You might go first."

Festing dropped on to the first shelf, and she came down into his arms.
The shock nearly flung him off, but he steadied her with an effort and
seized the stem of the small tree.

"Looks like a tight-wire trick," he said, glancing at the stone.
"However, if we miss it, there's another ledge below."

He reached the stone, and balancing on it with one foot, kicked a hole
in the spongy turf. Finding this would support him he held out his hand.

"Now. As lightly as you can!"

The girl came down, struck the stone with her foot, and slipped, but
Festing had time to clutch her first. He could not hold her back, but he
could steady her, and for a moment felt his muscles crack and the peat
tear out from the hole in the bank. Then his hands slipped and he fell,
gasping and red in face, upon the shelf beside the girl.

"Thank you; you did that rather well," she said. "It looks as if I were
heavier than you thought."

While he had been occupied Festing imagined he had heard a splash, and
now looking down saw Helen standing on a boulder in the stream. She gave
him an approving nod before she sprang to the next stone, and he felt
a thrill of pleasure. She knew his task was difficult and was satisfied
with him.

When they came to the scar where the floods had torn away the bank he
hesitated. It was some distance to the water, and there was no hold upon
the wall of soil, which was studded with small round stones.

"Helen slid," his companion remarked. "I imagine she chose her time; the
sitting glissade isn't elegant. But if you'll go first and wait--"

Festing leaned back with his shoulders against the bank and pushed off.
He alighted in the water, and Miss Jardine, coming down, kicked his
arm. He saved her from a plunge into the stream, but thought she looked
something the worse for wear as they made their way from stone to stone.
The other bank was easier, and for a time they had not much trouble in
going down hill, but the mist was very thick, and presently the steep
slope broke off close in front. Helen stopped and beckoned Festing.

Looking down, he saw the wet face of a crag drop into the rolling vapor.
For eight or nine feet it was perpendicular, and afterwards ran down at
a very steep slant, but immediately below there was a gully with a foot
or two of level gravel at its top.

"This is not the regular track," Helen said. "However, I think I know
the gully."

Festing pondered. The rock looked daunting, but one might get down to
the patch of gravel. The trouble was that one could not see what lay
below, and it might be difficult to climb back, if this was needful.

"I could get as far as the edge yonder," he suggested.

"No," said Helen. "You don't know the gully, and if I'm mistaken about
it, you could help me up."

"That's true. Still I'd sooner go."

Helen shook her head, and although she did not speak, he felt there was
something delightful in her consulting him. They had come to know each
other on the misty hillside in a way that would not have been possible
in conventional surroundings. He had seen a possibility of the girl, so
to speak, shutting him out in self-defense because he had had some part
in her humiliation, but he thought that risk had gone.

"Well," he resumed, "what do you propose?"

"I'm going to see if this is the place I think. You can steady me."

Festing lay down with his head over the edge and found a grip for his
toes and knees. There were a few cracks in the rock and Helen had got
half way down before she took his hands. He felt the strain and braced
himself, determined that he would be pulled over before he let her fall.

"Loose me now," she said.

"Have you got a safe hold for your foot?" Festing gasped.

"I think I have. Let go."

"Make sure first," he answered with a sobbing breath.

She looked up into his set face, and although the strain was heavy he
thrilled as he saw her smile. The smile indicated courage and trust.

"I'm quite safe," she said, and he let her go.

She leaned cautiously over the next edge, but after a moment or two
turned and waved her hand.

"This is the way I thought. Send Alison down."

Miss Jardine descended with some help from both, and Festing dropped
safely on the gravel. He leaned against the rock to get his breath, and
Helen turned to him with a twinkle.

"You doubted my nerve once. I suppose that was why you didn't let go."

"I'm sometimes dull," said Festing. "Just now, however, I wanted to make
certain I could help you back."

Helen laughed. "Well, I dare say you could have lifted me, but it would
have been simpler to lower me your coat."

They went down the gully, where jambed stones made rude steps, and
reaching the bottom found a belt of grass that led them to the head of
a dale. The mist was thinner, and presently a few scattered houses
appeared across the fields. The path they followed forked, and Helen
stopped at the turning.

"The hotel is yonder to the right," she said. "We are going to the hall,
where they sometimes take people in."

Festing remembered that Muriel had indicated the hall, which he
understood was a well-built farm, as his stopping place. He wanted to go
there, but thought there was some risk of its looking as if he meant to
force his society on the girls. He took the path Helen indicated, and
when he had gone some distance, stopped, hesitated, and then went on.

The girls noted this and Miss Jardine said: "I suppose he remembered
that he has my sack, or else his heart failed him."

Helen looked at her in surprise. "Did you forget?"

"I did not," Miss Jardine admitted. "I thought I wouldn't spoil the
plot. It looked as if he wanted an excuse for meeting us again, but I
think I wronged him. That sudden stop was genuine."

"The sack is yours," said Helen dryly. "But you will need the things
inside."

"I imagine I will get them before long, although it doesn't seem to have
struck him that my clothes are damp. It's rather significant that he
went on when he could have run across the field and caught us up. Have
you known him long?"

"I met him once," said Helen with an impatient frown.

"Rather a good type," Miss Jardine remarked. "I think I should like
Canadians, if they're all like that."

"He isn't a Canadian."

"Then he hasn't been in England for some time, and so far as my
knowledge goes, men like variety. Of course, to some extent, he saw us
under a disadvantage. Mountaineering clothes are comfortable, but one
can't say much more."

"Don't be ridiculous," Helen rejoined and went on across the field.



CHAPTER VIII

A DEBT OF GRATITUDE

After dinner Festing walked across the fields to the farm. It was
raining and a cold wind swept the dale, but a fire burned in the room
into which he was shown and the curtains were drawn. Helen and Miss
Jardine got up when he came in and put the rucksack on the table.

"I'm sorry I forgot this until I'd gone some distance," he said. "Then I
couldn't find anybody to send with it."

"No doubt you wanted your dinner," Miss Jardine suggested.

Festing saw that she wore a different dress that looked rather large.

"No," he said, "it wasn't the dinner that stopped me. Besides, it didn't
strike me that--"

"That I might need my clothes? Well, I don't suppose it would strike
you; but since you have come across in the rain, won't you stop?"

Festing found an old leather chair, and sitting down, looked about with
a sense of satisfaction, for the fire was cheerful after the raw cold
outside. The room was large and old-fashioned, with heavy beams across
the low ceiling. There was a tall clock, and a big, black oak chest;
curled ram's horns and brass candlesticks twinkled on the mantel; an old
copper kettle threw back red reflections near the fire. His companions
occupied opposite sides of a large sheepskin rug, and he felt that both
had charm, though they were different. The contrast added something to
the charm.

Miss Jardine's skin was a pure white; her hair and eyes were nearly
black, and she had a sparkling, and perhaps rather daring, humor.
Helen's colors were rose and cream, her hair changed from warm brown to
gold as it caught the light, and her eyes were calm and gray. She was
younger than the other and he thought her smile delightful, but, as a
rule, she was marked by a certain gravity. Her wide brows and the firm
lines of her mouth and nose hinted at pride and resolution.

"I hope your foot is better," he said to Miss Jardine.

"Yes, thanks. It mainly needed rest, and I must confess that I didn't
find it altogether a drawback when we stopped at the bottom of the big
crag. I should have had to go up if I hadn't been lame."

"You were not disappointed because you couldn't reach the top?"

Miss Jardine laughed. "Helen was. She makes it a rule to accomplish what
she undertakes. I wasn't disappointed then, though I am now. Perhaps
one really enjoys mountaineering best afterwards. You like to think
how adventurous you have been, but it's sometimes difficult while the
adventure's going on."

"That's true," Festing agreed. "Still you feel sorry if, as we say, you
are unable to put the thing over."

Helen gave him a sympathetic smile. "Yes; one feels that."

"It depends upon one's temperament," Miss Jardine objected. "I know my
limits, though Helen does not know hers. When I can't get what I'm out
for, I'm satisfied with less. One can't always have the best."

"It's worth trying for, anyway," Festing replied.

He was afraid this sounded priggish. Miss Jardine got up.

"Well, I'm not much of a philosopher and had better put out some of the
clothes you brought to dry, although it was thoughtful of you to throw
your bag into the bog instead of mine."

"That was an accident," Festing declared. "I meant to throw them both
across."

Miss Jardine picked up the sack. "There's nobody else here and a wet
evening's dreary. I hope you won't go before I come back."

"I won't," said Festing. "They have only a deaf tourist and two tired
climbers, who seem sleepy and bad-tempered, at the hotel."

Miss Jardine's eyes twinkled. "Well," she said as she went out, "I
suppose it's a fair retort."

Festing colored and looked at Helen apologetically. "You see, I have
lived in the woods."

"I expect that has some advantages," said Helen, who liked his frank
embarrassment. "However, it was lucky I met you to-day. You didn't come
back to see us, and there is something----" She hesitated and then
gave him a steady glance. "You are not so much a stranger to us as you
imagine."

Festing wondered what she meant and whether she knew about the portrait,
but she resumed: "As a matter of fact, my mother and I felt that we knew
you rather well."

"I don't understand."

"Some time since, you found a young Englishmen in a Western mining town.
He had been ill and things had gone against him."

"Ah," said Festing sharply. "Of course! I ought to have known----He
looked like you. I mean I ought to have known the name. Was he a
relative?"

"My brother," Helen replied.

She was silent for a moment or two, and then went on in a tone that made
Festing's heart beat: "You gave him work and helped him to make a new
start. He was too proud to tell us about his difficulties."

"It cost me nothing; there was a job waiting. Afterwards he got on by
his own merits. I had nothing to do with that."

"But you gave him his chance. We can't forget this. George was younger
than me. I have no other brother, and was very fond of him. Indeed, I
think we owe you much, and my mother is anxious to give you her thanks."

"Is he all right now? I lost sight of him when they sent me to another
part of the road. It was my fault--he wrote, but I'm not punctual at
answering letters, and hadn't much time."

"He is in the chief construction office," Helen replied. "In his
last letter he told us about the likelihood of his getting some new
promotion." She paused and resumed with a smile: "I don't suppose you
know you were a hero of his."

"I didn't know. As a rule, the young men we had on the road seemed to
find their bosses amusing and rather patronized them. Of course, they
were fresh from a scientific college or engineer's office, and, for the
most part, we had learned what we knew upon the track."

"But you knew it well. George wrote long letters about the struggle you
had at the canyon. Some fight, he called it."

"Well," said Festing quietly, "we were up against it then. The job was
worth doing."

"I know. George told us how the snowslide came down and filled the head
of the gorge with stones and broken trees, and wash-outs wrecked the
line you built along its side. He said it was a job for giants;
clinging to the face of the precipice while you blew out and built
on--under-pinning, isn't it?--the first construction track. But he
declared the leaders were fine. They were where the danger was, in the
blinding rain and swirling snow--and the boys, as he called them, would
always follow you."

Festing colored, but Helen went on: "We were glad, when the worst was
over, that he had had this training. It was so clean a fight."

"We were dirty enough often," Festing objected with an effort at humor.
"When things were humming we slept in our working clothes, which were
generally stained with mud and engine grease. Then I don't suppose you
know how dissipated a man looks and feels when he has breathed the fumes
of giant-powder."

She stopped him with a half imperious glance. "I know it's the
convention to talk of such things as a joke; but you didn't feel that in
the canyon. Then it was a stubborn fight of the kind that man was meant
to wage. If you win in trade and politics, somebody must lose, but a
victory over Nature is a gain to all. And when your enemies are storms
and floods, cheating and small cunning are not of much use."

"That is so," Festing agreed, smiling. "When you're sent to cut through
an icy rock or re-lay the steel across the gap a snowslide has made,
it's obvious if you have done the job or not. This has some drawbacks,
because if you don't make good, you often get fired."

"But that was not what drove you on. You must have had a better motive
for making good."

Festing felt embarrassed. The girl was obviously not indulging a
sentimental vein. She felt what she frankly hinted at, and although he
generally avoided imaginative talk, her remarks did not sound cheap or
ridiculous.

"Well," he said, "the fear of getting fired is a pretty strong incentive
to do one's best, but I suppose when one gets up against big things
there is something else. After all, one hates to be beaten."

Helen's eyes sparkled and she gave him a sympathetic nod. "The hate of
being beaten distinguishes man from the ape and puts him on the side of
the angels."

Then Miss Jardine came in, somewhat to the relief of Festing, who
felt he could not keep up long on Helen's plane. Besides, he was not
altogether sure he understood her last remark.

"I heard," said Miss Jardine. "Helen's sometimes improving, but perhaps
she was right just now. The ape is cunning but acquiescent and accepts
things as they are. Man protests, and fights to make them better. At
least, he ought to, though one can't say he always does."

Festing did not reply and she sat down and resumed: "But I suppose you
haven't many shirkers in Canada?"

"I imagine we have as many wastrels as there are anywhere else, but as
a rule one doesn't find them in the woods and on the plains. When they
leave the cities they're apt to starve."

"You're a grim lot. Work or starve is a stern choice, particularly if
one has never done either. It looks as if you hadn't much use for purely
ornamental people. But what about the half-taught women who don't know
how to work? What do you do with them?"

"They're not numerous. Then one can always learn, and I imagine every
woman can cook and manage a house."

"You're taking much for granted, though yours seems to be the
conventional view. But how did you learn railroad building, for
example?"

"By unloading ties and shoveling ballast on the track. The trouble was
that I began too late."

"What did you do before that?"

"Sometimes I worked in sawmills and sometimes packed--that means
carrying things--for survey parties, and went prospecting."

"In the wilds? It sounds interesting. Won't you tell us about it?"

Festing complied; awkwardly at first, and then with growing confidence.
He did not want to make much of his exploits, but there was a charm in
talking about things he knew to two clever and attractive girls, and
they helped him with tactful questions. Indeed, he was surprised to find
they knew something about the rugged country in which he wandered.
He told them about risky journeys up lonely rivers in the spring,
adventurous thrusts into the wilderness where hardship was oftener to be
found than valuable minerals, and retreats with provisions running out
before the Arctic winter.

Something of the charm of the empty spaces colored his narratives as
he drew from memory half-finished pictures of the mad riot of primitive
forces when the ice broke up and the floods hurled the thundering floes
among the rocks; and of tangled woods sinking into profound silence
in the stinging frost. Moreover, he unconsciously delineated his own
character, and when he stopped, the others understood something of the
practical resource and stubbornness that had supported him.

It was encouraging to see they were not bored, but he did not know that
Miss Jardine had found him an interesting study and had skilfully led
him on. He was a new type to both girls, although Helen was nearer
to him than the other and sympathized where her companion was amused.
Festing's ideas were clean-cut, his honesty was obvious, and she noted
that he did not know much about the lighter side of life. Yet she saw
that, sternly practical as he was, he had a vague feeling for romance.

"Will you stay on the railroad when it's finished?" she asked presently.

"I've left it. I hadn't the proper training to carry me far, and as the
road is opening up the country I've bought a prairie farm."

"But do you know much about farming?"

"I don't. As a matter of fact, not many of the boys do know much when
they begin, but somehow they make progress. On the plains, it isn't what
you know that counts, but the capacity for work and staying with your
job. That's what one really needs, if you see what I mean."

"I think I do," Miss Jardine replied. "A Victorian philosopher, whose
opinions you seem to hold, said something of the kind. He claims that
genius takes many different forms, but is not different in itself. That
is, if you have talent, you can do what you like. Build railroads, for
example, and then succeed on a farm."

Festing laughed good-humoredly. "It's a pretty big thing to claim, but
that man was near the mark; they live up to his theories on the plains,
where shams don't count and efficiency's the test. I don't mean that the
boys have genius, but gift and perseverance seem to be worth as much.
Anyhow, one can generally trust them to make good when they undertake a
job they don't know much about."

Helen mused. Charnock, who knew something about farming, had tried
it and failed, but she thought Festing would succeed. The man
looked determined and, in a way, ascetic; he could deny himself and
concentrate. Knowledge was not worth as much as character. But she was
content to let Miss Jardine lead the talk.

"One understands," said the latter, "that farming's laborious and not
very profitable work."

"It's always laborious," Festing agreed. "It may be profitable; that
depends. You see----"

He went on, using plain words but with some force of imagination, to
picture the wheat-grower's hopes and struggles; but he did more, for as
he talked Helen was conscious of the romance that underlay the patient
effort. She saw the empty, silent land rolling back to the West; the
ox-teams slowly breaking the first furrow, and then the big Percheron
horses and gasoline tractors taking their place. Wooden shacks
dotted the white grass, the belts of green wheat widened, wagons,
and afterwards automobiles, lurched along the rutted trails. Then the
railroad came, brick homestead and windmills rose, and cities sprang up,
as it were, in a night. Everything was fluid, there was no permanence;
rules and customs altered before they got familiar, a new nation, with
new thoughts and aims, was rising from the welter of tense activity.

Then Festing got up with an apologetic air. "I'm afraid I've stopped
too long and talked too much. Still the big movement out there is
fascinating and people in this country don't grasp its significance. I
felt I'd like to make you understand. Then you didn't seem--"

"If we had been bored, it would have been our fault, but we were not
bored at all," Miss Jardine replied. "At least, I wasn't, and don't
think Helen was."

Helen added her denial and gave Festing her hand. When he had gone Miss
Jardine looked at her with a smile.

"He was interesting," she remarked. "Talks better than he knows, and I
suppose we ought to feel flattered, because he took our comprehension
for granted. After all, it was rash to talk about Canadian progress to
two English girls."

"You made him talk," Helen rejoined. "It's the first time I've known you
interested in geography."

Miss Jardine laughed. "I was interested in the man. He told us a good
deal about himself, although it would have embarrassed him if he'd
guessed. The curious thing is that he imagines he's practical, while
he's really a reckless sentimentalist."

Helen did not answer and picked up a book, but she thought more about
Festing than about what she read.



CHAPTER IX

FESTING LOSES HIS TEMPER

Next morning Festing got breakfast early and set off down the dale. This
was not the way Muriel had indicated, but he thought it better to avoid
temptation. The girls had received him graciously at the farm and had
perhaps listened with unusual patience, but if he overtook them in the
morning the thing might look too marked. Besides, he doubted if it was
advisable that Helen should see him again so soon, since he might remind
her of matters she wished to forget.

The self-denial cost him something, and he went down the dale
irresolutely, stopping once or twice to look back. It was annoying to
feel himself so weak, because he had seldom vacillated in Canada, but
had chosen the proper line and then stuck to it. As a matter of fact,
he had generally had a definite object and definite plans for its
attainment. Although he had an object now, he was otherwise at a loss.

He meant to marry Helen. Life was strenuous on the plains, and at first
there might be hardships, but if she loved him she would not flinch. Her
portrait had not done her justice; he dwelt upon her fearless confidence
as she came down the screes, her light, sure step, and agile pose. These
things indicated strength of mind and body, and he knew, if the need
came, she would make good use of both.

By and by he thought of Charnock with keener anger than he had yet felt.
Bob was a weak fool and something worse. He had broken the promise and
then tricked his friend. The fellow's character was warped; he could not
go straight, but tried to escape the consequences of his folly in a maze
of crooked ways. The worst was that consequences could not be shirked.
If the real offender avoided them, they fell upon somebody else, and
now Festing had to pay. Bob had prejudiced him with Helen. She would
probably never quite forget that he knew what she had suffered.

Then he remembered that he had meant to spend a week or two in London,
and made his way towards a valley through which a railway ran. Although
he wanted to see Helen, he was half afraid, and imagined that the longer
he waited the less risk he would run of his society jarring. Next day he
left the hills, but did not greatly enjoy his visit to town. London was
much like Montreal, where the buildings were as fine, only they did not
dig up so many streets and fill the air with cement from the towering
blocks of new offices. The English liked permanence, while the Canadians
altered their cities from day to day. Besides he wanted to go back to
the North as soon as it was prudent.

On the evening of his return it rained hard and he talked to Muriel in
her drawing-room. He liked Muriel Gardiner and she frankly enjoyed his
society. It did not matter that she sometimes seemed to find him amusing
when he was serious. A fire burned in the grate, for the summer evening
was cold, his low chair was comfortable, and Muriel, holding a fan to
shield her face, sat opposite in the soft light of a shaded lamp that
left much of the room in shadow. The circle of subdued illumination gave
one a pleasant feeling of seclusion and made for mutual confidence, but
Festing was silent for a time, thinking rather hard.

He was getting used to English comforts, which did not seem so
enervating as he had imagined, but he could give them up, and would,
indeed, be forced to do so when he occupied his prairie homestead. A man
could go without much that people in England required, and be the better
for the self-denial, but it might be different for a girl. Long habit
might make comfort and artistic surroundings actual necessities. It was,
however, encouraging to remember Helen's cheerfulness as she led him
among the crags in the rain. She had pluck and could bear fatigue and
hardship. Besides, there need not be much hardship after all.

Presently Muriel gave him a careless glance. "Helen told me she met you
in the hills and you came over to the hall where she and Alison Jardine
stopped. Now you have had an opportunity of correcting your first
impression, what do you think of her?"

"What I have always thought," Festing replied.

Muriel looked at him with surprise, and then laughed. "Oh, yes; I
remember you saw her portrait first. Well, you have more imagination
than I thought. But I understand you didn't see Helen again, although
she and Alison went over part of the route I marked out for you."

Festing thought her manner was too careless, and felt suspicious, but
he said: "I changed my plans. I thought it might look significant if I
overtook the girls. One doesn't expect an accident to happen twice."

"Perhaps you did the proper thing. But did you want to overtake them?"

"I did," said Festing quietly. "Still I felt I'd better not."

Muriel was silent for a few moments, and then remarked: "Self-denial
such as you practised deserves a reward, and I met Mrs. Dalton while you
were away. She asked me to bring you over when you came back. I suppose
you know what she wants?"

"Yes," said Festing, who looked disturbed. "Do you?"

"Mrs. Dalton told me. You helped George when he needed help, although he
had no particular claim."

"He was ill and unfit for hard work."

"Was that the only difficulty?"

"I don't see what you mean," said Festing, with some embarrassment.

"Then I'll be frank. In what kind of company did you find the lad? You
see, I know something about him."

"If you insist, he'd got into bad hands."

"That was what I suspected, and I think Mrs. Dalton knows. George was
not very steady when he was at home and got into some trouble before he
left the office of a civil engineer. In fact, this was why he went to
Canada."

"But I don't see what it has to do with me."

"I wonder whether you are as dull as you pretend. George is Mrs.
Dalton's only son; although he had faults she and Helen are very fond of
him. Now it would have been something if you had merely helped him
out of a difficulty, but you did much more. You gave him his chance
of making up for past follies. He has been steady ever since, and I
understand is now getting on very well. It looks as if you had used some
moral influence."

"I didn't try," said Festing dryly, "I gave him his job and told him I'd
have him fired if he shirked."

"You didn't consciously try, but it's possible to influence people
without knowing. However, as Mrs. Dalton has too much tact to overwhelm
you by her gratitude, you needn't be afraid of going to the Scar with
me, although you seem to hesitate about meeting Helen."

Festing, who pondered for a few moments, felt that the girl was studying
him. She had shown a rather embarrassing curiosity, but he though she
meant to be his friend.

"Did you know Miss Dalton was in the mountains when you planned my
walking tour?" he asked.

"I did know," said Muriel with a direct glance. "Perhaps I was rash, but
if so, I'm not afraid to own my fault. I suppose you understand why I
sent you where I did?"

"In one way, your object's plain. For all that, I'm puzzled."

Muriel smiled. "As Helen is my friend, you ought to be flattered.
Doesn't it look as if I was satisfied with you?"

"We'll let that go. You took something for granted. I suppose you see
you might have been mistaken about my feelings?"

"Then no harm would have been done," Muriel rejoined, and putting down
her fan, gave him a steady look. "Was I mistaken?"

"You were not," said Festing quietly. "I mean to marry Miss Dalton if
she is willing. I'm anxious to know what chance I've got."

"I can't tell you that. Perhaps I have gone far enough; but George's
reformation is a good certificate of your character, and Helen and her
mother owe you a debt of gratitude."

Festing colored rather angrily. "My helping the lad was, so to speak,
an accident; I don't want to be judged by this, and won't urge the debt.
Miss Dalton must take me on my merits."

"You have pluck; it's a bold claim," said Muriel in a dry tone, and then
got up as Gardiner and the curate came in.

Next day Festing went to the Scar, and when Mrs. Dalton received him she
put her hand gently on his arm. She said enough, but not too much, and
he was moved as he saw the moisture glisten in her eyes.

"I don't deserve this," he answered awkwardly. "I found the lad in some
trouble, but hadn't to make much effort to help him out. In fact, it was
the kind of thing one does without thinking and forgets."

"Ah," said Mrs. Dalton, "the consequences of one's deeds follow one,
whether they're good or bad." Then she gave him a very friendly smile.
"But perhaps we had better join the rest outside."

Festing found Helen in the garden with her aunt and some friends, but
the others left them by and by, and they walked alone among the flowers.
The day was calm, the light clear, and the shadow of the dark beeches on
the hill crept slowly across the lawn. Beyond a low hedge, woods, smooth
pastures, and fields of ripening corn rolled back and melted into the
blue shadow beneath the rugged fells. It seemed to Festing that the
peaceful sylvan landscape was touched by a glamour that centered in the
fresh beauty of the girl. Sometimes they were silent, and sometimes
they talked about the mountains, but when they went back to the house he
thought they had got nearer.

He returned to the Scar without Muriel a week later, and went again, and
one evening stood with Helen on the terrace. Gentle rain had fallen
for most of the day, but it had stopped, and a band of pale-saffron
glimmered under heavy clouds in the West. Moisture dripped from the
motionless branches and the air was hot. The lamps had just been lighted
in the house and a yellow glow streamed out.

"I've stayed longer than I meant and forgot my lamp," Festing remarked.
"However, this has happened before, and I hope I haven't stayed longer
than I ought."

"We will let you go now," said Helen. "For one thing, I must get up
early."

"Eight o'clock?" Festing suggested.

"No," said Helen, smiling. "I am always up before, but it will be six
o'clock to-morrow. I want to gather some mushrooms; they ought to be
plentiful after a day like this."

"Is six o'clock a particularly suitable time?"

"Five o'clock might be better. If you don't go early, you often find
that somebody has been round the fields first."

Festing asked where she expected to find the mushrooms, and when she
told him said, "Very well; I'll meet you. It only means half an hour's
journey on your fine English road; that is, if the bicycle holds up."

"But why do you want to gather mushrooms?"

"I don't want to gather mushrooms. I really want to see you where I
think you belong."

"In the fields?" Helen suggested humorously.

"No," said Festing. "I don't mean in the fields. I've seen you in the
afternoon when the sun's on the ripening corn and the leaves are dark
and thick, but they stand for fulfilment, and that's not your proper
setting. Once or twice I've stopped until evening, but you don't belong
to the dusk."

"Then where do I belong?"

"To the sunrise, when the earth is fresh and the day is getting bright.
Promise is your sign; fulfilment hasn't come."

Helen colored, and as she turned her head it struck her as portentous
that she glanced towards the saffron streak that glimmered in the West.
When she looked back, however, her face was calm.

"Ah!" she said, "I wonder how and where the fulfilment will come!
Sometimes I think of it and feel afraid; my life has been so smooth."

"You won't flinch if you have to bear some strain."

Helen gave him her hand. "Well, you must go now. I will expect you
to-morrow."

She stood looking towards the fading light for some time after his
figure melted into the shadows on the drive. Her heart beat and she felt
a thrill, for she admitted that the man had power to move her. As yet
she would not ask herself how far his power went, but she knew the
question must be answered soon. Other men had flattered her, and she
had smiled, knowing what their compliments were worth, but she could not
smile now. Then she roused herself and went in quietly.

Festing met her next morning while the sun rose above the rounded masses
of the beech wood, and entering a dewy pasture they skirted a fence
half-smothered in briars. Both felt invigorated by the freshness of
the morning and brushed across the sparkling grass, engaged in careless
talk. By and by as Helen stooped to pick a mushroom a shrill scream came
from beyond the fence, and she rose with an angry color in her face.

"Oh!" she said; "that spoils everything!"

"What is it?" Festing asked as the pitiful scream rose again.

"A rabbit, choking, in a snare," she answered with a look of horror.

Festing leaped across a ditch and plunged into the briars. Helen heard
the rotten fence-rails smash and he vanished behind the thorny branches
that closed across the gap. She was glad he had gone so quickly; partly
because it was her wish, and partly because she saw the cry of pain had
moved him. She liked to think he was compassionate.

As a matter of fact, Festing's pity was soon mixed with rage as he came
upon a scene of barbarous cruelty. Three or four rabbits lay quiet upon
the grass, but there were others that struggled feebly at his approach;
their eyes protruding and strangling wires cutting into their
throats. He thought they were past his help, but one rolled round with
half-choked screams and he ran to it first. It was difficult to hold the
struggling animal while he opened the thin brass noose, but he set it
free, and it lay paralyzed with fear for a few moments before it ran
off.

Then he released the others as gently as he could. Their dew-draggled
bodies felt cold and limp and the wire had bitten deep into the swollen
flesh. Two, however, feebly crawled away and he carried another to
the mouth of a burrow, after which he wiped the dew and blood from
his hands, while his lips set in a firm line. He hoped he was not a
sentimentalist, and admitted that man must kill to eat; moreover he had
used the rifle in the Northern wilds. Once a hungry cinnamon bear had
raided the camp, and he remembered a certain big bull moose. That was
clean sport, for a man who faced such antagonists must shoot quick and
straight, but this torturing of small defenseless creatures revolted
him. Still he admitted that it might not have done so quite so much but
for the pain it caused the girl.

Helen glanced at him with some surprise when he went back to the fence.
She had not seen him look like that.

"I've let them go, but two or three are dead," he remarked. "I suppose
they've been lying there all night."

"I'm afraid so. They come out to feed at dusk. It's horribly cruel."

"It's devilish! Why don't you stop it? Is the field yours?"

"It goes with the house, and when we let the grazing I stipulated that
no snares should be laid, but there was some mistake and the tenant
claimed the rabbits. We said he could shoot them, and I understand he's
disputing with the agent. But where are you going?"

"I'm going back to finish the job; these particular snares won't be used
again. If you like, I'll come over every evening and pull the blamed
things up."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Helen answered with a strained
laugh.

She felt disturbed and excited when Festing turned away. Her life had
been smooth and she did not think she had seen a man seized by savage
anger; certainly not a man she knew. Festing was angry, and no doubt
justly, but at the Scar the primitive vein in human nature was decently
hidden. Now she did not know if she were jarred or not. Then she heard
voices, and going nearer the fence, tried to see through the briars.

Festing, with a pocket-knife and some brass wire in his hand, confronted
a big slouching man who carried a heavy stick and a net bag. Bits of fur
stuck to the fellow's clothes and there was blood on his dirty hands.
A half-grown lad with another stick waited, rather uneasily, in the
background.

"What might you be doing?" the man inquired.

"I'm cutting up your snares," Festing replied. "What have you got to say
about it?"

The other gave him a slow, sullen look. "Only that you'd better leave
the snares alone. How many rabbits?"

"Four," said Festing, pulling up another snare and cutting the noose.

"Then that will be five shillings. I'll say nothing about the snares;
wire's cheap."

Festing laughed. "It's a dead bluff. Light out of this field before I
put you off."

The man hesitated, his eyes fixed on Festing's hardset face. Perhaps a
way out might have been found, but the lad precipitated matters. Running
to the mouth of the burrow, he picked up a half-dead rabbit that was
trying to crawl away, and leered at Festing as he raised his stick. The
blow was not struck, for Festing leaped across the grass and next moment
the boy fell beside the burrow. He was unhurt, but too surprised to
move, because he had never seen anybody move as fast as the man who
threw him down.

Then Festing heard steps behind, and turned in time to guard his head
with his right arm. It felt numb and he was half dazed by a shock of
pain, but he struck savagely with his left hand and his knuckles jarred
on bone. The other's stick dropped, and when they grappled Festing was
relieved to feel his arm was not broken. His muscles were hard and
well trained, his blood was hot, and a struggle of the kind was not
altogether a novelty. When liquor is smuggled into a construction camp,
a section boss must sometimes use physical force or relinquish his
command.

He staggered and nearly fell as his leg was seized. It looked as if the
lad had come to his master's help; but one could not be fastidious,
and a savage backward kick got rid of the new antagonist. The other was
powerful and stubborn, and Festing spent a strenuous few minutes before
he threw him into the sand beside the burrow.

"I'm pretty fresh and ready to start again if you are," he said. "Still
I reckon you have had enough."

The fellow got up scowling and told the lad to bring his bag.

"You'll hear more about this," he rejoined and slouched off.

Festing went back, and Helen started when he jumped across the ditch.
His jacket was torn, his lip was cut, and his face was bruised. He
looked dishevelled, but not at all embarrassed. In fact, there was a
gleam of half-humorous satisfaction in his eyes.

"The snares are all cut up," he said. "I broke the fellow's stick and
threw away the pegs."

Helen felt a strange desire to laugh. There was something ridiculous in
his naïve triumph, but she was not really amused. In fact, her confused
sensations were puzzling.

"Did you hurt him?" she asked.

"I hope so," said Festing. "I rather think I did and don't expect he'll
come back while I'm about. However, as I can't come here as often as I'd
like, it might be better to see your agent. In the meantime, we'll look
for some mushrooms."

"But don't you want to bathe your face?"

"I forgot that I probably look the worse for wear," said Festing, who
wiped his cut lip. "Still if I met your mother, she might get a shock,
and now I come to think of it, I'm no doubt jarring you, so I'll go off
and see your agent if you'll tell me where he lives."

"It's some distance, and we don't do things so quickly here. I must talk
to my mother first. Besides, the agent may not have got up."

"Then I'll sit on the doorstep. But what is there to talk about? You
don't want your rabbits tortured so that somebody may make thirty cents
apiece. It has got to be stopped, and why not stop it now? Where does
the fellow live?"

Helen told him, and added: "But you can't go like that."

"No; I suppose not," said Festing doubtfully. "It won't make a long
round if I call at Gardiner's. I'll come back later and tell you how
I've fixed things up."

He lifted his badly crushed hat, and when he turned away Helen laughed,
a half-hysterical laugh. His fierce energy had, so to speak, left her
breathless; she was shaken by confused emotions. It was for her sake he
had plunged into the quarrel, but she felt disturbed by his savageness.
For all that, something in her approved, and it was really this that
troubled her. Picking up the basket, she crossed the field with a very
thoughtful look.



CHAPTER X

HELEN DECIDES

Some weeks had passed since Festing went to gather mushrooms when he
sat, one evening, on the terrace in front of Gardiner's house. His brows
were knit and he had in his had a letter from Kerr at the construction
camp. The back of the letter was covered with penciled calculations, but
he presently put it down and looked moodily about.

The larches that sheltered the house had been in full leaf when he came,
but now they were getting bare. One could see the hills through a fine
network of twigs, dotted with minute tassels of gold. The beeches and
oaks looked solid yet, but the former shone warm brown and red against
the others' fading green. Withered leaves fluttered down, and the smell
of a burning heap hung in the damp air.

The touches of brown and gold in the landscape hinted that time was
passing. Winter was already advancing across the wastes of Northern
Canada and the geese and ducks were flying south. Festing heard in fancy
the brant's changing cry that always filled him with unrest, but the
letter in his hand was a clearer call. Kerr had offered him a contract
for hauling a quantity of telegraph posts and logs across the snow,
and his calculations indicated that the work ought to be profitable.
It would keep him occupied all winter; one could buy horses cheap when
harvest was over and sell them advantageously when plowing began in the
spring. Besides, the money he earned would help him to stock his farm
and furnish his homestead well.

He had loitered in England long enough. He would never forget this
holiday, for he had learned what happiness life might have in store;
but it was a happiness that could not be attained by romantic dreams. He
must earn it by tense effort, and was willing to pay the price; this was
the reason he must get back to work. For all that, he had doubts, and
was glad when Muriel came along the terrace and sat down on the bench.

"You look unusually thoughtful," she said.

"I have something to think about. I find I must go back to Canada very
soon."

Muriel made an abrupt movement. "You are going away! But we thought--"
She paused and resumed: "Does Helen know?"

"Not yet; I must tell her. It will cost me something to leave, but I've
got to go. Perhaps you had better see what Kerr has to say."

He gave her the letter, and after waiting until she had read it, went
on: "I can't let this chance pass; I want the money."

"I think I understand," said Muriel. "Still you haven't told me much."

He was silent for a few moments and looked very grave, but she had for
some time imagined that he was bearing a strain.

"Well," he said, "I'm up against things and can't see my way. That is, I
do see where I mean to go, but don't know if I ought."

"The problem's not exactly new. However, if you will state it clearly."

"I'll try," said Festing. "One can trust you; in fact, I wanted to tell
you before."

He explained his difficulties, practical and moral, and when he finished
Muriel said: "It comes to this--You are in love with Helen and mean
to marry her, but hesitate because you fear she may find the life too
hard."

"It's a big risk for an English girl. She must give up everything, while
I have all to gain."

"But suppose she were willing?"

"The trouble is that she doesn't know what she may have to bear."

Muriel smiled. "It's a risk that many girls must run. But after all it
depends upon what she values most."

"Comfort, leisure, refined friends, and other things you enjoy here are
worth much to a girl."

"All this is true," Muriel agreed, and pausing, continued with a blush:
"Still these things don't satisfy every need, and perhaps my example may
be some encouragement. Fred isn't very clever and will probably never be
rich, but I'd sooner face poverty with him than marry a prince."

Festing bowed. "Thank you for that! Fred's a very good sort. I knew you
had pluck."

"I really think Helen is pluckier and stronger than me. But I imagine
you have already made up your mind."

"I have; for all that, I'm afraid. If I have bad luck, Helen will have
to pay. I know she was willing to marry Charnock, but she was very young
then and he was rich compared with me."

"Then I suppose a little money would be a useful help?"

"It would, in one way," Festing agreed. "The trouble is that I haven't
much; only enough to make a fair start if I'm economical."

For a moment Muriel looked amused, but her seriousness returned. "We'll
let that go. You seem to forget that you don't stand alone. I should
have found it hard to forgive Fred if he had decided whether he ought
to marry or not, without consulting me. It's a girl's right, not her
lover's, to say what she values most and how much she is willing to
bear. If Helen loves you, she's entitled to be given the choice."

"Ah," said Festing, "I don't know if she loves me yet!"

Muriel's eyes twinkled. "That is something you must find out for
yourself. But perhaps I have said enough."

She went back to the house and Festing sat still in the gathering dark.
He had made up his mind and felt encouraged, but he saw difficulties
that must be met.

Next day he went to the Scar and found that Helen was not at home, but
Mrs. Dalton and her sister received him, and for a time he talked about
things that did not matter. It was dull and damp outside, and a bright
wood fire burned in the grate. The low-ceilinged room was very warm,
its comfort seemed enervating, and he felt braced as he thought of the
windswept prairie. Then he knew his remarks were vague and disconnected.
It was a relief to plunge into the business he had come about.

"I had better tell you that I am going to ask Helen to marry me," he
said.

Mrs. Dalton did not look surprised, and he thought Miss Graham smiled.
Perhaps he had been abrupt, but he did not care.

"You have done what is proper in warning my sister first," Miss Graham
remarked; but Mrs. Dalton was silent for a few moments.

"You imply that Helen doesn't know," she said.

"She does not; I've been careful not to give her a hint," Festing
declared. "I was afraid to alarm her by, so to speak, rushing things.
You're not used to it in England."

Miss Graham's amusement was plainer. "The caution you exercised must
have cost you something."

"After all, you haven't known Helen long," Mrs. Dalton resumed.

"That's so, in a way, but five minutes was long enough. I knew I'd never
marry anybody else when I saw her in the garden the first day I came."

He thought Miss Graham gave him an approving look, but he turned to Mrs.
Dalton.

"I hope you will give your consent; but, of course, if you object, or
there's anything you want to ask----"

Mrs. Dalton roused herself. She felt breathless, as if she had been
carried along at an unusual pace.

"To begin with," she said quietly, "I cannot object to you. We know
something about your character; you helped my son, helped him more than
you perhaps thought. But there is something I must ask." She hesitated
and then resumed: "You have seen the life Helen leads with us. She
has never had to use much self-denial. What have you to offer her in
Canada?"

"Not much. In fact, that's partly why I came first to you. I felt you
should be warned; that's really what I meant."

"You are honest," Miss Graham interposed. "You want my sister's
approval, but don't think it essential."

Festing looked at Mrs. Dalton. "If you refused, I wouldn't be altogether
daunted. I might wait, but that is all. This is a matter Helen must
decide."

"Yes. All the same, it is my duty to guard her from a possible mistake."

"Very well; I'll make matters as plain as I can. To begin with, I
haven't much money, and although I'm building a good homestead, a
Western farm is very different from the Scar. There's none of the
refinement you have round you; a man must work from sunrise until it's
dark, and there are many demands upon a woman. For all that, I can
guard against Helen suffering actual hardship. In fact, she shall suffer
nothing I can save her from. It's the pressure of things one can't
control and her own character that may cause the strain. If I know her,
she won't stand by and watch when there's much that ought to be done."

"She would not. But how long do you expect the strain to last?"

"Not very long. Two years, three years; I can't tell. When you break new
land you work hard and wait. The railroad throws out branches, elevators
are built, small towns spring up, and while you improve your holding
comfort and often prosperity comes to you."

"But in the meantime a little capital would help?"

"Of course," said Festing. "The trouble is I haven't much, but I think I
have enough to provide all that's strictly necessary."

He thought Mrs. Dalton gave her sister a warning glance, but she said:
"Well, you have my consent to ask Helen; but if she is willing to run
the risk, there is a stipulation I must make."

"So long as you consent, I'll agree to anything," Festing declared. "I
can't repay you for your trust, but I'll try to deserve it."

Mrs. Dalton told him where Helen had gone, and setting off to meet her,
he presently saw her come round a bend in a lane. The sun had set and
tall oaks, growing along the hedgerows, darkened the lane, but a faint
crimson glow from the west shone between the trunks. To the east,
the quiet countryside rolled back into deepening shadow. For a moment
Festing hesitated as he watched the girl advance. It was rash to uproot
this fair bloom of the sheltered English garden and transplant it
in virgin soil, swept by the rushing winds. Then he went forward
resolutely.

Helen gave him her hand and moved on with disturbed feelings, for there
was something different in his look.

"If you don't mind, we'll stop a minute; I have something to say. To
begin with, I'm going back to Canada."

She looked up sharply and then waited with forced calm until he resumed:
"That precipitates matters, because I must learn if I've hoped for
too much before I go. I was a stranger when I came here, and you were
kind--"

"You were not a stranger," Helen said quietly. "George told us about
you, and for his sake--"

"I don't want you to be kind for George's sake, but my own. I'd sooner
you liked me for what I am, with all my faults."

"If it's any comfort, I think I really do like you," Helen admitted with
a strained smile.

"Well enough to marry me?"

Helen colored, but gave him a level glance. "Ah," she said, "aren't you
rash? You hardly know me yet."

"I'm not rash at all; I knew you long ago. Your portrait hung in
Charnock's house and I used to study it on winter nights. It told me
what you were, and when I saw you under the copper beech I knew you very
well. Still now I have seen you, your picture had lost its charm."

"Then you have it?" Helen asked.

Festing gave her a Russia leather case and her face flushed red.

"Did Bob give you this?"

"No," said Festing quietly; "I stole it."

"And the case?"

"The case was made in Montreal. I went to Winnipeg, but could get
nothing good enough."

Helen turned her head. It was a long way to Winnipeg from the prairie
bridge, and she was moved that he had made the journey to find a proper
covering for her picture.

