Title: The Hound From The North
Author: Cullum, Ridgwell, 1867-1943
Language: English
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THE HOUND FROM THE NORTH



[Illustration: "AND EVERY NOW AND THEN IT WOULD CEASE ITS HEALING
OPERATION TO THROW UP ITS LONG MUZZLE AND EMIT ONE OF THOSE DRAWN-OUT
HOWLS."]



THE HOUND FROM THE NORTH

By RIDGWELL CULLUM

Author of

"In the Brooding Wild," "The Story of the Foss River Ranch,"
"The Law Breakers," "The Way of the Strong," Etc.

With Frontispiece

By CHARLES LIVINGSTON BULL

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Published by Arrangement with The Page Company



Copyright, 1904

By L. C. Page & Company

(INCORPORATED)

All rights reserved



CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                                         PAGE
       I. IN THE MOUNTAINS                                           1
      II. MR. ZACHARY SMITH                                         15
     III. MR. ZACHARY SMITH SMOKES                                  29
      IV. 'YELLOW BOOMING--SLUMP IN GREY'                           46
       V. THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL                                65
      VI. THE PROGRESSIVE EUCHRE PARTY                              81
     VII. LESLIE GREY FULFILS HIS DESTINY                           98
    VIII. GREY'S LAST WORDS                                        115
      IX. LONELY RANCH AT OWL HOOT                                 133
       X. THE GRAVEYARD AT OWL HOOT                                157
      XI. CANINE VAGARIES                                          181
     XII. THE BREAKING OF THE STORM                                202
    XIII. BLACKMAIL                                                226
     XIV. A STAB IN THE DARK                                       240
      XV. THE MAGGOT AT THE CORE                                   257
     XVI. AN ECHO FROM THE ALASKAN MOUNTAINS                       273
    XVII. THE LAST OF LONELY RANCH                                 286
   XVIII. THE FOREST DEMON PURSUES                                 306
     XIX. THE AVENGER                                              321
          IN CONCLUSION                                            341



THE HOUND FROM THE NORTH

CHAPTER I

IN THE MOUNTAINS


A pallid sun, low, gleaming just over a rampart of mountain-tops.
Sundogs--heralds of stormy weather--fiercely staring, like sentries,
upon either hand of the mighty sphere of light. Vast glaciers
shimmering jewel-like in the steely light of the semi-Arctic evening.
Black belts of gloomy pinewoods on the lower slopes of the mountains;
the trees snow-burdened, but black with the darkness of night in their
melancholy depths. The earth white; snow to the thickness of many feet
on all. Life none; not a beast of the earth, nor a fowl of the air,
nor the hum of an insect. Solitude. Cold--grey, pitiless cold. Night
is approaching.

The hill ranges which backbone the American continent--the northern
extremity of the Rocky Mountains. The barrier which confronts the
traveller as he journeys from the Yukon Valley to the Alaskan
seaboard. Land where the foot of man but rarely treads. And
mid-winter.

But now, in the dying light of day, a man comes slowly, painfully into
the picture. What an atom in that infinity of awful grandeur. One
little life in all that desert of snow and ice. And what a life. The
poor wretch was swathed in furs; snow-shoes on his feet, and a long
staff lent his drooping figure support. His whole attitude told its
own tale of exhaustion. But a closer inspection, one glance into the
fierce-burning eyes, which glowered from the depths of two cavernous
sockets, would have added a sequel of starvation. The eyes had a
frenzied look in them, the look of a man without hope, but with still
that instinct of life burning in his brain. Every now and again he
raised one mitted hand and pressed it to nose and cheeks. He knew his
face was frozen, but he had no desire to stop to thaw it out. He was
beyond such trifles. His upturned storm-collar had become massed with
icicles about his mouth, and the fur was frozen solidly to his chin
whisker, but he gave the matter no heed.

The man tottered on, still onward with the dogged persistence which
the inborn love of life inspires. He longed to rest, to seat himself
upon the snow just where he happened to be, to indulge that craving
for sleep which was upon him. His state of exhaustion fostered these
feelings, and only his brain fought for him and clung to life. He knew
what that drowsy sensation meant. He was slowly freezing. To rest
meant sleep--to sleep meant death.

Slowly he dragged himself up the inclining ledge he was traversing.
The path was low at the base of one of the loftiest crags. It wound
its way upwards in such a fashion that he could see little more than
fifty yards ahead of him ere it turned away to the left as it skirted
the hill. He was using his last reserve of strength, and he knew it.
At the top he stood half dazed. The mountain rose sheer up to dizzy
heights on one side, and a precipice was on the other. He turned his
dreadful eyes this way and that. Then he scanned the prospect before
him--a haze of dimly-outlined mountains. He glanced back, tracing his
uneven tracks until they disappeared in the grey evening light. Then
he turned back again to a contemplation of what lay before him.
Suddenly his staff slipped from his hand as though he no longer had
the strength to grip it. Then, raising his arms aloft, he gave vent to
one despairing cry in which was expressed all the pent-up agony of his
soul. It was the cry of one from whom all hope had gone.

"God! God have mercy on me! I am lost--lost!"

The despairing note echoed and re-echoed among the hills. And as each
echo came back to his dulled ears it was as though some invisible
being mocked him. Suddenly he braced himself, and his mind obtained a
momentary triumph over his physical weakness. He stooped to recover
his staff. His limbs refused to obey his will. He stumbled. Then he
crumpled and fell in a heap upon the snow.

All was silent, and he lay quite still. Death was gripping him, and he
knew it. Presently he wearily raised his head. He gazed about him with
eyelids more than half closed. "Is it worth the struggle?" he seemed
to ask; "is there any hope?" He felt so warm, so comfortable out there
in the bitter winter air. Where had been the use of his efforts? Where
the use of the gold he had so laboriously collected at the new
Eldorado? At the thought of his gold his spirit tried to rouse him
from the sleep with which he was threatened. His eyelids opened wide,
and his eyes, from which intelligence was fast disappearing, rolled in
their gaunt sockets. His body heaved as though he were about to rise,
but beyond that he did not move.

As he lay there a sound reached his numbed ears. Clear through the
crisp night air it came with the keenness and piercing incision which
is only obtained in the still air of such latitudes. It was a human
cry: a long-drawn "whoop." Like his own cry, it echoed amongst the
hills. It only needed such as this to support the inclinations of the
sufferer's will. His head was again raised. And in his wild eyes was a
look of alertness--hope. He listened. He counted the echoes as they
came. Then, with an almost superhuman effort, he struggled to his
feet. New life had come to him born of hope. His weakened frame
answered to his great effort. His heart was throbbing wildly.

As he stood up the cry came to him again, nearer this time. He moved
forward and rounded the bend in the path. Again the cry. Now just
ahead of him. He answered it with joy in his tone and shambled on. Now
two dark figures loomed up in the grey twilight. They were moving
swiftly along the ledge towards him. They cried out something in a
foreign tongue. He did not understand, but his joy was no less. They
came up, and he saw before him the short, stout figures of two
fur-clad Eskimos. He was saved.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Inside a small dugout a dingy oil lamp shed its murky rays upon
squalid surroundings. The place was reeking with the offensive odours
exhaled from the burning oil. The atmosphere was stifling.

There were four occupants of this abode, and, stretched in various
attitudes on dusty blankets spread upon the ground, they presented a
strange picture. Two of these were Eskimos. The broad, flat faces,
sharp noses, and heavy lips were unmistakable, as were their dusky,
greasy skins and squat figures. A third man was something between the
white-man and the redskin. He was in the nature of a half-breed, and,
though not exactly pleasant to look upon, he was certainly interesting
as a study. He was lying with limbs outstretched and his head propped
upon one hand, while his gaze was directed with thoughtful intensity
towards a small, fierce-burning camp-stove, which, at that moment, was
rendering the hut so unbearably hot.

His face was sallow, and indented with smallpox scars. He had no hair
upon it, except a tuft or two of eyebrows, which the ravages of
disease had condescended to leave to him. His nose, which was his best
feature, was beaky, but beautifully aquiline; but his mouth was wide,
with a lower lip that sagged loosely from its fellow above. His head
was small, and was burdened with a crown of lank black hair which had
been allowed to grow Indian-like until it hung upon his shoulders. He
was of medium height, and his arms were of undue length.

The other occupant of the dugout was our traveller. He was stretched
upon a blanket, on which was spread his fur coat; and he was
alternating between the disposal of a bowl of steaming soup and
groaning with the racking pains caused by his recently thawed-out
frost-bites.

The soup warmed his starving body, and his pain increased proportionately.
In spite of the latter, however, he felt very much alive. Occasionally
he glanced round upon his silent companions. Whenever he did so one or
the other, or both of the Eskimos were gazing stolidly at him.

He was rather a good-looking man, notwithstanding his now unkempt
appearance. His eyes were large--very large in their hollow sockets.
His nose and cheeks were, at present, a mass of blisters from the
thawing frost-bites, and his mouth and chin were hidden behind a
curtain of whisker of about three weeks' growth. There was no
mistaking him for anything but an Anglo-Saxon, and a man of
considerable and very fine proportions.

When his soup was finished he set the bowl down and leaned back with a
sigh. The pock-marked man glanced over at him.

"More?" he said, in a deep, not unmusical, tone.

The half-starved traveller nodded, and his eyes sparkled. One of the
Eskimos rose and re-filled the bowl from a tin camp-kettle which stood
on the stove. The famished man took it and at once began to sup the
invigorating liquid. The agonies of his frost-bites were terrible, but
the pangs of hunger were greater. By and by the bowl was set down
empty.

The half-breed sat up and crossed his legs, and leant his body against
two sacks which contained something that crackled slightly under his
weight.

"Give you something more solid in an hour or so. Best not have it too
soon," he said, speaking slowly, but with good enunciation.

"Not now?" said the traveller, in a disappointed tone.

The other shook his head.

"We're all going to have supper then. Best wait." Then, after a pause:
"Where from?"

"Forty Mile Creek," said the other.

"You don't say! Alone?"

There was a curious saving of words in this man's mode of speech.
Possibly he had learned this method from his Indian associates.

The traveller nodded.

"Yes."

"Where to?"

"The sea-coast."

The half-breed laughed gutturally.

"Forty Mile Creek. Sea-coast. On foot. Alone. Winter. You must be
mad."

The traveller shook his head.

"Not mad. I could have done it, only I lost my way. I had all my
stages thought out carefully. I tramped from the sea-coast originally.
Where am I now?"

The half-breed eyed the speaker curiously. He seemed to think well
before he answered. Then--

"Within a few miles of the Pass. To the north."

An impressive silence followed. The half-breed continued to eye the
sick man, and, to judge from the expression of his face, his thoughts
were not altogether unpleasant. He watched the weary face before him
until the eyes gradually closed, and, in spite of the burning pains
of the frost-bites, exhaustion did its work, and the man slept. He
waited for some moments listening to the heavy, regular breathing,
then he turned to his companions and spoke long and earnestly in a
curious tongue. One of the Eskimos rose and removed a piece of bacon
from a nail in the wall. This he placed in the camp-kettle on the
stove. Then he took a tin billy and dipped it full from a bucket
containing beans that had been set to soak. These also went into the
camp-kettle. Then the fellow threw himself down again upon his
blankets, and, for some time, the three men continued to converse in
low tones. They glanced frequently at the sleeper, and occasionally
gurgled out a curious throaty chuckle. Their whole attitude was
furtive, and the man slept on.

An hour passed--two. The third was more than half gone. The hut reeked
with the smell of cooking victuals. The Eskimo, who seemed to act as
cook, occasionally looked into the camp-kettle. The other two were
lying on their blankets, sometimes conversing, but more often silent,
gazing stolidly before them. At length the cook uttered a sharp
ejaculation and lifted the steaming kettle from its place on the
stove. Then he produced four deep pannikins from a sack, and four
greasy-looking spoons. From another he produced a pile of biscuits.
"Hard tack," well known on the northern trails.

Supper was ready, and the pock-marked man leant over and roused the
traveller.

"Food," he said laconically, as the startled sleeper rubbed his eyes.

The man sat up and gazed hungrily at the iron pot. The Indian served
out the pork with ruthless hands. A knife divided the piece into four,
and he placed one in each pannikin. Then he poured the beans and soup
over each portion. The biscuits were placed within reach, and the
supper was served.

The sick man devoured his uncouth food with great relish. The soup
which had been first given him had done him much good, and now the
"solid" completed the restoration so opportunely begun. He was a
vigorous man, and his exhaustion had chiefly been brought about by
lack of food. Now, as he sat with his empty pannikin in front of him,
he looked gratefully over at his rescuers, and slowly munched some dry
biscuit, and sipped occasionally from a great beaker of black coffee.
Life was very sweet to him at that moment, and he thought joyfully of
the belt inside his clothes laden with the golden result of his
labours on Forty Mile Creek.

Now the half-breed turned to him.

"Feeling pretty good?" he observed, conversationally.

"Yes, thanks to you and your friends. You must let me pay you for
this." The suggestion was coarsely put. Returning strength was
restoring the stranger to his usual condition of mind. There was
little refinement about this man from the Yukon.

The other waived the suggestion.

"Sour-belly's pretty good tack when y' can't get any better. Been many
days on the road?"

"Three weeks." The traveller was conscious of three pairs of eyes
fixed upon his face.

"Hoofing right along?"

"Yes. I missed the trail nearly a week back. Followed the track of a
dog-train. It came some distance this way. Then I lost it."

"Ah! Food ran out, maybe."

The half-breed had now turned away, and was gazing at the stove as
though it had a great fascination for him.

"Yes, I meant to make the Pass where I could lay in a fresh store.
Instead of that I wandered on till I found the empty pack got too
heavy, then I left it."

"Left it?" The half-breed raised his two little tufts of eyebrows, but
his eyes remained staring at the stove.

"Oh, it was empty--clean empty. You see, I didn't trust anything but
food in my pack."

"No. That's so. Maybe gold isn't safe in a pack?"

The pock-marked face remained turned towards the glowing stove. The
man's manner was quite indifferent. It suggested that he merely wished
to talk.

The traveller seemed to draw back into his shell at the mention of
gold. A slight pause followed.

"Maybe you ain't been digging up there?" the half-breed went on
presently.

"It's rotten bad digging on the Creek," the traveller said, clumsily
endeavouring to evade the question.

"So I've heard," said the half-breed.

He had produced a pipe, and was leisurely filling it from a pouch of
antelope hide. His two companions did the same. The stranger took his
pipe from his fur coat pocket and cut some tobacco from a plug. This
he offered to his companions, but it was rejected in favour of their
own.

"The only thing I've had--that and my fur coat--to keep me from
freezing to death for more than four days. Haven't so much as seen a
sign of life since I lost the dog track."

"This country's a terror," observed the half-breed emphatically.

All four men lit their pipes. The sick man only drew once or twice at
his, then he laid it aside. The process of smoking caused the blisters
on his face to smart terribly.

"Gives your face gyp," said the half-breed, sympathetically. "Best not
bother to smoke to-night."

He pulled vigorously at his own pipe, and the two Indians followed
suit. And gradually a pleasant odour, not of tobacco but some strange
perfume, disguised the reek of the atmosphere. It was pungent but
delightful, and the stranger remarked upon it.

"What's that you are smoking?" he asked.

For one instant the half-breed's eyes were turned upon him with a
curious look. Then he turned back to the contemplation of the stove.

"Kind o' weed that grows around these wilds," he answered. "Only stuff
we get hereabouts. It's good when you're used to it." He laughed
quietly.

The stranger looked from one to the other of his three companions. He
was struck by a sudden thought.

"What do you do here? I mean for a living?"

"Trap," replied the Breed shortly.

"Many furs about?"

"Fair."

"Slow work," said the stranger, indifferently.

Then a silence fell. The wayfarer was getting very drowsy. The pungent
odour from his companions' pipes seemed to have a strangely soothing
effect upon him. Before he was aware of it he caught himself nodding,
and, try as he would, he could not keep his heavy eyelids open. The
men smoked on in silence. Three pairs of eyes watched the stranger's
efforts to keep awake, and a malicious gleam was in the look with
which they surveyed him. He was too sleepy to observe. Besides, had he
been in condition to do so, the expression of their eyes would
probably have been different. Slowly his head drooped forward. He was
dreaming pleasantly already, although, as yet, he was not quite
asleep. Now he no longer attempted to keep his eyes open. Further his
head drooped forward. The three men were still as mice. Then suddenly
he rolled over on one side, and his stertorous breathing indicated a
deep, unnatural slumber.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The hut was in darkness but for a beam of light which made its way in
through a narrow slit over the door. The sunlight shone down upon the
huddled figure of the traveller, who still slept in the attitude in
which he had rolled over on his fur coat when sleep had first overcome
him. Otherwise the hut was empty. The half-breed and his companions
had disappeared. The fire was out. The lamp had burned itself out. The
place was intensely cold.

Suddenly the sleeper stirred. He straightened himself out and turned
over. Then, without further warning, he sat up and found himself
staring up at the dazzling streak of light.

"Daylight," he murmured; "and they've let the stove go out. Gee! but I
feel queer about the head."

Moving his head so that his eyes should miss the glare of light, he
gazed about him. He was alone, and as he realized this he scrambled to
his feet, and, for the moment, the room--everything about him--seemed
to be turning topsy-turvy. He placed his hand against the post which
supported the roof and steadied himself.

"I wonder where they are?" he muttered. "Ah! of course," as an
afterthought, "they are out at their traps. They might have stoked the
fire. It's perishing in here. I feel beastly queer; must be the
effects of starvation."

Then he moved a step forward. He brought up suddenly to a standstill.
His two hands went to his waist. They moved, groping round it
spasmodically. Undoing his clothes he passed his hand into his shirt.
Then one word escaped him. One word--almost a whisper--but conveying
such a world of fierce, horror-stricken intensity--

"Robbed!"

And the look which accompanied his exclamation was the look of a man
whose mind is distracted.

So he stood for some seconds. His lips moved, but no words escaped
them. His hand remained within his shirt, and his fingers continued to
grope about mechanically. And all the time the dazed, strained look
burned in his great, roving eyes.

It was gone. That broad belt, weighted down with the result of one
year's toil, gold dust and nuggets, was gone. Presently he seated
himself on the cold iron of the stove. Thus he sat for an hour,
looking straight before him with eyes that seemed to draw closer
together, so intense was their gaze. And who shall say what thoughts
he thought; what wild schemes of revenge he planned? There was no
outward sign. Just those silent moving lips.



CHAPTER II

MR. ZACHARY SMITH


"Rot, man, rot! I've been up here long enough to know my way about
this devil's country. No confounded neche can teach me. The trail
forked at that bush we passed three days back. We're all right. I wish
I felt as sure about the weather."

Leslie Grey broke off abruptly. His tone was resentful, as well as
dictatorial. He was never what one might call an easy man. He was
always headstrong, and never failed to resent interference on the
smallest provocation. Perhaps these things were in the nature of his
calling. He was one of the head Customs officials on the Canadian side
of the Alaskan boundary. His companion was a subordinate.

The latter was a man of medium height, and from the little that could
be seen of his face between the high folds of the storm-collar of his
buffalo coat, he possessed a long nose and a pair of dark, keen, yet
merry eyes. His name was Robb Chillingwood. The two men were tramping
along on snow-shoes in the rear of a dog-train. An Indian was keeping
pace with the dogs in front; the latter, five in number, harnessed in
the usual tandem fashion to a heavily-laden sled.

"It's no use anticipating bad weather," replied Chillingwood, quietly.
"But as to the question of the trail----"

"There's no question," interrupted Grey, sharply.

"Ah, the map shows two clumps of bush. The trail turns off at one of
them. My chart says the second. I studied it carefully. The
'confounded neche,' as you call him, says 'not yet.' Which means that
he considers it to be the second bush. You say no."

"The neche only knows the trail by repute. You have never been over it
before. I have travelled it six times. You make me tired. Give it a
rest. Perhaps you can make something of those nasty, sharp puffs of
wind which keep lifting the ground snow at intervals."

Robb shrugged his fur-coated shoulders, and glanced up at the sun. It
seemed to be struggling hard to pierce a grey haze which hung over the
mountains. The sundogs, too, could be seen, but, like the sun itself,
they were dim and glowed rather than shone. That patchy wind, so well
known in the west of Canada, was very evident just then. It seemed to
hit the snow-bound earth, slither viciously along the surface, sweep
up a thin cloud of loose surface snow, then drop in an instant, but
only to operate in the same manner at some other spot. This was going
on spasmodically in many directions, the snow brushing up in hissing
eddies at each attack. And slowly the grey mist on the hills was
obscuring the sun.

Robb Chillingwood was a man of some experience on the prairie,
although, as his companion had said, he was new to this particular
mountain trail. To his trained eye the outlook was not encouraging.

"Storm," he observed shortly.

"That's my opinion," said Grey definitely.

"According to calculations, if we have not got off the trail,"
Chillingwood went on, with a sly look at his superior, "we should
reach Dougal's roadside hostelry in the Pass by eight o'clock--well
before dark. We ought to escape the storm."

"You mean we shall," said Grey pointedly.

"If--"

"Bunkum!"

The two men relapsed into silence. They were very good friends these
two. Both were used to the strenuous northern winter. Both understood
the dangers of a blizzard. Their argument about the trail they were on
was quite a friendly one. It was only the dictatorial manner of Leslie
Grey which gave it the appearance of a quarrel. Chillingwood
understood him, and took no notice of his somewhat irascible remarks,
whilst, for himself, he remained of opinion that he had read his
Ordnance chart aright.

They tramped on. Each man, with a common thought, was watching the
weather indications. As the time passed the wind "patches" grew in
size, in force, and in frequency of recurrence. The haze upon the
surrounding hills rapidly deepened, and the air was full of frost
particles. A storm was coming on apace. Nor was Dougal's wayside
hostelry within sight.

"It's a rotten life on the boundary," said Robb, as though continuing
a thought aloud.

"It's not so much the life," replied Grey vindictively, "it's the
d----d red tape that demands the half-yearly journey down country.
That's the dog's part of our business. Why can't they establish a
branch bank up here for the bullion and send all 'returns' by mail?
There is a postal service--of a kind. It's a one-horsed lay
out--Government work. There'll come a rush to the Yukon valley
this year, and when there's a chance of doing something for
ourselves--having done all we can for the Government--I suppose
they'll shift us. It's the way of Governments. I'm sick of it. I
draw four thousand dollars a year, and I earn every cent of it.
You--"

"Draw one thousand, and think myself lucky if I taste fresh vegetables
once a week during the summer. Say, Leslie, do you think it's possible
to assimilate the humble but useful hog by means of a steady diet of
'sour-belly'?"

Grey laughed.

"If that were possible I guess we ought to make the primest bacon.
Hallo, here comes the d----d neche. What's up now, I wonder? Well,
Rainy-Moon, what is it?"

The Indian had stopped his dogs and now turned back to speak to the
two men. His face was expressionless. He was a tall specimen of the
Cree Indian.

"Ugh," he grunted, as he came to a standstill. Then he stretched out
his arm with a wide sweep in the direction of the mountains. "No good,
white-men--coyote, yes. So," and he pointed to the south and made a
motion of running, "yes. Plenty beef, plenty fire-water. White-man
store." His face slowly expanded into a smile. Then the smile died out
suddenly and he turned to the north and made a long 'soo-o-o-sh' with
rising intonation, signifying the rising wind. "Him very bad.
White-man sleep--sleep. Wake--no." And he finished up with a shake of
the head.

Then his arm dropped to his side, and he waited for Grey to speak. For
a moment the Customs officer remained silent. Chillingwood waited
anxiously. Both men understood the Indian's meaning. Chillingwood
believed the man to be right about the trail. As to the coming storm,
and the probable consequences if they were caught in it, that was
patent to all three.

But Grey, with characteristic pig-headedness, gave no heed to the
superior intelligence of the Indian where matters of direction in a
wild country were concerned. He _knew_ he was on the right trail. That
was sufficient for him. But he surveyed the surrounding mountains well
before he spoke. They had halted in a sort of cup-like hollow, with
towering sides surmounted by huge glaciers down which the wind was now
whistling with vicious force. There were only two exits from this vast
arena. The one by which the travellers had entered it, and the other
directly ahead of them; the latter was only to be approached by a wide
ledge which skirted one of the mountains and inclined sharply upwards.
Higher up the mountain slope was a belt of pinewoods, close to which
was a stubbly growth of low bush. This was curiously black in contrast
with the white surroundings, for no snow was upon its weedy branches
and shrivelled, discoloured leaves. Suddenly, while Grey was looking
out beyond the dog-train, he observed the impress of snow-shoes in the
snow. He pointed to them and drew his companion's attention.

"You see," he said triumphantly, "there has been some one passing
this way just ahead of us. Look here, neche, you just get right on and
don't let me have any more nonsense about the trail."

The Indian shook his head.

"Ow," he grunted. "This little--just little." Then he pointed ahead.
"Big, white--all white. No, no; white-man no come dis way. Bimeby
neche so," and Rainy-Moon made a motion of lying down and sleeping. He
meant that they would get lost and die in the snow.

Grey became angry.

"Get on," he shouted. And Rainy-Moon reluctantly turned and started
his dogs afresh.

The little party ascended the sloping path. The whipping snow lashed
their faces as the wind rushed it up from the ground in rapidly
thickening clouds. The fierce gusts were concentrating into a steady
shrieking blast. A grey cloud of snow, thin as yet, but plainly
perceptible, was in the air. The threat it conveyed was no idle one.
The terror of the blizzard was well known to those people. And they
knew that in a short space they would have to seek what shelter they
might chance to find upon these almost barren mountains.

The white-men tightened the woollen scarves about the storm-collars of
their coats, and occasionally beat their mitted hands against their
sides. The gathering wind was intensifying the cold.

"If this goes on we shall have to make that belt of pinewoods for
shelter," observed Robb Chillingwood practically. "It won't do to take
chances of losing the dogs--and their load--in the storm. What say?"

They had rounded a bend and Grey was watchfully gazing ahead. He did
not seem to hear his companion's question. Suddenly he pointed
directly along the path towards a point where it seemed to vanish
between two vast crags.

"Smoke," he said. And his tone conveyed that he wished his companion
to understand that he, Grey, had been right about the trail, and that
Robb had been wrong. "That's Dougal's store," he went on, after a
slight pause.

Chillingwood looked as directed. He saw the rush of smoke which, in
the rising storm, was ruthlessly swept from the mouth of a piece of
upright stove-pipe, which in the now grey surroundings could just be
distinguished.

"But I thought there was a broad, open trail at Dougal's," he said, at
last, after gazing for some moments at the tiny smoke-stack.

"Maybe the road opens out here," answered Grey weakly.

But it didn't. Instead it narrowed. And as they ascended the slope it
became more and more precipitous. The storm was now beating up,
seemingly from every direction, and it was with difficulty that the
five great huskies hauled their burden in the face of it. However,
Rainy-Moon urged them to their task with no light hand, and just as
the storm settled down to its work in right good earnest they drew up
abreast of a small dugout. The path had narrowed down to barely six
feet in width, bordered on the left hand by a sharp slope upwards
towards the pinewood belt above, and on the right by a sheer
precipice; whilst fifty feet further on there was no more path--just
space. As this became apparent to him, Robb Chillingwood could not
help wondering what their fate might have been had the storm overtaken
them earlier, and they had not come upon the dugout. However, he had
no time for much speculation on the subject, for, as the dogs came to
a stand, the door of the dugout was thrown back and a tall,
cadaverous-looking man stood framed in the opening.

"Kind o' struck it lucky," he observed, without any great show of
enthusiasm. "Come right in. The neche can take the dogs round the side
there," pointing to the left of the dugout. "There's a weatherproof
shack there where I keep my kindling. Guess he can fix up in that till
this d----d breeze has blown itself out. You've missed the trail, I
take it. Come right in."

Half-an-hour later the two Customs officers were seated with their
host round the camp-stove which stood hissing and spluttering in the
centre of the hut. The dogs and Rainy-Moon were housed in the
woodshed.

Now that the travellers were divested of their heavy furs, their
appearance was less picturesque but more presentable. Robb Chillingwood
was about twenty-five; his whole countenance indexed a sturdy honesty
of thought and a merry disposition. There was considerable strength too
about brow and jaw. Leslie Grey was shorter than his companion. A
man of dapper, sturdy figure, and with a face good-looking,
obstinate, and displaying as much sense of humour as a barbed-wire
fence post. He was fully thirty years of age.

Their host possessed a long, attenuated, but powerful figure, and a
face chiefly remarkable for its cadaverous hollows and a pair of
hungry eyes and a dark chin-whisker.

"Yes, sir," this individual was saying, "she's goin' to howl good and
hard for the next forty-eight hours, or I don't know these parts.
Maybe you're from the valley?"

Chillingwood shook his head.

"No. Fort Cudahy way," he said. "My name's Chillingwood--Robb
Chillingwood. This is Mr. Leslie Grey, Customs officer. I am his
assistant."

The long man glanced slowly at his guests. His great eyes seemed to
take in the details of each man's appearance with solemn curiosity.
Then he twisted slowly upon the upturned box on which he was seated
and crossed his legs.

"I'm pleased to meet you, gentlemen. It's lonely in these parts--lonely."
He shuddered as though with cold. "I've been trapping in these latitudes
for a considerable period, and it's--lonely. My name is Zachary Smith."

As the trapper pronounced his name he glanced keenly from one to the
other of the two men beside him. His look was suggestive of doubt. He
seemed to be trying to re-assure himself that he had never before
crossed the paths of these chance guests of his. After a moment of
apprehensive silence he went on slowly, like one groping in darkness.
His confidence was not fully established.

"You can make up your minds to a couple of days in this shanty--anyhow.
I mostly live on 'sour-belly' and 'hard tack.' Don't sound inviting,
eh?"

Chillingwood laughed pleasantly.

"We're Government officials," he said with meaning.

"Yes," put in Grey. "But we've got plenty of canned truck in our
baggage. I'm thinking you may find our supplies a pleasant change."

"No doubt--no doubt whatever. Cat's meat would be a delicacy
after--months of tallowy pork."

This slow-spoken trapper surveyed his guests thoughtfully. The
travellers were enjoying the comforting shelter and warmth. Neither of
them seemed particularly talkative.

Presently Grey roused himself. Extreme heat after extreme cold always
has a somnolent effect on those who experience it.

"We'd best get the--stuff off the sleigh, Chillingwood," said he.
"Rainy-Moon's above the average Indian for honesty, but, nevertheless,
we don't need to take chances. And," as the younger man rose and
stretched himself, "food is good on occasions. What does Mr. Zachary
Smith say?"

"Ay, let's sample some white-man's grub. Gentlemen, this is a
fortunate meeting--all round."

Chillingwood passed out of the hut. As he opened the door a vindictive
blast of wind swept a cloud of snow in, and the frozen particles fell
crackling and hissing upon the glowing stove.

"And they call this a white-man's country," observed Mr. Smith
pensively, as the door closed again. He opened the stove and proceeded
to knock the embers together preparatory to stoking up afresh.

"Guess you were making for the Pass," he said conversationally.

"Yes," replied Grey.

"Missed the trail," the other said, pitching a cord-wood stick
accurately into the centre of the glowing embers.

Grey made no answer.

"'Tisn't in the way of Governments to show consideration to their
servants," Mr. Smith went on, filling the stove with fuel to the limit
of its holding capacity. "It's a deadly season to be forced to travel
about in."

"Consideration," said Grey bitterly. "I'm forced to undertake this
journey twice a year. Which means I am on the road the best part of my
time. And merely because there is no bank or authorized place for
depositing----"

"Ah, gold," put in Mr. Zachary Smith quietly.

"And reams of 'returns.'"

"They reckon that the 'rush' to the Yukon'll come next year. Maybe
things will alter then."

Smith straightened himself up from his occupation. His face displayed
but the most ordinary interest in the conversation.

At that moment Chillingwood returned bearing two small brass-bound
chests. The Indian followed him bringing a number of packages of
tinned food. Smith glanced from the chests--which were as much as
Chillingwood could carry--to the angular proportions of the Indian's
burden, then back again to the chests. He watched furtively as the
officer deposited the latter; then he turned back to the stove and
opened the damper.

Then followed a meal of which all three partook with that heartiness
which comes of an appetite induced by a hardy open-air life. They
talked but little while they ate, and that little was of the
prospects of the new Eldorado. Leslie Grey spoke with the bitterness
of a disappointed man. In reality he had been successful in the
business he had adopted. But some men are born grumblers, and he was
one. It is probable that had he been born a prince he would have
loudly lamented the fact that he was not a king. Chillingwood was
different; he accepted the situation and enjoyed his life. He was
unambitious whilst faithfully doing that which he regarded as his
duty, first to himself, then to his employers. His method of life was
something like that of the sailor. He fully appreciated the motto of
the seafaring gentry--one hand for himself and one for his employers.
When in doubt both hands for self. He meant to break away from his
present employment when the Yukon "rush" came. In the meantime he was
on the spot. Mr. Zachary Smith chiefly listened. He could eat and
watch his guests. He could study them. And he seemed in no way
inclined to waste his time on words when he could do the other two
things. He said little about himself, and was mainly contented with
comprehensive nods and grunts, whilst he devoured huge portions of
tinned tongue and swallowed bumpers of scalding tea.

After dinner the travellers produced their pipes. Grey offered his
tobacco to their host. Mr. Zachary Smith shook his head.

"Given up tobacco--mostly," he said, glancing in the direction of the
door, which groaned under a sudden attack from the storm which was now
howling with terrible force outside. "It isn't that I don't like it.
But when a man gets cooped up in these hills he's like to run out of
it, and then it's uncomfortable. I've taken on a native weed which
does me for smoking when I need it--which isn't often. It grows
hereabouts and isn't likely to give out. Guess I won't smoke now."

Grey shrugged and lit his pipe. If any man could be fool enough to
reject tobacco, Leslie Grey was not the sort of man to press him. He
was intolerant of ideas in any one but himself. Chillingwood sucked
luxuriously at his pipe and thought big things.

The blue smoke clouds curled insinuatingly about the heads of the
smokers, and rose heavily upon the dense atmosphere of the hut. The
two men stretched themselves indolently upon the ground, sometimes
speaking, but, for the most part, silent. These wayfarers thought
little of time. They had a certain task to perform which, the elements
permitting, they would carry out in due course. In the meantime it was
storming, and they had been fortunate in finding shelter in these
wastes of snow and ice; they were glad to accept what comfort came
their way. This enforced delay would find a simple record in Leslie
Grey's report to his superiors. "Owing to a heavy storm, etc." They
were Government servants. The routine of these men's lives was all
very monotonous, but they were used to it, and use is a wonderful
thing. It so closely borders on content.

Cards were produced later on. Mr. Zachary Smith resisted the
blandishments of "cut-throat" euchre. He had no money to spare for
gambling, he informed his guests; he would look on. He sat over the
stove whilst the others played. Later on the cards were put away, and
the travellers, curling themselves into their blankets, composed
themselves to sleep.

The lean figure sat silently blinking at the red sides of the
fire-box. His legs were crossed, and he nursed his knee in a restful
embrace. For nearly an hour he sat thus, and only the slow movement of
his great rolling eyes, and an occasional inclination of his head told
of the active thought which was passing behind his mask-like
features.

As he sat there he looked older by half a score of years than either
of his companions, but, in reality, he was a young man. The furrows
and hollows upon his face were the marks of privation and exposure,
not of age. His bowed figure was not the result of weakness or
senility, it was chiefly the result of great height and the slouching
gait of one who has done much slow tramping. Mr. Zachary Smith made an
interesting study as he sat silently beside his stove.

His face was the face of an honest man--when his eyes were concealed
beneath their heavy lids. It was a good face, and refined; tough,
vigorous, honest, until the eyelids were raised. Then the expression
was utterly changed. A something looked out from those great rolling
eyeballs which was furtive, watchful, doubtful. They were eyes one
sometimes sees in a madman or a great criminal. And now, as he sat
absorbed in his own reflections, their gaze alternated between the two
brass-bound chests and the recumbent figure of Leslie Grey.

So he sat, this self-styled Zachary Smith, trapper.



CHAPTER III

MR. ZACHARY SMITH SMOKES


It was the third morning of the travellers' sojourn in Mr. Smith's
dugout. Two long idle days had been spent in the foetid atmosphere of
the trapper's half-buried house. During their enforced stay neither
Grey nor his subordinates had learnt much of their reticent host. It
is doubtful if they had troubled themselves much about him. He had
greeted them with a sort of indifferent hospitality, and they were
satisfied. It was not in the nature of their work to question the
characters of those whom they encountered upon their journey. To all
that he had Mr. Zachary Smith had made them welcome; they could expect
no more, they needed no more. Now the day had arrived for their
departure, for the storm had subsided and the sun was shining with all
its wintry splendour.

The three men leisurely devoured an early morning breakfast.

Mr. Smith was quite cheerful. He seemed to be labouring under some
strange excitement. He looked better, too, since the advent of his
guests. Perhaps it was the result of the ample supplies of canned
provisions which the two men had lavished unsparingly upon him. His
face was less cadaverous; the deep searing furrows were less
pronounced. Altogether there was a marked improvement in this solitary
dweller in the wild. Now he was discussing the prospects of the
weather, whilst he partook liberally of the food set before him.

"These things aren't like most storms," he said. "They blow themselves
out and have done with it. They don't come back on you with a change
of wind. That isn't the way of the blizzard. We've got a clear spell
of a fortnight and more before us--with luck. Now, which way may you
be taking, gentlemen? Are you going to head through the mountains for
the main trail, or are you going to double on your tracks?"

"We are going back," said Grey, with unpleasant emphasis. Any allusion
to his mistake of the road annoyed him.

Chillingwood turned his head away and hid a smile.

"I think you will do well," replied the trapper largely. "I know these
hills, and I should be inclined to hark back to where you missed the
trail. I hope to cover twenty miles myself to-day."

"Your traps will be buried, I should say," suggested Robb.

"I'm used to that," replied the tall man quietly. "Guess I shan't have
much difficulty with 'em." He permitted himself the suspicion of a
smile.

Grey drew out his pipe and leisurely loaded it. Robb followed suit.
Mr. Zachary Smith pushed his tin pannikin away from before him and
leaned back.

"Going to smoke?" he asked. "Guess I'll join you. No, not your plug,
thanks. I'm feeling pretty good. My weed'll do me. You don't fancy to
try it?"

"T. and B.'s good enough for me," said Grey, with a smile. "No, I
won't experiment."

Smith held his pouch towards Chillingwood.

"Can I?"

Robb shook his head with a doubtful smile.

"Guess not, thanks. What's good enough for my chief is good enough for
me."

The trapper slowly unfolded an antelope hide pouch of native
workmanship. He emptied out a little pile of greenish-brown flakes
into the palm of his hand. It was curious, dusty-looking stuff,
suggestive of discoloured bran. This he poured into the bowl of a
well-worn briar, the mouthpiece of which he carefully and with
accuracy adjusted into the corner of his mouth.

"If you ever chance to have the experience I have had in these
mountains, gentlemen," he then went on slowly, as gathering into the
palm of his hand a red-hot cinder from the stove he tossed it to and
fro until it lodged on the bowl of his pipe, "I think you'll find the
use of the weed which grows on this hillside," with a jerk of his head
upwards to indicate the bush which flourished in that direction, "has
its advantages."

"Maybe," said Grey contemptuously.

"I doubt it," said Robb, with a pleasant smile.

The lean man knocked the cinder from his pipe and emitted a cloud of
pungent smoke from between his lips. The others had lit up. But the
odour of the trapper's weed quickly dominated the atmosphere. He
talked rapidly now.

"You folks who travel the main trails don't see much of what is going
on in the mountains--the real life of the mountains," he said. "You
have no conception of the real dangers which these hills contain. Yes,
sir, they're hidden from the public eye, and only get to be known
outside by reason of the chance experience of the traveller who
happens to lose his way, but is lucky enough to escape the pitfalls
with which he finds himself surrounded. I could tell you some queer
yarns of these hills."

"Travellers' tales," suggested Grey, with a yawn and a disparaging
smile. "I have heard some."

"Yes," said Robb, "there are queer tales afloat of adventures
encountered by travellers journeying from the valley to the coast. But
they're chiefly confined to wayside robbery, and are of a very sordid,
everyday kind. No doubt your experiences are less matter-of-fact and
more romantic. By Jove, I feel jolly comfy. Not much like turning
out."

"That's how it takes me," said Smith quietly, but with a quick glance
at the speaker. "But idleness won't boil my pot. It's a remarkable
thing that I've felt wonderfully energetic these last few days, and
now that I have to turn out I should prefer to stop where I am. I
s'pose it's human nature."

He gazed upon his audience with a broad smile.

At that moment the loud yelping of the dogs penetrated the thick sides
of the dugout. Rainy-Moon was preparing for the start. Doubtless the
brilliant change in the weather had inspired the savage burden-bearers
of the north.

"That's curious-smelling stuff you're smoking," said Grey, rousing
himself with an effort after a moment's dead silence. "What do you
call it?"

"Can't say--a weed," said Zachary Smith, glancing down his nose towards
the bowl of his pipe. "Not bad, is it? Smells of almonds--tastes like
nutty sherry."

Grey stifled a yawn.

"I feel sleepy, d----d sleepy. Wonder if Rainy-Moon has got the sleigh
loaded."

Smith emitted another dense cloud of smoke from between his pursed
lips; he seemed wrapt in the luxurious enjoyment of his smoke. Robb
Chillingwood's eyelids were drooping, and his pipe had gone out. Quite
suddenly the trapper's eyes were turned on the face of Grey, and the
smoke from his pipe was chiefly directed towards him.

"There's time enough yet," he said quietly. "Half-an-hour more or less
won't make much difference to you on the road. You were talking of
travellers' tales, and I reckon you were thinking of fairy yarns that
some folks think it smart to spin. Well, maybe those same stories have
some foundation in fact, and ain't all works of imagination. Anyhow,
my experience has taught me never to disbelieve until I've some good
sound grounds for doing so."

He paused and gazed with a far-off look at the opposite wall. Then a
shadowy smile stole over his face, and he went on. His companions'
heads had drooped slowly forward, and their eyes were heavy with
sleep. Grey was fighting against the drowsiness by jerking his head
sharply upwards, but his eyes would close in spite of his efforts.

"Well, I never thought that I'd get caught napping," continued Smith,
with a chuckle. "I thought I knew these regions well enough, but I
didn't. I lost my way, too, and came near to losing my life----"

He broke off abruptly as Robb Chillingwood slowly rolled over on
his side and began to snore loudly. Then Smith turned back to Leslie
Grey, and leaning forward, so that his face was close to that of
the officer, blew clouds of the pungent smoke right across the
half-stupefied man's mouth and nostrils.

"I lost other things," he then went on meditatively, "but not my life.
I lost that which was more precious to me. I lost gold--gold! I lost
the result of many weary months of toil. I had hoarded it up that I
might go down to the east and buy a nice little ranch, and settle down
into a comfortable, respectable man of property. I didn't even wait
until the spring opened so that I could take the river route. No, that
wasn't my way, because I knew it would cost a lot of money and I
wasn't overburdened with wealth. I had just enough----"

He puffed vigorously at his pipe. Grey's head was now hanging forward
and his chin rested on his chest.

There came the sound of Rainy-Moon's voice adjuring the dogs outside
the door of the dugout. The trapper's eyes flashed evilly in the
direction of the unconscious Indian.