"You must have valued the portrait," she remarked shyly.

"I did, but it won't satisfy me now. As soon as I met you I fell in love
with you. Somehow I think you must have seen--"

"Yes," said Helen quietly, "I did see."

Festing summoned his self-control. "You must know what you decide. I
must live in Canada; my homestead may seem rude and bare after your
mother's beautiful house, and I tried to show you what a prairie farm is
like."

"I think I know," Helen said, and gave him a quick tender look. "Still,
such things don't really matter----"

Then Festing stepped forward and took her in his arms.

An hour later he sat talking to Mrs. Dalton and Miss Graham in the
drawing-room.

"I am glad you have agreed to wait and come back for Helen in the
spring, but I ought to tell you something now, because it may make a
difference in your plans," Mrs. Dalton remarked "You admitted that some
of the difficulties you and Helen would have to meet might be avoided if
you had a little more capital."

"It would certainly make a difference, but I have got no more."

"Helen has some money," Mrs. Dalton replied.

Festing knitted his brows. "I didn't suspect this!"

"That is obvious," Miss Graham interposed.

Festing got up, moved a pace or two, and stopped. "How much has she
got?"

Mrs. Dalton told him and he frowned. "Then she had better keep it. I'd
sooner you tied it up."

"Isn't that unreasonable?" Miss Graham asked.

"It's a man's business to support his wife. I don't want to live on
Helen's money. Besides, I've made my plans."

"I don't think you quite understand," Mrs. Dalton rejoined. "After all,
it is not a large sum and can be used for Helen's benefit. It may save
her from some discomfort and give her advantages you could not provide."

Festing pondered for a few moments, and then answered thoughtfully:
"Yes, I see this, and can't refuse. Well, perhaps the safest way would
be to transfer the land I bought to Helen and record it in her name.
It's bound to go up in value and couldn't be taken from her unless she
borrowed on a mortgage. The arrangement would set free my capital and
enable us to run the homestead on more comfortable lines." Then he
paused and asked: "Did Charnock know about the money?"

"He did not," said Mrs. Dalton. "We thought it better not to tell him;
but we can trust you."

"Thank you," said Festing, who was silent for a time.

He had wondered whether he had misjudged Charnock in one respect, but
saw that he had not. The fellow was a cur and would not have married
Sadie if he had known about Helen's money. But this did not matter.

"Well," he resumed, "if you agree to my proposition, we'll get a lawyer
to fix it up. In a way, it's some relief to know Helen has enough, and
now I'm going to talk to her."

He found her in the next room and she gave him a smile. "I expect mother
has told you I'm not as poor as you thought. Are you pleased or not?"

"I'm pleased for your sake, because there's not much risk of your
finding things too hard, but I'd have been proud to marry you if you had
nothing at all."

"Not even a certain prettiness?" Helen asked.

"Your beauty's something to be thankful for; but after all it's, so to
speak, an accident, like your money. It wasn't your beauty, but you, I
fell in love with."

Helen blushed. "Ah!" she said, "now you're very nice indeed!"



CHAPTER XI

SADIE USES PRESSURE

It was getting cold in the small back office when Sadie put down her pen
and went into the store. She was cramped with sitting, for she had been
occupied with accounts for several hours and the stove had burned low.

"You can quit now, Steve," she said to the clerk. "Put out the lights,
but don't lock up. I'm going to wait until the boss comes."

The clerk turned his head to hide a smile; because he knew where
Charnock was, and thought Mrs. Charnock might have to wait some time;
but he did as he was told, and when he went out Sadie stood shivering
at the door. She had married Charnock late in the fall and now it was
March, but there was no sign yet of returning spring. The sky was dark
and a bitter wind from the prairie blew down the empty street. Blocks of
square-fronted houses stood out harshly against the snow, which sparkled
here and there in a ray of light. The settlement looked ugly and very
desolate, and Sadie studied it with a feeling of weariness and disgust.
It seemed strange that she had once thought it a lively place, but this
was before she met Charnock, who had taught her much.

Shutting the door, she returned to the office and glanced critically at
her reflection in a mirror on the wall. She had been ill, in consequence
of the strain she had borne while her father was sick, and looked older.
Her face was thin and she felt tired, but her skin had not lost its
silky whiteness, and her black dress hung in becoming lines. It was a
well-cut dress, for Sadie was extravagant in such matters and knew how
to choose her clothes. She had lost the freshness that had marked her,
but had gained something: a touch of dignity that she thought of as
style.

Sitting down at the desk, she began to muse. Keller had fallen ill soon
after her wedding. It was a painful illness, and as skilled help was
scarce, she had nursed him until he died. He was a plain storekeeper,
but she knew he was, in many ways, a bigger and better man than Bob. He
demanded all that was his, but he kept his word, and when he undertook a
thing put it over, which Bob seldom did. Shortly before he died he gave
Sadie good advice.

"You got the man you wanted, and now it's your job to look after him.
head him off the liquor, and keep your hands on the dollars. I've fixed
things so's they belong to you."

Another time he asked for certain accounts, and after studying them
remarked: "You want to watch the business and run it all it's worth.
You have a husband to work for now, and I guess a man like Bob comes
expensive. Still, if you can guild him right, he's not all a fool."

Sadie had not resented this. She knew it was true, and her father had
not meant to sneer. He was a blunt man and generally talked like that,
and Sadie sometimes did so. Well, she had not been cheated, because
she knew what Bob was before they married; and although ambition had
something to do with it, she loved him. For all that, she had got some
rude jars, and now passion was dying, her love was colored by a certain
half-maternal protection. Bob must be watched and guarded.

Her ambition, however, remained. She had beauty and intelligence and
wanted to win a place in cultured society. Bob could help her, and she
was tired of the dreary settlement. But she was practical. Money would
be needed if they were to move to one of the cities, and although trade
was good, gathering dollars was slow work when one had an extravagant
husband. While she had been ill Bob was left in charge of the business,
and on recovering her first task had been to find out how he had
managed. Now she had found out and got something of a shock.

The room got colder, but Bob had made some entries in a cash-book she
could not understand, and opening the book again, she spent some time
in calculations that threw no fresh light on the matter. Then she heard
steps and turned as Charnock came in.

He took off his fur-coat and Sadie frowned as he dropped it into a dusty
corner. It was an expensive coat, but one could not teach Bob to take
care of things. Then he kissed her and sat down on the edge of the
table.

"You're getting prettier, Sadie; that thoughtful look of yours is
particularly fetching. But I can see you're tired. Put those books away
and let's get home."

Sadie knew what his compliments were worth, although they had not lost
their charm. He wanted to put things off, but she must be firm.

"You make me tired, and I haven't finished with the books. We've got to
have a talk."

"I like you best when you don't talk; you sometimes say too much,"
Charnock replied. "Besides a girl like you ought to be satisfied with
being seen. You're worth looking at."

Sadie gave him a quick glance. He had recently become fastidious about
his clothes and she did not grudge the dollars he spent on them. His
taste was good, and he looked very graceful as he turned to her with
a smile on his face. The hint of dissipation it had worn was not so
marked, for she had some power over him and used it well, but she
thought he had been indulging. There was, however, no use in getting
angry with Bob.

"You were at Wilkinson's again," she said. "You promised you'd stop off
going there. I suppose he set up the whisky!"

"I didn't take much. It wasn't good whisky; not like ours. That reminds
me--I'm not much of a business man, but I've had a happy thought. My
notion is we give the boys better liquor than they want. They wouldn't
know the difference if we kept cheaper stuff."

Sadie frowned, because she had accepted her father's business code. His
charges were high, but it had been his boast that Keller's delivered the
goods one paid for. Then she realized that Bob had nearly succeeded in
putting off the threatened talk.

"No," she said, "that's bad business in the end. When you'd had some
whisky, Wilkinson got out the cards?"

"Oh, well, you know you stopped me playing a quiet game at home, and
three or four of the boys were there. Then a Brandon real-estate man
asked for the cards."

"How much were you out when you finished the game?"

"Not much," said Charnock with some hesitation.

"How much?"

"If you insist, about ten dollars."

Sadie made a gesture of impatience, but after all he might have had a
heavier loss.

"Ten dollars and a headache next morning for an evening's card game.
You surely don't know much, Bob! But look at this statement and tell me
where the money's gone."

Charnock took the paper she gave him and colored.

"I never thought it was as much as that. Upon my word, I didn't!"

"Where's it gone?" Sadie demanded.

"I've been unlucky," said Charnock, who began a confused explanation.

He had heard of a building lot on the outskirts of Winnipeg, to which he
had been told a new street line would run. He had paid for a time
option on the site, and now it appeared that the trolley scheme had been
abandoned. Then somebody had given him a hint about a deal in grain that
the speculators could not put over. It looked a safe snap and he had
sold down, but the market had gone up and his margin was exhausted.
When he stopped, Sadie's eyes flashed scornfully, but she controlled her
anger.

"You're a fool, Bob; you never learn," she said wearily. "Anyhow, you
have got to cut out this kind of thing; the business won't stand for it
long. Well, as you can't be trusted with dollars, I'll have to put you
on an allowance. I hate to be mean, but if you waste what I give you,
you'll get no more."

Charnock's face got red. "This is rather a nasty knock. Not that I want
your money, but the thing's humiliating."

"Do you think it isn't humiliating to me?"

"Perhaps it is," said Charnock, with a half-ashamed look. "I admit I
have been something of an ass, but you are mean, in a sense. What are
you going to do with your money, if you don't intend to spend it?"

"Use if for making more; anyhow, until I get enough."

"When will you have enough?"

"When I can sell out the business and live where I want; give you the
friends you ought to have instead of low-down gamblers and whisky-tanks.
If you'd take hold and work, Bob, we'd be rich in a few years. The boys
like you, you could do all the trade, and the boom that's beginning
will make this settlement a big place. But I guess there's no use in
talking--and I'm ill and tired."

Sadie's pose got slack and she leaned her arms on the table with her
face in her hands. Charnock, feeling penitent, tried to comfort her.

"You're a very good sort, Sadie, and mean well; I'll go steady and try
not to bother you again. But we won't say any more about it now. Are
those new letters? The mail hadn't come when I left."

She gave him two envelopes, and after reading part of the first letter
he started and the paper rustled in his hand.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Have you lost some money I don't know
about?"

"I haven't," Charnock answered with a hoarse laugh. "The letter's from
some English friends. You head that Festing had gone back to the Old
Country. Well, he's going to be married soon and will bring his wife
out."

"Do you know her? Who is she?"

"Yes; I know her very well. She's Helen Dalton."

"The girl you ought to have married!" Sadie exclaimed. "What's she like?
I guess you have her picture, though you haven't shown it me."

"I had one, but haven't now. I meant to burn the thing, but suspect that
Festing stole it. Confound him!"

Sadie was silent for a few moments and then gave Charnock a searching
look. "Anyhow, I don't see why that should make you mad. You let her go
and took me instead. Do you reckon she'd have been as patient with you
as I am?"

"No," said Charnock, rather drearily. "Helen isn't patient, and I dare
say I'd have broken her heart. You have done your best for me, and
I expect you find it a hopeless job. For all that, I never thought
Festing----"

"It's done with," Sadie rejoined quietly, although there was some color
in her face. "If the girl likes Festing, what has it to do with you?
Besides, as he has located some way back from the settlement, there's
no reason you should meet him or his wife." Then she frowned and got up.
"But the place is very cold; we'll go home."

Charnock put out the light and locked the door, but he was silent as
they walked across the snow to the hotel, and Sadie wondered what he
thought. There was no doubt he was disturbed, or he would have tried to
coax her into abandoning her resolution to put him on an allowance. She
meant to be firm about this.

For the next two or three weeks Charnock occupied himself with his
duties and everything went smoothly at the store and hotel. He was
popular in the neighborhood, since his weaknesses were rather attractive
than repellent to people who did not suffer from them. Men who drove
long distances from their lonely farms liked a cheerful talk and to hear
the latest joke; others enjoyed a game of cards in the back office when
Mrs. Charnock was not about. Besides, it was known that Keller's was
straight; one got full weight and value when one dealt there.

Trade, moreover, was unusually good. Settlers looking for land filled
the hotel, and now elevators were to be built, farmers hired extra
labor and broke new soil. Household supplies were purchased on an
unprecedented scale, and when snow melted the hotel stables were
occupied by rough-coated teams, while wagons, foul with the mud of the
prairie trails, waited for their loads in front of the store. Sadie felt
cheered and encouraged, and although Bob sometimes spent in careless
talk an hour or two that might have been better employed, she was
willing to make up for his neglect by extra work in the office at night.
He was doing well and she began to be hopeful.

One evening, however, when there were goods to be entered and bills
written out, he went home for supper and did not come back. Sadie
stopped in the office long after the clerk had gone, but when she put
down her pen the stove was out and she was surprised to find how late it
was. She felt tired and annoyed, for she had been busily occupied since
morning, and suspected that Bob was telling amusing stories while
she did his work. Then in shutting up the store she forgot her rubber
over-shoes, and the sidewalk was plastered with sticky mud. She wore
rather expensive slippers and thought they would be spoiled.

Charnock was not about when she entered the hotel, and the guests seemed
to have gone to bed. The light was out in the office, and the big
lounge room, where lumps of half-dry mud lay upon the board floor, was
unoccupied. The bell-boy, who was using a brush amidst a cloud of
dust, said he did not think the boss had gone upstairs, and with
sudden suspicion Sadie entered a dark passage that led to a room where
commercial travelers showed their goods. She opened the door and stopped
just inside, her head tilted back and an angry sparkle in her eyes.

The room was very hot and smelt of liquor, tobacco, and kerosene;
the lamp had been turned too high and its cracked chimney was black.
Charnock and three others sat round a table on which stood a bottle
and four glasses. One of the glasses had upset and there was a pool,
bordered by soaked cigar-ash, on the boards. The men were playing cards,
and a pile of paper money indicated that the stakes were high.
Sadie knew them all and deeply distrusted one, whom she suspected of
practising on her husband's weaknesses; she disliked another, and the
third did not count. She looked up rather awkwardly, and she saw that
Charnock had taken too much liquor.

"Good evening, boys," she said. "I want to lock the doors, and guess you
don't know how late it is."

Wilkinson, the man she distrusted, took out his watch. He had a horse
ranch some distance off, and the farmers called him a sport. As a matter
of fact, he was a successful petty gambler, but generally lost his
winnings by speculating in real-estate and wheat.

"It's surely late, Mrs. Charnock," he agreed. "Still, I dare say you can
give us a quarter of an hour."

"Five minutes," Sadie answered. "You can cut the game you're playing
when you like. I'm tired, but I'll wait."

Wilkinson looked at Charnock, but stopped arranging his cards. "Well,
I'm ready to quit. Bob's made a scoop the last few deals, and I reckon
I've not much chance of getting my money back."

"Go 'way, Sadie; go 'way right now!" Charnock interrupted. "You gotta
put up a fair game, and I can't stop when I've all the boys' dollars in
my pocket."

Sadie was sometimes tactful, but her anger was quick, and she disliked
to hear her husband use Western idioms. Moreover she expected him to be
polite.

"Well," she said, "I guess that's a change; your dollars are generally
in their wallets. But this game has to stop."

Mossup, the man she did not like, turned in his chair. He was not sober
and his manners were not polished at the best of times. He sold small
tools and hardware for a Winnipeg wholesale firm.

"Say, you might call a bell-boy. That whisky's rank; I want a different
drink."

Charnock got up with an awkward movement, but Sadie did not want his
help.

"Drinks are served in the bar and the bar is shut," she said.

"I'm stopping here; I hired this room, and as long as I pay it's mine.
We're not in Manitoba, and I guess the law--"

Sadie silenced him imperiously. She understood his reference to
Manitoba, where regulations dealing with liquor are strictly enforced.

"I make the law at Keller's, and this hotel is not a gambling saloon.
Mr. Wilkinson, cork that bottle and put it on the shelf."

As Wilkinson obeyed, Mossup put his hand on his arm to hold him back,
but Charnock interfered:

"You sit down right now. Understand, everybody, what Mrs. Charnock says
goes."

"Certainly," Wilkinson agreed. "Get off to bed Mossup; you'll have a
swelled head all right to-morrow, as it is. I'll put out the light, Mrs.
Charnock; guess I'll do it better than Bob."

"Think I can't put out a common old lamp?" Charnock inquired. "Destroy
the blamed thing 'fore I let it beat me."

"You're not going to try," said Wilkinson, who hustled him and Mossup
out of the room and then held the door open for Sadie.

She thanked him, but felt that if she had ground to fear resentment, it
was not Mossup's but his. Wilkinson had manners, but she knew he did not
like to be robbed of an easy victim, and it was possible that he had
let Bob win until he was drunk enough to be fleeced. She waited a few
moments to let the others go, and then went upstairs and stopped in a
passage that led to her room. Her face was hot and she breathed fast,
for her part in the scene had cost her something. It would have been
different had Charnock not been there; she could have dealt with the
others, but he had made her ashamed. Then she heard his step and turned
with passionate anger as he came along the passage. He stopped and
looked at her with drunken admiration.

"By George, you're a fine thing, Sadie! Handsomest and pluckiest woman
in the township!"

Sadie said nothing, but her pose stiffened and her lips set tight.

"Look your best when you're angry," Charnock went on. "Not quite so
'tractive, too pale and want animation, when you're calm."

She did not answer, but felt a quiver of repulsion. His voice was thick,
his eyes had a stupid amorous look, and he smelt of whisky. Sadie was
not remarkably fastidious; she had, for several years, managed a hotel,
and had used her physical charm to attract the man, but she was jarred.
As yet, she made no appeal to the better side of Bob's nature, if it had
a better side, and his sensual admiration revolted her.

Charnock felt puzzled and somewhat daunted, but tried to put his arm
round her waist. Sadie seized his shoulders and pushed him violently
back.

"Don't you touch me, you drunken hog!" she said.

He gazed at her in dull surprise and then braced himself. Sadie had
moods, but generally came round if he made love to her. Besides,
although she was in one of her rages, her attitude was irresistibly
inciting.

"I'm your husband anyhow. Now don't be a silly little fool----"

She drew back as he advanced and picked up a mop. It was used for
polishing board floors and had a long handle.

"You're my husband when you're sober; I didn't marry a whisky-tank. If
you touch me, Bob, I'll knock you down!"

Charnock stopped. When Sadie spoke like that she meant what she said.
She looked at him steadily for a moment or two, and then put down the
mop and turned away. He durst not follow, and when she entered a room
close by, he shrugged with half-bewildered resignation and stumbled off.

Sadie, leaning with labored breath against the rail of her bed, heard
him fall down the three or four steps in the middle of the passage
and afterwards get up and go on again. Then she laughed, a strained,
hysterical laugh.



CHAPTER XII

THE SACRIFICE

Charnock hesitated about meeting Sadie at breakfast, but found her calm
and apparently good-humored. He felt embarrassed and his head ached, but
she made him some strong coffee in a way he liked. Sadie did not often
sulk, and he was grateful because she said nothing about what had
happened on the previous night. Indeed, he was on the point of telling
her so, but her careless manner discouraged him and he resolved instead
that he would stop gambling and keep as steady as he could. After all,
Sadie was really treating him well; she might, for example, have stopped
his getting liquor. He meant to brace up and give her no more trouble.

He kept his resolve for a fortnight, and then, one morning, a man
brought him a note from Wilkinson, asking him to drive over to the
range. Charnock told the man he could not go, but presently put down his
pen and looked out of the open window of the office of the store. The
last of the snow had vanished some time since, and round white clouds
drifted across the sky. Flying shadows streaked the wide plain, which
gleamed like silver in the sunshine, and the bleached grass rolled in
long waves before the breeze. There was something strangely exhilarating
in the air and the dusty office smelt of salt-pork and cheese. It was a
glorious day for a drive, he need not stay long at Wilkinson's, and the
team needed exercise. Moreover, Sadie was not about and would not come
home until afternoon; he might get back before her. He hesitated for a
few minutes and then sent an order to the stable.

At midnight he had not returned, and Sadie sat in the office at the
hotel, making futile efforts to fix her attention on a newspaper. The
guests had gone to bed and the building was very quiet, but she had kept
the ostler up. He might be needed and she could trust him not to talk.

At length she heard the sound she listened for. A beat of hoofs and
rattle of wheels came down the street. It was their team, she knew their
trot, but she wondered anxiously whether Bob was driving. When the rig
stopped she went to the door, where the ostler stood with a lantern, and
caught her breath as Wilkinson got down. There was nobody else on the
seat of the light wagon, and Charnock had set off with a different rig.

"Where's Bob?" she asked in a strained voice.

"We put him inside," said Wilkinson. "He wasn't quite able to sit up.
I'd have kept him all night only that I reckoned you might be scared."

Sadie, putting her foot on the wheel when the ostler held up the light,
saw Charnock lying on a bundle of sacks. He was in a drunken stupor.

"Help Bill bring him, in," she said with stony calm.

Wilkinson and the other lifted the unconscious man, and staggering along
a passage, awkwardly climbed the stairs. They put him on his bed and
were going out when Sadie stopped them.

"Thank you, Bill; hold the team for a few minutes," she said and turned
to Wilkinson. "I want you to wait in the office."

Then she shut the door, and after unfastening Charnock's collar and vest
stood looking at him for a minute or two. He had not wakened, but she
had seen him like this before and was not alarmed. His face was flushed
and the veins on his forehead were prominent; his clothes were crumpled
and sprinkled with bits of hay. Sadie studied him with a feeling of
helplessness that changed to contemptuous pity. Her romantic dreams and
ambitions had vanished and left her this----

As she turned away her mood changed again. After all, he was her husband
and she had schemed to marry him. She was honest with herself about this
and admitted that Bob had not really loved her much. But he needed her
and she must not fail him. There was some comfort in remembering that he
had sought no other woman; her rivals were cards and liquor, and she did
not mean that they should win. Obeying a sudden impulse, she turned back
and kissed his hot face, and then, noting the smell of whisky, flushed
and went out with a firm step.

When she entered the office, however, her face was hard and white. She
did not sit down, but leaned against a desk opposite Wilkinson.

"Why did you ask Bob out to the range?"

Wilkinson did not like her look. It hinted that she was in a dangerous
mood, but he answered good-humoredly: "I thought he wanted a change. You
hold him too tight, Mrs. Charnock. Bob won't stand for being kept busy
indoors all day; he won't make a clerk."

"He won't," said Sadie. "I'm beginning to see it now. But you don't care
a straw for Bob. You wanted a pick on me because I made you cut out your
game that night."

"No," said Wilkinson, with a gesture of protest. "I certainly thought
you were too smart, although it was not my business. Anyhow, if you let
him have a quiet game with his friends at home--"

"Pshaw! I know you, Jake Wilkinson, better than Bob does. You meant to
make him drunk this evening and empty his wallet, and I guess you didn't
find it hard."

Wilkinson's face got red, but he saw he would gain nothing by denial.
Besides, there was a matter he was anxious about.

"It wasn't hard to empty his wallet, because he had only a few small
bills."

"Yes; I fixed that. How much did you win from him when he was drunk?"

"He got drunk afterwards," Wilkinson objected. "Then I didn't win it
all; there were three or four others."

Sadie smiled rather grimly. "How much?"

She got a jar when Wilkinson told her, but she fixed him with steady
eyes.

"You knew what he had in his wallet, but let him go on? You thought
Keller's would stand for the debt?"

"Yes," said Wilkinson, with some alarm; "we certainly thought so."

"Very well. Keller's makes good. Take the pen and right out a bill like
this--R. Charnock, debtor in losses on a card game."

"You know it's never done."

"It's going to be done now, or you won't get your cheque. I know what
I'm up against in you and your gang."

Wilkinson hesitated, but he needed the money and made out the bill.
After examining it, Sadie wrote a cheque.

"I've paid you once, for Keller's sake, but you had better stop the card
games after this. Bob's not my partner in the business, and no more of
my dollars will go on gambling."

"Ah!" said Wilkinson sharply, "you're smarter than I thought!"

Sadie gave him a searching glance and he noted an ominous tenseness in
her pose and her drawn-back lips. He said afterwards that she looked
like a wild cat.

"Anyhow, I think I have you fixed. There's nothing doing in making Bob
drunk again, but you had better understand what's going to happen if
you try. The next time you drive over to the settlement after my husband
I'll whip you in the street with a riding quirt."

Wilkinson put the cheque in his pocket and picked up his hat.

"On the whole, I guess I'd better not risk it," he said and went out.

Sadie let him go, and then went limply upstairs. She felt worn out and
her brain was dull. She could not think, and a problem that demanded
solving must wait until the morning. After looking into the room where
Charnock lay and seeing that he was sleeping heavily, she went to bed.

Next morning she shut herself in the office at the store and gave the
clerks strict orders that she was not to be disturbed. Opening a drawer,
she took out a rough balance sheet, which showed that the business was
profitable and expanding fast. Things were going very well, in spite of
Bob's extravagance, and she thought she had prevented his wasting any
more money. In three or four years she could sell the hotel and store
for a large sum and, as she thought of it, give herself a chance.

She was young, clever, and attractive, and had recently tried to
cultivate her mind. It was laborious work and she had not much time, but
the clergyman of the little Episcopal church gave her some guidance and
she made progress. For one thing, she was beginning to talk like Bob
and thought he noticed this, although she had not told him about her
studies. She meant to be ready to take her part in a wider and brighter
life when she left the settlement. Knowing little about large towns, she
exaggerated the pleasures they could offer. Montreal, for example, was
a city of delight. She had been there twice and had seen the Ice Palace
glitter against the frosty sky, the covered skating rinks, the jingling
sleighs, and the toboggans rushing down the long, white slides. Then
she remembered afternoon drives in summer on the wooded slopes of the
Mountain, and evenings spent among the garish splendors of Dominion
Park, where myriads of lights threw their colored reflections upon
the river. Since then, however, her taste had got refined, and she now
admitted that if she lived at Montreal it might be better to cut out
Dominion Park.

But she pulled herself up. It looked as if these delights were not for
her. She could enjoy them, if she wanted, in a few years' time, but the
risk was great. Bob might go to pieces while she earned the money that
would open the gate of fairyland. Although she had checked the pace a
little, he was going the wrong way fast. Sadie knitted her dark brows as
she nerved herself to make a momentous choice.

On the one hand there was everything she longed for; on the other much
that she disliked--monotonous work, the loneliness of the frozen prairie
in the bitter winter, the society, at very long intervals, of farmers
who talked about nothing but their crops, and the unslackening strain
of activity in the hot summer. Sadie thought of it with shrinking; she
would soon get old and faded, and Bob, for whose sake she had done so,
might turn from her. Yet there was danger for him if they stayed at the
settlement. He had too many friends and whisky was always about. She
must save him from the constant temptation and must do so now.

For all that, she struggled. There were specious arguments for taking
the other course. Bob had failed as a farmer and would certainly fail
again if left to himself; but farming was the only occupation on the
lonely prairie. Loneliness was essential, because he must be kept away
from the settlements. But she saw the weak point in this reasoning,
because Bob need not be left to himself. She would, so to speak, stand
over him and see he did his work. Well, it looked as if she must let
her ambitions go, and she got up, straightening her body with a little
resolute jerk.

"Tell the boss I want him," she said to the clerk.

Charnock came in, looking haggard and somewhat ashamed, and Sadie knew
she had made the right choice when he sat down where the light touched
his face. For a moment he blinked and frowned.

"I wish you'd pull down that blind," he said. "The sun's in my eyes, and
I can't get round the desk."

Sadie did so, and then silently gave him Wilkinson's bill. He gazed at
the paper with surprise, and colored.

"I'd no idea I lost so much. Why did you pay him?"

"Because you can't," said Sadie. "He thought you had a share in the
business when he risked his dollars."

"I suppose that means you told him I wasn't your partner?"

"It does."

"I see," said Charnock, with some dryness. "You thought he'd leave me
alone if he knew I wasn't worth powder and shot? Well, I believe
it's very possible." Then he paused and smiled. "I can imagine his
astonishment when you asked for a bill, and must admit that you're a
sport. All the same, it's humiliating to have my friends told you don't
trust me with money."

"The trouble is I can't trust you. Now you listen, Bob. This tanking and
gambling has got to be stopped."

"I'm afraid I've given you some bother," Charnock answered penitently.
"For all that, I'm not so bad as I was. In fact, I really think I'm
steadying down by degrees, and since you have paid my debts I don't mind
promising--"

"By degrees won't do; you have got to stop right off. Besides, you know
how much your promises are worth."

Charnock colored. "That's rather cruel, Sadie, but I suppose it's
deserved."

"I don't mean what you think; not your promise to Miss Dalton," Sadie
answered with some embarrassment. "You told me you wouldn't drive over
to Wilkinson's again, and the first time I wasn't about you went. Very
well. Since I can't trust you round the settlement, we're going to quit.
I've decided to sell out the business as soon as I can get the price I
want."

"Sell the store and hotel!" Charnock exclaimed. "I suppose you know
you'd get three or four times as much if you held on for a few years."

"That's so. But what's going to happen to you while I wait?"

Charnock turned his head for a moment, and then looked up with a
contrite air.

"By George, Sadie, you are fine! But I can't allow this sacrifice."

"You won't be asked," Sadie rejoined with forced quietness. She was
moved by Charnock's exclamation, but durst not trust him or herself.
There was a risk of his persuading her to abandon the plan if he knew
how deeply she was stirred.

"Well," he said, "what do you propose to do?"

"Take a farm far enough from town to make it hard for you to drive in
and out. Donaldson's place would suit; he quits in the fall, you know,
and we hold his mortgage."

Charnock got up and walked about the floor. Then he stopped opposite his
wife.

"You mean well, Sadie, and you're very generous," he said with some
emotion. "Still you ought to see the plan won't work. I had a good farm
and made a horrible mess of things."

"You won't do that now. I'll be there," Sadie rejoined.

Charnock did not answer, but gave her a curious look, and she pondered
for a moment or two. He was obviously moved, but one could not tell
how far his emotions went, and she knew he did not want to listen. She
understood her husband and knew he sometimes deceived himself.

"No!" He resumed; "it's too big a sacrifice! You like people about you
and would see nobody but me and the hired man, while I admit I'm enough
to jar a woman's nerves. Then think of the work; the manual work. You
couldn't live as the bachelors live among dust and dirt, and it's a big
undertaking to keep a homestead clean when you can't get proper help.
Besides, there's the baking, cooking, and washing, while you have done
nothing but superintend. I'd hate to see you worn and tired, and you
know you're not so patient then. I get slack if things go wrong, and if
I slouched about, brooding, when I ought to be at work, it would make
you worse."

Sadie smiled. "That's very nice, Bob; but how much are you thinking
about me and how much about yourself?"

"To tell the truth, I don't know," Charnock replied with naïve honesty.
"Anyhow, I am thinking about you."

"That is what I like, but there's no use in talking. Since I can make
this business go I can run a farm, and see no other way. My plan's made
and I'm going to put it over."

Charnock was silent for some moments and then turned to her with a look
in his face she had not seen.

"I don't want to farm, but if you can stand it for my sake, I must try.
You will need some patience, Sadie--I may break out at times if the
strain gets too hard. One can't help running away when one is something
of a cur. But I'll come back, ashamed and sorry, and pitch in again.
Since you mean to stand by me, perhaps I'll win out in the end."

Bending down suddenly, he kissed her and then went to the door. She
heard it shut, and sat still, but her eyes filled with tears. Bob had
not promised much, but she thought he meant to keep his word now,
and doubts that had troubled her melted away. She did not grudge the
sacrifice she had made, for a ray of hope had begun to shine. It was,
however, characteristic that after musing for a minute or two she took
out some notepaper and began to write. Since the business must be sold,
there was nothing to be gained by delay, and she gave a Winnipeg agent
clear instructions. Then she went out and hid her annoyance when she saw
Charnock sitting languidly on the hotel veranda.

"Has Wilkinson sent back our rig?" she asked.

"He has, but the team has done enough. Where are you going?"

"To look at Donaldson's farm. I want you to come along. Go across and
ask Martin if he'll let you have his team."

Charnock got up with a resigned shrug. "You are a hustler, Sadie. It's
not many minutes since you decided about the thing."

"I don't see what I'd get by waiting, and you may as well make up your
mind that you're going to hustle, too. Now get busy and go for Martin's
team."



CHAPTER XIII

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

It was a bright afternoon and white-edged clouds rolled across the sky
before a fresh north-west wind when Helen Festing rode up to a birch
bluff on the prairie. The trees made a musical rustling as they tossed
their branches, tufted with opening leaves. The sweep of white grass was
checkered by patches of green that gleamed when the light touched them
and faded as the shadows swept across the plain. There was something
strangely invigorating in the air, but when she reached the bluff Helen
pulled up her horse and looked about.

She missed the soft blue haze that mellowed the landscape among the
English hills. Every feature was sharp and the colors were vivid; ocher,
green, and silver gleaming with light. Distant bluffs stood out
with sharp distinctness. She thought the new country was like its
inhabitants; they were marked by a certain primitive vigor and their
character was clearly defined. Neither the land nor the people had been
tamed by cultivation yet. One missed the delicate half-tones on the
prairie, but one heard and thrilled to the ringing note of endeavor.

When she looked west the land was empty to the horizon, and a flock of
big sand-hill cranes planed down the wind. An animal she thought was
an antelope moved swiftly through the waves of rippling grass. When she
turned east she saw a plume of black smoke roll across the sky and the
tops of three elevators above the edge of the plain. It was a portent,
a warning of momentous change, in which she and her husband must play
their part. What that part would be she could not tell, but the curtain
was going up, and on the whole she approved the stage and scenery.

Helen had been some time in Canada and did not feel daunted. The
sunshine and boisterous winds were bracing; one felt optimistic on the
high plains, and the wide outlook gave a sense of freedom. She had many
duties, but did not find them burdensome, or feel the strain of domestic
labor she had been warned about. For one thing, her money had enabled
Festing to arrange his household better than he had expected and hire
useful help.

She took a rough trail through the bluff, picking her way among the
holes and rotting stumps, and as she rode out the horse plunged. After
calming the startled animal she saw a dirty handkerchief snapping in the
wind at the top of a stick. Close by a team cropped the grass and the
end of a big plow projected from the back of a wagon. There seemed to be
nobody about, but after riding on a few yards she saw a man lying among
some bushes with a pipe in his mouth. He looked half asleep, but got
up as she advanced, and she stopped her horse with a jerk and tried to
preserve her calm. Charnock stood looking at her with a half-embarrassed
smile.

"Bob!" she exclaimed. "I didn't think I'd ever meet you."

"I hope it wasn't a shock, and we were bound to meet sooner or later.
The distance between our homesteads isn't great."

Helen had heard where his homestead was. Indeed, Festing had told her
that if he had known Charnock was coming to Donaldson's farm, he would
have located farther off. She would sooner have avoided the meeting, but
since it had happened, she must not cut it too short.

"But what is the handkerchief for?" she asked. "And why were you lying
there?"

"It's a signal of distress. Another trail crosses the rise a mile off,
and I was waiting in the hope that somebody might come along."

Helen now noted that a wheel of the wagon leaned to one side, and he
remarked her glance.

"The patent bush has got loose in the hub," he resumed. "I took the pin
out and then saw I might have trouble if the wheel came off. It has been
threatening to play this trick for some time."

"Then why didn't you put the bush right before you started?"

"I don't know. I expect you think it's typical."

Helen laughed. Bob was taking the proper line, and she studied him with
curiosity. He looked older than she thought, but remembering Festing's
hints, she did not see the mark of dissipation she had expected.
Indeed, Charnock, having spent a sober month or two under Sadie's strict
supervision, looked very well. His face was brown, his eyes twinkled,
and his figure was athletic. He did not seem to need her pity, but she
felt compassionate. After all, she had loved him and he had married a
girl from a bar.

"But where were you taking the plow?" she asked.

"To the smith's; one of the free preemptors has a forge some distance
off, and if I'm lucky, I may find him at home."

"You won't find him at home if you stop here."

"That's obvious," said Charnock. "Still, you see, the plow's too heavy
for me to lift out. Unless I do get it out, I can't try to put the wheel
right."

"Then why not take it to pieces?"

"The trouble is you need a bent spanner to get at some of the bolts."

"They give you spanners with the plows, and there's a box on the frame
to put them in. I've seen Stephen use the things."

"Just so," Charnock agreed. "Stephen's methodical, but when I want my
spanner it isn't in the box."

"You never were very careful," Helen remarked.

"I don't know if there's much comfort in feeling that I've paid for my
neglect."

Helen smiled; she was not going to be sentimental. "If you mean that you
lost the spanner, you don't seem to have suffered much. I think you were
asleep when I rode up. But I was surprised to hear you had begun to farm
again. Do you like it? And how are you getting on?"

"I like a number of things better, but that's not allowed to make much
difference. Sadie has decided that farming is good for me. However, I am
making some progress, though as you know my temperament, I'll admit that
I'm being firmly helped along."

There was silence for a few moments and Helen pondered. Bob had
generally been tactful and she thought his humor was rather brave. He,
no doubt, imagined she would soon learn all about his affairs and meant
to make the best of things.

In the meantime, Charnock quietly studied her. She looked very fresh and
prettier than he thought. Although she had not ridden much in England,
he noted the grace and confidence with which she managed the spirited
range horse. For all that, he was rather surprised by his sensations. He
had expected to feel some embarrassment and sentimental tenderness when
they met, but she left him cold; his pulse had not quickened a beat.
Still it would be good for Sadie to know Helen, who could teach her
much, and she unconsciously gave him a lead.

"Well," she said, "I must get home. I shall, no doubt, see you now and
then."

"Not often, if you leave it to accident," he replied with a smile. "If
you like to arrange the thing, there's a nice point of etiquette. You
occupied your homestead before we came to ours, but you see we were on
the prairie first. Anyhow, I'd be glad if you will let me bring Sadie
over."

Helen thought he was going too far. She did not want to arrange for a
meeting and would sooner not receive his wife. After all, the girl had
supplanted her. Still she was curious and could not refuse.

"I'm often busy and daresay Mrs. Charnock is, while Stephen does not
stop work until late. However, if you like to take your chance----"

"Thank you," said Charnock; "we'll take the risk of finding you not at
home. Now perhaps it wouldn't be much trouble if you told Jasper I'm in
difficulties. You'll see his place when you cross the ravine near the
bluff."

Helen rode away, but when she saw Jasper's farm it was a mile off the
trail and she had to cross a broken sandy belt. For all that, she smiled
as she made the round. It was typical of Bob to send her. He might have
tethered his horses and walked the distance, but he had a talent for
leaving to somebody else the things he ought to do.

After supper she sat on the veranda, while Festing leaned against the
rails. The house was built of ship-lap boards, with a roof of cedar
shingles, and wooden pillars supporting the projecting eaves. It had
been improved and made comfortable with Helen's money, and with the land
about it, registered as belonging to her. Festing had insisted on this,
rather against her will, because she had meant to make it a gift to him.
The wind, as usual at sunset, had dropped, and clear green sky, touched
with dull red on the horizon, overhung the plain. The air was cold and
bracing; sound carried far, and the musical chime of cowbells came from
a distant bluff. There were not many cattle in the neighborhood, but the
Government was trying to encourage stock-raising and had begun to build
creameries.

Helen meditatively studied her husband. Festing had been plowing since
sunrise and looked tired. Something had gone wrong with his gasoline
tractor, and she knew he had spent two or three hours finding out
the fault. This had annoyed him, because time was valuable and he
was impatient of delay. Helen approved his industry and the stubborn
perseverance that led to his overcoming many obstacles, but sometimes
thought he took things too hard and exaggerated their importance. Now
as he leaned against the balustrade he had the physical grace of a
well-trained athlete, but she thought his look was fretful and his mind
too much occupied.

"I met Bob by the long bluff as I rode home," she said.

Festing looked up sharply. "Well, I suppose you were bound to meet him
before long. What was he doing at the bluff?"

"Waiting for somebody to help him with his wagon," Helen answered with a
laugh. "A wheel was coming off."

"That was like Bob. He has a rooted objection to helping himself when it
means an effort."

"For all that, you were a friend of his."

"I'm not his friend now. I've done with the fellow."

"It's rather awkward," Helen remarked thoughtfully. "He asked if he
might bring his wife over, and although I wasn't very gracious, I could
not refuse."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter. As I won't have a minute until the sowing
is finished, I'll be out when he comes. If he stayed with his work just
now, it would be better for him."

Helen was silent for a moment. Stephen was made of much finer stuff than
Bob, but he had not the latter's graceful humor and his curtness jarred.

"There's no reason you should resume your friendship if you don't like,"
she said. "All the same, I think you ought to be polite to my guests."

"I can't pretend. The house is yours, but I don't want the fellow here."

"But why do you dislike him so much?"

"I don't think you need ask me that. It's dangerous ground, but you
see----"

"I have forgiven him," Helen answered, smiling. "Indeed, if I hadn't
done so long since, it would be easy to forgive him now. At first, I did
feel dreadfully humiliated, but I soon saw what he had saved me from.
And, of course, if he had kept his promise, I could not have married
you."

Festing looked at her with surprise. In spite of her refinement, Helen
would now and then talk calmly about matters he shrank from mentioning.
But after the lead she had given him he could be frank.

"Well," he said, "I haven't forgiven him yet; I couldn't pretend
friendship with anybody who had slighted you. Besides, when I found out
how he had cheated me it was the worst moment of my life. I thought you
would never speak to me again because, through the fellow's treachery,
it was I who hurt you."

"You're very nice, Stephen," Helen replied, coloring. "But that's all
finished. Don't you like Bob's wife? I really don't want to meet her,
but one mustn't be a coward."

"You couldn't be a coward. Sadie has her virtues and is certainly much
too good for Bob, but I don't want her here for all that. Frankly, she's
not your sort, and she's meddlesome. I'm not afraid she'll make you
discontented, but I can't have a girl like that telling you how your
house ought to be run. Although you're a beginner, you manage very well,
and I'd object to improvements on somebody else's plan."

Helen smiled. "When you talk like that, you're charming; but we'll say
no more about it. You look tired. Are you sure you are not working too
hard? The last time Jasper came he seemed surprised when he saw the
ground you had broken. I imagined he thought you were trying to do too
much."

As she spoke she glanced at the wide belt of plowing that broke the
delicate green and silver of the grass. In the foreground, the rows of
clods shone with an oily gleam in the fading light. Farther off, the
rows converged and melted into a sweep of purple-brown that narrowed as
it crossed a distant rise. There were two other belts; one where white
grasses broke through the harrow-torn sod, and another flat and smooth
where the land-packer had rolled in the seed. All told of strenuous
effort in which sweating men and horses had been aided by tractor
machines.

"Jasper's conservative and I feel I ought to do as much as I can,"
Festing replied. "When you bought the place you rather put me on my
mettle."

Helen gave him a sharp glance. "I note that you spoke of it as my house
when you ought to have said ours. I don't like that, Stephen."

"It is yours. I let you buy it because it's value must go up and the
money's safe. I'm glad, of course, that you have comforts I couldn't
have given you, but it's my business to support my wife, and I've got
to increase my capital. I want to give you things you like, bought with
money I have earned."

"You really want to feel independent of me," Helen suggested with a
smile. "I suppose it's an honest ambition, but isn't the distinction you
try to make ridiculous?"

"Perhaps, in a way," Festing agreed. "All the same, your help makes it
my duty to do my best. I don't want to feel I might be forced to fall
back on your dollars."

"You are ridiculous, Stephen," Helen rejoined. "However, let's talk
about something else."