"----to do what I wanted," he resumed. "No more--no less; and I set
out on foot." He was anxiously watching for Grey's collapse. "Yes, I
was going to tramp to the sea-coast through these mountains. I hit the
wrong trail, decoyed by a false track carefully made by those who
waited for me in these hills."--Grey was swaying heavily and his
breathing was stertorous.--"I met my fate and was robbed of my gold.
I was drugged--as you poor fools are being drugged now. When it was
too late I discovered how it was done, and determined to do the same
thing by the first victim that fell into my clutches. I tried the weed
and soon got used to its fumes. Then I waited--waited. I had set my
decoy at the cross-roads, and you--you--came."

As the trapper ceased speaking Grey slowly rolled over, insensible.

In a moment the watching man was upon his feet. His whole face was
transfigured. Alertness was in every movement, in every flash of his
great eyes. He moved quickly across the floor of the hut and took two
shallow pannikins from the sack which lay upon the floor, dropped some
of the flaky weed into the bottom of each one, and then from the stove
he scraped some coals of fire into them. The fire set the dry weed
smouldering, and the thick smoke rose heavily from the two tins. These
he placed upon the ground in such a position that his hard-breathing
victims should thoroughly inhale the fumes. Thus he would make doubly
sure of them.

This done he stood erect and gazed for some seconds at the result of
his handiwork; he was satisfied, but there was no look of pleasure on
his face. He did not look like a man of naturally criminal instincts.
There was nothing savage about his expression, or even callous. His
look merely seemed to say that he had set himself this task, and, so
far, what he had done was satisfactory in view of his object. He
turned from the heavy-slumbering men and his eyes fell upon the two
small gold chests. Instantly his whole expression changed. Here was
the keynote to the man's disposition. Gold! It was the gold he
coveted. At all costs that gold was to be his. His eyes shone with
greed. He moved towards the boxes as though he were about to handle
them; but he paused abruptly before he reached them. The barking of
the dogs and the strident tones of the Indian's voice outside arrested
him. He suddenly remembered that he had not yet completed his work.

Now he moved with unnecessarily stealthy steps over to the darkest
corner of the hut, to where a pile of rough skins stood. The steady
nerve which had hitherto served him seemed in a measure to have
weakened. It was a phase which a man of his disposition must
inevitably pass through in the perpetration of a first crime. He was
assailed by a sensation of watching eyes following his every movement;
with a feeling that another presence than those two slumbering forms
moved with him in the dim light of the dugout. He was haunted by his
other self; the moral self.

From beneath the pile of furs he drew a heavy revolver which he
carefully examined. The chambers were loaded.

Again came the sound of the dogs outside. And he even fancied he heard
the shuffling of Rainy-Moon's moccasins over the beaten snow just
outside the door. He turned his face in the direction. The expression
of his great hungry eyes was malevolent. Whatever moral fear might
have been his, there could be no doubt that he would carry his purpose
out. He gripped his pistol firmly and moved towards the door.

As his hand rested on the latch he paused. Just for one instant he
hesitated. It seemed as though all that was honest in him was making
one final appeal to the evil passions which swayed him. His eyelids
lowered suddenly, as though he could not even face the dim light of
that gloomy interior. It was the attitude of one who fully realizes
the nature of his actions, of one who shrinks from the light of honest
purpose and prefers the obscure recesses of his own moral darkness.
Then with an effort he pulled himself together; he gripped his nerve.
The next moment he flung wide the door.

A flood of wintry sunshine suffused the interior of the dugout. The
glare of the crystal white earth was dazzling to a degree, and the
hungry-looking trapper stood blinking in the light. His pistol was
concealed behind him. The sleigh was before the door. Rainy-Moon stood
on the far side of the path in the act of hitching the dogs up. One of
the animals, the largest of them all, was already harnessed, the
others were standing or squatting around, held in leash by the
Indian.

When he heard the door open Rainy-Moon looked up from his work. He was
standing with his back to the precipice which bordered the narrow
ledge. His great stolid face expressed nothing but solemn gravity. He
grunted and turned again to his work.

Like a flash the trapper's pistol darted from behind him, and its
report rang out echoing and re-echoing amongst the surrounding hills.
There was an answering cry of pain from the harnessed dog, and
Rainy-Moon with a yell stood erect to find himself gazing into the
muzzle of the revolver. The expression of the trapper's face was
relentless now. His first shot had been fired under the influence of
excitement, and he had missed his object and only wounded the dog. Now
it was different.

Again the pistol rang out. Rainy-Moon gave one sharp cry of pain and
sprang backwards--into space. In one hand he still gripped the leashes
of the dogs. The other clutched wildly at the air. For one instant his
fall was broken by his hold upon the four dogs, then the suddenness of
his precipitation and his weight told, and the poor beasts were
dragged over the side of the chasm after him.

The whole dastardly act was but the work of a moment.

The next all was silence save for the yelping of the wounded dog lying
upon the snow.

The trapper stood for a moment framed in the doorway. The horror of
his crime was upon him. He waited for a sound to come up to him from
below. He longed to, but he dared not, look over the side of the
yawning chasm. He feared what awful sight his eyes might encounter.
His imagination conjured up pictures that turned him sick in the
stomach, and a great dread came over him. Suddenly he turned back into
the hut and slammed the door.

The wounded dog had not changed its attitude. The moments sped by.
Suddenly the poor beast began to struggle violently. It was a huge
specimen of the husky breed, exceptionally powerful and wolfish in its
appearance. The wretched brute moaned incessantly, but its pain only
made it struggle the harder to free itself from its harness. At length
it succeeded in wriggling out of the primitive "breast-draw" which
held it. Then the suffering beast limped painfully away down the path.
Fifty yards from the hut it squatted upon its haunches and began to
lick its wounded foot. And every now and then it would cease its
healing operation to throw up its long muzzle and emit one of those
drawn-out howls, so dismal and dispiriting, in which dogs are able to
express their melancholy feelings.

At length the hut door opened again and the trapper came out; he was
equipped for a long journey. Thick blanket chaps covered his legs, and
a great fur coat reached to his knees. His head was buried beneath a
beaver cap, which, pressed low down over his ears, was overlapped by
the collar of his coat. He carried a roll of blankets over his
shoulder and a pack on his back. As he came out into the sunshine he
looked fearfully about him. There stood the loaded sleigh quite
undisturbed. The harness alone was tumbled about by reason of the
wounded dog's struggles. And there was a pool of canine blood upon the
snow, and a faint trail of sanguinary hue leading from it. The man
eyed this and followed its direction until he saw the dog crouching
down further along the path. But he was not thinking of the dog. He
turned back to the sleigh, and his eyes wandered across, beyond it, to
the brink of the precipice. The only marks that had disturbed the
smooth white edge of the path were those which had tumbled the snow
where the dogs had been dragged to their fate. Otherwise there was no
sign.

The man stepped forward as though to look down to the depths below,
but, as he neared the edge, he halted shudderingly. Nor did his eyes
turn downwards, he looked around him, above him--but not down. He
gazed long and earnestly at the hard, cold, cloudless sky. His brow
frowned with unpleasant thought. Then his lips moved, and he muttered
words that sounded as though he were endeavouring to justify his acts
to himself.

"The gold was mine--honestly mine. It was wrested from me. It may be
Christian to submit without retaliation. It is not human. What is a
neche's life--nothing. Pooh! An Indian life is of no value in this
country. Come on, let's go."

He spoke as though he were not alone. Perhaps he was addressing that
moral self of his which kept reminding him of his misdeeds. Anyhow, he
was uncomfortable, and his words told of it.

He stooped and adjusted his snow-shoes, after which he gripped his
long staff and slowly began his journey down the hill.

He quickly got into his stride, that forward, leaning attitude of the
snow-shoer; nor did he glance to the left or right.

Straight ahead of him he stared, over the jagged rampart of mountains
to the clear steely hue of the sky above. He was leaving the scene of
his crime; he wished also to leave its memory. He gave no heed to the
trail of blood that stained the whiteness of the snow beneath his
feet; his thoughts were not of the present--his present; his mind was
travelling swiftly beyond. The whining of the dog as he passed him
fell upon ears that were deaf to all entreaty.

The crystal-covered earth glided by him; the long, reaching stride of
the expert snow-shoer bore him rapidly along.

He paused in the valley below and took fresh bearings. He intended to
strike through the heart of the mountains. The Pass was his goal, for
he knew that there lay the main trail he sought.

He cast about for the landmarks which he had located during his long
tenancy of the dugout. Not a branch of a tree rustled. Not a breath of
air fanned the steaming breath which poured from his lips. His mind
was centred on his object, but the nervous realization of loneliness
was upon him.

Suddenly the awful stillness was broken. The man bent his head in a
listening attitude. The sound came from behind and he turned sharply.
His movement was hurried and anxious. His nerves were not steady. A
long-drawn-out wail rose upon the air. Fifty yards behind stood the
wounded hound gazing after him as if he, too, were endeavouring to
ascertain the right direction. The creature was standing upon three
legs, the fourth was hanging useless, and the blood was dripping from
the footless limb.

The man turned away with an impatient shrug and stepped out briskly.
He knew his direction now, and resolutely centred his thoughts upon
his journey. Past experience told him that this would tax all his
energy and endurance, and that he must keep a clear head, for he was
not a native of the country, nor had he the instinct of one whose life
had been passed in a mountainous world. Once he turned at the sound of
a plaintive whining, and, to his annoyance, he saw that the dog was
following him. A half-nervous laugh escaped him, but he did not pause.
He had hitherto forgotten the creature, and this was an unpleasant
reminder.

An hour passed. The exhilarating exercise had cleansed the atmosphere
of the murderer's thoughts. Once only he looked back over his shoulder
as some memory of the dog flashed across his brain. He could see
nothing but the immaculate gleam of snow. Something of the purity of
his surroundings seemed to communicate itself to his thoughts. He
found himself looking forward to a life, the honest, respectable life,
which the burden he carried in his pack would purchase for him. He saw
himself the owner of vast tracts of pasture, with stock grazing upon
it, a small but comfortable house, and a wife. He pictured to himself
the joys of a pastoral life, a community in which his opinions and
influence would be matters of importance. He would be looked up to,
and gradually, as his wealth grew, he would become interested in the
world of politics, and he would----

He was dragged back to the present by a memory of the scene at the
dugout, and quite suddenly he broke into a cold perspiration. He
increased his pace, nor did those pleasant visions again return to
him. It was well past noon when at last he halted for food and rest.

He devoured his simple fare ravenously, but he gained no enjoyment
therefrom. He was moody. At that moment he hated life; he hated
himself for his weak yielding to the pricks of conscience; he hated
the snow and ice about him for their deadening effect upon the world
through which he was passing; he hated the dreadful solitude with
which he was surrounded.

Presently he drew out a pipe. He looked at it for one instant, then
raised it to his nose. He smelt it, and, with a motion of disgust and
a bitter curse, he threw it from him. It reeked of the weed he had
found at the dugout.

Now he was seized with a feverish restlessness and was about to rise
to his feet. Suddenly, out on the still, biting air wailed the
familiar long-drawn note of misery. To his disturbed fancy it came
like a dreadful signal of some awful doom. It echoed in undulating
waves of sound, dying away hardly, as though it were loth to leave its
mournful surroundings. He turned in the direction whence it proceeded,
and slowly into view limped the wounded husky, yelping piteously at
every step.

At that moment the man was scarcely responsible for what he did. He
was beside himself with dread. The solitude was on his nerves, this
haunting dog, his own reflections, all had combined to reduce him to
the verge of nervous prostration. With the last dying sound his heavy
revolver was levelled in the direction of the oncoming hound. There
was a moment's pause, then a shot rang out and the dog stood quite
still. The bullet fell short and only kicked up the snow some yards in
front of the animal, nor did the beast display the least sign of fear.
The man prepared to take another shot, but, as he was about to fire,
his arm dropped to his side, and, with a mirthless laugh, he put the
pistol away.

"The d----d cur seems to know the range of a gun," he muttered, with
an uneasy look at the motionless creature. His words were an apology
to himself, although perhaps he would not have admitted it.

The dog remained in its rigid attitude. Its head was slightly lowered,
and its wicked grey eyes glared ferociously. Its thick mane bristled,
and it looked like a gaunt, hungry wolf following upon the trail of
some unconscious traveller. So long as the man stood, so long did the
dog remain still and silent. But as the former returned to his seat,
and began to pack up, the dog began to whine and furtively draw
nearer.

Although he did not look up the man knew that the animal was coming
towards him. When he had finished packing he straightened himself; the
dog was within a few paces of him. He called gently, and the animal
responded with a whimper, but remained where it was. Its canine mind
was evidently dubious, and the man was forced to take the initiative.
Whatever may have been his intention in the first place, he now
exhibited a curious display of feeling for one who could plan and
perpetrate so dastardly a crime as that which he had committed at the
dugout. Human nature is a strange blending of good and evil passions.
Two minutes ago the man would, without the least remorse, have shot
the dog. Now as he reached him, and he listened to the beast's
plaintive cries, he stretched out his arm and stroked its trembling
sides, and then stooped to examine the wounded limb. And, stranger
still, he tore off a portion of the woollen scarf that circled his
waist and proceeded to bandage up the shattered member. The dog
submitted to the operation with languid resignation. The foot of one
hind leg had been entirely torn away by a revolver shot, and only the
stump of the leg was left. The poor beast would go on three legs for
the rest of his life.

When the man had finished he rose to his feet, and a bitter laugh
shocked the silence of the snow-bound world.

"There, you miserable cur. It's better like that than to get the cold
into it. I've had some; besides, I didn't intend to damage you. If
you're going to travel with me you'd best come along, and be d-----d
to you."

And he walked back to where his pack and blankets lay, and the dog
limped at his heels.



CHAPTER IV

'YELLOW BOOMING--SLUMP IN GREY'


The days are long since gone when the name of the midland territory of
the great Canadian world, Manitoba, suggested to the uninitiated
nothing but Red Indians, buffalo and desperadoes of every sort and
condition. Now-a-days it is well known, even in remote parts of the
world, as one of the earth's greatest granaries; a land of rolling
pastures, golden cornfields and prosperous, simple farm folk. In a
short space of time, little more than a quarter of a century, this
section of the country has been elevated from the profound obscurity
of a lawless wilderness to one of the most thriving provinces of a
great dominion. The old Fort Garry, one of the oldest factories of the
Hudson's Bay Company, has given place to the magnificent city of
Winnipeg, with its own University, its own governing assembly, its own
clubs, hotels, its own world-wide commercial interests, besides being
the great centre of railway traffic in the country. All these things,
and many other indications of splendid prosperity too numerous to
mention, have grown up in a little over twenty-five years. And with
this growth the buffalo has gone, the red-man has been herded on to a
limited reservation, and the "Bad-man" is almost an unknown quantity.
Such is the Manitoba of to-day.

But during the stages of Manitoba's transition its history is
interesting. The fight between law and lawlessness was long and
arduous, the pitched battles many and frequent. Buffalo could be
killed off quickly, the red-man was but a poor thing after the
collapse of the Riel rebellion, but the "Bad-man" died hard.

This is the period in the history of Manitoba which at present
interests us. When Winnipeg was building with a rapidity almost
rivalling that of the second Chicago, and the army of older farmers in
the land was being hastily augmented by recruits from the mother
country. When the military police had withdrawn their forces to the
North-West Territories, leaving only detachments to hold the American
border against the desperadoes which both countries were equally
anxious to be rid of.

In the remote south-eastern corner of the province, forty-five
miles from the nearest town--which happened to be the village of
Ainsley--dumped down on the crest of a far-reaching ocean-like swell
of rolling prairie, bare to the blast of the four winds except for
the insignificant shelter of a small bluff on its northeastern side,
stood a large farm-house surrounded by a small village of barns and
outbuildings. It was a typical Canadian farm of the older, western
type. One of those places which had grown by degrees from the one
central hut of logs, clay and thatch to the more pretentious
proportions of the modern frame building of red pine weather-boarding,
with shingled roofing to match, and the whole coloured with paint
of a deep, port-wine hue, the points and angles being picked out
with a dazzling white. It was a farm, let there be no mistake, and
not merely a homestead.

There were abundant signs of prosperity in the trim, well-groomed
appearance of the place. The unmistakable hall-mark was to be found in
the presence of a steam-thresher, buried beneath a covering of
tarpaulin and snow, in the array of farming machinery, and in the maze
of pastures enclosed by top-railed, barbed-wire fencing. All these
things, and the extent of the buildings, told of years of ceaseless
industry and thrift, of able management and a proper pride in the
vocation of its owner.

Nor were these outward signs in any way misleading. Silas Malling in
his lifetime had been one of those sound-minded men, unimaginative and
practical, the dominant note of whose creed had always been to do his
duty in that state of life in which he found himself. The son of an
early pioneer he had been born to the life of a farmer, and, having
the good fortune to follow in the footsteps of a thrifty father, he
had lived long enough to see his farm grow to an extent many times
larger and more prosperous than that of any neighbour within a radius
of a hundred miles. But at the time of our story he had been gathered
to his forefathers for nearly three years, and his worthy spouse,
Hephzibah Malling, reigned in his stead. She ruled with an equally
practical hand, and fortune had continued to smile upon her. Her bank
balance had grown by leaps and bounds, and she was known to be one of
the richest women in Southern Manitoba, and her only daughter,
Prudence, to be heiress to no inconsiderable fortune. There was a son
in the family, but he had eschewed the farm life, and passing out of
the home circle, as some sons will, had gone into the world to seek
his own way--his own experiences of life.

In spite of the wealth of the owners of Loon Dyke Farm they were
very simple, unpretentious folk. They lived the life they had always
known, abiding by the customs of childhood and the country to which
they belonged with the whole-hearted regard which is now becoming so
regrettably rare. Their world was a wholesome one which provided them
with all they needed for thought, labour and recreation. To
journey to Winnipeg, a distance of a hundred and twenty-six miles,
was an event which required two days' preparation and as many weeks of
consideration. Ainsley, one of those little border villages which
dot the international boundary dividing Canada from the United
States, was a place rarely visited by them, and when undertaken
the trip was regarded as a notable jaunt.

Just now Mrs. Malling was a prey to the wildest excitement. An event
was about to happen which disturbed her to a degree. It is doubtful as
to what feeling was uppermost in her motherly bosom. She was torn
between many conflicting emotions--joy, grief, pleasurable excitement.
Her daughter, her only child, as she was wont to confide to her
matronly friends--for her boy, whom she loved as only a mother can
love a son, she believed she would never see again--was about to be
married.

No visit to town, not even a sea voyage across the ocean could
possibly compare with this. It was a more significant event in her
life even than when she went into Winnipeg to choose the monument
which was to be erected over the grave of her departed Silas. That she
had always had in her mind's eye, not because she looked forward to
his demise, but because she hoped some day to share with him its
sheltering canopy. But somehow this forthcoming marriage of her
daughter was in the nature of a shock to her. She was not mercenary,
far from it, she was above any such motive as that, but she had hoped,
when the time came for such matters to be considered, that Prudence
would have married a certain rancher who lived out by the Lake of the
Woods, a man of great wealth, and a man whom Mrs. Malling considered
desirable in every way. Instead of that Prudence had chosen for
herself amongst her many suitors, and worst of all she had chosen an
insignificant official in the Customs department. That to Hephzibah
Malling was the worst blow of all. With proper motherly pride she had
hoped that "her girl" would have married a "some one" in her own
world.

The winter evening shadows--it was the middle of January and winter
still held sway upon the prairie--were falling, and the parlour at the
farm was enveloped in a grey dusk. The room was large, low-ceiled, and
of irregular shape.

It was furnished to serve many purposes, principally with a view to
solid comfort. There was no blatant display of wealth, and every
article of furniture bore signs of long though careful use. The
spotless boarded floor was bare of carpet, but was strewn with
rough-cured skins, timber-wolf, antelope, coyote and bear, and here
and there rugs of undoubted home make; these latter of the patchwork
order. The centre table was of wide proportions and of solid mahogany,
and told of the many services of the apartment; the small chairs were
old-fashioned mahogany pieces with horse-hair seats, while the
easy-chairs--and there were several of these--were capacious and of
divers descriptions. A well-worn sofa was stowed away in an obscure
angle, and a piano with a rose-silk front and fretwork occupied
another of the many dark corners which the room possessed.

The whole atmosphere of the place was of extreme comfort. The bare
description of furniture conveys nothing, but the comfort was there
and showed out in the odds and ends of family possessions which were
in evidence everywhere--the grandfather's clock, the sewing-machine,
the quaint old oil-lamps upon the mantel-board over the place where
the fire should have been but was not; the soft hangings and curious
old family pictures and discoloured engravings; the perfect femininity
of the room. In all respects it was a Canadian farm "best parlour."

There were four occupants of the room. Two old ladies, rotund, and
garbed in modest raiment of some sort of dark, clinging material, were
gathered about the monster self-feeding stove, seated in arm-chairs in
keeping with their ample proportions. One was the widow of the late
Silas Malling, and the other was the school-ma'am from the Leonville
school-house. This good lady rejoiced in the name of Gurridge, and
Mrs. Gurridge was the oldest friend of Hephzibah Malling, a fact which
spoke highly for the former good dame's many excellent qualities.
Hephzibah was not a woman to set her affections on her sex without
good reason. Her moral standard was high, and though she was ever
ready to show kindliness to her fellow-creatures, she was far too
practical and honest herself to take to her motherly bosom any one who
was not worthy of regard.

As was natural, they were talking of the forthcoming marriage, and the
tone of their lowered voices indicated that their remarks were in the
nature of confidences. Mrs. Malling was sitting bolt upright, and her
plump, rather rough hands were folded in her broad lap. Mrs. Gurridge
was leaning towards the stove, gazing into the fire through the mica
sides of the fire-box.

"I trust they will be happy," said Mrs. Gurridge, with a sigh. Then as
an afterthought: "He seems all right."

"Yes," Mrs. Malling said, with a responsive exhalation, "I think
so. He has few faults. But he is not the man to follow my Silas on
this farm. I truly believe, Sarah, that he couldn't tell the
difference between a cabbage-field and a potato-patch. These
what-d'you-call-'ems, Civil servants, are only fit to tot up
figures and play around with a woman's wardrobe every time she
crosses the border. Thank goodness I'm not of the travelling kind;
I'm sure I should hide my face for very shame every time I saw a
Customs officer."

The round, rosy face of the farm-wife assumed a deeper hue, and her
still comely lips were pursed into an indignant _moue_. Her smooth
grey head, adorned by a black lace cap trimmed with pearl beads, was
turned in the direction of the two other occupants of the room, who
were more or less buried in the obscurity of a distant corner.

For a moment she gazed at the dimly-outlined figure of a man who was
seated on one of the horse-hair chairs, leaning towards the sofa on
which reclined the form of her daughter, Prudence. His elbows were
resting on his knees and his chin was supported upon his two clenched
fists. He was talking earnestly. Mrs. Malling watched him for some
moments, then her eyes drifted to the girl, the object of her
solicitude.

Although the latter was in the shadow her features were, even at this
distance, plainly discernible. There was a strong resemblance between
mother and daughter. They were both of medium dark complexion, with
strong colouring. Both were possessed of delightfully sweet brown
eyes, and mouths and chins firm but shapely. The one remarkable
difference between them was in the nasal organ. While the mother's was
short, well-rounded, and what one would call pretty though ordinary,
the girl's was prominent and aquiline with a decided bridge. This
feature gave the younger woman a remarkable amount of character to her
face. Altogether hers was a face which, wherever she went, would
inevitably attract admiring attention. Just now she was evidently
teasing the man before her, and the mother turned back to the stove
with a merry twinkle in her eyes.

"I think Prudence will teach him a few lessons," she murmured to her
friend.

"What--about the farm?"

"Well, I wasn't just thinking of the farm."

The two ladies smiled into each other's faces.

"She is a good child," observed Mrs. Gurridge affectionately, after
awhile.

"Or she wouldn't be her father's child."

"Or your daughter, Hephzibah," said Sarah Gurridge sincerely.

The two relapsed into silence. The glowing coals in the stove shook
lower and received augmentation from the supply above. Darkness was
drawing on.

Prudence was holding the _Free Press_ out towards the dying light and
the man was protesting. The latter is already known to us. His name
was Leslie Grey, now an under-official of the Customs department at
the border village of Ainsley.

"Don't strain your eyes in this light, dear," he was saying. "Besides,
I want to talk to you." He laid his hand upon the paper to take it
from her. But the girl quickly withdrew it out of his reach.

"You must let me look at the personal column, Leslie," she said
teasingly, "I just love it. What do you call it? The 'Agony' column,
isn't it?"

"Yes," the man answered, with some show of irritation. "But I
want----"

"Of course you do," the girl interrupted. "You want to talk to
me--very right and proper. But listen to this."

Grey bit his lip. Prudence bent her face close to the paper and read
in a solemn whisper--

"'Yellow booming--slump in Grey'! Now I wonder what that means? Do you
think it's a disguised love message to some forlorn damsel in the
east, or does it conceal the heartrending cry of a lost soul to some
fond but angry parent?" Then, as the man did not immediately answer,
she went on with a pucker of thought upon her brow. "'Yellow'--that
might mean gold. 'Booming'--ah, yes, the Kootenai mines, or the Yukon.
There is going to be a rush there this year, isn't there? Oh, I
forgot," with real contrition, "I mustn't mention the Yukon, must I?
That is where your disaster occurred that caused you to be banished to
the one-horsed station of Ainsley."

"Not forgetting the reduction of my salary to the princely sum of two
thousand dollars per annum," Grey added bitterly.

"Never mind, old boy, it brought us together, and dollars aren't
likely to trouble us any. But let me get on with my puzzle. 'Slump in
Grey.' That's funny, isn't it? 'Slump' certainly has to do with
business. I've seen 'Slump' in the finance columns of the Toronto
_Globe_. And then 'Grey.' That's your name."

"I believe so."

"Um. Guess I can't make much of it. Seems to me it must be some
business message. I call it real disappointing."

"Perhaps not so disappointing as you think, sweetheart," Grey said
thoughtfully.

"What, do you understand it?" The girl at once became all interest.

"Yes," slowly, "I understand it, but I don't know that I ought to tell
you."

"Of course you must. I'm just dying of curiosity. Besides," she went
on coaxingly, "we are going to be married, and it wouldn't be right to
have any secrets from me. Dear old Gurridge never lost an opportunity
of firing sage maxims at us when I used to go to her school. I think
the one to suit this occasion ran something like this--

                'Secrets withheld 'twixt man and wife,
                Infallibly end in connubial strife.'

"She always made her rhymes up as she went along. She's a sweet old
dear, but so funny."

But Grey was not heeding the girl's chatter. His face was serious and
his obstinate mouth was tight-shut. He was gazing with introspective
eyes at the paper which was now lying in the girl's lap. Suddenly he
leaned further forward and spoke almost in a whisper.

"Look here, Prue, I want you to listen seriously to what I have to
say. I'm not a man given to undue hopefulness. I generally take my own
way in things and see it through, whether that way is right or wrong.
So far I've had some successes and more failures. If I were given to
dreaming or repining I should say Fate was dead against me. That last
smasher I came in the mountains, when I lost the Government bullion,
nearly settled me altogether, but, in spite of it all, I haven't given
up hope yet, and what is more, I anticipate making a big coup shortly
which will reinstate me in favour with the heads of my department. My
coup is in connection with the notice you have just read out from the
'Agony' column."

The girl nodded. She was quite serious now. Grey paused, and the
ticking of the grandfather's clock on the other side of the room
pounded heavily in the twilight The murmur of the old ladies' voices
occasionally reached the lovers, but it did not interrupt them or
divert their attention from their own affairs.

"That notice," Grey went on, "has appeared at regular intervals in the
paper, and is a message to certain agents from a certain man, to say
that certain illicit work has been carried out. I have discovered who
this man is and the nature of his work. It does not matter who he is
or what the work; in fact, it would be dangerous to mention either,
even here; the point is that I have discovered the secret, and I,
alone, am going to benefit by my discovery. I am not going to let any
one share the reward with me. I want to reinstate myself with the
authorities, and so regain my lost position, then no one will be able
to say things about my marriage with you."

"No one had better say anything against you in my hearing, anyway,
Leslie," the girl put in quickly. "Because I happen to be rich--or
shall be--is nothing to do with any one but myself. As far as I can
see it will be a blessing. Go on."

"No doubt it is as you say, dear," the man pursued; "but there are
plenty of people unkind enough to believe that I am marrying you for
your money. However, I am going to get this man red-handed, and, I
tell you, it will be the greatest coup of my life."

"I hope you will succeed, Leslie," the girl said, her brown eyes fixed
in admiration upon her lover. "Do you know, I never thought you were
such a determined fellow," she added impulsively. "Why, I can almost
believe that you'd learn to farm if you took the notion."

Grey's sense of humour was not equal to the occasion, and he took her
remark quite seriously.

"A man must be a fool if he can't run a farm," he said roughly.

"Many folks labour under that mistake," the girl replied. Then: "Say,
when are you going to do this thing?"

"Strangely enough, the critical moment will come two days after our
marriage. Let's see. This is Monday. We are to be married to-morrow
week. That will make it Thursday week."

The girl sat herself up on the sofa, and her young face expressed
dismay.

"Right in the middle of our honeymoon. Oh, Leslie!"

"It can't be helped, dearest. I shall only be away from you for that
afternoon and the night. Think of what it means to me. Everything."

"Ah, yes." She sank back again upon the sofa. There was the faintest
glimmer of a smile in the depths of her dark eyes. "I forgot what it
meant to you."

The unconscious irony of her words fell upon stony ground.

Prudence Malling was deeply in love with Leslie Grey. How few men
fully appreciate the priceless treasure of a good woman's regard.

"If I bring this off it means immediate promotion," Grey went on, in
his blindly selfish way. "I must succeed. I hate failure."

"They will take you off the border, then," said the girl musingly.
"That will mean--leaving here."

"Which also means a big step up."

"Of course--it will mean a big step up."

The girl sighed. She loved the farm; that home which she had always
known. She changed the subject suddenly.

"It must be nearly tea-time. We are going to have tea early, Leslie,
so that we can get through with it comfortably before the people
come."

"Oh yes, I forgot you are having a 'Progressive Euchre' party
to-night. What time does it begin? I mean the party."

"Seven o'clock. But you are going to stay to tea?"

Grey glanced up at the yellow face of the grandfather's clock and
shook his head.

"Afraid not, little girl. I've got some work to do in connection with
Thursday week. I will drop in about nine o'clock. Who're coming?"

"Is it really necessary, this work?" There was a touch of bitterness
in Prudence's voice. But the next moment she went on cheerfully.
She would not allow herself to stand in her lover's way. "The usual
people are coming. It will be just our monthly gathering of
neighbouring--moss-backs," with a laugh. "The Turners, the
Furrers--Peter Furrers, of course; he still hopes to cut you
out--and the girls; old Gleichen and his two sons, Harry and Tim.
And the Ganthorns from Rosebank and their cousins the Covills of
Lakeville. And--I almost forgot him--mother's flame, George Iredale
of Lonely Ranch."

"Is Iredale coming? It's too bad of you to have him here, Prue. Your
mother's flame--um, I like that. Why, he's been after you for over
three years. It's not right to ask him when I am here, besides----"
Grey broke off abruptly. Darkness hid the angry flush which had spread
over his face. The girl knew he was angry. His tone was raised, and
there was no mistaking Leslie Grey's anger. He was very nearly a
gentleman, but not quite.

"I think I have a perfect right to ask him, Leslie," she answered
seriously. "His coming can make no possible difference to you.
Frankly, I like him, but that makes no difference to my love for you.
Why, you dear, silly thing, if he asked me from now till Doomsday I
wouldn't marry him. He's just a real good friend. But still, if it
will please you, I don't mind admitting that mother insisted on his
coming, and that I had nothing to do with it. That is why I call him
mother's flame. Now, then, take that ugly frown off your face and say
you're sorry."

Grey showed no sign of obedience; he was very angry. It was believed
and put about by the busy-bodies of the district, that George Iredale
had sought Prudence Malling in marriage ever since she had grown up.
He was a bachelor of close upon forty. One of those quiet, determined
men, slow of speech, even clumsy, but quick to make up their minds,
and endowed with a great tenacity of purpose. A man who rarely said he
was going to do a thing, but generally did it. These known features in
a man who, up to the time of the announcement of Prudence's engagement
to Grey, had been a frequent visitor to the farm, and who was also
well known to be wealthy and more than approved of by Mrs. Malling, no
doubt, gave a certain amount of colour to the belief of those who
chose to pry into their neighbours' affairs.

"Anyway I don't think there is room for both Iredale and myself in
the house," Grey went on heatedly. "If you didn't want him you should
have put your foot down on your mother's suggestion. I don't think I
shall come to-night."

For one moment the girl looked squarely into her lover's face and her
pretty lips drew sharply together. Then she spoke quite coldly.

"You will--or I'll never speak to you again. You are very foolish to
make such a fuss."

There was along silence between the lovers. Then Grey drew out his
watch, opened it, glanced at the time, and snapped it closed again.

"I must go," he said shortly.

Prudence had risen from the sofa. She no longer seemed to heed her
lover. She was looking across the darkened room at the homely picture
round the glowing stove.

"Very well," she said. And she moved away from the man's side.

The two old ladies pausing in their conversation heard Grey's
announcement and the answer Prudence made. Sarah Gurridge leaned
towards her companion with a confidential movement of the head. The
two grey heads came close together.

The school-ma'am whispered impressively--

               "'Maid who angers faithful swain
               Will shed more tears and know mere pain
               Than she who loves and loves in vain.'"

Hephzibah laughed tolerantly. Sarah's earnestness never failed to
amuse her.

"My dear," the girl's mother murmured back, when her comfortable laugh
had gurgled itself out, "young folks must skit-skat and bicker, or
where would be the making up? La, I'm sure when I was a girl I used to
tweak my poor Silas's nose for the love of making him angry--Silas had
a long nose, my dear, as you may remember. Men hate to be tweaked,
especially on their weak points. My Silas was always silly about his
nose. And we never had less than half-an-hour's making up. I wonder
how Prudence has tweaked Mr. Grey--I can't bring myself to call him
Leslie, my dear."

Prudence had reached her mother's side. The two old heads parted with
guilty suddenness.

"Oh, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Malling, "how you did startle me."

"I'm sorry, mother," the girl said, "but I wanted to tell you that
Leslie is not coming to-night." Prudence turned a mischievous face
towards her lover.

Mrs. Malling wrinkled up her smooth forehead. She assumed an air of
surprise.

"Why not, my child?"

"Oh, because you have asked Mr. Iredale. Leslie says it isn't right."

Prudence was still looking in her lover's direction. He had his back
turned. He was more angry than ever now.

"My dears," said her mother with an indulgent smile, "you are a pair
of silly noodles. But Mr. Grey--I mean Leslie--must please himself.
George Iredale is coming because I have asked him. This house is yours
to come and go as you like--er--Leslie. George Iredale has promised to
come to the cards to-night. Did I hear you say you were going now? I
should have taken it homely if you would have stayed to tea. The
party begins at seven, don't forget."

Three pairs of quizzical eyes were fixed upon Grey's good-looking but
angry face. His anger was against Prudence entirely now. She had made
him look foolish before these two ladies, and that was not easily to
be forgiven. Grey's lack of humour made him view things in a ponderous
light. He felt most uncomfortable under the laughing gaze of those
three ladies.

However, he would not give way an inch.

"Yes, I must go now," he said ungraciously. "But not on account of
George Iredale," he added blunderingly. "I have some important work to
do----"

He was interrupted by a suppressed laugh from Prudence. He turned upon
her suddenly, glared, then walked abruptly to the door.

"Good-bye," he exclaimed shortly, and the door closed sharply behind
him.

"Why, Prudence," said Mrs. Malling, turning her round laughing face to
her daughter and indicating the door. "Aren't you----"

"No, I'm not, mother dear," the girl answered with a forced laugh.

Sarah Gurridge patted her late pupil's shoulder affectionately. But
her head shook gravely as though a weight of worldly wisdom was hers.

"I don't think he'll stay away," said the mother, with a tender glance
in the girl's direction.

"He hasn't chin enough," said Sarah, who prided herself upon her
understanding of physiognomy.

"Indeed he has," retorted Prudence, who heard the remark.

Mrs. Malling was right, Leslie Grey was not going to stay away. He had
no intention of doing so. But his reasons were quite apart from those
Hephzibah Malling attributed to him. He wished to see George Iredale,
and because of the man's coming Grey would forego his angry desire to
retaliate upon Prudence. He quite ignored what he was pleased to call
his own pride in the matter. He would come because he had what he
considered excellent reasons for so doing.

Prudence lit the lamps and laid the table for tea. Her mother ambled
off to the great kitchen as fast as her bulk would allow her. There
were many things in that wonderful place to see to for the supper, and
on these occasions Mrs. Malling would not trust their supervision even
to Prudence, much less to the hired girl, Mary. Sarah Gurridge
remained in her seat by the stove watching the glowing coals dreamily,
her mind galloping ahead through fanciful scenes of her own
imagination. Had she been asked she would probably have stated that
she was looking forward into the future of the pair who were so soon
to be married.

Prudence went on quietly and nimbly with her work. Presently Sarah
turned, and after a moment's intent gaze at the trim, rounded figure,
said in her profoundest tone--

              "'Harvest your wheat ere the August frost;
              One breath of cold and the crop is lost.'"

"Oh, bother--there, I've set a place for Leslie," exclaimed Prudence
in a tone of vexation. "What is that about 'frost' and 'lost'?"

"Nothing, dear, I was only thinking aloud." And Sarah Gurridge
relapsed into silence, and continued to bask in the warm glow of the
stove.



CHAPTER V

THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL


Grey strode away from the house in no very amiable frame of mind. A
fenced-in patch, planted with blue-gums and a mass of low-growing
shrubs, formed a sort of garden in front of the farm.

This enclosure was devoid of all artistic effect, but in summer-time it
served as a screen to break the rigour of the wooden farm-buildings.
It was a practical but incongruous piece of man's handiwork, divided
down the centre by a pathway bordered with overlapped hoopings of bent
red willow switches, which, even in winter, protruded hideously
above the beaten snow. The path led to a front gate of primitive and
bald manufacture, but stout and serviceable, as was everything else
about the farm. And this was the main approach to the house.

It was necessary for Grey, having taken his departure by the front
door, to pass out through this gate in order to reach the barn where
he had left his saddle-horse. He might have saved himself this trouble
by leaving the house by the back door, which opened out directly
opposite the entrance to the great barn. But he was in no mood for
back doors; the condition of his mind demanded nothing less than a
dignified exit, and a dignified exit is never compatible with a back
door. Had he left Loon Dyke Farm in an amiable frame of mind, much
that was to happen in his immediate future might have been different.

But the writing had been set forth, and there was no altering it.

He walked with a great show of unnecessary energy. It was his nature
to do so. His energy was almost painful to behold. Too much vigour and
energy is almost worse than chronic indolence; sooner or later people
so afflicted find themselves in difficulties.

It was more than a year since his misadventure in the mountains. He
had suffered for his own wrong-headedness over that matter, but he had
not profited by his experience; he was incapable of doing so. His
length of service and reputation for hard work had saved him from
dismissal, but Chillingwood was less fortunate; subordinates in
Government service generally are less fortunate when their superiors
blunder.

However, Grey had outlived that unpleasantness. He was not the man to
brood over disaster. Soon after he had been transferred to Ainsley the
Town Clerkship fell vacant. He did what he could for Chillingwood,
with the result that the younger man eventually secured the post, and
thus found himself enjoying a bare existence on an income of $500 per
annum.

Halfway down the path Grey became aware of a horseman approaching the
farm. The figure was moving along slowly over the trail from Ainsley.
In the dusk the horse appeared to be jaded; its head hung down, and
its gait was ambling. The stranger was tall, but beyond that Grey
could see nothing, for the face was almost entirely hidden in the
depths of the storm-collar of his coat. The officer looked hard at the
new-comer. It was part of his work to know, at least by sight, every
inhabitant of his district. This man was quite a stranger to him. The
horse was unknown to him, and the fur coat was unfamiliar. In winter
these things usually mark a man out to his acquaintances. The horse
shows up against the snow, and the prairie man does not usually
possess two fur coats.

On the stranger's first appearance Grey's thoughts had at once flown
to George Iredale, but now, as he realized that the man was unknown to
him, his interest relaxed. However, he walked slowly on to the gate so
that he might obtain a closer inspection. Horse and rider were about
twenty-five yards off when Grey reached the gate, and he saw that they
were followed at some distance by a great wolfish-looking hound.

The evening shadows had grown rapidly. The grey vault of snow-clouds
above made the twilight much darker than usual. Grey waited. The
traveller silently drew up his horse, and for a moment sat gazing at
the figure by the gate. All that was visible of his face was the
suggestion of a nose and a pair of large dark eyes.

Grey opened the gate and passed out.

"Evening," said the horseman, in a voice muffled by the fur of his
coat-collar.

"Good-evening," replied Grey shortly.

"Loon Dyke Farm," said the stranger, in a tone less of inquiry than of
making a statement.

Grey nodded, and turned to move away. Then he seemed to hesitate, and
turned again to the stranger. Those eyes! Where had he seen just such
a pair of eyes before? He tried to think, but somehow his memory
failed him. The horseman had turned his face towards the house and so
the great roving eyes were hidden. But Grey was too intent upon the
business he had in hand to devote much thought to anything else.

There was no further reason for remaining; he had satisfied his
curiosity. He would learn all about the stranger later on.

He hurried round to the stables. When he had gone the stranger
dismounted; for a moment or two he stood with one hand on the gate and
the other holding the horse's reins, gazing after the retreating form
of the Customs officer. He waited until the other had disappeared,
then leisurely hitched his horse's reins on to the fence of the
enclosure, and, passing in through the gate, approached the house.
Presently he saw Grey ride away, and a close observer might have
detected the sound of a heavy sigh escaping from between the embracing
folds of the fur collar as the man walked up the path and rapped
loudly upon the front door with his mitted fist. The three-footed
hound had closed up on his master, and now stood beside him.

Prudence opened the door. Tea was just ready; and she answered the
summons, half expecting to find that her lover had thought better of
his ill-humour and had returned to share the evening meal. She drew
back well within the house when she realized her mistake. The stranger
stood for one second as though in doubt; then his voice reached the
waiting girl.

"Prudence, isn't it?"

The girl started. Then a smile broke over her pretty, dark face.

"Why, it's Hervey--brother Hervey. Here, mother," she called back into
the house. "Quick, here's Hervey. Why, you dear boy, I didn't expect
you for at least a week--and then I wasn't sure you would come. You
got my letter safely then, and you must have started off almost at
once--you're a real good brother to come so soon. Yes, in here; tea is
just ready. Take off your coat. Come along, mother," she called out
again joyously. "Hurry; come as fast as you can; Hervey is here." And
she ran away towards the kitchen. Her mother's movements were far too
slow to suit her.

The man removed his coat, and voices reached him from the direction of
the kitchen.

"Dearie me, but, child, you do rush one about so. Where is he? There,
you've left the door open; and whose is that hideous brute of a dog?
Why, it looks like a timber-wolf. Send him out."

Mrs. Malling talked far more rapidly than she walked, or rather
trotted, under the force of her daughter's bustling excitement. Hervey
went out into the hall to meet her. Standing framed in the doorway he
saw his dog.

"Get out, you brute," he shouted, and stepping quickly up to the
animal he launched a cruel kick at it which caught it squarely on the
chest. The beast turned solemnly away without a sound, and Hervey
closed the door.

The mother was the first to meet him. Her stout arms were outstretched,
while her face beamed with pride, and her eyes were filled with tears
of joy.

"My dear, dear boy," she exclaimed, smiling happily. Hervey made no
reciprocal movement. He merely bent his head down to her level and
allowed her to kiss his cheek. She hugged him forcefully to her ample
bosom, an embrace from which he quickly released himself. Her words
then poured forth in a swift, incoherent flow. "And to think I
believed that I should never see you again. And how you have grown and
filled out. Just like your father. And where have you been all this
time, and have you kept well? Look at the tan on his face, Prudence,
and the beard too. Why, I should hardly have known you, boy, if I
hadn't 'a known who it was. Why, you must be inches taller than your
father for sure--and he was a tall man. But you must tell me all about
yourself when the folks are all gone to-night. We are having a party,
you know. And isn't it nice?--you will be here for Prudence's
wedding----"

"Don't you think we'd better go into the parlour instead of standing
out here?" the girl interrupted practically. Her mother's rambling
remarks had shown no sign of cessation, and the tea was waiting.
"Hervey must be tired and hungry."

"Well, I must confess I am utterly worn out," the man replied with a
laugh. "Yes, mother, if tea is ready let's come along. We can talk
during the meal."

They passed into the parlour. As they seated themselves at the table,
Sarah Gurridge joined them from her place beside the stove. Hervey
had not noticed her presence when he first entered the room, and the
good school-ma'am, quietly day-dreaming, had barely awakened to the
fact of his coming. Now she, too, joined in the enthusiasm of the
moment.

"Ah, Hervey," she said, with that complacent air of proprietorship
which our early preceptors invariably assume, "you haven't forgotten
me, I know.

       'Though the tempest of life will oft shut out the past,
       The thoughts of our school-days remain to the last.'"

"Glad to see you, Mrs. Gurridge. No, I haven't forgotten you," the man
replied.

A slight pause followed. The women-folk had so much to say that they
hardly knew where to begin. That trifling hesitation might have been
accounted for by this fact. Or it might have been that Hervey was less
overjoyed at his home-coming than were his mother and sister.

Prudence was the first to speak.

"Funny that I should have set a place more than I intended at the
tea-table," she said, "and funnier still that when I found out what
I'd done I didn't remove the plate and things. And now you turn up."
She laughed joyously.

Sarah Gurridge looked over in the girl's direction and shook an
admonitory forefinger at her.

"Mr. Grey, my dear--you were thinking of Mr. Grey, in spite of your
lover's tiff."

"Who did you say?" asked Hervey, with a quick glance at Prudence.

"Leslie Grey," said his mother, before the old school-ma'am could
reply. "Didn't our Prudence tell you when she wrote? He's the man
she's going to marry. I must say he's not the man I should have set
on for her; but she's got her own ploughing to seed, and I'm not the
one to say her 'nay' when she chooses her man."

Hervey busied himself with his food, nor did he look up when he
spoke.

"That was Grey, I s'pose, I saw riding away as I came up? Good,
square-set chunk of a man."

"Yes, he left just before you came," said Prudence. "But never mind
about him, brother. Tell us about yourself. Have you made a fortune?"

"For sure, he must," said their mother, gazing with round, proud eyes
upon her boy, "for how else came he to travel from California to here,
just to set his eyes on us and see a slip of a girl take to herself a
husband? My, but it's a great journey for a boy to take."

"Nothing to what I've done in my time," replied Hervey. "Besides,
mother, I've got further to go yet. And as for sister Prudence's
marriage, I'm afraid I can't stay for that."

"Not stay?" exclaimed his mother.

"Do you mean it?" asked his sister incredulously.

Sarah Gurridge contented herself with looking her dismay.

"You see, it's like this," said Hervey. He had an uncomfortable habit
of keeping his eyes fixed upon the table, only just permitting himself
occasional swift upward glances over the other folk's heads. "When I
got your letter, Prudence, I was just preparing to come up from Los
Mares to go and see a big fruit-grower at Niagara. The truth is that
my fruit farm is a failure and I am trying to sell it."

"My poor boy!" exclaimed his mother; "and you never told me. But
there, you were always as proud as proud, and never would let me help
you. Your poor father was just the same; when things went wrong he
wouldn't own up to any one. I remember how we lost sixty acres of
forty-bushel, No. 1 wheat with an August frost. I never learned it
till we'd taken in the finest crop in the district at the next
harvesting. But you didn't put all your savings into fruit?"

"I'm afraid I did, mother, worse luck."

"All you made up at the Yukon goldfields?" asked Prudence, alarm in
her voice.

"Every cent."

There followed a dead silence.

"Then----" Mrs. Malling could get no further.

"I'm broke--dead broke. And I'm going East to sell my land to pay off
my debts. I've had an offer for it, and I'm going to clinch the deal
quick. Say, I just came along here to see you, and I'm going on at
once. I only got into Winnipeg yesterday. I rode out without delay,
but struck the Ainsley trail, or I should have been here sooner. Now,
see here, mother," Hervey went on, as a woe-begone expression closely
verging on tears came into the old dame's eyes, "it's no use crying
over this business. What's done is done. I'm going to get clear of my
farm first, and maybe afterwards I'll come here again and we'll talk
things over a bit."

Prudence sat staring at her brother, but Hervey avoided her gaze. Mrs.
Malling was too heartbroken to speak yet. Her weather-tanned face had
blanched as much as it was possible for it to do. Her boy had gone
out upon the world to seek his fortune, and he had succeeded in
establishing himself, he had written and told her. He had found gold
in quantities in the Yukon valley, and now--now, at last, he had
failed. The shock had for the moment crushed her; her boy, her proud
independent boy, as she had been wont to consider him, had failed. She
did not ask herself, or him, the reason of his failure. Such failure,
she felt, must be through no fault of his, but the result of adverse
circumstances.

She never thought of the gambling-table. She never thought of reckless
living. Such things could not enter her simple mind and be in any way
associated with her boy. Hephzibah Malling loved her son; to her he
was the king who could do no wrong. She continued to gaze blankly in
the man's direction.

Sarah Gurridge alone of the trio allowed herself sidelong, speculative
glances at the man's face. She had seen the furtive overhead glances;
the steady avoidance of the loving observation of his womankind. She
had known Hervey as well, and perhaps just a shade better than his
mother and sister had; and long since, in his childish school-days,
she had detected a lurking weakness in an otherwise good character.
She wondered now if he had lived to outgrow that juvenile trait, or
had it grown with him, gaining strength as the greater passions of
manhood developed?

After the first shock of Hervey's announcement had passed, Mrs.
Malling sought refuge in the consolation of her own ability to help
her son. He must never know want, or suffer the least privation. She
could and would give him everything he needed. Besides, after all, she
argued with womanly feeling, now perhaps she could persuade him to
look after the farm for her; to stay by her side. He should be in no
way dependent. She would install him as manager at a comfortable
salary. The idea pleased her beyond measure, and it was with
difficulty she could keep herself from at once putting her proposal
into words. However, by a great effort, she checked her enthusiasm.

"Then when do you think of going East?" she asked, with some
trepidation. "You won't go at once, sure."

"Yes, I must go at once," Hervey replied promptly. "That is, to-morrow
morning."

"Then you will stay to-night," said Prudence.

"Yes; but only to get a good long sleep and rest my horse. I'm
thoroughly worn out. I've been in saddle since early this morning."

"Have you sent your horse round to the barn?" asked Sarah Gurridge.

"Well, no. He's hitched to the fence." The observing Sarah had been
sure of it.

Prudence rose from her seat and called out to the hired girl--

"Mary, send out and tell Andy to take the horse round to the barn.
He's hitched to the fence." Then she came back. "You'll join our party
to-night, of course."

"Hoity, girl, of course not," said their mother. "How's the lad going
to get rest gallivanting with a lot of clowns who can only talk of
'bowers' and 'jokers'? You think of nothing but 'how-de-doin' with
your neighbours since you're going to be married. Things were
different in my day. I'll look after Hervey," she continued, turning
to her son. "You shall have a good night, lad, or my name's not
Hephzibah Malling. Maybe you'll tell me by and by what you'd like to
do."

"That's right, mother," replied Hervey, with an air of relief. "You
understand what it is for a man to need rest. I'll just hang around
till the folks come, and then sneak off to bed. You don't mind, Prue,
do you? I'm dead beat, and I want to leave at daybreak."

"Mind?" answered Prudence; "certainly not, Hervey. I should have liked
you to meet Mr. Grey, but you must get your rest."

"Sure," added her mother, "and as for meeting Mr. Grey--well, your
brother won't sicken for want of seeing him, I'll wager. Come along,
Hervey, we'll go to the kitchen; Prudence has to get her best parlour
ready for these chattering noodles. And, miss," turning to her
daughter with an expression of pretended severity, "don't forget that
I've got a batch o' layer cakes in the ice-box, and you've not told me
what you want in the way of drinks. La, young folks never think of the
comforts. I'm sure I don't know what you'll do without your mother,
girl. Some o' these times your carelessness will get your parties made
a laughing-stock of. Come along, Hervey."

The old lady bustled out, bearing her son off in triumph to the
kitchen. She was quite happy again now. Her scheme for her son's
welfare had shut out all thought of his bad news. Most women are like
this; the joy of giving to their own is perhaps the greatest joy in
the life of a mother.

In the hall they met the flying, agitated figure of the hired girl,
Mary.

"Oh, please, 'm, there's such a racket going on by the barn. There's
Andy an' the two dogs fighting with a great, strange, three-legged dog
wot looks like a wolf. They're that mussed up that I don't know, I'm
sure."

"It's that brute Neche of mine," said Hervey, with an imprecation.
"It's all right, girl; I'll go."

Hervey rushed out to the barn. The great three-legged savage was in
the midst of a fierce scrimmage. Two farm dogs were attacking him.
They were both half-bred sheep-dogs. One was making futile attempts to
get a hold upon the stranger, and Neche was shaking the other as a
terrier would shake a rat. And Andy, the choreman, was lambasting the
intruder with the business end of a two-tine hay-fork, and shouting
frightful curses at him in a strong American accent.

As Hervey came upon the scene, Neche hurled his victim from him,
either dead or dying, for the dog lay quite still where it fell upon
the snow. Then, impervious to the onslaught of the choreman, he seized
the other dog.

"Come out of it, Andy," cried Hervey.

The hired man ceased his efforts at once, glad to be done with the
savage. Hervey then ran up to the infuriated husky, and dealt him two
or three terrible kicks.

The dog turned round instantly. His fangs were dripping with blood,
and he snarled fiercely, his baleful eyes glowing with ferocity. But
he slunk off when he recognized his assailant, allowing the second
dog to run for its life, howling with canine fear.

Andy went over to the dog that was stretched upon the snow.

"Guess 'e's done, boss," he said, looking up at Hervey as the latter
came over to his side. "Say, that's about the slickest scrapper round
these parts. Gee-whizz, 'e went fur me like the tail end o' a cyclone
when I took your plug to the barn. It was they curs that kind o'
distracted his attention. Mebbe thar's more wolf nor dog in him.
Mebbe, I sez."

"Yes, he's a devil-tempered husky," said Hervey. "I'll have to shoot
him one of these days."

"Wa'al, I do 'lows that it's a mercy 'e ain't got no more'n three
shanks. Mackinaw! but he's handy."

The four women had watched the scene from the kitchen door. Hervey
came over to where they were standing.

"I'm sorry, mother," he said. "Neche has killed one of your dogs. He's
a fiend for fighting. I've a good mind to shoot him now."

"No, don't go for to do that," said his mother. "We oughtn't to have
sent Andy to take your horse. I expect the beast thought he was doing
right."

"He's a brute. Curse him!"

Prudence said nothing. Now she moved a little away from the house and
talked to the dog. He was placidly, and with no show of penitence,
lying down and licking a laceration on one of his front legs. He
occasionally shook his great head, and stained the snow with the blood
which dripped from his fierce-looking ears. He paused in his operation
at the sound of the girl's voice, and looked up. Her tone was gentle
and caressing. Hervey suddenly called to her.

"Don't go near him. He's as treacherous as a dogone Indian."

"Come back," called out her mother.

The girl paid no attention. She called again, and patted her blue
apron encouragingly. The animal rose slowly to his feet, looked
dubiously in her direction, then, without any display of enthusiasm,
came slowly towards her. His limp added to his wicked aspect, but he
came, nor did he stop until his head was resting against her dress,
and her hand was caressing his great back. The huge creature seemed to
appreciate the girl's attitude, for he made no attempt to move away.
It is probable that this was the first caress the dog had ever known
in all his savage life.

Hervey looked on and scratched his beard thoughtfully, but he said
nothing more. Mrs. Malling went back to the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge
alone had anything to say.

"Poor creature," she observed, in tones of deep pity. "I wonder how he
lost his foot. Is he always fighting? A poor companion, I should
say."

Hervey laughed unpleasantly.

"Oh, he's not so bad. He's savage, and all that But he's a good
friend."

"Ah, and a deadly enemy. I suppose he's very fond of you. He lets you
kick him," she added significantly.

"I hardly know--and I must say I don't much care--what his feelings
are towards me. Yes, he lets me kick him." Then, after a pause, "But
I think he really hates me."

And Hervey turned abruptly and went back into the kitchen. He
preferred the more pleasant atmosphere of his mother's adulation to
the serious reflections of Sarah Gurridge.



CHAPTER VI

THE PROGRESSIVE EUCHRE PARTY


The Mallings always had a good gathering at their card parties. Such
form of entertainment and dances were the chief winter amusement of
these prairie-bred folks. A twenty-mile drive in a box-sleigh, clad in
furs, buried beneath heavy fur robes, and reclining on a deep bedding
of sweet-smelling hay, in lieu of seats, made the journey as
comfortable to such people as would the more luxurious brougham to the
wealthy citizen of civilization. There was little thought of display
amongst the farmers of Manitoba. When they went to a party their
primary object was enjoyment, and they generally contrived to obtain
their desire at these gatherings. Journeys were chiefly taken in
parties; and the amount of snugness obtained in the bottom of a
box-sleigh would be surprising to those without such experience. There
was nothing _blasé_ about the simple country folk. A hard day's work
was nothing to them. They would follow it up by an evening's enjoyment
with the keenest appreciation; and they knew how to revel with the
best.

The first to arrive at Loon Dyke Farm were the Furrers. Daisy,
Fortune, and Rachel, three girls of round proportions, all dressed
alike, and of age ranging in the region of twenty. They spoke well and
frequently; and their dancing eyes and ready laugh indicated spirits
at concert pitch. These three were great friends of Prudence, and were
loud in their admiration of her. Peter Furrer, their brother, was with
them; he was a red-faced boy of about seventeen, a giant of flesh, and
a pigmy of intellect--outside of farming operations. Mrs. Furrer
accompanied the party as chaperon--for even in the West chaperons are
recognized as useful adjuncts, and, besides, enjoyment is not always a
question of age.

Following closely on the heels of the Furrers came old Gleichen and
his two sons, Tim and Harry. Gleichen was a well-to-do "mixed"
farmer--a widower who was looking out for a partner as staid and
robust as himself. His two sons were less of the prairie than their
father, by reason of an education at St. John's University in
Winnipeg. Harry was an aspirant to Holy Orders, and already had charge
of a mission in the small neighbouring settlement of Lakeville. Tim
acted as foreman to his father's farm; a boy of enterprising ideas,
and who never hesitated to advocate to his steady-going parent the
advantage of devoting himself to stock-raising.

Others arrived in quick succession; a truly agricultural gathering.
Amongst the latest of the early arrivals were the Ganthorns; mother,
son, and daughter, pretentious folk of considerable means, and
recently imported from the Old Country.

By half-past seven everybody had arrived with the exception of George
Iredale and Leslie Grey. The fun began from the very first.

The dining-table had disappeared from the parlour, as had the rugs
from the floor, and somehow a layer of white wax, like an incipient
fall of snow, lay invitingly on the bare white pine boarding. And,
too, it seemed only natural that the moment she came into the room
ready for the fray, Daisy Furrer should make a rush for the ancient
piano, and tinkle out with fair execution the strains of an old waltz.
Her efforts broke up any sign of constraint; everybody knew everybody
else, so they danced. This was the beginning; cards would come later.

They could all dance, and right well, too. Faces devoid of the
absorbing properties of powder quickly shone with the exercise;
complexions innocent of all trace of pigments and the toilet arts
glowed with a healthy hue and beamed with perfect happiness. There
could be no doubt that Prudence and her mother knew their world as
well as any hostess could wish. And it was all so easy; no formality,
few punctilios to observe--just free-and-easy good-fellowship.

Mrs. Malling emerged from the region of the kitchen. She was a little
heated with her exertions, and a stray wisp or two of grey hair
escaping from beneath her quaint lace cap testified to her culinary
exertions. She had been stooping at her ovens regardless of her
appearance. She found her daughter standing beside the door of the
parlour engaged in a desultory conversation with Peter Furrer.
Prudence hailed her mother with an air of relief, and the monumental
Peter moved heavily away.

"Oh, mother dear, it's too bad of you," exclaimed the girl, gazing at
her critically. "And after all the trouble I took with your cap! Look
at it now. It's all on one side, and your hair is sticking out
like--like--Timothy grass. Stand still while I fix it."

The girl's deft fingers soon arranged her mother afresh, the old lady
protesting all the while, but submitting patiently to the operation.

"There, there; you children think of nothing but pushing and patting
and tittivating. La, but one 'ud think I was going to sit down at
table with a King or a Minister of the Church. Nobody's going to look
at me, child--until the victuals come on. Besides, what does it matter
with neighbours? Look at old Gleichen over there, bowing and scraping
to Mrs. Ganthorn; one would think it wasn't his way to do nothing
else. He's less elaborate when he's trailing after his plough. My, but
I can't abide such pretending. Guess some folks think women are blind.
And where's George Iredale? I don't see him. Now there'd be some
excuse for his doing the grand. He's a gentleman born and bred."

"Ah, yes, mother, we all know your weakness for Mr. Iredale," replied
Prudence, with an affectionate finishing pat to the grey old head.
"But then he just wouldn't 'bow and scrape,' as you call it, to Mrs.
Ganthorn or anybody else. He's not the sort for that kind of thing. He
hasn't come yet. I'll bring him to you at once, dear, when he
arrives," she finished up with a laugh.

"You're a saucy hussy," her mother returned, with a chuckle. Then:
"But I'd have taken to him as a son. Girls never learn anything
now-a-days until they're married to the man they fancy."

"Nothing like personal experience, lady mother. Did you ask any one's
advice when you married father?"

"That I didn't for sure, child, but it was different. Your father,
Silas, wasn't the man to be put off with any notions. He just said he
was going to marry me--and he did marry me. I was all sort of swept
off my feet."

"But still you chose him yourself," persisted the girl, laughing.

"Well, maybe I did, child, maybe I did."

"And _you_ didn't regret your own choice, mother; so why should I?"

"Ah, it was different with me--quite different. Ah, there's some one
coming in." Hephzibah Malling turned as she spoke, glad to be able to
change the subject. The front door was opened, and a fur-clad figure
entered. "It's George Iredale," she went on, as the man removed his
cap and displayed a crown of dark-brown hair, tinged here and there
with grey, a broad high forehead and a pair of serious eyes.

"Come along, George." Mrs. Malling bustled forward, followed by her
daughter. "I thought you couldn't get, maybe. The folks are all
dancing and dallying. You must come into the kitchen first and have
something warm. It's a cold night."

"I meant to come earlier," replied the new arrival, in a deep, quiet
voice. "Unfortunately, just as I was going to start, word was brought
in to me that a suspicious-looking horseman was hovering round. You
see my place is so isolated that any arrival has to be inquired into.
There are so many horse-thieves and other dangerous characters about
that I have to be careful. Well, I rode out to ascertain who the
intruder was, but I lost him. That delayed me. How are you, and
Prudence too? Why, it's ages since I've seen either of you. Yes,
something hot is always welcome after a long winter's ride."

George Iredale had divested himself of his coat and over-shoes, and
now followed his hostess to the kitchen. He was a man of considerable
inches, being little short of six feet in height. He was powerfully
built, although his clothes disguised the fact to a large extent, and
his height made him look even slim. He had a strong, keen, plain face
that was very large-featured, and would undoubtedly have been
downright ugly but for an expression of kindly patience, not unmixed
with a suspicion of amused tolerance. It was the face of a man in whom
women like to place confidence, and with whom men never attempt to
take liberties. He had, too, a charm of manner unusual in men living
the rough life of the prairie.

The tinkling strains of the waltz had ceased, and Prudence went back
to the parlour. She felt that it was high time to set the tables for
"progressive euchre." It was past eight and Grey had not turned up.
She began to think he intended carrying out his threat of staying
away. Well, if he chose to do so he could. She wouldn't ask him to do
otherwise. She felt unhappy about him in spite of her brave thoughts.

Her announcement of cards was hailed with delight, and the guests
departed with a rush to search the house for a sufficient number of
small tables to cope with the requirements of the game.

In the kitchen George Iredale was slowly sipping a steaming glass of
rye whisky toddy. He was seated in a rigid, high-backed arm-chair,
well away from the huge cook-stove, at which Hephzibah Malling was
presiding. Many kettles and saucepans stood steaming upon the black
iron top, and the occasional opening and shutting of the ovens told of
dainties which needed the old farm-wife's most watchful care. Mrs.
Malling's occupation, however, did not interrupt her flow of
conversation. George Iredale was a great favourite of hers.

"He's like his poor father in some things," she was saying, as she
lifted a batch of small biscuits out of the oven and moved towards the
ice-box with them. "He never squealed about his misfortune to me. Not
one letter did I get asking for help. He's proud, is Hervey. And now I
don't know, I'm sure."

She paused with her hand on the open door of the refrigerator and
looked back into the man's face.

"Did he tell you any details of his failure? What was responsible for
it?" Iredale asked, poising his glass on one of the unyielding arms of
his chair.

"No, that he didn't, not even that," in a tone of pride. "He just
said he'd failed. That he was 'broke.' He's too knocked up with
travelling--he's come from Winnipeg right here--or you should hear it
from his own lips. He never blamed no one."

"Ah--and you are going to help him, Mrs. Malling. What are you going
to do?"

"That's where I'm fixed some. Money he can have--all he wants."

Iredale shook his head gravely.

"Bad policy, Mrs. Malling--until you know all the facts."

"What, my own flesh and blood, too? Well, there----"

"I mean nothing derogatory to your boy, believe me," interrupted
Iredale, as he noted the heightened colour of face and the angry
sparkle that flashed in the good dame's eyes "I simply mean that it is
useless to throw good money after bad. Fruit farming is a lottery in
which the prizes go to those who take the most tickets. In other
words, it is a question of acreage. A small man may lose his crop
through blight, drought, a hundred causes. The larger man has a better
chance by reason of the extent of his crop. Now I should take it, you
could do better for your son by obtaining all the facts, sorting them
out and then deciding what to do. My experience prompts me to suggest
another business. Why not the farm?"

All signs of resentment had left Mrs. Malling's face. She deposited
her biscuits and returned to the stove, standing before her guest with
her hands buried deep in her apron pockets and a delighted smile on
her face.

"That's just what I thought at once," she said. "You're real smart,
George; why not the farm? I says that to myself right off. I couldn't
do better, I know, but there's drawbacks. Yes, drawbacks. Hervey isn't
much for the petticoats--meaning his own folks. He's not one to play
second fiddle, so to speak. Now while I live the farm is mine, and I
learned my business from one who could teach me--my Silas. Now I'd
make Hervey my foreman and give him a good wage. He'd have all he
wants, but he'd have to be _my_ foreman." The old lady shook her head
dubiously.

"And you think Hervey wouldn't accept a subordinate position?"

"He's that proud. Just like my poor Silas," murmured the mother.

"Then he's a fool. But you try him," Iredale said dryly.

"Do you think he might?"

"You never can tell."

"I wonder now if you--yes, I'll ask him."

"Offer it to him, you mean." George Iredale smiled quietly.

"Yes, offer it to him," the old lady corrected herself thoughtfully.
"But I'm forgetting my stewing oysters, and Mistress Prudence will get
going on--for she had them sent up all the way from St. John's--if
they're burned." She turned to one of the kettles and began stirring
at once. "Hervey is coming back after he's been to Niagara, and I'll
talk to him then. I wish you could have seen him before he went, but
he's abed."

"Never mind, there's time enough when he comes back. Ah, Prudence, how
is the euchre 'progressing'?" Iredale turned as the girl came
hurriedly in.

"Oh, here you are. You two gossiping as usual. Mother, it's too bad of
you to rob me of my guests. But I came to ask for more lemonade."

"Dip it out of yonder kettle, child. And you can take George off at
once. It's high time he got at the cards."

"He's too late, the game is nearly over. He'll have to sit out with
Leslie. He, also, was too late. Come along, Mr. Iredale,"--she had
filled the lemonade pitcher,--"and, mother, when shall you be ready
with the supper? Remember, you've got to come and give out the prizes
to the winners before that."

"Also to the losers," put in Iredale.

"Yes, they must all have prizes. What time, mother?"

"In an hour. And be off, the pair of you. Mary! Mary!" the old lady
called out, moving towards the summer kitchen. "Bustle about, girl,
and count down the plates from the dresser. La, look at you," she went
on, as the hired girl came running in; "where's the cap I gave you?
And for good-a-mussey's sake go and scrub your hands. My, but girls be
jades."

Iredale and Prudence went off to the parlour. The game was nearly
over, and the guests were laughing and chattering noisily. The
excitement was intense. Leslie Grey sat aloof. He was engaged in a
pretence at conversation with Sarah Gurridge, but, to judge by the
expression of his face, his temper was still sulky or his thoughts
were far away. The moment Iredale entered the room Grey's face lit up
with something like interest.

Prudence, accompanying the rancher, was quick to observe the change.
She had been prepared for something of the sort, although the reason
she assigned to his interest was very wide of the mark. She smiled to
herself as she turned to reply to something Iredale had just said.

The evening passed in boisterous jollification. And after the prizes
had been awarded supper was served. A solid supper, just such a repast
as these people could and did appreciate. The delicacies Mrs. Malling
offered to her guests were something to be remembered. She spared no
pains, and even her enemies, if she had any, which is doubtful,
admitted that she could cook; such an admission amongst the prairie
folks was a testimonial of the highest order.

After supper George Iredale, whose quiet manner and serious face
debarred him from the revels of the younger men, withdrew to a small
work-room which was usually set aside on these occasions for the use
of those who desired to smoke. Leslie Grey, who had been talking to
Mrs. Malling, and who had been watching for this opportunity, quickly
followed.

He fondly believed that Iredale came to the farm to thrust his
attentions upon Prudence. This was exasperating enough in itself, but
when Grey, in his righteous indignation, thought of other matters
pertaining to the owner of Lonely Ranch, his indignation rose to
boiling pitch. He meant to have it out with him to-night.

Iredale had already adjusted himself into a comfortable chintz-covered
arm-chair when Grey arrived upon the scene. A great briar pipe hung
from the corner of his strong, decided mouth, and he was smoking
thoughtfully.

Grey moved briskly to another chair and flung himself into its depths
with little regard for its age. Nor did he attempt to smoke. His mind
was too active and disturbed for anything so calm and soothing.

His first words indicated the condition of his mind.

"Kicking up a racket in there," he said jerkily, indicating the
parlour. "Can't stand such a noise when I've got a lot to think
about."

"No." Iredale nodded his head and spoke without removing the pipe from
his mouth.

"We are to be married to-morrow week--Prudence and I."

"So I've been told. I congratulate you."

Iredale looked at his companion with grave eyes. They were quite alone
in the room. He had met Grey frequently and had learned to understand
his ways and to know his bull-headed methods. Now he quietly waited.
He had a shrewd suspicion that the man had something unpleasant to
say. Unconsciously his teeth closed tighter upon his pipe.

Grey raised his eyebrows.

"Thanks. I hardly expected it."

"And why not?" Iredale was smiling, his grey eyes had a curious look
in them--something between quizzical amusement and surprise.

"Oh, I don't know," the other retorted with a shrug. "There is no
telling how some men will take these things."

Iredale removed his pipe, and pressed the ash down with his little
finger. The operation required the momentary lowering of his eyes from
his companion's face.

"I don't think I understand you."

Grey laughed unpleasantly.

"There's not much need of comprehension. If two men run after the same
girl and one succeeds where the other fails, the successful suitor
doesn't usually expect congratulations from his unfortunate rival."

"Supposing such to be the case in point," Iredale replied quietly, but
with an ominous lowering of his eyelids. "Mark you, I only say
'supposing.' I admit nothing--to you. The less successful man may
surely be honest enough, and man enough, to wish his rival well. I
have known such cases among--men."

Grey twisted himself round in his chair and assumed a truculent
attitude.

"Notwithstanding the fact that the rival in question never loses an
opportunity of seeking out the particular girl, and continuing his
attentions after she is engaged to the other? That may be the way
among--men. But not honest men."

The expression of Iredale's face remained quite calm. Only his
eyes--keen, direct-gazing eyes--lit up with an angry sparkle. He drew
a little more rapidly at his pipe, perhaps, but he spoke quietly
still. He quite understood that Grey intended forcing a quarrel upon
him.

"I shall not pretend to misunderstand you, Grey. Your manner puts that
out of the question. You are unwarrantably accusing me of a most
ungentlemanly proceeding. Such an accusation being made by any
one--what shall I say?--more responsible than you, I should take
considerable notice of; as it is, it is hardly worth my consideration.
You are at best a blunderer. I should pause before I replied had I the
misfortune to be you, and try to recollect where you are. If you wish
to quarrel there is time and place for so doing."

Iredale's words stung Leslie Grey to the quick. His irresponsible
temper fairly jumped within him, his eyes danced with rage, and he
could scarcely find words to express himself.

"You may sneer as much as you like," he at length blurted out, "but
you cannot deny that your visits to this house are paid with the
object of addressing my affianced wife. You are right when you
describe such conduct as ungentlemanly. You are no gentleman! But I do
not suppose that the man who owns Lonely Ranch will feel the sting of
being considered a--a--cad or anything else."

"Stop!" Iredale was roused, and there was no mistaking the set of his
square jaw and the compression between his brows. "You have gone a
step too far. You shall apologize or----"

"Stop--eh? You may well demand that I should--stop, Mr. George
Iredale. Were I to go on you would have a distinctly bad time of it.
But my present consideration is not with the concerns of Lonely Ranch,
but only with your visits here, which shall cease from to-day out. And
as for apologizing for anything I have said, I'll see you damned
first."

There was a pause; a breathless pause. The two men confronted each
other, both held calm by a strength which a moment ago would have
seemed impossible in at least one of them.

Grey's face worked painfully with suppressed excitement, but he
gripped himself. George Iredale was calm under the effort of swift
thought. He was the first to break the silence, and he did so in a
voice well modulated and under perfect control. But the mouthpiece of
his pipe was nearly bitten through.

"Now I shall be glad if you will go on. You apparently have further
charges to make against me. I hardly know whether I am in the presence
of a madman or a fool. One or the other, I am sure. You may as well
make your charges at once. You will certainly answer for all you have
already said, so make the list of your accusations complete
before----"

"You fool!" hissed Grey, goaded to the last extremity of patience. His
headlong nature could not long endure restraint. Now his words came
with a blind rush.

"Do you think I'd speak without being sure of my ground? Do you think,
because other men who have occupied the position which is mine at
Ainsley have been blind, that I am? Lonely Ranch; a fitting title for
your place," with a sneer. "Lonely! in neighbourhood, yes, but not as
regards its owner. You are wealthy, probably the wealthiest man in the
province of Manitoba; why, that alone should have been sufficient to
set the hounds of the law on your trail. I know the secret of Lonely
Ranch. I have watched day after day the notice you have inserted in
the _Free Press_--'Yellow booming--slump in Grey.' Nor have I rested
until I discovered your secret. I shall make no charge here beyond
what I have said, but----"

He suddenly broke off, awakening from his blind rage to the fact of
what he was doing. His mouth shut like a trap, and beads of
perspiration broke out upon his forehead. His eyes lowered before the
ironical gaze of his companion. Thus he sat for a moment a prey to
futile regrets. His anger had undone him. The sound of a short laugh
fell upon his ears, and, as though drawn by a magnet, his eyes were
once more turned on the face of the rancher.

"I was not sure which it was," said Iredale dryly; "whether you were a
fool or a madman. Now I know. I had hoped that it was madness. There
is hope for a madman, but none for a fool. Thank you, Grey, for the
information you have supplied me with. Your folly has defeated your
ends. Remember this. You will never be able to use the 'Secret'--as
you are pleased to call it--of Lonely Ranch. I will take good care of
that. And now, as I hear sounds of people running up-stairs, we will
postpone further discussion. This interview has been prolonged
sufficiently--more than sufficiently for you."

Iredale rose from his chair; to all appearance he was quite
undisturbed. Grey's condition was exactly the reverse.

He, too, rose from his seat. There was a sound of some one approaching
the door. Grey stepped up to his companion and put his mouth close to
his ear.

"Don't forget that you cannot conceal the traces that are round
your--ranch. Traces which are unmistakable to those who have an
inkling of the truth."

"No, but I can take steps which will effectually nullify the exertions
you have been put to. Remember you said I was wealthy. I am tired of
your stupid long-winded talk."

Iredale turned away with a movement of disgust and irritation just as
the door opened and Prudence came in.

"Ah, here you are, you two. I have been wondering where you were all
this time. Do you know the people are going home?"

The girl ceased speaking abruptly and looked keenly at the two men
before her. Iredale was smiling; Grey was gazing down at the stove,
and apparently not listening to her.

Prudence saw that something was wrong, but she had no suspicion of the
truth. She wondered; then she delivered a message she had brought and
dismissed Iredale.

"Mother wants to see you, Mr. Iredale; something about Hervey."

"I will go to her at once." And the owner of Lonely Ranch passed out
of the room.

The moment the door closed behind him the girl turned anxiously to her
lover.

"What is it, Leslie dear? You are not angry with me still?"

The man laughed mirthlessly.

"Angry? No, child. I wonder if I--no, better not. It's time to be off.
Give me a kiss, and I'll say good-night."



CHAPTER VII

LESLIE GREY FULFILS HIS DESTINY


It was early morning. Early even for the staff of the Rodney House
Hotel. And Leslie Grey was about to breakfast. The solitary waitress
the hotel boasted was laying the tables for the eight-o'clock meal.
The room had not yet assumed the spick-and-span appearance which it
would wear later on. There was a suggestion of last night's supper
about the atmosphere; and the girl, too, who moved swiftly here and
there arranging the tables, was still clad in her early morning,
frowsy print dress, and her hair showed signs of having been hastily
adjusted without the aid of a looking-glass. A sight of her suggested
an abrupt rising at the latest possible moment.

From the kitchen beyond a savoury odour of steak and coffee penetrated
the green baize swing-door which stood at one end of the room.

"Is that steak nearly ready?" asked Grey irritably, as the girl
flicked some crumbs from the opposite end of his table on to the
floor, with that deft flourish of a dirty napkin which waitresses
usually obtain.

She paused in her work, and her hand went up consciously to the screws
of paper which adorned her front hair.

"Yessir, it'll be along right now."

Then she continued to flick the table in other directions.

"I ordered breakfast for six o'clock. This is the slackest place I
ever knew. I shall talk to Morton and see if things can't be altered.
Just go and rouse that cook up. I've got to make Leonville before
two."

The girl gave a final angry flick at an imaginary crumb and flounced
off in the direction of the kitchen. The next moment her shrill voice
was heard addressing the cook.

"Mr. Grey wants his breakfast--sharp, Molly. Dish it up. If it ain't
done it's his look-out. There's no pleasing some folks. I s'pose Mr.
Chillingwood'll be along d'rectly. Better put something on for him or
there'll be a row. What's that--steak? That ain't no good for Mr.
Robb. He wants pork chops. He never eats anything else for breakfast.
Says he's used to pork."

The girl returned to the breakfast room bearing Grey's steak and some
potatoes. Coffee followed quickly, and the officer attacked his
victuals hungrily. Then Robb Chillingwood appeared.

Leslie Grey was about to rate the girl for her remarks to the cook,
but Robb interrupted him.

"Well, how does the bridegroom feel?" he asked cheerily.

"Shut up!"

"What's the matter? Cranky on your wedding morning?" pursued the town
clerk irrepressibly.

"I wish to goodness you'd keep your mouth shut. Why don't you go and
proclaim my affairs from the steps of your beastly Town Hall?" Grey
glanced meaningly in the direction of the waitress standing in
open-mouthed astonishment beside one of the tables.

Robb laughed and his eyes twinkled mischievously. He turned sharply on
the girl.

"Why, didn't you know that Mr. Grey was going to be married to-day?"
he asked, with assumed solemnity. "Well, I'm blessed," as the girl
shook her head and giggled. "You neglect your duty, Nellie, my girl.
What are you here for but to 'sling hash' and learn all the gossip and
scandal concerning the boarders? Yes, Mr. Grey is going to get married
to-day, and I--I am to be his best man. Now be off, and fetch my
'mutton'--which is pork."

The girl ran off to do as she was bid, and also to convey the news to
her friends in the kitchen. Robb sat down beside his companion and
chuckled softly as he gazed at Grey's ill-humoured face, and listened
to the shrieks of laughter which were borne on the atmosphere of
cooking from beyond the baize door.

Grey choked down his indignation. For once he understood that protest
would not serve him. Everything about his marriage had been kept quiet
in Ainsley up till now, not because there was any need for it, but
Robb had acceded to his expressed wishes. The latter, however, felt
himself in no way bound to keep silence on this, the eventful day.
Robb attacked some toast as a preliminary, while the other devoured
his steak. Then Grey looked up from his plate. His face had cleared;
his ill-humour had been replaced by a look of keen earnestness.

"It's a beastly nuisance that this is my wedding day," he began. "Yes,
I mean it," as Robb looked up in horrified astonishment. "I don't
mean anything derogatory to anybody. I just state an obvious fact. You
would understand if you knew all."

"But, damn it, man, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying
such a thing. You are marrying one of the best and sweetest girls in
Southern Manitoba, and yet--why, it's enough to choke a man off his
feed." Chillingwood was angry.

"Don't be a fool. You haven't many brains, I know, but use the few you
possess now, and listen to me. A week ago, yes; a week hence, yes. But
for the next three days I have some dangerous work on hand that must
be done. Work of my department."

"Ah, dirty work, I suppose, or there'd be no 'must' or 'danger' about
it."

Grey shrugged.

"Call it what you like. Since you've left the service I notice you
look at things differently," he said. "Anyway, it's good enough for me
to be determined to see it through in spite of my wedding. Damn it,
there's always some obstacle or other cropping up at inopportune
moments in my life. However--I wish I knew whether I could still trust
you to do something for me. It would simplify matters considerably."

Robb looked serious. He might not be possessed of many brains, as Grey
had suggested--although Grey's opinions were generally warped--but he
thought well before he replied. And when he spoke he showed
considerable decision and foresight.

"You can trust me all right enough if the matter is clean and honest.
I'll do nothing dirty for you or anybody else. I've seen too much."

"Oh, it's clean enough. I don't dirty my hands with dishonest
dealings. I simply do my duty."

"But your sense of duty is an exaggerated one--peculiar. I notice that
it takes the form of any practices which you consider will advance
your personal interests."

"It so happens that my 'personal interests' are synonymous with the
interests of those I serve. But all I require is the delivery of a
letter in Winnipeg, at a certain time on a given date. I can't trust
the post for a very particular reason, and as for the telegraph, that
wouldn't answer my purpose. I could employ a messenger, but that would
not do either--a disinterested messenger could be got at. You, I know,
couldn't be--er--influenced. If you fail me, then I must do it myself,
which means that I must leave my bride shortly after the ceremony
to-day, and not return to her until Friday, more than two days hence.
That's how the matter stands. I will pay all your expenses and give
you a substantial present to boot. Just for delivering a letter to the
chief of police in Winnipeg. I will go and write it at once if you
consent."

Robb shook his head doubtfully.

"I must know more than that. First, I must know, in confidence of
course, the object of that letter. And, secondly, who is to be the
victim of your machinations. Without these particulars you can count
me 'out.' I'll be no party to anything I might afterwards have cause
to regret."

"That settles it then," replied Grey resentfully. "I can't reveal the
name of my 'victim,' as you so graphically put it. You happen to know
him, I believe, and are on a friendly footing with him." He finished
up with a callous laugh.

Robb's eyes shone wickedly.

"By Jove, Grey, you've sunk pretty low in your efforts to regain your
lost position. I always knew that you hadn't a particle of feeling in
your whole body for any one but yourself, but I didn't think you'd
treat me to a taste of your rotten ways. Were it not for the sake of
Alice Gordon's chum, the girl you are going to marry, I wouldn't be
your best man. You have become utterly impossible, and, after to-day's
event, I wash my hands of you. Damn it, you're a skunk!"

Grey laughed loudly, but there was no mirth in his hilarity. It was a
heartless, nervous laugh.

"Easy, Robb, don't get on your high horse," he said presently. Then he
became silent, and a sigh escaped him. "I had to make the suggestion,"
he went on, after a while. "You are the only man I dared to trust.
Confound it, if you must have it, I'm sorry!" The apology came out
with a jerk; it seemed to have been literally wrung from him. "Try and
forget it, Robb," he went on, more quietly, "we've known each other
for so many years."

Robb was slightly mollified, but he was not likely to forget his
companion's proposition. He changed the subject.

"Talking of Winnipeg, you know I was up there on business the other
day. I had a bit of a shock while I was walking about the depôt
waiting for the train to start."

"Oh." Grey was not paying much attention; he was absorbed in his own
thoughts.

"Yes," Robb went on. "You remember Mr. Zachary Smith?"

His companion looked up with a violent start.

"Well, I guess. What of him? I'm not likely to forget him easily.
There is just one desire I have in life which dwarfs all others to
insignificance, and that is to stand face to face with Mr. Zachary
Smith," Grey finished up significantly.

"Ah! So I should suppose," Robb went on. "Those are my feelings to
a nicety. But I didn't quite realize my desire, and, besides, I
wasn't sure, anyhow. A man appeared, just for one moment, at the
booking-office door as I happened to pass it. He stared at me, and I
caught his eye. Then he beat a retreat before I had called his face
to mind--you see, his appearance was quite changed. A moment later
I remembered him, or thought I did, and gave chase. But I had lost
him, couldn't discover a trace of him, and nearly lost the train into
the bargain. Mind, I am not positive of the fellow's identity, but
I'd gamble a few dollars on the matter, anyway."

"Lord! I'd have missed fifty trains rather than have lost sight of
him. Just our luck," Grey exclaimed violently.

"Well, if he's in the district, we'll come across him again. Perhaps
you will have the next chance." Robb pushed his chair back.

"I hope so."

"It was he, right enough," Robb went on meditatively, his cheery face
puckered into an expression of perplexity. "He was well dressed, too,
in the garb of an ordinary citizen, and looked quite clean and
respectable. His face had filled out; but it was his eyes that fixed
me. You remember those two great, deep-sunken, cow-eyes of his----"
Robb broke off as he saw Grey start. "Why, what's up?"

Grey shook himself; then he gazed straight before him. Nor did he heed
his companion's question. A strongly-marked pucker appeared between
his eyebrows, and a look of uncertainty was upon his face. Robb again
urged him.

"You haven't seen him?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Grey.

"What do you mean?"