The talked good-humoredly until the dew and growing cold drove them in.
Next morning Helen got up while the sun rose from behind a bluff on
the edge of the plain, but when she went out on the veranda she saw the
gasoline tractor and gang-plow lurch across the rise. This indicated
that Festing had been at work for some time, and she looked thoughtful
as she went back into the house.

Stephen was doing too much, and she wondered whether he could keep it
up. Things, however, might be easier when the crop was sown, and if not
she must insist upon his hiring extra help. She liked to see him keen
about his work, but for the last few weeks he had scarcely had a minute
to talk to her, and she could not allow him to wear himself out. After
all, her money gave her some power, and there was no reason she should
not use the power for her husband's benefit.



CHAPTER XIV

SADIE FINDS A FRIEND

The sun shone hot on the rippling grass, but it was cool on the shady
veranda where Helen sat in a basket chair. A newspaper lay close by and
the loose leaves fluttered now and then, but she did not notice that it
was in some danger of blowing away. She had been occupied since early
morning, but was not quite asleep, for she was vaguely conscious of a
rhythmic drumming. By and by she raised her head with a jerk and glanced
at the watch on her wrist. It was three o'clock and she had been dozing
for an hour. Then the drumming fixed her attention and she saw a rig
lurch along the uneven trail. The horses were trotting fast and there
were two people in the light wagon.

Helen saw that one was Charnock. The other, who held the reins, was, no
doubt, his wife, and Helen was sorry that Festing was at work beyond
the rise. She would have liked him to be there when she received her
visitors, but did not think it prudent to send for him. The rig was near
the house now, and as she got up her dress moved the newspaper, which
was caught by a draught and blew down the stairs and across the grass.
It flapped in the fresh wind and fell near the horses' feet.

This was too much for the range-bred animals to stand, and they reared
and plunged, and then began to back away from the fluttering white
object. Charnock jumped out and ran towards their heads, but Sadie
raised her whip with a gesture of command.

"Don't butt in, Bob; I'm going to take them past."

Charnock stood back obediently, though his alert pose hinted that he was
ready to run forward if he were needed, and Helen studied his companion.

Sadie, dressed in black and white, with a black feather in her white
hat, was braced back on the driving seat, with one hand on the reins
while she used the whip. There was a patch of bright color in her face,
her eyes flashed, and the rigidity of her figure gave her an air of
savage resolution. She looked a handsome virago as she battled with the
powerful horses, which plunged and kicked while the wagon rocked among
the ruts. Helen watched the struggle with somewhat mixed feelings. This
was the girl for whom Bob had given her up!

After an exciting minute or two Sadie forced the horses to pass the
fluttering paper, and then pulled them up.

"Where's Stephen?" she asked.

Helen said he was harrowing on the other side of the rise, and Sadie,
getting down, signed to Charnock.

"Put the team in the stable, and then go and look for Festing. Don't
come back too soon."

Then she came towards the house and Helen felt half-annoyed and
half-amused. Stephen did not like to be disturbed when he was busy,
and she knew what he thought of Bob. Moreover, she wondered with some
curiosity what Mrs. Charnock had to say to her. Sadie sat down and
waited until she recovered breath.

"You know who I am," she remarked presently. "Bob can drive all right,
but he's too easy with the team. I don't see why I should get down
before I want because the horses are scared by a paper."

"Perhaps it was better to make them go on, but they nearly upset you,"
Helen agreed with a smile.

Sadie gave her a steady, criticizing glance, but her naïve curiosity
softened her rudeness.

"Well, I wanted to see you. Looks as if Bob was a fool, in one way, but
I guess I can see him through what he's up against on the prairie better
than you."

Helen had been prejudiced against Mrs. Charnock, but her blunt sincerity
was disarming. Besides, she had expected something different; a hint of
defiance, or suspicious antagonism.

"It's very possible," she said. "Everything is strange here. I feel
rather lost sometimes and have much to learn."

Sadie studied her closely, and after pondering for a few moments
resumed: "When I was driving over I didn't know how I was going to take
you; in fact, I've been bothering about it for some time. I thought you
might be dangerous."

"You thought I might be dangerous!" Helen exclaimed with rising color.
"Surely you understand--"

"Now you wait a bit and let me finish! Well, I might have come now and
then, found out what I could, and given you a hint or two, until we saw
how things were going to be. But that's not my way, and I reckon it's
not yours. Very well. We have got to have a talk and put the thing
over. To begin with, I somehow feel I can trust you, and needn't be
disturbed."

"Then I'm afraid you are rash," Helen rejoined with a resentment that
was softened by a touch of humor. "You can't form a reliable opinion,
because you don't know me."

"That's so, but I know Bob."

Helen laughed. She ought to be angry, for Mrs. Charnock was taking an
extraordinary line. But perhaps it was the best line, because it would
clear the ground. She said nothing and Sadie went on:

"How do you like it here?"

"Very much. I like the open country and the fresh air. Then I think I
like the people, and one has so much to do that there is not time to
feel moody. It's bracing to find every minute occupied by something
useful."

"If you feel that way about it, you'll make good. And you've got a fine
man for your husband. When Festing first came to the bridge I didn't
know if I'd take him or Bob. In fact, I thought about it for quite a
time."

Helen's eyes sparkled. Mrs. Charnock was going too far, but she
controlled her resentment.

"After all, were you not taking something for granted?"

"Well," said Sadie thoughtfully, "if I'd tried hard, I might have got
Steve then, but I don't know if I'd have been any happier with him. He'd
have gone his own way and taken me along; a good way, perhaps, but it
wouldn't have been mine. Bob's different; sometimes he has to be hustled
and sometimes led, but you get fond of a man you must take care of. Then
everybody likes Bob, and he kind of grows on you. I don't know how it
is, but you can't get mad with him."

Helen thought there was something humiliating to Bob in his wife's
patience, but she was moved. Mrs. Charnock loved her husband, though she
knew his faults. Then Sadie resumed in a harder voice:

"Anyhow, he's mine and I know how to keep what belongs to me."

"I imagine you will keep him. I have no wish to take him away."

"Well, that's why I came. I wanted to see you, and now I'm satisfied.
Bob needs a friend like your husband and he puts Steve pretty high. If
you can see your way to let us drive over now and then evenings----"

Helen pondered this. Stephen might object, but he was not unreasonable,
and his society would certainly be good for Bob. She was not altogether
pleased by the thought of the Charnocks' visits, but Sadie's resolve to
help her husband had touched her. Then there was something flattering in
the hint that she and Stephen could take a part in his reformation.

"Very well," she said. "I hope you will come when you like. It will do
Stephen no harm to get a rest instead of hurrying back to work after
supper."

Sadie looked grateful. "We'll certainly come. I've talked to you as I'd
have talked to nobody else, but you know Bob most as well as I do. But
perhaps there's enough said. Won't you show me the house?"

Helen realized that she had made an alliance with Mrs. Charnock for
Bob's protection, and was conscious of a virtuous thrill. The work she
had undertaken was good, but she remembered with faint uneasiness that
she had pledged her husband to it without his consent. She showed Sadie
the house, and while there was much the latter admired, she made, from
her larger knowledge of the plains, a number of suggestions that Helen
thought useful. By and by Bob returned with Festing for supper, and
stopped for another hour. When he and Sadie had gone Festing frowned as
he glanced at his watch.

"It's too late to finish the job I wanted to do tonight," he said, and
indicated the dark figures of a man and horses silhouetted against the
sunset on the crest of the rise. "There's Jules coming home. He couldn't
get on without me."

Helen pretended not to notice his annoyance. "After all, you're not
often disturbed, and a little relaxation is good. I've no doubt you had
an amusing talk with Bob."

"Bob bored me badly, though we didn't talk much. I was driving the
disc-harrows and he lay in the grass. I had to stop for a few minutes
every time I reached the turning and listen to his remarks."

"And you feel you deserve some sympathy?" Helen said with a laugh.
"Well, I suppose it was an infliction to be forced to talk."

Festing's annoyance vanished. "I mustn't make too much of it. I really
don't object to talking when I've finished my work."

"When do you finish your work, Stephen?"

"That's a fair shot! In summer, I stop when it's too dark to see. The
annoying thing wasn't so much the stopping as Bob's attitude. He lay
there with his pipe, looking as if nothing would persuade him to work,
and his smile hinted that he thought delaying me an excellent joke. I
believe I was polite, but certainly hope he won't come back."

Helen thought it was not the proper time to tell him about the
invitation she had given Sadie, and she said, "Idleness seems to jar
you."

"It does. I dislike the man who demands the best to eat and drink and
won't use his brain or muscle if he can help. In this country, the
thing's immoral; the fellow's obviously a cheat. We live by our labor,
raising grain and cattle--"

"But what about the people in the towns?"

"A number of them handle our products and supply us with tools. Of
course, there are speculators and real-estate boomsters who gamble with
our earnings, but their job is not as easy as it looks. They run big
risks and bear some strain. Still, if it was left to me, I'd make them
plow."

Helen laughed. "You're rather drastic, Stephen; but if one takes the
long view, I dare say you are right."

"Then let's take the narrowest view we can. When a farmer who hasn't
much money loafs about the poolroom and lies on his back, smoking, it's
plain that he's taking advantage of somebody else. Perhaps the thing's
shabbiest when he puts his responsibilities on his wife. That's what Bob
does."

"I'm afraid he does," Helen admitted, and mused, while Festing lighted
his pipe.

Stephen was not a prig and she recognized the justice of his arguments,
but he was rather hard and his views were too clear-cut. He saw that
a thing was good or bad, but could not see that faults and virtues
sometimes merged and there was good in one and bad in the other.

"Well," she said, "I like Mrs. Charnock, and she is certainly energetic
and practical. She went over the house and suggested some improvements.
For example, you are building a windmill pump for the cattle, and it
wouldn't cost very much to bring a pipe to the house. A tap is a great
convenience and would save Jules' time filling up the tank."

"It will need a long pipe and cost more than Sadie thinks, but I'll have
it done. However, I wish I had thought of it and she hadn't made the
suggestion. I don't want Sadie interfering with our house."

"But you don't dislike Mrs. Charnock."

"Not in a way; but I don't know that I want to see her here. Sadie has
a number of good points, but she's rather fond of managing other folks'
affairs. Then she's not your kind."

On the whole, Helen was not displeased. Mrs. Charnock's bold statements
that she could have got Stephen if she had wanted had jarred, but it
looked as if she had made an empty boast.

"I thought you were a democrat," she remarked, smiling.

"So I am, in general; but when it's a matter of choosing my wife's
friends, I'm an exclusive aristocrat. That's the worst of having
theories; they don't apply all round."

Helen thought his utilitarian dislike of idleness was open to this
objection, but it was not the time to urge Bob's cause. She would wait
for another opportunity, when Stephen had not been delayed, and she made
him a humorous curtsey.

"Sometimes you're rather bearish, and sometimes you're very nice," she
said, and went into the house.

The Charnocks returned a week later and came again at regular intervals,
while Helen rode over to their house now and then. Festing refused
to accompany her and sometimes grumbled, but on the whole tolerated
Charnock's visits so long as they did not delay his work. Nothing must
be allowed to interfere with that, for he was uneasily conscious that
he had set himself too big a task. His dislike to using his wife's money
had spurred him on, and he had sown a very large crop at a heavy expense
for labor, horses, and machines. Now he must spare no effort to get his
money back, and much depended on the weather. Indeed, he was beginning
to feel the strain of the unrelaxing exertion and care about details,
and this sometimes reacted upon his temper. Still he must hold out until
the crop was reaped, after which he could go easy during the winter
months.

One hot afternoon, he lay under a mower in a sloo where the melted snow
had run in spring and the wild grass now grew tall. It made good hay and
the fierce sun had dried it well, so that he had only to cut and haul
it home; but something had gone wrong with the machine, and after taking
out the broken knife he dismantled the driving gear. When he crawled
out, with a greasy cogwheel in his hand, he was soaked with perspiration
and his overalls were stained by oil. The mosquitoes, that did not as a
rule venture out in the strong wind and sun, had bitten him badly while
he lay in the grass.

"You had better wait for ten minutes and take a smoke," said Charnock,
who had come up quietly and sat in the shade of the partly-loaded wagon.
"You'll get on faster when you have cooled down."

"You believe in waiting, don't you?" Festing rejoined.

Charnock laughed. "I feel justified in going slow just now. Sadie
has given me a day off, and when she doesn't think I ought to work it
certainly isn't necessary. It saves you some bother if you can leave
that sort of thing to your wife."

"Pshaw!" said Festing. "You make me tired."

He picked up the broken knife and looked at Charnock. Bob was bantering
him, exaggerating his slackness. As a matter of fact, the fellow was not
so lazy as he pretended; Sadie was beginning to wake him up. Stephen did
not know if he had forgiven him or not, but they had gradually dropped
back into something like their old relations.

"You might take off the broken blades," he resumed. "You'll find new
ones in the box. They ought to be riveted, but if you use the short
bolts and file down the nuts, I dare say they'll run through the
guides."

Then he crawled back under the machine and did not come out until he
head a rattle of wheels. Wilkinson, whom he knew and disliked, stopped
his team close by and began to talk to Charnock. This annoyed Festing,
because he was nearly ready to replace the knife.

"I called at your place and found you were out," Wilkinson remarked.
"They told me where you had gone, and when I saw Festing's wagon I
reckoned you might have gone with him. You come here pretty often, don't
you?"

"Steve's patient," Charnock replied with a twinkle. "I'm not sure he
enjoys my visits, but he puts up with them."

"Well, I want you to drive over to-morrow evening. A man you know from
Winnipeg is coming to see me about a deal in Brandon building lots. The
thing looks good and ought to turn out a snap."

"The trouble is I haven't much money to invest," Charnock answered, and
Festing thought he was hesitating. It looked as if Wilkinson had not
seen him yet, for he was standing behind the machine.

"I understand you have a bigger interest in the farm than you had in the
hotel and something might be arranged. Anyhow, come over and hear what
our friend has to say."

"You'll be a fool if you go, Bob," Festing interposed.

"I don't know that this is your business," Wilkinson rejoined. "I
haven't suggested that you should join us."

"You know I wouldn't join you. I had one deal with you, and that's
enough. No doubt you remember selling me the brown horse."

"You tried the horse before you bought him."

"I did. He was quiet then, but I've since suspected that he was doped.
Anyhow, he nearly killed my hired man."

Wilkinson laughed. "You had your trial and backed your judgment. Know
more about machines than horses, don't you?"

"I didn't know the man I dealt with then. You warranted the brute
good-tempered and easy to drive. I'll give you five dollars if you'll
take him out of the stable and harness him now."

"I haven't time," said Wilkinson. "Didn't charge you high and guess
you've got to pay for learning your business. The trouble is you're too
sure about yourself and reckoned you'd make a splash at farming without
much trouble. Anyhow, I don't want to sell Charnock a horse; he's a
better judge than you."

"He's not much judge of building lots. If your friend has got a safe
snap, why do you want to let Charnock in?"

Wilkinson began to look impatient. "I came over to talk to Charnock, and
if he likes the deal it's not your affair."

"It is my affair if you stop him when he's helping me," Festing
rejoined. "If he's a fool, he'll talk to you some other time; if he's
wise, he won't. Just now I'd sooner you drove off my farm."

Wilkinson gave him a curious look. "Very well. I reckon the place is
yours; or your wife's." Then he turned to Charnock. "Are you coming
over, Bob?"

"No," said Charnock, irresolutely, "I don't think I will."

He lighted his pipe when Wilkinson started his team, and presently
remarked: "On the whole, I'm glad you headed him off, because I might
have gone. You mean well, Stephen, but that man doesn't like you, and
I've sometimes thought he doesn't like Sadie."

"It doesn't matter if he likes me or not," said Festing. "Let's get on
with the mower."



CHAPTER XV

THE CHEQUE

The North-west breeze was fresher than usual when, one afternoon, Helen
rode through a belt of sand-hills on her way to the Charnock farm.
Clouds of dust blew about the horse's feet, and now and then fine grit
whistled past her head. She had her back to the boisterous wind, but she
urged the horse until they got behind a grove of scrub poplars. Then she
rolled up her veil and wiped her face before she looked about.

Round, dark clouds rolled across the sky, as they had done since spring,
but for nearly a month none had broken. A low ridge, streaked by flying
shadows, ran across the foreground, and waves of dust rose and fell
about its crest. Sandy belts are common on parts of the prairie, and
when they fringe cultivated land are something of a danger in a dry
season, because the loose sand travels far before the wind.

Beyond the sand-hills, the level grass was getting white and dry, and in
the distance the figures of a man and horses stood out against a moving
cloud of dust. Helen supposed he was summer-fallowing, but did not
understand the dust, because when she last passed the spot the soil
looked dark and firm. She remembered that Festing had been anxious about
the weather.

Riding on, she saw the roof of the Charnock homestead above a straggling
bluff, and her thoughts centered on its occupants. Strange as the thing
was, she had come to think of Sadie as her friend. Her loyalty and her
patience with her husband commanded respect, and now it looked as if
they would be rewarded. Bob was taking an interest in his farm and had
worked with steady industry for the last month or two. Helen thought she
deserved some credit for this; she had had a part in Bob's reformation
and had made Stephen help.

Sadie trusted her, and no suspicion or jealousy marked their relations.
Indeed, Helen wondered why she had at one time been drawn to Bob. Were
she free to do so, she would certainly not marry him now. Still she had
loved him, and this gave her thoughts about him a vague, sentimental
gentleness. It was a comfort to feel that she had done something to turn
his wandering feet into the right path.

When she reached the homestead she found Sadie looking disturbed. Her
face was hard, but her eyes were red, and Helen suspected that she had
been crying. It was obvious that something serious had happened, because
Sadie's pluck seldom broke down.

"I'm glad you came," the latter said. "I'm surely in trouble."

Helen asked what the trouble was, and Sadie told her in jerky sentences.
Charnock had started for the railroad early that morning, and after he
left she discovered that he had written a cheque, payable to Wilkinson.

"It's not so much the money, but to feel he has cheated me and broken
loose when I thought he was cured," she concluded. "He has been going
steady, but now that brute has got hold of him he'll hang around the
settlement, tanking and betting, for a week or two. Then he'll be slack
and moody and leave the farm alone, and I'll have to begin the job
again."

Sadie paused, with tears in her eyes, and then pulled herself together.
"Pshaw!" she said, "I'm a silly fool. Before you came I thought I'd quit
and let Bob go his own way; but I'm not beaten yet. If Wilkinson wants
him, there's going to be some fight. Now, I want you to ride over with
me to the fellow's place."

Helen felt sympathetic. Sadie's resentment was justified, and she looked
rather refined when angry. Her stiff pose lent her a touch of dignity;
her heightened color and the sparkle in her eyes gave her face the charm
of animation. Moreover, her want of reserve no longer jarred. Reserve is
not very common on the plains.

"But you must tell me something about it first," Helen replied. "How did
you find out he had written the cheque?"

"I suspected something after he'd gone and looked for his cheque-book.
He'd torn out a form, but hadn't filled up the tab. Bob's silly when
he's cunning and didn't think about his blotter. The top sheet was
nearly clean and I read what he'd written, in a looking-glass."

"Why did he give Wilkinson the money?"

"I guess it's to speculate in wheat or building-lots, and Bob will
certainly lose it all; but that's not what makes me mad. After all, it's
his money; he's been saving it since he steadied down. I can manage Bob
if he's left alone, and thought I'd cut out the friends he shouldn't
have. Wilkinson was the only danger left, but he's a blamed tough
proposition."

Helen knew Festing disliked the man, but she felt puzzled. "The sum is
not very large," she said. "I don't quite see why Wilkinson thought it
worth while----"

"It shows he's pinched for money, and there's some hope in that. Then
he doesn't like me, and I imagine he has a pick on your husband. Stephen
froze him off one day when he was getting after Bob. Anyhow, I mean to
get the money back."

"But can you? It is Bob's cheque."

"I'm going to try. The bank deals with _me_," Sadie answered. "But come
along; I hear the hired man bringing the rig."

When they got into the vehicle, Helen remarked that Sadie had brought
a flexible riding whip. Since the quirt was useless for driving, Helen
wondered what she meant to do with it. The trail they took ran through
the grass, a sinuous riband of hard-beaten soil that flashed where it
caught the light. It was seamed by ruts and fringed by wild barley but
in places the grass had spread across it, leaving gaps, into which the
horses' legs and the wheel sank. The smell of wild peppermint rose from
among the crackling stalks as the team brushed through. Now and then a
prairie-hen got up, and small animals, like English squirrels, squatted
by the trail until the wheels were nearly upon them, and then dived into
holes.

"The gophers are surely plentiful," Sadie remarked. "Don't know that
I've seen so many around before, and that's going to be bad for the
grain. They're generally worst when the crop is poor."

"Do you think the crop will be poor?"

Sadie glanced at the sky, which was a dazzling blue, flooded with light,
except where the scattered clouds drove by.

"We didn't get the June rains, and the frost-damp has gone down pretty
deep. Then we have had very few thunder-storms, and the sand is blowing
bad. It makes trouble in parts of Manitoba, but the scrub trees in our
sand-hills generally hold it up. What does Steve think?"

"He hasn't told me. Sometimes he looks anxious, but he doesn't talk
about it much."

"That's Steve's way. I don't know if it's a good way. He sees when he's
up against a hard thing and makes his own plans. Now I want to know my
husband's troubles. You feel better when you can talk."

Helen agreed with Sadie; she often wished Stephen would talk to her
about his anxieties. He wanted to save her and had confidence in
himself, but she felt that he left her out too much.

"How does the sand damage the wheat?" she asked.

"Cuts the stalk. Takes time, of course, but the sharp grit puts down the
grain like a binder knife, if it blows through the field long enough.
However, I'm not worrying much about that; there are worse things than
the sand and drought. We're fools and make our real troubles; that's
what's the matter with us."

Helen smiled. Sadie was amusing when philosophized, but Helen thought
her views were sound. She had chosen a stern country, but its stinging
cold and boisterous winds were invigorating, and with pluck one could
overcome its material obstacles. It was human weaknesses that made for
unhappiness.

"Well," she said, "we must hope the rain will come; but hadn't we better
go by the long bluff? The new man has put a fence across the other
trail."

Sadie left the trail, and as they crossed a hollow the tall grass
rustled about the horses' legs. It had lost its verdure; the red lilies
and banks of yellow flowers had withered on their parched stalks. When
they reached the level the grass was only a few inches high and the wide
plain rolled back in the strong light, shining pale-yellow and gray. It
was only when the shadows passed that one could see streaks and patches
of faded green. In the distance a cluster of roofs broke the bare
expanse, and Helen knew they marked the Wilkinson ranch. A horse and
buggy approached it, looking very small, and she glanced at Sadie, who
said nothing, although her face was stern. By and by the latter stopped
her team in front of the homestead and fastened the reins to a post.

"Now," she said, "you sit on the veranda and wait for me. It was
Wilkinson's rig we saw, and I'll find him in."

Wilkinson looked up from the table at which he was writing when Sadie
entered the room. He was, on the whole, a handsome man, but was rather
fat, and his black eyes were unusually close together. This perhaps
accounted for the obliquity of his glance, which, some believed,
conveyed a useful hint about his character. He was neatly dressed
in light, summer clothes, although the farmers generally wore brown
overalls. As he got up his look indicated that he was trying to hide his
annoyance.

"This is something of a surprise, Mrs. Charnock," he said politely.
"However, if there's anything I can do--"

"You can sit down again in the meantime," Sadie replied, and occupied
a chair opposite, with the quirt on her knee. "To begin with, if you're
writing to your Winnipeg friend, you had better wait a bit."

"I'm not writing to Winnipeg; but don't see what this has to do with
your visit."

"Then you haven't sent off Bob's cheque yet! I mean to get it back."

Wilkinson saw that he had made a rash admission. Mrs. Charnock was
cleverer than he thought.

"If Bob wants it back, why didn't he come himself?"

"He doesn't know I have come," Sadie answered calmly.

Wilkinson studied her and did not like her look. Her face was hard, her
color higher than usual, and her eyes sparkled ominously.

"Well," he said, "you told me you would pay no more of your husband's
debts, but this is not a debt. Besides, the money must be Bob's, since
he gave me the cheque."

"Why did he give it you?"

The question was awkward, because Wilkinson did not want to state that
he had persuaded Bob to join him in a speculation. This was the best
construction that could be put upon the matter, and he did not think it
would satisfy Mrs. Charnock.

"Why does a man give another a cheque?" he rejoined, with a look of
good-humor that he did not feel.

"The best reason I know of is--for value received. But this doesn't
apply. You allowed it wasn't a debt, so Bob has got no value."

"One sometimes pays for value one expects to get."

Sadie laughed scornfully. "If that's what Bob has done, he'll get badly
stung. There's nothing coming to him from a deal with you. I guess you
don't claim he made you a present of the money?"

"I don't," said Wilkinson, with a frown, for he thought he saw where she
was leading him.

"Very well. One pays for something one has got or is going to get, and
as we can rule out both reasons, the cheque is bad. In fact, it's not
worth keeping. Better give it me back."

"Your argument looks all right, Mrs. Charnock, but you don't start from
sure ground. How do you know there's nothing coming to your husband?"

"I know you," Sadie rejoined. "Anyhow, the cheque is certainly bad.
They'll turn it down if you take it to the bank."

Wilkinson made an abrupt movement. "You can't stop your husband's
cheque. You don't mean he hasn't the dollars to meet it?"

"I don't," said Sadie, with an angry flush. "Bob is honest. The money's
there, but if you think the bank will pay when I tell them not, go and
see. The manager knows me and he knows you."

Wilkinson saw that he was beaten, but tried to hide his anger. "Well, it
looks as if Bob was lucky. He has a wife who will take care of him, and
I reckon he needs something of the kind. However, here's the cheque; I
want a receipt."

Sadie wrote the receipt and he noted that her hand shook. As she got up
he glanced at the quirt.

"Did you ride over? I thought I heard a rig."

"I drove," said Sadie. "Looks as I needn't have brought the quirt.
Well, I'm glad you agreed about the cheque being bad. I meant to get it
anyhow."

Wilkinson gave her a curious look, but said nothing and she went out.

"I've saved Bob's money," she told Helen as she started the team.
"Wilkinson saw my arguments and didn't kick as much as I expected, but
he certainly doesn't like me any better. I think he'll make trouble if
he can."

"That seems unlikely," Helen remarked. "I imagine that as you have
beaten him he'll be glad to let the matter drop. No doubt he wanted the
money and was vexed because he had to give it up, but I hardly think
he'll try to revenge himself on you. Men don't do these things."

"My husband and yours don't, but Wilkinson is different," Sadie
answered.

Charnock had not returned when she reached the farm, and after Helen
left she sat on the veranda, feeling disturbed. Bob had told her he was
going to the railroad to bring out some goods, but he could have got
back two or three hours earlier. Then Wilkinson no doubt knew where he
had gone. A small settlement, with two new hotels, had sprung up round
the station, and as the place was easily reached by the construction
gangs there was now and then some drunkenness and gambling. For all
that, Sadie did not mean to anticipate trouble, and set about some
household work that her drive had delayed. It got dark before she
finished, but Bob did not come, and she went outside again.

The night was clear and refreshingly cold after the scorching day. The
wind had dropped, everything was very quiet, and she could see for
some distance across the plain. The hollows were picked out by belts of
darker shadow, and the scattered bluffs made dim gray blurs, but nothing
moved on the waste, and she did not hear the beat of hoofs she listened
for.

For a time she sat still, lost in gloomy thought. Bob's relapse had been
a bitter disappointment, because she had begun to hope that the danger
of his resuming his former habits was past. He had stuck to his work,
which seemed to absorb his interest, and had looked content. There was
ground for believing that with a little judicious encouragement he
might make a good farmer, and Sadie did not grudge the patient effort
necessary to keep him in the proper path. Now he had left it again and
might wander far before she could lead him back.

For all that, she did not mean to give up. She had fought hard for Bob
and was resolved to win, while there was a ray of comfort. The woman
she had at first thought a danger was her best friend, and she felt for
Helen Festing a grateful admiration that sometimes moved her deeply.
Helen had many advantages that she could not have combated had they been
used against her: grace, polish, and a knowledge of the world in which
Bob had lived. But Helen was on her side. Sadie's admiration was perhaps
warranted, but she undervalued her own patience and courage.

At length she got drowsy and forgot her troubles. She did not think she
really went to sleep, but after a time she got up with a start. A beat
of hoofs and rattle of wheels had roused her, and she saw a rig coming
towards the house. For a minute or two she stood shivering and trying
to brace herself. If Bob was driving, things might be better than she
thought; but when the horses stopped another man got down.

"Perhaps you'd better rouse out your hired man, Mrs. Charnock," he said
awkwardly. "I've got your husband here, but it's going to take two of us
to bring him in."

Sadie brought a lamp and, with her mouth firmly set, looked into the
rig. Bob lay upon some sacks in an ungainly attitude, and the jolting
had not broken his heavy sleep. It was some time since he had come home
like this, and Sadie felt dejected and tired. Then with an effort she
went to waken the hired man.

They carried Charnock in, and when she had given the driver some money
she sat down and indulged her passionate indignation. Wilkinson had sent
the rig, but had not been prompted by kindness when he told the man to
drive Bob back; it was his revenge for his defeat. He had found Bob,
made him drunk, when there was nothing to be gained by doing so, and
sent him home like this. The fellow was poison-mean, but she thought him
rash. He had struck her a cruel blow, but she did not mean to sit still
and nurse the wound. She must strike back with all the force she could
use and make him sorry he had provoked her to fight. Then, putting off
her half-formed plans until next day, she went to bed.



CHAPTER XVI

A COUNTER-STROKE

When Sadie got up next morning she ordered the buggy to be brought
round, and then went to look at Charnock. He was asleep, of which she
was rather glad, because there was something to be said and she was
highly strung. She could not trust her temper yet and might go too
far. Bob was generally docile, particularly when repentant; but it was
possible to drive him into an obstinate mood when nothing could be
done with him. She was angry, but her anger was mainly directed against
Wilkinson.

After breakfast she drove off across the plain. It was about eight
o'clock, but the sun was hot. The breeze was not so fresh as usual, and
a bank of dark clouds rolled up above the prairie's edge. They looked
solid and their rounded masses shone an oily black, and she wondered
whether they promised one of the thunder-storms that often broke upon
the plains on summer afternoons. She would have welcomed the savage
downpour, even if it had spoiled her clothes.

Sadie was getting anxious about the crop. Its failure would mean a
serious loss, and she hated to see labor and money wasted; but this was
not all. Knowing the risks the farmer ran on newly-broken land, she had
not adventured too much of her capital on the first year's harvest; but
success might encourage Bob, while failure would certainly daunt him.
He would work for an object he was likely to gain, but if disappointed,
regretted the exertions he had made, and refused, with humorous logic,
to be stirred to fresh effort.

"I'm not convinced that farming's my particular duty," he once said.
"When I plow it's in the expectation of cashing the elevator warrants
for the grain. If I'm not to reap the crop, it seems to me that working
fourteen hours a day is a waste of time that might be agreeably employed
in shooting or riding about."

Sadie urged that one got nothing worth having without a struggle. Bob
rejoined: "If you get the thing you aim at, the struggle's justified;
if you don't you think of what you've missed while you were uselessly
employed. Of course, if you like a struggle, you have the satisfaction
of following your bent; but hustling is a habit that has no charm for
me."

Sadie reflected that the last remark was true. Bob never hustled; his
talk and movements were marked by a languid grace that sometimes pleased
and sometimes irritated her. It was difficult to make him angry, and
she was often silenced by his whimsical arguments when she knew she was
right. But he was her husband, and she meant to baulk the man who hoped
to profit by his carelessness.

Then she urged the horse. It was a long drive to the settlement where
she had kept the hotel, and she had not been there for some time. The
goods she and her neighbors bought came from the new settlement on the
railroad, which was not far off; but she had an object in visiting the
other. It was noon when she reached the hotel and sat down to dinner in
the familiar room. She did not know if she was pleased or disappointed
to find the meal served as well as before, but her thoughts were not
cheerful while she ate. She remembered her ambitions and her resolve to
leave the dreary plains and make her mark in Toronto or Montreal. Now
her dreams had vanished and she must grapple with dull realities that
jarred her worse than they had done.

The dining-room was clean, but unattractive, with its varnished board
walls, bare floor, and wire-mesh filling the skeleton door, which a
spring banged to before the mosquitoes could get in. There were no
curtains or ventilator-fans, the room was very hot, and the glaring
sunshine emphasized its ugliness. Then it was full of flies that fell
upon boards and tables from the poisonous papers, and a big gramophone
made a discordant noise. Sadie remembered Keller's pride in the machine
and how he had bought it, to amuse the boys, after hearing an electric
organ in a Montreal restaurant. Yet she knew her craving for society
must be gratified at such places as this; a rare visit to the settlement
was the only change from monotonous toil.

When she offered her meal-ticket at the desk the clerk shook his head.

"You don't need to open your wallet in this house. The boss left word
he'd be glad to see you at the store."

Sadie, who had meant to see the proprietor, complied, and found him and
his wife in the back office, where she and Bob had often sat. The woman
gave Sadie a friendly smile.

"I hope they served you well. When you're in town we want you to use the
house like it still belonged to you."

Sadie made a suitable reply. She had charged a good price for the
business, but had stuck to the Keller traditions and made a straight
deal. Stock and furniture had been justly valued, and when the buyers
examined the accounts she had frankly told them which debts were
doubtful and which were probably bad. It was about these things they
wished to talk to her, and she meant to indulge them.

"How's trade?" she asked, to give them a lead.

"In one way, it's good," replied the man. "We're selling out as fast as
we can get the truck; but there's a point I want your views about. The
cheque I gave you wiped off most all the capital I had, wholesalers put
up their prices if you make them wait, and a number of the boys have a
bad habit of letting their bills run on. Now, if you can give me some
advice----."

"Certainly," said Sadie, who thought the woman looked anxious. "Suppose
you read out the names and what they owe?"

The man opened a ledger, and she told him what she knew about his
customers; whom he could trust and whom he had better refuse further
credit. Then she looked thoughtful when he said: "Wilkinson, of the
range--"

"He didn't deal with us."

"But you know everybody round here and can tell me if he's likely to
make good," the man urged.

"How much does he owe you?" Sadie asked.

The man named a rather large sum and she pretended to consider.

"Well," she replied, "the boys have probably told you that Wilkinson's
not a friend of mine, and since that's so I'm not going to say much
about his character."

"It's not his character we're curious about. Do you know how he's
fixed?"

Sadie was silent for a few moments. The others were young and newly
married and had admitted that the purchase of the business had strained
their resources. It was plain that a large bad debt might involve them
in difficulties. Wilkinson had forced her to fight, and she meant to
show him no mercy, but she must say nothing that could afterwards be
brought up against her.

"Character counts for as much as dollars," she remarked. "That was my
father's motto, and he was never afraid to take steep chances by backing
an honest man. Although he had debts on his books for three or four
years, it was seldom a customer let him down. But he cut out a crook as
soon as he suspected what the fellow was. However, you want to know how
Wilkinson stands? Well, it's a sure thing he finds dollars tight."

"Anyhow, a man can't disown his debts in this country."

"That's so; but if he's a farmer, the homestead laws stop your seizing
his house and land and part of his stock, unless he has mortgaged them
to you. If somebody else holds a mortgage, you generally get stung."

"The trouble is that if you're too hard on a customer, he tells his
friends, and the opposition gets his trade and theirs."

"Sure," said Sadie, "Keller's let the opposition have that kind of
trade. A crook's friends are generally like himself, and there's not
much profit in selling goods to folk who don't mean to pay."

"Has Wilkinson given a mortgage?" the man asked.

"If he had, it's got to be registered. You can find out at the record
office, and I guess it would pay you to go and see."

"Well, I hear he's just sold a good bunch of horses. That means he'll
have some money for a while."

"Then you had better take your bills over and get them paid before the
money's gone," Sadie answered in a meaning tone.

"If you had the store, would you risk his being able to pay all right
and afterwards dropping you?"

"I certainly would," said Sadie. "I'd harness my team and start for the
range right now."

The woman looked at her husband. "That's my notion, Tom; you'd better
go," she said, and turned to Sadie. "It would hit us hard if Wilkinson's
bill got much longer and he let us down."

Sadie left them and went to a new store farther up the street, after
which she called on an implement dealer who occasionally speculated in
real estate and mortgages, and one or two others. She knew them all, and
they knew that on business matters her judgment was sound. It was plain
that they were suspicious about Wilkinson, but, so far, undecided what
to do. They had doubts, but hesitated to admit that they had been rash,
and shrank from using means that might cost them a customer. Sadie gave
one information she had gathered from another, and added hints of what
she herself knew. The tact she used prevented their guessing that she
had an object, and she did little more than bring their own suspicions
to a head; but she was satisfied when she returned to the hotel.

When the horse had rested she drove out of the settlement. For some
distance a wire fence ran along the dusty, graded road, but it ended
at a hollow, seamed by deep ruts that united on the other side, where
a trail emerged. Then for a mile or two, she passed new scattered
homesteads with their windmills and wooden barns, until these dropped
behind and she drove across the empty wilderness. No rain had fallen,
the sky was getting clear and green, and a vivid crimson sunset burned
on the edge of the grass. The air was now cool, and although she was
anxious about the weather, Sadie felt more cheerful than when she had
come.

She had no scruples about what she had done. For one thing, she had
kept to the truth when she might have made her hints more damaging by a
little exaggeration. Her antagonist had struck her a treacherous blow;
he was dangerous, and must be downed. Then she smiled with grim humor
as she admitted that she had perhaps done enough for a time. Wilkinson's
creditors were on his track; it would be amusing to watch them play her
game.

It was dark when she reached the farm and found Charnock waiting on the
veranda. He looked dull but not embarrassed, and there was nothing to
indicate that he had been disturbed by her absence. Sadie did not tell
him where she had been and did not talk much. She had found out that it
was better not to make things too easy for Bob.

"I suppose you have a headache; you deserve it," she said. "I'm tired
and don't want to hear your excuses now."

"I really haven't begun to make excuses," Charnock answered.

"Then don't begin. It's late, and you have got to start for the bluff at
sun-up and haul those fence-posts home. The job has been hanging on too
long and must be finished to-morrow."

"It will be finished before dinner," Charnock replied. "As a matter of
fact, I brought in most of the posts to-day."

Sadie's look softened, but she did not mean to be gracious yet.

"I reckoned you'd be loafing round the house and finding fault," she
said and left him.

When she had gone Charnock smiled. Sadie would, no doubt, come round
to-morrow, and it was lucky she knew nothing about the cheque he had
given Wilkinson; but he wondered where she had been. Now he came to
think of it, Wilkinson had said nothing abut the cheque when they met
at the railroad settlement; but after all there was perhaps no reason he
should do so.

About seven o'clock one evening a fortnight later, Festing threw down
the cant-pole he had been using to move a big birch log, and lighting
his pipe, stopped and looked about. A shallow creek flowed through a
ravine at the edge of the tall wheat, and below the spot where he stood
its channel was spanned by the stringers of an unfinished bridge. The
creek had shrunk to a thread of water, but Festing, who had been wading
about its bed, was wet and splashed with mire. Moreover he had torn his
threadbare overalls and his hot face was smeared where he had rubbed off
the mosquitoes with dirty hands.

The evening was hot, he felt tired and moody, and his depression was not
relieved when he glanced at the wheat. There was no wind now, but the
breeze had been fresh, and the ears of grain that were beginning to
emerge from their sheaths dropped in a sickly manner. The stalks had
a ragged look and fine sand lay among the roots. The crop was damaged,
particularly along its exposed edge, although it might recover if there
was rain. Festing, studying the sky, saw no hope of this. The soft blue
to the east and the luminous green it melted into, with the harsh red
glare of the sinking sun, threatened dry and boisterous weather. Unless
a change came soon, the wheat would be spoiled.

It was obvious that he had sown too large a crop, and the work this
implied had overtaxed his strength. He had felt the strain for some
time, and now things were going against him it got worse. Hope might
have braced him, but the thought of failure was depressing. For all
that, there were economies he must practise at the cost of extra labor,
and bridging the creek would lessen the cost of transport and enable him
to sell one of his teams. He was late for supper, but wanted to finish
part of the work before he went home.

By and by he saw Helen stop at the edge of the ravine. Her face was hot,
as if she had been walking fast, and she looked vexed.

"You have kept us waiting half an hour and don't seem ready yet," she
said.

"I'm not ready," Festing replied, and stopped abruptly. "Very sorry; I
forgot all about it," he resumed.

Helen made a gesture of annoyance. She had invited some of their
neighbors to supper and had spent the day preparing the feast. Things,
however, had gone wrong; the stove had got too hot and spoiled her
choicest dishes.

"You forgot!" she exclaimed. "It really isn't often I trouble you with
guests."

"That's lucky, because I haven't much time for entertaining people. I'm
overworked just now."

Helen hesitated because she was afraid she might say too much. She
admired his persevering industry, but had begun to feel that he was
slipping away from her and devoting himself to his farm. Sometimes she
indulged an angry jealousy, and then tried to persuade herself it was
illogical.

"Then why give yourself another task by building the bridge?" she asked.

"I tried to explain that. I can get the thing done with less trouble
when the creek is nearly dry, and if we had to use the ford when hauling
out the grain, it would mean starting with a light load or keeping a
team of horses there. When I've built the bridge and graded back the
road we can take the full number of bags across, and that makes for
economy. It looks as if I'll have to be severely economical soon."

Helen colored. She thought he did not mean to vex her, but he had
ventured on dangerous ground.

"You know that what is mine is yours," she said.

"In a way, it is, but I put all my capital into the stock and crop, and
must try to get it back. I can't ask my wife for money if I loaf about
and lose my own."

"You don't loaf," Helen rejoined. "But if you lose your crop from causes
you can't prevent happening, there is no reason you shouldn't accept my
help."

"I know you're generous and would give me all you had but--"

Helen shook her head. "You don't see the matter in the right way yet;
but we'll let it go. Get your jacket and come back at once."

"Must I come?" Festing asked irresolutely.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"I don't think so. Can't you tell the folks I'd forgotten and started
something I must finish?"

"I can't," said Helen sharply. "It hurts to know you had forgotten. The
farm is lonely and I haven't many friends; but I can't tell outsiders
how little that matters to you."

"I'm sorry," Festing answered with some embarrassment. "Still I think
you're exaggerating; nobody would look at it like that. Our neighbors
know one has to stay with one's work."

"Bob finds time to go about with his wife."

"He does," said Festing dryly. "Driving about is easier than farming,
and Bob has no scruples about living on his wife's money. I expect that
was his object when he married her. There's another thing I forgot; he's
coming to-night."

"He and Sadie have been at the house some time."

Festing made a sign of resignation. "I could stand the others better.
They know what we may have to face, but nothing bothers Bob, and it's
hard to play up to his confounded cheerfulness when you're not in the
mood. Then I suppose I've got to put on different clothes?"

Helen forced a smile. When they first came to the homestead, Stephen
had changed his clothes for supper and afterwards devoted himself to her
amusement, sometimes playing chess, and sometimes listening while she
sang. Then, as the days got longer, he had gradually grown careless,
contenting himself with changing his jacket and half an hour's talk,
until at length he sat down to the meal in dusty overalls and hurried
off afterwards. Helen had tried to make excuses for him, but felt hurt
all the same. Stephen was getting slovenly and neglecting her.

"It's plain that you must take off those muddy overalls," she said.

They went back, and supper was delayed while Festing changed. He
forced himself to be polite when he joined his guests, but it cost him
something, and the dishes Helen had carefully prepared were spoiled.
On the whole, he felt grateful to Sadie and Bob, who kept the others in
good-humor and relieved him from the necessity of leading the talk; but
he was glad when they left.