"I have just remembered something. I came across a--stranger the other
day. He was wrapped in furs, and I could only see his eyes. But those
eyes were distinctly familiar--'cow'-eyes, I think you said. I was
struck with their appearance at the time, but couldn't just realize
where I had seen eyes like 'em before." Then he went on reflectively:
"But no, it couldn't have been he. Ah----" He broke off and glanced in
the direction of the window as the jangle of sleigh-bells sounded
outside. "Here's our cutter. Come on."

Robb rose from his seat and brushed the crumbs from his trousers.
There came the sound of voices from the other side of the door.

"Some of the boys," said Robb, with a meaning smile. "It's early for
'em."

"I believe this is your doing," said Grey sulkily.

Robb nodded in the direction of the window. "You've got a team. This
is no 'one-horsed' affair."

The door opened suddenly and two men entered.

"Oh, here he is," said one, Charlie Trellis, the postmaster, with a
laugh. "Congratulate you, Grey, my friend. Double harness, eh? Tame
you down, my boy. Good thing, marriage--for taming a man."

"You're not looking your best," said the other, Jack Broad, the
telegraph operator. "Why, man, you look as though you were going to
your own funeral. Buck up! Come and have a 'Collins'; brace you up for
the ordeal."

"Go to the devil, both of you," said Grey ungraciously. "I don't swill
eye-openers all day like you, Jack Broad. Got something else to do."

"So it seems. But cheer up, man," replied Broad imperturbably, "it's
not as bad as having a tooth drawn."

"Nor half as unpleasant as a funeral," put in Trellis, with a grin.

Grey turned to Robb.

"Come on," he said abruptly. "Let's get. I shall say things in a
minute if I stay here."

"That 'ud be something new for you," called out Broad, as the two men
left the room.

The door closed on his remark and he turned to his companion.

"I'm sorry for the poor girl," he went on. "The most can-tankerous pig
I ever ran up against--is Grey."

"Yes," agreed the other; "I can't think how a decent fellow like
Robb Chillingwood can chum up with him. He's a surly clown--only
fit for such countries as the Yukon, where he comes from. He's not
particularly clever either. Yes," turning to the waitress, "the
usual. How would you like to be the bride?"

The girl shook her head.

"No, thanks. I like candy."

"Ah, not vinegar."

"Nor--nor--pigs."

Broad turned to the grey-headed postmaster with a loud guffaw.

"She seems to have sized Grey up pretty slick."

Outside in the hall the two men donned their furs and over-shoes.
Fortunately for Grey's peace of mind there was no one else about. The
bar-tender was sweeping the office out, but he did not pause in his
work. Outside the front door the livery-stable man was holding the
horses. Grey took his seat to drive, and wrapped the robes well about
him. It was a bitterly cold morning. Robb was just about to climb in
beside him when a ginger-headed man clad in a pea-jacket came running
from the direction of the Town Hall. He waved one arm vigorously,
clutching in his hand a piece of paper. Robb saw him first.

"Something for me, as sure as a gun. Hold on, Grey," he said. "It's
Sutton, the sheriff. I wonder what's up?"

The ginger-headed man came up breathlessly.

"Thought I was going to miss you, Chillingwood. A message from the
Mayor. 'Doc' Ridley sends word that the United States marshal has got
that horse-thief, Le Mar, over the other side. You'll have to make out
the papers for bringing him over. I've got to go and fetch him at
once."

"But, hang it, man, I can't do them now," exclaimed Robb.

"He's on leave of absence," put in Grey.

"Can't be helped. I'm sorry," said the sheriff.

"It's business, you know. Besides, it won't take you more than an
hour. I must get across to Verdon before noon or it'll be too late to
get the papers 'backed' there. Come on, man; you can get another
cutter and follow Grey up in an hour. You won't lose much time."

"Yes, and who's going to pay the damage?" said Robb, relinquishing his
hold on the cutter's rail.

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders.

"You'll have to stay," he said conclusively.

"I suppose so. Grey, I'm sorry."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," replied Grey coldly. "It's not your fault.
Well, good-bye. Don't bother to follow me up."

"Damn!" ejaculated the good-hearted Robb, as the cutter moved away.

"Going to get married, ain't he?" said the sheriff shortly, as Grey
departed.

"Yes." And the two men walked off in the direction of Chillingwood's
office.

And Grey drove off to his wedding alone. He was denied even the
support of the only man who, out of sheer good-heartedness, would have
accompanied him. The life of a man is more surely influenced by the
peculiarities of his own disposition than anything else. When a man
takes to himself a wife, it is naturally a time for the well-wishes of
his friends. This man set out alone. Not one God-speed went with him.
And yet he was not disturbed by the lack of sympathy. He looked at
life from an uncommon standpoint, measuring its scope for the
attainment of happiness by his own capacity for doing, not by any
association with his kind. He was one of those men who need no
friendship from his fellows, preferring rather to be without it. Thus
he considered he was freer to follow his own methods of life. Position
was his goal--position in the walk of life he had chosen. Could he not
attain this solely by his own exertions, then he would do without it.

The crisp, morning air smote his cheeks with the sting of a whip-lash
as he drove down the bush-lined trail which led from the Rodney House
to the railway depôt. It was necessary for him to cross the track at
this point before he would find himself upon the prairie road to the
Leonville school-house, at which place the ceremony was to be
performed. The "gush" of the horses' nostrils sounded refreshingly in
his ears as the animals fairly danced over the smooth, icy trail. The
sleigh-bells jangled with a confused clashing of sounds in response to
the gait of the eager beasts. But Grey thought little of these things.
He thought little of anything just now but his intended despoiling of
the owner of Lonely Ranch. All other matters were quite subsidiary to
his one chief object.

Once out in the open, the horses settled down into their long-distance
stride. Here the trail was not so good as in the precincts of the
village. The snow was deeper and softer. Now and then the horses'
hoofs would break through the frozen crust and sink well above the
fetlocks into the under-snow.

Now the thick bush, which surrounded the village, gave place to a
sparser covering of scattered bluffs, and the grey-white aspect of the
country became apparent. The trail was well marked as far as the eye
could reach--two great furrows ploughed by the passage of horses and
the runners of the farmers' heavy "double-bobs." Besides this, the
colour was different. There was a strong suggestion of earthiness
about the trail which was not to be observed upon the rolling
snow-fields of the surrounding prairie.

The air was still though keen, and the morning sun had already risen
well above the mist of grey clouds which still hovered above the
eastern horizon. There was a striking solemnity over all. It was the
morning promise of a fair day, and soon the dazzling sunshine upon the
snow would become blinding to eyes unused to the winter prairie.

But Grey was no tenderfoot. Such things had no terrors for him. His
half-closed eyes faced the glare of light defiantly. It is only the
inexperienced who gaze across the snow-bound earth, at such a time,
with wide-open eyes.

The bluffs became scarcer as mile after mile was covered by the long,
raking strides of the hardy horses. Occasionally Grey was forced to
pull off the trail into the deep snow to allow the heavy-laden
hay-rack of some farmer to pass, or a box-sleigh, weighted down with
sacks of grain, toiling on its way to the Ainsley elevator. These
inconveniences were the rule of the road, the lighter always giving
way to the heavier conveyance.

Ten miles from Ainsley and the wide open sea of snow proclaimed the
prairie in its due form. Not a tree in sight, not a rock, not a hill
to break the awful monotony. Just one vast rolling expanse of snow
gleaming beneath the dazzling rays of a now warming sun. A hungry
coyote and his mate prowling in search of food at a distance of
half-a-mile looked large by reason of their isolation. An occasional
covey of prairie chicken, noisily winging their way to a far-distant
bluff, might well be startling both to horses and driver. A dark
ribbon-like flight of ducks or geese, high up in the heavens, speeding
from the south to be early in the field when the sodden prairie should
be open, was something to distract the attention of even the most
pre-occupied. But Grey was oblivious to everything except the trail
beneath him, the gait of his team, and his scheme for advancement. The
sun mounted higher, and the time passed rapidly to the traveller. And,
as the record of mileage rose, the face of the snow-clad earth began
again to change its appearance. The undulations of the prairie assumed
vaster proportions. The waves rose to the size of hills, and the
gentle hollows sank deeper until they declined into gaping valleys.
Here and there trees and small clumps of leafless bush dotted the
view. A house or two, with barn looming largely in the rear, and
spidery fencing, stretching in rectangular directions, suggested
homesteads; the barking of dogs--life. These signs of habitation
continued, and became now more frequent, and now, again, more rare.
The hills increased in size and the bush thickened. Noon saw the
traveller in an "up-and-down" country intersected by icebound streams
and snow-laden hollows. The timber became more heavy, great pine trees
dominating the more stunted growths, and darkening the outlook by
reason of their more generous vegetation. On the eastern extremity of
this belt of country stood the school-house of Leonville; beyond that
the undulating prairie again on to Loon Dyke Farm.

Leslie Grey looked at his watch; the hands indicated a near approach
to the hour of one. He had yet three miles to go to reach his
destination. He had crossed a small creek. A culvert bridged it, but
the snow upon either side of the trail was so deep in the hollow that
no indication of the woodwork was visible. It was in such places as
these that a watchful care was needed. The smallest divergence from
the beaten track would have precipitated the team and cutter into a
snow-drift from which it would have been impossible to extricate it
without a smash-up. Once safely across this he allowed the horses to
climb the opposite ascent leisurely. They had done well--he had
covered the distance in less than six hours.

The hill was a mass of redolent pinewoods. It was as though the
gradual densifying of this belt of woodland country had culminated
upon the hill. The brooding gloom of the forest was profound. The dark
green foliage of the pines seemed black by contrast with the snow, and
gazing in amongst the leafless lower trunks was like peering into a
world of dayless night The horses walked with ears pricked and wistful
eyes alertly gazing. The darkness of their surroundings seemed to have
conveyed something of its mysterious dread to their sensitive nerves.
Tired they might be, but they were ready to shy at each rustle of the
heavy branches, as some stray breath of air bent them lazily and
forced from them a creaking protest.

As the traveller neared the summit the trail narrowed down until a
hand outstretched from the conveyance could almost have brushed the
tree-trunks.

Grey's eyes were upon his horses and his thoughts were miles away.
Ahead of him gaped the opening in the trees which marked the brow of
the hill against the skyline. He had traversed the road many times on
his way to Loon Dyke Farm and knew every foot of it. It had no
beauties for him. These profound woods conveyed nothing to his
unimpressionable mind; not even danger, for fear was quite foreign to
his nature. This feeling of security was more the result of his own
lofty opinion of himself, and the contempt in which he held all
law-breakers, rather than any high moral tone he possessed. Whatever
his faults, fear was a word which found no place in his vocabulary. A
nervous or imaginative man might have conjured weird fancies from the
gloom with which he found himself surrounded at this point. But Leslie
Grey was differently constituted.

Now, as he neared the summit of the hill, he leant slightly forward
and gathered up the lines which he had allowed to lie slack upon his
horses' backs. A resounding "chirrup" and the weary beasts strained at
their neck-yoke. Something moving in amongst the trees attracted their
attention. Their snorting nostrils were suddenly thrown up in startled
attention. The off-side horse jumped sideways against its companion,
and the sleigh was within an ace of fouling the trees. By a great
effort Grey pulled the animals back to the trail and his whip fell
heavily across their backs. Then he looked up to discover the cause of
their fright. A dark figure, a man clad in a black sheepskin coat,
stood like a statue between two trees.

His right arm was raised and his hand gripped a levelled pistol. For
one brief instant Grey surveyed the apparition, and he scarcely
realized his position. Then a sharp report rang out, ear-piercing in
the grim silence, and his hands went up to his chest and his eyes
closed.

The next moment the eyes, dull, almost unseeing, opened again, he
swayed forward as though in great pain, then with an effort he flung
himself backwards, settling himself against the unyielding back of the
seat; his face looked drawn and grey, nor did he attempt to regain the
reins which had dropped from his hands. The horses, unrestrained,
broke into a headlong gallop; fright urged them on and they raced down
the trail, keeping to the beaten track with their wonted instinct,
even although mad with fear. A moment later and the sleigh disappeared
over the brow of the hill.

All became silent again, except for the confused, distant jangle of
the sleigh-bells on the horses' backs. The dark figure moved out on to
the trail, and stood gazing after the sleigh. For a full minute he
stood thus. Then he turned again and swiftly became lost in the black
depths whence he had so mysteriously appeared.



CHAPTER VIII

GREY'S LAST WORDS


Rigid, hideous, stands the Leonville school-house sharply outlined
against the sky, upon the summit of a high, rising ground. It stands
quite alone as though in proud distinction for its classic vocation.
Its flat, uninteresting sides; its staring windows; its high-pitched
roof of warped shingles; its weather-boarding, innocent of paint; its
general air of neglect; these things strike one forcibly in that
region of Nature's carefully-finished handiwork.

However, its cheerless aspect was for the moment rendered less
apparent than usual by reason of many people gathered about the
storm-porch, and the number and variety of farmers' sleighs grouped
about the two tying-posts which stood by the roadside in front of it
An unbroken level of smooth prairie footed one side of the hill,
whilst at the back of the house stretched miles of broken, hilly
woodland.

The wedding party had arrived from Loon Dyke Farm. Hephzibah Malling
had gathered her friends together, and all had driven over for the
happy event amidst the wildest enthusiasm and excited anticipation.
Each girl, clad in her brightest colours beneath a sober outer
covering of fur, was accompanied by her attendant swain, the latter
well oiled about the hair and well bronzed about the face, and glowing
as an after-effect of the liberal use of soap and water. A wedding was
no common occurrence, and, in consequence, demanded special mark of
appreciation. No work would be done that day by any of those who
attended the function.

But the enthusiasm of the moment had died out at the first breath of
serious talk--talk inspired by the non-appearance of the bridegroom.
The hour of the ceremony was close at hand and still he had not
arrived. He should have been the first upon the scene. The elders were
agitated, the younger folk hopeful and full of excuses for the belated
groom, the Minister fingered his great silver timepiece nervously. He
had driven over from Lakeville, at much inconvenience to himself, to
officiate at the launching of his old friend's daughter upon the high
seas of wedded life.

The older ladies had rallied to Mrs. Malling's side. The younger
people held aloof. There was an ominous grouping and eager whispering,
and eyes were turned searchingly upon the grey trail which stretched
winding away towards the western horizon.

The Rev. Charles Danvers, the Methodist minister of Lakeville, was the
central figure of the situation, and at whom the elder ladies fired
their comments and suggestions. There could be no doubt, from the
nature and tone of these remarks, that a panic was spreading.

"It's quite too bad, you know," said Mrs. Covill, an iron-grey haired
lady of decided presence and possessing a hooked nose. "I can't
understand it in a man of Mr. Grey's business-like ways. Now he's
just the sort of man whom I should have expected would have been here
at least an hour before it was necessary."

"It is just his sort that fail on these occasions," put in Mrs.
Ganthorn pessimistically. "He's just too full of business for my
fancy. What is the time now, Mr. Danvers?"

"On the stroke of the half-hour," replied the parson, with a gloomy
look. "My eyesight is not very good; can I see anything on the trail,
or is that black object a bush?"

"Bush," said some one shortly.

"Ah," ejaculated the parson. Then he turned to Mrs. Malling, who stood
beside him staring down the trail with unblinking eyes. Her lips were
pursed and twitching nervously. "There can have been no mistake about
the time, I suppose?"

"Mistake? No," retorted the good lady with irritation. "Folks don't
make no mistake about the hour of their wedding. Not the bridegroom,
anyway. No, it's an accident, that's what it is, as sure as my name's
Hephzibah Malling. And that's what comes of his staying at Ainsley
when he ought to have been hereabouts. To think of a man driving forty
odd miles to get married. La' sakes! It just makes me mad with him.
There's my girl there most ready to cry her eyes out on her wedding
morning, and small blame to her neither. It's a shame, and I'm not the
one to be likely to forget to tell him so when he comes along. If he
were my man he'd better his ways, I know."

No one replied to the old lady's heated complaint. They all too
cordially agreed with her to defend the recalcitrant bridegroom. Mr.
Danvers drew out his watch for at least the twentieth time.

"Five minutes overdue," he murmured. Then aloud and in a judicial
tone: "We must allow him some margin. But, as you say, it certainly
was a mistake his remaining at Ainsley."

"Mistake--mistake, indeed," Mrs. Malling retorted, with all the scorn
she was capable of. "He's that fool-headed that he won't listen to no
reason. Why couldn't he have stopped at the farm? Propriety--
fiddlesticks!" Her face was flushed and her brow ominously puckered;
she folded her fat hands with no uncertain grip across the slight
frontal hollow which answered her purpose for a waist. Her anger was
chiefly based upon alarm, and that alarm was not alone for her
daughter. She was anxious for the man himself, and her anxiety found
vent in that peculiar angry protest which is so little meant by those
who resort to it. The good dame was on pins and needles of nervous
suspense. Had Grey suddenly appeared upon the scene doubtless her
kindly face would have at once wreathed itself into a broad expanse of
smiles. But the moments flew by and still the little group waited for
the coming which was so long delayed.

Three of the young men approached the agitated mother from the
juvenile gathering. Their faces were solemn. Their own optimism had
given way before the protracted delay. Tim Gleichen and Peter Furrers
came first, Andy, the choreman, brought up the rear.

"We've been thinking," said Tim, feeling it necessary to explain the
process which had brought them to a certain conclusion, "that maybe we
might just drive down the trail to see if we can see anything of him,
Mrs. Malling. Ye can't just say how things have gone with him. Maybe
he's struck a 'dump' and his sleigh's got smashed up. There's some
tidy drifts to come through, and it's dead easy to get dumped in 'em.
Peter and Andy here have volunteered to go with me."

"That's real sensible of you, Tim," replied Mrs. Malling, with an air
of relief. She felt quite convinced that an accident had happened. She
turned to the minister. In this matter she considered he was the best
judge. Like many of her neighbours, she looked to the minister as the
best worldly as well as spiritual adviser of his flock. "Like as not
the boys will be able to help him?" she suggested, in a tone of
inquiry.

"I don't think I should let them go yet," the man of the cloth
replied. "I should give him an hour. It seems to me it will be time
enough then. Ah, here's Mrs. Gurridge," as that lady appeared in the
doorway. "There's no sign of him," he called out in anticipation of
her inquiry. "I hope you are not letting the bride worry too much."

"It's too dreadful," said Mrs. Ganthorn, as her thoughts reverted to
Prudence waiting in the school-ma'am's sitting-room.

"Whatever can have happened to him?"

"That's what's been troubling us this hour and more," snapped the
girl's mother. She was in no humour to be asked silly questions,
however little they were intended to be answered.

She turned to Sarah. In this trouble the peaceful Sarah would act as
oil on troubled waters.

Sarah understood her look of inquiry.

"She's bearing up bravely, Hephzibah. She's not one of the crying
sort. Too much of your Silas in her for that. I've done my best to
console her."

She did not say that she had propounded several mottos more or less
suitable to the occasion, which had been delivered with great unction
to the disconsolate girl. Prudence had certainly benefited by the good
woman's company, but not in the way Sarah had hoped and believed. It
was the girl's own sense of humour which had helped her.

Mrs. Malling turned away abruptly. Her red face had grown a shade
paler, and her round, brown eyes were suspiciously watery. But she
gazed steadily down the trail on which all her hopes were set. The
guests stood around in respectful silence. The party which had arrived
so light-heartedly had now become as solemn as though they had come to
attend a funeral. The minister continued to glance at his watch from
time to time. He had probably never in his life so frequently referred
to that faithful companion of his preaching hours. Tim Gleichen and
Peter Furrers and Andy had moved off in the direction of the sleighs.
The others followed Mrs. Malling's example and bent their eyes upon
the vanishing point of the trail.

Suddenly an ejaculation escaped one of the bystanders. Something
moving had just come into view. All eyes concentrated upon a black
speck which was advancing rapidly in a cloud of ground snow. Hope rose
at a bound to wild, eager delight. The object was a sleigh. And the
speed at which it was coming down the trail told them that it was
bearing the belated bridegroom, who, conscious of his fault, was
endeavouring to make up the lost time. Mrs. Malling's round face shone
again in her relief, and a sigh of content escaped her. Word was sent
at once to the bride, and all was enthusiasm again. Then followed a
terrible shock. Peter Furrer, more long-sighted than the rest,
delivered it in a boorish fashion all his own.

"Ther' ain't no one aboard of that sleigh," he called out. "Say, them
plugs is just boltin'. Gum, but they be comin' hell-belt-fer-leckshuns."
Every one understood his expression, and faces that a moment before
had been radiant with hope changed their expression with equal
suddenness to doubt, then in a moment to apprehension.

"You don't say----" Mrs. Malling gasped; it was all she could say.

"It can't----" The minister got no further, and he fingered his watch
from force of habit.

"It's----" some one said and broke off. Then followed an excited
murmur. "What's Peter going to do?"

The young giant had darted off down the trail in the direction of the
approaching sleigh. He lurched heavily over the snow, his ungainly
body rolling to his gait, but he was covering ground in much the same
way that a racing elephant might. His stride carried him along at a
great pace. The onlookers wondered and exclaimed, their gaze
alternating in amazement between the two objects, the oncoming sleigh
and the huge lurching figure of the boy.

Now the sleigh was near enough for them to note the truth of Peter's
statement. The horses, ungoverned by any guiding hand, were tearing
along at a desperate pace. The cutter bumped and swayed in a
threatening manner; now it was lifted bodily from the trail as its
runners struck the banked sides of the furrows; now it balanced on one
side, hovering between overturning and righting itself, now on the
other; then again it would jerk forward with a rush on to the heels of
the affrighted horses with maddening effect. The poor brutes stretched
themselves wildly to escape from their terror. On they came amidst a
whirl of flying snow, and Peter had halted beside the trail awaiting
them.

Those who were watching saw the boy move outside the beaten track.
Already the panting of the runaways could be heard by those looking
on. If the animals were not stayed in their mad career they must
inevitably crash into the school-house or collide with the sleighs at
the tying-posts. There was no chance of their leaving the beaten
trail, for they were prairie horses.

Some of the men, as the realization of this fact dawned upon them,
hurried away to remove their possessions to some more secure position,
but most of them remained gaping at the runaway team.

Now they saw Peter crouch down, beating the snow under his feet to
give himself a firm footing. Barely fifty yards separated him from the
sleigh. He settled himself into an attitude as though about to spring.
Nearer drew the sleigh. The boy's position was fraught with the
greatest danger. The onlookers held their breath. What did he
contemplate? Peter had methods peculiar to himself, and those who
looked wondered. Nearer--nearer came the horses. A moment more and the
boy was lost in the cloud of snow which rose beneath the horses'
speeding feet. A sigh broke from many of the ladies as they saw him
disappear. Then, next, there came an exclamation of relief as they saw
his bulky figure struggling wildly to draw himself up over the high
back of the sleigh. It was no easy task, but Peter's great strength
availed him. They saw him climb over and stand upon the cushion, then,
for a moment, he looked down as though in doubt.

At last he leaned forward, and, laying hold of the rail of the
incurved dashboard, he climbed laboriously out on to the setting of
the sleigh's tongue. The flying end of one of the reins was waving
annoyingly beyond his reach. He ventured out further, still holding to
the dashboard, which swayed and bent under the unaccustomed weight.
Suddenly he made a grab and caught the elusive strap and overbalanced
in the effort. He came within an ace of falling, but was saved by
lurching on to the quarters of one of the horses. With a struggle he
recovered himself and regained the sleigh. The rest was the work of a
few seconds.

Bracing himself, he leant his whole weight on the single rein. The
horses swerved at once, and leaving the trail plunged into the deep
snow. The frantic animals fell, recovered themselves, and floundered
on, then with a great jolt the sleigh turned over. Peter shot clear of
the wreck, but with experience of such capsizes, he clung tenaciously
to the rein. He was dragged a few yards; then, trembling and ready to
start off again at a moment's notice, the jaded beasts stood.

There was a rush of men to Peter's assistance. The women followed. But
the latter never reached the sleigh. Something clad in the brown fur
of the buffalo was lying beside the trail where the cutter had
overturned. Here they came to a stand, and found themselves gazing
down upon the inanimate form of Leslie Grey.

It was a number of the younger ladies of the party who reached the
injured man first; the Furrer girls and one of the Miss Covills. They
paused abruptly within a couple of yards of the fur-clad object and
craned forward, gazing down at it with horrified eyes. The next minute
they were thrust aside by the parson. He came, followed by Mrs.
Malling.

In a moment he had thrown himself upon his knees and was looking into
the pallid face of the prostrate man, and almost unconsciously his
hand pushed itself in through the fastenings of the fur coat. He
withdrew it almost instantly, giving vent to a sharp exclamation. It
was covered with blood.

"Stand back, please, everybody," he commanded.

He was obeyed implicitly. But his order came too late. They had seen
the blood upon his hand.

Miss Ganthorn began to faint and was led away. Other girls looked as
though they might follow suit. Only Hephzibah Malling stood her
ground. Her face was blanched, but her mouth was tightly clenched. She
uttered no sound. All her anger against the prostrate man had
vanished; a world of pity was in her eyes as she silently looked on.

The parson summoned some of the men.

"Bear a hand, boys," he said, in a business-like tone which deceived
no one. "We'd better get him into the house." Then, seeing Mrs.
Malling, he went on, "Get Prudence away at once. She must not see."

The old farm-wife hurried off, and the others gently raised the body
of the unconscious man and bore it towards the house.

Thus did Leslie Grey attend his wedding.

The body was taken in by a back way to Sarah Gurridge's bedroom and
laid upon the bed. Tim Gleichen was dispatched at once to Lakeville
for the doctor. Then, dismissing everybody but Harry Gleichen, Mr.
Danvers proceeded to remove the sick man's outer clothing.

The room was small, the one window infinitely so. A single sunbeam
shone coldly in through the latter and lit up the well-scrubbed bare
floor. There was nothing but the plainest of "fixings" in the
apartment, but they had been set in position by the deft hand of a
woman of taste. The bed on which the unconscious man had been placed
was narrow and hard. Its coverlet was a patchwork affair of depressing
hue.

Mr. Danvers bent to his work with a full appreciation of the tragedy
which had happened. His face was solemn, and expressive of the most
tender solicitude for the injured man. In a whisper he dispatched his
assistant for warm water and bandages, whilst he unfastened and
removed the fur coat. Inside the clothing was saturated with still
warm blood. The minister's lips tightened as the truth of what had
happened slowly forced itself upon his mind.

So absorbed was he in his ministrations that he failed to heed the
sound of excited whisperings which came to him from beyond the door.
It was not until the creaking of the hinges had warned him that the
door was ajar, that he looked up from his occupation. At that moment
there was a rustle of silk, the noise of swift footsteps across the
bare boards, and Prudence was at the opposite side of the bed.

The soft oval of the girl's face was drawn, and deep lines of anxious
thought had broken up the smooth expanse of her forehead. Her eyes
seemed to be straining out of their sockets, and the whites were
bloodshot. She did not speak, but her look displayed an anguish
unspeakable. Her eyes were turned upon the face of the prostrate man;
she did not appear to see the minister. Her look suggested some mute
question, which seemed to pass from her troubled eyes to the silent
figure. Watching her, Danvers understood that, for the present, it
would be dangerous to break the dreadful silence that held her. He
stooped again and drew back the waistcoat and began to cut away the
under-garments from Grey's chest.

Swiftly as the minister's deft fingers moved about the man's body, his
thoughts travelled faster. He was not a man given to morbid
sentimentality; his calling demanded too much of the practical side of
human nature. He was there to aid his flock, materially as well as
spiritually, but at the moment he felt positively sick in the stomach
with sorrow and pity for the woman who stood like a statue on the
other side of what he knew to be this man's deathbed. He dared not
look over at her again. Instead, he bent his head lower and
concentrated his, mind on the work before him.

The silence continued, broken only by an occasional heavy gasp of
breath from the girl. The dripping shirt was cut clear of the man's
chest, and the woollen under-shirt was treated in a similar manner.
The exposed flesh was crimson with the blood which was slowly oozing
from a small wound a few inches higher up in the chest than where the
heart was so faintly beating. One glance sufficed to tell the parson
that medical aid would be useless. The wound was through the lungs.

For a moment he hesitated. His better sense warned him to keep
silence, but pity urged him to speak. Pity swayed him with the
stronger hand.

"He is alive," he said. And the next moment he regretted his words.

The tension of the girl's dreadful expression relaxed instantly. It
was as the lifting of a dead weight which had crushed her heart within
her. She had been numbed, paralyzed. Actual suffering had not been
hers, she had experienced a suspension of feeling which had resulted
from the shock. But that suspension was far more dreadful than the
most acute suffering. Her whole soul had asked her senses, "What is
it?" and the waiting for the answer had been to her in the nature of a
blank.

The minister's low murmured sentence had supplied her with an answer.
"He is alive." The words touched the springs of life within her and a
glad flush swept over her straining nerves. Reason once more resumed
its sway, and thought flowed through her brain in an unchecked torrent
It seemed to Prudence as though some barrier had suddenly shut off
the simple life which had always been hers, and had opened out for her
a fresh existence in which she found herself alone with the still,
broken body of her lover. For one brief instant her lips quivered, and
a faint in-catching of the breath told of the woman, which, at the
first return of feeling, had leapt uppermost in her. But before the
maturity of emotion brought about the breakdown, a calm strength came
to her aid and steadied her nerves and checked the tears which had so
suddenly come into her eyes. Women are like this. At a crisis in
sickness they rise superior to all emotion. When the crisis is past,
whether for good or ill, it is different.

The water was brought, and the minister set about cleaning the
discoloured flesh, while Prudence looked on in silence. She was very
pale, and her eyes were painfully bright. While her gaze followed the
gentle movements of the minister, her thoughts were running swiftly
over the scenes of her life in which the wounded man had played his
part. She remembered every look of the now closed eyes, and every
expression of his well-loved features. She called to mind his words of
hope, and the carefully-laid plans for his advancement. Nor was there
any taint of his selfishness in her recollection of these things.
Everything about him, to her, was good and true. She loved him with
all the passionate intensity of one who had only just attained to
perfect womanhood. He had been to her something of a hero, by reason
of his headstrong, dominating ways--ways which more often attract the
love of woman in the first flush of her youth than in her maturer,
more experienced years.

The sponging cleaned the flesh of the ghastly stain, and the small
wound with its blackened rim lay revealed in all its horrid
significance. The girl's eyes fixed themselves on it, and for some
seconds she watched the blood as it welled up to the surface. The
meaning of the puncture forced itself slowly upon her mind, and she
realized that it was no accident which had laid her lover low. Her
eyes remained directed towards the crimson flow, but their expression
had changed, as had the set of her features. A hard, relentless look
had replaced the one of tender pity--a look which indexed a feeling
more strong than any other in the human organism. She was beginning to
understand now that a crime had been committed, and a vengeful hate
for some person unknown possessed her.

She pointed at the wound, and her voice sounded icily upon the
stillness of the room.

"That," she said. "They have murdered him."

"He has been shot." The parson looked up into the girl's face.

Then followed a pause. Sarah Gurridge and Prudence's mother stole
softly in and approached the bedside. The former carried a tumbler of
brandy in her hand and came to Mr. Danvers's side; Mrs. Malling ranged
herself beside her daughter, but the latter paid no heed to her.

The farm-wife lifted the girl's hand from the bedpost and caressed it
in loving sympathy. Then she endeavoured to draw her away.

"Come, child, come with me. You can do no good here."

Prudence shook her off roughly. Nor did she answer. Her mother did not
renew her attempt.

All watched while Danvers forced some of the spirit between Grey's
tightly-closed lips and then stood up to note the effect.

He was actuated by a single thought. He knew that the man was doomed,
but he hoped that consciousness might be restored before the tiny
spark of life burnt itself out. There was something to be said if
human aid could give the dying man the power to say it. Prudence
seemed to understand the minister's motive, for she vaguely nodded her
approval as she saw the spirit administered.

All waited eagerly for the sign of life which the stimulating
properties of the spirit might reveal. The girl allowed her
thoughts to drift away to the lonely trail over which her lover had
driven. She saw in fancy the crouching assailants firing from the
cover of some wayside bluff. She seemed to hear many shots, to see
the speeding horses, to hear the dull sound of the fatal bullet as
her man was hit. She pictured to herself the assassins, with callous
indifference, as the cutter passed out of view, mounting their horses
and riding away. Her thoughts had turned to the only criminals she
understood--horse-thieves.

The sign of life which had been so anxiously awaited came at last. It
was apparent in the flicker of the wax-like eyelids; in the faintest
of sighs from between the colourless lips. Danvers bent again over the
dying man and administered more of the spirit It took almost
instantaneous effect. The eyelids half opened and the mouth distinctly
moved. The action was like that of one who is parched with thirst.
Grey gasped painfully, and a strange rattle came from his throat.

Danvers shook his head as he heard the sound. Prudence, whose eyes had
never left the dying man's face, spoke sharply. She voiced a common
thought "Who did it, Leslie?"

The minister nodded approval. For a moment his eyes rested admiringly
on the girl's eager face. Her courage astonished him. Then, as he read
her expression aright, his wonder lessened. The gulf is bridged by a
single span at the point of transition from the girl to the woman. He
understood that she had crossed that bridge.

Grey struggled to speak, but only succeeded in uttering an inarticulate
sound. The minutes dragged. The suspense was dreadful. They all realized
that he was fast sinking, but in every heart was a hope that he would
speak, would say one word which might give some clue to what had
happened.

The minister applied the rest of the brandy. The dying man's breathing
steadied. The eyes opened wider. Prudence leaned forward. Her whole
soul was in the look she bestowed upon the poor drawn face, and in the
tones of her voice.

"Leslie, Leslie, speak to me. My poor, poor boy. Tell me, how did it
happen? Who did it?"

The man gasped in response. He seemed to be making one last great
struggle against the overwhelming weakness which was his. His head
moved and a feeble cough escaped his lips. The girl put her arm under
his head and slightly raised it, and the dying eyes looked into hers.
She could no longer find words to utter; great passionate sobs shook
her slight frame, and scalding tears coursed down her cheeks and fell
upon the dingy coverlet.

A whistling breath came from between the dying man's parted lips, and
culminated in a hoarse rattling in his throat. Then his body moved
abruptly, and one arm lifted from the elbow-joint, the head half
turned towards the girl, and words distinct, but halting, came from
the working lips.

"He--he--did--it. _Free--P--Press_. Yell--ow--G----" The last word
died away to a gurgle. A violent fit of coughing seized the dying man,
then it ceased suddenly. His head weighed like lead upon the girl's
supporting hand, and a thin trickle of blood bubbled from the corners
of his mouth. Prudence withdrew her arm from beneath him and replaced
the head upon the pillow. Her tears had ceased to flow now.

"He is dead," she said with studied calmness, as she straightened
herself up from the bed.

She moved a step or two away. Then she paused uncertainly and gazed
about her like one dazed. Her mother went towards her, but before she
reached her side Prudence uttered a strange, wild cry and rushed from
the room, tearing wildly at the fastenings of her silk dress as though
to rid herself of the mocking reminder of that awful day.



CHAPTER IX

LONELY RANCH AT OWL HOOT


In spite of the recent tragic events the routine of the daily life at
Loon Dyke Farm was very little interfered with. Just for a few weeks
following upon the death of Leslie Grey the organization of Mrs.
Malling's household had been thrown out of gear.

The corning of the police and the general scouring of the country for
the murderers of the Customs officer had entailed a "nine days'
wonder" around the countryside, and had helped to disturb the wonted
peace of the farm. But the search did not last long. Horse-thieves do
not wait long in a district, and the experience of the "riders of the
plains" taught them that it would be useless to pursue where there was
no clue to guide them. The search was abandoned after a while, and the
dastardly murder remained an unsolved mystery.

The shock to Prudence's nervous system had been a terrible one, and a
breakdown, closely bordering upon brain fever, had followed. The
girl's condition had demanded the utmost care, and, in this matter,
Sarah Gurridge had proved herself a loyal friend. Dr. Parash, with
conscientious soundness of judgment, had ordered her removal for a
prolonged sojourn to city life in Toronto; a course which, in spite
of heartbroken appeal on the girl's part, her mother insisted upon
carrying out with Spartan-like resolution.

"Broken hearts," she had said to Sarah, during a confidential chat
upon the subject, "are only kept from mending by them as talks
sympathy. There isn't nothin' like mixing with folks what's got their
own troubles to worrit over. She'll get all that for sure when she
gets to one o' them cities. Cities is full of purgat'ry," she added
profoundly. "I shall send her down to sister Emma, she's one o' them
hustlin' women that'll never let the child rest a minute."

And Sarah had approved feelingly.

So Prudence was safely dispatched eastwards for an indefinite period
before the spring opened. But Hephzibah Malling had yet to realize
that her daughter had suddenly developed from a child, who looked to
her mother's guidance in all the more serious questions of life, into
a woman of strong feelings and opinions. This swift casting off of the
fetters of childhood had been the work of those few passionate moments
at the bedside of her dying lover.

Prudence had submitted to the sentence which her mother, backed by the
doctor's advice, had passed, and she went away. But in complying with
the order she had performed the last act which childhood's use had
prompted. The period of her absence was indefinite. The fiat demanded
no limitation to her stay with "sister" Emma. She could return when
she elected so to do. Bred in the pure air of the prairie, no city
could claim her for long. And so she returned to the farm against all
opposition within two months of leaving it.

The spring brought another change to the farm, a change which was as
welcome to the old farm-wife as the opening of the spring itself.
Hervey returned from Niagara, bringing with him the story of the
failure of his mission. True to herself and the advice of Iredale,
Hephzibah made her proposition to her son, with the result that, with
some show of distaste, he accepted the situation, and with his
three-legged companion took up his abode at the farm.

And so the days lengthened and the summer heat increased; the hay in
the sloughs ripened and filled the air with its refreshing odours; the
black squares of ploughed land were quickly covered with the deepening
carpet of green, succulent grain; the wild currant-bushes flowered,
and the choke-cherries ripened on the laden branches, and the deep
blue vault of the heavens smiled down upon the verdant world.

George Iredale again became a constant and welcome visitor at the
farm, nor in her leisure did Sarah Gurridge seek relaxation in any
other direction.

The morning was well advanced. The air was still and very hot. There
was a peaceful drowsiness about the farm buildings and yard which was
only broken by the occasional squeal of the mouching swine routing
amongst any stray garbage their inquisitive eyes happened to light
upon. The upper half of the barn door stood open, and in the cool
shade of the interior could be seen the outline of dark, well-rounded
forms looming between the heel-posts of the stalls which lined the
side walls. An occasional impatient stamp from the heavily-shod hoofs
told of the capacity for annoyance of the ubiquitous fly or
aggravating mosquito, whilst the steady grinding sound which pervaded
the atmosphere within, and the occasional "gush" of distended nostrils
testified to healthy appetites, and noses buried in mangers well
filled with sweet-smelling "Timothy" hay.

The kitchen doorway was suddenly filled with the ample proportions of
Hephzibah Malling. She moved out into the open. She was carrying a
large pail filled with potato-parings and other fragments of culinary
residuum. A large white sun-bonnet protected her grey head and shaded
her now flaming face from the sun, and her dress, a neat study in
grey, was enveloped in a huge apron.

She moved out to a position well clear of the buildings and began to
call out in a tone of persuasive encouragement--

"Tig--tig--tig! Tig--tig--tig!"

She repeated her summons several times, then moved on slowly,
continuing to call at intervals.

The swine gathered with a hungry rush at her heels, and their chorus
of acclamation drowned her familiar cry. Passing down the length of
the barn she reached a cluster of thatched mud hovels. Here she opened
the crazy gate to admit her clamorous flock, and then deposited the
contents of her pail in the trough provided for that purpose. The pigs
fell-to with characteristic avidity, complaining vociferously the
while as only pigs will.

She stood for a few moments looking down at her noisy charges with
calculating eyes. It was a fine muster of young porkers, and the old
lady was estimating their bacon-yielding capacity.

Suddenly her reflections were interrupted by the sound of footsteps,
and turning, she saw Hervey crossing the yard in the direction of the
creamery. She saw him disappear down the steps which led to the door,
for the place was in the nature of a dugout She sighed heavily and
moved away from her porkers, and slowly she made her way to the
wash-house. The sight of this man had banished all her feelings of
satisfaction. Her son was a constant trouble to her; a source of grave
worry and anxiety. Her hopes of him had been anything but fulfilled.

In the meantime Hervey had propped himself against the doorway of the
creamery and was talking to his sister within. The building, like all
dugouts, was long and low; its roof was heavily thatched to protect
the interior from the effects of the sun's rays. Prudence was moving
slowly along the two wide counters which lined the walls from one end
to the other. Each counter was covered with a number of huge
milk-pans, from which the girl was carefully skimming the thick,
yellow cream. She worked methodically; and the rich fat dropped with a
heavy "plonk" into the small pail she carried, in a manner which
testified to the quality of the cream.

She looked a little paler than usual; the healthy bloom had almost
entirely disappeared from her cheeks, and dark shadows surrounded her
brown eyes. But this was the only sign she displayed of the tragedy
which had come into her young life. The trim figure was unimpaired,
and her wealth of dark hair was as carefully adjusted as usual. Hervey
watched his sister's movements as she passed from pan to pan.

"Iredale wants me to ride over to Owl Hoot to-day," he said slowly.
"We're going to have an afternoon's 'chicken shoot.' He says the
prairie-chicken round his place are as thick as mosquitoes. He's a
lucky beggar. He seems to have the best of everything. I've scoured
our farm all over and there's not so much as a solitary grey owl to
get a pot at. I hate the place."

Prudence ceased working and faced him. She scornfully looked him up
and down. At that moment she looked very picturesque with her black
skirt turned up from the bottom and pinned about her waist, displaying
an expanse of light-blue petticoat. Her blouse was a simple thing in
spotless white cotton, with a black ribbon tied about her neck.

"I think you are very ungrateful, Hervey," she said quietly. "I've
only been home for a few months, and not a day has passed but what
I've heard you grumble about something in connection with your home.
If it isn't the dulness it's the work; if it isn't the work it's your
position of dependence, or the distance from town, or the people
around us. Now you grumble because of the shooting. What do you want?
We've got a section and a half, nearly a thousand acres, under wheat;
we've got everything that money can buy in the way of improvements in
machinery; we've got a home that might fill many a town-bred man with
envy, and a mother who denies us nothing; and yet you aren't
satisfied. What _do_ you want? If things aren't what you like, for
goodness' sake go back to the wilds again, where, according to your
own account, you were happy. Your incessant grumbling makes me
sick."

"A new departure, sister, eh?" Hervey retorted, smiling unpleasantly.
"I always thought it was everybody's privilege to grumble a bit.
Still, I don't think it's for you to start lecturing me if even it
isn't. Mother's treated me pretty well--in a way. But don't forget
she's only hired me the same as she's hired Andy, or any of the rest
of the hands. Why, I haven't even the same position as you have. I am
paid so many dollars a month, for which I have to do certain work. Let
me tell you this, my girl: if I had stayed on this farm until father
died my position would have been very different. It would all have
been mine now."

"Well, since you didn't do so, the farm is mother's." Prudence's pale
cheeks had become flushed with anger. "And I think, all things
considered, she has treated you particularly well."

And she turned back to her work.

The girl was very angry, and justifiably so. Hervey was lazy. The work
which was his was rarely done unless it happened to fall in with his
plans for the moment. He was thoroughly bearish to both his mother and
herself, and he had already overdrawn the allowance the former had
made him. All this had become very evident to the girl since her
return to the farm, and it cut her to the quick that the peace of her
home should have been so rudely broken. Even Prudence's personal
troubles were quite secondary to the steady grind of Hervey's
ill-manners.

Curiously enough, after the first passing of the shock of Grey's
death she found herself less stricken than she would have deemed it
possible. There could be no doubt that she had loved the man in her
girlish, adoring fashion.

She had thought that never again could she return to the place which
had such dread memories for her. Thoughts of the long summer days, and
the dreary, interminable winter, when the distractions of labour are
denied the farmer, had been revolting to her. To live within a few
miles of where that dreadful tragedy had occurred; to live amongst the
surroundings which must ever be reminding her of her dead lover; these
things had made her shrink from the thought of the time when she would
again turn westward to her home.

But when she had once more taken her place in the daily life at the
farm, it was, at first with a certain feeling of self-disgust, and
later with thankfulness, that she learned that she could face her old
life with perfect equanimity. The childish passion for her dead lover
had died; the shock which had suddenly brought about her own
translation from girlhood to womanhood had also dispelled the
illusions of her girlish first love.

She confided nothing to anybody, but just went about her daily round
of labours in a quiet, pensive way, striving by every means to lighten
her mother's burden and to help her brother to the path which their
father before them had so diligently trodden.

Her patience had now given way under the wearing tide of Hervey's
dissatisfaction, and it seemed as though a rupture between them were
imminent.

"Oh, well enough, if you consider bare duty," Hervey retorted after a
deliberate pause.

"Bare duty, indeed!" Prudence's two brown eyes flashed round on him in
an instant. "You are the sort of man who should speak of duty, Hervey.
You just ought to be ashamed of yourself. Your mother's debt of duty
towards you was fulfilled on the day you left the farm years ago. She
provided you with liberal capital to start you in life. Now you have
come back, and she welcomes you with open arms--we both do--glad that
you should be with us again. And what return have you made to her for
her goodness? I'll tell you; you have brought her nothing but days of
unhappiness with your lazy, grumbling ways. If you are going to
continue like this, for goodness' sake go away again. She has enough
on her shoulders without being worried by you."

The man looked for a moment as though he were going to give
expression to some very nasty talk. Prudence had returned to her
pans and so lost the evil glance of his expressive eyes. Then his
look changed to a mocking smile, and when he spoke his words were
decidedly conciliating.

"I'm afraid I've done something to offend you, Prue. But you shouldn't
use hard words like that I know I'm not much of a farmer, and I am
always a bit irritable when I am not my own master. But don't let's
quarrel. I wanted to talk to you about George Iredale. He seems a
jolly decent fellow--much too good to be kicking his heels about in
such a district as Owl Hoot. He's extremely wealthy, isn't he?"

The girl felt angry still, but Hervey's tone slightly mollified her.
She answered shortly enough, and the skimming of the milk was not done
with the adeptness which she usually displayed.

"Rich? Yes, he's one of the richest men in Manitoba. Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. He seems very interested in--us. He's always over
here. And he never by any chance loses an opportunity of ingratiating
himself with mother. I wonder what his object is?"

Prudence bent over her work to hide the tell-tale flush which had
spread over her face, and the skimming was once more done with the
utmost care.

"Mother is very fond of Mr. Iredale," she replied slowly. "He is a
good man, and a good friend. We, as you know, are his nearest
neighbours. Are you going over there to-day?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Oh--it doesn't matter--I was going to ask you to ride over to
Lakeville to ask Alice Gordon to come here during the harvesting.
She's staying with the Covills. But it doesn't matter in the least, I
can send one of the boys."

"Yes, better send one of the boys. I'm going over to Lonely Ranch. I
shall cultivate Iredale; he's the only man I care about round here."

Prudence had nearly completed her operations and was salting the cream
in the pail.

"Say, sis, did it ever strike you that Iredale's dead sweet on you?"
Hervey went on coarsely.

The girl suddenly turned and looked her brother squarely in the face.
Her brow was again flushed, but now with anger.

"You'll lose the best of your shooting if you don't hurry. You've got
ten miles to ride. And--I am going to lock up."

Her brother didn't offer to move.

"Why do you do all this work?" he went on calmly. "Why don't you send
all the milk to the Government creamery? It'll save labour, and you
get market price for the produce."

"Because Government creameries are for those who can't afford to send
their stuff to market, or make their cheese on their farms."

"Ah, that's the worst of being large farmers, it entails so much work.
By Jove! Iredale doesn't work like we 'moss-backs' have to, and he's
made a fortune. I guess if there were a Mrs. George Iredale she'd have
a bully time. No cheese- or butter-making, eh, sis?" And, with a grin,
Hervey turned on his heel, and, passing up the steps, walked away
towards the barn.

Prudence waited until her brother had disappeared within the stables;
then she locked up. As she turned from the door she heard her mother's
voice calling.

"Girl--girl, where are you?"

"Here I am, mother dear, at the creamery."

Mrs. Malling trundled round the corner of the house.

"Prudence, there's young Peter Furrer come over, and I haven't time to
stop and gossip with him. Like as not he don't want to talk to a body
like me, anyway. Just drop that skirt o' yours, girl, and go and see
him. A nice time o' day to come a-courtin'. He'll be a-follerin' you
to the grain fields when we're harvesting."

Prudence smiled.

"Never mind, mother. He's come at an opportune moment. I want a
messenger to go over to Lakeville. He'll do. I'm sending word to Alice
Gordon. I want her to come here for the harvesting. Alice must get
very sick of living at Ainsley, in spite of the fact of her beau
living there. I've a good mind to tell her to bring him out here.
Shan't be long, dear; I'll join you directly. Where are you? In the
wash-house?"

The girl ran off, letting her skirt fall as she went The mother passed
on to the wash-house, muttering to herself as she went.

"La, if he were only like her. But there, the Lord ordains, and them
as brings their offspring into the world must abide the racket. But it
goes hard with a man about the house who idles. Mussy-a-me, he ain't
like his poor father. And I'm not goin' to give him no extra dollars
to fling around in Winnipeg. He's too fond of loose company."

The old lady continued to mutter audibly until she reached the
wash-house door, where she disappeared just as the object of her
thoughts led his horse out of the barn, jumped on its back, and rode
away.

It was noon when Hervey reached Owl Hoot. He had been there several
times lately, sometimes at George Iredale's invitation, but generally
at his own. He had his own particular reasons for cultivating the
owner of Lonely Ranch, and those reasons he kept carefully to himself.
This unworthy son had only been at Loon Dyke Farm for little more than
four months, and during that brief period he had plainly shown what
manner of man he was.

Even the doting affection of his mother had not blinded that simple
soul to his shortcomings. Each month since his coming he had steadily
overdrawn his allowance to no inconsiderable extent. His frequent
visits to Winnipeg had always ended in his return home with pockets
empty, and an accumulation of debts, of which he said nothing, left
behind him. Then came the inevitable request for money, generally
backed up by some plausible excuse, and Hephzibah's cheque-book was
always forthcoming on these occasions. But though, hitherto, she had
not failed him, he saw by her manner that the time was not far distant
when her sweet old face would become curiously set, and the comely
mouth would shut tight, and the cheque-book would remain locked in her
wardrobe, while he poured his flimsy excuses on stone-deaf ears.

He understood his mother. She would do much, perhaps far too much for
her children, but she would not allow herself to be preyed upon; she
was too keen a business woman for that. Besides, his accumulation of
debts was now so great that all he was able to bleed her for would be
but a drop in the ocean. In Winnipeg he posed as the owner of Loon
Dyke Farm, and as such his credit was extensive. But now there were
clamourings for settlements, and Hervey knew that gaming debts and
hotel bills must be met in due course. Tradesmen can wait, they have
redress from owners of property, but the others have no such means of
repaying themselves, therefore they must be paid if he wished to
remain in the district. Now he meant to raise what he required from
Iredale. He had recognized the fact that Iredale was in love with
Prudence, nor was he slow to appreciate the possibilities which this
matter suggested as a money-raising means. Yes, Hervey intended that
Iredale should pay for the privilege of enjoying his sister's society.
Money he must have, and that at once.

It was a wild, desolate region which he rode through on his way to
Lonely Ranch. No one, finding themselves suddenly dropped into the
midst of those wood-covered crags and clean-cut ravines, the
boulder-strewn, grassless land, would have dreamed that they were
within half-a-dozen miles of the fertile prairie-lands of Canada. It
was like a slum hidden away in the heart of a fashionable city. The
country round the mysterious Lake of the Woods is something utterly
apart from the rest of the Canadian world, and partakes much of the
nature of the Badlands of Dakota. It is tucked away in the extreme
south-eastern corner of Manitoba, and the international boundary runs
right through the heart of it.

Lonely Ranch was situated in an abrupt hollow, and was entirely lost
to view in a mammoth growth of pinewoods. Years ago a settlement had
existed in this region, but what the nature of that settlement it
was now impossible to tell. Local tradition held that, at some
far-distant period, the place had been occupied by a camp of
half-breed "bad-men" who worked their evil trade upon the south
side of the American border, and sought security in the shelter of
this perfect hiding-place. Be that as it may, it was now the abode
of George Iredale, rancher. He had built for himself a splendid house
of hewn logs, and his outbuildings--many of them the restored
houses of the early settlers--and corrals formed a ranch of very
large dimensions.

And it was all hidden away in black woods which defied the keenest
observation of the passer-by. And the hollow was approached by a
circuitous road which entered the cutting at its northern end. Any
other mode of ingress was impossible for any beast of burden.

As Hervey entered the valley and became lost to view in the sombre
woods, he was greeted by the woeful cry of a screech-owl. So sudden
and unexpected was the ear-piercing cry that both horse and rider
started. The horse threw up its head and snorted, and stood for an
instant trembling with apprehension. Hervey looked about him keenly.
He could see nothing but the crowd of leafless tree-trunks, and a bed
of dry pine-cones which covered the surrounding earth. The owl was
probably hidden in the hollow of some dead tree, for there were many
about. He pressed his horse forward. The animal moved cautiously,
dancing along in its nervous apprehension.

Presently another cry split the air. Again some owl had protested at
his intrusion.

So suddenly did the cry come that Hervey felt a slight superstitious
quiver pass down his back, but he rode on. He had nearly a mile of the
valley to travel before he came to the house, and, during the journey,
seven times came the hideous screech of the owls. Now he began to
understand why this place was called "Owl Hoot."

It was with a feeling of relief that he at length saw the ranch
through the trees, and he greeted Iredale, who was standing in his
doorway when he dismounted, with genuine pleasure.

"Well," he said, after shaking his host by the hand, "another mile of
this d----d valley and I should have turned tail and fled back to the
open. Why, you must have a regular colony of owls in the place. Man, I
never heard such weird cries in my life. How is it that I haven't
heard them before when I came here?"

Iredale took his visitor's horse. He was dressed in moleskin.
Underneath his loose, dun-coloured vest he wore a soft shirt, and in
place of a linen collar he had a red bandana tied about his neck. His
headgear was a Stetson hat. In this garb he looked much more burly and
powerful than in the tweeds he usually wore when visiting at the farm.
His strong, patient face was lit by a quiet smile. He was a man whose
eyes, and the expression of his features, never betrayed his thoughts.
A keen observer would have noticed this at once, but to such people as
he encountered he merely appeared a kindly man who was not much given
to talking.

"Colony of owls, eh?" he said, leading the horse in the direction of
the barn. "Those cries you have heard are what this cheerful place
takes its name from. It only needs one cry to set the whole valley
ringing with them. Had not the first creature seen you approach you
might have reached your destination without hearing one disturbing
sound. As a rule, in the daytime, they are not heard, but at night no
one can enter these woods without the echoes being aroused. When they
begin to shriek there is no sleep for any one in my house."

"So I should say. Well, never mind them now, we have other matters on
hand. What coverts are we going to shoot over first?"

Hervey had followed his host to the stable. A strange-looking little
creature came from the obscurity within. He was an undersized man with
a small face, which seemed somehow to have shrivelled up like a dead
leaf. He had a pair of the smallest eyes Hervey had ever seen, and not
a vestige of hair on his face. His head was covered with a crown of
bristly grey hair that seemed to grow in patches, and his feet were
both turned in one direction--to the right.

"Take this plug and give him a rub down, Chintz," said Iredale. "When
he's cool, water and feed him. Mr. Malling won't need him until about
eight o'clock."

Then he turned towards the house.

"He don't waste words," observed Hervey, indicating the man, who had
silently disappeared into the stable, taking the horse with him.

"No; he's dumb," replied Iredale. "He's my head boy."

"Boy?"

"Yes. Sixty-two."

The two men passed into Iredale's sitting-room. It was plainly but
comfortably furnished in a typical bachelor manner. There were more
signs of the owner's sporting propensities in the room than anything
else, the walls being arranged with gun-racks, fishing-tackle, and
trophies of the chase.

"We'll draw the bush on the other side of the Front Hill, otherwise
known as the 'Haunted Hill,'" said Iredale, pointing to a gun-rack.
"Select your weapon. I should take a mixed bore--ten and twelve. We
may need both. There are some geese in a swamp over that way. The
cartridges are in the bookcase; help yourself to a good supply, and
one of those haversacks."

Hervey did as his host suggested.

"Why 'Haunted Hill'?" he asked curiously.

Iredale shrugged.

"By reason of a little graveyard on the side of it. Evidently where
the early settlers buried their dead. It is a local name given, I
suppose, by the prairie folk of your neighbourhood. Come on."

The two men set out. Nor did they return until six o'clock. Their
shoot was productive of a splendid bag--prairie chicken and geese.
Both men were excellent shots. Iredale was perhaps the better of the
two, at least his bag numbered two brace more than that of his
companion; but then, as Hervey told himself, he was using a strange
gun, whilst Iredale was using the weapon he most favoured. Supper was
prepared by the time they returned to the house. Iredale, healthily
hungry and calmly contented, sat down to the meal; Hervey, famished by
his unusual exercise, joined him in the loudest of good spirits.

Towards the close of the meal, when the whisky-and-water Hervey
had liberally primed himself with had had due effect, he broached
the subject that was ever uppermost in his thoughts. He began
expansively--

"You know, George,"--he had already adopted the familiarity, and
Iredale had not troubled to show disapproval, probably he remembered
the relationship between this man and Prudence,--"I'm sick of
farming. It's too monotonous. Not only that; so long as mother lives I
am little better than a hired man. Of course she's very good," he went
on, as he noted a sudden lowering of his companion's eyelids; "does no
end for me, and all that sort of thing; but my salary goes nowhere
with a man who has--well--who has hitherto had considerable resources.
It's no easy thing under the circumstances to keep my expenses down.
It seems such nonsense, when one comes to think of it, that I, who
will eventually own the farm, subject, of course, to some provision
for Prue, have to put up with a trifling allowance doled out to me
every month; it's really monstrous. Who ever heard of a fellow living
on one hundred dollars a month! That's what I'm getting. Why, I owe
more than five months' wages at the Northern Union Hotel in Winnipeg.
It can't be done; that's all about it."

Iredale looked over at the dark face opposite him. Nor could he help
drawing a comparison between the man and the two ladies who owned him,
one as brother, the other as son. How utterly unlike them he was in
every way. There was not the smallest resemblance in mind, face, or
figure. His thoughts reverted to Silas Malling, and here they paused.
Here was the resemblance of outward form; and he wondered what
unfathomed depths had lain in the nature of the old farmer which could
have communicated themselves in such developed form to the son. It was
inconceivable that this indolent, selfish spendthrift could have
inherited his nature from Silas Malling. No; he felt sure that some
former ancestor must have been responsible for it. He understood the
drift of Hervey's words in a twinkling. He had experienced this sort
of thing before from other men. Now he did not discourage it.

"A hundred a month on the prairie should be a princely--er--wage," he
said in his grave way. "Of course it might be different in a city."

"It is," said Hervey decidedly. "I don't know, I'm sure," he went on,
after a moment's pause. "I suppose I must weather through somehow."

He looked across at Iredale in such a definitely meaning way that the
latter had no hesitation in speaking plainly. He knew it was money,
and this was Prudence's brother.

"Got into a--mess?" he suggested encouragingly.

Hervey felt that he had an easy victim, but he smoked pensively for a
moment before he spoke, keeping his great eyes turned well down upon
the table-cover.

"Um--I lost a lot of money at poker the last time I was in the city. I
was in an awful streak of bad luck; could do nothing right. Generally
it's the other way about. Now they're pressing me to redeem the
I.O.U.s. When they owe me I notice they're not so eager about it."

"That's bad; I'm sorry to hear it." Iredale's eyes were smiling,
whilst in their depths there was the faintest suspicion of irony. He
was in no way imposed upon by the breadth of the fabrication. It was
the old story. He, too, lit his pipe and leant back in his chair. "I
hope the amount is not too overwhelming. If I can--er--be----"

Hervey interrupted him eagerly. He brought his hand down heavily upon
the table.

"By Jove! you are a good sort, George. If you could--just a loan, of
course--you see I can offer you security on my certain inheritance of
the farm----"

But Iredale had no wish to hear anything about his future possibilities
of inheritance. He interrupted him sharply, and his tone was unusually
icy.

"Tut--tut, man. Never mind about that. In spite of your need of money,
I hope it will be many a year before your mother leaves our farming
world."

"I trust so," murmured Hervey, without enthusiasm.

"How much will appease your creditors?"

Iredale spoke with such indifference about the amount that Hervey
promptly decided to double the sum he originally intended to ask for.

"Five thousand dollars," he said, with some show of diffidence, but
with eyes that gazed hungrily towards this man who treated the loaning
of a large amount in such a careless manner.

Iredale offered no comment. He merely rose from his seat, and opening
a drawer in his bookcase, produced a cheque-book and a pen and ink. He
made out a cheque for the amount named, and passed it across the
table. His only remark was--

"Your luck may change. Pay me when you like. No, don't bother about a
receipt."

Hervey seized upon the piece of paper. He was almost too staggered to
tender his thanks. Iredale in his quiet way was watching, nor was any
movement on his companion's part lost to his observant eyes. He had
"sized" this man up, from the soles of his boots to the crown of his
head, and his contempt for him was profound. But he gave no sign. His
cordiality was apparently perfect. The five thousand dollars were
nothing to him, and he felt that the giving of that cheque might save
those at Loon Dyke Farm from a world of anxiety and trouble. Somehow
behind that impassive face he may have had some thoughts of the coming
of a future time when he would be able to deal with this man's mode of
life with that firmness which only relationship could entitle him
to--when he could personally relieve Hephzibah of the responsibility
and wearing anxiety of her worthless son's doings. In the meantime,
like the seafaring man, he would just "stand by."

"I can't thank you enough, George," said Hervey at last. "You have got
me out of an awkward situation. If I can do you a good turn, I will."
Iredale detected a meaning emphasis in the last remark which he
resented. "Some day," the man went on; "but there--I will say no
more."

"No, I shouldn't say anything. These things happen in the course of a
lifetime, and one mustn't say too much about them." The two men then
smoked on in silence.

Presently Hervey rose to go. It was nearly eight o'clock.

"Well," said Iredale, as he prepared to bid his guest good-bye, "we
have had a good afternoon's sport. Now you know my coverts you must
come over again. Come whenever you like. If I am unable to go with
you, you are welcome to shoot over the land by yourself. There are
some grand antelope about the place."

"Thanks. I shall certainly come again. And--well, when are you coming
over to us again? I can't offer you any shooting."

"Don't trouble," smiled Iredale.

Hervey saw the "boy" Chintz leading his horse round.

"You might tell your mother," the rancher went on, "that I'll come
to-morrow to read over that fencing contract she spoke about for
her."

Hervey leered round upon him.

"Will it do if I tell Prue instead?"

"Certainly not." Iredale's face was quite expressionless at that
moment. "You will please do as I ask."

Hervey gulped down his chagrin; but his eyes were alight with the
anger from which his lips refrained. He mounted his horse.

"Well, good-bye, George," he said, with a great display of cordiality.
"I hope those owls of yours will permit me to ride in peace."

"I have no doubt they will," replied Iredale, with an inscrutable
smile. "Good-bye."

Hervey rode away. The man he had left remained standing at his front
door. The horseman half turned in his saddle as the bush closed about
him.

"Curse the man for his d----d superiority," he muttered. "I suppose he
thinks I am blind. Well, Mr. Iredale, we've made a pleasant start from
my point of view. If you intend to marry Prudence you'll have to pay
the piper. Guess I'm that piper. It's money I want, and it's money
you'll have to pay."

The mysterious owner of Lonely Ranch was thinking deeply as he watched
his guest depart.

"I believe he's the greatest scoundrel I have ever come across," he
said to himself. "Money? Why, he'd sell his soul for it, or I'm no
judge of men of his kidney, and, worse luck, I know his sort well
enough. I wonder what made me do it? Not friendship. Prudence? No, not
exactly. And yet--I don't know. I think I'd sooner have him on my side
than against me." Then he turned his eyes towards the corrals and
outbuildings which were dotted about amongst the trees, and finally
they settled upon a little clearing on the side of Front Hill. It was
a graveyard of the early settlers. "Yes, I must break away from it
all--and as soon as possible. I have said so for many a year, but the
fascination of it has held me. If I hope to ever marry Prudence I must
give it up. I must not--dare not let her discover the truth. The
child's goodness drives me to desperation. Yes--it shall all go."

His gaze wandered in the direction Hervey had taken, and a troubled
look came into his calm eyes. A moment later he turned suddenly with a
shiver and passed into the house. Somehow his thoughts were very
gloomy.



CHAPTER X

THE GRAVEYARD AT OWL HOOT


Prudence and Alice Gordon surveyed the wild scene that suddenly opened
out before them. They had drawn their horses up to a standstill on the
brow of no inconsiderable hill, and beyond stretched a panorama of
strikingly impressive beauty. Nature in one of her wildest moments,
verdant and profound, was revealed.

Alice was a pretty girl, rather ordinary, and ever ready for laughter,
which helped to conceal an undercurrent of serious thought. She was
an old pupil of Sarah Gurridge's, and consequently Prudence's
school-friend. But Alice lived in Ainsley, where, report had it, she
was "keeping company" with Robb Chillingwood, and now the two girls
only met when Alice visited the farm at such seasons of the year as
the present.

"Do you think it will be safe to go further?" asked Alice, in a tone
of awestruck amazement. "You say you are sure of the way. Would it not
be better to turn off here and make for Lonely Ranch, and seek
Chintz's guidance? There is time enough, and it is so easy to get
lost."

The girls had set out to visit Lonely Ranch, to enjoy a ramble and a
sort of picnic in the surrounding woods. Iredale was away on business,
and the two friends, availing themselves of the opportunity, were
taking a day off from the duties of the farm. They had started with
the intention of riding over and leaving their horses with Iredale's
man, Chintz, and then proceeding on foot. At the last moment Prudence
had changed her mind and decided on a visit to the great Lake of the
Woods, which was two miles further on to the south-west of the ranch.
They carried their provisions in their saddle-bags, and had made up
their minds to find some suitable break in the woods on the shore of
the lake where they could tether their horses and idle the afternoon
away.

Instead of turning into the valley of Owl Hoot they had crossed the
mouth of it, and were now at the summit of its eastern slope, gazing
out upon the mysteries of the almost uninhabited regions beyond.

"Of course it's safe, you silly," said Prudence. "Why, suppose we were
to lose ourselves, that old mare you are riding would take you home
straight as the crow flies. Besides, I have no fancy for that
ferret-faced Chintz becoming one of our party. We could never talk
freely in front of him."

"All right, then," said Alice, with a sigh. "You are leader of this
expedition. Don't the woods look gloomy? And look out beyond. There
seems to be no end to them. Shall we stop and have dinner here, and
ride on afterwards?"

"Certainly not, madam," Prudence said briskly. "No shirking; besides,
we want water to make our tea. There's none here."

Prudence understood her friend's fears, which were not without
reason. It was a simple thing to get lost in such a forest. But
anyway, as she had said, the old prairie horses they were riding would
carry them home should they mistake the road. There was really no
danger.

It was a gorgeous day. The sun was shining with unabated splendour; as
yet it wanted an hour to noon. The brilliant daylight was somehow
different here to what it was on the prairie. The fierce sunlight
poured down upon an unbroken carpet of dull green, which seemed to
have in it a tinge of the blackness of the heavy tree-trunks which it
concealed beneath. The result was curiously striking. The brightness
of the day was dulled, and the earth seemed bathed in a peculiar light
such as a vault of grey rain-clouds above it bestows. The girls,
gazing into the valley which yawned at their feet, were looking into a
shadowed hollow of sombre melancholy--unchanging, unrelieved.

Beyond stretched a vista of hills, growing steadily greater as the
hazy distance was reached. Behind where they stood was the Owl Hoot
valley and woodlands, equally sombre, until the prairie was reached.

The moments passed, and they made no effort to move. They were both
lost in thought, and looked out across the wild woodlands with eyes
which beheld only that which was most profoundly beautiful. Prudence
was enjoying the scene, the redolent air which rose from the woods
below, the solitary grandeur of the world about her, with all the
appreciation of a prairie-bred girl. Alice merely saw and marvelled at
the picture before her. She was less enthusiastic, less used to such
surroundings than her companion. They affected her differently. She
marvelled, she wondered, but a peculiar nervousness was inspired by
what she beheld. At length Prudence took the initiative. She lifted
her reins and her horse moved forward.

"Come along, Alice," she said. And the two disappeared down the slope
into the giant forest below.

Once on their way Alice recovered her good spirits again. Within the
forest the world did not seem so vast, so confusing to the eye. On
either hand, ahead, were to be seen only bare tree-trunks beneath the
ponderous green canopy which shut out the sunlight from above. The
scrunch of the pine-cones crushing under the hoofs of the horses
carried a welcome sense of companionship to the riders. Alice found
the reality much less fearful than the contemplation from the heights
above. In a few moments both girls were chattering gaily, all thoughts
of losing themselves, or of other dangers which these virgin forests
might conceal, having passed from their minds.

Whatever doubts may have assailed Alice they were soon set at rest,
for, in a short time, after ascending another rather sharp slope, they
found themselves gazing down upon a long, narrow sheet of water. It
was one of the many inlets with which the shores of the mysterious
Lake of the Woods abound. From where the girls first caught sight of
it, it looked as though the forest had been cleanly rent by the
glistening water which had cut its way into the dense growth,
demolishing every sign of vegetation in its path, but leaving
everything which grew even down to its very edge. This inlet widened
out between two hills, and, beyond that, in a dazzling haze, the vast
body of the lake, like a distant view of the sea, was just visible. It
was a perfect picture.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" said Prudence enthusiastically. "Isn't it worth a
few miles' ride to see it? I'm glad we didn't go and bother that
horrid little Chintz. It would have taken half the pleasure away to
have had his ferrety face with us."

"Lovely--lovely," exclaimed Alice rapturously. Her bright eyes were
dancing with delight, and her breath came and went rapidly. "Just
fancy, Prue; I have lived all these years within reach of this place
and this is the first time I have ever set eyes upon the lake."

Her companion laughed.

"That is not to be wondered at. There are very few people who ever
come this way. Why, I couldn't say, unless it is that the country is
bad to travel through on this side. Mind, although there are few
habitations on the western shore, there are plenty to the east and
south. I never could understand why George Iredale selected Owl Hoot
for the site of his ranch. Just think how delightful it would be to
have your home built on this hill." The girl indicated their position
with her riding-whip. "Wouldn't it be delightful to wake each morning
and gaze out upon such a scene?"

"Perfect," said Alice, whilst her eyes glanced mischievously in her
friend's direction. "Summer or winter?"

"Summer, of course, you goose," exclaimed Prudence.

"Of course; winter would be different, wouldn't it?" Alice was
laughing, but Prudence was quite serious.

"Yes; that's the worst of all Nature's finest handiwork. There's
always some drawback to it. Ugh, winter in this place would be too
dreadful to contemplate. These wilds are only fit for Indians and
coyotes and wolves when the summer is over."

"But it's a heavenly spot now," said Alice. Suddenly she raised her
whip and pointed. Far down, out upon the surface of the silvery belt
of water, a tiny speck was slowly moving. At first so distant was it
that it appeared to be stationary, but after a while it was distinctly
to be seen moving. "What is it?" she questioned sharply.

"Looks like a boat," replied Prudence. "I wonder whose?"

"I give it up. Does Mr. Iredale keep a boat?"

Although Prudence was the elder of the two girls she was much the
simpler. She was essentially of the prairie. She had no suspicion of
the apparently innocent inquiry.

"I don't think so. I never really heard. No; I should think that must
belong to some Indians or half-breed fishermen. There are some of
those people about, I believe."

She continued to watch the boat for some moments. The less serious
girl beside her allowed her attention to wander. Prudence saw the boat
approach the near shore. Then it disappeared under the shadow of the
towering pines. An exclamation from Alice drew her attention.

"Look over the other side, Prue; there's another boat. It has just
shot out from that great clump of undergrowth. Why, there are a dozen
people in it. Look! they are racing along. Where's the other gone?"

"It disappeared under this bank. Ah, the other one is following in its
wake. Yes, I should say those are Indians."

"Let us go on down. We can see better from the bank. My curiosity is
aroused. I didn't know there was so much fishing done here. Mr.
Iredale never speaks of it."

"I don't think Mr. Iredale sees much of the lake. His land--that is,
his grazing--lies to the west of the house. But he rarely talks about
his work. As he says, so few people care about this wild district that
he does not like to worry folks by reminding them of its existence."

"All the same," replied Alice, "one of these fine days some
enterprising American will come along and find out some, at present,
unknown wealth in the place, and then the settlers round the district
will kick themselves. Trust a Canuk for sitting down on his hundred
and sixty acres and never moving beyond the limits of his fencing. I
like this weird place, with its woods, its hills and valleys, its lake
and its mysterious boats. You should draw George--I mean Mr.
Iredale--out. There must be a deal that is of interest here."

"Why should I draw him out?" asked Prudence innocently, as the horses
ambled down the hill towards the shore of the lake. "You ask him. I
believe he'd like to tell some one all about it."

"No, thanks, friend Prue," said Alice cheerfully. "I'm not what you
might call a 'free agent.' There is a young man, to wit, a certain
Robb, who might object. Besides, I have not turned poacher yet."

"What on earth do you mean?"

Prudence turned a pair of astonished brown eyes on her companion.
Alice didn't answer, and the two looked squarely into each other's
faces. The elder girl read the meaning which Alice did not attempt to
conceal, and a warm flush mounted quickly and suffused her sun-tanned
face.

Then followed a long silence, and the crackling of the pine-cones
beneath the horses' feet alone aroused the echoes of the woods.
Prudence was thinking deeply. A thoughtful pucker marred the perfect
arch of her brows, and her half-veiled eyes were turned upon her
horse's mane.

George Iredale. What of him? He seemed so to have grown into her life
of late that she would now scarcely recognize Loon Dyke Farm without
him. This sudden reminder made her look back over the days since her
return from "down East," and she realized that George, since that
time, had literally formed part of her life. He was always in her
thoughts in some way or other. Every one on the farm spoke of him as
if he belonged to it. Hardly a day passed but what some portion of it
was spent by him in her company. His absence was only when his
business took him elsewhere.

And what was the meaning of it all? What was he to her that her friend
should talk of "poaching" when regarding her own intercourse with this
man? Prudence's face grew hotter. The awakening had come. At that
moment she knew that George Iredale was a good deal to her, and she
felt a certain maidenly shame at the discovery. He had never uttered
a word of love to her--not one, in all the years she had known him,
and, unbidden, she had given him her love. In those first moments of
realization her heart was filled with something like dismay which was
not wholly without a feeling of joy. She felt herself flushing under
the thoughts conjured by her friend's implication, and her feelings
became worse as Alice went on.

"Ah, Prue, you can't hide these things from me. I have always intended
to say something, but you are such an austere person that I was afraid
of getting a snub. Mr. Iredale is a charming man, and--well--I hope
when it comes off you'll be very, very happy."

"Don't be absurd, Alice." Prudence had recovered herself now.

"My dear Prue," the girl retorted emphatically, and imitating the
other's lofty tone, "George Iredale just worships the ground you walk
on. One word of encouragement from you, if you haven't already given
it to him, and in a short time you will be the mistress of Lonely
Ranch."

"Nothing of the sort"

"My dear girl, I know."

"You know less than you think you do, and I am not going to listen to
any more of your nonsense."

Prudence touched her horse's flank with her heel and trotted on ahead
of her companion. But in her heart she knew that what Alice had said
was true.

Alice called after her to wait. The trees were so closely set that she
had difficulty in steering clear of them; but Prudence was obdurate
and kept right on. Nor did she draw rein until the shore of the lake
was reached, and then only did she do so because of the impassable
tangle of undergrowth which confronted her. Just as Alice came up with
her she started off again at right angles to the direction they had
come, riding parallel with the bank. Alice, breathless and laughing,
followed in her wake, until at length a break in the trees showed them
a grassy patch which sank slowly down in a gentle declivity to the
water's edge. By the time this was reached Prudence's good-humour was
quite restored.

"A nice dance you've led me," expostulated Alice, as they dismounted
and began to off-saddle.

"Serves you right for your impertinence," Prudence smiled over at the
other.

"All the same I'm right."

"Now keep quiet, or I'll ride off again and leave you."

"So you can if you like; this old mare I'm riding will take me home
straight as the crow flies. What's that?"

Out across the water came a long-drawn cry, so weird yet so human that
the two girls stood still as statues, their faces blanching under
their tan. The echoes seemed to die hard, growing slowly fainter and
fainter. Alice's eyes were widely staring and filled with an
expression of horror. Prudence recovered herself first. She laughed a
little constrainedly, however.

"We are in the region of Owl Hoot," she said significantly. "That was
one of the screech-owls."

"O-oh! I thought it was some one being murdered."

"We shall probably hear lots of strange cries; these regions are
renowned for them. You've got the kettle on your saddle, Al. Get all
the things out whilst I gather some kindling and make a fire."

"For goodness' sake don't leave me here alone for long," Alice
entreated. "I won't mention George's name again, sure."

But Prudence had tethered her horse and set off on her quest. Alice,
left alone, secured her horse and proceeded to disgorge the contents
of her saddle-bags, and also those on her friend's saddle. This done,
she stepped down to the water's edge, and, pushing the reedy
vegetation on one side, filled the kettle. As she rose from her task
she looked out down the wide inlet. The view was an enchanting one.
The wooded banks opposite her rose abruptly from the water,
overshadowing it, and throwing a black reflection upon its still
surface. There was not a breath of air stirring; the world seemed
wondrously still.

Away to the left the water widened out, and was overhung by a haze of
heat. She was about to turn away when, from out of the distance, there
appeared another long boat. Instantly the girl was all attention. This
boat was not travelling in the same direction as were those they had
first seen, but was making for the point where the others had
appeared. She had a much better view down here at the bank of anything
moving on the lake than from the higher land, and she could not help
being struck by the fact that, whoever the occupants of the strange
craft, they were not Indians. One man was standing in the stern
steering the boat by the aid of a long paddle, and this man was garbed
in white-man's attire. The distance she was away from the object of
her curiosity prevented her distinguishing the features of these
people of the lake; but that which was apparent to her was the fact
that they were not fishermen, nor was their boat a fishing-boat. It
was long, and built with the narrowness of a rice-lake canoe, and so
low in the water that its gunwale looked to be within an inch of the
glassy surface.

So intent was the girl upon this strange appearance that she did not
notice Prudence's return, and as the strange craft disappeared within
the undergrowth of the opposite shore, she turned with a start at the
sound of her friend's voice beside her.

"Another boat," asked Prudence, "or the one we saw before?"

"Another."

There was a silence; then the two turned away and prepared their
dinner.

They pitched their camp in the shade, and the meal was quickly
prepared. The smoke from their fire helped to keep off the few late
summer mosquitoes that hummed drowsily upon the sultry air. Everything
was wonderfully peaceful and sleepy about their little encampment. Not
a leaf stirred or a bough creaked; there was the stillness of death
over all. Gradually the silence communicated itself to the girls, and
the pauses in their chatter grew longer and their eyes more
thoughtful. Even their horses for the most part stood idly by. The
green grass had but a passing attraction for them. They nibbled at it
occasionally, it is true, but with apparently little appetite. After
dinner the two friends spread their saddle-blankets upon the grass,
and stretched themselves thereon in attitudes of comfort, from which
they could look out across the shining surface of the lake; and soon
their talk almost entirely ceased. Then, for a while, they lay
dreaming the time away in happy waking dreams of the future.

Alice had bridged for a moment the miles which divided Owl Hoot
from Ainsley, and her thoughts were with her sturdy lover, Robb
Chillingwood. She was contemplating their future together, that
future which would contain for them, if no great ease and luxury, at
least the happiness of a perfect love and mutual assistance in
times of trial. Her practical mind did not permit her to gaze on
visionary times of prosperity and rises to position, but rather she
considered their present trifling income, and what they two could
do with it. Now and again she sighed, not with any feeling of
discontent, but merely at the thought of her own inability to
augment her future husband's resources. She was in a serious mood,
and pondered long upon these, to her, all-important things.

Prudence's thoughts were of a very different nature, although she too
was dreaming of the man whom her sudden realization had brought so
pronouncedly into her life. Her round dark face was clouded with a
look of sore perplexity, and at first the dominant note of her
reflections was her blindness to the real state of her own feelings.
Now everything was clear to her of the manner in which George Iredale
had steadily grown into her daily life, and how her own friendly
liking for him had already ripened into something warmer. He was so
quiet, so undemonstrative, so good and kind. She saw now how she had
grown accustomed to look for and abide by his decisions in matters
which required more consideration than she could give--matters which
were beyond her. She understood the strong, reliant nature which
underlaid the quiet exterior. And now, when she came to think of it,
in all the days of her grown womanhood he had ever been near her,
seeking her society always. There was just that brief period during
which Leslie Grey had swayed her heart with his tempestuous manner,
for the rest it was Iredale. She tried to shut him out; to contemplate
his removal from the round of her daily life. Instantly the picture of
that life lost its brightness and colouring, and her world appeared to
her a very dreary smudge of endless toil. Yes, Alice had sounded the
keynote, and Prudence's heart had responded with the chord in
sympathy. She knew now that she loved George Iredale.

This realization was not wholly pleasurable, for with it came a sudden
grip of fear at her simple heart. Her thoughts went back to some
eight months before. And she found herself again looking into the
death-chamber at the Leonville school-house. That scene had no
longer power to move her; at least not in the way one might have
expected. She no longer loved the dead man; he had passed from her
thoughts as though she had never cared for him. But a new feeling had
sprung up in her heart which the realization of this indifference had
brought. And this feeling filled her with an utter self-loathing.
She shuddered as she thought of her own heartlessness, the shallow
nature which was hers. She remembered her feelings at that bedside
as she listened to the dying man's last words. Worst of all, she
remembered how, in the paroxysm of her grief, she had sworn to
discover the murderer of Leslie Grey and see justice administered. Now
she asked herself, What had she done? And the answer came in all its
callous significance--Nothing!

She roused herself; her face was very pale. Her thoughts framed
themselves into unspoken words.

"If this is the way I have fulfilled my promise to the dead, if this
is the extent and depth of my love, then I am the most worthless woman
on earth. What surety can I give that my love for George is a better
thing than was my affection for Leslie Grey?"

She sat herself up, she looked over at her companion and noted the
drooping eyelids. Her features were strangely set, and her smooth
forehead wore a disfiguring frown. Then she spoke in a sharp tone that
startled the girl beside her.

"Alice, do you think it is possible to imagine you are in love with a
man--I mean, that you honestly believe you love him at the time and
really do not?"

Alice endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.

"Why, yes, I suppose so. I've been in love with a dozen men at one
time and another, never longer than a month with any one of them. I
never go to a dance but what I fall in love with at least two of my
partners, and my undying affection for both just lasts the evening
out. Imagination is strongly developed in some people--when they're
young."

"No, be serious."

Alice gazed at the other curiously. Then--

"Out with it, Prue. What is it that's troubling you? Your face is
significant of some dire tragedy."

"How long have you been engaged to Robb Chillingwood?"

"Nearly six months. Why?"

"And you've never thought of any other man?"

Alice shook her head. For once she was quite serious.

"Couldn't look at another man. Robb hasn't got two cents to his name,
but I'm going to marry him or--or--die an old maid."

For a moment the expression of Prudence's face relaxed, but a moment
later it set itself into more stern lines than ever.

"Alice, you were right in what you said about George," she went on
slowly. "I can hardly believe it myself yet. Leslie Grey has only been
dead eight months, and yet here I am thinking all day long of another
man. I believe I am utterly heartless--worthless."

"Well?"

"Well, it's just this. I am not worth an honest man's love. I used to
think I worshipped the ground poor Leslie walked on--I'm sure I loved
him to distraction," the girl went on passionately. "Very well;
suppose George asked me to marry him and I consented. In all
probability, in the light of what has gone before, I should be tired
of him in a year, and then--and then----"

"You're talking nonsense now, Prue," said Alice. She was alarmed at
the other's tone. The beautiful face of her friend was quite pale, and
sharp lines were drawn about the mouth.

"I'm not talking nonsense," the other went on in a tense, bitter tone.
"What I say is true. In less than eight months I have forgotten the
dead. I have done nothing to discover the murderer who robbed me of a
husband and lover. I have simply forgotten--forgotten him. Put
yourself in my place--put your Robb in Leslie's place. What would you
have done?"

Alice thought seriously before she answered.

"I should never have rested until I had avenged his death," she said
at last, and a hard glitter shone in her eyes. Then a moment after she
smiled. "But it is different. I don't think you really loved Leslie
Grey. You merely thought you did."

"That only makes it worse," the other retorted. Prudence's face was
alight with inflexible resolve. "My debt to the dead must be paid.
I see it now in a light in which it has never presented itself to me
before. I must prove myself to myself before--before----" She broke
off, only to resume again with a fierce and passionate earnestness of
which Alice had never believed her capable. "I can never marry
George Iredale with Leslie's unavenged death upon my conscience. I
could never trust myself. George may love me now; I believe I love
him, but----No, Alice, I will never marry him until my duty to
Leslie Grey is fulfilled. This shall be my punishment for my
heartless forgetfulness."

Alice surveyed her friend for some seconds without speaking. Then she
burst out into a scathing protest--

"You are mad, Prue,--mad, mad, utterly mad. You would throw away a
life's happiness for the mere shadow of what you are pleased to
consider a duty. Worse, you would destroy a man's happiness for a
morbid phantasm. What can you do towards avenging Leslie's death? You
hold no clue. What the police have failed to fathom, how can you hope
to unravel? If I were a man, do you know what I'd do to you? I'd take
you by the shoulders and shake you until that foolish head of yours
threatened to part company with your equally foolish body. You should
have thought of these things before, and not now, when you realize how
fond you are of George, set about wrecking two healthy lives. Oh,
Prue, you are--are--a fool! And I can scarcely keep my temper with
you." Alice paused for want of breath and lack of vocabulary for
vituperation. Prudence was looking out across the water. Her
expression was quite unchanged. With all the warped illogicalness of
the feminine mind she had discovered the path in which she considered
her duty to lie, and was resolved to follow it.

"I have a better clue than you suppose, Alice," she said thoughtfully,
"the clue of his dying words. I understood his reference to the
Winnipeg _Free Press_. That must be the means by which the murderer is
discovered. They were not horse-thieves who did him to death. And I
will tell you something else. The notice in that paper to which he
referred--you know--is even now inserted at certain times. The man or
men who cause that notice to be inserted in the paper were in some way
responsible for his death."

There was a moment's pause. Then Alice spoke quite calmly.