When the rigs melted into the shadowy plain he stood on the veranda and
yawned.

"Well," he remarked, "that's over, and it will be some time before they
need come back. I hope none of them will think they have to ask us out
in return."

"You gave them a very plain hint," Helen said bitterly.

Festing did not answer and went into the house. He felt he had not been
tactful, but he was very tired, and if he ventured an explanation might
make things worse. Besides, he must get up at four o'clock next morning.

Helen sat still for some time, looking out on the prairie. She was
beginning to feel daunted by its loneliness. Except for Sadie Charnock,
visitors seldom came to the farm. Her neighbors lived at some distance,
but she had hoped to plan a round of small reunions that would break the
monotony. Stephen, however, had shown her that she could expect no help
from him, and had actually forgotten her first party. She felt wounded;
it was hard to think that so long as he had work to do she must resign
herself to being left alone.



CHAPTER XVII

FESTING USES FORCE

A week or so after the supper party Festing started for the settlement
with some pieces of a binder in his wagon. He had bought the machine
second-hand, and meant to replace certain worn parts before harvest
began, although he doubted if this was worth while. The drought was
ripening the grain prematurely and some of it was spoiled, but he must
try to save as much as possible. Reaching the edge of the wheat, he
stopped the team irresolutely, half tempted to turn back, because it
seemed unlikely that the old binder need be used.

The wind had fallen; the mosquitoes were about and bit his face and
neck. Everything was strangely quiet, it was very hot, and masses of
leaden cloud darkened the horizon. Festing, however, had given up hoping
for rain, which would not make much difference if it came now.

The front of the wide belt of grain was ragged and bitten into hollows
by the driving sand. The torn stalks drooped and slanted away from the
wind, while others that had fallen lay about their roots. Farther in,
the damage was less, but the ears were half-filled and shriveled. The
field was parti-colored, for the dull, dark green had changed to a
dingy, sapless hue, and the riper patches had a sickly yellow tinge
instead of a coppery gleam.

Festing's face hardened. If he thrashed out half the number of bushels
he had expected, he would be lucky. He had staked all he had on the
chances of the weather and had lost. It was his first failure and came
as a rude shock to his self-confidence. He felt shaken and disgusted
with himself, for it looked as if he had been a rash fool. Still, if
rain came now, he might save enough to obviate the necessity of using
Helen's money. She would give him all he asked for, but this was a
matter about which he felt strongly, and she knew his point of view.

Driving on, he met the mail-carrier, who gave him a letter. It was from
Kerr, his former chief on the railroad, who had been moved to a new
section on the Pacific Slope. He told Festing about certain difficulties
they had encountered, and the latter felt a curious interest. Indeed, he
looked back with a touch of regret to the strenuous days he had spent at
the construction camps. The work was hard, but one was provided with the
material required and efficient tools. Then there was freedom from the
responsibility he felt now; one did one's best and the company took the
risk.

Festing's interest deepened when, at the end of the letter, Kerr told
him about a contract for which nobody seemed anxious to tender. It was
a difficult undertaking, but Kerr thought a bold, resourceful man could
carry it out with profit. He did not know if it would appeal to Festing,
although prairie farmers sometimes went to work with their teams on a
new track when their harvest was poor. Kerr ended with the hope that
this was not the case with Festing.

The latter sat still for a few minutes with his brows knit and then
started his team. It was too late to think of railroad contracts; he had
chosen his line and must stick to it, but his look was irresolute as he
drove on.

Some time after Festing reached the settlement, Wilkinson and three or
four others sat, smoking, in the poolroom. This supplied a useful hint
about their character, because supper would not be ready for an hour or
two, and industrious people were busily occupied. The room was hot,
the floor and green tables were sprinkled with poisoned flies, and
the wooden chairs were uncomfortably hard, but it was cooler than the
sidewalk, and the men lounged with their feet on the empty stove.

"Does anybody feel like another game?" one asked.

"No," said the man he looked at. "I've lost three dollars, and that's
all I can spare. Can't spare it, for that matter, but it's gone. I'm
going broke if this weather lasts.

"That's nothing," remarked another. "Some of us have been broke since we
came here; you get used to it. There'll be other folks in a tight place
if the rain doesn't come; but it won't make much difference to you,
Wilkinson. I guess the storekeepers have you fixed now."

Wilkinson frowned. He knew the remark was prompted by malice because he
had won the money his companion had lost. The fellow, however, had
not exaggerated. His creditors had recently stopped supplies and
made demands with which he was unable to comply, and since they were
obviously consulting each other, it looked as if he would be sold up and
forced to leave the neighborhood. Somebody had put them on his track and
he suspected Mrs. Charnock. He meant to punish her if he could.

"I've certainly got to sell off a bunch of young horses sooner than
I meant; I expect you've seen the notices," he said, and added with a
sneer: "They'd have made a much better price if I could have kept them
until the spring, and now's your chance if you have any dollars to
invest. It's a sure snap for anybody who'll help me hold them over."

One of the men laughed ironically and another asked: "Why don't you try
Charnock? He used to be a partner of yours, and he's more money than the
rest of us."

Wilkinson saw his opportunity. His companions were loafing gossips, and
those who were married would tell their wives. In a very short time the
rumor he meant to start would travel about the neighborhood, and there
was enough truth in it to make it dangerous and hard to deny.

"Charnock's deadbeat. He's as poor as you."

"His wife has plenty dollars, anyhow."

"That's so, but she's not going to give him any more," Wilkinson
rejoined. "He married Sadie for her money, and now he hasn't sense
enough to stick to her."

It was obvious that he had secured the others' attention, for they
waited eagerly, with their eyes fixed on him. The room was quiet, but a
rig came up the street and the rattle of wheels and harness drowned
the sound of steps outside. Nobody noticed that the door, which was not
quite shut, opened wider.

"What do you mean by that?" one asked.

"Bob's running after Mrs. Festing. Old sweetheart of his in England,
though he turned her down to marry Sadie. Now she's got hold of him
again--tired of Festing or has a pick on Mrs. Charnock, perhaps. Anyhow,
Bob's round the Festing place all the time, and I don't know that I
blame him much. Mrs. Festing's a looker and Sadie's a difficult woman to
live with."

"But what has Festing got to say?"

Wilkinson laughed. "Festing's a bit of a sucker and doesn't know. He's
scared about the big crop he has sown and thinks of nothing but the
weather and his farm, while Bob goes over when he's off at work. But I
guess there's trouble coming soon."

"It's coming now," said somebody, and Wilkinson's jaw fell slack, and he
sat with his mouth open as Festing strode into the room.

The latter had come to look for a smith, and hearing Wilkinson's voice
as he went up the steps, waited for a moment or two. He was too late, in
one sense, because the harm had been done, but he could not steal away.
Although the course he meant to take was not very logical, judgment
would be given against him if he did nothing. His sunburned face was
rather white and he stood very stiff, with muscles braced, looking down
at Wilkinson.

"Get up, you slanderous brute, and tell them it's a lie," he said.

"I'll be shot if I will!" said Wilkinson, who got on his feet
reluctantly. "You know it's true."

Then he flung up his arm, a second too late, for Festing struck him a
smashing blow and he staggered, with the blood running down his face.

He recovered in a moment, and seizing a billiard cue brought the thick
end down on Festing's head. Festing swayed, half-dazed, but grasped
the cue, and they struggled for its possession, until it broke in the
middle, and Wilkinson flung his end in the other's face. After this,
for a minute or two, the fight was close and confused, and both made the
most of any advantage that offered.

In Western Canada, personal combat is not hampered by rules. The main
thing is to disable one's antagonist as quickly as possible, and Festing
knew that Wilkinson would not be scrupulous. He must not be beaten,
particularly since his defeat would, to some extent, confirm the
slander.

He grappled with Wilkinson as a precaution, because another cue stood
near, and with a tense effort threw him against the empty stove. The
shock was heavy enough to bring the stove-pipe down, and a cloud of soot
fell upon the struggling men, while the pipe rolled noisily across the
floor. Wilkinson, however, stuck to him, and they reeled up and down
between the wall and table, getting an arm loose now and then to strike
a blow, and scattering the chairs. Nobody interfered or cleared the
ground, and by and by Wilkinson caught his foot and fell down, bringing
Festing with him. After this, they fought upon the floor, rolling over
among the chairs, until their grip got slack. Both got up, breathing
hard, and Festing gasped:

"Tell them you're a liar. It's the last chance you'll get!"

Wilkinson did not answer, but struck him before he could guard, and
the fight went on again amidst a cloud of dust that rose from the dirty
boards. Then it ended suddenly, for Festing got his left arm free as he
forced his antagonist towards the open door. He struck with savage fury,
and Wilkinson, reeling backwards across the narrow veranda, plunged
down the stairs and fell into the street. He did not get up, and Festing
leaned against the wall and wiped his bleeding face.

"Pick up the hog and take him to the hotel," he said, and tried to fill
his pipe with shaking hands while the rest went out.

Other people joined them in the street, and Festing, stealing away as a
crowd began to gather, went to the implement store, where he washed his
face and brushed his damaged clothes. There was a cut on his forehead
and his jacket was badly torn, while some of the soot that had fallen
upon it would not come off. After a rest and a smoke, however, he did
not feel much worse, and the dealer, going to the hotel, brought back
news that Wilkinson had driven home.

"I guess you have done all you could and can let the fellow go," he
said. "My notion is he won't be in the neighborhood long."

An hour later, Festing drove out of the settlement, with a strip of
sticking plaster on his forehead and his jacket clumsily mended. The sky
was now a curious leaden color, and the wild barley shone a livid white
against the dark riband of the trail; the air was very hot and there
was not a breath of wind. Festing noted that the horses were nervous and
trotted fast, although they had made a long journey. Now and then they
threw up their heads and snorted, and swerved violently when a gopher
ran across the trail or a prairie-hen got up. The flies seemed to have
gone, but the mosquitoes were out in clouds, and the hand with which
he slapped his face and neck was soon smeared with small red stains. He
could not hold the whip; but it was not needed, because the team rather
required to be checked than urged.

When the trail permitted he let them go, and swung, lost in gloomy
thoughts, with the jolting of the rig. The damaging part of Wilkinson's
statement was false, but since part was true the tale would spread and
some would believe the worst. It was impossible to doubt Helen, but he
was angry with her. She had let her ridiculous notion of reforming Bob
carry her away. Festing did not think Bob could be reformed, but it
was Sadie's business, not Helen's. Besides, he had objected to her
encouraging the fellow to hang about the homestead, and she had
disregarded his warnings. Now, the thing must be stopped, and it would
be horribly disagreeable to tell her why. She had been obstinate and
rash, but after all she meant well and would be badly hurt. He began to
feel sorry for her, and his angry thought's centered on Charnock.

It was, of course, ridiculous to imagine that Bob was seriously trying
to make love to Helen; he knew her character too well. All the same, the
fellow might amuse himself by mild indulgence in romantic sentiment. He
was a fool and a slacker, and had now humiliated Helen for the second
time. The longer Festing thought about it, the angrier he got, and when
he roused himself as the horses plunged down the side of a ravine he was
surprised to note how far he had gone. He had just time to tighten the
reins and guide the team across the open log bridge at the bottom, and
as they plodded up the other side saw that he had better get home as
soon as possible.

The drooping leaves of the birches in the hollow flittered ominously,
and when he reached the summit a bluff that stood out from the plain two
or three miles off suddenly vanished. It looked as if a curtain had been
drawn across the grass. The horses set off at a fast trot, and the rig
jolted furiously among the ruts. It would not be dark for an hour, but
the gray obscurity that had hidden the bluff was getting near. At its
edge and about a mile off a pond shone with a strange sickly gleam.

Then a dazzling flash fell from the cloud bank overhead and touched the
grass. A stunning crash of thunder rolled across the sky, and the team
plunged into a frantic gallop. Festing braced himself in a vain attempt
to hold them, for the trail was half covered with tall grass and broken
by badger holes. He was soon breathless and dazzled, for the lightning
fell in forked streaks that ran along the plain, and the trail blazed in
front of the horses' feet. Thunder is common in Canada, but it is on the
high central plains that the storms attain their greatest violence.

The team plunged on, and Festing, jolting to and fro, durst not lift his
eyes from the trail. The storm would probably not last long and might do
some good if it were followed by moderate rain. But he was not sure that
moderate rain would fall. By and by a few large drops beat upon his hat,
there was a roar in the distance, and a cool draught touched his face.
It died away, but the next puff was icy cold, and the roar got louder.
He looked up, for he knew what was coming, but there was not a bluff in
sight that would shield him from the wind.

Turning down his hat-brim against the increasing rain, he let the horses
go. He need not try to hold them; the storm would stop them soon. It
broke upon him with a scream and a shower of sand and withered grass. He
staggered as if he had got a blow, and then leaned forward to resist
the pressure. The horses swerved, and he had trouble to keep them on the
trail, but their speed slackened and they fell into a labored trot. For
a few minutes they struggled against the gale, and then the roar Festing
had heard behind the scream drowned the rumbling thunder. He threw up
his arm to guard his face as the terrible hail of the plains drove down
the blast.

It fell in oblique lines of ragged lumps of ice, hammering upon the
wagon and bringing the horses to a stop. They began to plunge, turning
half round, while one pressed against the other, in an effort to escape
the savage buffeting. Festing let them have their way at the risk of
upsetting the rig, and presently they stopped with their backs to the
wind. He let the reins fall, and the hail beat upon his bowed head and
shoulders like a shower of stones. The horses stood limp and trembling,
as powerless as himself.

Their punishment did not last long. The hail got thinner and the lumps
smaller; the roar diminished and Festing heard it recede across the
plain. The wind was still savage, but it was falling, and the thunder
sounded farther off. There was a savage downpour of drenching rain, and
when this moderated he pulled himself together, and turning the horses,
resumed his journey. He was wet to the skin, his shoulders were sore,
and his face and hands were bruised and cut. Pieces of ice, some as
large as hazelnuts, lay about the wagon, and the wild barley lay flat
beside the trail. Not a blade of grass stood upright as far as he could
see, and the ruts in which the wheels churned were full of melting hail
and water.

It was getting dark when his homestead rose out of the plain; a shadowy
group of buildings, marked by two or three twinkling lights. He was wet
and cold, but he stopped by the wheat and nerved himself to see what
had happened to the crop. He had not had much hope, but for all that
got something of a shock. There was no standing grain; the great field
looked as if it had been mown. Bruised stalks and torn blades lay flat
in a tattered, tangled mass, splashed with sticky mud. The rain that
might have saved him had come too late and was finishing the ruin the
sand and hail had made.

Then the downpour thickened and the light died out, and he drove to the
house. He could see in the morning if any remnant of the crop could be
cut, but there would not be enough to make much difference. Hope had
gone, and his face was stern when he called the hired man and got down
stiffly from the dripping rig.



CHAPTER XVIII

HELEN MAKES A MISTAKE

When Festing had changed his clothes he entered the small sitting-room
with an effort at cheerfulness. The room was unusually comfortable for
a prairie homestead. The floor was stained, rugs were spread on the
polished boards, and Helen had drawn the curtains, which harmonized in
color with the big easy chairs. There were books in well-made cases, and
two or three good pictures on the painted walls, while a tall brass lamp
with a deep shade threw down a soft light. Helen had put a meal on the
table, and Festing sat down with a feeling that was half uneasiness and
half content.

While he ate he glanced at his wife. She wore a pretty and rather
fashionable dress that she kept for evenings. She looked fresh and
vigorous, although the summer had been hot and she worked hard; the
numerous petty difficulties she had to contend with had left no mark.
Her courage had always been evident, but she had shown a resolution
that Festing had not quite expected. He admired it, in a way, but it was
sometimes awkward when they took a different point of view.

There was a charm in coming back to a home like this when he was tired
and disappointed, but its taste and comfort were now disturbing. For one
thing, he had perhaps not made the best use of his privileges, and, for
another, Helen might have to be satisfied with a simpler mode of life.
It hurt him to think of this, because he had hoped to beautify the house
still further, so that she should miss nothing she had been used to in
the Old Country. It was obvious that she understood something of his
misfortune, for her look was sympathetic; but she let him finish his
supper before she began to talk.

"Your jacket is badly torn, Stephen," she remarked when he lighted his
pipe. "And how did you cut your face?"

"The hail was pretty fierce."

"It was terrible. We never had storms like that in England. I was
frightened when I thought of your being out on the prairie. But I don't
mean the small bruises. How did you cut your forehead?"

"Oh, that!" said Festing awkwardly. "I did it when I fell over a stove
at the settlement. The pipe came down and I imagine the edge struck me."

"You would have known if it hit you nor not."

"Well, it might have been the top of the stove. The molding was sharp."

"But how did you fall against the stove?" Helen persisted.

Festing did not want to tell her about the fight with Wilkinson. He had
resolved to say nothing about the matter until morning.

"I tripped. There was a chair in the way and it caught my foot."

Helen did not look altogether satisfied, but let the matter go.

"Has the hail done much damage to the wheat?"

"Yes," said Festing, with grim quietness. "I imagine it has done all the
damage that was possible. So far as I could see, the crop's wiped out."

They were sitting near together, and Helen, leaning forward, put her
hand on his arm with a gesture of sympathy.

"Poor Stephen! I'm dreadfully sorry. It must have been a blow."

Festing's hard look softened. "It was. When I stopped beside the wreck I
felt knocked out, but getting home braced me up. I begin to feel I might
have had a worse misfortune and mustn't exaggerate the importance of the
loss."

Helen was silent for a few minutes, but she was sensible of a certain
relief. She was sorry for her husband, but there was some compensation,
since it looked as if a ray of light had dawned on him. Although she had
struggled against the feeling, she was jealous of the farm that had kept
him away from her.

"I think you sowed too large a crop, and you could not have gone on
working as you have done," she said. "It would have worn you out."

Festing put down his pipe and looked at her with surprise. "You don't
seem to understand that I'll have to work harder than before."

"I don't understand," said Helen, taking away her hand. "To begin with,
it's impossible; then I'd hoped the loss of money, serious as it is,
would have made you cautious and, in a sense, more content."

"You hoped the loss of the money--!" Festing exclaimed. "Did you ever
know losing money make anybody content? The thing's absurd!"

Helen made a gesture of protest. "Stephen, dear, try to see what I mean.
You have been doing too much, running too big risks, and fixing all your
thought upon the farm. It has made you irritable and impatient, and
the strain is telling on your health. This could not go on long, and
although I'm truly sorry the wheat is spoiled, it's some relief to know
you will be forced to be less ambitious. Besides, it's foolish to be
disturbed. Neither of us is greedy, and we have enough. In fact, we have
much that I hardly think you value as you ought."

"I haven't enough; that's the trouble."

"Oh," said Helen, "you know that all I have belongs to both."

"It doesn't," Festing answered in a stubborn tone. "You don't seem to
realize yet that I can't change my views about this matter. I've lost
most of my money, but that's no reason I should lose my wife's. Besides,
since you bought the farm, you haven't a large sum left." He paused and
indicated the handsome rugs and furniture. "Then it costs a good deal to
live up to this kind of thing."

"We can change that; I can manage with less help and be more economical.
There is much that we can go without. I wouldn't mind at all, Stephen,
if it would help you to take things easily."

Festing colored. "No. I can't let you suffer for my rashness. It's my
business to give you all the comforts you need."

"Ah," said Helen, "I like you to think of me. But something's due to
pride. I wonder how much?"

"I don't know," said Festing, rather wearily. "I'm what I am and haven't
much time to improve myself. For that matter, I'll have less time now."

"Then what do you mean to do?"

"Make the most of what I have left. I'd hoped to give you a change this
winter--take you to Montreal and go skating and tobogganing, but that's
done with. I believe I have money enough to begin again in a small way
and work up. It may take me two or three years to get back to where I
was, but somehow I will get back."

"Then you are going on as before; concentrating all your mind upon the
farm, taking no rest, denying yourself every pleasure you might have
had?"

"I'm afraid that's the only way. It's a pretty grim outlook, but I think
I can stand the strain."

"Then I suppose I must try," said Helen, very quietly.

She was silent afterwards, and Festing lit his pipe. Something stood
between them, and she felt that it was not less dangerous because their
motives were good. Had they differed from selfishness, agreement might
have been easier, but an estrangement that sprang from principle
was hard to overcome. She wanted to help her husband and keep him to
herself; he meant to save her hardship and carry out a task that was
properly his. But perhaps their motives were not so fine as they looked.
Suppose there was shabby jealousy on her side, and false pride on his?
Well, Stephen was tired and could not see things in the proper light,
and it was some relief when he got up and went out. Helen picked up a
book, in the hope of banishing her uneasy thoughts.

Next morning Festing came in for breakfast, feeling gloomy and
preoccupied. He had not slept much and got up early to examine the
damaged grain. It looked worse than he had thought and, for the most
part, must be burned off the ground. There were patches that might,
with difficulty, be cut, but he hardly imagined the stooks would pay
for thrashing. Moreover, he had bought and fed a number of expensive
Percheron horses, which ought to have been used for harvesting and
hauling the grain to the railroad, and had engaged men at lower wages
than usual, on the understanding that he kept them through the winter.
Now there was nothing for both to do, although their maintenance would
cost as much as before.

He read Kerr's letter again. If he had not been married, it would have
given him a chance of overcoming his difficulties. A man and a team
of horses could do all that was required on the farm in winter, and he
could have taken the others to British Columbia. Kerr would arrange
for free transport, and, if he was lucky, he might earn enough on the
railroad to cover part of his loss. But this was impossible. He could
not leave Helen.

Then there was the other matter. He had not yet told her what Wilkinson
had said, but she must be told, and Bob's visits must stop. The trouble
was that he had already vexed her by refusing her help, and this would
not make his delicate task easier. Besides, he was not in the mood to
use much tact. His nerves were raw; the shock he had got had left him
savage and physically tired. For all that, the thing could not be put
off.

He said nothing until breakfast was over, and then, asking Helen to come
with him, went on to the veranda. The sun was hot, the sky clear, and
thin steam drifted across the drenched plain. Had the storm come without
the hail a few weeks sooner, it would have saved his crop; but now the
vivifying moisture seemed to mock him. It had come too late; the wheat
had gone. Struggling with a feeling of depression, he turned to his
wife.

"There's something we must talk about; and I hope you'll be patient with
me if you get a jar."

He leaned against the balustrade, nervously fingering his pipe, and
Helen sat down opposite. She felt curious and disturbed.

"Well?" she said.

"To begin with, I'll tell you what happened at the settlement yesterday.
You must remember that the statements are Wilkinson's."

Helen's color rose, and when he stopped her face was flushed and her
eyes were very bright.

"Ah," she said in a strained voice. "But what did you do?"

Festing smiled rather grimly. "I dragged the brute about the floor and
threw him into the street. I don't know that it was a logical denial of
the slander, but it was what the others expected and I had to indulge
them."

"And that was how you cut your forehead?"

"Yes," said Festing, and for a few moments Helen tried to regulate her
thoughts.

She felt shocked and disgusted, but did not mean to let her anger master
her, because there were matters that must be carefully weighed. Indeed,
it was something of a relief to dwell upon the first. To hear of
Festing's thrashing her traducer had given her a pleasant thrill, but
all the same she vaguely disapproved. He had not taken a dignified line
and had really made things worse. It was humiliating to feel that she
had been the subject of a vulgar poolroom brawl.

"Could you not have found a better way to silence him?" she asked.

"I could not. I was afraid you wouldn't like it, but you must try to
understand that I was forced to play up to local sentiment. English
notions of what is becoming don't hold good here; you can't stop a man
like Wilkinson with a supercilious look. If I'd let the thing go, the
boys would have thought his statements true, and the tale is bad enough
to deal with."

Helen gave him a steady look, but her color was high and her face was
hard.

"But you know it isn't true!"

"Of course," said Festing, with quiet scorn. "All that the brute
insinuated is absolutely false. Bob's a fool, but he knows you, and I'm
beginning to think he's a little in love with his wife."

"Ah," said Helen, "I knew you knew. But I felt I must hear you say so."

Festing hesitated. One difficulty had vanished, but there was another,
and he hoped Helen would see his point of view.

"For all that, in a way, there was some truth in the story; enough, in
fact, to make it dangerous, and I think you have been rash. Bob has been
here too often, and you will remember I objected to his coming."

"You did," said Helen. "You were rather disagreeable about it; but you
objected because he liked to talk and kept you from your work."

"He certainly talked. General conversation is all right in English
country houses where nobody had much to do, but casual chatterers who
insist on talking when you're busy are a disgusting nuisance in Canada.
However, I don't think that's worth arguing about."

"It is not," said Helen, with a smile. "Besides, I know your opinions
about that point. What do you wish me to do?"

"Warn Sadie to keep Bob at home. There's no reason she shouldn't visit
you, but you can't go there."

The color returned to Helen's face and she got up. She looked stately
with her air of injured pride.

"Do you mean that I should rule my conduct to suit the ideas of the
drunken loafers at the settlement poolroom?"

"Oh!" said Festing impatiently, "try to be sensible! You have done a
foolish thing, but you needn't make it worse. The trouble is that
those loafers' opinions will be reflected all round the neighborhood.
Wilkinson won't say anything more; at least, he won't when I'm about;
but I can't keep on throwing out people who agree with him."

"That is plain. If you were not so angry, the remark would be humorous."

"I'm not angry," Festing rejoined.

"Well, I am," said Helen. "And I think I have some grounds. Must I let
those tipsy gossips dictate when I may see my friends?"

"Does it matter if you see them or not? You don't really care for Bob."

"No," said Helen, trying to be calm. "In a way, I don't care for Bob;
that is, I'm glad I didn't marry him. But I don't see why I should stop
him coming here when Sadie wants to bring him. She's my friend, and she
knows it does Bob good. I'm too angry to flatter you, Stephen, but you
have some influence--"

Festing laughed. "All the influence I've got won't go far with Bob. I
don't say the fellow's vicious, but he's an extravagant slacker and a
fool, which is perhaps as bad. Anyhow, if he can be reformed at all,
it's Sadie's business, and I've no doubt she finds it an arduous
job. There's no use in an outsider meddling, and your anxiety for his
improvement might be misunderstood. In fact, it has been seriously
misunderstood."

"You seem to have made up your mind about the matter," Helen remarked
with a curious look.

"I have. Perhaps the easiest way would be for you to give Sadie a hint."

"Suppose I refuse?"

"Then I shall have to talk to Bob. After all, that might be better."

Helen flushed, but her color faded and her face got white. "You are
willing to let this scurrilous gossip influence you as far as that? Do
you mean to forbid my friends coming to see me?"

"I won't have Bob hanging round my house. The wastrel has done you harm
enough."

"You forget something," Helen rejoined in a strained, cold voice. "The
house is mine."

She knew her mistake as she saw the change in Festing's look, and weakly
turned her head. When she looked back it was too late. His hands were
clenched and his gaze was fixed.

"I--I didn't quite mean that," she faltered.

"Anyhow, it's true," said Festing quietly. "The farm is yours as well,
and I admit you have no grounds for being satisfied with the way I've
managed your property. You won't have much trouble in getting a better
steward."

Helen glanced at him, with a hint of fear. "But I don't want anybody
else. Do you mean to give up the farm?"

"Yes. As soon as I can arrange things for you I'm going to British
Columbia for a time. I've been offered a railroad contract, and as it's
a job I know something about, I mayn't fail at that."

"And you will leave me alone to face this slander?"

"The remedy's in your hands. I'm powerless if you won't use it. I can't
forbid Bob coming here; you can."

Helen hesitated. It was unfortunate that both were in an abnormal mood.
They had borne some strain, and the shock of the disaster to the crop
had left them with jangled nerves. This clouded Helen's judgment, but
reenforced her pride. She had meant well when she tried to help
Sadie with Bob, and could not give way to her husband's unreasonable
prejudice. This was a matter of principle. She could help Bob and must
not be daunted by vulgar gossip.

"No," she said; "I can't break my promise to Sadie for the reasons you
give. You must do what you think best."

Festing made a sign of acquiescence and went down the steps, while Helen
bit her lip. She wanted to call him back, but somehow could not. It
might be easier if he would look round, but he went on across the grass
and his step was resolute, although his head was bent. Then she got up,
and going to her room, sat down trembling. She had let her best chance
go; Stephen's resolve would stiffen, for when he had made a choice he
was hard to move. Besides, he had wounded her deeply. He did not seem to
understand that if he went away he would give people ground for thinking
the slander true. He ought to have seen this if he had thought about
her. Perhaps he had seen it and refused to let it influence him. Well,
if he wanted a reconciliation, he must make the first offer.

In the meantime, Festing went to look for the foreman, whom he could
trust. After some talk, the man agreed to manage the farm for the winter
on the terms Festing indicated. Then the latter asked if the other men
would go with him to the Pacific Slope, and finding them willing, went
back to his office and carefully studied his accounts. He was glad
to think that Helen had sufficient help and that the staid Scottish
housekeeper would take care of her. By and by he wrote a note and then
drove off to the settlement. He did not come back until next morning,
but his plans were made and he only waited a telegram from Kerr. Three
or four days later the telegram arrived.

"All fixed," it ran. "Pass for transport mailed. Come along soon as
possible."



CHAPTER XIX

SADIE SEES A WAY

Soon after Festing started for British Columbia Sadie drove over to
the farm; because she had heard about the fight in the poolroom and
suspected why he had gone. At first she found it difficult to break down
Helen's reserve, but the latter could not resist her frank sympathy, and
softening by degrees, allowed herself to be led into confidential talk.
Sadie waited until she thought she understood the matter, and then
remarked:

"So you stuck to your promise that you'd help me with Bob, although you
saw what it would cost? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if you hated us."

"It wasn't altogether the promise," Helen replied. "We were both highly
strung, and I thought Stephen hard and prejudiced; it seemed ridiculous
that he should care what the loafers said. But I don't hate you. The
fault was really mine, and I want a friend."

"Well," said Sadie, "I feel I've got to help put this trouble right, if
I can." She paused and asked with some hesitation: "Will Steve be away
long?"

"I don't know," Helen answered dejectedly. "He hinted that he might not
come until spring; I think he means to stop until he has earned enough
to make him independent. That's partly my fault--I said something rash.
If I hadn't had more money than him, it wouldn't have happened."

Sadie smiled. "My having more money won't make trouble between me and
Bob; he doesn't mind how much I've got. But I suppose you want Steve
back?"

"Of course! It's all I want, but the matter is not as simple as it
looks. I don't think he will come back as long as he's poor, and if he
does, he won't use my capital, and things will be as before. If he earns
some money, I should feel hurt because he was obstinate and wouldn't let
me help. That's why I don't know what to do. I wish I'd never had the
money!"

Sadie thought Helen had some ground she had not mentioned yet for her
distress. Moreover, it looked as if she still felt she had a grievance
against Festing, and their clashing ideas about the money did not
altogether account for this.

"I guess you're keeping something back."

Helen's reserve had broken down. She was half ashamed because she had
lost it, but she felt the need of sympathy, and Sadie could be trusted.

"He didn't see, or didn't mind, that his going away would bear out the
wicked story!" she exclaimed with sparkling eyes. "I feel that was the
worst."

"I don't know that it looks quite as bad as you think. It's a common
thing for a farmer who has lost his crop to go off and work on a new
railroad, particularly if he has teams the construction boss can use.
Anyhow, I guess the thing will come right, and I'll help if I can. But I
want to see my way before I move."

Helen did not answer, and soon afterwards Sadie left the homestead. She
said nothing to Charnock about her visit, but started for the settlement
next morning and informed herself about what had happened at the
poolroom and what people thought. Then she drove home, and getting back
at dusk, sat down opposite Charnock, who lounged in a basket chair with
a pipe in his mouth. Her eyes twinkled with rather grim humor.

"You don't look as if anything bothered you," she said.

"It's possible," Charnock agreed. "I suppose I'm lucky because I have
nothing much to bother about."

"You wouldn't bother about it, anyhow. You leave that kind of thing to
me."

Charnock gave her a quick glance. She was not angry, which was something
of a relief, because Sadie was difficult when she let herself go.
Besides, he was not conscious of having done anything to vex her since
he gave Wilkinson the cheque. But she looked resolute.

"I've a good excuse," he answered. "I've got a remarkably capable wife."

"We'll cut out the compliments. I don't think you have seen any of the
boys from the settlement since Festing left."

Charnock said he had not done so, and she gave him a thoughtful look.

"I suppose you can't remember when you last did something useful;
something that would help somebody else?"

"It's a painful confession, but I can't remember. Still I've some
experience of being helped along a way I didn't want to go, which leads
me to believe it's often kinder to leave folks alone."

"Anyhow, you have done some harm."

"I'm afraid that's true. I don't know that I meant to do much harm, but
it's generally easier than doing good. For example, I've given you some
trouble; but at the moment I can't think of a new offense."

"You can quit joking and put down that newspaper. It looks as if you
didn't know why Festing left?"

Charnock said he could not guess, and got up abruptly when Sadie told
him. He kicked the newspaper out of his way and crossed the floor with
angry strides. His face was red when he stopped in front of his wife.

"You don't believe the lying tale!"

"No," said Sadie, calmly. "If I had believed it, I wouldn't have talked
to you like this."

"Thank you! Now we have cleared the ground, I'm certainly going to do
something. I'll begin by driving over to Wilkinson's to-morrow, and I'll
take a whip."

"Festing 'tended to that matter before he left, and making another
circus won't help. Besides, Wilkinson has got to quit. You'll see
notices about his sale soon; I fixed that up."

Charnock laughed. "You're a marvel, Sadie, but the brute deserves it.
Well, if I mustn't thrash him, what's your plan?"

"You'll go to British Columbia and bring Festing back."

"I will, by George!" said Charnock. "We owe him and Helen much, and
the job is obviously mine--by joining Festing I give Wilkinson the
lie. You're clever, and I expect you saw this. Anyhow, I'll start; but
Festing's an obstinate fellow. Suppose he won't come back?"

"He mayn't at first. If so, you'll have to wait."

Charnock turned away and walked about the floor while Sadie watched him,
pleased but curious. Bob was rather hard to move, but he was moved now.
He came back, and sitting down, looked at her thoughtfully.

"I imagine you are giving me a bigger job than you know. If Festing has
taken the railroad contract, he'll probably stop until he had carried it
out. Now I don't imagine I'd find it amusing to loaf about and watch
him work; for one thing, it's pretty cold in the ranges after the snow
comes."

"Well?" said Sadie.

Charnock leaned forward with an apologetic smile. "I'd like to take a
share in the contract and help him through; that is, of course, if he
won't come back at once. But there's a difficulty; I haven't the cash."

"You want me to give you some?"

"Yes. I shouldn't feel much surprised if you refused. I've squandered
your money before, but this time I mean business. Can't you see that I
have, so to speak, got my chance at last?"

"I don't quite see. You have had many chances."

"I have," Charnock agreed; but there was a new note in his voice and a
look in his eyes that Sadie had not often seen. "I've been a fool, but
perhaps it doesn't follow that I'm incapable of change. However, let's
be practical. The crop is spoiled, we have no grain to haul in, and
there'll be nothing doing here while the snow is on the ground. Well, if
Festing can get some of his money back, why can't I? I've wasted yours
long enough, and now, if I can't bring him home, I'll stop with him
until we both make good."

"You mean that, Bob?"

"I do. Give me a chance to prove it."

Sadie got up, and putting her hands on his shoulders, kissed him. "Very
well. You shall have all the money you want."

Then she went back to her chair and turned her head. She had borne with
her husband's follies and fought hard for him, sometimes with hope and
sometimes in desperation, but always with unflinching courage. Now it
looked as if she had won. Victory was insecure yet, and there was a
risk that it might turn to defeat, but Sadie never shrank from a daring
venture. For a moment she could not speak; her heart was full.

"Hallo!" said Charnock, who got up and came towards her. "Crying, Sadie?
Will you miss me as much as that?"

Sadie hastily wiped her eyes. "Yes, Bob; I'll miss you all the time. But
if you'll come back the man you are now, I'll wait as long as you like."

"I'll try," said Charnock simply. "I'm not going to protest, but you
deserve a much better husband than you've got. If I can't come back
better fit to live with you, I won't come back at all."

"I wouldn't like that," Sadie answered, smiling uncertainly. "But I
guess I know what you mean. I'll wait, dear, because I know you are
going to make good."

Then, feeling that she had said enough, she began to make plans.
Something might be saved from the ruined crop and she had better keep
a heavy team, but Charnock could have the other horses if they were
required. She could carry on whatever work was possible after the frost
set in, and would pay off one of the hired men. Charnock approved, and
after a time Sadie leaned back in her chair.

"It's all fixed, but perhaps we mayn't need these plans," she said.
"Remember you're really going there to bring Festing home."

"That's understood. However, I don't think he'll come, and if so, it
will be Helen's money that prevents him. If he's foolish enough to doubt
her, I can put him right, which will be something."

"Yes," said Sadie, with a sigh. "Well, if he won't come, you must stop
and do the best you can."

In the meantime, Festing reached the railroad camp. It was raining when
the construction train rolled noisily through a mountain gorge, and he
stood at the door of the caboose, looking out. Three or four hundred
feet below, a green river, streaked with muddy foam, brawled among the
rocks, for the track had been dug out of a steep hillside. Festing knew
this was difficult work; one could deal with rock, although it cost
much to cut, but it was another matter to bed the rails in treacherous
gravel, and the fan-shaped mounds of shale and soil that ran down to the
water's edge showed how loose the ground was and the abruptness of the
slope. Above, the silver mist drifted about the black firs that clung to
the side of the mountain, and in the distance there was a gleam of snow.
Some of the trees had fallen, and it was significant that, for the most
part, they did not lie where they fell. They had slipped down hill, and
the channels in the ground indicated that the shock had been enough to
start a miniature avalanche which had carried them away. The pitch was
near the slant engineers call the angle of rest, but Festing thought
there was rock not far beneath, which prevented the solidification of
the superincumbent soil. It looked as if his contract would be difficult
and he would earn his pay.

As the cars passed he saw the ballast creep about the ends of the ties,
which reached to the edge of the descent, and in places small streams of
gravel had run down, leaving hollows round the timber. The harsh jolting
indicated the consequences, but he knew that in the West railroads are
built as fast as possible and made safe afterwards. For that matter,
he had often run risks that would have daunted engineers used to
conservative English methods. In the meantime, the speed was slackening,
and by and by the harsh tolling of the locomotive bell echoed among the
pines. Tents, iron huts, and rude log shacks slipped past; men in muddy
slickers drew back against the bank, and then the train stopped.

Festing got down into the water that flowed among the ties, and Kerr
came forward in dripping slickers.

"If you want help to get the teams out, I'll send some of the boys," he
said. "If not, you had better come along and I'll show you your shack.
I told our cook to fix your supper, and I'll be glad to sit down for a
time out of the wet."

Festing followed him along the descending track, which presently ended
at a ledge of rock sixty or seventy feet above the river. Wire ropes
spanned the gap between the banks, and near the middle a rock islet
broke the surface of the savage flood. Here men were pouring cement into
holes among the foundations of an iron frame, while suspended trollies
clanged across the wires. On the other bank was a small flat where
shacks of log and bark stood among dripping tents. The roar of the river
filled the gorge, but its deep note was broken by the rattle of hammers,
clash of shovels, and clang of thrown-down rails.

The sounds of keen activity stirred Festing's blood. He had a touch of
constructive genius, but lack of specialized training had forced him
into the ranks of the pioneers. Others must add the artistic finish and
divide the prizes of ultimate victory; his part was to rough out the
work and clear the way. But he was satisfied with this, and something
in him thrilled as he heard in the crash of a blasting charge man's bold
challenge to the wilderness. Kerr waited with a twinkle of understanding
amusement while Festing looked about, and then took him up the hill.

"You have come back," he remarked. "Well, I guessed you would come.
After all, this is your job; it's here you belong."

"That is so, in a sense," Festing dryly agreed. "It looks as if my job
was to get tired and wet and dirty while others got the dollars; but
it's a job with different sides. Farming's as much a part of it as this,
and has very similar disadvantages."

"There's an altruistic theory that the dollars don't count; but it's
easier to believe when you draw your wages regularly, and I've known it
break down when an engineer was offered a more lucrative post. Anyhow,
I reckon it's our business to make good, even if our pay isn't equal to
our desserts, which happens pretty often when you work on the railroad."

"If you work on a farm, you often don't get paid at all."

Kerr laughed and indicated the pines that rolled up the hill in somber
spires.

"Well, there's your raw material, and you won't have much trouble to
bring the logs down, though you may find stopping them from plunging
into the river a harder thing. However, you have some notion of what
you're up against, and I'll show you the plans and specifications when
we get out of the rain."

He stopped in front of a small log shack, and opening the door, beckoned
Festing in. There was an earth floor, and a bunk, filled with swamp-hay,
was fixed to the wall; two or three camp-chairs stood about, and a fire
of scented cedar logs burned on the clay hearth. A Chinaman, dressed in
very clean blue clothes, was putting a meal on the table. Festing hung
up his wet slickers and sat down with a vague sense of satisfaction. It
was plain that he must go without many comforts he had enjoyed at the
farm, but he felt strangely at home.

Kerr took supper with him, and afterwards threw some papers on the table
and lighted his pipe. Half an hour later Festing looked up.

"I imagine I've got the hang of things, and I'll make a start to-morrow.
Your way of underpinning the track is pretty good, but I don't like
that plan. You can't hold up the road long with lumber; the work won't
stand."

"I don't know if your objection springs from artistic delight in a good
job or British caution. Anyhow, you ought to know that in this country
we don't want work to stand; our aim is to get it finished. If the track
holds up until we can start the freight traffic running, it's as much as
we expect. We'll improve it afterwards as the dollars come in."

"A freight train in a Canadian river isn't a very uncommon object,"
Festing rejoined. "However, it's my business to cut the logs and do the
underpinning as well as I can. On the whole, and barring accidents, I
see some profit on the job. I'm grateful to you for putting it in my
way."

"Your thanks are really due to somebody else. The head contractor is not
allowed to sub-let work without our approval, and although I recommended
your being given a chance, the decision rested with another man."

"Who's that?"

"He'll probably look you up to-night," Kerr replied with a twinkle.
"They sent him from headquarters to see how we're getting on. But I'll
leave you the plans. We're working nights with the blast-lamps, and I've
got to be about when the new shift makes a start."

He went away and Festing studied the drawings. He had undertaken to
cut and dress to size the heavy logs required for the lower posts
of trestles and foundation piles. So far, he did not apprehend much
difficulty, but he would run some risk over the underpinning of part of
the track. In order to make a secure and permanent road-bed, it would
have been necessary to cut back the hillside for some distance and then
distribute the spoil about the slope below, but the engineers had chosen
a quicker and cheaper plan. Heavy timbers would be driven into the face
of the hill to make a foundation for the track, which would be partly
dug out of, and partly built on to, the declivity. Where the main piles
reached the rock the plan would be safe, but where they were bedded in
gravel there was danger of their giving way under a heavy load. Festing
knew he must share the risk of this happening with the head contractor.

By and by somebody knocked at the door, and he got up abruptly as a man
came in.

"Dalton!" he exclaimed.

The other smiled and threw off his wet slickers. It was getting
dark, but the firelight touched his face and Festing studied him with
surprise. The lad, whom he had not seen for some years, had grown into
a man, and had moreover a look of quiet authority. He had made rapid
progress if he had, as Kerr had stated, been sent to report upon the
latter's work.

"You don't seem to have expected me, though, to some extent, I'm
responsible for your being here," he said. "However, I'm remarkably glad
we have met again."

Festing, awkwardly conscious that his welcome was somewhat cold,
indicated a chair, and sitting down opposite began to fill his pipe.
Dalton sometimes wrote to Helen, but had not mentioned his being sent to
British Columbia.

"Well," he said, "I was glad to hear you had got a move up once or
twice, but it looks as if you had gone farther than I thought."

"I had the advantage of a proper training, and the reputation of the
engineer who gave it me counted for something, although I might never
have got my chance in this country but for you. Now I'm happy if I've
been able to show my gratitude. When Kerr brought your name forward I
told him to see you got the contract."

"You did more than you knew," said Festing. "It looks as if you hadn't
heard from Helen."

"Not for a time; I hope she's well. I'd thought about coming West to see
you, but couldn't get away, and she talked about your going to Montreal
this winter."

"That's off, of course. It's plain you don't know that Helen and I have
quarreled."

Dalton looked up sharply, but was silent for a moment or two.

"This is a nasty knock," he said. "I don't know if my relation to you
justifies my venturing on dangerous ground, but do you feel at liberty
to tell me what you quarreled about?"

Festing decided that Charnock's part in the matter must be kept dark. It
was unthinkable that Dalton should imagine he suspected his wife.

"To put it roughly, we differed about what you might call a principle,
although Helen's money had something to do with the thing. You see, I
lost my crop and she was hurt because I wouldn't use her capital."

"I don't see altogether," Dalton rejoined. "In fact, your objection
seems unusual."

He pondered for a minute or two, and Festing marked the change in him.
Dalton had a reserve and thoughtfulness he had not expected. He had
grown very like Helen.

"A quarrel about a principle is apt to be dangerous," he resumed.
"Although you are probably both wrong, you can persuade yourselves you
are right. Then while I was glad to hear about your wedding, I'll admit
that I saw some difficulties. Helen has a strong will and is sometimes
rather exacting, while you're an obstinate fellow and a little too
practical. I must wait until I know more than I do now, but might be
of some use as a peacemaker. Isn't it possible to compromise? Can't you
meet half way?"

"Not in the meantime. I can't go home until I'm able to run the farm
without your sister's help. There's some risk of her despising me if I
did go."

"You may be right; I can't judge," Dalton thoughtfully agreed. "Now I
could, of course, find an excuse for getting you dismissed, but I
know you both too well to imagine that plan would work. You would go
somewhere else, while though Helen is generous there's a hard streak in
her. I really think she'd like you better afterwards if you carried your
intentions out."

He paused and smiled. "She got the money you object to in a very curious
way--by refusing to indulge the wishes of our only rich relation. I
was more compliant because his plans met my views, and he paid for my
education, but when he died we found Helen had got her share and mine.
I understand he told his lawyer that he still thought her wrong; but if
she thought she was right, she was justified in refusing, and he admired
her pluck."

"She has pluck," said Festing. "On the whole I don't think that makes
things much better for me. Anyhow, I've taken this contract and I've got
to stay with it."

"I'll help you as far as I can," said Dalton, who soon afterwards left
the shack.



CHAPTER XX

FESTING GETS TO WORK

Mist rolled among the pines and it was raining hard when Festing led his
team down the hill. He wore big rubber boots and slickers, and a heavy
log trailed behind the horses through the mud. Some distance above the
river the slope was gradual, and it was necessary to haul the logs to
the skidway he had built. They would then run down without help; indeed,
the difficulty was to stop them when they reached the track. Festing was
wet and dirty, and the sweating horses were splashed. When he stopped
to unhook the chain, three or four men came up with cant-poles, and
struggling in the churned-up mire, rolled the log to the top of the
incline.

A shallow, undulating trough scored the hillside, crossed at short
intervals by small logs, split up the middle and laid with their round
sides on top. It looked something like a switchback railway, only that
while the incline varied, all the undulations ran down hill. A few logs
rested insecurely on the top skids, and the men put the one Festing had
brought below the rest. Then they threw down their poles and Festing
looked about.

Water filled the hollows in the wavy line of skids, which vanished at
the edge of a steeper dip and reappeared below, to plunge out of sight
again. Its end was banked up with wet gravel near the track. Festing
could not see the track, but the opposite side of the river was visible,
with the island, near which two wire-ropes skimmed the surface of the
flood. A man stood on the skids about half way down and presently waved
his arm.

"Watch out below!" he shouted and signed to Festing. "All clear! You can
start her off."

Festing seized a handspike and the skids groaned as the big log began
to move. The men helped and sprang back as it gathered speed. Water flew
up, the bark tore off in crumpled flakes, and the wet timber smoked. The
other logs were smaller and easier launched, but they did not gain the
momentum of the first, which plunged furiously down hill and flung up
its thin end as it leaped over the edge of the dip.

"She's surely hitting up the pace," one of the men remarked.

"The mud is greasing the skids," said Festing, who began to run down the
incline when the man below shouted.

Two of the others followed, but stopped at the top of the last pitch,
which ended in the bank of gravel close above the track. The logs,
spread out at intervals, rushed down, rising and falling on the uneven
skids. Showers of mud and water marked their progress; there was a crash
as a smashed skid was flung into the air, and a roar when the leading
mass plowed through fallen gravel. Stones shot out and Festing saw smoke
and sparks, but the logs rushed on, and he wondered anxiously whether
the bank would stop them. So far, it had served its purpose, but he was
doubtful about it now, and hoped there was nobody on the track beneath.

The big log reached the bank and ran half way up the short incline
before its speed slackened much. Festing held his breath as he watched,
for some gravel cars had come down the track, and he could not tell
where they were. The log was going slower, but he doubted if it would
stop.

It plowed on through the gravel, which shot up all round, and then the
end of the bank seemed to fall away. There was a shower of stones; the
butt of the log went down and its after end tilted up. Then it lurched
out of sight and there was a heavy crash below. After this Festing
heard a confused din, and imagined, though he could not see, the mass
of timber plunging down the precipitous slope, smashing rocks and
scattering gravel as it went. The noise stopped, he heard a splash, and
as the following logs leaped the broken bank, the first shot half its
length out of water, and falling again, drove down stream.

The rope at the island caught it while a trolley ran down, but the
straining wire curved and parted, and the trolley fell into the river as
the log swept on. The others followed and vanished in a turmoil of muddy
foam, and Festing went down to the track. Things might have been worse,
for nobody was hurt, although some yards of road-bed had been carried
away and a derrick he had built to put the logs on the cars was smashed.
As he studied the damage a wet and angry engineer ran up.

"You have got to stop your blamed logs jumping down like that! They've
broken a steel rope and there's a new trolley-skip in the river!"

"I'm sorry," Festing answered. "I'll try to get the skip out as soon as
possible, and you can trust me to stop more logs getting away, for my
own sake."

"There'll be trouble if you let your lumber loose on me, and I want the
skip soon," said the other. "A stranger asked for you a few minutes ago
and I sent him up the hill."

He went away and Festing's men came up.

"Pretty rough luck, boss!" one remarked. "What are we going to do about
it?"

"We'll grade up the gravel dump to begin with, and then make a new
derrick," Festing answered gloomily. "It doesn't look as if I'd get much
profit on the first week's work."

He moved off, and as he scrambled up the bank met a man coming down.
Both stopped abruptly and Festing frowned.

"What in thunder has brought you, Bob?" he asked.

"They told me you were up the hill," Charnock said, smiling. "I came in
on the last construction train."

"But why did you come?"

"I suppose you mean--Why did I come to bother you again? Well, the
explanation will take some time, and it's confoundedly muddy and raining
hard. When are you likely to be unoccupied?"

Festing tried to control his annoyance. The accident had disturbed him
and he was not pleased to see Charnock, whom he did not wish to make
free of his shack.

"What have you been doing since you arrived?" he asked.

"Sitting in the bunk-house and waiting for the rain to stop. Then I got
dinner with the boys, and afterwards went to see a rather nice young
fellow called Dalton. I told him I was a friend of yours, and he half
promised to give me a job."

"You don't seem to know who he is?" Festing remarked.

"I don't; but I thought he looked hard at me when he heard my name.
However, don't disturb yourself on my account; I'm pretty comfortable in
the bunk-house."

"Very well. You had better come to my shack when work stops. I can't
leave my men now."

Charnock strolled off with his usual languid air, and Festing resumed
his work. He could not imagine what Charnock wanted, but wished he had
stopped away. In the meantime, he had much to do and drove his men hard,
until a steam-whistle hooted and they threw down their tools. His supper
was ready when he reached the shack, but Charnock had not arrived, and
although this was something of a relief, he felt annoyed. He had told
him to come when work stopped, but the fellow was never punctual. An
hour later Charnock walked in.

"I thought I'd better wait until after supper," he said. "My coming now
leaves you more at liberty to turn me out."

"To begin with, I'd like to know why you came at all?"

"Sadie thought it was time I did something useful, and I agreed. It's
obvious that if anything useful can be done, I'm the proper person to
undertake the job. Now you understand me, shall I go on?"

Festing nodded. Charnock's careless good humor had vanished; he looked
embarrassed but resolute, as if he meant to carry out a disagreeable
task. This was something new for Bob.

"Very well," the latter resumed. "In order to clear the ground, do you
imagine I'm in love with your wife?"

"I'm sure Helen is not in love with you," Festing rejoined.

"That's much, but we have got to talk about the other side of the
matter," said Charnock quietly. "I went to your home with Sadie because
I thought she and Helen could learn something from each other; while
I suspect she thought your society was good for me. It's obvious
that Helen agreed, and Sadie and I will always be grateful for her
staunchness in sticking to us, although you disliked it. Whether I'm
worth the quarrel or not is another thing. I hope you understand me as
far as I've gone."

Festing made a sign and Charnock continued: "Very well. There was a time
when I loved Helen, or honestly thought I did, but I imagine we had both
found out our mistake when I gave her up. It's certain that she would
not have been satisfied with me. Our romance came to nothing and was
done with long since; there's now no woman who could rouse the feeling I
have for my wife."

He got up and leaned upon his chair, with his eyes fixed on Festing.
"When I told you I was going to be married, you showed your confounded
supercilious pity! You thought I was making a fatal mistake. Well,
you're not a clever fellow, Stephen, but that was the worst blunder you
ever made. Marrying Sadie is perhaps the only wise thing I have done.
She has borne with my follies, hustled me when I needed it, and helped
me to fight my weaknesses; and if there's any hope of my being a useful
man, I owe it to her. Now it's obvious that I can't draw comparisons,
but I think you see where this leads."

"I do see," said Festing, who felt somewhat moved. He had not
heard Charnock talk like this before, and the note in his voice was
significant. He smiled, to ease the strain, as he replied: "Comparisons
would be particularly awkward just now, Bob. Besides, they're
unnecessary, I'm convinced!"

"Then there's no reason you shouldn't go home, and I've come to take you
back."

Festing shook his head. "There are two reasons. In the first place, I've
taken a contract."

"That fellow, Dalton, would probably let you off."

"It's uncertain, and I don't mean to ask. You don't seem to know that
Dalton is Helen's brother."

Charnock laughed. "Then I've no doubt he knows who I am; his manner
ought to have given me a hint. The situation has a touch of ironical
humor, and perhaps the strangest thing is that we should now be better
friends than we have been yet. But what still prevents your going back?"

"Helen's money. I can't beg from her, after refusing the only thing she
has asked."

"You're a bit of a fool," Charnock remarked with a grin. "I've begged
from Sadie often and imagine she liked me for it; anyhow she expected
it. But if you have made up your mind, I expect I can't persuade you."

Festing's gesture indicated an unshaken resolve, and Charnock said:
"Then I'm going to stop and see you through."

"That's ridiculous!" said Festing, who was strongly moved now. "You must
think of Sadie. You can't stop; I won't allow it!"

Charnock's eyes twinkled. "I expect Sadie will bear the separation. For
one thing, we lost our crop and she'll save money while I'm away. She's
not parsimonious, but she hates to waste dollars, and must have found me
expensive now and then. Then I mean to earn something, and can imagine
her surprise when I show her my wages check."

On the surface, his mood was humorous, but Festing got a hint of
something fine beneath. "But," he said, "you mustn't stay, and I'd
sooner you didn't joke."

"Then I'll be serious; but after this there's no more to be said. Don't
imagine it's altogether for your sake I'm going to stay. You know what
I owe Sadie, and I want to show that her labor has not all been lost.
in fact, I've got my opportunity and mean to seize it. Then if you feel
some reparation is due to your wife, you can finish the work you made
her drop. Help me to cut out liquor and stay with my job, and if you
have trouble with your contract, I'll help all I can. Is it a bargain?"

"It's a bargain," said Festing quietly. "Now I think we'll talk about
something else."

He sat still for some time after Charnock left. His bitterness against
his wife had gone, and it was plain that he had been a fool. For all
that, he could not go home yet; the money was still an obstacle. Pride
forbade his letting Helen support him. Moreover, he felt that to act
against his convictions now would cost him her respect. There was
perhaps no ground for supposing she felt much respect for him, but he
meant to keep all she had.

Then he got up and straightened the blankets in his bunk. The sooner he
finished his contract, the sooner he could return, and there was much to
be done next morning. The job had not begun well.

He got up at sunrise and spent several days repairing the damage the
accident had caused, after which, for a time, things went smoothly.
Then, one morning, he stood on a rocky ledge of the island, waiting
while two of his men dragged an iron pulley backwards and forwards along
a trolley wire.

The morning was clear and cold, and the snow had crept nearer the belt
of dwindling pines that looked like matches tufted with moss. They grew
in size as they rolled down the tremendous slopes, until they towered
above the track in tall, dark spires. The mist had gone; rocks and
trees and glistening summits were sharply cut, but the valley was rather
marked by savage grandeur than beauty. There was something about its
aspect that struck a warning note. It had a look of belonging to a
half-finished world, into which man might only venture at his peril.

The river had fallen and its turbid green had faded, for the frost had
touched the glaciers that fed it on the heights, but the stream ran
fast, swirling round the island and breaking into eddies. In one place,
a white streak marked a rebound of the current from an obstacle below,
and it was across this spot the men dragged the pulley. A chain and hook
hung from the latter, and they were fishing for the skip that was lost
when the log broke the rope.

Festing had spent the most part of the previous day trying different
plans for grappling the skip, but the fast currents and smooth side
of the big steel bucket had baffled him. His efforts had cost time and
money, and he began to realize that he must give it up or try dangerous
means. The chain stopped and tightened as the hook struck something
below the surface, but next moment it moved on again, and when this had
happened a number of times Festing raised his hand.

"You can quit, boys," he said, and turned to a man close by. "She must
have fallen with the shackles where the hook can't get hold, but I think
she's only about three feet under water."

The other studied the broken surface. The water was not transparent, but
here and there a darker patch indicated a rock below. The eddies made
a revolving slack along the bank, but near the skip joined the main
current in its downstream rush.

"I've a notion there's a gully between her and us," he remarked.
"Anyhow, we'll try to wade, if you like."

Festing threw off his jacket and plunged in. When he had gone a few feet
he was up to his waist and it cost him an effort to keep his feet. After
two or three more steps, the bottom fell away and, floundering savagely,
he sank to his shoulders. Then his companion pulled him back.

"The gully's there all right," the man remarked when they clambered out.
"Say, that water's surely cold."

"It will be colder soon when the ice comes down, and if the skip's to be
got out, we must get her now. I think I could reach her by swimming."

The other looked doubtful, but Festing took off his heavy boots, and
picking up the end of the rope they had used to move the pulley, walked
to the edge of the island. He was now a short distance above the skip,
and hoped the eddies would help him to reach the ledge it rested on
before he was swept past; but he must avoid being drawn into the main
stream, since there was not much chance of landing on the foam-swept
rocks lower down. Making sure he had enough slack rope, he plunged in.

An eddy swung him out-shore, towards the dangerous rush; the cold
cramped his muscles and cut his breath, but he was already below the
spot he had left, and there was no time to lose. The white streak that
marked the skip seemed to forge up-stream to meet him, and he swam
savagely until he was in the broken water and something struck his foot.
Then he arched his back and dived, groping with his hands. He grasped
the slippery side of the skip and felt the shackle loop. With some
trouble he got the rope through, and then tried to put his feet on the
bottom. They were swept away and he came up gasping, knowing he had made
a mistake that might cost him dear.

He held the end of the rope, but had been carried several yards
down-stream, and the lost ground must be regained. The rope was rather
a hindrance than a help, since the men on the bank could only haul him
back to the skip and drag him under water, while he must pull the slack
through the loop as he struggled to land. If he got out of the eddies he
would be swept past the island, but he did not mean to let the rope go
yet.

A revolving eddy swung him in-shore, but the reflux caught and drove
him a few yards lower down. The men were shouting, but he could not tell
what they said. The roar of water bewildered him, and he fixed his eyes
upon the rocks that slid past until a wave washed across his face. For
a moment or two he saw nothing, and then was vaguely conscious that a
trolley was running down the wire above. An indistinct object hung from
the trolley and next moment fell away from it. A dark body splashed into
the water, vanished, and came up close by. Then he was seized by the
shoulder and driven towards the bank.

The men had stopped shouting and ran into the water at the island's
lower end. Festing drifted towards them, but it looked as if he would be
carried past. The drag of the rope kept him back, and his strength was
going, but he braced himself for an effort and felt a helping push. Then
somebody seized his hand, he was pulled forward, and felt bottom as he
dropped his feet. In another few moments he staggered up the bank and
gave the nearest man the end of the rope.

"Stick to that," he gasped, and turned to see who had helped him.

"Bob!" he exclaimed.

Charnock dashed the water from his hair and face. "Thought you mightn't
make it and jumped on a trolley they were loosing off. But we had better
change our clothes."

"Come to my shack," said Festing. "Signal them to send a trolley, boys."



CHAPTER XXI

CHARNOCK TRIES HIS STRENGTH

The skip that crossed the river was loaded, and Charnock and Festing
were forced to wait until it came back. They climbed to a platform on
the bridge-pier and stood for some minutes, shivering in the wind. The
skip would only carry one, and when it arrived Charnock made Festing get
in.

"You were in the water longest," he said. "Get aboard as quick as you
can!"

Festing was swung across the river, but waited until Charnock arrived,
when they ran up the hill to the former's shack. The fire was out and
Festing's face was blue, while Charnock's teeth chattered as he threw
off his clothes. Festing gave him another suit.

"I'm afraid they're not very dry, but they're the best I've got," he
said. "You did a plucky thing, Bob."

"Not at all, and you would, no doubt, have landed if I hadn't come. You
see, the skip was starting and I didn't stop to think. But it's horribly
cold. Where's your towel?"

He put on the half-dry clothes and went to the door. "I'm not often in
such a hurry to get back to work, but if I don't move I'll freeze. See
you later!"

"Stop a moment," Festing called. "Do you find the bunk-house
comfortable?"

"It's not luxurious, but doesn't leak very much unless it rains
unusually hard."

"Then why not come up here at night? I haven't another bunk or I'd have
suggested it before, but a carload of ship-lap has arrived and I dare
say Kerr will let me have a few boards."

"Thanks; I'd like that," said Charnock, who hurried away.

Soon afterwards Festing resumed his work. Kerr allowed him to take the
boards, and when he had finished his supper Charnock came in. Sitting
down by the fire, he filled his pipe.

"There's more room here and you can dry your clothes," he remarked,
stretching out his legs to the blaze.

"We're going to talk about what happened this morning," Festing replied.
"I was getting exhausted when you jumped off the skip."

"After all, I only gave you a push now and then. I was fresh, and
imagine I swim better than you."

"It's possible. I don't swim very well."

"Then why did you go into the rapid? I call it a blamed silly thing!"

"I felt I had to recover the skip."

"Not at all," said Charnock, with a grin. "The skip could have stopped
where it was. For a man who thinks much, you're ridiculously illogical;
got no proper sense of relative values. Your business is to carry out
your contract, and not risk your life for a rusty bucket."

"You risked yours!"

"I didn't. The only risk I ran was knocking your head off with my heavy
boots. But if you hadn't begun the folly, I wouldn't have jumped, if the
river had been full of the company's skips."

Then the door opened and the head contractor's engineer came in.

"You did a plucky thing to-day, Festing," he began; but Charnock
interrupted.

"Don't spoil my argument, Mr. Norton. I've been proving he made a fool
of himself."

"Then there were two of you," Norton rejoined. "The trolley was running
fast, and if you had dropped a few yards farther out, you wouldn't have
got back." He turned to Festing. "I was rather mad about it when you
broke the wire, and of course wanted the skip. Still I didn't mean you
to take a risk like that. We could have fixed the thing."

"A matter of bookkeeping?" Charnock suggested. "Much depends on how you
charge up your costs, and one understands that doing it cleverly leads
to promotion. The worst is when you come to the total--"

"I'll talk to you later. You're up against a big proposition, Festing;
but if you find yourself in a tight place and I've a man or two to
spare, or can help---"

"Thanks; I may take advantage of your promise," Festing replied, and
Norton turned to Charnock.

"You are doing better than I expected when Dalton sent you along."

"I imagine my recent activity would surprise my friends, and you're a
stranger. However, I suppose I've got to keep it up so long as I work on
the road."

"That's sure," said the other dryly. "Well, I didn't think it prudent to
give you much at first, and now I'll mark you up an extra fifty cents."

He stopped a few minutes, and when he went out Charnock laughed. "Not
a bad sort, but I'm puzzled by my satisfaction at getting three dollars
more a week. If I wanted a check not long since, I'd only to look
penitent and go to Sadie."

After this, they sat smoking quietly for a time, and then Charnock drew
up his legs and frowned.

"What's the matter?" Festing asked.

"Nothing much," said Charnock. "I've got a bit of a weakness I don't
think you know about. Neuralgic, I imagine; it grips me here." He
indicated the region between his belt and chest. "Comes and goes when
I'm not quite up to my proper form."

"Then I expect jumping into the river and standing about in wet clothes
brought it on."

"No; I have had it before. Besides, I've often been as wet; so have you.
Anyhow, the pain's going, and there's a thing I forgot to mention. I met
Wilkinson this afternoon."

Festing knitted his brows. "Wilkinson! What do you think has brought
him?"

"Chance and Sadie's scheming. I've cause to suspect she forced him off
his ranch, though she would probably wish she hadn't meddled if she knew
she'd sent him here. As he looked surprised when he saw me, I imagine
he'd no particular object in coming, except that he wanted a job."

"Did you speak to him?"

"I did not. It's very possible he'd have resented my remarks. Then I was
on the company's business and the foreman was about."

"Well," said Festing thoughtfully, "it might be better to keep out of
his way as far as you can. I don't know that he's likely to do us harm,
but wish he had gone somewhere else."

They let the matter drop and talked about other things until they went
to bed. Next morning broke bracingly cold, but thin mist rolled among
the pines a few hundred feet above the track. For the most part the
climate of the interior of British Columbia is dry, and there are belts
where artificial irrigation is employed, but some of the valleys form
channels for the moist winds from the Pacific. Except in the bitter
cold-snaps, it was seldom that the white peaks above the track were
visible, and now something in the atmosphere threatened heavy rain.

Charnock began his work as usual with the gravel gang. It was his
business to spread the ballast thrown off the cars by the plow that
traveled along the train, and although the labor was not exhausting it
had tried his strength at first. His muscles, however, were hardening,
and until the last few days, he had been able to scatter heavy
shovelfuls of stones with a dexterous jerk that distributed them among
the ties.

Streaks of dingy haze that looked like steam rose from the river. The
fresh smell of pines hung about the track, and the clash of shovels and
ringing of hammers mingled harmoniously with the deep-toned roar of
the rapids. The cold braced the muscles and stirred the blood, and
the sounds of activity had an invigorating influence while the day was
young, but Charnock felt slack. His pain had gone, but he was conscious
of a nervous tension and knew what it meant. A small blister on his hand
annoyed him, he growled at comrades who got in his way, and swore when
the gravel fell in the wrong place. Somehow he could not get the stuff
to go where it ought.

For all that, he felt no serious inconvenience until about eleven
o'clock, when a stinging pain spread across the front of his body. For
a few moments he leaned on his shovel and gasped, but the pang moderated
and he roused himself when the foreman looked his way. He must try to
hold out for another hour, and he savagely attacked his pile of stones.
When the echoes of the whistle filled the hollow he had some trouble in
reaching the bunk-house, but felt better after dinner and a smoke, which
he enjoyed sitting on a box by the stove; but the time for rest was
short. The foreman drove him out, and feeling very sore and stiff, he
resumed work.

About four o'clock another pang shot through him and he dropped his
shovel and sat down on a heap of ties, hoping to get a few minutes'
rest before the gravel train came up. The pain was troublesome, but not
dangerous. It might only bother him for a day or two, but it might last
a week. Rest was the best cure, but sick men were not wanted at the
camp. One must work or go, and when a cascade of gravel poured off the
cars as the plow moved along he pulled himself together.

It began to rain soon afterwards and he had left his slickers at the
bunk-house, but he stuck to his work, while the sweat the effort caused
him ran down his face, until the whistle blew. Then he went limply up
the hill to Festing's shack.

"I thought I'd have supper with you, if you don't mind," he said. "Felt
I couldn't stand for joining the boys. They've annoyed me all day and
eat like hogs."

Festing gave him a sharp glance. Bob did not often lose his temper, but
he looked morose.

"Of course I don't mind. Sit down."

Charnock did so, and when Festing had filled his plate resumed: "This
food is decently cooked, and I like my supper served and not thrown at
me. Still, in view of what we're charged for board, it's annoying to
think the contractor will be richer for a meal I haven't got."

"It's a new thing to find you parsimonious. I hope you'll keep it up."

Charnock's gloomy face softened. "I mean to. I'm thinking of Sadie's
feelings when I come home with a wad of five-dollar bills. She won't be
surprised; she'll get a shock."

He talked with better humor during the meal, but was silent afterwards
and sat with half-closed eyes, stretching out his feet towards the
crackling logs. Although the pain had nearly gone, it would, no doubt,
begin again in the morning, and he might have some trouble in hiding his
weakness from the foreman. He could lay off for a day or two, but as
his wages would stop and his board would be charged, it would cost him
something. Besides, if he laid off once or twice, he would be told to
leave.

This, however, did not account for his moodiness. He knew of no cure
except rest, but it was easy to find relief; a small dose of spirit
would banish the pain for a time. The remedy was dangerous, particularly
to him, since it offered an excuse for repeated indulgence, and he
struggled with the temptation. Liquor was difficult to get, because
there was no settlement for some distance and the engineers had tried to
cut off supplies, but it could be got. In fact, Charnock knew where he
could buy as much whisky as he wanted, at something above its proper
price. So far he had not done so, but continued self-denial would
require a stern effort. A drink would banish the pain and enable him to
work.

He had not known it fail since he drove over to Wilkinson's one
afternoon, when he had been loading prairie hay since early morning and
had forgotten his lunch. He reached the homestead scarcely able to sit
upright on the driving seat, and a man asked him what was the matter.
When Charnock told him he sent Wilkinson for whisky.

"I know all about it; the blamed thing grips me now and then if I work
too hard and cut out a meal," he said. "I'll fix you up for the rest of
the day, but won't answer for your feeling pert to-morrow."

As a matter of fact, Charnock had felt worse, but obtained relief
by increasing the dose. Indeed, he had once or twice done so with
unfortunate consequences; but after Sadie bought the farm and saw he led
a regular life the pain had gone and had not returned until he went to
work on the track. Now he was not going to give in, but did not want to
talk, and was glad that Festing was occupied with some calculations and
left him alone.

Next morning he felt better and had two days' ease, after which the pain
wrung him for the rest of the week. Somehow he stuck to his work, and
his comrades, who were rudely sympathetic, helped him to elude the
foreman's watchfulness. It was obvious that he could not keep it up,
but the trouble often ended suddenly. Then an evening came when he could
scarcely drag himself to the bunk-house for supper. It had rained all
day and the building was overheated by a glowing stove and filled with
the smell of rank tobacco and steaming clothes. Charnock could not eat
the roughly served food, and for a time sat slack and limp, with the
sweat upon his face, and his arms on the table. Then he got on his feet
awkwardly and set off for Festing's shack.

The rain and cold revived him, but walking was difficult, and when he
reached the shack he fell into a chair. Festing was not in, and Charnock
remembered he had said something about having extra work to do. It was
dark, but the log fire threw out a red light, and by and by Charnock,
glancing round as the shadows receded, thought there was something
unusual on the table. It looked like a bottle, but they kept no liquor
in the shack. Festing was abstemious but Charnock suspected that he had
practised some self-denial for his sake.

He waited until a blaze sprung up, and then his relaxed pose stiffened.
It was a bottle of whisky, better stuff than the railroaders generally
drank, for he knew the label. Moreover, when the light touched the glass
the yellow reflection showed that it was full. He got up and approached
the table, wondering how the liquor came there, until he saw some
writing on the label. Picking up the bottle, he read his own name.

He put it down abruptly and stood with his hand clenched. The veins
swelled on his forehead and the pain nearly left him as he fought with
temptation. It was some weeks since he had tasted liquor, but this was
not all. A drink would give him relief from the gnawing ache and perhaps
a night's sound sleep. If he could get that, he might be well for most
of the next day. But he shrank from the remedy. There was liquor enough
to last some days, but the next bottle would not last as long, and he
knew there would be another. He must resist and conquer his craving now.

He opened the door and picked up the bottle by the neck. With a swing of
his arm he could throw it among the pines; he wanted to hear it smash.
Victory could be won by a quick movement; but afterwards? The touch of
the glass and the way the yellow liquid gleamed in the light fired his
blood. If he was to win an enduring victory, he must fight to a finish.

Leaving the bottle in the light, he moved his chair and sat down close
by, after which he looked at his watch. He would give himself half an
hour. If he could hold out now, he need not be afraid again, because the
odds against him would never be so heavy. The craving was reenforced by
pain and bodily fatigue; his jangled nerves demanded a stimulant. Yet
to win would make the next conflict easier, and he had resources that he
tried to marshal against the enemy.

The rough work on the track had given him confidence. He had always had
physical courage and muscular strength, and it was something to feel he
could hold his own with his comrades at a strenuous task. Moreover, his
saving Festing from the river had restored his self-respect. But he had
stronger allies, and his face got hot as he thought of the two women who
had fought for him when he had scarcely tried to help himself.

Sadie had given up her ambitions and was content to live at the lonely
farm because she thought it best for him. He remembered the bitter
disappointments he had brought her and how he had found her sitting,
depressed and tired, at his neglected work when he came home from
some fresh extravagance. Sometimes she had met him with the anger he
deserved, but as a rule she had shown a patience that troubled him now.
Then there was Helen, who had borne slander and estrangement from her
husband for his sake. Both had made costly sacrifices, of which he was
unworthy; but it was unthinkable that the sacrifices should be made in
vain.

Perhaps it was his imagination, or the proximity of relief, but the
physical torment he suffered got worse. He could not sit straight,
and leaned forward, with head bent and hands grasping the sides of his
chair, until he looked at his watch. Ten minutes had gone, but he must
hold out for twenty minutes more. Fumbling awkwardly in his pocket, he
got his tobacco pouch. He did not want to smoke, but could occupy some
time by filling his pipe, and did so with slow deliberation. Then he let
the match go out as an idea dawned on him. The bottle had been put there
with an object.

Wilkinson hated Sadie. He had struck at her and injured Helen, but had
plotted a harder blow. The plot had, however, miscarried, for Charnock
almost forgot his pain in his fury. The fellow was a dangerous reptile,
and could not be allowed to hurt Sadie by his poisonous tricks. Charnock
meant to punish him, but must first overcome the insidious ally the
other had counted on. He looked at his watch again. A quarter of an hour
had gone; he felt stronger, and more confident. For all that, the fight
was stern, and at length Festing, entering quietly, was surprised to
find Charnock sitting with his watch in his hand. His brows were knit;
his face looked pinched and damp.

"What are you doing, Bob?" he asked.

"Trying my strength," said Charnock, who got up. "Three minutes yet to
go, but I think we can take it that I've won."

"I don't understand. Is this a joke?"

"Do I look as if I'm joking?" Charnock rejoined, with a forced smile.
"Anyhow, I'd like you to notice that I'm perfectly sober and this bottle
has not been opened, although I've sat opposite it for nearly half an
hour. I'd have finished the half-hour if you had not come in."

Festing picked up the bottle and read the writing. "Who brought the
thing here?"

"I suspect Wilkinson. He knows a drink would stop the pain."

"Ah," said Festing quietly. "I think I understand! You have made a good
fight, Bob, and I believe you've won. But we'll take precautions; it
will be some satisfaction to throw out the stuff."

He went to the door, but Charnock stopped him.

"Hold on! I mean to keep the satisfaction to myself. Give me the cursed
thing!"

Festing put the bottle in his hand, and opening the door Charnock swung
it round his head and let it go. There was a crash as it struck a tree,
and he went back to his chair.

"That's done with! It's remarkable, but I don't feel as sore as I did.
Perhaps the effort of resisting was a counter-irritant. However, we have
said enough about it. Tell me how you got on with the job that kept you
late."



CHAPTER XXII

FESTING'S NEW PARTNER

Charnock felt better next morning and luck favored him. An accident
to the gravel train disorganized the work, and he and some others were
dismissed for the afternoon. He went to Festing's shack, and making
himself comfortable by the fire, opened a tattered book and enjoyed
several hours of luxurious idleness. After his exertions in the rain and
mud, it was delightful to bask in warmth and comfort and rest his aching
limbs. The next day was Sunday and he lounged about the shack, sometimes
reading and sometimes bantering his comrade. The pain had gone and he
felt cheerful.

When he returned to work on Monday he was sent with a bag of bolts to
the bridge, and presently reached a spot where the heavy rain had washed
away the track. For about a dozen yards the terrace cut in the hillside
had slipped down, leaving a narrow shelf against the bank. The shelf
broke off near the middle, where a gully had opened in the hill. Water
flowed through the gap, and in order to get across one must pick a
way carefully over the steep, wet slope. This, however, would save a
toilsome climb, and Charnock, jerking the bag higher on his shoulders,
went on.

A few minutes later he saw Wilkinson come round a corner. One of them
would have to go back to let the other pass, and it would be difficult
to turn if they met at the gully. Charnock did not mean to give way, and
with his arms crooked to support his load, he required some room.
There was no way up the torn bank, and on the other side a nearly
perpendicular slope of wet soil and gravel ran down to the river. In
places, the surface was broken by small, half-buried firs.

When both were near the gully Wilkinson stopped, and Charnock, whose
head was bent, thought he had not known who he was. He certainly looked
surprised, and Charnock was conscious of rather grim amusement as he
guessed the reason. Wilkinson had, no doubt, not expected him to be
capable of carrying a heavy bag along the dangerous ledge.

"Hallo!" he said. "The boys told me you were crippled by your pains."

"I was. The pain's gone."

"Rest's a good cure," said Wilkinson. "You got laid off on Saturday,
didn't you?"

The curiosity that had made Charnock stop was satisfied. Since
Wilkinson's work kept him at some distance from the gravel gang, it
looked as if he had made inquiries about Charnock, and had probably been
surprised to learn he had started with the others. There was, however,
no use in taxing the fellow with trying to make him drunk, because he
would deny that he knew anything about the whisky or declare that he had
sent it with a friendly object.

"Yes," he said, "but I didn't need the cure as badly as you think.
However, I'm not in a talkative mood and this bag is heavy. I'll trouble
you to get out of the way."

Wilkinson looked hard at him. Charnock knew why he had sent the whisky
and meant to quarrel, but was shrewd enough to choose his ground.

"You can dump your bag and wait until I get past."

"Not at all," said Charnock. "I don't see why I should pick up the load
again to convenience you. Anyhow, I'm going on, and the thing takes up
some room."

Wilkinson measured the distance across the gap. He imagined he could
reach the other side first and squeeze against the bank, when Charnock
must take the outside and would probably fall. He did not mean to be
forced back, particularly as there were men at work not far off who had,
no doubt, noted Charnock's aggressive attitude. The latter, however, was
quicker than he thought, and reached the dangerous spot before Wilkinson
got across. Splashing, and slipping in the mud, he advanced recklessly,
and Wilkinson could not turn back. Moreover, he could not strike
Charnock, because he was in the workmen's view, and the railroaders
would not approve his attacking an apparently defenseless man. He
thought Charnock knew this, but the fellow was not as defenseless as he
looked. The heavy bag gave him a certain stability and momentum.

"If you come any farther before I find a hold, we'll both go down," he
said.

"It looks like that," Charnock agreed. "I don't mean to stop."

Wilkinson clutched at the slippery bank but the wet gravel tore out. It
was impossible to get up, and if he tried to scramble down, he might not
stop until he fell into the river. He glanced at Charnock's set face and
got something of a shock. He had thought the fellow meant to bluff and
would give way if he were resolutely met; Charnock was impulsive, but
never stayed with a thing. Now, however, he looked dangerous.

Driving his boots into the mud, Wilkinson braced himself, with one foot
so placed that it might trip his antagonist. Then he set his lips as
he met the shock. Charnock struck him with his shoulder and forced him
backwards by the weight of the bag. The mud slipped under his feet; he
staggered and clawed at the bank, but his fingers found no hold. They
plowed through the miry gravel, and falling face downwards, he rolled
down the hill.

Charnock lurched across the gully and stopped when he reached the shelf.
Wilkinson had swung round on his descent and his head was lowest. He
was sliding down rather slower, and there were some trees not far off.
Charnock did not care if he brought up among them or not, and watched
with a curious dispassionate interest. The fellow looked ridiculous
as he went down, scattering the gravel with his hands. He was in some
danger, but this was his affair.

Wilkinson rolled against the thin branches of a half-buried tree, which
caught and turned him partly round. The branches broke and he went down
sideways, until he and a wave of loosened gravel struck another tree.
This stopped him, and Charnock plodded on until he was off the shelf.

"Better go down and fetch him, boys," he shouted to the other men. "I
reckon he's not much the worse, except in temper, and you'll find a rope
a piece back up the track."

He saw them start and then resumed his journey. Whether he was hurt or
not, Wilkinson could talk, for he was pouring out scurrilous epithets.
Charnock laughed as he stamped through the mud. His antagonist had
got the worst of it, and there was a satisfactory explanation of their
quarrel. They had met on a narrow path and neither would give way, but
as Charnock was carrying the load he had put the other in the wrong.
Wilkinson could not revenge himself by circulating the story he had
told before because it would interest nobody at the camp, and Charnock's
friendship with Festing would prove it untrue. In fact, he imagined
Wilkinson would think it prudent to leave him alone.

He delivered the bag, and going back stopped at a spot where Festing and
some others were fitting the end of a heavy beam into a pole. Charnock
watched while the men dragged out the beam and then replaced it after
deepening the hole. They were splashed and dirty, and presently Festing
leaned upon his shovel while he got his breath.

"You seem determined to fix it properly," Charnock remarked.

Festing nodded. "There's no use in piling rock about half-bedded frames.
It would mean trouble if they gave way under a freight train."

"You look ahead. The first difficulty is that if the frames don't hold
up, you won't get paid. The engineers are responsible after the regular
traffic starts, and I've no doubt they test a contractor's work. You
would save something in wages if you built a pile-driver to sink those
posts."

"I haven't the men or time. If I don't get this part of the work done
before the frost comes, it's going to cost me more. It would mean using
powder and making fires to thaw out the ground."

Charnock agreed and went on. He had been long enough over his errand and
the foreman's tongue was sharp, but he mused about Festing as he picked
his way across the pools between the ties. Festing's object was to make
money, and he imagined, perhaps foolishly, that he had urgent ground for
doing so, but he meant to make a good job. He felt his responsibility,
and apart from this took a curious delight in doing things well. In
fact, Festing's thoroughness was rather fine; he was an artist in his
way. The artist's methods, however, were not as a rule profitable
when applied to contract work. Then Charnock's meditations were rudely
disturbed, for he heard a shout and saw the foreman had noted his
cautious advance.

"Watch him coming, boys!" the latter remarked. "Like a blamed cat that's
scared of wetting its pretty feet! Say, do you want a private car
to move you along the track? Jump now and load up that trolley, you
soft-bodied slob!"

Charnock obeyed, promptly and silently. He had, at first, responded
to encouragement of this kind by a witty retort, but had found the
consequences unfortunate. There was no use in wasting delicate satire on
a dolt. Besides, it was a relief to feel he was getting better and was
able to work.

In the afternoon, he had occasion to pass the spot where Festing was
occupied, and stopped to watch. The men were getting a big log on end;
two steadying it and supporting part of the weight by a tackle fixed
to its top, while Festing and another guided its foot into a hole. The
ground was wet and slippery and their task looked almost beyond their
strength, but Charnock knew he would get into trouble if he were seen
going to their help. Since he was not in view of the foreman where he
stood on top of the bank, it was prudent to remain there.

The log swayed as its point caught a stone, and Festing's hands slipped
on the muddy bank. He shouted to the men at the tackle, who bent their
backs and hauled, but the timber did not rise as it ought. Charnock,
looking round, noted that the stake the tackle was fastened to was
pulling out.

"Get from under! She's coming down on top of you!" he cried.

Festing looked up and saw the danger; but if the log fell it would not
stop until it and the tackle plunged into the rapid below.

"Stay with it!" he gasped; and he and his companions braced themselves
against the crushing weight.

The veins rose on his forehead. His back was arched and his wet slickers
split, but it was plain to Charnock that the men could not hold up the
timber, which would injure them if it fell. But with help they might
perhaps move it enough for the point to sink into the hole before the
tackle gave way, and Charnock leaped recklessly from the top of the
bank. He knew what he was undertaking when he took hold. Festing would
not let go; he meant to put the log into its socket, or let it start on
its plunge to the river over his body.

For a few tense moments they struggled savagely, with slipping hands and
labored breath, while Festing, using his head as a ram, pushed the point
of the swaying mass nearer the hole. Then, when all could do no more,
the strain suddenly slackened and there was a jar as the log, sliding
through their arms, sank into the pit. After this, it was easier to hold
it, while one threw in and beat down the gravel. Five minutes later,
Charnock sat down on the bank. His face was crimson, his hands bled,
and his chest heaved as he fought for breath, but he felt ridiculously
satisfied.

"Thanks!" gasped Festing. "Lucky you came along. I thought she was
going!"

"Blamed silly thing not to let her go," Charnock replied. "Some day your
confounded obstinacy will ruin you. Anyhow, we've put her in. Not bad
for a cripple!"

Then he sucked his torn fingers, and fearing that he might have to
account for the delay, went about his business. It was curious that the
tense exertion had not brought on the pain, but his back and shoulders
were sore when he went to Festing's shack in the evening. The small,
earth-floored room was dry and warm, and smelt pleasantly of resinous
wood. They did not light the lamp, for although it was dark the red
glow of the fire flickered about the walls. Charnock felt a comforting
sensation of bodily ease as he lounged in his chair, and when he had
smoked a pipe told Festing about his encounter with Wilkinson.

"I imagine the brute isn't hurt much, but don't know if I'm glad or
not," he said. "He looked remarkably funny as he slid down the bank,
with his arms and legs spread out like a frog. Suppose I should have
thought about the risk of his tobogganing into the river, but I didn't."

"Well, I expect he deserves all he got, and remember the satisfaction
it gave me to throw him out of the poolroom. Looks as if we were
primitive."

"We're all primitive in this country," Charnock rejoined. "They have no
use for philosophical refinement in Canada. Their objects are plain
and practical and they employ simple means. We're not bothered by the
conventions that handicap you at home. If a man hurts you, and you're
big enough, you knock him out."

"We have both knocked out Wilkinson, but I'm not sure that we have done
with him. The simple plan's not always as easy as it looks."

"I don't think he can make much trouble. If he does, one of us will
knock him out again. As it will hurt us less than it hurts him, he'll
probably get tired first."