"Tell me, Prue, has George proposed yet?"

"No."

"Ah!" And Alice smiled broadly and turned her eyes towards the
setting sun. When she spoke again it was to draw attention to the
time. As though by common consent the matter which had been under
discussion was left in abeyance.

"It is time to be moving," the girl said. "See, the sun will be down
in an hour. Let us have tea and then we'll saddle-up."

Tea was prepared, and by the time the sun dipped below the horizon the
horses were re-saddled and all was ready for the return journey. They
set out for home. Alice was in the cheeriest of spirits, but Prudence
was pre-occupied, even moody. That afternoon spent in the peaceful
wilds of the "back" country had left its mark upon her. All her
life--her world--seemed suddenly to have changed. It was as though
this second coming of love to her had brought with it the banking
clouds of an approaching storm. The two rode Indian fashion through
the woods, and neither spoke for a long time; then, at last, it was
Alice who ventured a protest.

"Where are you leading us to, Prue?" she asked. "I am sure this is not
the way we came."

Prudence looked round; she seemed as though she had only just awakened
from some unpleasant dream.

"Not the way?" she echoed. Then she drew her horse up sharply. She was
alert in an instant. "I'm afraid you're right, Al." Then in a tone of
perplexity, "Where are we?"

Alice stared at her companion with an expression of dismay.

"Oh, Prue, you've gone and lost us--and the sun is already down."

Prudence gazed about her blankly for a few moments, realizing only too
well how truly her companion had spoken. She had not the vaguest
notion of the way they had come. The forest was very dark. The
day-long twilight which reigned beneath the green had darkened with
the shadows of approaching night. There was no opening in view
anywhere; there was nothing but the world of tree-trunks, and, beneath
their horses' feet, the soft carpet of rotting vegetation, whilst
every moment the gloom was deepening to darkness--a darkness blacker
than the blackest night.

"What shall we do?" asked Alice, in a tone of horror. Then: "Shall we
go back?"

Prudence shook her head. Her prairie instincts were roused now.

"No; come along; give your mare her head. Our horses will find the
way."

They touched the animals sharply, and, in response, they moved forward
unhesitatingly. The old mare Alice was riding took the lead, and the
journey was continued. The gloom of the forest communicated something
of its depressing influence to the travellers. There was no longer any
attempt at talk. Each was intent upon ascertaining their whereabouts
and watching the alert movements of the horses' heads and ears. The
darkness had closed in in the forest with alarming suddenness, and, in
consequence, the progress was slow; but, in spite of this, the
assurance with which the horses moved on brought confidence to the
minds of the two girls. Prudence was in no way disturbed. Alice was
not quite so calm. For an hour they threaded their way through the
endless maze of trees. They had climbed hills and descended into
valleys, but still no break in the dense foliage above. They had just
emerged from one hollow, deeper and wider than the rest, and were
slowly ascending a steep hill. Prudence was suddenly struck by an
idea.

"Alice," she said, "I believe we are heading for the ranch. The
valleys all run north and south hereabouts. We are travelling
westwards."

"I hope so," replied the other decidedly; "we shall then be able to
get on the right trail for home. This is jolly miserable. O--oh!"

The girl's exclamation was one of horror. A screech-owl had just sent
its dreadful note in melancholy waves out upon the still night air. It
started low, almost pianissimo, rose with a hideous crescendo to
fortissimo, and then died away like the wail of a lost soul. It came
from just ahead of them and to the right. Alice's horse shied and
danced nervously. Prudence's horse stood stock still. Then, as no
further sound came, they started forward again.

"My, but those owls are dreadful things," said Alice. "I believe I
nearly fainted."

"Come on," said Prudence. "After all they are only harmless owls." Her
consolatory words were as much for the benefit of her own nerves as
for those of her friend.

The brow of the hill was passed and they began to descend the other
side. Suddenly they saw the twinkling of stars ahead. Alice first
caught sight of the welcome clearing.

"An opening at last, Prue; now we shall find out where we are." A
moment later she turned again. "A light," she said. "That must be the
ranch. Quick, come along."

The blackness of the wood gave place to the starlit darkness of the
night. They were about to pass out into the open when suddenly Alice's
horse came to a frightened stand. For an instant the mare swerved,
then she reared and turned back whence she had come. Prudence checked
her horse and looked for what had frightened the other animal.

A sight so weird presented itself that she suddenly raised one hand to
her face and covered her eyes in nervous terror. Alice had regained
the mastery of her animal and now drew up alongside the other. She
looked, and the sharp catching of her breath told of what she saw.
Suddenly she gripped Prudence's arm and drew the girl's hand from
before her face.

"Keep quiet, Prue," she whispered. "What is this place?"

"The Owl Hoot graveyard. This is the Haunted Hill."

"And those?" Alice was pointing fearfully towards the clearing.

"Are----Oh, come away, I can't stand it."

But neither girl made a move to go. Their eyes were fixed in a gaze of
burning fascination upon the scene before them. Dark, almost black,
the surrounding woods threw up in relief the clearing lit by the
stars. But even so the scene was indistinct and uncertain. A low
broken fence surrounded a small patch of ground, in the middle of
which stood a ruined log-hut. Round the centre were scattered
half-a-dozen or more tumbled wooden crosses, planted each in the
centre of an elongated mound of earth. Here and there a slab of stone
marked the grave of some dead-and-gone resident of Owl Hoot, and a few
shrubs had sprung up as though to further indicate these obscure
monuments. But it was not these things which had filled the spectators
with such horror. It was the crowd of silent flitting figures that
seemed to come from out of one of the stone-marked graves, and pass,
in regular procession, in amongst the ruins of the log-hut, and there
disappear. To the girls' distorted fancy they seemed to be shrouded
human forms. Their faces were hidden by reason of their heads being
bent forward under the pressure of some strange burden which rested on
their shoulders. Forty of these gruesome phantoms rose from out of the
ground and passed before their wildly-staring eyes and disappeared
amidst the ruins. Not a sound was made by their swift-treading feet.
They seemed to float over the ground. Then all became still again.
Nothing moved, nor was there even the rustle of a leaf upon the boughs
above. The stars twinkled brightly, and the calm of the night was
undisturbed. Alice's grip fell from her companion's arm. Her horse
reared and plunged, then, taking the bit between its teeth, it set off
down the hill in the direction of Iredale's house. The light which had
burned in one of the windows had suddenly gone out, and there was
nothing now to indicate the way, but the mare made no mistake.
Prudence gave her horse its head and followed in hot pursuit.

Both animals came to a stand before the door of the barn behind the
house, where, to the girls' joy, they found the ferret-faced Chintz
apparently awaiting them.

Alice was almost in a fainting condition, but Prudence was more
self-possessed. She merely told the little man that they had lost
their way, and asked his assistance to guide them out of the valley to
where the trail to Loon Dyke Farm began. Such was the unexpected
ending of their picnic.



CHAPTER XI

CANINE VAGARIES


The last stage of the girls' journey--the ride home from the
ranch--was like some horrible nightmare. It was as though recollection
had suddenly turned itself into a hideous, tangible form which was
pursuing them over the dark expanse of prairie. Even their horses
seemed to share something of their riders' fears, for their light
springing stride never slackened during that ten miles' stretch, and
they had to be literally forced down to a walk to give them the
necessary "breathing." Like their riders, the animals' one idea seemed
to be to reach the security of the farm with all possible dispatch.

The farm dogs heralded their approach, and when the girls slid down
from their saddles Hephzibah was at the threshold waiting for them.
The rest of the evening was spent in recounting their adventures.
Hephzibah listened to their narrative, filled with superstitious
emotion whilst endeavouring to treat the matter in what she deemed a
practical, common-sense manner. She was profoundly impressed. Hervey
was there, but chose to treat their story with uncompromising
incredulity. So little was he interested, although he listened to what
was said, as to rouse the indignation of both girls, and only his
sudden departure to bed saved a stormy ending to the scene.

It was not until the house was locked up, and Prudence and Alice were
preparing to retire--they shared the same bedroom--that Hephzibah
Malling dropped her mask of common-sense and laid bare the quaintly
superstitious side of her character. The good farm-wife had not lived
on the prairie all her life without contracting to the full the
superstitions which always come to those whose lives are spent in such
close communion with Nature. She could talk freely with these two
girls when no one else was present. She had heard a hundred times the
legends pertaining to the obscure valley of Owl Hoot, but this was the
first time that she had heard the account of these things from
eye-witnesses.

She came into the girls' bedroom arrayed in a red flannel dressing-gown,
which had shrunk considerably under the stress of many washings, and
her night-cap with its long strings, white as driven snow, enveloped her
head like a miniature sun-bonnet. She came with an excuse upon her
lips, and seated herself in a rigid rush-bottomed chair. Prudence was
brushing her hair and Alice was already in bed.

"My dears," she said, as she plumped herself down; she was addressing
them both, but her round eyes were turned upon Alice, who was
sitting up in bed with her hands clasped about her knees, "I've been
thinking that maybe we might ask young Mr. Chillingwood out here.
It's quite a time since I've seen him. He used to come frequent-like
before--before--" with a sharp glance over at her daughter, "a few
months back. He's a good lad, and I thought as he'd make quite a
companion for Hervey. An' it 'ud do 'em a deal of good to air them
spare rooms. I'm sure they're smelling quite musty. What say?"

Alice blushed and Hephzibah's old eyes twinkled with pleasure.
Prudence answered at once--

"That's a good idea, mother, I'll write to him at once for you." Then
she turned her smiling face upon the old lady and shook a forefinger
at her. "You're an arch-plotter, lady mother. Look at Alice's face.
That's not sunburn, I know."

"Maybe it isn't--maybe it isn't," replied Mrs. Malling, with a
comfortable chuckle, whilst her fat face was turned up towards a
gorgeous wool-worked text which hung directly over the head of the
bed, "though I'll not say but what a day in the sun like she's just
had mightn't have redded the skin some."

"I am very sun-burnt," said Alice consciously.

"Why, we've been in the forest, where there's no sun, nearly all day,"
exclaimed Prudence quickly.

"Ah, them forests--them forests," observed Hephzibah, in a pensive
tone of reflection. "Folks says strange things about them forests."

"Yes," put in Alice, glad to turn attention from herself, "usually
folks talk a lot of nonsense when they attribute supernatural things
to certain places. But for once they're right, mother Hephzy; I shall
never disbelieve in ghosts again. Oh, the horror of it--it was awful,"
and the girl gave a shudder of genuine horror.

"And could you see through 'em?" asked the old lady, in a tone of
suppressed excitement.

"No, mother," chimed in Prudence, leaving the dressing-table and
seating herself on the patchwork coverlet of the bed. "They seemed
quite--solid."

"But they wore long robes," said Alice.

"Did they now?" said Mrs. Malling, wagging her head meaningly. "But
the lore has it that spectres is flimsy things as ye can see
through--like the steam from under the lid of a stewpan."

"Ye--es," said Alice thoughtfully.

"All I can say is, that I wonder George Iredale can live beside that
graveyard. I tell you, mother, there's no arguing away what we saw.
They came up out of one of those graves and marched in a procession
into the ruined dead-house," said Prudence seriously.

"And my mare nearly threw me in her fright." Alice's face had paled at
the recollection.

Hephzibah nodded complacently. She was thoroughly enjoying herself.

"True--true. That's just how 'tis. Animals has an instinct that ain't
like to human. They sees more. Now maybe your horses just stood of a
tremble, bimeby like? That's how it mostly takes 'em."

Under any other circumstances the two girls would probably have
laughed at the good lady's appreciation of the supposed facts. But
their adventures were of too recent a date; besides, they believed
themselves. The gloom of the forest seemed to have got into their
bones, and the horrid picture was still with them.

"The Haunted Hill," said Prudence musingly. "I don't think I ever
heard in what way the valley was haunted. Have you, mother?"

"Sakes alive, girl, yes. It's the way you have said, with fantastic
fixin's added accordin' to taste. That's how it come I never believed.
Folks disagreed about the spooks. They all allowed as the place was
haunted, but their notions wasn't just alike. Your poor father, child,
was a man o' sense, an' he argued as plain as a tie-post. He said
there was fabrications around that valley 'cause of the variating
yarns, and I wouldn't gainsay him. But, as Sarah says, when the
washing don't dry white there's mostly a prairie fire somewheres
around. Your father was that set on his point that he wouldn't never
go an' see for himself, although, I do say, I urged him to it for the
sake of truth."

Prudence yawned significantly and Alice had snuggled down on to her
pillow. The former clambered in beneath the clothes.

"Well, mother, all I can say is, that never again, unless I am forced
to, will I visit Owl Hoot. And under any circumstances I will never
run the risk of getting benighted there."

"Well, well," said the farm-wife, rising heavily to her feet and
preparing to depart, "maybe George would like to hear about the thing
you've seen when he comes back." She paused on her way to the door,
and turned an earnest face upon the two girls. "Say, children, you
didn't see no blue lights, did ye?"

"No, mother Hephzy," said Alice sleepily. "There were no blue
lights."

"Ah," in a tone of relief. "There's no gainsaying the blue lights.
They're bad. It means death, children, death, does the blue
light--sure." And the good lady passed out of the room with the
shuffling gait which a pair of loose, heelless slippers contrived to
give her.

"Prue," said Alice, when the door had closed, "when are you going to
ask Robb to come?"

"As soon as possible, if you like."

"Thanks. Good-night, dear; mother Hephzy is a sweet old thing."

The two girls turned over, and in a few moments were sleeping soundly.
It would have taken more than the recollections of their adventures to
banish sleep from their tired eyes. They slept the sweet refreshing
sleep of those who have passed their waking hours in the strong,
bracing air of the prairie.

Two days later Hervey was abroad early. He was cleaning his guns
outside the back door of the house. Two weapons were lying upon a
large dust sheet which was spread out upon the ground. The guns were
in pieces, and each portion had been carefully oiled and wiped. He was
now devoting his attention to a heavy revolver.

Prudence was standing in the kitchen doorway watching her brother.
Andy was over by the barn superintending the dispatch of the teams to
the harvest fields; the hands were preparing to depart to their work.
Prudence's early morning work was in the creamery.

Hervey looked up from the weapon he was cleaning, and turned his great
eyes upon his sister.

"When is this fellow coming out here?" he asked in a tone of
irritation. His question was merely the result of his own train of
thought. He had not been speaking of any one in particular.

"Who? Robb Chillingwood?"

"Yes, of course. I've not heard of any one else's coming."

"We've asked him for a fortnight to-day. Why?"

Hervey ran the cleaning-rod through a couple of the chambers of the
pistol before he spoke again. The rag jammed in the barrel and
entailed a hard pull to extract it.

"Who asked him to come?" he went on, as he re-adjusted the piece of
rag in the eye of the rod.

"Mother did. He's a very nice fellow." Prudence looked over at the
parade of "Shire" teams as they started for the fields. "Alice and he
are engaged to be married, you know."

"And I suppose he's coming out here to 'spoon' her--ugh! It's
sickening."

"Don't be so brutal," the girl replied sharply.

"Brutal?" Hervey laughed coarsely. "You're getting particular. The
house won't be a fit place to live in with an engaged couple in it. I
should have thought mother would have known better than to have asked
him."

"Don't be absurd."

Prudence moved from her stand. The dog, Neche, had slowly emerged from
round the corner of the barn, and was now mouching leisurely towards
her. She went over to meet him and caress his great ugly head.

"I'm not absurd." Hervey followed her movements with no very friendly
gaze. He hated with an unreasonable hatred to see her go near the dog.
"I know what engaged couples are. Look at the way some of the clowns
around here carry on with their girls. When Mr. Robb Chillingwood
takes up his abode here, I shall depart, I tell you straight. I think
mother should have consulted me first. But, there, I suppose that
little vixen Alice arranged it all. I hate that chum of yours."

"There's nothing like mutual regard, whatever its quality," laughed
Prudence; but there was a look of anger in her deep brown eyes. "You
are at liberty to please yourself as to your goings or comings--they
make no difference to the work of the farm."

The girl's face was turned defiantly upon her brother. Hervey spun
the chambers of the pistol round. His eyes remained upon the
weapon, and his forefinger pressed sharply upon the trigger. He
looked thoughtfully over the fore-sight and rested the pistol in the
crook of his upraised, bent left arm. His attitude was one of taking
steady aim. He made no reply.

Suddenly Prudence felt the bristling of Neche's mane under her hand.
And she sought to soothe him. This dog's displays of sudden temper
were as unaccountable as they were fierce.

"What are you going to do to-day?" she asked, as her brother did not
speak and the dog quietened.

"Going over to Iredale's place. Why?"

"When shall you return?"

"Don't know." Hervey turned; his pistol was pointing towards his
sister.

"Well, what about the 'thresher'? You and Andy were going to get
it----Look out!"

Her exclamation came with a shriek. The great husky had dashed from
her side and made a charge towards its master. Its lips were drawn up,
and its fearful, bared fangs gleamed in the morning light. Hervey
lowered his weapon with a laugh. The dog paused irresolute, then, with
a wicked growl, it turned back and sought again the girl's caressing
hand.

"One of these days I'll give you something to snarl at, you d----d
cur," Hervey said, between his clenched teeth. Then he turned at the
sound of his mother's voice. The old lady was standing in the kitchen
doorway.

"What's all the fuss about?" she asked, turning her round eyes from
one to the other. "Quarrelling again, I'll be bound. Breakfast's
ready, so just come in, both of you, or the 'slap-jacks' 'll all be
spoiled."

Prudence glanced covertly in the dog's direction as she obeyed the
summons. She was fearful that the brute contemplated a further attack
upon its master. In spite of the constant bickerings which took place
between these two, the girl had no desire that her brother should be
hurt.

Hervey spoke not a word during the morning meal, except to demand the
food he required, and his surliness had a damping effect on those
about him, and it was with a sigh of relief that his mother at last
rose from the table and began to gather the plates preparatory to
clearing away. Once, as Hervey moved slowly towards the door to return
to his guns, she looked as though she were going to speak. But the
words died on her lips, and she ambled off to the wash-house without
speaking.

The atmosphere cleared when Hervey mounted his horse and rode off. His
mother looked after him, sighed and shrugged; then she went on with
her work with a touch of her old cheerful manner about her. No
complaint ever passed her lips, but, to those who knew the kindly old
face, the change that had come over it was very apparent. The smooth
forehead was ploughed deeply with wrinkles which were new to it, and
the eyes had lost something of their expression of placid content.

But Hervey travelled his own road at his own gait. His thoughts he
kept to himself. The man was more or less inscrutable to those about
him.

To-day he had taken his dog with him. He had at length made up his
mind to rid himself of the brute. The exhibition of that morning had
decided him upon a course which he had long meditated, but had always
failed to carry out when the critical moment arrived.

The hound limped along beside its master's horse as they plunged into
the deep woods of the Owl Hoot Valley. Nor did he show the least sign
of wishing to wander from "heel." He followed on the beaten track,
stubbornly keeping pace with the horse in spite of the fact of only
possessing three legs.

Arrived at the ranch Hervey handed over his horse to Chintz and
proceeded into the woods on foot. To-day he meant to move out in a new
direction. The valley beyond the Haunted Hill had been done regularly
by him; now he was intent upon the hills on the south. Access to this
region was obtained by the one other practicable exit from the valley;
namely, the Haunted Hill, and then by bearing away to the right. He
breasted the steep slopes of the hill and soon came upon the narrow
overgrown trail which at some period had been hewn by the early
settlers of the district.

Here he tramped along steadily, the hound limping at his heels. He
walked slowly, with that long, lazy gait of a man accustomed to
walking great distances. He gave little heed to his surroundings as
far as the beauties of the place were concerned. He was not the man to
regard Nature's handiwork in the light of artistic effects. His great
roving eyes were never still; they moved swiftly from side to side,
eagerly watching for the indication of game either furred or
feathered. It seemed as though this sport was as the breath of life to
him. Now and again his gaze would turn upon the hound behind him, and,
on these occasions, the movement was evidently the result of some
sudden, unpleasant thought, and had nothing to do with the sportsman's
watchfulness which makes him seek to discover, in the alert canine
attitude, some keener instinct of the presence of game than is
possessed by the human being.

Almost without forewarning the road, after rounding an abrupt
bend, suddenly opened out on to the graveyard clearing. It was the
first time in Hervey's many wanderings in these regions that he had
actually come across this obscure little cemetery. For a moment, as
he gazed upon it, he hardly realized what it was. Then, as he noted
the ruined hut in the middle, the wooden fencing broken and tumbled
about the place, and the armless and sadly leaning crosses and the
various-shaped slabs of stone which marked the graves, he remembered
the weird story his sister and her friend had told, and, advancing,
he leant upon one of the fence posts and looked about him curiously.

He stood for some moments quite still. The place was silent with the
peaceful calm of a sweltering August day. Hervey's eyes moved from one
vaguely outlined grave to another, and unconsciously he counted them.
Thirteen graves in all were visible amongst the long grass. Then his
eyes turned upon the ruined hut. The roof had fallen in, and broken
rafters protruded above the still standing walls of pine logs. The
casing of the doorway remained, but the door had gone, and in its
place hung a piece of tattered sacking. There was one small window,
but this had been boarded over. The building was largely covered with
lichen, and weeds had grown out of the mud-filling daubed in between
the logs. There was something very desolate but wondrously peaceful
about the place.

The master's curiosity seemed to have communicated itself to the
hound, for the animal slowly, and with uncertain tread, moved off
within the enclosure. Neche's movements were furtive; strangely so.
But though Hervey's eyes now followed the dog's actions, it was merely
the result of the attraction of the one moving object within the range
of his vision, and not with any purpose of his own. In fact, it is
doubtful if, at first, the animal's movements conveyed any meaning to
the watching man. The moments slipped away and the dog snuffed
inquiringly at the various curious objects its wolfish eyes beheld.

It stretched out its neck across one grave and snuffed at the
projecting arm of a wooden cross. Then it drew back sharply with its
little upstanding ears twitching with a motion of attention and canine
uncertainty. Then the wolf head was turned in the direction of its
master, and its unblinking gaze was fixed upon his face. The animal
stood thus with ears constantly moving, turning this way and that,
listening for any strange sound that might chance upon the air. Then
with a dignified movement, so expressive of ill-concealed curiosity,
it turned away to continue investigations in other directions.

The dog's show of indifference only lasted for a moment. In limping
towards the central hut the animal stepped on to the only path which
was not overgrown with rank vegetation. The instant its foot touched
the sandy soil its head went down until its nose touched the ground.
Then followed a loud snuff. The dog's great mane bristled ominously,
and a low growl sounded significantly upon the still air. Now Hervey's
gaze instantly became one of keen intelligence. His thoughts no longer
wandered, but were of the present. He watched the movements of the
hound with the profoundest interest.

The dog moved a step or two forward. Its attitude was as though it
wished to make no mistake. The snuffing came short, quick and
incisive. Then the great head was raised, and the snuffing continued
upon the air. Now the nose turned in the direction of the hut, then it
turned back to the opposite direction of the path. Hervey remained
motionless where he stood, and his thoughts were filled with wondering
speculation.

Suddenly the dog darted off down the path, away from the hut. There
was something very like the sleuth in its attitude. Nor did it pause
until the path terminated at a stone-covered grave. Here the brute's
eagerness was displayed to the full. Its excitement was intense. The
low growls became more frequent and tense. The bristling mane, so
thick and wolfish, fairly quivered in its rigidity. Balancing itself
on its one hind foot it tore away at the baked earth around the stone
with its huge fore-paws, as though it would tear up the whole grave
and lay bare the mouldering bones it contained.

Hervey encouraged the eager hound.

"See--ek 'em," he hissed, in an undertone.

The dog responded, making the earth fly beneath its sharp claws.
The animal's excitement had communicated itself to its master, and
the man's great eyes glowed strangely. He now moved from his position
and came over to the dog's side. He stooped down and examined the
place where the dog had been working. He pushed his fingers deep into
the hollow which the vigorous claws had made. The next instant he
drew them back sharply, and a faint ejaculation escaped him. He
straightened himself up and pushed the dog roughly away from the
spot.

"Come here, you cur," he muttered. "Come over to the hut."

The dog obeyed with reluctance, and Hervey had to keep a clutch upon
the beast's mane to hold him to his side. He half dragged him and half
led him up the path until they neared the ruin. Then with a bound the
dog leapt forward and rushed in beneath the sacking which covered the
doorway, giving tongue to little yelps of eagerness as he went.

Hervey was about to follow, but a strange sound beneath his feet
attracted him and made him pause. He listened. The noise went on. It
was very faint but quite distinct, and very like the regular fall of a
hammer. He called instantly to the dog. Neche's head appeared from
beneath the canvas, but he showed unusual signs of disobedience.
Instantly, Hervey seized him by the mane, then, subdued and sulky, the
animal allowed himself to be dragged from the building. Hervey did not
relax his hold until he and the dog were well clear of the place, and
were once more buried from view within the depths of the woods.

For a moment, when the hound regained its freedom, it stood still and
turned its head back towards the place they had just left, but a
threatening command from the man brought him to heel at once, and
there was no further bother. It was strange the relations which
existed between this curiously-assorted pair. There could be no doubt
that Hervey hated the dog, and the dog's regard for its master was of
doubtful quality. As a rule, it would fawn in a most servile manner,
but its attitude, the moment its master's back was turned, was always
morose and even truculent. Hervey had told his sister that the dog was
as treacherous as an Indian. But Hervey was not a keen observer, or he
would have added, "and as wicked as a rattlesnake."

The two tramped on all that day, but there was little shooting done.
Hervey also seemed to have utterly forgotten his intention to shoot
the dog. Time after time jack-rabbits got up and dashed off into the
woods, but there followed no report of the gun. Prairie chicken in
the open glades whirred up from the long succulent grass, but Hervey
paid no heed, and when several deer trotted across the man's path, and
the gun remained tucked under his arm, it plainly showed the
pre-occupied state of his mind.

The truth was that Hervey was thinking with a profundity that implied
something which must very nearly affect his personal interests. And
these personal interests, at the moment, centred round George Iredale
and--the graveyard. He had discredited the story the girls had told as
he would discredit anything which pertained to the supernatural. But
now he had learned something which put an entirely different meaning
to the adventures the two girls had related. It is easy enough to
mystify the simple human mind, but dogs' instincts are purely
practical, and, as Hervey argued, ghosts do not leave a hot scent.
Neche had lit upon a hot scent. At first the man had been doubtful as
to what that scent was. Graveyards on the prairie are places favoured
by the hungry coyote, and he had been inclined to believe that such
was the trail which the dog had discovered. But his own investigations
had suggested something different.

The grave which the dog had attacked so furiously was no ordinary
grave, for, in thrusting his hand into the hole the dog had made at
the edge, he had found that beneath the stone was a cavity. Then had
come the recollection of the faint pounding he had distinctly heard
beneath the ground. And instantly the story the girls had related
assumed a human aspect. Without hesitation he told himself that they
had not seen spectres marching in procession through the mysterious
graveyard, but real, live, human beings. What, he asked himself, was
the meaning of it? What strange occupation was George Iredale's in
this lonely valley? Where was Iredale now? Where did he go to when he
moved out of the district on business, and what was the nature of the
business? To Hervey it was no great step from questions of this sort
to a general answer. And, when he reviewed the isolation, the secret
nightly doings, the unsuitability of the district to cattle-raising,
and the great wealth of the owner, all made since his sojourn in the
country, it was no difficult task for his thoughts to suggest some
felonious undertaking. But the one question for which he could find no
reasonable reply was that which asked the nature of the doings which
seemed to go on at night in the shadow of those dense forests.

He tramped on heedless of the passing time. His discovery had roused
him to a pitch of excitement which swayed his thoughts in the
direction they would naturally incline. In what manner could he turn
his discovery to account? His sense of proportion quickly balanced his
ideas. He must at all costs learn the secret of the graveyard, and if
it was, as he believed, some "crooked" dealings upon which Iredale was
engaged, the rest would be easy. All he wanted was money, and the
owner of Lonely Ranch had plenty and to spare.

The sun was quite low over the horizon when he at length turned his
steps again in the direction of the ranch. He was hungry; he had eaten
nothing since breakfast.

Hervey was not the man to be disturbed by any scruples with regard to
the hospitality of the owner of Lonely Ranch. He partook of the ample
supper which Chintz had prepared for him without the slightest
compunction. And when it was finished he idled the time away smoking
one of Iredale's best cigars with the utmost enjoyment. He watched the
shadows grow and deepen. He waited until the blue vault of the sky had
changed its hue to the indescribable shadow which follows in the wake
of the daylight, and the sparkling diamonds of night shone out upon
its surface; then he called for his horse and set out ostensibly for
Loon Dyke.

He rode away down the valley until he was clear of the woods; then,
leaving the prairie trail, he turned away to the right, and,
describing a wide semi-circle, doubled back into the woods again,
taking a course which lay to the eastwards, parallel to the valley of
the ranch. Now he quickened his pace, and the hound, limping
laboriously at his horse's heels, had difficulty in keeping up with
him. Nor did he draw rein until he reached the wide hollow which
backed the graveyard hill. Here, however, he dismounted, and secured
his horse to a tree. Then he removed the reins from his horse's
bridle, and proceeded to secure the hound in an adjacent position. The
night had quite closed in and the darkness of the woods was profound
when he started to make his way up the side of the hill in the
direction of the graveyard.

Hervey paused for nothing. His mind was clearly made up. Whatever
weakness may have been his there was none to be traced in his actions
now. He saw ahead of him the possibilities of furthering his own
interests, and he revelled in the thought of George Iredale's wealth.
The despicable methods he was adopting troubled him not in the least.
Iredale should pay dearly if his work partook of the nature of crime.

Hervey entertained no friendship for any one. The greed of gold was
his ruling passion. He cared nothing from whom it was obtained, or by
what means. If things were as he believed them to be, then was this a
truly golden opportunity. And he would bleed Iredale to the very
limits of his resources.

He reached the outskirts of the clearing, but he did not leave the
obscurity of the forest. The black recesses served him for a
hiding-place from which he could obtain a perfect view of the ghostly
enclosure. The tumbled hut and the weirdly-outlined graves with their
crowning monuments showed up distinctly in the starlight. And he
settled himself for a long vigil.

An hour passed without result. It was weary work, this waiting. He
dared not move about, for at every movement of his feet upon the
ground the rotting vegetation crunched and crackled loudly in the
profundity of silence. The man's patience, however, was long-enduring
under such circumstances. He told himself that the result would more
than recompense him for the trouble. He had everything to gain, and
the task appealed to him. Two hours passed and still not a sound broke
the awful stillness. Then came the first sign. Suddenly a bright light
shone out down in the valley in the direction where Iredale's house
stood. It gleamed luridly, almost red, in its depth of yellow. Hervey
held his breath, so deep was his excitement and the feeling of
anticipation.

The sudden appearance of the light was the signal for further
demonstration. The prolonged screech of an owl replied to it. The
screech, so shrill and ear-piercing, gave the watcher such a
nerve-racking moment as to almost urge him to beat a hasty retreat.
But the cry died away, and, as the echoes grew fainter and eventually
became silent, he recovered himself. A moment passed and another cry
split the air, only this time it came from across the valley on the
opposite heights. Hervey stood with ears straining. He had detected
something curious in the sound of those cries. Then as the second died
away a single word muttered below his breath voiced his discovery.

"Human!" he said to himself, and a feeling of unholy joy swept over
him, and he drew a pistol from his pocket and his hand gripped its
butt significantly.

His eyes were still turned in the direction of the house where the
light was burning when a scraping noise suddenly drew his attention
to the graveyard before him. The scraping continued, and sounded like
the grinding of an axe upon a whetstone. It distinctly came from
one of the graves, and, for a moment, he experienced a shudder of
superstitious fear. The next moment he suppressed a chuckle as he
realized that the sound came from the grave at the side of which Neche
had made such a demonstration that morning. He gazed in the direction,
his great eyes burning with the lurid fires of pent-up excitement and
speculation. What was the secret he was about to learn? He longed
to draw closer to the spot, but he knew that he dared not move.

Suddenly a vague shadow loomed up from amongst the grass which grew so
rankly in the cemetery. Up, up it rose, black even against the
background of utter darkness in which the forest was bathed. Hervey
leaned forward, his eyes straining and every nerve tense-drawn. What
was this--thing?

The shadow paused. Then it rose higher. It seemed to suddenly
straighten up, and Hervey permitted a deep breath to escape him. The
black figure had assumed the shape of a man, and the form moved
forward towards the log dead-house. Then the waiting man saw that
other figures were following the first in rapid succession. Each
figure was bearing its burden. Some seemed to be carrying bundles,
some carried that which appeared to be boxes, and others carried small
square packages. As Hervey's eyes became used to the strange scene he
was able to distinguish something of the habiliments of these denizens
of the grave. He noted the long, dark, smock-shaped garment each
figure wore, and, after a while, in the starlight, he was able to note
that most of them wore on their heads little skull-caps. Then a
muttered exclamation broke from his lips, and in his tone was a world
of satisfaction.

"Chinese!" he whispered. Then: "Traffic in yellow, by all that's
holy!"



CHAPTER XII

THE BREAKING OF THE STORM


The master of Lonely Ranch was seated before the table in his
unpretentious sitting-room. Before him were piled a number of open
account-books, and books containing matters relating to the business
of his ranch.

He was not looking at them now, but sat gazing at the blank wall in
front of him with thoughtful, introspective eyes. His chin was resting
upon his clenched hands, and his elbows were propped upon the table.
He was sitting with his shirt-sleeves rolled up above his elbows, for
the day was hot and the air was close and heavy. On one hand the
window was wide open, but no jarring sounds came in to disturb the
thinker. The door on the other side was also open wide. George Iredale
showed no desire for secrecy. His attitude was that of a man who feels
himself to be perfectly safe-guarded against any sort of surprise.
Thus he sat in the quiet of the oppressive heat thinking of many
things which chiefly concerned his life in the valley of Owl Hoot.

He had been going over the accounts which represented his fifteen
years of labour in that quiet corner of the great Dominion, and the
perusal had given him a world of satisfaction. Fifteen years ago he
had first settled in the valley. He had acquired the land for a mere
song; for no one would look at the region of Owl Hoot as a district
suitable either for stock-raising or for the cultivation of grain. But
he had seen possibilities in the place--possibilities which had since
been realized even beyond his expectations. His sense of humour was
tickled as he thought of the cattle he had first brought to the
ranch--a herd of old cows which he had picked up cheap somewhere out
West at the foot of the Rockies. He almost laughed aloud as he thought
of the way in which he had fostered and added to the weird, stupid
legends of the place, and how he had never failed to urge the
undesirability of his neighbourhood for any sort of agriculture. And
thus for fifteen years he had kept the surrounding country clear of
inquisitive settlers. Life had been very pleasant, quiet, monotonous,
and profitable for him, and, as he thought of it all, his eyes drooped
again to his books before him, and he gazed upon a sea of entries in a
long, thick, narrow volume which bore on the cover the legend--

                                 OPIUM.

Yes, he never attempted to disguise from himself the nature of his
calling. He plastered neither himself nor his trade with thick
coatings of whitewash. He knew what he was, and faced the offensive
title with perfect equanimity. He was a smuggler, probably the largest
operator in the illicit traffic of opium smuggling, and the most
successful importer of Chinese along the whole extent of the American
border. He knew that the penitentiary was yearning for him; and he
knew that every moment of his life was shadowed by the threat of penal
servitude. And in the meantime he was storing up his wealth, not in
driblets, dependent upon the seasons for their extent, but in huge
sums which were proportionate to the risks he was prepared to run.

And his risks had been many, and his escapes narrow and frequent. But
he had hitherto evaded the law, and now the time had come when he
intended to throw it all up--to blot out at one sweep the traces of
those fifteen prosperous years, and settle down to enjoy the proceeds
of his toil.

It was only after much thought and after months of deliberation that
he had arrived at this decision. For this man revelled in his calling
with an enthusiasm which was worthy of an honest object. He was not a
man whose natural inclinations leant towards law-breaking; far from
it. Outside of his trade he lived a cleaner life than many a so-called
law-abiding citizen. The risks he ran, the excitement of contraband
trade had a fatal fascination which was as the breath of life to him;
a fascination which, with all his strength of mind in every other
direction, he was as powerless to resist as were the consumers
powerless to resist the fascinations of the drug he purveyed.

But now he stood face to face with a contingency he had never taken
into his considerations. He had fallen a victim to man's passion for a
woman; and he had been forced to a choice between the two things.
Either he must renounce all thoughts of Prudence Malling, or he must
marry her, and break from all his old associations. To a man of
Iredale's disposition the two things were quite incompatible. The
steady growth of his love for this girl, a love which absorbed all
that was best in his deep, strong nature, had weighed heavily in the
balance; and, reluctant though the master of Lonely Ranch was to sever
himself from the traffic which had afforded him so much wealth, and so
many years of real, living moments, his decision had been taken with
calm deliberation; the fiat had gone forth. Henceforth the traffic in
yellow would know him no more.

He rose from his seat, and crossing the room stood gazing out of the
open window. Finally his eyes were turned up towards the heavy banking
of storm-clouds which hovered low over the valley.

Already the greater portion of his plans had been carefully laid. They
had been costly for many reasons. His agents were men who required to
be dealt with liberally. However, everything had been satisfactorily
settled. Now only remained the disposal of the ranch. This was rather
a delicate matter for obvious reasons. He wished to effectually
obliterate all traces of the traffic he had carried on there.

He went back to the table and picked up an official-looking letter. It
was a communication from Robb Chillingwood, written on the municipal
notepaper of Ainsley.

He read the letter carefully through.

  "MY DEAR MR. IREDALE,"

  "There is a man named Gordon Duffield stopping at the hotel here,
  who has lately arrived from Scotland. I have effected the sale of
  the Dominion Ranch--you know, the German, Grieg's, old place--to
  him. He is a man of considerable means, and is going in largely
  for stock-raising. He has commissioned me to buy something like
  five thousand head of cows and two-year-old steers for him. His
  bulls he brought out with him. You will understand the difficulty
  I shall have in obtaining such a bunch of suitable animals; and I
  thought you might have some surplus stock that you wish to dispose
  of at a reasonable price. You might let me know by return if such
  is the case, always bearing in mind when you make your quotations
  that the gentleman hails from old Scotia. There is shortly to be a
  great boom in emigration from both the old country and the States,
  and I am now combining the business of land agent with my other
  duties, and I find it a paying concern. Let me know about the
  cattle at your earliest convenience.

                                       "Yours truly,
                                              "ROBB CHILLINGWOOD."

Iredale smiled as he read the letter over.

"Comes at an opportune moment," he said to himself. "Surplus stock,
eh? Well, I think I can offer him all the stock he needs at a price
which will meet with the approval of even a canny Scot. I'll write him
at once."

He seated himself at his table and wrote a long letter asking
Chillingwood to come out and see him, and, at the same time, offering
to dispose of the stock of Lonely Ranch. He sealed the letter, and
then returned his account-books to their hiding-place behind the
bookcase. Then he went to the door and summoned his head man.

In spite of the habit of years, Iredale was not without a strong sense
of relief as he reviewed the progress of the disestablishment of the
ranch. He remembered how narrowly he had escaped from Leslie Grey less
than a year ago, and now that he had begun to burn his boats he was
eager to get through with the process.

The ferret-faced Chintz framed himself in the doorway.

"My horse!" demanded his master. "And, Chintz, I want you to take this
letter to Lakeville and post it with your own hands. You understand?"

The little man nodded his head.

"Good!" Iredale paused thoughtfully. "Chintz," he went on a moment
later, "we've finished with opium. We retire into private life from
now out--you and I. We are going to leave Owl Hoot. How does that suit
you?"

The little man cheerfully nodded, and twisted his face into a
squinting grimace intended for a pleasant smile. Then his eyebrows
went up inquiringly. Iredale took his meaning at once.

"I don't know where we are going as yet. But you'll go with me. I want
you to remain my 'head man.'"

Chintz nodded. There could be no doubt from his expression that he was
devoted to his master.

"Right. Send my horse round at once. I am going to Loon Dyke, and
shall be back for supper."

The man departed, and the rancher prepared for his ride.

When George Iredale set out for Loon Dyke the valley was shrouded in
the gloom of coming storm. But he knew the peculiarities of the
climate too well to be alarmed. The storm, he judged, would not break
until nearly sundown, and then it would only be short and sharp. In
the meantime he would have reached the farm. There was a curious,
unconscious rapidity in his way of settling up his affairs. It was as
though some strange power were urging him to haste. This may have been
the result of the man's character, for he was of a strikingly vigorous
nature. He had put the machinery in motion, and now he primed it with
the oil of eager desire to see the work swiftly carried out.

As his horse galloped over the prairie--he took the direct route of
the crow's flight--his thoughts centred upon the object of his visit.
He saw nothing of the pleasant fields and pastures through which his
journey took him. The threat of coming storm was nothing to him. For
all heed he paid to it the sky might have been of a tropical blue. The
ruffling prairie chicken rose lazily in their coveys, with their crops
well filled with the gleanings of the harvested wheat fields, but he
scarcely even saw them. All he saw was the sweet, dark face of the
girl to whom he intended to put the question which women most love to
hear; whether it be put by the man of their choice or by some one for
whom they care not a cent. He had always longed for this day to come,
but, until now, had never seen how such could ever dawn for him. It
had been a great wrench to sever himself from the past, but his
decision once taken his heart was filled with thankfulness, and never
had he felt so free from care as now. He realized all that a lover
may realize of his own unworthiness, but he allowed himself no
extravagances of thought in this direction. Prudence was a good woman,
he knew, and he intended, if Fate so willed, to devote the rest of his
life to her happiness. As he drew near to his destination his heart
beat a shade faster, and doubts began to assail him. He found himself
speculating upon his chances of success. He believed that the daughter
of Hephzibah Malling regarded him with favour, but nothing had gone
before to give him any clue to her maiden feelings. He wondered
doubtfully, and, in proportion, his nervousness increased.

Out upon the trail, at a distance, he saw a horseman riding away from
the farm; he did not even trouble about the rider's identity. The
strong, reckless nature, concealed beneath his quiet exterior, urged
him on to learn his fate. Nothing mattered to him now but his sentence
as pronounced by the child of the prairie whose love he sought.

There were three occupants of the sitting-room at the farm. Prudence
and Alice Gordon were at the table, which was covered by a litter of
tweed dress material and paper patterns. Prudence was struggling with
a maze of skirt-folds, under which a sewing-machine was almost buried.
Alice was cutting and pinning and basting seams at the other end of
the table. Sarah Gurridge was standing beside the open window watching
the rising of the storm.

Conversation came spasmodically. The girls were intent upon their
work.

"It's all very well to have new dresses," said Prudence, with an
impatient tug at the material on which the machine was operating,
"but I'm afraid half the pleasure of them is absorbed by the process
of 'making.' Oh, these endless seams! And I don't believe a single one
of them is straight. I feel quite hopeless."

"Cheer up, Prue," said Alice, without looking up. She herself was
endeavouring to set a wristband pattern upon a piece of stuff so that
she could get the two bands out of barely enough cloth for one. "You
should use more dash when working a machine. When you are turning it,
imagine you are driving a 'through mail' to the coast and have to make
up time. The seams will come all right."

"Yes; and break cotton and needles, and--and land the engine over the
side of a cut-bank, or run down a gang of plate-layers or something.
There now, I've run clean off the cloth. I wish you wouldn't talk so
much."

The two girls laughed whilst they joined efforts in righting the
catastrophe.