They let the matter drop, and Festing presently remarked: "The rain
makes things difficult, but it's lucky the frost keeps off. I must try
to get the frames up at the awkward places before it begins."

"You haven't enough men."

"I could use more. Still, one couldn't engage men to come here on short
notices, and if we get a long cold-snap I might have trouble to keep
them employed. I could, of course, use a number of men and teams hauling
out logs across the snow, but the heavier stuff won't be needed for some
time, and I can't lock up my money. The small man's trouble is generally
to finance his undertaking."

Charnock looked thoughtful. "Yes; that's where the pinch comes. You
can't work economically unless you have capital. Sadie's a good business
woman, and she often said that if you want to save dollars, you must
spend some."

"Much depends on how you spend."

"Just so," said Charnock, smiling. "Betting against marked cards doesn't
pay, but I've stopped that kind of thing. However, I think I could get
you the money you need."

Festing looked hard at him. "You have none."

"Sadie has a pile. She'd give me enough with pleasure if she thought it
would help towards my reform. But if you take the dollars, you've got to
take me."

"Ah!" said Festing. "But why do you want to join?"

"To begin with, I'm getting avaricious and want to go home with my
wallet full. Then I'm tired of my job. I suppose it's a foreman's
privilege to insult his gang, but the brute we've got is about the
limit. He's truculent but not very big, and some day, if I stop on,
I'll pitch the hog into the river. Then I'll certainly get fired, and
there'll be an end to my dreams of wealth."

Festing was silent for a few moments. He understood Charnock better now,
and knew that when he was serious he often used a careless tone. Bob
wanted to help him as much as he wanted to help himself, and he saw no
reason to reject his plan. He must, however, be warned.

"If you join me, you run some risk of losing your money."

"Of course. It's obvious that you don't think the risk very big, and I'm
willing to take a fighting chance."

"I don't know how big it is. That depends on the weather and accidents."

"Exactly," said Charnock. "If I join you with some money and teams, will
it lessen, or add to, the risk?"

"It will lessen the risk."

"Will it reduce, or increase, your working costs?"

"I think the answer's obvious."

"Then it looks as if you'd be foolish to turn my offer down."

Festing got up and walked about irresolutely for a moment or two. Then
he stopped with some color in his face.

"I called you a shirker, Bob, and ordered Helen to leave you alone. Now
I see you're the better man and I'm a confounded, fault-finding prig.
But you're not vindictive, and we'll let that go. The trouble is,
I'm obstinate and sure of what I can do--at least, I was, though my
confidence has got shaken recently. Well, I think I can finish this
contract, but don't know. I've lost a good deal of money, and would hate
to feel I might lose yours."

"That's the line you took with Helen," Charnock rejoined. "I'm not
surprised that she was vexed, and since we're being frank, you're
a little too proud of yourself yet. Anyhow, I like a plunge; it's
exhilarating, and there's not much excitement in betting on a
certainty." He paused and resumed with a twinkle: "Besides, if there is
a loss, Sadie will stand for it."

Festing gave him a puzzled look, and he laughed.

"You don't understand yet? You're dull, Stephen. Now I'm not a greedy
fellow, and my chief use for dollars is to spend them. I want to
take back some money to show Sadie I've made good, and if we put this
contract over she'll be satisfied and you'll have her gratitude. That's
why I mean to make a job if I join you, and I imagine you're with me
there. Well, perhaps I've said enough. Is it a bargain?"

"Yes," said Festing quietly, and they shook hands.



CHAPTER XXIII

CHARNOCK MAKES PROGRESS

Deep snow covered the hillside and the pines, with lower branches bent,
rose in somber spires against the dazzling background. The river had
shrunk and the dark water rolled in angry turmoil between ice-glazed
rocks. Streaks of gray haze rose a foot or two into the nipping air, and
the clash of shovels had a new, harsh ring. It was nearly dinner time,
and Festing noted that his men had not done much since breakfast as he
walked down the beaten hollow in the middle of the track. One could not
tell how long the cold-snap would last, but it had already embarrassed
him.

He stopped above an excavation where Charnock and another were cutting
a hole in the frozen gravel. The former held a steel bar in blue,
frost-cracked hands and twisted it in the cavity while his companion
struck the end. He knelt, in a cramped pose, in the snow, and Festing
smiled. Bob was fond of comfort, and it was strange to see him occupied
like this. Then, noting the length of the bar, he thought they would not
sink the hole deep enough for the blasting charge before dinner, which
was unfortunate, because the powder fumes are poisonous and would hang
about the spot for some time.

A few moments later the whistle blew, but Charnock and his companion did
not stop, and Festing heard the thud of the hammer as he went on. This
rather puzzled him. The work was hard and he had not expected Charnock's
assistant to continue his task longer than he need. Festing was
fastidiously just, and thought it shabby to steal a workman's time;
moreover, he imagined that if he had asked the fellow to go on after the
whistle blew he would have refused.

Curiosity led him to wait farther along the track until the thud of the
hammer stopped. It looked as if Charnock was putting in the dynamite,
and Festing hoped he would be careful with the detonator. By and by he
heard a warning shout, and a moment or two afterwards saw a blaze of
light. Then there was a curious sharp report, and pieces of broken rock
splashed into the river. The gorge rang with echoes and a mass of gravel
roared down the slope. It was obviously a good shot and had moved more
spoil than Festing expected. A glance at his watch showed that the
others had given up a quarter of an hour of their short noon rest.

Festing set off again, and in the meantime, Charnock, holding his breath
as he stood on the snowy bank, looked down into the hole the explosion
had made.

"I think we've made a first-class job," he said, stepping back out of
reach of the fumes. "I like the company's taste in powder."

"It's better than ours," his companion agreed with a chuckle.

"Much better. The company is richer than us. It would have saved us some
hard work if you had hooked a few more sticks."

"They're a mean crowd," said the other. "Blamed suspicious how they
tally out their stores, but I'll see what I can do. I'd sooner use good
powder than cut frozen gravel with the pick."

"The pick's no tool for white men. We won't use it unless we're forced,"
Charnock answered, and both laughed.

He went to the shack, and while they were at dinner Festing asked: "How
did you persuade Jim Brown to stop until you fired the shot?"

"I didn't persuade him. I took it for granted he would stop."

"He's a good man, but sometimes sulky if one wants him to do what
he thinks is outside his job. I don't imagine I'd have found him so
obliging if I'd asked him to keep on."

Charnock laughed. "Perhaps not; our methods are different. You would
have explained logically why the thing ought to be finished; but that's
a mistake. There are not so many logical people as you think. Instead of
arguing, I made a silly joke."

"You certainly get on with the boys," said Festing thoughtfully.

"They're a careless, irresponsible crowd. I'm irresponsible, too, and
they understand me. They trust you, but you sometimes puzzle them.
Perhaps that accounts for the thing."

Festing talked about something else until they went back to work. Next
morning he climbed the hill to a level bench where some of his men were
busy hauling logs to the top of the skids. It was easier to move the big
trunks across the snow, and he had seized the opportunity to get some
out, but was surprised when he saw the number ready to be sent down.
While he examined them, Charnock, sprinkled with dusty snow, came up,
leading a heavy Percheron team. They dragged a log into place, and then
Charnock unhooked the chain and beat his hands. His skin-coat was ragged
and his fur-cap battered, but he looked alert and virile as he stood
by the steaming horses' heads. The gray trunks of the pines made a good
background for his tall figure, which had an almost statuesque grace.

"You look very well, Bob," Festing remarked. "It's obvious that the pain
has gone."

"It won't come back while the dry weather lasts; I don't know about
afterwards. These are pretty good logs."

"I was wondering how you were able to bring up so many."

"They're here; that's the main thing. You can look after other matters
and leave this to me."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to see how you did it," Festing replied.

"Oh, well! You're a persistent fellow; I suppose you had better come
along."

Festing went with him and stopped where a gang of men were at work
among the fallen trees. Two, swaying backwards and forward with rhythmic
precision, dragged a big crosscut-saw through a massive trunk. Others
swung bright axes, and the wood rang with the noise of their activity.
All were usefully employed, but there were more of them than Festing
expected.

"The two boys with the cantpoles belong to the contractor's
bridge-gang," he said. "What are they doing here?"

"I think I told you Norton said I could have them when we were moving
the big poles," Charnock replied. "He saw I needed help."

"But that was some days since. He sent them to help at a particular job
which you have finished."

"He hasn't asked me to send them back. Looks as if he'd forgotten them.
Anyhow, they're useful."

"We have no right to keep the men. How did you get them to stop?"

"That was easy," said Charnock. "The cooking at the bunk-house isn't
very good, and I told our man to find out what they liked. In fact, I
said we'd stand for it if he put up a better hash."

Festing laughed. The plan was characteristic of Bob's methods.

"You must send them back," he said, and went away, doubting if Bob would
do so.

For all that, he admitted that Charnock was doing well. He stuck to his
work, and had a talent for handling men. Nobody was at all afraid of
him; but his sympathetic forbearance with his helpers' weaknesses and
his whimsical humor seemed to pay much better than bullying. He made a
joke where Festing frowned, but the latter felt thoughtful as he
went down-hill. One must make allowance, but Bob was something of a
responsibility.

A week later, he got a jar as he stood with Charnock beside a part of
the track they had laboriously underpinned. The ballast train was coming
down, filling the valley with its roar, and the beaten snow heaved among
the ties as the big cars rolled by. The rails sank beneath the wheels
and then sprang up until the load on the next axle pressed them down
again; the snow flaked off the side of the road-bed, which was built up
with broken rock. Festing thought the movement was too marked and waited
for the locomotive, which was coupled to the back of the train.

The engine was of the ponderous, mountain type, but it ran smoothly,
with steam cut off, and although the ground trembled and the rails
groaned as it passed, there was no threatening disturbance.

"The bank's holding up, and this was about the worst spot," Charnock
remarked. "We had some trouble in bedding the king posts in the slippery
stuff."

Then Kerr gave them a nod as he went by. "Looks pretty good, and they
have a full load on the cars."

"I think we'll wait until the train comes back," Festing said to
Charnock. "The engineer will open the throttle wide to pull her up the
grade."

They sat down in a hollow of the bank, for a bitter wind blew through
the gorge, and after a time the roar of falling gravel echoed among the
pines. Then there was a heavy snorting and the locomotive came round
a curve, rocking and belching out black smoke. The cars banged and
rattled, slowing with jarred couplings and rolling on when the driving
wheels gripped. Festing waited anxiously, because the wheels of a
locomotive when driven hard strikes what is called a hammer blow.

By and by the ground began to throb; the vibration got sharper, and
Festing watched the track as the engine passed. Cinders rattled about
him, there was a mist of snow, but he saw the cross-ties start and the
rails spring up and down. Then the clanging cars sped past, and when
they had gone he climbed down the side of the bank.

It was now bare of snow and one could see the stones. Two or three
had fallen, and the edges of the others were a little out of line.
The unevenness was marked, and although one or two of the heads of the
timbers had moved, the movement might not have caught Festing's eye had
he not known the treacherous nature of their support. He did not think
anybody else would notice that they were not quite in their proper
place.

"I'm afraid we're up against trouble, Bob," he said.

Charnock looked unusually thoughtful. "The engineer had to start from
a dead stop and turn on full steam. That made the jarring worse, but it
wouldn't happen with the ordinary traffic."

"Perhaps not," Festing agreed. "Still, you see, the frequent repetition
of a smaller shock--"

Charnock stopped him. "It's those confounded posts! If we pull them out,
we'll have to cut down to the rock to find a solid bed, and there's a
mass of stone to move. What would the job cost?"

He said nothing for a minute after Festing told him, and then remarked:
"It's Kerr's business to find fault, and he looked satisfied."

"He doesn't know as much about it as we do."

"Then I wish we knew less. How long do you think the track would stand
if we left it alone?"

"Until we got paid," said Festing. "It might stand for some time
afterwards."

He fixed his eyes on Charnock and waited. Bob had expressed some
praiseworthy sentiments about making a good job, but this was a
different thing from living up to them when it would cost him much.
What they ought to do was plain, but Festing admitted that the sacrifice
required an effort. Then, somewhat to his surprise, Charnock looked up
with a smile.

"You're not sure of me yet, Stephen, and I don't know that you can be
blamed. It's a nasty knock, but we have got to bear it. Stop there a few
minutes."

"Where are you going?"

"To bring Kerr back and show him the damage. He'll have to lay off the
gravel gang while we pull down the bank."

Festing waited. Bob would stand by him, but he felt anxious. It would
be an expensive business to rebuild the track and the frost would make
things worse. In fact, if they had any more trouble of the kind, they
might be ruined. Then he got up as he saw Kerr coming along the line.

In an hour or two the rails were up and they began to pull down the
rockwork that faced the bank. The ragged stones cut their numbed hands,
their backs ached with lifting heavy weights, and they stumbled under
the loads they carried up the snowy incline. They had, however, help
enough, for Charnock went away for a time and came back with three or
four men from the construction gang. Festing noted that although he made
them useful, he did not give them the hardest work. He refrained from
asking how Charnock got the men, but was not surprised when the foreman
arrived and inquired in forcible language what they were doing there.

"Let me answer him," said Charnock. "I feel in the mood. It's my first
chance of letting myself go; as long as you're working for wages the
advantage is with the boss. Besides, I think I ought to do something for
the boys, who can't talk back."

Festing admitted that he talked very well. Charnock had a keen eye for
the ridiculous and a pretty wit, and was no longer handicapped by the
fear of being dismissed. While the foreman replied with coarse but
rather meaningless abuse, Charnock's retorts had a definite aim and
hit their mark. He indicated with humorous skill the defects in
his antagonist's looks and character, and Festing's gang laughed
uproariously, while the borrowed workmen applauded as loudly as they
durst. At length, the foreman, breathless and red in face, gave up the
unequal contest and returned to his first question.

"If you came for an argument, you've got it, and I can go on for some
time yet," Charnock replied. "However, if you really want to know why
the boys are helping me, you can ask Mr. Norton at the bridge."

The foreman retired, muttering, but not towards the bridge, and Festing
looked hard at Charnock.

"I was anxious for a moment," Charnock admitted. "But I didn't think
he'd go. For one thing, I knew he knows Norton doesn't like him."

"Then I'll leave you to deal with Norton if he hears about the matter.
Now you have had your amusement, we had better get on."

The short rest and laughter had refreshed the gang and they made good
progress. As the holes between the frames deepened, the work got harder
and the footing bad, because they were forced to stand on slippery
ledges while they passed the heavy stones from man to man. Charnock was
ready with jocular sympathy if one fell or a stone bruised somebody's
hand, and his jokes spurred on the weary. It got dark soon in the
hollow, but as the light faded the flame of a powerful blast-lamp sprang
up and threw out a dazzling glare. The lamp belonged to the company, and
Festing did not ask Charnock how he had got it. Bob had his own methods,
and it was better to leave him alone. When the whistle blew, the latter
turned to the borrowed men.

"Go to our shack, boys, and get supper there. I told the cook to fix up
something extra, and dare say you'll find it better hash than yours. I'd
like you to come back to-morrow, but am afraid it's risky."



CHAPTER XXIV

THE CHINOOK WIND

The frost got more rigorous, drying the snow to a dusty powder in which
Festing's lumber gang floundered awkwardly. Had there been a thaw, the
surface would have hardened, but now they were forced to move the logs
through loose, billowy drifts. The men sank to their knees, it was
difficult to find a fulcrum for the handspikes, and the logs would not
run well on the beaten roads. The latter broke into holes, and the dry
snow retarded the smooth sliding of the lumber like dust. One could not
touch a saw or ax-head with the naked hand.

Festing had seen that he might be embarrassed by hard frost, but had not
expected it to continue. On the central tablelands of British Columbia
winter is severe, but near the coast and in valleys open to the West
the mitigating warmth of the Pacific is often felt. He had imagined that
when his work upon the track was hindered the snow would help him to
bring down lumber ready for use when a thaw set in. Now, however, wages
were mounting up and little work was being done. He began to wonder what
would happen if a change did not come.

One morning he knelt in a hole below the track, holding a drill. He wore
mittens, but the back of one was split and showed a raw bruise on
his skin. It needs practise to hit the end of a drill squarely, and
Charnock, who swung the big hammer, had missed. The worst was that the
bruise would not heal while the temperature kept low. They were sinking
a hole through frozen gravel that was worse to cut than rock, because
the drill jambed in the crevices and would not turn. But for the frost,
they need not have used the tool; a hole for the post they meant to put
in could have been made with a shovel, without using expensive powder.

When he thought they had gone deep enough Festing got up and looked
about. White peaks glittered against a vivid blue sky. The pines
sparkled with frost and the snow in their shadow was a soft gray. The
river looked as black as ink, except where it foamed among the rocks,
and the gorge echoed with the crash of drifting ice that shocked and
splintered on the ledges. The light was strong, and rocks and trees far
up the slopes stood out, harshly distinct. As he turned to the West,
however, he noted a faint haziness and shading off in the outline of the
hills.

"I don't know if that softness means anything, and hardly believe it
does," he said. "When I made up the wages book last night and saw what
the work we have been able to do has cost us, I got a shock. The boys
are a pretty good crowd, and if we pay them off we won't get them back;
but it's obvious we can't go on long like this."

Charnock nodded. "How much money have we left?"

When Festing told him he looked thoughtful. "I didn't know things were
quite as bad! Well, I suppose I could get another cheque, but don't want
to put too much strain on Sadie's generosity. She might imagine I'd
got on a jag! There are drawbacks to having a character like mine; it's
easier lived up to than got rid of. However, what do you suggest?"

"We'll hold on while the money lasts."

"The plan's simple, as far as it goes. It's remarkable how short a time
money does last and how hard it is to earn. Sadie misled me about that;
she used to hint that I had only to apply my talents and pick up the
cash; but since she's a business woman, she ought to have known better.
The virtuous path is about as rocky as luck can make it; but perhaps you
take something for granted if you allow that making money is virtuous."

Festing frowned impatiently. "One ought to pay one's debts."

"One's generally forced," Charnock replied. "But I think I see what
you mean. We undertook this contract and must carry it out if possible.
Sadie would agree. She's like her father, and the old man often said:
'It's safe to deal with Keller's. When you put up the money, we put up
the goods.' But let's get the powder."

Opening a box, he took out a stick of yellow material that looked rather
like a thick candle. A big copper cap was squeezed into one end, and
from the cap there trailed a length of black fuse. Festing put the stick
into the hole and cautiously filled this up with frozen soil, leaving a
short piece of fuse sticking out. While he was feeling for his matches
Kerr arrived.

"You are making trouble for me," the latter began. "You did the square
thing in pulling out the weak frames, but they're not replaced, and I
can't run the gravel train across the spot. As the back track is nearly
ballasted up, I don't know how I'm going to use the locomotive and
cars."

"The frost is stopping us," said Festing. "It is not our fault."

"That's so, but my chiefs at headquarters don't want to know whose fault
it is. Their method, as you ought to know, is statistical--we're given
a number of men and tools, and the value of the work done must equal the
expense. It's the only standard for judging an engineer. His business
is to overcome the difficulties, and if he's unable he's obviously of no
use."

Charnock grinned. "Employers' logic! Piffle of that kind only goes when
there are more engineers than jobs. I imagine there'll be a change some
day."

"I'm sorry Dalton's gone back," Kerr resumed. "He's a friend of yours,
and would have seen what we're all up against. But there's another
thing; the boys are beginning to kick. We have had to lay off the
ballast gang for a day now and then, and they claim they're not getting
a square deal. One fellow told me we oughtn't to have given the contract
to a man without capital to carry him over a set-back. He said if you'd
had money you could have hired extra labor and kept to schedule, and in
the end it wouldn't have cost you more."

"The argument is sound," Festing agreed. "In fact, it shows more
understanding than I'd expect the boys to use."

Kerr looked hard at him. "I suspect that somebody is stirring them up.
You see, they haven't demanded more wages yet; they only claim that I
ought to hustle you."

"The fellow's object isn't very plain, but I've no doubt the demand for
bigger pay will come. Well, we can't hire more help, and if there's no
change soon, the frost will break us without your bothering. We'll do
our best until then."

"We'll leave it at that," said Kerr, with a sympathetic nod; and when he
went away Charnock turned to Festing.

"Wilkinson's the man, and as the boys have a real grievance he'll find
them easy to work on. That means I've got to write to Sadie."

"No," said Festing. "If you write, I stop. Your wife has sent you money
enough, and I'm afraid some of it is lost. We must trust to luck, and in
the meantime we'll fire the shot."

He blew a whistle and then striking a match lighted the fuse and hurried
away. A minute or two later, lumps of frozen gravel flew about the track
and showers of smaller fragments scattered the snow. As Festing came out
of his shelter a man with an angry look advanced along the line.

"Why don't you warn folks before you shoot off your rocks?" he asked.

"My partner whistled," Charnock answered. "What's the matter, anyhow?
Did the shot jar your nerves?"

"A rock a foot across mighty near jarred my head! A smaller piece got me
plumb on the ribs."

Festing thought this unlikely, in view of the fellow's distance from the
explosion, but could not be certain he was not struck.

"I'm sorry if you got hurt," he said. "You ought to have heard the
whistle."

"Anyhow, I didn't. You want to stop shooting rocks when there are men
around. Then you've mussed up the track and can't put her straight. Why
don't you hire more boys and rush the job? Can't see why the bosses let
two deadbeats like you and your partner have the contract!"

"We have got it. How we mean to carry it out is our business, not
yours."

"Then it's certainly our business if we work or not," the other
rejoined. "As the bosses will find out if they reckon we're going to
lose our time to help you save your dollars!"

He went away grumbling, and Charnock looked at Festing.

"Was that bluff? Do you think he means it?"

"I don't know. They haven't lost much time through our fault, but the
frost has interfered with other jobs, and I expect there'll be trouble
if it lasts. I'm puzzled, because they're not a bad-tempered lot, and I
understand that Wilkinson is not a favorite. Your throwing him down the
bank wouldn't strengthen his influence."

"It's easy to work on men's feelings when they're discontented,"
Charnock replied. "The worst is that Kerr can't stand by us if the gang
put down their tools. Labor's scarce in the mountains, and he'll be
forced to do what they want."

Festing gloomily agreed. "I'm afraid so. However, we must do the best we
can in the time we have left."

They worked by a blast-lamp until late at night and began again before
daybreak in the morning. The weakened frame had been replaced, but
others needed strengthening and the rockwork must be built up among the
timbers. The stones required careful fitting, and it was impossible to
dress them to rough shape. The frozen surface resisted the tool and
they broke if much force was used. Fires were made, but the rock thawed
irregularly and much time was lost.

Festing's bruised hand gave him trouble, his mittens wore to rags,
and his numbed fingers cracked and bled, but he worked savagely until
evening. Then he walked stiffly to the shack and sat, dejected and
aching, looking at the food on the table. Although he had eaten little
all day, it cost him something of an effort to begin his meal.

An hour afterward he heard steps and voices outside and opened the door.
The light shone out from behind him and he saw a group of dark figures
in the snow.

"Well, boys," he asked, "what do you want?"

"We want to know when you're going to fix the track," one replied.

"That's easily answered. We mean to put it right as soon as we can."

"Not good enough!" remarked another. "We've got to know when."

"Then I'm sorry I can't tell you. It depends on the weather."

Some of them growled, and Festing felt Charnock's hand close warningly
on his arm.

"Won't you come into the light, boys?" the latter asked. "I'd like to
know to whom I'm talking."

They did not move, and Charnock resumed: "Have you brought your foreman
or Wilkinson?"

Somebody said neither had come, and Charnock nodded.

"Well, I reckon they know what's best for them! Wilkinson doesn't like
me, but he's not looking for more trouble; I imagine he's had enough.
Then the foreman's not a friend of mine, but he has a better job than
yours and means to hold it down. If you get up against the bosses, he's
not going to be fired."

There was silence, and he saw his remarks had not been wasted. He had
hinted that the men were being used and given them ground to distrust
their leaders.

"I half expected another fellow, a friend of Wilkinson's, who claimed he
had been hit by a stone. Has he come along?"

"Said he was too sore and would have to lay off to-morrow," one replied.
"That's another thing. When you shoot off your blasts you have got to
watch out that nobody gets hurt."

"Sure," agreed Charnock. "We did watch out and blew the whistle; but we
want to do the square thing. If Pearson got hurt and can't work, let him
show you the bruise. We'll stand for his pay until you think he's fit to
begin again."

"That's fair," admitted the other with a laugh. "He wasn't showing the
bruise much. Say, you're pretty smart!"

"I hope so," said Charnock, modestly. "Looks as if I needed all the
smartness I've got. We're up against the weather and a big awkward job,
and then you come along and worry us! However, what are you going to do
about it if we can't put the rails down as soon as you want?"

"We'll make the bosses break your contract."

Charnock pondered, keeping his hand on Festing's arm, because he thought
he could handle the matter better than his comrade. Festing was too
blunt and sometimes got angry. He saw that the men were determined,
but while they had, no doubt, been worked upon, he thought they had no
personal grudge against him or his partner.

"There's only one way you could put the screw to the bosses, and that
way's dangerous. The _Colonist_ states that they have a number of men
unemployed in the coast towns. If Kerr wrote to a labor agent, he'd send
him up a crowd."

"It would cost him high to bring the men here, and take some time."

"That is so," Charnock agreed. He saw the others had made their plans
and calculated the pressure they could put upon the engineers. Time was
important, and he thought the foreman had helped them to estimate the
expense the company would incur by the delay before they could get new
men.

"Putting down your tools would cost you something," he resumed. "How
long do you imagine it would take to persuade Kerr?"

"I guess a week would fix him; he wouldn't stand for a fortnight."

"Very well! I don't suppose your object is to put us off the road;
you want what you're entitled to. So do we all, and though it's often
troublesome to get, there's no use in taking the hardest way. If you
stop, you lose a fortnight's wages and somebody will get fired. Not now,
of course, but afterwards; the bosses know their job. Well, give us ten
days, and the time you miss won't run to many dollars. If we can't put
the rails down then, we'll quit."

There was silence for a moment, and then somebody said, "We'll let it go
at that. It's a deal!"

The others growled consent and Charnock waited until they moved away,
after which he shut the door and sat down wearily.

"You took the right line," Festing said.

"I hesitated about fixing the time, but we can't go on much longer."

"No," said Festing. "Well, we have ten days!"

They said nothing more and soon afterwards went to bed. Next morning
there was a marked haziness in the west, but the frost was keener. It
looked as if they must be beaten, although they meant to fight until
defeat was sure, and Festing was surprised when he glanced at his
comrade. This was not the careless lounger he had known. Charnock's
face was grim and somewhat pinched; his hands were torn and bruised.
He picked the heaviest stones to lift and was the first to take hold of
ponderous beams. Festing owned that he had misjudged Charnock, but
not more than he had misjudged himself. His farming had been a rash
experiment and the contract a reckless gamble; the one threatened to end
as badly as the other. Then Bob had somehow kept his wife's love, and
he, with senseless obstinacy, had estranged Helen.

His thoughts were depressing, but they drove him on. Hope was dead; he
had made a horrible mess of things. All that was left was to take his
punishment and hold on until he was knocked out, but he meant to do
this. He did not stop for dinner with the rest, but occupied himself
with something that needed doing, and forgot that he had gone without
the meal. Afterwards a pain began in his left side, but he had other
aches, and the extra discomfort did not trouble him much. In the
afternoon he worked with a kind of sudden fury, and when at length the
tired men dropped their tools found some difficulty in straightening
his back. He had never used his muscles as he had done for the past few
days, but the strain would soon be over.

It was unusually dark when he went up the hill to the shack. The pines
rose in blurred masses from the shadowy snow and he could not see the
hollow of the path. Supper was a melancholy meal, but he ate because he
was hungry, and afterwards dragged his chair to the fire. There was a
great pile of crackling logs and the blaze flickered about the room, but
bitter draughts came in beneath the door.

"An open fire's of no use; I thought about getting a stove," he said,
and paused with a dreary smile. "It's lucky I didn't send the order!"

"You may need it yet," Charnock replied. "Somehow we'll put the rails
down in time."

Festing did not answer and picked up a newspaper. He did not want to
read, but could not sleep, although he was very tired, and felt he
must have some relief from his anxious thoughts. The newspaper was
a _Colonist_ that had left Victoria some days before, and he read it
methodically from the first column, trying to fix his attention on
things that had happened in remote mining settlements and market
reports. His efforts were mechanical, but he long afterwards remembered
what he read and how he dully followed the arguments in an article on
political reform. Indeed, when he saw the _Colonist_ his imagination
carried him back to the log-walled hut, and he felt something of the
dazed hopelessness that blunted his senses then.

In the meantime, Charnock, half asleep, lounged with his legs stretched
out to the fire. The logs snapped and a fitful wind stirred the tops of
the pines. Now and then some snow fell from a branch and a loose roofing
shingle rattled, but by degrees the sounds died away. Everything was
strangely quiet, except for the roar of the river, which had got more
distinct. Charnock shivered and felt a puzzling tension. It was often
calm at night, particularly in hard frost, but he felt as if something
was going to happen. Looking up, he saw Festing nod with his eyes half
shut, and felt for his tobacco.

While he cut the plug, the silence was broken. There was a humming in
the pine tops and light branches began to toss. The draught from the
door got stronger, but did not bite as keenly, and it sounded as if the
snow was falling from the trees. Then some slipped down the roof, and
getting up with tingling nerves, he opened the door. All the trees were
rustling and waves of sound came up the valley. The sound swelled, the
air felt damp, and a drop of moisture from the roof splashed upon his
head. He drew a deep breath of relief, for a warm wind from the Pacific
was roaring through the defile. Then Festing dropped the newspaper.

"Why have you opened the door?" he asked drowsily, and got up with a
jerk as the draught swept the smoke about the room.

"A Chinook!" he exclaimed, and ran to the door. "We'll have rain and
warmth while it blows."

"It's great!" said Charnock hoarsely. "We are through the worst!" Then
he caught Festing's arm and laughed. "Say something wise, partner; I
want to shout and dance."

"You had better go to bed. It will be thawing hard to-morrow, and
there's much to be done. A Chinook doesn't last long in the mountains."

"This Chinook is going to last until we put the rails down," Charnock
replied.



CHAPTER XXV

THE THAW

When Festing went out at daybreak the air was soft, and drops from the
wet pines fell into the honeycombed snow. The surface was turning to
slush, but he knew it would wear down into a slippery mass on which the
logs would run. This was fortunate, because he doubted if labor could
be usefully employed upon the stones just yet. For a few moments he
pondered the matter and listened to the river's turmoil. The deep,
booming note was sharper, water splashed noisily in the gullies, and
there was a ringing crash as an ice-floe broke upon a rock. Then he
turned as Charnock came up.

"Which is it--logs or stones?" the latter asked.

"Logs, I think; we can handle them easily," Festing replied. "The other
job is urgent, but the thaw has only begun, and when the ground gets
properly soft we'll do twice as much as we could now. Still, there's
a risk. We could make some progress with the track, and the warm spell
mayn't last."

"Take the risk," said Charnock with a laugh. "There's not much fun in
playing for safety, and you don't get far that way, while when you try
to foresee things you generally see them wrong. But let's be practical!
As soon as the ground is soft enough we'll ask leave to hire half the
gravel gang. That will make friends of the opposition and won't put
up our wages bill. If you double your helpers, you halve the working
hours."

"Obviously. But you have to pay the larger number all at once. Where's
the money coming from?"

"From the head contractor. We'll try to make Norton sign for an interim
payment. Let's go and see him."

Festing was doubtful, but they found Norton, the contractor's engineer,
more compliant than he hoped.

"I suppose you are entitled to ask for a sum on account, but I'd take
some responsibility in allowing the demand," he said. "Why did you come
to me now?"

"We want to be just," Charnock answered modestly. "At present, there's
no prospect of our finishing the work we ask the money for."

"It doesn't go much beyond a prospect yet," Norton rejoined. "However,
I'll help you if I can, and will see what Kerr thinks. He's the man we
have both to satisfy in the end."

They went to work up the hill in the melting snow, and soon their
clothes were dripping and their long boots soaked. At first, the logs
vanished in the drifts through which they tried to roll them, and the
horses slipped and floundered in the slush, but this flowed away and
left a harder layer that was presently beaten firm. The surface turned
black and compressed into ice, and before long rows of heavy logs
plunged down the skids. Every moment must be turned to good account, and
Festing stopped and went down reluctantly when Kerr sent for him.

"I've seen Norton and he thinks we ought to help you out," Kerr
remarked. "Though he argues from single instances, his judgment's often
good, and he seems convinced you can be trusted because you saved a skip
of his. Of course, I had my opinion; but as he represents the contractor
you are working for, I couldn't urge him."

"Thanks!" said Festing. "I wish I'd brought Charnock; he'd deal with
this better."

Kerr laughed. "Your partner has some talents and seems to have made
Norton and my storekeepers his friends. If he hadn't, there might have
been trouble about certain irregularities. However, you can have the
gravel gang if I'm forced to lay the boys off, and as soon as we can run
the train over the repaired track you'll get your cheque."

Festing went away, feeling satisfied, but not without some anxiety. He
could not urge Norton to go farther than his employer would approve, and
the payment agreed upon was small. Besides, if the frost returned before
he had made the track secure, he would have spent enough money in
extra wages to prevent his going on, and should this happen it might be
difficult to obtain payment for other work already completed. He would
be at the mercy of Norton's employer, who might contend that by throwing
up his contract he had forfeited his claim. It was obvious that he must
make the utmost use of every hour of open weather, and for the rest of
the day he worked with a stubborn energy that conquered fatigue.

For a time, the logs went screaming and grinding down the skids, but
darkness made launching them dangerous, and they could not light the
lumber road on the hill. They worked in the dark, rolling out the sawn
trunks from among the brush and melting snow until there was room to
hook on the team. Then the driver, walking by his horses' heads,
felt with his feet for the hollowed track, and losing it now and
then embedded his load in snow. Then he called for help, and men with
cantpoles laboriously hove the ponderous mass back to the road.

The work was worse on the inclines, where the logs ran smoothly and
there was a risk of their overtaking the horses. Rain had begun to fall
and one could not see the obstacles, but there were pitches where one
must go fast in order to keep in front of the dangerous loads. But risks
must be run in lumbering, and Festing felt that rashness was justified.
Speed was the thing that counted most.

When supper time drew near, men and horses were worn out, and Festing
knew that if he urged the former to continue he could not do much
without the teams. There were, however, a few logs he meant to haul
to the skidway before he stopped, and he had some misgivings when he
started with the last. It was an unusually large trunk, and the tired
horses floundered as they tightened the chain. Thawing snow when beaten
hard is as slippery as ice, but the animals kept their feet and the mass
began to move. Festing got a firm grip on the near horse's bridle and
plodded forward cautiously, with the rain in his face when he crossed
the openings in the wood. The snow reflected a puzzling glimmer, but the
darkness was thick among the trees, and drops from the shaking branches
fell into his eyes. Turning his hat-brim down, he felt for the edge of
the trail.

By and by he stopped at the top of a descent. The gray snow looked all
the same, and the hollow track vanished a few yards in front; the
rows of trunks had faded into a vague dark mass, and the branches met
overhead in a thick canopy. The horses were big, valuable Percherons,
but they were exhausted and stood slackly, with steam rising from their
foam-flecked coats. Festing did not like the look of the dip, and knew
the trees grew close upon the track at the bottom, but he must go down,
and shouted to the hesitating animals.

They moved faster; the log grinding heavily across the snow behind. Then
the strain on the chain slackened, and he dragged at the bridle as he
began to run. The log could not be stopped now; it was moving faster
than he had thought, and all that he could do was to keep the team in
front. His feet slipped on the icy trail, and the horses floundered, but
they knew the danger and broke into a clumsy trot. It was hard to keep
up, but Festing must hold them to the track and steer them round a bend
ahead.

The log lurched noisily across lumps and hollows, the chain made a harsh
clank, and the wood echoed the thud of heavy hoofs. Festing ran his
best, and imagined that he was running for the horses' lives and perhaps
for his. He durst not look round, and could only guess where the log was
by the noise. The blurred trees rolled back to him in a thick dark mass,
but he thought the gap he followed got narrower ahead. This was, no
doubt, the awkward spot where the trunks closed on the track, and there
was a corner. He must go on and trust to luck for getting round.

In a few moments he was almost at the corner, and although it was hard
to see, thought he distinguished a break in the dark wall of trees. One
must keep to the inside, on the right; but there was very little room,
and if he miscalculated, he or the horses would collide with a trunk.
He smashed through a bush that caught his foot, but his hold upon the
bridle saved him from a fall. It looked as if he had left the track and
was plunging into the wood. Then a black trunk became detached from the
rest, apparently straight in front. He did not mean to let go, although
he might be crushed between the horse's shoulder and the tree, and drew
as close as possible to the animal. Something brushed his coat, he felt
a button torn off, but the tree was passed. He knew where he was now,
and thrusting hard against the horse urged the animal towards the other
side of the road. The log ran into soft snow and slowed; there was more
room here and the steepest pitch was behind. A few minutes later, he
reached the top of the skids and sat down on the log, breathing fast and
feeling badly shaken.

He frowned as he thought there was no physical reason he should feel
shaken. He was used to strenuous effort, and danger could not be avoided
when one engaged in construction work. It was mental strain that was
wearing him out; the constant endeavor to finish a task in less than
the necessary time. Want of money was, however, the main cause of his
difficulties, and when he had got his cheque it would be possible to
take things easier. Comforting himself with this reflection, he got up
and led the horses down-hill.

The clang of hammers and rattle of shovels rose from the gorge, sharply
distinct at times, but melting when the throb of the river swelled and
a gust roared among the trees. A dark skeleton of steel that stood out
against pulsating flame, with blurred reflections below, marked
the central pier of the bridge; the line of track was picked out by
twinkling fires. Then the scream of a whistle pierced the sound and the
lights went out. The men were going back to the bunk-house and Festing
envied them. Their work was finished for the day and they could rest,
free from care, until the whistle roused them to begin again. Many were,
no doubt, tired, but that was man's common lot, and muscular fatigue
in moderation was no hardship. The strain came when one had to make
the dollars go round and see that every effort paid its cost. Among the
mountains, the cost was high.

Charnock joined him when he was grooming the horses in the rude stable,
because the teams must be cared for before the men thought of food.
Supper was ready when they went in, and when they had eaten they sat by
the hearth, drying their damp clothes and enjoying the warmth. They had
scarcely spoken to one another during the day; as a rule, it was only
after supper one could indulge in talk.

Presently Charnock took his pipe from his mouth. "It's luxuriously warm,
but one can't expect the Chinook to last. I imagine we'll have some use
for a stove after all."

"We're not out of danger yet," Festing replied. "Norton's cheque has
still to be earned, but I begin to feel hopeful. If we can hold out for
a few more days, I think we'll turn the corner. Anyhow, the plan you
made prevents any trouble from Wilkinson for a time. Do you think he has
had enough and will leave us alone?"

"I can't tell, but it doesn't matter much. We mustn't exaggerate the
fellow's importance; he's a very poor sample of the theatrical villain.
Besides, I imagine you seldom meet the latter in real life; it's an
unnecessary part."

"You mean we're up against enough without a plotting antagonist? Well, I
must agree. Considering the weather--"

Charnock stopped him with a smile. "I don't mean the weather, though one
can't leave that out. In a new country, man must make the best fight he
can against Nature; but she's not his worst enemy. It's our passions,
our virtues sometimes, that lead us into a coil. Looks as if they didn't
want much help from outside."

"That kind of speculation's not much in my line."

"Just so. You're what you call practical, and your mind runs upon the
number of yards of rockwork you can put up in a day or the logs you can
cut. Very useful, but it doesn't take you far enough. In fact, if you
had thought more about other matters, you wouldn't be here now. Nor
would I."

"I'm not sure I see your drift," said Festing impatiently. "What's your
explanation for our being here?"

Charnock's eyes twinkled. "If you want the truth, it's because you're
something of an obstinate ass. Wilkinson had really nothing to do with
it, and the weather hasn't much. Your pride brought you and keeps you.
You took the wrong line with Helen, and then, knowing you were wrong,
couldn't force yourself to accept her help. However, I'll admit that we
are a pair of fools. I could have spent a lazy winter at the homestead
if I'd liked."

"You came to look for me," Festing remarked with feeling.

"I did, but stayed to please myself. Thought I'd show Sadie what I could
do; felt virtuous about it at the time, but begin to suspect that
vanity pushed me on. Sadie would, no doubt, sooner have me safe at home.
Anyhow, I think I've proved my argument--we're here, doing unthinkable
things, freezing, sweating, getting thin, because of our own stupidity."

"In a way, that is so," Festing agreed. "Still, I can't go back until I
have finished this job."

"Perhaps you had better not," said Charnock dryly. "I imagine you
wouldn't be easy to live with it you felt you had come home because you
had failed. You might make good resolutions, but the thing would spoil
your temper all the same. The pinch comes when you try to carry good
resolutions out."

Festing got up and threw fresh wood on the fire. "If you have finished
philosophizing, we'll talk about something else."

"I'm not going to talk about logs and wages," Charnock replied.

"Very well. You haven't told me much about Wilkinson. He seems a clever
rascal. Do you think we have ground for being afraid of him?"

"I don't imagine he'd run much risk or make a sacrifice for the sake
of getting his revenge; that kind of thing isn't often done by normal
people. All the same, he doesn't like us, and if he found he could do us
an injury without much trouble, I dare say he'd seize the chance. On the
whole, it might be prudent to watch him. Now we'll let the matter go."

Festing nodded, and they lounged in silence by the snapping fire.

Next morning they got to work upon the track, and on the following
afternoon, when the thaw had gone far enough into the ground, Charnock
went for the gravel gang. The men came willingly, although Wilkinson
and the foreman did not appear, and with the connivance of one Charnock
obtained several of the company's blast-lamps. They worked well, and
when they went away Festing was satisfied with what they had done. He
imagined that Kerr and Norton had put themselves to some inconvenience
in order to let him have the gang, and for the next two or three days he
redoubled his efforts. The strain was getting unbearable, but the thaw
would not last, and he must finish all the work the frost would delay
while he could get the men. When he dismissed his helpers, they parted
on friendly terms; but his look was grave that evening when he made up
his accounts.

The wages had been a heavy drain, and he could not meet his
storekeeper's bills unless he got his cheque. The defective underpinning
had, however, been replaced or strengthened, and he expected that Kerr
would test it soon. If the work did not pass the test, he would be
ruined, and would, moreover, have involved Charnock in a serious loss.

It was about the middle of the morning when he stood with Kerr and his
partner beside the mended tract. Bright sunshine touched the hillside,
leaving the gorge in shadow, and the air was clear and cold. The snow
had gone for a few hundred feet above the rails; the pines stood out
sharply from the dark background, and the hollows in the glittering
slopes beyond were marked by lines of soft-blue shade. Festing thought a
change was coming, and he had not finished the track too soon.

By and by a plume of smoke rose above the trees and something twinkled
in an opening. A rhythmic snorting and a rumble pierced the throb of the
river, and Kerr looked up the track.

"The engineer's bringing her along fast. Shall I flag him to snub her
and shut the throttle before he runs across the new stuff?"

"No," said Festing quietly. "It won't be needful."

"The work hasn't had much time to settle, and a locomotive using steam
hits the rails harder than when she's running loose."

"We don't want our money until it's earned, and you'll have to haul
heavy loads up the grade when the regular traffic begins."

"In the meantime, I'm not thinking about the rest, but about the gravel
train."

"The track will stand," said Festing, in a steady voice.

The train came on; the long, low-sided cars rocking and banging down the
incline. Small figures jolted up and down on the gravel, and at the far
end the big plow flashed in the sun. The front of the engine got larger,
and Festing fixed his eyes upon the rockwork he had built among the
piles. All that could be done had been done; he had not spared money
or labor, for Charnock had agreed that the job must stand. It was, no
doubt, exaggerated sentiment, for he was highly strung, but he felt that
he had staked his wife's respect and his future happiness on his work.

The ground shook, and flying fragments of ballast beat upon his
turned-down hat; there was a deafening roar as the cars jolted past,
and he saw the rails spring. Then the wind that buffeted him changed
to eddying puffs, the noise receded, and he lifted his bent head. The
rockwork stood firm, the ends of the timbers had not moved, and only
a few small heaps of gravel had fallen from the road-bed. Festing felt
that he was trembling, and Kerr put his hand on his arm.

"It's a good job; I'm quite satisfied. If you'll come along to Norton's
office, I'll tell him he can give you an order on headquarters for your
cheque."

"I'll come instead," said Charnock, who turned to Festing. "Go to the
shack and take a smoke. If you come out before I return, I'll stop the
gang."

Half an hour later he found Festing sitting slackly by the fire.

"The order is in the mail-bag and will go out on the first train," he
said. "It's lucky we got it, because we have cut things very fine. I
had a note some days since from the fellow who sends us our stores,
insisting on our settling his bill."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Festing asked.

Charnock laughed. "I imagined you had enough to bother you, and his
account is big. We couldn't have paid him without going broke, and
wages have first claim. There was a way out, but you had given me strict
orders not to write to Sadie."

"I couldn't have allowed that, but you're a good sort, Bob!"

"Well," said Charnock cheerfully, "it was, so to speak, touch and go;
but we have turned the awkward corner, and I think are going to make
good."



CHAPTER XXVI

A NEW UNDERTAKING

Soon after the rails were laid down the frost returned, and one cold
morning Festing sat in his shack, studying a letter from Helen. Norton's
cheque had helped him to overcome the worst of his difficulties, things
were going better, and Charnock would superintend the workmen until he
was ready to go out. Festing felt that he need not hurry, and wanted to
think.

Helen had written to him before, without any hint of resentment, and
he had told her what he was doing. She knew Bob was his partner, and
no doubt understood what this implied. It was obvious that he had been
wrong in disliking Bob and half suspecting him; besides Helen knew from
the beginning that he had not suspected her, although he had insisted
that she had been imprudent. This ground for difference had vanished,
but he wondered what she thought, and could not gather much from her
letter.

She wrote with apparent good-humor and stated that all was going
satisfactorily at the farm, where, indeed, nothing of importance could
be done until spring. For all that, there was some reserve. A personal
explanation was needed before they could get back to their old
relations of intimate confidence, and he was ready to own his mistakes.
Unfortunately, the explanation must be put off, because there was one
point on which he was still determined, although his resolve no longer
altogether sprang from pride. He must, if possible, repair his damaged
fortunes before he went home. Farming on a proper scale was expensive
work, and Helen's capital was not large. In order to raise a big crop,
one must speculate boldly, and he meant to do so with his own money.

He saw a danger in staying away too long, but his contract was only
beginning to be profitable. Besides, one thing led to another, and a
number of extras, for which the pay was good, had been added to the
original plans. Then he had been asked to undertake another job and had
arranged to go over the ground with Kerr and Norton that morning. In
a way, he would sooner have left it alone, because it would keep him
longer from home, but the terms offered a strong inducement to stop.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly time to meet the engineers.

He found them and Charnock near the half-finished bridge, which crossed
the river obliquely. The track approached its end in a curve and then
stopped where a noisy steam-digger was at work. Between the machine and
the bridge, the hillside fell in a very steep slope to the water, which
rolled in angry turmoil past its foot, and the channel dividing the bank
from the island that supported the central bridge-pier was deep. Here
and there a slab of rock projected from the slope, but, for the most
part, the latter consisted of small stones and soil. The surface was now
frozen beneath a thin crust of snow and the pines were white.

"You know roughly what we want," said Kerr. "If you'll come along, you
can look at the shot-holes we made to test the ground. Then I'll show
you a car-load of the rock we want to use, but it's largely a lumber
job and that's why we thought of offering it you. You have some good
choppers besides the teams and plant required."

They climbed about the bank by dangerous paths, and then stopped at the
end of the bridge.

"The thing can be done, but it will only make a temporary job," Festing
remarked. "You will have to do it again, properly, in a year or two."

"That the Company's business," Kerr replied. "As soon as we start the
traffic improvements can be paid for out of revenue instead of piling up
construction costs."

"You can imagine the cost if we cut back the hill far enough to ease
the curve and lay the track on solid ground," Norton interposed. "The
half-measure of scooping out a shallow road-bed and dumping the stuff on
the incline is ruled out, because the spoil wouldn't lie and the river
would sweep the dirt away. If we filled up the channel with rock, we'd
turn the current on the bridge-pier."

Then Charnock said something and Festing let them talk while he looked
about. Since a temporary job was required, he thought the plan was
perhaps the best that could be used. It called for a timber framework,
beginning about half-way up the bank, although its height would vary
with the ground. The gaps between the frames would be faced with
rockwork and then filled with rubble in order to make a bed for the
rails on top.

"If you will come to the office, I'll show you the detailed drawings,"
Norton said presently, and the others followed him.

When they reached the office Festing studied the drawings, and then
giving them to Charnock, lighted his pipe. He wanted to undertake the
contract, but hesitated. The work already on his hands would occupy him
for some time, and a lengthy absence might prejudice him with Helen.
Besides, he had taken risks enough and a new venture might prove a rash
challenge to fortune; one could not foresee all the difficulties that
might arise. But, if he succeeded, he would go home with the means to
resume his farming on a profitable scale. Then he saw Charnock looking
at him and knew he would agree to his decision. Festing put down his
pipe and knitted his brows.

"Well?" said Charnock.

Festing got up with a quick, resolute movement, and turned to Norton.

"We'll undertake the job."

"That's all right," said Norton. "I'll get the papers drawn up and send
them over for you to sign."

They went out, and as they climbed the hill Charnock remarked: "This may
turn out a big thing, partner. Are you going home before we start?"

Festing looked up sharply, with a disturbed air. "No. To begin with,
I've got to be about because the thing is big."

"Then, as matters are going smoothly now, I'll leave you for a week."

"I can manage for a week and one of us must stay. But why d'you want to
leave?"

"On the whole, I think one of us had better go," Charnock answered with
some dryness. "If you don't mind, I'll get off to-morrow."

He started next morning, in the caboose of a returning supply train, and
Festing, who went to see him off, stood for a few minutes on the snowy
track while the rattle of wheels and snorting of the locomotive died
away. Bob had made a curious remark when he talked about going, and
Festing wondered what he meant, but dismissed the matter and went back
to his work.

It was a bitter afternoon when Charnock got down at the little prairie
station that was marked by a water-tank, the agent's shack, and the
lower frames of three unfinished grain elevators. He hired a rig at the
livery stable, and borrowing a fur-robe started on his drive across
the plain. The landscape was empty and featureless except for the gray
smears of distant bluffs. Nothing moved on the white expanse, and there
was no sound but the measured thud of the horses' feet; the air was
still and keen with frost. When the cluster of wooden houses sank behind
a gradual rise, the wavy, blue riband of the trail was the only sign of
human activity in the frozen wilderness.

The snowfall, however, is generally light on the Western plains, and the
trail was good. Its smooth surface was dusty rather than slippery and
the team went fast. Everything was different from the varied grandeur of
the mountains; the eye found no point to rest upon, and the level snow
emphasized the loneliness. In spite of the thick driving-robe, the
cold bit through Charnock's worn-out clothes, but he was conscious of a
strange and almost poignant satisfaction. This was not because he was at
heart still something of a sybarite and had borne many hardships on the
railroad; he was going home and in an hour or two Sadie would welcome
him. It was curious, but when he married Sadie he had not thought she
could inspire him with the feeling he had now. But he had learned her
value and understood something of what she had done for him.

When it got dark he urged the horses and tried to control his
impatience. Later he felt his heart beat as he drove round the corner of
a shadowy bluff and saw his home-lights twinkle across the snow. A hired
man came out to take the team, he got down, nearly too numbed to move,
and as he stumbled up the steps Sadie met him with a cry of delight. She
drew him in and when he stood, half-dazed by the brightness and change
of temperature, in the well-warmed room, she took her arm from round his
neck and moved back a pace or two.

Charnock's skin-coat was ragged, his mittens were tattered, and his long
boots badly worn. He looked tired and unkempt, but Sadie's eyes were
soft as she studied him.

"Your face is very thin, but I don't like it less," she said. "You
haven't come back the same, Bob; I think you have grown."

"Perhaps the pains account for the thinness," Charnock answered with a
smile. "Anyway, you ought to be satisfied, because you tried to make me
grow, and in a sense I was very small when I left you. But we won't be
sentimental and I want to change my clothes."

He found fresh clothes ready, and when he came back his slippers, pipe,
and a recent newspaper occupied their usual place. Sitting down with a
smile of content, he lazily looked about.

"This is remarkably nice," he said. "The curious thing is that I feel
as if I'd only left the house five minutes since. Everything I want is
waiting, although you didn't know I was coming."

"I knew you would come some day, and come like this, without letting me
know."

"And so you kept everything ready?" Charnock rejoined. "Well, I imagine
that's significant! But you see, I didn't know I could leave camp until
the day before I started, and then it looked as if I'd get here as soon
as the mail."

Sadie gave him a quick glance. "Then something happened that made you
leave?"

"Something did happen, but nothing bad. However, it's a long story and
I've not had much to eat."

"Supper will be ready in five minutes, and I've got something that you
like."

"Ah!" said Charnock, "I suppose that means you kept the thing I like
ready, too?"

They talked about matters of no importance until the meal was over, and
then Sadie made him sit down by the stove and light his pipe.

"Now," she said, "you can tell me all you did at the construction camp,
and leave nothing out."

Charnock was frank. He knew Sadie understood him, perhaps better than
he understood himself, and if his narrative gave her any pleasure, he
thought she deserved it. Moreover, when he wanted he talked rather well,
making his meaning clear without saying too much. When he finished she
gave him a level glance.

"You're surely a bigger man, Bob! I see that, not only by what you have
done but by what you think."

"Well," said Charnock, twinkling, "I'm glad you're satisfied, but you'll
probably find out that there's room for improvement yet."

"I suppose you must joke," Sadie rejoined with mild reproof. "But what
about Festing? Doesn't he meant to come back until the job's finished?"

"So far as I could gather, he does not. I tried tactfully to persuade
him he was acting like a fool and imagine he sees a glimmer of the
truth. All the same, he's obstinate."

Sadie was silent for a minute, knitting her brows, and then looked up.

"You have only three days; I suppose I mustn't keep you after that?"

"It mightn't be prudent. If I stay longer, I shall, no doubt, feel
unequal to going back at all. My industrious fit's very recent and good
resolutions fail."

"Pshaw!" said Sadie. "Try to be serious. I must see Helen to-morrow and
can't take you. She may have a message for her husband."

"Couldn't she write the message, if you went after I had gone?"

"NO," said Sadie firmly. "She must send it now."

Charnock looked hard at her and nodded. "Well, perhaps it's a good plan.
Meddling is sometimes dangerous, but one can trust you."

Sadie, wrapped in furs, drove across the prairie next afternoon, and
found Helen at home. The latter looked rather forlorn and dispirited,
and Sadie felt that she had undertaken a delicate task.

"Bob has come home for three days," she said by and by. "He can't stop
longer, but I thought you'd like to know how they are getting on with
their contract."

"Stephen writes to me," Helen replied with a hint of sharpness.

"I guess he does," Sadie agreed. "Still, from what Bob says, they
haven't much time for letters, and he talked to me about the work all
last evening. He could leave when Stephen couldn't because he's the
junior partner and doesn't know much about railroading yet."

Helen smiled, rather curiously. "Do you feel you must explain why your
husband came home and mine did not?"

For a moment or two Sadie hesitated. It looked as if she had not begun
well, but she braced herself. If her tact were faulty, she would try
frankness.

"Yes," she said; "in a way that was what I did come to explain, though
it's difficult. In the first place, I know why Stephen couldn't come."

Helen waited, and then, as Sadie seemed to need some encouragement,
said, "Very well. I think I'd like to be convinced."

"The reason Bob came and Stephen stayed begins with the difference
between them. We know them both, and I want to state that I'm quite
satisfied with Bob. That had to be said, and now we'll let it go. But
they are different. Bob will work for an object; for dollars, to feel
he's making good, or to please me. Your husband must work, whether he
had an object or not, because that's the kind of man he is."

"Bob's way is easier understood," Helen rejoined. "Besides, Stephen is
working for money enough to farm again on the old large scale."

"He is; but you don't understand yet, and I want to show you why he
feels he has got to farm. Stephen's the kind we have most use for in
this country. In fact, he's my kind; perhaps I know him better than you.
Give him a patch of pine-scrub or a bit of poor soil in a sand-belt and
he'd feel it his duty to cultivate it, no matter how much work it cost.
Show him good wheat land lying vacant or rocks that block a railroad,
and he won't rest till he starts the gang-plow or gets to work with
giant-powder. He can't help it; the thing's born in him. Like liquor or
gambling, only cleaner!"

"But when such a man marries----"

"What about his wife? Well, she must help all she can or stand out and
let him work alone. It's a sure thing she can't stop him."

Helen pondered, and then remarked: "Stephen is not your kind, as you
said. You wanted to leave the prairie and live in a town."

"I certainly did, but I didn't know myself. Though I wanted to meet
smart people and wear smart clothes, to push Bob on and see him make his
mark in big business or perhaps in politics. Now I know I really wanted
power; to order folks about and get things done."

"You found you must give up your ambitions."

"I saw they had to be altered," Sadie replied. "But when you can't get
things done by others, you can do them, in a smaller way, yourself, and
I find I can be satisfied with running a prairie farm as it ought to be
run." She paused and resumed with a soft laugh: "Looks as if neither of
us was fixed quite as we like. I have a husband who must be hustled;
you want to hold yours back. Well, I guess we can't change that; we must
take the boys for what they are and make allowances. Besides, your man's
fine energy is perhaps the best thing he has."

Helen was somewhat moved. Sadie's rude philosophy was founded on truth,
and having made sacrifices, she had a right to preach. After all, to
dull the fine edge of Stephen's energy would be an unworthy action and
perhaps dangerous. Helen had been jealous of his farm, but admitted that
she might have had worse rivals.

"Do you know 'The Sons of Martha'?" she asked and recited a verse.

"It's great," said Sadie simply. "That man has our folks placed. Well, I
don't read much poetry, but there's a piece of Whitman's I like. When
I watch an ox-team break the first furrow in virgin soil, or a
construction train, loaded with new steel, go by, I hear him calling:
'Pioneers! Oh, Pioneers!'"

There was silence for a few moments, and then Sadie leaned forward. "I
don't know if I've said enough, or said too much, but Bob goes back in
three days and could take a message."

The color crept into Helen's face, and her look was strangely soft.

"Let him tell Stephen to finish his work as well as he can; say I
understand."



CHAPTER XXVII

SNOW

Tossing snowflakes filled the air, and although it was three o'clock in
the afternoon the light was fading, when Charnock opened the door of the
caboose. A bitter wind rushed past him and eddied about the car, making
the stove crackle. The iron was red-hot in places and a fierce twinkle
shone out beneath the rattling door. Half-seen men lay in the bunks
along the shadowy wall, tools jingled upon the throbbing boards, but the
motion was gentler than usual and the wheels churned softly instead of
hammering.

"Is she going to make it?" somebody asked.

Charnock leaned out of the door. Black smoke streamed about the cars
and he heard a heavy snorting some distance off, but the caboose lurched
slowly along the uneven track. The construction train was climbing a
steep grade, the driving wheels slipped and he doubted if the locomotive
could reach the summit, from which the line ran down to the camp. Dim
pines, hardly distinguishable from the white hillside, drifted past; a
shapeless rack loomed up and slowly drew abreast. It was some moments
before Charnock lost it in the tossing white haze.

"I don't know if she'll make it or not, but rather think she won't," he
said.

"Then come in and shut the blamed door," another growled. "No need to
worry about it, anyhow! Pay's as good for stopping in the caboose as for
humping rails in the snow."

"You're luckier than me in that way," Charnock answered as he shut the
door. "There are some drawbacks to being your own boss. When you can't
get to work it's comforting to know that somebody else has to find the
dollars and put up the hash."

He shivered as he sat down on a box. The snow was obviously deep and
things would be unpleasant at the camp, but Festing would not let this
interfere with work. Charnock thought he had been foolish to come back,
but Festing expected him and Sadie agreed that he ought to go. It was
something of an effort to live up to the standards of such a partner and
such a wife. Sadie was a very good sort, better than he deserved, but
he would not have minded it if she were not quite so anxious about his
moral welfare. Besides, after the comfort of the homestead, the caboose
jarred. It smelt of acrid soft-coal smoke, the air was full of dust,
and rubbish jolted about the floor. Then Charnock grinned as he admitted
that he had not expected to find the path of virtue smooth.

His reflections were rudely disturbed, for a violent jolt threw him off
the box. The boards he fell upon no longer throbbed, and it was evident
that the train had stopped. The others laughed as he got up.

"Loco's hit a big drift," said one. "I guess the engineer won't butt her
through."

"He'll surely try; Jake hates to be beat," another remarked, and the
caboose began to shake as the train ran backwards down the line.

A minute or two later there was a savage jerk and a furious snorting.
The caboose rolled ahead again, faster than before, for the wheels had
cut a channel through the snow, and somebody said, "Watch out! Hold
tight when she jumps!"

The speed slackened, a jarring crash ran backwards along the train, and
the caboose tilted as if the wheels had left the rails. Tools and sacks
of provisions rolled across the inclined floor, which suddenly sank to
a level, and a man who had fallen from his bunk got up and opened the
door.

"She's bedded in good and fast. Guess Jake will be satisfied now," he
said, and laughed when a whistle rang through the snow. "Nobody could
hear that a mile ahead, and as she's not over the divide it's some way
to camp. I reckon we'll stop here until they dig us out."

Soon afterwards some more men came in, covered with snow. Then the door
was shut, the stove filled and a lamp lighted, and Charnock resigned
himself to spending another night in the caboose. After all, it was as
warm as the shack, and he reflected with some amusement that Festing
probably did not expect him to be punctual. The latter knew his habits,
and no doubt imagined that he would find the comfort of the homestead
seductive. But Festing did not know Sadie, who had sent him back within
the promised time. He enjoyed his supper and slept well afterwards.
In fact, he did not waken until a stinging draught swept through the
caboose and he saw that it was daylight. The door was open and he heard
voices outside. He recognized one as the foreman's, and presently the
fellow came in.

"D'you reckon you're here for good, you blamed hibernating deadbeats?"
he asked the occupants of the bunks. "Turn out and get busy before I put
a move on you!"

The men got up, grumbling, and Charnock buttoned his skin-coat and
jumped down into the snow. He sank to his knees, but went deeper before
he reached the engine, round which a gang of men were at work with
shovels. It was not his business to help them and he floundered on up
the track they had made until he crossed the summit and saw the bridge
in the distance. Half an hour afterwards he met Festing and thought he
looked surprised.

"You didn't come with the boys to dig us out," Charnock remarked.

"No," said Festing. "We knew the train had passed the Butte, and guessed
where she was held up. But I hardly thought--"

"You didn't think I'd be up to time?" Charnock suggested. "Well, it's
remarkable what a good example does!"

"Did you see Helen?"

"Sadie saw her. I understand she was very well and sent you a message.
You're to finish your job and make good--Helen understands."

Festing was silent a moment, and when he looked up his eyes were soft.
"Thank you, Bob! Or perhaps it's Sadie I ought to thank?"

"I wouldn't bother about it. Sadie's fond of meddling," Charnock
answered with some embarrassment. "But will the snow stop the work?"

"Not altogether. We can keep busy on the hill and I'm going up now. Will
you come?"

"Presently," said Charnock, smiling. "Food's a thing you don't seem to
need when you're occupied, but I want my breakfast before I start."

Festing went away, and after a time Charnock joined him on the hill,
where fresh trees had been felled and roughly squared with the ax. Men
and horses were working hard, but Charnock stopped for a minute or two
before he began. The snow was different from the thin covering that
scarcely hid the short grass on the plains. The pines were glittering
white pyramids, with branches that bent beneath their load, and there
were no inequalities on the drop to the river. Every projection was
leveled up, the hollows were filled, and the snow ran unbroken among the
trunks in a smooth white sheet. It was not drying and getting powdery,
because the frost was not very keen, and he imagined that Festing meant
to get as much lumber as possible down while the surface could be beaten
into a smooth track.

"You might take Gordon's team and break a trail by hauling the lighter
pieces to the top," Festing said. "They'll run down when they have worn
a chute, but we'll have some trouble man-handling the first."

Charnock nodded as he glanced over the edge of the narrow tableland.
The descent was not steep near the top, but farther on it dropped
precipitously to the water, crossing the curve by the bridge.

"How will you stop the heavy stuff going into the river?" he asked.

Festing indicated two men moving about the waterside. They looked
curiously stumpy with their legs buried in the snow.

"I sent them to make a chain fast to the rocks. We'll shackle up the
first logs we run down and make a lumber pond. A few may shoot across
the top, but we'll see what must be done as we get on."

Charnock hooked the chain round the smallest log he could find and
started the horses. They slipped and floundered as they plodded through
the soft snow. Sometimes the log ran for a few yards, crushing down the
surface, but it often sank overhead and the team struggled hard to drag
it out. For all that, Charnock reached the top of the slope, and turning
back, widened the trail he had made. The next log ran easier, although
it gave him trouble, but when he stopped at noon he had beaten down a
road.

When they started again he left the team to somebody else and joined the
men who were clearing out a trough down the hill. This was harder work,
but the small contractor finds it pays to give his men a lead instead
of orders, and for a time Charnock used the shovel and his feet. Then
Festing said they had better move a few logs as far as they would go,
and they worked the first trunk down hill with handspikes and tackles.
The lumber scored the bottom of the trough and would not run, and they
struggled through the banked-up snow, lifting the heavy mass when it
sank. Now and then they fixed the tackle to a tree and dragged the log
across short skids thrust under its end, and at length launched it from
the brow of the steeper pitch.

It plunged down some distance, but stopped again, half buried in loose
snow, and they scrambled after it, clinging to small trees. Then the
work got dangerous. One could scarcely stand on the steep bank, and when
the log started it rather leaped than slid. Spikes, torn from the men's
hands, shot into the air, and those in front sprang back for their
lives, but the mass seldom went far before loose snow brought it up and
the struggle with the levers began again. At last, it slipped from a
hummock and glided slowly down, crumpling the snow in front, while a
man, clinging to the butt and shouting hoarse jokes, trailed down the
track behind.

Moving the next was easier, and those that followed ran without much
help for most of the way, while when dark came the bank at the top
was empty and there was a pile of logs held up by the chain at the
waterside. Their descent had worn the channel smooth, and it was now
difficult to stop them going too far. In a day or two Festing brought
the most part of his material to the spot where it would be used, and
got ready to put up the frames.

Stinging frost set in, and on the morning they cleared the ground for
the first post Charnock felt daunted as he beat his numbed hands. The
sky was clear; a hard, dazzling blue, against which the white peaks
were silhouetted with every ridge and pinnacle in sharp outline. They
twinkled like steel in places, but there were patches of delicate gray,
and here and there a dark rock broke through its covering. The bottom of
the gorge was soft blue, and the river a streak of raw indigo, but there
was no touch of warm color in the savage landscape. The glitter made
Charnock's eyes ache and the reflected sunshine burned his skin.

Some of the construction gangs were laid off, but in places men were at
work. They looked small and feeble on the vast white slope, and a few
plumes of smoke seemed to curl futilely out of the hollow. Frost and
snow defied man's engine power, and the rattle of the machines was lost
in the din the river made. Its channel was full of snow that had frozen
in the honey-combed masses, and the ragged floes broke with a harsh,
ringing crash. Others screamed as they smashed among the rocks and
ground across ledges, while the tall cliffs on the opposite bank flung
the echoes far among the pines. The uproar rose and sank, but its
throbbing note voiced a challenge to human effort, and Charnock admitted
that had the choice been left to him, he would have gone back to the
warm shack and waited for better conditions.

Festing, however, would wait for nothing, and Kerr and Norton were
equally resolute. Just now Festing was clearing away the snow while
three or four men cautiously descended the bank, dragging loads of
branches. A big fire was soon lighted, and when the resinous wood broke
into snapping flame Festing cleared a spot farther on for another. By
and by he scattered the first, the thawed surface was pierced, and a
hole dug. Then with half an hour's savage labor they got the first big
post on end. The next broke the supporting tackle and a man narrowly
escaped when it fell, but they raised it again and got to work upon the
braces. The wood was unseasoned and hard with frozen sap. Saw and auger
would scarcely bite, but somehow they cut the notches and bored the
holes. When the first frame was roughly stayed Charnock sat down with a
breathless laugh.

"I suppose it's the best job we can make and it's up to specification.
Still, when one comes to think of it, the optimism of these railroad men
is remarkable. Green wood and uncovered bolts that will soon work loose
in the rotting pine! If I was an engineer, the thing would frighten me."

"The track will stand while they want it," Festing answered with an
impatient look. "Long before it gets shaky they'll pull it down."

"Pulling things down is a national habit. A man I met in Winnipeg bought
a nearly new hotel because he thought he could put up a better building
on the site. However, I suppose there's something to be said for his
point of view. Progress implies continuous moving on!"

"It does," said Festing. "While you moralize, the men you ought to put
to work are standing still."

Charnock got up and went off, beating his hands. He noted that there
was a hole in the mittens he had brought from home. This was annoying
because Sadie had given him the mittens. In spite of many difficulties,
they braced the posts securely before they stopped work, and when supper
was over Charnock reluctantly put on his coat. He wanted to ask Norton
something, and when he left the latter's office came back along a narrow
path above the track. After going a short distance he stopped to look
down at the half-finished frames.

The moon had not risen, but a pale glow shone above a gray peak and
the sky was clear. One could not see much in the hollow, but the snow
reflected a faint light. The timbers they had erected rose like a black
skeleton, and after glancing at them, Charnock's eyes were drawn
towards the pile of logs in the pond at the water's edge. A log pond is
generally made in a river, where the stream will carry the trunks into
the containing chains. But Festing had made his on land, using the snow
instead of the current. Charnock could not tell what had attracted his
attention, but stood motionless for a moment or two.

He heard nothing but the roar of the current and the crash of
splintering ice, and could hardly distinguish the logs. Their outline
was blurred and the dark-colored mass melted into a dusky background of
rock and water. Yet he thought something had moved beside the pond.

Then an indistinct object detached itself from the pile. It was
shapeless and he lost it next moment, but it had been visible against a
patch of snow. It was not a man's height, and, so far as he could see,
moved like an animal, but no wild beast would haunt the outskirts of
a noisy construction camp. Since he could not imagine why a man should
crawl about the logs at night, he resolved to satisfy his curiosity.

This needed caution, and he lay down and rolled himself in the snow. It
stuck to his shaggy skin-coat, and remembering that some drills had been
left near the track he felt about until he found one. The short steel
bar was easy to carry and might be useful. The next thing was to get
down without being seen, and he crept to the log-slide and sitting
down let himself go. His coat rolled up and acted like a brake, but he
reached and shot over the top of the last pitch. Next moment he struck
the logs at the bottom with a jar that left him breathless, and he lay
still to recover. His coat was white; indeed, the snow had forced its
way inside his clothes, but he must be careful about his background and
avoid abrupt movements.

Getting on his hands and knees, he crawled along the bottom of the pile.
The logs were not numerous, since some had been used, and when Charnock
reached the end he crouched in the snow and looked about. Nobody was
there and his ears were not of much use because the crash of ice drowned
every other sound. This made silence needless, and he tried to get
between the logs and the water, but found it dangerous. The chain had
sagged with the strain, and the lowest tier was scarcely a foot from the
bank, along which the ice-floes rasped.

He came back and crawled half-way up the pile, meaning to reach the top,
but stopped and lay flat. An object moved along the highest row, and he
knew it was a man. The fellow's figure showed against the sky, though
Charnock imagined he would have been invisible from above. He waited and
felt his heart beat as he clenched the bar. The other did not seem to
know he was watched and Charnock resolved to find out what he meant to
do. He thought of the chain that held the logs; if this were loosed,
the pile would roll into the river and be washed away, but it would be
impossible to slip the fastening toggle while the links were strained.
Still one might be nicked with a hacksaw and left to break with the
shock when the next log ran down the slide. The man, however, could not
get at the chain from the top row.

He came nearer and then stopped abruptly, as if alarmed. Charnock lay
close in the hollow between two logs, but his coat was snowy and it was
possible that the other had noticed the white patch. He turned and
began to move back, not fast but with caution. Charnock felt it was
unthinkable that he should get away, and raising himself, swung the
drill round his head and let it go. It flew over the other man and
vanished without a sound because the turmoil of the water drowned the
splash, but Charnock lost his balance and rolled off the logs. He fell
into the snow, and when he got up the man had gone.

For a few moments he stood still, hesitating and abusing his folly. He
did not know if the fellow had seen the drill fly past or not, but he
had thrown away his weapon, and might have a dangerous antagonist.
For all that, he meant to discover who his antagonist was. Floundering
through the snow, he reached the end of the pile, but found nobody
there. The lumber gang had made a path along the water's edge, but
Charnock could see nobody among the scattered trees. He climbed to
the top of the logs and looked down on the other side, but saw nothing
between the water and the pile.

After this, he felt the fastening of the chain, which did not seem to
have been tampered with, because the toggle was securely fixed
across the strap-link. Then he crept about the pile again, with an
uncomfortable feeling that the other might be lying in wait for him, but
saw nothing suspicious, and there was no use in examining the trampled
snow. By and by he gave up the search and returned to the path, feeling
disturbed. It was impossible to guess what the man had meant to do, or
who he was, but Charnock resolved to watch.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE LEWIS BOLT

Charnock went back next morning and examined the chain, but found none
of the links or fastenings damaged. This was puzzling, and he wondered
whether the man he had seen, knowing that somebody was about, had
stolen away without beginning what he came to do. The explanation was
plausible, but left Charnock uncertain who the fellow was. He suspected
Wilkinson, but only because he could think of nobody else with any
ground for wishing to do him or Festing an injury.

On the whole, he thought it better not to tell Festing. It was rather an
improbable story, and Stephen might think him imaginative, but he would
watch and try to catch the fellow if he came again. For a week, he made
excuses for going out after supper, and Festing did not object although
he looked surprised, but he saw nothing and it was very cold lurking
about the track. Moreover he was generally tired after his day's hard
work, and was glad to give up the search.

Some time later, he returned from Norton's office one night and had
reached the track when he saw a man coming obliquely up the slope. There
was moonlight, and the snow glittered between the shadows of the trees.
Charnock saw the other plainly and drew back into the gloom along the
bank. The fellow did not seem to mind whether he was seen or not, but
Charnock thought he knew his walk and figure, and when he reached the
track set off with the object of overtaking him. The loose snow dulled
his steps, and he was close upon the man when the latter stopped and
turned. Then Charnock saw, without much surprise, that it was Wilkinson.

"What were you doing down there?" he asked.

"I don't see what that has to do with you," Wilkinson answered coolly.

"The logs in the pond are ours."

Wilkinson looked amused and Charnock tried to control his temper. He
would gain nothing by using force, and thought the other meant to give
him no excuse for doing so.

"You don't imagine I meant to steal your logs!" Wilkinson rejoined.
"They're too large to carry away, and there's no sawmill to buy them if
I sent them down the river."

"That's obvious," said Charnock, who thought it prudent not to hint that
he had seen the fellow lurking about the pond before. For that matter,
he was not certain he had seen Wilkinson.

"You're much more suspicious than you were when I first knew you,"
Wilkinson resumed in a mocking tone.

"I was a confiding fool then and trusted my friends. It cost me
something."

"And now you're afraid to let anybody pass your logs in the dark? Well,
caution's useful, but it can be overdone."

"Why did you want to pass the pond?"

"For one thing, because it's the easiest way of getting from the
smithy to the track; then this piece of hillside doesn't belong to you.
However, as I guess you don't claim it, you no doubt reckoned I meant to
play you some shabby trick; turn your logs adrift, for example?"

"I don't think it's impossible."

Wilkinson laughed. "Well, I might do you an injury if the thing wasn't
difficult, but don't let your suspicions make you ridiculous. If you
feel uneasy, you can watch the pond. Anyhow, the cold's fierce and I'm
going to the bunk-house."

Charnock let him go and returned thoughtfully to the shack. He did not
doubt that Wilkinson had been to the smithy, because one could find out
if he had not, but he felt disturbed. The fellow had somehow encouraged
him to believe he might tamper with the logs; but would hardly have done
so had he meant to set them adrift. He might, of course, have wanted to
keep him uneasy without ground; but suppose it was a feint, intended to
cover the real attack, made at another point? Charnock determined to be
cautious and keep his eyes open.

He saw nothing to cause him fresh anxiety, although he once or twice
visited the pond at night. In the daytime his work absorbed his
attention, for they were now building a lofty frame on the steepest
pitch of the dip. The foot of the longest timber, which was unusually
massive, rested in a socket cut in the rock near the water's edge, and
it cost them a very hard and dangerous day's work to get the log on end.
Indeed, for a few anxious minutes Charnock imagined that the mass
would break the tackles and come down. When fixed, it was nearly
perpendicular, but its top inclined slightly toward the bank, and
Festing sent for Norton and Kerr.

"It's a good post, but I'm not sure we have got spread enough," he
said. "There's not much to resist the outward thrust a heavy train might
cause. Still, I don't see how we could have carried the foot farther
back."

"You'd have to go into the water," Norton agreed. "That would have meant
a coffer dam, and the Company won't stand for expensive extras."

"The ice would have smashed the dam," said Kerr. "The job meets the
plan, which calls for stays to stop the post canting out. Put in
an extra king-tie half-way up and I'll pass your bill and find the
ironwork."

Festing was satisfied with this, and the post was stayed with chains
while they got the braces fixed. This took some days, for the men were
forced to work on dangerous snowy ledges and boards, hung from the top.
Where there was most risk and difficulty Festing went himself, but he
looked anxious.

"It's the worst part of the job and perhaps the most awkward thing I've
done," he said one night. "If the frame came down with the rockwork
filling, it might start the rest and shake some length of road."

"But there's no reason it should come down," Charnock argued.

"Not in a way, but I'm glad Kerr authorized the extra brace. We'll use
the heaviest stuff we can, and although the fastenings may give some
trouble, we haven't come to them yet. Perhaps I'm getting nervous. We're
up to schedule and doing pretty well, but it will be a relief to get the
contract finished."

Charnock told him about Wilkinson, and he looked thoughtful.

"I can't see his object, particularly since he left the chain alone. Of
course he may have meant some mischief, but gave it up when he found you
on his track."

"Somehow I don't think that was it," said Charnock, who went to open the
door.

Kerr came in and after a time began to talk about the fastenings for the
main tie-beam.

"As the rock is sound and can be thawed, I think we could use a bolt on
the Lewis plan. Give me some paper and I'll make a sketch you can take
to the smith."

Charnock examined the drawing and noted that the holding part of the
bolt was shaped like the letter Y, except that the stalk was split.
A wedge was sketched to fit the split, and would obviously expand the
upper arms to fit tightly into a fan-shaped hole with a narrow mouth.

"I've not seen this kind of fastening before," he said. "It ought to
grip well, but something depends upon the wedge."

Kerr nodded. "The wedge must be properly forged and fit tight, but
there's a cross bolt to stop it backing out. So long as it doesn't break
under the hammer, it can't come loose. Something depends on the way the
hole is cut and the rock, but the stuff you're working is hard enough."

Next morning Charnock took the drawing to the smith, and calling at
the forge a day or two later, found Wilkinson sitting on a box. He had
brought a pick to be mended and made a few ironical remarks, until the
smith showed Charnock some irons he had forged.

"I guess that's what you want, but I haven't finished the Lewis yet.
Reckoned I'd wait until I could get a bit of horseshoe iron for the
wedge when the new stores come along."

"What's that bar in the corner?" Charnock asked.

"Steel," said the smith. "A bit off the end would make a wedge, but you
want to be careful you don't overheat the steel in the forge if it's to
stand hammering after. Horseshoe iron's better for your particular job.
Come back in a day or two and I'll have the thing ready."

Charnock left him and one afternoon soon afterwards helped Festing to
notch and bore the heavy cross-tie to fit the post and the ends of the
timbers it was to hold in place. These were intended to strengthen the
frame, of which the post and tie were the most important members, and
Festing had waited until their other ends were securely fixed. When the
light was fading he beckoned Charnock.

"You might get the Lewis bolt. The smith sent word it's ready and I want
to fasten the tie before we stop."

When Charnock reached the forge the smith was absent, but he blew the
fire until the light flickered about the shop and looked for the
bolt. He found it in a corner and took the wedge to the hearth. It was
properly shaped and slotted for a cross-bolt, but it looked rough and
scaly, and giving the blower a few more strokes he tapped it once or
twice. The scale fell off and the metal looked sound. Then while the
flame spread about the fuel he glanced round the shop. There was no
horseshoe iron, but the bar of steel had recently been cut, and he
thought the wedge had been forged out of its end.

Charnock did not think this mattered much. Festing had urged the smith
to finish the job, and the man knew his business. Since he had been
forced to use steel, he had no doubt taken the necessary precautions. It
was dark when Charnock got back to the frame, but a blast-lamp threw out
a dazzling glare and he climbed to a beam on which Festing sat. At
the timber's inner end a fire burned on a shelf of rock and a man was
stirring something in an iron pot.

"We're melting lead to fill up the hole, though I don't know if it's
necessary," Festing said. "Have you got the bolt?"

"It's here. He has made it out of steel; the iron he expected hasn't
arrived."

"That's all right. They now use steel for many jobs instead of iron, and
the softer kinds are quite as tough. Anyhow, we can trust the smith not
to burn the metal. Help Black while I get the tie ready for fastening."

Half an hour later the big cross-beam was in position and Charnock
watched Festing fit the bolt into its fan-shaped socket. He did so with
fastidious care and then standing on the beam swung the hammer a workman
gave him. The blast-lamp roared upon a timber overhead, throwing down
waves of light that flooded the rock face, but the twinkling brightness
rather puzzled the eye. For all that, Festing struck the wedge
squarely and drove it home with a few heavy blows. Then he fastened
the cross-bolt and Charnock filled a ladle with the melted lead. A blue
flame flickered about the cavity as he poured in the stuff, there was
an angry sputtering, and he afterwards found some holes in his coat.
Festing dropped his hammer with a gesture of satisfaction.

"That's an awkward piece of work finished, and I feel happier now! You
can put out the lamp and quit, boys; I'll mark you up full time."

Then they got down from the frame and went home to supper, earlier than
usual. In the morning they began to build a wall of roughly-cut stones
among the timber, filling in the space behind with rubble; and kept
on until at noon, a day or two later, heavy snow began to fall. It
was impossible to work, and they lounged about the shack, smoking and
reading, all next day. Charnock was thankful for the rest, but Festing
grumbled and now and then walked impatiently to the door. Late at night
the former was wakened by a distant rumbling. It sounded like thunder,
and he called to his comrade.

"What's that? Had we better get up?"

"Sounds like a big snow-slide," said Festing, raising himself in his
bunk. "Won't harm us; shack's on top of the ridge and we're safer here
than anywhere else." He stopped and listened to the swelling roar and
then resumed: "I'm glad we got that frame braced. It's a big slide and
will probably come down the gully near the bridge. They're going to
snowshed that piece of track and we'll haul out the posts if we can't
get on with the other job."

He lay down again, but Charnock waited. This was the first snow-slide he
had heard and he felt awed by the din. Growing in a long crescendo, it
rolled down the hill in a torrent of sound, but by and by he thought he
could distinguish different notes; the crash of trees carried away by
the avalanche and the scream of gravel grinding across rocky scraps. He
could imagine the stones being planed away and the mass of broken trunks
riding on top of the huge white billow.

It was impossible to sit still, and jumping down, he lighted the lamp,
but found it hard to replace the glass. The shack throbbed, the table on
which he put the matches shook, and there was a rattle of crockery, but
this was drowned by an overwhelming roar. The avalanche was pouring down
a gully near the shack, and he leaned against the table, deafened,
until it passed. Then he heard the turmoil of a tremendous cataract and
imagined the snow was plunging into the river and deflecting the current
upon the other bank. The sound gradually died away and he could hear
detached noises; great pines, broken rocks, and soil, rushing down
behind the fallen mass. There were heavy splashes, and then a strange,
unnatural silence.

"It's finished," Festing remarked. "Rather alarming for the first time,
but one gets used to it. You can put out the light and go back to bed."

Charnock did so and soon went to sleep. In the morning they found that
the most part of the avalanche had fallen into the river, but its tail
remained, resting in a steep cone of snow and broken trees and soil,
against the bank on which they had built the frames. The top of the cone
extended far up the hill, but, owing to the sharpness of the pitch, its
bottom, which covered the frames and rockwork, was thin. Festing sent
half the men to cut this portion away, and the others up the hill to
haul posts for the snowshed to the top of the slides. It was obvious
that a very heavy weight rested on the buried work, but the pressure was
uniform, unlike the jarring of a train, and he did not feel disturbed.

About four o'clock in the afternoon he came to see how much progress
the shovel gang had made, and Charnock, who superintended their labor,
showed him what they had done. They had cut a gap in the cone, and part
of the rockwork was exposed nearly to the bottom. On each side, the snow
ran down to the water in a uniform smooth slant, except where broken
trees projected from the surface. Above, the mass of snow rested on the
shelf that would carry the track and on the top of the half-finished
work. It glittered with a yellow flush where it caught the fading light,
but in the hollow its color was a dull, cold blue.

By and by they examined the wall. So far as they could see, the
stonework bore the unusual load well, but in one spot there was a crack
between two courses.

"I'll get up there in the morning and see if it's worth while to drive
in a few wedges," Festing remarked. "You had better watch that bank of
snow. Some of it will probably break away."

"We have had two or three small falls," said Charnock, and Festing
beckoned one of the men.

"Come up the hill in the morning, Tom. I'm going to clear the log-slide
or break a new one. Which d'you think would be best?"

While they talked about it, a shower of snow fell on Charnock, who
stepped back.

"Watch out!" he cried. "There's more coming!"

Festing moved a pace or two and went on talking, but Charnock fixed his
eyes on the snow. The part above the track overhung the gap in a bulging
cornice, as if it was moving down hill, and in a few moments a heavier
shower began. The bulge got more prominent, but the cornice did not
break off, and while he watched it, wondering whether he should call out
the men, a stone fell from the wall and dropped at his feet. This was
ominous, but next moment a mass of snow struck his head, nearly knocking
him down, and when he recovered his balance and wiped his face he
noted with alarm that the stones were opening and the big post leaned
outwards.

"Jump for your lives, boys!" he shouted, and throwing himself on
Festing, drove him back.

Then there was a roar of falling stones and a crash. The massive post
lurched towards him and the air was filled with snow. He heard struts
and braces crack as the post tore them out, and thought Festing turned
round in order to see what was happening. He pushed him away, and
then sank into loose snow and fell. Before he could get up there was a
deafening noise, something struck him a heavy blow, and he was buried.

After a short struggle he got his head out, and finding that he was
thinly covered, made an effort to extricate himself. When he had done
so, he saw the men some distance up the bank. They were all there except
Festing, but he noticed a heap of big stones and broken beams close by.