"Isn't it getting dark?" said Alice, when Prudence had once more
settled to work.

Sarah spoke without turning from the window.

"The storm's banking, child. The lightning is already flashing over
Owl Hoot way. Hervey will only just escape it."

"What did he want to go over to the ranch for?" asked Prudence. "He
never seems to go anywhere else now. I should think Mr. Iredale will
get sick of having him always round."

"My dear," observed Sarah, with unction, "when two men enjoy
destroying the harmless life which the good God has set upon the
prairie, they never tire of one another's society. Men who would
disdain to black a pair of boots would not hesitate to crawl about in
the mud and damp reeds of a swamp at daybreak to slaughter a few
innocent ducks. There is a bond amongst sportsmen which is stronger
than all the vows made at any altar. Hervey's delight in destroying
life is almost inhuman. I trust he never shoots sitting game."

"I should hope not," said Prudence. "I would never own him as a
brother if he did. Hello, Neche," as the door was pushed slowly open
and the great husky limped heavily into the room. The animal looked
round him in a dignified, unblinking way, and then came over to
Prudence's side and leisurely curled himself up on the skirt of her
dress. "Say, old boy," she added, looking down at the recumbent form,
"if mother comes in and finds you here you'll leave the room
hurriedly."

Alice laid her scissors down and looked over at her friend.

"Hervey seems quieter than ever lately. He won't even take the trouble
to quarrel."

"And a good thing too," said Prudence shortly.

Sarah turned and surveyed the two girls for a moment, an amused
expression was in her dreamy eyes. Then she turned back to the window
as the first distant growl of the coming storm made itself heard.

"Hervey only quarrels when his mind is in a state of stagnation. The
mind of a man is very like a pool of water. Let it stand, and it
corrodes with matter which throws off offensive odours. The longer it
stands the worse state it gets into. Set the water in motion, turn it
into a running stream, and it at once cleanses itself. Hervey's mind
has been lately set in motion. I have noticed the change."

"He has certainly become less offensive of late," said Alice. "I
wonder what has changed him."

"Food for mental occupation," said Sarah.

  "'A life monotonous, unrelieved, breeds selfish discontent,
  Dead'ning a mind to lofty thought for which by nature meant.'"

Prudence brought the machine to a standstill, and propping one elbow
upon the table rested her chin upon her hand.

"I believe you are right, Aunt Sarah," she said slowly. "Hervey's
certainly found something which has set him thinking. I rather fancy I
know--or can guess--what it is that has roused him."

The old lady turned from the window and gazed curiously at her pupil.
She was keenly interested. The recreation of her life was the
observation of her kind. Her logic and philosophy may not always have
been sound, but she never failed to arrive somewhere in the region of
the truth. The recent change in Hervey had puzzled her.

"He asked me yesterday to let him see that notice in the _Free Press_
which appeared when Leslie was murdered," Prudence went on. "He also
asked me what Leslie's dying words were. He insisted on the exact
words."

"The storm will break soon," observed Sarah. She had turned away to
the window.

"I wonder," said Alice; "perhaps he has discovered----" She broke off
meaningly.

"That's what I think," said Prudence.

Sarah shook her head; but what she meant to convey was uncertain, for
she had her back turned and she said nothing at the moment. Prudence
restarted her machine and Alice reluctantly bent over her patterns.
Sarah moved back from the window. She saw a horseman galloping over
the prairie in the direction of the house. She had recognized
Iredale.

"Girls," she said, her soft eyes turning on Prudence's bent head, "I
really think some one should be helping the mother. This is baking
day." Prudence looked up with an expression of contrition. "No--no,
not you, child. You stay here and get on with your fandangles and
dressmaking. I'll go and help her."

Without waiting for a reply she darted off. She had no intention of
having her innocent little scheme upset. The moment after her
departure the clatter of horse's hoofs came in through the open
window. Alice, looking up, saw Iredale dismounting from his horse. She
jumped up to go to the front door.

"Here's Mr. Iredale!" she exclaimed. Then: "So he's returned home. I'm
so glad. One scarcely knows the place without him."

She dashed out to meet him, and, a moment later, returned ushering him
in.

"Mr. George Iredale," she announced, with mock ceremony. Then she
stood aside to allow him to pass, bowing low as he entered the room.
She stood for a moment smiling upon the burly figure. She noted how
the plain features lit up at the sight of the girl bending over the
sewing-machine. Then she gave herself an obvious cue.

"I'll go and call mother Hephzy," she said, and retreated hastily to
the bake-house.

Iredale moved over to where Prudence was sitting She had ceased work
to greet him, but she did not rise from the table. Neche surveyed the
intruder, grunted and closed his eyes again. Prudence was half
inclined to resent Alice's sudden departure. Alice was in her
confidence; she knew her feelings as regarded George Iredale. She
considered her friend's action was unkind.

"You mustn't let me disturb you, Prudence," Iredale said in his low,
pleasant voice. "What is this"--fingering the material--"a new fall
dress? Wonderful how you can cope with the intricacies of the
manufacture of such things. It would be a very sorry day for me if I
were left to cut my own coats." He laughed nervously.

Prudence detected an unusual eagerness in his voice, and something
warned her that this man had come over that afternoon to see her
alone. She joined in the laugh, but her eyes remained quite serious.

"When did you come back from town?" she asked, after a pause.

"I haven't been to town. I've been across the border. My business took
me into Minnesota."

"Oh, I thought you had been to Winnipeg." She stooped and caressed the
great dog at her feet.

Iredale shook his head. A vivid flash of lightning shot across the
open window, and a crash of thunder followed it immediately. The storm
was breaking at last.

"I'll close the window." Iredale moved across the room to do so.
Prudence looked after him. When he returned he sat himself in Alice's
chair, having brought it nearer to the machine. Then followed a long
silence while the machine rattled down a seam. The man watched the
nimble fingers intently as they guided the material under the needle.
The bent head prevented him seeing more than the barest outline of the
girl's cheek, but he seemed content. Now that the moment had arrived
for him to speak, he was quite master of himself.

"Prudence," he began, at last, "I am giving up my ranch. I have been
making the necessary arrangements. I have done with money-making."

"Really." The girl looked up sharply, then down again at her work. She
had encountered the steady gaze of the man's earnest eyes. "Are you
going to--to leave us?" She was conscious of the lameness of her
question.

"I don't quite know. That depends largely upon circumstances. I am
certainly about to seek pleasant places, but I cannot tell yet where
those pleasant places will be found. Perhaps you will help me."

"How?" The seam swerved out into a great bow, and Prudence was forced
to go back over it.

"Easily enough, if you will."

The girl did not answer, but busied herself with the manipulation of
her machine. Her face had paled, and her heart was thumping in great
pulsations. Iredale went on. He had assumed his characteristic
composure. What fire burned beneath his calm exterior, it would have
needed the discerning eyes of Sarah Gurridge to detect, for, beyond
the occasional flashing of his quiet grey eyes, there was little or no
outward sign.

"I have known you for a good many years, child; years which have
helped to put a few grey hairs on my head, it is true, but still years
which have taught me something which I never dreamed of learning out
here on the prairie. They have taught me that such a thing as love
exists for every man on this earth, and that somewhere in this world
there is a woman who can inspire him with feelings which make the
pettinesses of his own solitary existence seem very small indeed. I
have learned that man was not made to live alone, but that a certain
woman must share his life with him, or that life is an utterly
worthless thing. I have learned that there is but one woman in the
world who can help me to the better, loftier aspirations of man, and
that woman is--you, Prudence."

The girl had ceased to work, and was staring straight in front of her
out of the window, where the vivid lightning was now flashing
incessantly. As Iredale pronounced the last words she shook her head
slowly--almost helplessly. The man had leaned forward in his chair,
and his elbows rested on his parted knees, and his hands were tightly
clasped.

"Don't shake your head, dear," he went on, with persuasive earnestness.
"Hear me out first, and then you shall give me your decision. I know I
am much older than you, but surely that disparity need not stand in
our way. I dare say I have many more years of life yet left than lots of
younger men. Besides, I am rich--very rich. With me you can live the
life you choose. If you wish to stay here on the prairie, why, you
shall have the most perfect farm that money can buy; if, on the
other hand, you choose to see the world, you only have to say the word.
Prudence, I know I am not a very attractive man. I have little to
recommend me, and my life has not always been spent as perhaps it
should have been; but I love you very dearly, and my future shall be
devoted to your happiness. Will you be my wife?"

There was a deafening crash of thunder which seemed to come from
directly overhead. The dog started up with a growl. Then he stood
looking up into the girl's face. The dying reverberations slowly
rolled away and left the room in deathly silence. The serious light in
the girl's eyes was augmented by the decided set of her mouth. She
kept her face studiously turned from Iredale, who, observing with all
the intuition of a man in deadly earnest, read in her expression
something of what his answer was to be.

"Can you not--do you not care for me sufficiently?"

The words contained such a world of appeal that Prudence felt herself
forced to turn in his direction. She now looked squarely into his
eyes, nor was there the faintest suspicion of embarrassment in her
manner. The moment had come when she must choose between herself and
her self-imposed duty. She knew that she loved Iredale, but--she
checked something which sounded very like a sigh. She had listened to
the precepts of Sarah Gurridge all her life, and, in consequence, she
had learned to regard her duty before all things. She now conceived
she had a great duty to perform. She felt so helpless--so feeble in
the matter; but the voice of conscience held her to her mistaken
course.

"I believe I love you; I am sure I care for you very, very much,
but----"

"Then you will marry me." The man reached out to take her hand, but
she drew it back. His eager eyes shone in the stormy darkness in
which the room was bathed.

She shook her head.

"When Leslie Grey was murdered I made a vow that I would not rest
until the murderer was brought to justice. My vow is unfulfilled. I
could not marry you and be happy while this is so. Do you know what
marriage with you would mean? Simply that I should make no effort to
fulfil my vow to the dead. I cannot marry you now."

Iredale was staggered by the woeful wrong-mindedness under which he
considered she was labouring. For a moment he could scarcely find
words to express himself.

"But--but surely, child, you are not going to let this phantom of duty
come between us? Oh, you can never do such a thing! Besides, we would
work together; we would not leave a stone unturned to discover the
wretch who did him to death----"

He broke off. Prudence answered swiftly, and the set of her face
seemed to grow harder as she felt the difficulty of abiding by her
resolve.

"This is no phantom of duty, George. It is very much a reality. I
cannot marry you--until--until----"

Iredale was smiling now. The shock of the girl's strange decision had
passed. He saw something of the motive underlying it. Her sense of
duty seemed to have warped her judgment, and, with quiet firmness, he
meant to set it aside.

"And this is the only reason for refusing me?" he asked. He had become
serious again; he seemed merely to be seeking assurance.

"Yes. Oh, George, can't you see how it is?" She gazed appealingly
into his face. And the man had to keep a very tight hold upon his
feelings.

"I am afraid I am a little dense, child," he said gravely.

"I must make you understand," Prudence went on with nervous haste. Her
conscience urged her forward, whilst her love prompted her to set
aside all recollection of the dead and to bask in the love this man
offered her. She was a simple, womanly soul, trying with all the
strength of her honest purpose to resist the dictates of her love, and
to do that which seemed right in her own eyes. The task she had set
herself had seemed easy when she had spoken of it to Alice, but now in
the face of this man's love, in the face of her own self-realization,
it seemed beyond her strength. "Listen to me, and you will see for
yourself that I must not marry you--yet. I believed that I loved
Leslie Grey truly, fondly. As I look back now I am sure I did. I was
never happy but when I was with him. He seemed so strong and resolute.
I never had a moment in which to doubt myself. Then, when he died, the
agony I suffered was something too dreadful to contemplate. As he lay
on the little bed with his life slowly ebbing, and I watched him dying
by inches, I was filled with such horror and despair that I thought
surely I should go mad. Then it dawned on me that he had been
murdered, and my anguish turned to a dreadful feeling of rage and
longing to avenge him. Never in my life did I experience such terrible
passion as at that moment. I believe at the time I really was mad. The
one thought in my mind was, 'Who--who has done this thing?' Then
Leslie died, and in his death agony he spoke and told me, as well as
his poor gasping faculties could tell me, what had happened. His words
were unintelligible to every one except me. And those words formed a
clue to the assassin's identity. By his bedside I swore to avenge him.
Never would I rest until my oath was carried out. As you know, after
that I became ill and went away. And, oh, the shame of it, during
those months of rest and illness I forgot Leslie Grey, I forgot my
vow. I forgot everything that claimed my duty. Think of it--the shame,
the shallow heartlessness, the fickle nature which is mine. I, who had
loved him as I believed no girl had ever loved, had forgotten him as
though he had never come into my life."

Iredale nodded comprehensively as the girl paused.

"Then you came into my life," Prudence went on. Her face was turned
towards the window now, outside of which she saw the tongues of
lightning playing across the sky. "Time went on, and slowly something
crept into my heart which made me realize my shortcomings. Gradually
my conduct was revealed to me in its true colours, and I saw myself as
I really was--a heartless, worthless creature, so despicable, even to
myself, as to make me shudder when I contemplated the future. Let me
be honest now, at least. I knew that I loved you, George, that
is"--bitterly--"as far as I was capable of love; but what sort of
affection was mine to give to anybody? I could not trust myself--I
despised myself. My conscience cried out. Leslie's unavenged death
still remained. My vow was still unfulfilled. Knowing this, how could
I believe in this new love which had come to me? No, I could not. And
it was then that I saw what I must do. Before I could ever dream of
love I must redeem the pledge I made at Leslie's deathbed. That alone
could restore my faith in myself. I know that it is almost impossible
to convey to you all that I have thought upon the matter; but, believe
me, I can never marry while Leslie remains unavenged."

Tears stood in the girl's eyes as she finished up her curiously
twisted self-accusations. And the sincerity of her words was not to be
doubted for a moment. Iredale had listened wonderingly, and he
marvelled to himself at the wonders of perspective in a woman's mind.

"And you are prepared to undertake the matter--alone?"

"Mother is helping me--it costs money."

"Just so. But would not a man's help be of greater importance than
your mother's? Don't you think that your husband's assistance might
help you far more? That it might be able to lighten the burden of this
self-imposed labour. Tut, tut, child. Because of your vow it should
not deter you from marriage, especially when your husband is not only
ready, but most willing to assist you in clearing up the mystery, and
avenging Leslie Grey. As regards the quality"--with a quiet smile--"of
your regard, well, come, you love me, little girl, on your own
confession, and if you have no graver scruples than you have offered,
then you must--marry me."

Iredale leant forward and took the girl's two hands in his. This time
she made no resistance. She allowed them to rest in his broad palms,
and, in spite of all her protests, felt ineffably happy.

At last she drew them away and shook her head weakly.

"No, it is no good, George. You must not be burdened with my
undertaking. I cannot consent to such a thing. It is only your
generosity and kindness which make you look at the matter so lightly.
You would regret your decision later on, and then----No, mother and I
will see the matter through. We have already secured the services of
the smartest detective in Winnipeg, and he is working upon the only
clue we possess."

"But I insist," said Iredale, with a smile which made his plain
features almost handsome. "And, Prue, I am going to tell your mother
that you have engaged yourself to me, and that I am a new recruit,
fortune as well, in the work. No--" holding up his hand as the girl
was about to protest again--"no objections, sweetheart. And, before we
go further, tell me of this clue."

Prudence smiled happily. She had done her duty; she had laid bare her
heart to this man. She had spared herself in no way. She had let him
see, she told herself, the sort of girl she was. He still cared for
her; he still wished to marry her. She bowed her will to his quiet
decision.

"It is not much to go upon, but, as Deane, that is the detective,
says, it is a decided clue."

She rose from her seat and walked over to a small work-table. At that
moment the house shook to its very foundations with a dreadful crash
of thunder. Neche, who had moved with her, leapt fiercely at the
window as though flying at some invisible enemy. The girl called him
to her side, then she stood trembling. Flash after flash of lightning
blazed in the heavens, and she covered her eyes with her hands, whilst
the thunder seemed as though it would rend the earth from end to end.
Iredale was at her side in an instant, and his arm was about her, and
he drew her head upon his shoulder. Instantly her nerve was restored,
and, as the noise passed, she quietly released herself. Then,
stooping, she opened the drawer of the table and produced a torn copy
of the Winnipeg _Free Press_. She held out the paper and pointed to
the personal column.

"See," she said, with her index finger upon the second line of the
column. "'Yellow booming--slump in Grey.' Those who are responsible
for that message, whatever it may mean, are also responsible for
Leslie's death."

Iredale's eyes were fixed with a terrible fascination upon the print.
A breath escaped him which sounded almost like a gasp. His hands
clenched at his sides, and he stood like one turned into stone.

"How--how do you know this?" he asked, in a tense, hoarse voice.

"Leslie said so with his last dying breath."

There came no answering word to the girl's statement. Iredale did not
move. His eyes were still upon the paper. The silence of death reigned
in the room. Even the storm seemed suddenly to have ceased; only was
there the incessant swish of the torrential rain outside.

"That is the clue poor Leslie gave me."

"Ah!"

"What do you think?"

"You must give me time to think."

Iredale's mouth was parched. His voice sounded strange in his own
ears. For the moment he could scarcely realize his position. An
overwhelming horror was upon him. Suddenly he turned.

"What is the date of that paper?"

"A few days before Leslie's death. But this notice has appeared many
times since--which will make our task the easier."

"Yes, it will make our task the easier."

Another pause, which was protracted until the silence could almost be
felt. Then Prudence spoke.

"You will stay to tea?"

Iredale pulled himself together.

"No, I think not. The storm has passed, the rain is ceasing. I had
better hurry back home. It will come back on us--the storm, I mean."

The girl looked out of the window.

"Yes, I think it will. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Hervey went over to
see you this afternoon."

Iredale's eyes turned sharply upon the girl.

"Ah, yes, I will go at once. I will call to-morrow and see Mrs.
Malling. Good-bye."

He turned away and abruptly left the room. Prudence looked after him.
She saw him pass out; she saw him go out by the front door and hurry
down the little path which bisected the front garden. She saw him go
round to the stables, and he seemed not to heed the rain which was
still falling lightly. But it was not until she saw him riding away
down the trail that she realized the suddenness of his departure and
the fact that he hadn't even attempted to kiss her.

Iredale's horse received little consideration at its master's hands
on that homeward journey. The animal was ridden almost at racing pace
over the long ten miles of country. And all the way home the words the
girl had spoken were running in his ears with maddening insistence--

"And when we find the author of those words we find his murderer."

She had virtually accused him of murder. For he alone was the author
of those words in the paper. Truly his sins were finding him out.



CHAPTER XIII

BLACKMAIL


As Hervey entered the valley of the ranch he listened for the warning
owl cries. To-day, however, there were none. He smiled to himself as
he noted the fact, for he knew their origin; he knew their object. He
understood that these cries were the alarm of sentries stationed at
certain points to warn those at the ranch of the approach of
strangers. He knew, too, that they were used as signals for other
things. And he admired the ingenuity of Iredale in thus turning the
natural features of the valley to his own uses. Rain was beginning to
fall in great drops, and the thunder of the rising storm had already
made itself heard. He urged his horse forward.

Few men can embark on a mission of hazard or roguery without some
feelings of trepidation. And Hervey was no exception to the rule. He
experienced a feeling of pleasurable excitement and anticipation.
There was sufficient uncertainty in his mission to make him think hard
and review his powers of attack with great regard for detail. There
must be no loophole of escape for his victim.

On the whole he was well satisfied. But he was not unprepared for
failure. During his acquaintance with Iredale he had learned that the
master of Lonely Ranch was not easily trifled with, neither was he the
man to accept a tight situation without making a hot fight for it. It
was just these things which gave Hervey the gentle qualms of
excitement as he meditated upon the object of his journey. He thought
of the large sums of money he had borrowed from this man, and the ease
with which they had been obtained. He remembered the kindly ways and
gentle manner of this reserved man, and somehow he could not get away
from the thought of the velvet glove.

But even as he thought of it he laughed. There was no getting away
from the facts he possessed, and if it came to anything in the shape
of physical resistance, well, he was not unprepared. There was a
comfortable feeling about the heavy jolt of the six-chambered "lawyer"
in his pocket.

The valley seemed much more lonely than usual. The horrid screeching
of the watchful sentries would almost have been welcome to him. The
forest was so dark and still. Even the falling raindrops and the deep
rolling thunder had no power to give the place any suggestion of life.
There was a mournful tone over everything that caused the rider to
glance about him furtively, and wish for a gleam of the prairie
sunlight.

At length he drew up at the house. There was no one about. A few
cattle were calmly reposing in the corrals. There was not even the
sharp bark of a dog to announce his arrival. As Hervey drew up he
looked to see Iredale come to the door, for he knew the rancher had
returned from his wanderings; but the front door remained shut, and,
although the window of the sitting-room was wide open, there was no
sign of any occupant within the room. He dismounted and stood thinking
for a moment. Then he raised his voice and called to Chintz.

His summons was repeated before the man's ferret face appeared round a
corner of the building. The little fellow advanced with no show of
alacrity. Iredale had told him nothing about any expected visitor. He
was not quite sure what to do.

By dint of many questions and replies, which took the form of nods and
shakes of the head on the part of Chintz, Hervey learnt that Iredale
had gone over to Loon Dyke, but that he would be back to supper.

"Then I'll wait for him," he said decidedly. "You can take my horse.
I'll go inside."

The head man took the horse reluctantly and Hervey passed into the
house.

For a long time he stood at the open window watching the storm. How it
raged over the valley! The rain came down in one steady, hissing
deluge, and the hills echoed and re-echoed with the crashing thunder.
The blinding lightning shot athwart the lowering sky till the nerves
of the watcher fairly jumped at each successive flash. And he realized
what a blessing the deluge of rain was in that world of resinous
timber. What might have been the consequences had the storm preceded
the rain? Hardened as he was to such things, even Hervey shuddered to
think.

Wild as was the outlook, the waiting man's thoughts were in keeping
with his surroundings, for more relentless they could not well have
been. Iredale's money-bags should surely be opened for him that night
before he returned home. He would levy a heavy toll for his silence.

His great dark eyes, so indicative of the unrestrained nature which
was his, burned with deep, cruel fires as he gazed out upon the scene.
There was a profoundness, a capacity for hellishness in their
expression which scarcely belonged to a sanely-balanced mind. It was
inconceivable that he could be of the same flesh and blood as his
sister, and yet there was no doubt about it. Perhaps some unusually
sagacious observer would have been less hard to convince. Hervey was
bad, bad all through. Prudence was good. Swayed by emotion the girl
might have displayed some strange, hidden, unsuspected passionate
depths, as witness her feelings at her dying lover's bedside. Her rage
at the moment when she realized that he had been murdered was
indescribable. The hysterical sweep of passion which had moved her at
that moment had been capable of tragic impulse, the consequences of
which one could hardly have estimated. But her nature was thoroughly
good. Under some sudden stress of emotion, which for the moment upset
the balance of reason, a faint resemblance to the brother might be
obtained. But while Hervey's motives would be bad, hers would have for
their primary cause a purpose based upon righteousness. The man needed
no incentive to sway his dispositions. He had let go his hold upon the
saving rock, now he floated willingly upon the tide of his evil
disposition. He preferred the broad road to Hell to the narrow path of
Righteousness. It may not always have been so.

The storm abated with the suddenness of its kind. During Hervey's long
wait Chintz did not leave him entirely alone. Several times, on some
trivial pretext the little man visited the sitting-room. And his
object was plainly to keep an eye upon his master's unbidden guest. At
last there came a clatter of galloping hoofs splashing through the
underlay of the forest, and presently Iredale pulled up at the door.

Hervey watched the rancher dismount. And his survey was in the nature
of taking the man's moral measure. He looked at the familiar features
which he had come to know so well; the easy, confident movements which
usually characterized Iredale; the steady glance, the quiet
undisturbed expression of his strong face. The watching man saw
nothing unusual in his appearance, nothing to give him any clue; but
Hervey was not a keen observer. Only the most apparent change would
have been seen by him; the subtler indications of a disturbed mind
were beyond his ken. Iredale seemed to be merely the Iredale he knew,
and as he watched his lips parted with a sucking sound such as the
gourmand might make in contemplating a succulent dish.

Iredale came in. Hervey met him at the door of the sitting-room, and
his greeting was cordial, even effusive.

"How are you, George? I knew you were to be back to-day. Jolly glad
you've returned. Quite missed you, you know. By Jove! what a storm.
Wet?"

"A bit; nothing to speak of. They told me at the farm you were over
here."

Iredale looked quickly round the room. His survey was not lost upon
his visitor. Then he went on--

"Chintz looked after you? Had any refreshment? Whisky?"

"Chintz looked after me! He looked in every now and then to see what I
was doing." Hervey laughed unpleasantly. "Yes, I can do with a gentle
'four-fingers'; thanks."

Iredale produced a decanter and glasses and a carafe of water. Then he
excused himself while he went to change his clothes. While he was gone
Hervey helped himself to a liberal measure of the spirit. He felt that
it would be beneficial just then. His host's unconcerned manner was a
little disconcerting. The rancher seemed much harder to tackle when he
was present.

Presently Iredale returned, and, seating himself in a deck-chair,
produced a pipe, and pushed his tobacco jar over to his visitor. He
was wondering what Hervey had come over for. He had no wish for his
company just then. He had hoped to spend this evening alone. His mind
was still in a state of feverish turmoil. However, he decided that he
would get rid of the man as quickly as the laws of hospitality would
allow.

A silence fell whilst the rancher waited to hear the object of the
visit. The other refused to smoke, but Iredale lit his pipe and smoked
solemnly. His face was, if possible, more serious than usual. His eyes
he kept half veiled. Hervey cast about in his mind for the opening of
his attack. He seated himself on the edge of the table and looked out
of the window. He raised his eyes to the leaden sky, then he withdrew
his gaze and looked upon the floor. He swung one leg to and fro, as he
leant sideways and supported his attitude with a hand resting upon the
table. At length, as the silence continued, and Iredale presently
raised his eyes and stared straight at him, he turned to the decanter
and helped himself to another drink. Then he set his glass down with a
heavy hand.

"Good tack, that," he observed. "By the bye, where have all your owls
departed to? Are they like the ducks, merely come, pause, and proceed
on their migratory way? Or perhaps"--with a leer--"they only stand on
sentry in the valley when--when you require them to."

Iredale permitted the suspicion of a smile. But there was no geniality
in it; on the contrary, it was the movement of his facial muscles
alone. Hervey had touched upon delicate ground.

"Did they not welcome you with their wonted acclamation?" he asked,
removing his pipe from his lips, and gently pressing the ash down into
the bowl with his finger-tip.

The other grinned significantly. He had plunged, and now he felt that
things were easier. Besides, the spirit had warmed him.

"That's a real good game you play, George, old man. The imitation is
excellent. I was deceived entirely by it. It was only the other night
that I learned that those fearful screech-owls were human. Most
ingenious on your part. You are well served."

Iredale never moved. He smoked quite calmly. His legs were crossed and
the smile still remained about his mouth. Only his eyes changed their
expression, but this was lost upon Hervey, for they were half
closed.

"I don't think I quite understand. Will you explain?" The rancher
spoke very deliberately, his voice was well modulated but cold.

Hervey laughed boisterously to cover a slight nervousness. This
attitude of Iredale's was embarrassing. He had anticipated something
different.

"Is there any need of explanation?" he asked, when his forced hilarity
had abruptly terminated. "The only thing which puzzles me is that
you've kept it up so long without being discovered."

There was a long pause. Then Iredale removed his pipe from his mouth,
knocked it out upon the heel of his boot, and returned it to his
pocket. Then he rose from his seat and stood squarely before the
other.

"Don't let us beat about the bush," he said. "I think plain speaking
is best--in some cases. Now, what have you to say?"

Hervey shrugged his shoulders. His dark eyes avoided the other's gaze;
the steely flash in Iredale's grey eyes was hard to confront.

"A good deal," he said, with raucous intonation. "The smuggling of
Chinese and consequently opium is a profitable trade. There's room for
more than one in it."

"Go on."

Iredale's tone was icy.

"Of course I am not the man to blow a gaff like this. There's too much
money in it, especially when worked on extensive lines, and when one
is possessed of such an ideal spot as this from which to operate That
was a positive stroke of genius of yours in selecting the graveyard as
a hiding-place. I suppose now that place is honeycombed with cellars
for the storage of--of--yellow. Must be, from the number of
'yellow-devils' I saw come out of the grave the other night. My, but
you're slick, Iredale; slick as paint. I admire you immensely. Who'd
have thought of such a thing? I tell you what, you were never intended
for anything but defeating the law, George, my boy. We could do a lot
together. I suppose you aren't looking for a partner?"

Iredale's face wore an almost genial expression as he replied. The
rancher's tones were so cordial that Hervey congratulated himself upon
the manner in which he had approached the subject.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I wasn't," he said. "As a matter of
fact, you must have seen me despatching my last cargo of--yellow. Why?
Were you thinking of starting in the business?"

"That _is_ my intention."

"Is?"

"Yes, is." Hervey's tone was emphatic, and his attitude truculent.

"Ah! are you prepared to buy this place?" Iredale went on. "I can
easily hand you over my connection."

"Buy?" Hervey thought this man was dense. "Why, I haven't two cents to
my name to buy anything with. No, I don't think there will be any
buying and selling between us, George Iredale."

"Then what do you propose? We may as well come to a definite
arrangement."

The rancher's tone was peculiar.

"We'll run this thing for all it's worth. Hang to it as long as
there's a cent to be made."

Hervey helped himself to more whisky. His self-satisfaction was
immense. He had not thought that Iredale would have been so easy to
handle.

"Um. A very nice, comfortable arrangement--for you." Iredale moistened
his lips slowly. "You'll sup the juice while I squeeze the orange for
you. No, friend Hervey, I'm not dealing."

"But you must!"

"Must?"

"Yes; don't be a fool. It means more money to you, and I shall share
in the profits."

"If I wanted to make more money I could continue in the business
alone. I am not here to make money for you."

Iredale stared straight into the face before him. His grey eyes seemed
to pierce through and through his companion. Hervey moved from his
position. Iredale's attitude was coldly uncompromising.

"Then you refuse my offer?"

"Most emphatically."

Hervey was inclined to show his teeth. However, he checked the impulse
and spoke in a conciliating tone.

"There is another alternative. Your fortune is very large. I want
fifty thousand dollars."

Iredale's face relaxed into a genuine smile.

"Your demands are too modest," he said ironically, "Anything else?"

The other's eyes looked dangerous. The lurid depths were beginning to
glow.

"The money I am going to have before I leave here to-night."

"Ah! blackmail. I thought so."

Iredale's contempt was biting.

"Call it what you like, Mr. George Iredale. I tell you this, you are
in my power and you will have to buy my silence. You like plain
speaking; and now you've got it. Refuse compliance, and I leave here
to expose you."

"Pooh," said Iredale, leisurely turning to the window. "Do you think
I'm a babe? How are you going to prove your charge? Why, you must be
the veriest simpleton to think I am unprepared. By the time you can
bring the law about me there will not remain a trace of--my work. You
can never bring your charge home."

"Ah, you think not." Hervey's words sounded like a snarl. The
whisky he had drunk had worked him to a proper pitch. He had not done
yet. His next shot was to be a long one and a bold one, and he was not
sure where it would hit. He was not sure that it might not rebound
and--but his was the nature which makes for success or disaster
without a second thought. For him there was no middle course. His
temperament was volcanic and his actions were largely governed by the
passionate nature which was his. Iredale had not turned from the
window, or he would have seen the evil working of that face. His own
great, broad shoulders were set squarely before Hervey's gaze, and
the uncompromising attitude only added fuel to the latter's already
superheated feelings. "Perhaps you might find it interesting to know
that they are hot upon the trail of the man who shot Leslie Grey."

Iredale swung round like a flash. Nor were the storm-clouds which but
now frowned in the heavens more black than the expression of his
face.

"You miserable hound!" he cried, his eyes sparkling, and his jaw
muscles fairly quivering with the force of his clenching teeth. "What
hellish crime would you attempt to fix on me now?"

Hervey grinned with all the ferocity of a tiger.

"I wish to fix no crime on you. I merely mention a fact. Leslie Grey
was the only accuser of his murderer. He stated before he died that
the man who inserted the notice in the paper which ran, 'Yellow
booming--slump in Grey,' was the man who murdered him. I suppose you
don't happen to know who was responsible for that enigmatical line?
You did not inspire it?"

The look that accompanied the man's words was fiendish. The great eyes
shone with a savage light They expressed a hatred which no words could
describe. Iredale's hands clenched and unclenched. His fingers seemed
as though they were clutching at something which they longed to tear
to atoms, and his thoughts centred upon the man before him.

Twice that day he had heard this challenge. Once uttered in all
unconsciousness of its significance, but now with hideous meaning. His
powers of self-restraint were great, but he had reached their limit.
This man had accused him of a dastardly murder. Suddenly his voice
rang out through the room like the bellow of a maddened bull. His
great figure quivered with the fury of his passion. Hervey had done
his worst; now he shrank before the storm he had provoked.

"Out of my house, you scum!" Iredale roared.

"God! but if you stay here an instant longer, I'll smash you as I
would a louse."

The rancher stood panting at the door. His flashing eyes never left
the face of the man before him. Hervey moved; he hesitated. The grin
had left his face and a look of dread had replaced it. Then he moved
on, forgetful of all but his moral and physical fear of the commanding
figure of enraged manhood that seemed to tower over him. He even
forgot the weapon which lay concealed in his pocket. He slunk on out
of the door amidst a profound silence, out into the soft twilight of
the valley.

The door stood open; the window stood open. Iredale looked after him.
He watched the tall, drooping figure; then, as Hervey passed from
view, Iredale turned back and flung himself into his chair, and his
laugh sounded through the stillness of the room.

But there was no mirth in that laugh. It was like the hysterical laugh
of a man whose nerves are strained to breaking tension.

He knew he had made a terrible mistake. His rage had placed a deadly
weapon in his enemy's hands. He had practically admitted his
authorship of the notice in the Winnipeg paper. What would be the
result? he asked himself. Again that strained laugh sounded through
the room.

As Hervey rode away from the valley his fear of George Iredale fell
from him as might a cloak. His face wore full expression of the evil
in his heart.

He, too, laughed; but his laugh was an expression of triumph.

"You're less clever than I thought, George Iredale," he muttered.
"You would have done better to have bought my silence. Now I can sell
my discovery elsewhere. Money I want, and money I mean to have."

But he spurred his horse on as an anxious thought came to him.



CHAPTER XIV

A STAB IN THE DARK


Mrs. Malling fumbled her glasses out of her pocket and adjusted them
on her nose. She had paused in her work to receive her letters, which
had just been brought from Lakeville. The girls stood by waiting to
learn the news.

The summer kitchen was stifling hot. The great cook-stove, throwing
off a fearful heat, helped to heighten the brilliancy of the
farm-wife's complexion, and brought beads of perspiration out upon her
forehead. Prudence and Alice looked cool beside "Mother Hephzy," but
then they were never allowed to do any work in the kitchen. Mrs.
Malling loved her kitchen better than any part of the house. She had
always reigned supreme there, and as long as she could work such would
always be the case.

Now she was preparing the midday meal for the threshing gang which was
at work in the fields. Great blocked-tin canteens stood about upon the
floor waiting to receive the hot food which was to be sent down to the
workers. Hephzibah was a woman of generous instincts where the inner
man was concerned. The wages she paid were always board wages, but no
hired man was ever allowed to work for her and pay for his keep. She
invariably insisted that every labourer should be fed from her
kitchen, and she took care that his food was the best she could
provide.

"Alice, girl," the old lady said, as she tore open the first letter,
"go and see if Andy is hitching-up yet. Tell him that the dinner boxes
will be ready in quarter-hour. Maybe you'll find him in the bean
patch, I sent him to gather a peck o' broad beans. Who's this from?"
she went on, turning to the last page of her letter to look at the
signature. "H'm--Winnipeg--the bank. Guess I'll read that later."

Alice ran off to find Andy, and Mrs. Malling picked up another
envelope.

"Prudence, my girl," went on the farm-wife, as soon as Alice's back
was turned, "just open that other," pointing to a blue envelope. "The
postmark reads Ainsley. I take it, it's from young Robb Chillingwood.
Maybe it's to say as he'll be along d'rectly."

Prudence picked the last letter up.

"It is hot in here, mother; I wonder you can stand it."

Her mother looked up over her spectacles.

"Stand it, child? It's a woman's place, is the kitchen. I can't trust
no one at the stove but myself. I've done it for over forty summers,
an' I don't reckon to give it up now. This is from that p'lice feller.
He ain't doing much, I'm thinking. Seems to me he spends most of his
time in making up his bills of expenses. Howsum, you look into it.
What's Master Robb say?"

She put her glasses back into their broad old-fashioned case and
turned back to the stove. She could never allow anything to keep her
long from her cooking. She lifted a lid and stabbed her cooking fork
gently into a great boiler full of potatoes. Then she passed round to
the other side and shook up the fire.

"Oh, what a shame, mother! Won't Al be disappointed? Robb can't come
out here, at least not to stay." Prudence had finished her letter and
now looked disappointedly over at her mother.

"And how be that?" asked the old lady, standing with a shovel of
anthracite coal poised in her hand.

"He says that the rush of emigrants to the district keeps him at work
from daylight to dark. It's too bad. Poor old Al!"

Mrs. Malling dumped the coal into the stove with a clatter and
replaced the circular iron top. She said nothing, and Prudence went
on.

"He's coming out this way on business shortly, and will call over here
if possible. But he can't stay. Says he's making money now, and is
writing to Al and giving her all particulars. I _am_ sorry he can't
come."

"Well, well; maybe it's for the best," said her mother, in a
consolatory manner. "Seemingly his coming would only 'a caused
bickerings with Hervey, and, good-sakes, we get enough of that now.
I'm not one for underhand dealings, but I'm thinking it would be for
the best not to say anything to your brother about his coming at all.
If he asks, just say he can't come to stop. I'd sooner keep Hervey
under my eye. If he goes off, as he said, you never know what mischief
he'll be getting up to. He just goes into Winnipeg and gets around
with them scallywags, and--and you never know. I have heard
tell--though he never lets on--as he's too fond o' poker. Leastways, I
do know as he spends more money than is good for him. Sarah and me was
talking only the other day. Sarah's pretty 'cute, and she declares
that he's got gaming writ in his lines. Maybe it's so. I'll not
dispute. He won't have no excuse for leaving now." And she sighed
heavily and took up the vegetables from the stove.

Alice returned, and the sound of wheels outside told the farm-wife
that the buckboard was ready for the men's dinner.

The two girls and the old lady portioned out the food into the great
canteens, and Andy lifted them on to the buckboard. Then the choreman
drove away.

By the time the farm dinner was ready Alice had quite got over her
disappointment. Prudence had told her the contents of the letter, and
also her mother's wishes on the subject. Alice was naturally too
cheerful to think much of the matter; besides, she was glad that
Robb's business was improving.

Hervey came up from the fields in Andy's buckboard. He always came
home for his dinner, and to-day he brought an atmosphere of unwonted
cheerfulness with him. He had spent much thought and consideration
upon his relations with George Iredale, and the result of his
reflections was displayed in his manner when he returned from the
fields. Never in his life had he held such a handful of trumps. His
hand needed little playing, and the chances of a cross ruff looked to
him remote.

After the meal he went out to the barn, where he smoked for awhile in
pensive solitude. He thought long and earnestly, and was so absorbed
that he looked up with a start at the sound of his mother's voice
calling to him from the open kitchen window.

"Bestir yourself, Hervey, boy. There's work to be done down in the
fields, which is your share in the day's doings."

And the man, removing the pipe from his mouth, forgot to grumble back
a rough retort, and answered quite cheerfully--

"All right, mother. Is Prudence there?"

"Where should she be, if not?" replied his mother, turning back from
the window to tell his sister that she was wanted.

Prudence came out. Hervey watched her as she approached. He could not
but admit to himself the prettiness of her trim figure, the quiet
sedateness of her beautiful, gentle face. Gazing intently, he failed
to observe the faint shadow in the expression of her soft brown eyes.
There was no sympathy in his nature, and without sympathy it would
have been impossible to read the expression. But Prudence was feeling
a little sad and a little hurt. Iredale had not fulfilled his promise.
Two days had passed since he had told her that he loved her and had
asked her to be his wife; nor, since then, had he been over to the
farm, nor had she heard a word from him. Fortunately, she told
herself, she had said nothing of what had passed between them, not
even to her friend Alice; thus she was spared the sympathy of her
friends. She had waited for his coming with a world of eager delight
in her heart, and each moment of the day on which he was to have come
to see her mother had been one of unalloyed happiness to her. Then as
the evening drew on she became anxious. And again as night came, and
still no sign from him, her anxiety had given place to alarm. That
night she slept little, but she kept her trouble to herself. Alice was
all eagerness to ask questions of her friend, but Prudence gave her no
opportunity. The next morning a note had arrived. Business detained
him, but he would be over at the earliest possible moment. And now the
third day was well advanced and he still remained away. She did not
doubt him, but she felt hurt and a little rebellious at the thought of
his allowing himself to be detained by business. Surely his first duty
was to her. It was not like him, she told herself; and she felt very
unhappy.

Hervey greeted her with an assumption of kindness, almost of
affection.

"Are you busy, Prue? I mean, I want to have a little talk with you.
I've been working in your interests lately. You may guess in what
direction. And I have made a strange discovery. We haven't hit it off
very well, I know, but you must forgive me my shortcomings. I have
lived too long in the wilds to be a pleasant companion. Can you spare
me a few minutes?"

The dark eyes of the man were quite gentle in their expression, and in
the girl's present state of mind his apparent kindliness had a strong
effect upon her. She was surprised, but she smiled up into his face
with a world of gratitude. In spite of all, her love for her brother
was very deeply rooted. The simplicity of her nature and the life she
lived made her an easy victim to his villainous wiles.

"Why, yes, Hervey; as long as you like."

"Good; I'm going down to the threshing. Will you walk some part of the
way with me? Mother has just reminded me that my work must not be
neglected. Another two days and we shall be ready for the fall
ploughing."

The sun was pouring down with fervid intensity. The yard was very
still and quiet. Everything that had leisure was resting drowsily in
the trifling shade obtainable. The swine had ceased to make themselves
heard and were sleeping upon each other's abdomens. The fowls were
scratching with ruffled feathers in the sandy hollows of the parched
earth, which they had made during the hours of morning energy. The
pigeons had departed for the day to the shelter of a distant bluff.
Even the few horses remaining within the barn were dozing. The dog,
Neche, alone seemed restless. He seemed to share with his master the
stormy passions of a cruel heart, for, with infinite duplicity, he was
lying low, pretending to be occupied with a great beef shin-bone,
while his evil eyes watched intently the movements of half-a-dozen
weary milch cows, which were vainly endeavouring to reach the shelter
of their sheds. But the dog would not have it. With a refinement of
torture he would allow them to mouch slowly towards their yard, then,
just as they were about to enter, he would fly into a dreadful
passion, and, limping vigorously at their heels, would chase them out
upon the prairie and then return once more to his bone, only to await
his opportunity of repeating the operation.

Hervey and Prudence moved away and passed down the trail. Neche
reluctantly left his bone--having satisfied himself in a comprehensive
survey that no canine interloper was about who could steal his
treasure during his absence--and followed them. He walked beside the
girl without any sign of pleasure. He was a dog that seemed to find no
joy in his master's or mistress's company. He seemed to have no
affection in him, and lived a life of mute protest.