"Back here, boys! The boss is underneath!" he shouted, and threw himself
upon the stones as the others ran up.

For a minute or two they worked desperately, flinging the lumps of rock
about and dragging away the beams; and then stopped as they uncovered
Festing. His face looked very white, although a red stain ran down his
forehead. Charnock shivered and glanced at the break in the white mass
above the track.

"It's risky, but we've got to pull him out before some more snow comes
down," he said in a hoarse voice. "Scrape the snow off carefully, Tom.
Get hold here with me, Pete."

After two or three minutes' cautious work they lifted Festing out of
the hole. He was unconscious and his arm looked short and distorted.
Charnock felt horror-struck and dizzy, but pulled himself together.

"Go for Kerr, one of you," he said. "Then I want the stretcher and a
hand-sledge. Bring a blast-lamp; ours is smashed."

The men scattered, except for one who stayed with him, and kneeling in
the snow he opened Festing's fur-coat and took off his cap. His head
was cut and his arm broken, but Charnock did not think this altogether
accounted for his unconsciousness. He suspected broken ribs, but could
detect nothing unusual when he felt his comrade's side.

Kerr arrived first and looked at Festing.

"Unconscious all the time?" he asked, and when Charnock nodded resumed:
"Most important thing's to get a doctor, and I'll see to that. Then I'll
get some brandy."

As he hurried away three or four men came down the hill with the sledge
and stretcher, and one rigged and lighted a powerful lamp. Accidents are
common at construction camps, and one of Norton's gang examined Festing.

"He's sure got it badly; arm's not the worst," he said. "We'll tend to
that and then slide him gently on the stretcher. Carrying him might be
dangerous; we'll fix the whole outfit on the sled."

While they were occupied a plume of smoke shot up above the pines, and
Charnock knew Kerr had sent off a locomotive to bring help. When they
had put Festing on the stretcher a man arrived with brandy, but Festing
could not swallow, and seizing the sledge traces, they started up the
hill. Norton was in the shack when they reached it, and felt Festing's
clothes.

"Not damp; it would be safer to let him lie until the doctor comes," he
said, and sent the men away. Then he turned to Charnock sharply. "Sit
right down!"

Charnock swayed, clutched the chair, and sank limply into the seat. The
floor heaved and the quiet figure on the stretcher got indistinct. Then
Norton held out a glass.

"Drink it quick!"

Charnock's teeth rattled against the glass, but he swallowed the liquor,
and sat motionless for a moment or two.

"Seemed to lose my balance. Bit of a shock you know, and I expect that
stone hit me pretty hard."

"So I imagine; there's an ugly bruise on your face," said Norton, giving
him back the glass. "The first dose braced you. Take some more."

"I think not," said Charnock, with a forced smile. "Dangerous remedy if
you have suffered from my complaint. Didn't know my face was hurt until
you told me. When d'you think the doctor will come?"

"There's a man at Jackson's Bench. Loco ought to make the double trip in
about two hours."

"Two hours!" said Charnock faintly, and braced himself to wait.



CHAPTER XXIX

FOUL PLAY

Some time after the accident a doctor arrived and set Festing's arm. He
found two ribs were broken and suspected other injuries, but could
not question his half conscious patient. When he had done all that was
possible in the meantime and had seen Festing lifted carefully into his
bunk, he put a dressing on Charnock's bruised face and pulled a chair to
the fire.

"I'll keep watch; your partner has got an ugly knock," he said. "Don't
think I'll want anything, and you had better go to bed."

Charnock could not sleep and spent the night uncomfortably on a chair.
He was sore and dazed, but his anxiety would not let him rest, and once
or twice he softly crossed the floor to his comrade's bunk. The last
time he did so the doctor, whose head had fallen forward, looked up with
a jerk and frowned as he signed him to go back. After this, Charnock
kept as still as his jarred nerves would permit. Sometimes Festing
groaned, and sometimes made a feeble movement, but so far as Charnock
could see, his eyes were shut.

About three o'clock in the morning, the doctor stood for some minutes
beside the bunk, and Charnock shivered as he watched his face. The shack
seemed very quiet except for the throb of the river and the grinding of
the ice. Then the doctor gave him a nod that hinted at satisfaction, and
told him to refill the iron drum at Festing's feet with hot water. By
and by he put fresh wood in the stove, moving cautiously and taking as
long as possible, because it was a relief to do something after sitting
still in suspense.

At daybreak there was a knock at the door, and Charnock, finding Kerr
and Norton outside, looked at the doctor, who put on his fur-coat and
went out to them.

"Have you any news for us?" Norton asked.

"No change yet. That's encouraging, as far as it goes."

"What about breakfast? Ours is ready. Will you join us?"

"I think not. If my patient doesn't come out of his stupor, I must try
to rouse him soon. Send a man here and take Mr. Charnock. I expect he
needs food."

"Very well," said Kerr. "We'll see the cook looks after you; but can
you give us no idea about Festing? You see, there are matters, business
matters--"

"He has had a bad shock and it will be a long job; a month anyway.
I can't stop long and he ought to have a nurse, although it would be
difficult to get one to come here. But I can't form an opinion yet."

He dismissed them and Kerr took Charnock away. It was very cold. The
white pines were growing into shape; their tops caught the light in the
east and glimmered with a faint warm flush against the dim blue shadow.
Smoke and puffs of steam floated up from the gorge, and the ringing
clang of steel pierced the turmoil of the river. Charnock felt braced
but dizzy. Now he came to think of it, he had eaten no supper, and after
a day of laborious effort the night's watch had fatigued him. Besides,
his face smarted under the bandage, and his back was sore.

When he sat down in Norton's shack, where a plate was put for Kerr, he
felt ravenously hungry and did not talk much until the meal was over.
Then Norton made him sit near the stove.

"It's an awkward business," he said. "To begin with, what are we going
to do about a nurse? This is hardly the place for a woman, and I doubt
if we could get anybody to undertake the job."

"I'll write to Mrs. Festing."

"Would she come out?"

"I imagine so," said Charnock thoughtfully. "Still she doesn't know much
about nursing."

"His wife is the proper person to look after him," Kerr interposed.
"Then I have a young fellow in the rail gang who could help; found him
useful once or twice when the boys got hurt. In fact, I suspect he's had
some medical training, though I didn't ask why he quit."

Norton smiled. It is not unusual to find men whose professional career
has been cut short working on a Western track.

"That simplifies matters. If you had wanted a lawyer or an accountant, I
could have sent a man. However, there's another thing--"

"There is; it's important," Kerr agreed. "Who's going to carry on the
contract?"

Charnock leaned forward eagerly. "I'll try. Give me a chance. I think I
know my job."

There was silence for a few moments and Norton looked at Kerr, who
slowly filled his pipe.

"I'd like to consent," he said, "but I'm the Company's servant and
there's a risk." He paused and turned to Norton. "However, it's really
your business. If things go wrong, the trouble's coming to you first."

"Sure. I'm willing to take the risk. I don't expect Charnock will fool
the job, but if he does you can get after me. I'll stand for it."

"Very well! We'll let it go at that."

Charnock got up, with some color in his bandaged face, because he knew
what Norton's confidence meant. He was, so to speak, an unknown man
and the contract had been given to Festing, who was an engineer. If he
failed, the men who trusted him would be held accountable.

"Thank you both," he said with feeling. "If labor and money can put the
thing over, I won't let you down."

He went out, for he had, in his anxiety about other matters, forgotten
his men, and it was now important that no time, which must be paid for,
should be wasted. Finding some of the gang at work clearing away the
fallen material and some hauling lumber on the hill, he gave them a
few orders and returned to the shack. When he got there Festing was
conscious and the doctor said he might speak to him.

"How do you feel?" Charnock asked.

"Better than the doctor thinks I ought to feel," Festing answered with a
feeble smile. "You seem to have got knocked about!"

Charnock said he was not much the worse, and Festing resumed: "Have you
seen Norton? What does he say about the contract?"

"I have seen him; you needn't bother. He has left the job to me; I'll
finish it somehow."

A look of relief came into Festing's face. "That's comforting news; I
was afraid--You're a good partner, Bob!"

"I don't know if I've been of much help so far, and the money I put into
the undertaking wasn't mine. There's a third partner, Stephen, and I
think she'd like me to see you through."

Festing gave him a grateful glance and closed his eyes. After a time, he
opened them feebly and asked: "Do you know why the frame gave way?"

"Not yet," said Charnock with some dryness. "I mean to find out!"

Then the doctor interrupted and sent him away. Going back to the scene
of the accident, he found the damage less serious than he thought. Part
of the wall had fallen and the post, which had broken, had pulled down
the timbers attached, but these could be replaced, and Charnock, calling
two men, began to clear the snow from the king-tie, which he imagined
had given way first. He found the Lewis bolt fixed to its end, but the
wedge had gone, and he climbed to the spot where the end of the beam had
been fixed. The stone socket had not broken, but pieces of crushed lead
lay near the hole. The soft metal had not much holding power and had
been used to fill up the crevices.

Sitting down, he began with methodical patience to turn over the snow
and loose rubble that remained on the shelf after the large stones
had fallen. The odds were against his finding what he sought, but he
persevered for an hour and then picked up a piece of broken metal a few
inches long. It was half of the wedge, which had broken at the slot, but
although he searched carefully he could not find the other part. Putting
the piece in his pocket, he went to the forge and, seeing the smith was
occupied, sat down and filled his pipe. The door was open and the light
reflected from the snow was strong. Charnock was glad of this, because
he wanted to see the smith, who presently dropped his hammer and leaned
against the hearth.

"How's your partner getting on?" he asked. "Mr. Festing's the kind of
man I like; I was sorry to hear he had got hurt."

Charnock studied the man. His face was pale and wrinkled under the
grime, but he looked honest, and if his statement was sincere, as
Charnock thought, it seemed to clear the ground. After giving him a few
particulars about Festing's injuries, he lighted his pipe.

"Wilkinson's not here to-day," he remarked.

"He's not always here," said the smith. "He comes when there are picks
and drills that want sharpening."

"I saw him once or twice when I was in, and thought he was a friend of
yours."

"He can swap a good yarn; kind of handy man and sometimes helps me with
the hammer, but I guess that's all there is to it."

"Just so," said Charnock carelessly. "This is a warm place for a
quiet smoke, and the foreman can't tell how long one ought to stop,
particularly as you're sometimes out at the machine-shop. Do you find
the boys meddle with your tools if they come in while you're away?"

"No, sir; there'd be trouble if I did! Besides, nobody comes but
Wilkinson, and if I'm out he waits."

Charnock nodded, as if it did not matter. He had found out what he
wanted to know and thought he had not excited the smith's suspicions.
Taking the broken wedge from his pocket, he put it on the hearth.

"I expect you know what that is! The Lewis smashed when the frame came
down."

"It's the wedge. Don't see why it broke; plenty metal left, though the
slot weakened it."

"What's it made of?"

"Steel. The iron I wanted didn't come; but this is mild, low-carbon
stuff."

"Then what's the matter with it. It did break."

The smith put the piece into a socket in the anvil and struck it with a
hammer. The end broke short, and picking up the fragment he went to the
door.

"Nature's gone out of it; I sure can't understand the thing," he said
with a puzzled look. "If I hadn't forged the stuff myself, I'd allow it
was burned."

"You don't often overheat the steel you work."

"No, sir," said the smith, who took up a piece of metal, pierced with
holes. "Made this out of the same bar, and it took more forging. Now you
watch!"

He put the object in a vise and hammered down the end, which did not
break. "That's all right, anyhow; tough and most as soft as iron. But
steel's sometimes treacherous; you want to be careful--"

"Could you tell by looking at it if a piece was burned?"

"Well," said the smith thoughtfully, "it's not always easy, but if the
thing was badly scaled, I'd be suspicious. Of course, there might be
some scale--"

"But the wedge looked all right when you finished it?"

"It certainly did," said the smith, who hesitated. "Say do you reckon it
was the bolt going that let down your frame?"

"So far, I imagine it was the weight of snow. The pile ran back up the
hill and must have made a crushing load. For all that, I'm curious about
the wedge."

"Well," said the other, "If it was the wedge, I'm surely sorry! The
blamed thing is burned, though I don't know how. But if she was loaded
up too much, she might have broken anyhow, burned or not."

"I expect so," said Charnock, getting up. "You needn't bother about the
matter; I'm not blaming you."

His face got very grim when he went out, for what he had learned fitted
in with his suspicions. Wilkinson had heard the smith say that steel
could be easily spoiled, and sometimes came to the forge when the man
was away. Then there was the rough, scaly look of the wedge, which had
been put out of the smith's sight, inside the split shank of the bolt.
Everything was plain; Charnock knew why the tie gave way and allowed the
frame to fall.

The thought of the treacherous injury made his blood boil. The thing
had been so easily done; five minutes' work at the blower, a few strokes
with a big hammer when the steel was dangerously hot, and then, perhaps,
a sudden quenching in the snow, when the steel ought to have slowly
cooled. He had been wrong in thinking men would not risk much for the
sake of revenge. Wilkinson had foully struck his comrade and perhaps
crippled him for life. But the cunning brute must be punished, and
driven from the camp, and when he left should carry marks that would
make it difficult to forget his offense.

Charnock, however, could not at once seek out his antagonist. He had
promised Festing to carry on the contract; they had had a number of
setbacks, and the accident would cost them much. Wages were high and it
was essential that the men should be usefully employed, while there
was now nobody but himself to superintend the work. Besides, the doctor
might want him and he must call at the shack every now and then to see
how Festing was getting on. It looked as if he must leave Wilkinson
alone until he had more leisure in the evening.

It was a trying day. The doctor sent him errands and sometimes allowed
him to come in for a few minutes, but his reports were not favorable,
and Festing was either asleep or too feeble to talk. When work stopped
and Charnock went to the shack after some hours' absence the doctor
looked very grave.

"I'm sorry I must keep you out," he said. "You mean well, but you're
clumsy, while the young fellow Mr. Kerr sent has had some training and
knows his job."

"Then my partner's worse?"

"Well, I'll own that I'm anxious about to-night; but if he gets over the
early morning, I'll have hope. Go to the engineer's shack and I'll send
you a report, if possible."

Charnock tried to brace himself as he went away. So far, he had not
imagined that Festing might die. He had got a shock, but must not let
it overwhelm him. Thinking hard, he walked to Norton's shack to get some
food. He was worn out and felt some pain.

Norton gave him supper and offered him room for the night, and
Charnock forced himself to eat. When the meal was over he lounged in a
comfortable chair with his eyes shut for a time, and then got up and put
on his coat.

"Where are you going?" Norton asked.

"I've some business at the camp," Charnock replied in a very grim voice.

He went out and as he walked down the track met the locomotive engineer,
who stopped.

"Is that you, Mr. Charnock? Cold's pretty fierce to-night. How's Mr.
Festing?"

Charnock had not felt the cold until then, but he shivered and beat his
hands as he replied that Festing was badly hurt. Then he asked: "Are you
going out with the loco?"

"Thought I'd finished, but they've wired that the cars are wanted on the
next section and I've got to run them along."

"Ah," said Charnock. "Have you seen Wilkinson?"

"Met him going to the bunk-house just before you came up."

Charnock went on, and presently entered the big wooden shed, which was
full of tobacco smoke and the smell of hot iron and food. The warmth
made him dizzy after the cold outside. A group of men had gathered about
the stove, others sat at the dirty table with pipes and newspapers, and
a few were quarreling about a game of cards, but Charnock could not see
them distinctly.

One or two looked round as he stopped near the door, dazzled by the
light. He had pulled off the bandage, and there was a large, dark bruise
on his face, which was set. His mouth made a firm line and his eyes
glittered. Then the foreman got up.

"Well," he asked harshly, "what do you want?"

Charnock gave him a careless glance. The fellow was truculent and
had bullied Charnock when he worked in his gang, while the latter had
sometimes replied to his abuse with witty retorts that left a sting.
Afterwards, he had beaten his persecutor badly in the dispute about the
borrowed workmen.

"I'm looking for Wilkinson."

"What d'you want him for?" the foreman asked suspiciously.

"That's my business."

"Then this is my bunk-house; anyhow, I'm in charge. Guess you'd better
get back to the bosses' shacks, where you belong."

Charnock noted the sneer, but said quietly, "I'll go as soon as I've had
a word with Wilkinson."

He tried to see if Wilkinson was there, and did not think he was, but
could not be certain. The foreman's manner hinted that he meant to
protect the fellow.

"You'll go now! D'you want me to put you out?"

For a moment Charnock stood still, and then suddenly lost his
self-control in a fit of savage rage. He had suffered at the hands of
the brute, who was trying to prevent his finding Wilkinson. But he did
not mean to be baulked, and stepped forward with his fists clenched.

He could not remember who struck first, but got a blow on his body that
made him gasp. Then he felt his knuckles jar on his antagonist's face,
and the next moment staggered and fell against a bench that upset with a
crash. He recovered, bent from the waist to dodge a blow that would have
felled him, and struck over the other's arm.

The foreman reeled, but did not fall, and closed with Charnock,
who could not get away because of the table. The latter felt his
antagonist's strength, and there was no room for skill. When he tried to
break loose his feet struck the upset bench, and the wall was close by.
Breathing hard, they rocked to and fro in a furious grapple, striking
when a hand could be loosed, and then fell apart, exhausted. Both were
bleeding but determined, for deep-rooted dislike had suddenly changed
to overpowering hate. Moreover Charnock knew the foreman was Wilkinson's
friend, and half suspected him of a share in the plot.

In the meantime the men gathered round, scarcely giving the fighters
room, and some, crowded off the floor, mounted the table. Nobody,
however, interfered. They had no part in the quarrel and did not know
what it was about, but while a number sympathized with Charnock, it was
dangerous to offend their boss.

Charnock resumed the attack, advancing with a savage rush. The foreman
gave ground, but stretched out his foot and Charnock, tripping over it,
plunged forward and fell among the legs of the nearest men. They crowded
back, and as he got up awkwardly the foreman seized a heavy billet of
cordwood and flung it at his head. The billet struck his shoulder, but
he was on his feet, his face set and white, and his eyes vindictively
hard. It was a foul blow, but there are few rules to hamper men
who fight in a Western construction camp, and Charnock thought his
antagonist meant to use a stove-iron that lay close by. Feinting at the
other, he dodged and seized a pick-handle he had noticed on the floor.
He was just in time, for the foreman struck at him with the iron. It
clashed upon the pick-handle, but Charnock got the next blow home and
the foreman fell upon the table, on which Charnock pinned him down. Then
getting his right arm loose, he struck with blind fury.

He was seized from behind, and while he struggled to get loose somebody
gasped: "That's enough! Do you want to kill the man?"

"Yes," said Charnock hoarsely. "Let me go!"

"Help me choke him off! He's surely mad!" cried the man behind.

Somebody else got hold of Charnock. He was dragged back, hustled away
from the table and towards the door. Then the bar was torn from his
hands and a man pushed him out in the snow.

"You have fixed him good," said somebody in a breathless voice. "Go home
and cool off!"

"If Wilkinson's inside, I'm coming back," Charnock declared.

The man laughed. "Wilkinson lit out through the store-shed 'bout a
minute after you came in."

Charnock felt faint and dizzy, but tried to think when the fellow banged
the door. It looked as if Wilkinson knew why he had come, and had stolen
away after seeing the struggle begin. Moreover he had friends who might
go after him and tell him what had happened to the foreman. Then he
remembered that the locomotive engineer had been ordered to move some
cars, and set off for the track.

The snow was rough, he fell into holes, and stubbed his feet against the
ties, but stumbled on until he heard the locomotive snort. Then there
was a jar of iron, wheels rattled, and a dark mass in front began to
roll away. He was too late, and when he stopped and tried to get his
breath two men came down the track.

"Did any of the boys go out on the train?" he asked.

"Only Wilkinson," one replied.

"Where's he going?"

"I don't know," said the other. "As he took his clothes-bag, it doesn't
look as if he was coming back."

Charnock set off for Norton's office. He did not know how he got there,
because a reaction had begun, and he sat down feeling powerless and
badly shaken.



CHAPTER XXX

UNDERSTANDING

At midnight, Charnock, sitting drowsily in a chair in Norton's office,
roused himself with a jerk. He was too anxious about Festing to go to
bed, but bodily fatigue reacted on his brain and dulled his senses. For
all that, he thought he heard steps in the snow, and getting up quickly
went to the door. The bitter cold pierced him like a knife and he
shivered. A man stood outside, and his dark figure, silhouetted against
the snow, was somehow ominous. Charnock tried to brace himself, for he
feared bad news.

"Well?" he said hoarsely.

"It's Musgrave; the doctor sent me along. Your partner's taken a turn.
He's going the right way now."

Charnock looked at the messenger. His relief was overwhelming and he
could not speak.

"That's all, but I guess it's good enough, and you can go to sleep," the
other resumed, and went away.

When he vanished among the trees Charnock returned to his chair. He
thought he ought to have brought the man in and made him some coffee,
but he was horribly tired and did not want to move about and talk.
Besides, he was conscious of a poignant satisfaction that prevented his
thinking about anything else. While he indulged it a wave of fatigue
swept over him and his head drooped. He tried to open his eyes but could
not, and a few minutes later he was sound asleep.

When he awoke the sun shone into the office and he felt stiff and
cramped, but not cold. This was strange, and he glanced at the stove,
which he had expected to find nearly out. The iron, however, glowed a
dull red and he could hear the cordwood snapping. Somebody must have put
in fresh fuel, and looking at his watch he got up with a start. The men
had been at work for two hours, with nobody to superintend them. Then he
heard a movement and turning round saw one in the room.

"Feeling better, boss?" the fellow asked. "Mr. Kerr told me to come and
see if you were awake. Said you'd find breakfast ready if you went to
his place."

"I expect you thought waiting for me to wake was easier than rolling
logs," Charnock suggested.

"Oh, well!" said the other; "you won't find we've fooled away much
time."

Charnock went to Festing's shack and the doctor nodded and indicated his
comrade's bunk. As Charnock stopped beside it Festing turned his head.

"Things going all right, Bob?"

"They were last night," said Charnock, with some embarrassment. "I don't
know about this morning because I've just got up. But how are you?"

Festing smiled. "Much better; imagine I'm not knocked out yet. You
needn't bother about being late. The boys are a pretty good crowd,
and they like you. I'm rather glad you didn't hustle them as much as I
wanted."

"That's enough," said the doctor, who followed Charnock to the door and
gave him a hopeful report.

Charnock ate a very good breakfast in Kerr's shack, but his face
was grave when he began his work. Luck had put upon him a heavy
responsibility, but he must shoulder the load. Sadie and Helen and
Festing had given him much, and now the time had come to pay them back.
Moreover, with the responsibility had come a chance of proving and, so
to speak reinstating, himself. He was entangled in a coil from which
there was but one way out; he must stand by his comrade and finish the
contract, or own himself a wastrel. The difficulties were obvious,
but there was some encouragement. Perhaps the hardest battle had been
fought, for he had grappled with his craving for liquor and thought he
had won. Then the pain had not troubled him for some time.

The men gave him no trouble, and he imagined they worked with more
energy than usual. Now and then one or another stopped to ask, with
obvious sincerity, how the boss was getting on; men from the railroad
gangs, some of whom he scarcely knew, made inquiries, and Charnock felt
moved. His partner's justice had won him respect, but he saw that some
of the sympathy was meant for himself.

Two days later he heard the rumble of an approaching supply train and
walked up the track to meet it. The locomotive stopped farther off than
he expected, and a woman got down. Running forward, he saw that it was
Helen.

"Stephen's doing well; that's the first thing you'll want to know," he
said when they met.

"I know it already. A man told me as soon as the train stopped; he
seemed to guess who I am."

"Ah!" said Charnock; "the boys are very good! It makes me proud to feel
they all like Stephen. But why didn't you telegraph us? The Company
would have sent on the message."

Helen smiled. "I didn't see much use in doing so. You knew when
your letter would arrive and how long it would take me to come. It's
significant that you came to meet the train."

"Perhaps it's characteristic that I came too late to help you down! But
the engineer stopped short of the usual place, and I really have much to
do just now."

Helen gave him a quick glance. Bob had not lost his humor, but had
gained something else. He was thin and haggard, but looked determined.
Although his smile was frank, his mouth was firm and his eyes were
steady.

"I know!" she answered quickly; "I know what you have done for Stephen
and what you mean to do. There is nobody else who can help him and if
there was, the help would not be like yours."

"Thank you," said Charnock. "I'm afraid you're mistaken about one point,
but I have an extra reason for doing the best I can." Then he paused and
smiled. "We tried to make the place comfortable, but you'll find things
rough. One lives in a rather primitive way at a construction camp."

"Perhaps, so far, I have found things too smooth."

Then Helen asked him about the accident and he told her as much as he
thought advisable, until they reached the shack, where the doctor met
them at the door.

"I expect you're Mrs. Festing," he said. "You'll find your husband able
to talk, but remember that he must be kept calm. I'm going out, but will
be back soon, and we'll see about getting you some food."

He took Charnock away, and Festing looked up with a strained expression
as Helen crossed the floor. Her eyes were wonderfully gentle, and
stooping beside the bunk she kissed him and put her arm round his neck.

"My dear!" she said softly. "My poor hurt dear! I have come to take care
of you until you get well."

"I imagine I'll need to be taken care of afterwards," Festing
answered, with a forced smile. "It looks as if I hadn't much ground for
self-confidence."

Helen pressed his arm. "We have both made mistakes; but we won't talk
about that now. Do you really feel you're getting better?"

"Of course," said Festing, smiling. "Very much better! I'll get well
remarkably fast now you have come."

Helen brought a chair and for a time they engaged in happy but careless
talk. Both knew there was much to be said, but Helen skilfully avoided
striking a serious note. The time for that had not arrived yet.

When it got dark the doctor came in and joined them at a meal.

"The engineers have promised to put me up to-night, and I must leave
to-morrow when the train goes out," he said. "I'll try to get back, but
Musgrave knows what to do and will send for me if necessary. The most
important thing is to keep Mr. Festing quiet."

"I'm afraid it will be difficult," Helen answered.

The doctor's eyes twinkled. "So I imagine, but it's your job. If you
find it too hard, Musgrave will put your husband in plaster."

He went East next morning with the supply train, and Helen was sorry to
see him go. He had done what was needed with quiet efficiency, but she
knew he had other patients scattered about a wide district.

Charnock came in for a few minutes now and then during the day, and
Musgrave was often about, but Helen was content to be left alone with
her husband. His helplessness moved her; he had been marked by such
vigor and energy, and it was strange to see him unable to move. Yet,
while very pitiful, she felt a vague satisfaction because she could help
him and he needed her.

When it was getting dark she went to the door and looked out. The
evening was calm and belts of pale-yellow broke the soft gray clouds.
The eastern peaks were touched with an orange glow, but the snow lower
down faded through shades of blue and purple into gloom. To the west,
the pines were black and sharp, with white smears on their lower
branches, and a thin haze rose from the river. The coloring of the
landscape was harmoniously subdued, but its rugged grandeur of outline
caught Helen's eye, and she stood for a few minutes, looking about with
half-awed admiration.

"Do you feel the cold, Stephen?" she asked.

"No," said Festing. "Wonderful view, isn't it? But what's it like
outside?"

"Very still. Everything has a soft look; the harsh glitter's gone and
the air has not the sting it had. Somehow the calm's majestic. The
pictures one sees of the mountains hardly give a hint; one feels this is
the grandest country in the world, but it looks strangely unfinished."

Festing laughed. "A few ranches, roads, and cornfields would make a
difference? Well, they follow the Steel in Canada and it's my job to
clear the way. But the soft look promises warmer weather, and Bob will
get ahead if a Chinook wind begins to blow. I imagine he hasn't done
very much the last few days."

"You mustn't bother about what Bob is doing," Helen said firmly.

"Very well. Light the lamp and sit where I can see you. There's
something I want to say."

Helen did so and waited until Festing resumed: "To begin with, I've been
a short-sighted, censorious fool about Bob. I'm ashamed to remember that
I said he was a shiftless wastrel. The worst is I can't apologize; it
wouldn't make things better to tell him what I thought."

"That's obvious," said Helen, with a smile. "Still, in a way perhaps,
you were not so very wrong. Bob was something of a wastrel; his wife has
made him a useful man."

"Another thing I was mistaken about! I rather despised Sadie. Now I
want to take off my hat when I think of her. But it's puzzling. A girl
without polish, taste, or accomplishments marries a man who has them
all. She has no particular talents; nothing, in fact, except some
beauty, rude integrity, and native shrewdness. Yet she, so to speak,
works wonders. Puts Bob on his feet and leads him on, when nobody else
could have pulled him out of the mire!"

"She loved him," said Helen softly. "Love gave her patience and
cleverness. However, I think Sadie did not always lead Bob. She knew
when to drive."

Festing was silent for a few moments and then went on: "Well, I have
confessed two blunders and think it has done me good; but I'm getting
nearer what I want to say. Bob's something of a philosopher and once
remarked that events and people seldom force us into coils; our
passions and characters entangle us. He was scoffing at the power of the
theatrical villain and used Wilkinson for an example."

"But Wilkinson had something to do with our troubles."

"Not very much, after all. Perhaps he's accountable for my broken bones,
but it was my obstinacy and ridiculous self-confidence that sent me
here. That's what I really mean to talk about."

"Is it necessary?" Helen asked. "I was foolish to be jealous of the
farm. Women have sometimes worse grounds for jealousy."

"That would have been impossible for us! Nobody who knew you could be
attracted by another woman."

"Bob was attracted," said Helen with a blush. "One must own that he was
prudent. I haven't Sadie's courage and patience."

"In those days, Bob was a besotted whisky-tank; but we are not going to
talk about him. I'm afraid I was forgetful and went my own way like
an obstinate fool. It was wrong, ridiculously wrong; I'm not going to
excuse myself, but I want you to understand."

He paused, for effort and emotion had tired him, but presently resumed:
"I wouldn't use your money, but this wasn't altogether because I was
too proud to let you help. I wanted to keep you safe; farming's a risky
business, and I couldn't play a niggardly, cautious game. There was the
land, waiting to be worked; I couldn't spare labor or money. But since
both might be lost, I was afraid to use your fortune as a stake."

"I understand," said Helen. "All the same, I would have been glad to
take the risk. I don't think I'm very much afraid of hardship--"

Festing smiled. "You have pluck, but don't know the strain that the
wives of the struggling farmers have to bear. My object is to see that
you don't know. But there's another thing, harder to explain; you felt
that I neglected you, and I fear I did!"

"You didn't mean to neglect me. Perhaps I was foolish, Stephen, but I
felt you left me out. There were ways I could have helped."

"I took the wrong line; that's plain now, but we must think of the
future and not make the same mistake. You are first with me, Helen,
but I must work; it's all I'm fit for. I can't play games and am not an
amusing talker--though I'm talking at large to-night. Well, we have made
our home on the prairie, and all round us the best wheat-soil in the
world is lying waste. They're getting short of food in Europe, America
will soon use all she grows, and folks in the older countries fix their
eyes on us. Then we have room for an industrious population on our wide
plains, cities are waiting to spring up, a new nation is being born.
I and the others who were given the land must clear the way. It's our
business, our only justification for being there. Sounds romantic and
exaggerated, but I think it's true!"

"It is true," said Helen. "Your views are larger than mine."

"Well," said Festing, smiling. "I don't often let myself go and look
far ahead. It's my share to tackle the job before my eyes; to drive
the tractor plow, and the grading scoop along the road reserve. For all
that, it's not a vague sense of duty that really drives me on; I must
work, I'm unhappy when I stop! I'm afraid I'll always feel like that.
what are we going to do about it?"

"You must let me help more."

"I need help; that's something I have learned, and nobody can help like
you. But the strain will slacken soon. The things that will make life
easier for you are coming fast; branch railroads, telephones, busy
little towns, neighbors, and social amusements. Much that you enjoyed in
England will surround you on the plains. But it will not come as a gift,
as it did at home; we will have worked for and made it possible."

Helen got up. Her color was higher than usual and her eyes sparkled. She
was romantic and Festing had struck the right note, with rude sincerity
and unconscious power. She saw visions of the future and the dignity of
the immediate task. In this wide, new country, man needed woman's help,
and her part was as large as his. Like Sadie, and many another, she
heard the call for Pioneers. Crossing the door she stood by Festing's
bunk.

"I understand it all, Stephen. We must be patient and allow for small
differences in our points of view, for I think, in the main, we see
together. You must never leave me out again; I want to do my part."

Festing said nothing, but he pressed her hand and she kissed him.



CHAPTER XXXI

CHARNOCK'S TRIUMPH

Six weeks after the accident Musgrave and Charnock came into the shack
one evening. The former had examined Festing in the afternoon, and Helen
gave him a meaning look. It hinted that she had expected his visit and
meant to encourage him.

"Come near the stove and smoke if you like. It is very cold."

"No sign of the frost's breaking, I suppose?" said Festing, who lay
propped up with pillows. "Did you get the particulars I asked for, Bob?"

Charnock gave him a paper with some calculations, and after a time he
nodded.

"On the whole, this is satisfactory; things are going better than I
thought. But what about the new job across the river?"

"Things are going better than he thought! Isn't that like Stephen?"
Charnock remarked to the others, and then turned to Festing. "However,
I expect you didn't mean to be rude and you never were very tactful. We
haven't begun the job you mentioned, but I don't know that it matters
since we're busy at something else, and that's not what I want to talk
about. Musgrave has examined you and gives us an encouraging report."

"My opinion is that he can be moved and the journey home won't hurt him
if proper care is used."

"But I don't want to be moved just yet," Festing objected.

"No doubt," said Musgrave dryly. "You are an obstinate fellow, but
you're in our hands now, and we have to think what is best for you. To
begin with, you won't be able to get about in time to be of much use,
and you don't get better as fast as you ought. Then I understood you
were resigned to going home before the contract is finished."

"If I must; but I don't want to go now. I'm able to arrange things with
Charnock in the evenings."

"The fact is he doesn't trust me yet," Charnock remarked with a grin.

"You know that isn't true, Bob!"

"Then prove you trust me by going home with Helen. She has been plucky
to stay so long, and now you're fit to be moved, you oughtn't to keep
her. There's another thing; to be frank, you don't help much. We need a
boss to superintend, which you can't do, and when I want advice I can
go to Norton. As a matter of fact, when I come here in the evenings you
find fault with what I've done. When I undertake a job I like to feel
I'm carrying it out."

Festing stopped him and looked at Helen, for he was not deceived by
Charnock's injured tone.

"I imagine this is something like a plot to get me away."

"I think you would get better much faster at home, Stephen. You cannot
do anything useful here, and you cannot rest. Mr. Musgrave agrees."

"Certainly. If he stays, Festing will do himself harm and bother his
partner."

Festing knitted his brows and was silent for a moment or two. Then he
said, "Since it looks as if you had made your plans, I had better go.
You're a very good fellow, Bob; but if you can't keep things straight,
I'll come back and superintend from a stretcher."

They talked about other matters, but when Charnock left, Helen put on
her furs and told Festing she wanted fresh air. Moonlight shone upon
the dark pines and sparkled on the snow, and when they came out of the
shadow of the trees she thought Charnock's face was grave.

"I'm grateful, Bob," she said. "It's a big thing you have undertaken!"

"I frankly wish it was smaller," Charnock answered. "I fact, I feel I
have been horribly rash. I haven't Stephen's constructive talent or, for
that matter, his energy, but somehow I mustn't be beaten."

Helen gave him a gentle look. "You won't be beaten. It's unthinkable! We
trust you."

Then she went back and read a newspaper to Festing, who was carried
down to the supply train next day and made comfortable in the caboose.
Charnock talked to him carelessly until the couplings tightened and the
locomotive began to snort, but his mouth was firm and his face set as
he went back to his work. He knew what he was up against, and there were
difficulties he had not told Festing about.

The days got longer, and the frost was relaxing its grip on the white
prairie, when Festing left his homestead and walked to the trail-fork
to meet the mail-carrier. He returned with some letters and sat down
limply. His face was thin and pale.

"I get tired soon, and there's nothing from Bob yet," he grumbled as he
turned over the envelopes. "It's curious, because he told us the job was
nearly finished and some of the big engineers were coming out to examine
the track. They ought to have arrived some days ago, and I've no doubt
they'd test the work thoroughly when they were there."

"You get too anxious," Helen replied. "If you had a calmer temperament,
you would be stronger now. The engineers can hardly have had time to
make a proper test."

"I have some grounds for being anxious. If the fellows aren't satisfied,
we won't get paid."

Helen smiled. "You're really afraid that Bob may have been careless and
neglected something!"

"Bob's a very good partner; I've confessed that I misjudged him,"
Festing answered with a touch of embarrassment. "Still, you see, I know
his drawbacks, and I know mine. There were two or three pieces of work,
done before I left, that I now see might have been better planned."

Helen went to the door, for she heard a soft drumming of hoofs on beaten
snow.

"Sadie's coming," she said. "Perhaps she has some news."

Festing followed her and Sadie stopped the horses, but did not get down.

"I've a telegram from Bob; he'll be home to-morrow," she said. "He wants
you both to meet him at the station."

"Did he say anything about the job being finished?" Festing asked as he
went down the steps.

"No," said Sadie. "He seemed particularly anxious to see you at the
depot; my hands are too numb or I'd show you the telegram. I haven't
time to come in and don't want the team to stand in the cold."

Then she waved her hand to Helen and drove away.

About six o'clock next evening Helen and Festing walked up and down
beside the track at the railroad settlement. There was no platform, but
the agent's office stood near the rails, with a baggage shed, and a big
tank for filtering saline water near the locomotive pipe. Behind these,
three tall grain-elevators, which had not been finished when Festing saw
them last, rose against the sky, dwarfing the skeleton frame of a new
hotel. The ugly wooden houses had extended some distance across the
snow, and Festing knew the significance of this. It was not dark yet,
but the headlamp of a locomotive in the side-track flung a glittering
beam a quarter of a mile down the line. In the west, a belt of saffron
light, cut by the black smear of a bluff, glimmered on the horizon.
Festing indicated the settlement.

"It has grown fast, but if things go as some of us expect, the change
will soon be magical. In a year or two you'll see a post-office like a
palace, and probably an opera-house, besides street cars running north
and south from the track."

"I think I should like that," Helen remarked. "When it comes, you will
have an office and a telephone, and be satisfied to superintend."

Festing laughed. "It's possible, but there's much to be done first, and
I'm not getting on very fast just now. Still I don't feel knocked out
and I've walked half a mile."

Glancing at the elevator towers and blocks of square-fronted houses
that rose abruptly from the snow, Helen mused. The settlement jarred
her fastidious taste, but she had seen Western towns that had, in a few
years, grown out of their raw ugliness and blossomed in an efflorescence
of ambitious architecture. Such beauty as they then possessed was not
refined or subdued, but it was somehow characteristic of the country and
harmonized with the builders' optimism. There was no permanence on the
prairie; everything was in a fluid state of change and marked by a bold,
but sometime misguided, striving for something better. Then she turned
to her husband. His face was thin and she noted lines that came from
mental strain and physical suffering, but his eyes were calm. She liked
his look of quiet resolution.

"You are getting stronger fast," she said. "The days are lengthening,
spring is near, and you will soon be able to work again. Well, I will
not try to stop you. When the prairie is plowed and covered with wheat I
want you to feel that you have done your part. The change that is coming
will bring the things women like; comfort, amusements, society. But what
about you and the others, the pioneers, when there is no more ground to
be broken and the way is cleared?"

Festing smiled. "As a rule, the pioneer sells his homestead and goes on
into the wilds to blaze another trail, but I imagine I shall be glad to
rest. If not, we're an adaptable people and there are different ways of
helping things along. One can learn to use other tools than the ax and
plow."

"Ah," said Helen, "You are getting broader. You see clearly, Stephen,
and your views are often long, but I sometimes thought you focused them
too narrowly on the object in front. Perhaps I shall have done something
if I have taught you to look all round. But here's Sadie and the train."

A light sprang out from the distant bluff and grew into a dazzling
fan-shaped beam. Then the roar of wheels slackened, and Sadie joined the
others as a bell began to toll, and with smoke streaming back along the
cars the train rolled into the station. Somebody leaned out from the
rails of a vestibule, and Sadie began to run beside the track.

"Come along!" she cried. "It's Bob!"

Festing and Helen followed, and when they reached the vestibule Charnock
pushed a door open and took them inside. The car was brightly lighted,
but not furnished on the usual plan. A table stood in the middle, the
curtained berths were at one end, and there were cases holding books and
surveying instruments. It was obviously meant for the use of railroad
managers and engineers, and three or four gentlemen stood near the
table, as if they had just got up. Festing saw that one was Dalton, who
advanced eagerly as Helen came in. He presented his companions to her
and Sadie, and a gentleman who was well known on Canadian railroads gave
Festing his hand. Another was Norton's employer, a famous contractor.

"Sit down," said the first. "The engineer wants to fill his tank, and
they won't pull out until we are ready." Then he turned to Festing. "We
have examined a piece of tract you helped build and I must compliment
you on a first-class job. As a rule, we are glad to get our contract
work up to specification, but you have done better."

"My partner is really responsible for that," Festing replied. "I got
knocked out soon after we made a good start and had to leave him to
carry on."

The contractor smiled as he interposed: "A good beginning counts for
much, and I'm glad to state that Mr. Charnock has kept to your lines.
When you were forced to leave it seemed prudent to make some inquiries,
but we found that your partner was doing high-grade work, and now we
have inspected it, I must admit that Norton's favorable reports were
deserved." He paused and turned to Sadie. "If your husband's as good a
farmer as an engineer, he'll make progress."

Sadie flushed with pride. "Looks as if he'd made some already, but you
didn't run much risk when you trusted him."

"My wife's the farmer and my partner the engineer," Charnock remarked.
"I know my limits, but try to keep going when somebody starts me well."

"You have gone farther than our bargain demanded, which doesn't often
happen," said the contractor, who turned to Festing. "Mr. Charnock has
my cheque for the main job, but there are some accounts to make up and
you won't find my cashier disputes the extras. Perhaps that's all I need
say, except that you have satisfied me, and, I gather, satisfied your
men. In fact, you and Mr. Charnock leave us with general good feeling."

Then they talked about something else until a man came in to say that
the locomotive tank was filled, and the engineer and contractor went to
the vestibule with their guests. For a minute or two the group stood on
the platform, exchanging farewell compliments, while the station agent
waited in the snow. Then the engineer said:

"I wanted to meet your husband, Mrs. Festing, and if we have any more
difficult work, hope you will let me have him again."

"He came back the worse last time," Helen answered smiling. "I'm not
sure I would have the courage to let him go. Besides, he has other work
at home. A farm makes many demands on one."

"I have no doubt it does," agreed the engineer. "One imagines that on
the Festing farm all demands will be met."

He signed to the agent, the others went down the steps, and the bell
began to toll as the lighted cars rolled by. The rattle of wheels got
louder, and a plume of smoke trailed back and spread in a dingy cloud,
but Helen and Festing stood, a little way from the others, watching the
receding train. They felt that something was finished; satisfactorily
finished amidst well-earned praise, but done with for good. Festing
looked at Helen with a comprehending smile.

"You answered right; I'm not going back! Our work is waiting, here on
the plains."

"Ah," said Helen softly, "how much easier you make it when you call it
ours!"

They went to the hotel where they had left the team, and as the others
followed Sadie turned to her husband with a glow of happy pride. He had
come back, so to speak, triumphant, the guest of famous men who had said
flattering things about him, and for his sake the train had been held up
while the great contractor talked to her.

"Bob," she said, "you have made good! I can't tell you all I feel about
it. Some day you'll be a famous man."





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