Hervey did not speak for a few minutes. It was Prudence who broke the
silence.

"I suppose it is something to do with Leslie's death that you want to
talk to me about. I wondered what your object was when you questioned
me so closely upon his dying words. Have you discovered a fresh
clue?"

"Something more than a fresh clue." Hervey had relapsed into his old
moroseness.

"Ah!" The girl's face lit with an almost painful eagerness. For a
moment her own immediate troubles were forgotten. A wild feeling
surged up in her heart which set the blood tingling in her veins, and
she waited almost breathlessly for her brother's next words.

Hervey displayed no haste. Rather he seemed as though he would gain
time.

"That message or advertisement in the paper. Did you ever attempt to
fathom its meaning? It was something of a puzzle."

Prudence gazed up at the dark face beside her. Hervey was looking down
upon the dusty trail. His look was one of profound thought. In reality
he was calculating certain chances.

"I tried, but failed dismally. To me it conveyed nothing beyond the
fact that its author shot Leslie."

"Just so. But before I tell you what I have discovered you must
understand the argument. That line contained a message, a message so
significant that once read with understanding the mystery of Grey's
death became one that a child might solve."

"Yes--yes. But the reading of it," Prudence exclaimed impatiently.

"It is intelligible to me."

"And----"

It was a different girl to the one we have hitherto seen who awaited
the man's next words. The old, gentle calmness, the patient, even
disposition had given place to a world of vengeful thought. There was
a look in those usually soft brown eyes which bore a strange
resemblance to her brother's. A moment had arrived in her life when
circumstances aroused that other side of her character of which,
perhaps, even she had been ignorant. She learned now of her own
capacity for hatred and revenge. Some preliminary warnings of these
latent passions had been given when Grey had died, but the moment had
passed without full realization. Now she felt the ruthless sway of a
wave of passionate hatred which seemed to rise from somewhere in her
heart and creep over her faculties, locking her in an embrace in which
she felt her good motives and love being crushed out of all
recognition. There could be no doubt as to the resemblance between
these two people in that one touch of nature. Hervey was a long time
in answering. He had not only to tell her of his discovery, but there
were his personal interests to consider. He wished to re-assure
himself of his own advantage.

"See here, Prue, what are you offering--or rather, is mother
offering--to that detective chap if he discovers the murderer of Grey?
Let us quite understand one another. I don't intend to part with my
discovery for nothing. I want money as badly as anybody can want it.
For a consideration I'll tell you, and prove to you, who murdered your
man. Provided, of course, the consideration is sufficiently large.
Otherwise I say nothing."

For a moment Prudence looked up from beneath her sun-bonnet into her
brother's face. The scorn in her look was withering. She had long
since learned the selfish nature of this man, but she had not realized
the full depths to which he had sunk until now. He would sell his
information. And the thought scorched her brain with its dreadful
significance.

"How much will buy you?" she asked at last. And words fail to express
the contempt she conveyed in her tone.

Hervey laughed in a hollow fashion.

"You don't put it nicely," he said. "Ah, how much will buy me?" he
added thoughtfully.

"When a man chooses the methods of Judas it seems to me there need be
no picking or choosing of words. What do you want? How much?"

His answer came swiftly. He spoke eagerly, and his tone was quite
different from that which his companion was used to. It was as if some
deep note in his more obscure nature had been struck, and was now
making itself heard above the raucous jangling of discord by which his
life was torn. His words were almost passionate, and there was a ring
of truth in them which was astonishing, coming from such a man.

"Look here, Prue, I want to get away from here. I want to get out
upon the world again, alone, to make my life what I choose. I can't
stand this place; the quiet surroundings; the people with whom I
come in contact. It isn't living; it's existence, and a hellish
one at that. Look around; prairie--nothing but prairie. In the
winter, snow, endless snow; in the summer, the brown, scorched
prairie. The round of unrelieved, monotonous labour. Farming; can
mind of man conceive a life more deadly? No--no! I want to get
away from it all; back to the life in which I was my own master,
unfettered by duties and distasteful labours for which I am
responsible to others. From the beginning my life has been a failure.
But that was not originally my fault. I worked hard, and my ideals
were sound and good. Then I met with misfortune. My life was my own
to make or mar after that; what I chose to do with it was my own
concern. But here I do not live. I want the means to get away; to
make a fresh start in different surroundings. Sooner or later I must
go, or I shall become a raving maniac. You can help me in this, even
as I can help you in the cause in which you are now spending and
wasting a lot of money. Get mother to give me fifteen thousand
dollars, not only as the price of my information, but also to help
me, as your brother, to make another start. I am not wanted here,
neither do I want to remain."

He ceased speaking. The truth had died out of his tone when he
mentioned the money, and his words were the specious wheedling of one
who knows the generous kindliness of those with whom he is dealing.
But Prudence gave no heed to anything but that which found an
answering chord in the passionate emotion which swayed her. Hervey's
appeal to get away drew from her some slight proportion of sympathetic
understanding, but her main feeling was a desire to learn the truth
which he had discovered.

"Yes, yes; but the clue--discovery."

"First, the money. First, you must show me that you will do this thing
for me."

"I can only answer for myself. I can promise nothing in mother's
name."

"Yes, but for yourself. You have an interest in the farm."

"Yes, I will give you all I have--all--all--if you can prove to me,
and in a court of law, who was the man who shot Leslie Grey. I have
saved nearly everything I have made out of creamery. It is not as
large a sum as you require, but I can raise the rest from mother. You
shall have all you ask if you can tell me this thing. But bear this in
mind, Hervey, you will have to prove your words. I give you my word of
honour that the money will be forthcoming when you have accomplished
this thing."

Prudence spoke earnestly. But there was caution in what she said. She
did not trust her brother. And though she was ready to pay almost
anything for the accomplishment of her purpose, she was not going to
allow herself to be tricked.

Hervey didn't like these stipulations. He had calculated to extort a
price for his information only. The proving of his charge was a
matter which would entail time and trouble, and something else which
he did not care to contemplate; besides, he wanted to get away. His
recollection of his recent interview with Iredale was still with him.
And he remembered well the rancher's attitude. It struck him that
George Iredale would fight hard to prove his innocence. He wondered
uncomfortably if he could establish it. No, he must make a better
bargain than the girl offered.

"See here, Prue, this is a matter of business. There is no sentiment
in it as far as I am concerned. Your conditions are too hard. You pay
me half the money down when I give you the story. You can pay the rest
when I have carried out your further conditions. It is only fair.
Establishing a case in the law courts is a thing that takes time. And,
besides, I have known guilty people to get off before now. I can
convince you of the truth of my case. A jury is different."

Prudence thought for a moment. They were already within earshot of the
thresher. And the droning of the machine and the jerky spluttering of
the traction engine sounded pleasantly in the sultry atmosphere. The
dog hobbled lazily at her heels, nor did he show the least sign of
interest in his surroundings. The wagons loaded with bountiful sheaves
were drawing up to the thresher from half-a-dozen directions, whilst
those already emptied were departing for fresh supplies. Everywhere
was a wondrous peace; only in those two hearts was an ocean of
unrest.

"Very well. If you can convince me, it shall be as you say. You shall
have the money. The rest shall remain until after the jury's verdict.
I am not prepared to give you the money I have saved for any tale you
choose to concoct. Now let me have your story. You have shown me too
much of your sordid craving to make me a ready believer."

"You will believe me before I have finished, Prue," the man retorted,
with a bitter laugh. "You will find corroboration for what I have to
tell in your own knowledge of certain facts."

"So much the better for you. Go on."

In spite of her cautious words Prudence waited with nerves tingling
and with rapidly beating heart for her brother's story. She did not
know herself. She did not understand the feelings which swayed her.
Hervey had an easier task than either of them believed. Of late she
had dwelt so long--so intently--upon the matter under discussion that
she was ready to believe almost anything which offered a solution to
the ghastly mystery. But she did not know this. Hervey told his story
with all the cunning of a man who appreciates the results which attach
to the effect of his words. He lost no detail which could further his
ends.

"Grey, on his deathbed, alluded to the notice in the paper. He did so
in answer to your question as to who had shot him?"

"Yes."

"He was perfectly conscious?"

"Yes."

"Some time before he died you and he had discussed this notice, and he
told you he was meditating a coup in which that notice had afforded
him his principal clue." The girl nodded, and Hervey went on. "Grey
was a Customs officer. All his works centred round contraband. No
other work came into his sphere of operations. Very well, the clue
which that notice afforded had to do with some illicit traffic. The
question is, What was the nature of that traffic? Here is the obvious
solution. 'Yellow booming.' What traffic is known by such a title as
'Yellow' in this country? There is only one. Traffic in Chinese! The
smuggling of Chinese across the border. And this traffic was booming.
Operations were being successfully carried out. Where? The rest is
easy. Somewhere in Grey's district. 'Slump in Grey' could only mean,
under the circumstances, that Grey's supervision was avoided; that the
work was carried out in spite of him. You know--everybody knows that
Chinese are smuggled into Canada at many points along the border, and
that opium is brought in at the same time. Thus the poll tax and the
opium tax are avoided by men who make a living out of this traffic.
The profit is worth the risk. There is a fortune in smuggling opium.
The authorities are endeavouring to put it down. It is well known that
our cities are swarming with Chinese for whom no poll tax has been
paid. And yet the legitimate importation of opium does not increase.
Rather has it decreased in consequence of the prohibitive tax imposed
upon it. Still, these Chinese must have their opium. This then was the
coup poor Grey meditated. He had discovered a hotbed of opium
smuggling. If he succeeded in rounding the smugglers up, it meant a
great deal to his future prospects. Is that all plain?"

"Yes, yes; go on."

The girl's eyes were gleaming strangely. She followed every word her
brother said with an intentness which boded well for the result of his
efforts. The careful array of arguments was speciously detailed. Now
she waited for what was still to come without any attempt at
concealing her impatience. For the time everything was forgotten while
she learned of the murderer of her first love. The peaceful scene
about her was set before eyes which no longer gazed with intelligence
upon their surroundings. She was back in the farm parlour listening to
Leslie's story of his hopes--his aspirations. Every detail of that
evening was brought vividly back to her memory. She remembered, too,
that that was the night on which Hervey had returned. There was a
significance in the thought that was not lost upon her.

Hervey had come to a stand, and Prudence placed herself before him.
Neche squatted beside her, and as he sat his head reached up to her
waist.

"Very well. The question alone remains, who along the border in this
part of the country is smuggling Chinese? And having found your man,
did he insert the notice in question?"

"Yes--and you----"

"Chance pointed out the man to me. And I have ascertained the rest."

"And who is the murderer of Leslie?"

There was an impressive pause. Hervey gazed down into the eager
upturned face. The dog beside the girl moved restlessly, and as he
moved he made a curious whining noise. His nose was held high in the
air, and his greenish eyes looked up towards the spotless sun-bonnet.

"The owner of Lonely Ranch. George Iredale!"

Hervey turned abruptly away. Neche had moved a little way back along
the trail and stood looking about him. Then out on the still air rang
a piercing, hysterical laugh. And Prudence stretched out her arm and
clutched at the barbed-wire fence-post as though her mirth had
overcome her.

Hervey looked sharply round upon her. Neche gave a low growl, the
noise seemed to have offended him; then he limped off down the trail
back to the house.



CHAPTER XV

THE MAGGOT AT THE CORE


Hervey's look of surprise quickly changed to one of displeasure. To
him his sister's attitude merely suggested incredulity, nothing more.

"Well?" he said at last, as her laugh died out suddenly.

Prudence turned upon him with a strange fierceness.

"Go on. You must tell me more than that to convince me. George
Iredale--smuggler, murderer! You must be mad!"

Hervey kept himself well in hand. He was playing for a great stake. He
would lose nothing through any ill-advised bluster.

"I was never more sane in my life," he answered coldly. "I am ready to
prove my words."

"Prove them."

Prudence's face and the tone of her voice were icy. Her mouth was set
firmly, the declined corners testifying to the hard setting of her
jaws. She looked straight into her brother's face with an intentness
which made him lower his eyes. He had no conception of the fires which
he had stirred within her. One unconquerable desire swayed her. This
man must tell her all he knew. Then she would refute every word, tell
him what manner of man he was, and have him driven from the farm. She
hated him at that moment as she might hate a rattlesnake. She was
filled with a longing to strike him, her own brother, to the earth.

Hervey spoke in measured, even tones.

"You know the ranch and its surroundings well. You have been there.
You have heard the so-called owl cries which greet the visitor
upon entering the valley. Those are not owl cries at all, but the
work of human sentries always on the watch, ready to give immediate
alarm at the approach of danger. The secret of the ranch lies in the
graveyard." Prudence started. "That is where I made my first
discovery, a discovery of which I should not have understood the
significance but for your experiences when picnicking in that region
two or three days before. At the time I speak of I had come upon the
cemetery for the first time. I had Neche with me. I paused at the
broken fence which surrounded it, and surveyed the overgrown
graves. While I did so, Neche mouched about among them with canine
inquisitiveness. Suddenly he became agitated, and showed signs of
having hit upon a hot scent. I watched him curiously. He ran up a
path and then paused at one of the stone-marked graves. Here he
began to tear wildly at the edge of it. I followed him up and saw that
he had dug a hole below the stone. I dragged him away, and found that
beneath the stone the grave was hollow. Then I moved hastily away,
and, taking the dog to the ruined dead-house, put him on the scent
again. He dashed in, whining excitedly as he went. It was while I
stood watching for his return that I discovered the most significant
point. Directly under my feet, somewhere under the ground, I heard a
sound of hammering. Then I knew that the graveyard was no longer the
resting-place of the dead, but the abode of the living. Instantly I
remembered all the details of your ghost story, and determined to
witness for myself the scenes you had observed. Settle it for once
and all in your mind. I was troubled with no superstitious fears
upon the matter. I guessed the truth." Hervey broke off, but resumed
quickly. "That evening I returned to the graveyard surreptitiously,
and took up a position in the black shelter of the surrounding
woods. I saw all you saw. But the robed figures were not the ghosts
which you thought them to be; they were Chinese, carrying their boxes
and bundles of personal luggage, and, I have no doubt, a cargo of
opium. Then I understood that the graveyard was honeycombed with
cellars, and that this place formed the central depôt of Iredale's
traffic and his distributing station. I can understand how these
'yellow-devils' are distributed by means of loaded hayracks and
such things. The point I have not fathomed is the means by which
the 'goods' are brought into the country. I suggest the only means I
can think of as being almost without risk, and that is the lake."

Hervey paused to watch the effect of his story. Prudence gave no sign.
She no longer looked at her companion, but away across the harvested
fields in the direction of Iredale's ranch. As he waited for her
comment her lips moved.

"Go on," was all she said; and the man proceeded.

"It was an unconscious expression which, in the first flush of
discovery I made use of which ultimately gave me a clue to the rest.
As realization of Iredale's doings came to me I thought of the
notorious 'Traffic in Yellow.' That night I pondered long over the
whole thing. I had learned to like Iredale better than any man I have
ever known. He had always seemed such an honest, straightforward
man. And all of you folks were so fond of him. It was a painful
awakening; but there was worse to come, for, as I lay awake
thinking, there flashed through my brain the recollection of what
you had told me of Grey's death and his reference to the notice in
the paper. Instantly the interpretation of that line came to me. It
related to the yellow traffic. And I shuddered as I reviewed the
possibilities which my discovery opened up. I couldn't rest. A
feverish desire to know the worst assailed me. I questioned you as
you may remember, and, with every reply you gave me, my fears
received confirmation. In the end I could no longer keep silence,
and my anger drove me to a course which I have since almost regretted,
for it has destroyed the last vestige of the regard I entertained for
the man you have all so liked and respected. I went over to the
ranch and challenged George Iredale----"

"On the night of the storm. The night he visited me. Go on."
Prudence's face was ghastly in its pallor. She gave no other sign of
emotion.

"Yes, on the night of the storm. I taxed him with smuggling. He
admitted it. I taxed him with the authorship of that notice----"

"Well?" The girl leant forward in her eagerness.

"He did not contradict it. His attitude was a tacit admission. That is
my evidence."

Hervey ceased speaking, and a long pause followed. The man waited. He
did not wish to hurry her. He was not blind to the fact that she
regarded Iredale with something more than mere friendly feeling, and,
with fiendish cunning, he had played upon the knowledge by his
allusions to his own regard for the man and the trust which they all
placed in him. This woman's love for Iredale he knew would help him;
for, gradually, as the damning evidence he had produced filtered
through her armour of loyal affection, her hatred for the man would be
doubled and trebled. In this Hervey displayed a knowledge of human
nature which one would scarcely have credited him with.

At last Prudence turned. The pallor of her face was unchanged. Only
the look in her eyes had altered. The horror which had shone there had
become a world of piteous appeal. All her soul shone forth in those
sweet, brown eyes. Surely it must have needed a heart of stone to
resist her. Her body was leaning forward, her two brown hands were
held out towards him.

"I don't believe it! I can't believe it! George is no--murderer."

Hervey's great eyes lowered before that heartful look. His face was a
study in hopelessness. From his expression of deep sorrow Iredale
might have been his own brother who was accused of murder.

"I'm afraid there is no hope of what you say, Prue. Leslie was
conscious; he knew what he was saying. _Iredale had every reason for
shooting him_. The circumstantial evidence is damning. The most
sceptical jury would be convinced."

"O God! O God! And he has asked me to be his wife." Prudence covered
her face with her hands, and her body heaved with great, passionate
sobs.

Hervey started at the words. His face lit up with a wicked joy. This
was better than he had expected. George should pay dearly for his
refusal to buy his silence.

"You say he dared to propose to you with that foul crime upon his
soul? He is a worse villain than I had believed. By heavens, he shall
swing for his crime! I had hoped that my news had come in time to save
you this cruel wrong. The scum! The foul, black-hearted scum!"

Hervey's rage was melodramatic. But the girl, even in the depths of
her misery and distraught feelings, was impressed. Her heart cried out
for her lover, and proclaimed his innocence in terms which would not
be silenced. His image rose before her mind's eye, and she looked upon
that kindly, strong face, the vigorous bearing of that manly figure,
and the story she had just listened to became dwarfed as her faith in
him rose superior to the evidence of her senses. It could not be. Her
quivering lips struggled to frame the words she longed to utter, but
no sound came. Hervey's words, his attitude, his appearance of deep,
honest sorrow for his sister paralyzed her faculties and hope died
down in her heart.

The man moved forward to her side, and touched her gently on the
shoulders.

"Come, Prue, we had best go back to the house. I can do no work
to-day. You, too, need quiet for reflection. The heartless villain!"
And he harped upon the information his sister had provided him with.

Prudence allowed herself to be led. She did not care whither she went
or what happened. She was incapable of reasoning. She was stunned by
the cruel blow that had fallen. Later she would recover herself, for
all such blows are but passing; in waking moments mind and reason
cannot long remain inert and sanity obtain. For the present she was a
mere automaton.

Hervey grew uncomfortable at the girl's prolonged silence. He cared
nothing for her feelings; he cared nothing for the heart he had
broken. He cared only for the money he had not yet secured. He
realized only too well that, whatever protest his sister might offer,
he had convinced her of Iredale's guilt; it was only a question of
time before she admitted it openly. But some feeling of doubt prompted
him to secure his wage without delay. Thus his greed rushed him on to
a false trail.

Halfway to the house he broke the silence.

"Well, Prue, you cannot refute my evidence. Iredale is the man you
have all been seeking. I have served you well. You yourself have
escaped a course which would have brought you lifelong regret. Think
of it! What would it have meant to you had you married the man?
Terrible! Terrible!"

The girl looked up. There was a wild, hunted look in her eyes. Her
brother's words had in some way driven her at bay. He had struck a
chord which had set her every nerve on edge, and in doing so had upset
all his best-laid schemes. A flood of passionate protest surged to her
lips and flowed forth in a seething torrent. She remembered what his
story had been told for; she had forgotten for the moment, so well had
he acted his part, and had thought only that what he had said was the
outcome of his regard for her. Now she turned upon him like a
tigress.

"Judas!" she cried, a flush of rage sweeping up into her face as the
words hissed from between her teeth. "You have come to sell this man.
Your thoughts have nothing to do with the meting out of human justice.
You want a price for your filthy work. I loathe you! What curse is on
our family that you should have been born into it? You shall have your
money; do you hear? You shall have it, and with it goes my curse. But
not yet. My conditions are not fulfilled. I do not believe you; your
story has not convinced me; I can see no reason in it. Ha, ha!" and
she laughed hysterically. "You cannot make me believe it because I
will not. You shall have your money, I will not go back on my word;
but you must fulfil the conditions. You must convince me of the reason
in your story. You will earn your pay as you have never earned
anything in your life. Shall I tell you how you will earn it? You will
prove your story before judge and jury. When you have convinced them
you will have convinced me. Then I will pay you. My God, what taint
has brought such blood into the veins of our flesh? If Iredale is the
murderer he shall pay the extreme penalty, and you--whether you like
it or not--shall be instrumental in that punishment. You shall be his
accuser; you shall see him to the scaffold. And after it is over,
after you have received the sum of your blood-money, I will tell the
world of your doings. That you--my brother--demanded a price for your
work. They--the world--shall know you; shall loathe you as I loathe
you. You shall be an outcast wherever you go, stamped with the brand
of Judas--the most despised of all men. Better for you if you stood in
George Iredale's place on the scaffold than face the world so branded.
Oh, you wretched man, you have destroyed my life--my all! Go, and
bring the police. Go to those whose duty it is to listen to such
stories as yours. Now I will drive you to it; you shall go, whether
you like it or not. Refuse, and I will lay the information and force
you to become a witness. You thought you were dealing with a soft,
silly woman; you thought to cajole the price out of me, and then,
having obtained what you desired, to leave me to do the work. Fool!
You will face George Iredale, the accuser and the accused. You shall
earn your money. I know the ways of such men as you. Do you know what
you are doing? Do you know the name that such work as yours goes by?
It is blackmail!"

The girl paused for breath. Then she went on with a bitterness that
was almost worse than the contempt in all she had said before.

"But rest content. Every penny you have asked for shall be yours when
Iredale's crimes are expiated. Nor shall I give to the world the story
of my brother's perfidy until such time as you have gone out of our
world for ever. Go, go from me now; I will not walk beside you."

Hervey's face was a study in villainous expression as he listened to
his sister's hysterical denunciation. He knew the reason of her
tirade. He knew that she loved Iredale. He had convinced her of this
lover's crimes; he knew this. And now, woman-like, she turned upon
him--for his hand, his words had destroyed her happiness. But her
words smote hard. The lowest natures care not what others think of
them, but those others' spoken thoughts have a different effect. So it
was with Hervey. It mattered nothing to him what the girl thought of
him--what the world thought of him. But words--abuse--had still power
to move him.

She struck the right note when she said the money down was what he
wanted. Now he saw that he had over-reached himself, and he cursed
himself for having trusted to a woman's promise. There was but one
thing left for him to do. He controlled himself well when he replied.

"Very well, sister," he said. "In spite of what you say, you are going
back on your word. You should have thought to fling dirt before you
entered into a compact with me. However, I care nothing for all your
threats. As you have said, I want money. Nothing else matters to me.
So I will go to Winnipeg and see this thing through."

"You certainly will have to do so. Andy shall drive you into town
to-night, and I could find it in my heart to wish that I might never
see your face again."

"Very well." Hervey laughed harshly. "As you wish. I accept your
commands. See you as readily fulfil your part of the contract when the
time comes. You do not hoodwink me again with impunity."

And so brother and sister parted. The girl walked on to the house,
her feet dragging wearily over the dusty trail. Hervey paused
irresolutely. His burning eyes, filled with a look of bitter hatred,
gazed after the slight figure of his sister, whose life he had so
wantonly helped to wreck. Then he laughed cruelly and turned abruptly
back on his tracks and returned once more to the harvesters.

Prudence gained the house and went straight to her room. She wanted to
be alone. She wanted to straighten out the chaos of her thoughts. She
heard the cheery voices of her mother and Alice talking in the
kitchen. She heard the clatter of plates and dishes, and she knew that
these two were washing up. But beyond that she noticed nothing; she
did not even see the plump figure of Sarah Gurridge approaching the
house from the direction of Leonville.

Once in her own little room she flung herself into an arm-chair and
sat staring straight in front of her. Her paramount feeling was one of
awful horror. The mystery was solved, and George Iredale was the
murderer. The metal alarm clock ticked away upon the wooden top of her
bureau, and the sound pervaded the room with its steady throb. Her
feelings, her thoughts, seemed to pulsate in concert with its rhythm.
The words which expressed her dominant emotions hammered themselves
into her brain with the steady precision of the ticking--

"George Iredale, the murderer of Leslie Grey!"

The moments passed, but time brought the girl no relief. All thought
of the man who had told her of this thing had passed from her. Only
the fact remained. Slowly, as she sat with nerves tingling and
whirling brain, a flush of blood mounted to her head, her brain became
hot, and she seemed to be looking out on a red world. The ticking of
the clock grew fainter and more distant. The room seemed to diminish
in size, while the objects about her drew nearer and nearer. A sense
of compression was hers, although she seemed to be gazing out over
some great distance with everything around her in due perspective.

Mechanically she rose and opened the window; then she returned to her
chair with something of the action of an automaton.

And as she sat the blood seemed to recede from her brain and an icy
dew broke out upon her forehead. She was numbed with a sort of
paralysis now, and the measured beat of the clock no longer pounded
out the words of her thought. Only her heart beat painfully, and she
was conscious of a horrible void. Something was wrong with her, but
she was incapable of realizing what it was.

She moved, the chair creaked under her, and again thought flowed
through her brain. It came with a rush; the deadly numbness had gone
as quickly as it had come, and once more her faculties worked
feverishly. Now she realized pain, horror, despair, hopelessness in a
sudden, overwhelming flood. She shrank back deeper into the chair as
though to avoid physical blows which were being rained upon her by
some unseen hand.

Presently she started up with a faint cry. She walked across the room
and back again. She paused at the bureau, muttering--

"It can't be! It can't be!" she said to herself, in an agony of
terror. "George is too good, too honest. Ah!"

Her love cried out for the man, but reason checked her while her heart
tried to rush her into extravagant hopefulness. Iredale had admitted
the smuggling. She had seen with her own eyes the doings at the
graveyard. And therein lay the key to everything. Leslie had said so
with his dying breath. But as this thought came to her it was chased
away by her love in a fresh burst of fervour. She could not believe
it. There must be some awful, some horrible mistake.

Slowly her mind steadied itself; the long years of calmness which she
had spent amidst the profound peace of the prairie helped her. She
gripped herself lest the dreadful thought of what she had heard should
drive her to madness. She went over what she had been told with a keen
examination. She listened to her own arguments for and against the man
she loved. She went back to the time when Leslie had told her of his
"coup." She remembered everything so well. She paused as she
recollected her dead lover's anger at George's coming to the party.
And, for a moment, her heart almost stood still. She asked herself,
had she misinterpreted his meaning? Had there been something
underlying his expressed displeasure at George's coming which related
to what he knew of his, George Iredale's, doings at the ranch? Every
word he had said came back to her. She remembered that he had finished
up his protest with a broken sentence.

"--And besides----"

There was a significance in those words now which she could not help
dwelling upon. Then she put the thought from her as her faith in her
lover re-asserted itself. But the effort was a feeble one; her love
was being overwhelmed by the damning evidence.

She moved restlessly from the bureau to the window. The curtained
aperture looked out upon the far-reaching cornfields, which were now
only a mass of brown stubble. In the distance, beyond the dyke, she
could see the white steam of the traction-engine and the figures of
many men working. The carts and racks were moving in the picture, but
for all else the view was one of peaceful, unbroken calm.

Her mind passed on to the time when the party had broken up. She
remembered how in searching for Iredale she had found the two men
quarrelling, or something in that nature. Again Leslie had been on the
verge of telling her something, but the moment had gone by and he had
kept silence. She tried to deny the significance of these things, but
reason checked her, and her heart sank to zero. And she no longer
tried to defend her lover.

Then came the recollection of that picnic. The screech-owls; the boats
laden with their human freight moving suspiciously over the waters of
the great lake. She thought of the graveyard and the ghostly
procession. And all the time her look was hardening and the protests
of her heart slowly died out. If she had doubted Hervey's words, all
these things of which she now thought were facts evident to her own
senses. The hard light in her eyes changed to the bright flash of
anger. This man had come to her with his love, she reminded herself,
and she had yielded to him all that she had power to bestow. The brown
eyes grew darker until their glowing depths partially resembled those
of her brother.

As the anger in her heart rose her pain increased, and she recoiled in
horror at the thought that this man had dared to offer her his love
while his hands were stained with black crime. At best he was a
law-breaker; at the worst he was----

She paced her room with agitated steps. The blood rose to her head
again, and she felt dizzy and dazed. What could she do? What must she
do? She longed for some one to whom she could tell all that was in her
heart, but she could not speak of it--she dared not. She felt that she
must be going mad. Through all her agony of mind she knew that she
loved this man who was--a murderer.

She told herself that she hated him, and she knew that she lied to
deceive herself. No, no, he was not guilty. He had not been proved
guilty, and no man is guilty until he is proved so. Thoughts crowded
thick and fast on her sorely-taxed brain, and again and again her
hands went up to her head with the action of one who is mentally
distracted. But in spite of the conflict that raged within her the
angry light in her eyes grew, and a look which was out of all keeping
with the sweet face was slowly settling itself upon her features.
Again she cried in her heart, "What shall I do?"

Suddenly a light broke through her darkness and revealed to her a
definite course. This man must not be judged, at least by her, without
a hearing. Why should she not go to him? Why not challenge him with
the story? If he were the murderer, perhaps he would strike her to the
earth, and add her to the list of his victims. She laughed bitterly.
It would be good to die by his hand, she thought. Under any
circumstances life was not worth living. The thought fascinated her.
Yes, she would do it. Then her spirit of justice rose and rebelled.
No. He would then go unpunished. Leslie's death would remain
unavenged. The murderer would have triumphed.

She thought long; she moved wildly about the room. And as the hours
passed a demon seemed to come to her and take hold of her. It was the
demon which looked out of her brother's eyes, and which now looked out
of hers. He whispered to her, and her willing ears listened to all he
said. Her heart, torn by conflicting passions, drank in the cruel
promptings.

"Why not kill him? Why not kill him?" suggested the demon. "If he is
guilty, kill him, and your life will not have been lived in vain. If
he be a murderer it were but justice. You will have fulfilled your
promise of vengeance. After that you could turn your hand against
yourself."

And her heart echoed the question, "Why not?"

For nearly an hour she continued to pace her room. Yes, yes! Hers was
the right, she told herself. If he were the murderer she did not care
to live. They should die together; they should journey beyond
together. She thought over all the details, and all the time the demon
looked out of her eyes and jogged her with fresh arguments when her
heart failed. She knew where her brother kept his pistols. She would
wait until he had set out for Winnipeg. Then, on the morrow, she would
ride over to Lonely Ranch.

She nursed her anger; she encouraged it at every turn. And she longed
for the morrow. But outwardly she grew calm. Only her eyes betrayed
her. And they were not the eyes of perfect sanity. They glowed with a
lurid fire, the fire which shone in the fierce, dark eyes of her
brother.



CHAPTER XVI

AN ECHO FROM THE ALASKAN MOUNTAINS


Alice searched all over the farm for her friend. The last place in
which she thought of looking was the little bedroom the two girls
shared. Here at length she arrived, and a shock awaited her.

Prudence was sitting beside the window. She was gazing out at the
bare, harvested fields, nor did she turn at her friend's approach. It
was not until Alice spoke that she looked round.

"Here you are, Prue! Why, whatever is the matter?" she exclaimed, as
she noted the grey pallor of the face before her; the drawn lines
about the mouth, the fiercely burning eyes. "You poor soul, you are
ill; and you never told me a word about it. I have been looking
everywhere for you. It is tea-time. What is it, dear?"

"Do I look ill?" Prudence asked wearily. She passed her hand across
her forehead. She was almost dazed. Then she went on as she turned
again to the window: "I'm all right; my head is aching--that's all. I
don't think I want any tea." The next moment she was all alertness.
"Has Hervey returned from the fields?"

"Hervey? Yes; why? He's returned and gone away again; gone into
Winnipeg. He nearly frightened poor mother Hephzy out of her wits.
Came in all of a sudden and declared he must hurry off to Winnipeg at
once, and he wanted Andy to drive him. You know his way. He wouldn't
give any explanation. He was like a bear to his mother. My fingers
were just itching to slap his face. But come along, dear, you must
have some tea. It'll do your head good."

While she was speaking Alice's eyes never left her friend's face.
There was something about Prudence's expression she didn't like. Her
mind at once reverted to thoughts of fever and sunstroke and such
things, but she said nothing that might cause alarm. She merely
persisted when the other shook her head.

Eventually her persuasions prevailed.

"Mother Hephzy's fretting away down-stairs and Sarah is backing her
up. The long-suffering Mary has been catching it in consequence. So
come along and be your most cheerful self, Prue. The poor old dears
must be humoured."

And Alice with gentle insistence led her companion down to the
parlour.

"And where, miss, have you been all this precious time?" asked Mrs.
Malling, when the two girls reached the parlour. "Sleeping, I'll be
bound, to judge by them spectacles around your eyes. There's no git-up
about young folk now-a-days," she went on, turning to Sarah. "Six
hours' sleep for healthy-minded women, I says; not an hour more nor an
hour less. Sister Emma was allus one o' them for her sy-esta." Then
she turned back to Prudence. "Maybe she learned you, my girl."

"I haven't been sleeping, mother," Prudence protested, taking her
place at the table. "I don't feel very well."

"Ah, you don't say so," exclaimed the old lady, all anxiety at once.
"An' why didn't you tell me before? Now maybe you've got a touch o'
the sun?"

"Have you been faint and giddy?" asked Sarah, fixing her quiet eyes
upon the girl's face.

"No, I don't think so. I've got a headache--nothing more."

"Ah; cold bath and lemon soda," observed her mother practically.

"Tea, and be left alone," suggested Sarah.

  "'Nature designs all human ills, but in the making Suggests the
  cure which best is for the taking.'"

Her steady old eyes seemed able to penetrate mere outward signs.

"Quite right, 'Aunt' Sarah," said Alice decidedly. "Leave the nostrums
and quackeries alone. Prue will be all right after a nice cup of tea.
Now, mother Hephzy, one of your best for the invalid, and, please,
I'll have some more ham."

"That you shall, you flighty harum-scarum. And to think o' the likes
o' you dictating to me about nostrums and physickings," replied the
farm-wife, with a comfortable laugh. "I'll soon be having Mary
teaching me to toss a buckwheat 'slap-jack.' Now see an' cut from the
sides o' that ham where the curin's primest. I do allow as the hams
didn't cure just so, last winter. Folks at my board must have of the
best."

"I never knew any one to get anything else here," laughed Alice. Then
she turned her head sharply and sat listening.

Mrs. Malling looked over towards the window. Prudence silently sipped
her tea, keeping her eyes lowered as much as possible. She knew that,
in spite of their talk, these kindly people were worried about her,
and she tried hard to relieve their anxiety.

"Some one for us," said Alice, as the sound of horse's hoofs came in
through the open window.

"Some one from Lakeville, I expect," said Mrs. Malling, making a
guess.

"That's George Iredale's horse," said Sarah, who had detected the
sound of a pacer's gait.

Prudence looked up in a startled, frightened way. Sarah was looking
directly at her. She made no further comment aloud, but contented
herself with a quiet mental note.

"Something wrong," she thought; "and it's to do with him. Poor child,
poor child. Maybe she's fretting herself because----"

Her reflections were abruptly broken off as the sound of a man's voice
hailing at the front door penetrated to the parlour.

"Any one in?" cried the voice; and instantly Alice sprang to her
feet.

"It's Robb!" she exclaimed. There was a clatter as her chair fell back
behind her; she nearly fell over it, reached the door, and the next
moment those in the parlour heard the sound of joyous exclamations
proceeding from the hall.

Prudence's expression was a world of relief. Her mother was
overjoyed.

"This is real good. Bring him in! Bring him in, Miss Thoughtless!
Don't keep him there a-philandering when there's good fare in the
parlour!"

  "'Love feeds on kisses, we read in ancient lay; Meaning the love
  of yore; not of to-day,'"

murmured Sarah, with a pensive smile, while she turned expectantly to
greet the visitor.

Radiant, her face shining with conscious happiness, Alice led her
fiancé into the room. And Robb Chillingwood found himself sitting
before the farm-wife's generous board almost before he was aware of
it. While he was being served he had to face a running fire of
questions from, at least, three of the ladies present.

Robb was a cheerful soul and ever ready with a pleasant laugh. This
snatched holiday from a stress of under-paid work was like a "bunk" to
a schoolboy. It was more delightful to him by reason of the knowledge
that he would have to pay up for it afterwards with extra exertions
and overtime work.

"You didn't tell us when you were coming," said Alice.

"Didn't know myself. Thought I'd ride over from Iredale's place on
spec'."

"And you're come from there now?" asked Mrs. Malling.

Prudence looked up eagerly.

"Yes; I've just bought all his stock for a Scotch client of mine."

"Scotch?" Sarah turned away with a motion of disgust.

"What, has George sold all his beasties at last?" exclaimed the
farm-wife.

"Why, yes. Didn't you know? He's giving up his ranch."

Robb looked round the table in surprise. There was a pause. Then Mrs.
Malling broke it--

"He has spoken of it--hinted. But we wasn't expectin' it so soon. He's
made his pile."

"Yes, he must have done so," said Robb readily. "The price he parted
with his cattle to me for was ridiculous. I shall make a large profit
out of my client. It'll all help towards furnishing, Al," he went on,
turning to his fiancée.

"I'm so glad you are doing well now, Robb," the girl replied, with a
happy smile.

"Yes." Then the man turned to Mrs. Malling. "We're going to get
married this fall. I hope Alice has been learning something of
housekeeping"--with a laugh.

"Why, yes. Alice knows a deal more than she reckons to let on, I
guess," said the farm-wife, with a fat chuckle.

Prudence now spoke for the first time since Robb's arrival. She looked
up suddenly, and, though she tried hard to speak conversationally,
there was a slightly eager ring in her voice.

"When is George Iredale going to leave the ranch?"

Robb turned to her at once.

"Can't say. Not yet, I should think. He seems to have made no
preparations. Besides, I've got to see him again in a day or two."

"Then you will stay out here?" asked Alice eagerly.

"Well, no." Robb shook his head with a comical expression of chagrin.
"Can't be done, I'm afraid. But I'll come over here when I'm in the
neighbourhood, if possible." Then to Mrs. Malling, "May I?"

"Why, certainly," said the farm-wife, with characteristic heartiness.
"If you come to this district without so much as a look in here, well,
you can just pass right along for the future."

When the meal was over the old lady rose from the table.

"Alice," said she, "you stay right here. Sarah and I'll clear away.
Prudence, my girl, just lie down and get your rest. Maybe you'll feel
better later on. Come along, Sarah; the young folks can get on
comfortably without us for once."

Prudence made no attempt to do as her mother suggested. She moved
about the room, helping with the work. Then the two old ladies
adjourned to the kitchen. Robb and Alice had moved over to the
well-worn sofa at the far end of the room, and Prudence took up her
position at the open window. She seemed to have no thought of leaving
the lovers together; in fact, it seemed as though she had forgotten
their existence altogether. She stood staring out over the little
front garden with hard, unmeaning eyes. From her expression it is
doubtful if she saw what her eyes looked upon. Her thoughts were of
other matters that concerned only herself and another.

The low tones of the lovers sounded monotonously through the room.
They, too, were now wrapt in their own concerns, and had forgotten the
presence of the girl at the window. They had so much to say and so
little time in which to say it; for Robb had to make Ainsley that
night.

The cool August evening was drawing on. The threshing gang was
returning from the fields, and the purple haze of sundown was rising
above the eastern horizon; Prudence did not move. Her hands were
clasped before her; her pale face might have been of carved stone.
There was only the faintest sign of life about her, and that was the
steady rise and fall of her bosom.

A cool breeze rustled in through the open window and set the curtains
moving. Then all became still again. Two birds squabbled viciously
amongst the branches of a blue-gum in the little patch of a garden,
but Prudence's gaze was still directed towards the horizon. She saw
nothing; she felt nothing but the pain which her own thoughts brought
her.

Suddenly the sound of something moving outside became audible. There
was the noisy yawn of some large animal rising from its rest. Then
came the slow, heavy patter of the creature's feet. Neche approached
the window. His fierce-looking head stood well above the sill. His
greenish eyes looked up solemnly at the still figure framed in the
opening. His ears twitched attentively. There was no friendly motion
of his straight, lank tail; but his appearance was undoubtedly
expressive of some sort of well-meaning, canine regard. Whether the
dog understood and sympathized with the girl at the window it would
have taken something more than a keen observer to have said. But in
his strangely unyielding fashion he was certainly struggling to
convey something to this girl from whom he was accustomed to receive
nothing but kindness.

For some moments he stood thus, quite still. His unkempt body rose and
fell under his wiry coat. He was a vast beast, and the wolf-grey and
black of his colouring was horribly suggestive of his ancestry.
Presently he lifted one great paw to the window. Balancing his weight
upon his only serviceable hind-leg, he lifted himself and stood with
both front feet upon the sill, and pushed his nose against the girl's
dress. She awoke from her reverie at the touch, and her hands
unclasped, and she slowly caressed the bristly head. The animal seemed
to appreciate the attention, for, with his powerful paws, he drew
himself further into the room.

The girl offered no objection. She paid no heed to what he was doing.
Her hand merely rested on his head, and she thought no more about him.
Finding himself unrebuffed Neche made further efforts; then, suddenly,
he became aware of the other occupants of the room. Quick as a flash
his nose was directed towards the old sofa on which they were seated,
and his eyes, like two balls of phosphorescent light, gleamed in their
direction. He became motionless at once. It seemed as though he were
uncertain of something.

He was inclined to resent the presence of these two, but the caress of
the soft, warm hand checked any hostile demonstration beyond a whine,
half plaintive, half of anger.

The disturbing sound drew Alice's attention, and she looked over to
where Prudence was standing; it was then she encountered the
unblinking stare of the hound's wicked eyes. The sight thrilled her
for a moment, nor could she repress a slight shudder. She nudged her
companion and drew his attention without speaking. Robb followed the
direction of her gaze, and a silence followed whilst he surveyed the
strange apparition.

He could only see the dog's head--the rest of the creature was hidden
behind the window curtain--and its enormous size suggested the great
body and powerful limbs which remained concealed. To Robb there was a
suggestion of hell about the cruel lustre of the relentless eyes.

At last he broke into a little nervous laugh.

"By Jove!" he said. "I thought for the moment I'd got 'em. Gee-whizz!
The brute looks like the devil himself. What is it? Whose?"

Without replying, Alice called to her friend.

"Let Neche come in, Prue," she said. "That is"--dubiously--"if you
think it's safe." Then she turned to Robb. "He's so savage that I'm
afraid of him. Still, with Prue here, I think he'll be all right; he's
devoted to her."

At the sound of the girl's voice Prudence turned back from the window
like one awakening from a dream. Her eyes still had a far-away look in
them, and though she had heard the voice it seemed doubtful as to
whether she had taken the meaning of the words. For a moment her eyes
rested on Alice's face, then they drooped to the dog at her side, but
Alice was forced to repeat her question before the other moved. Then,
in silence, she stepped back and summoned the dog to her with an
encouraging chirrup. Neche needed no second bidding. There was a
scramble and a scraping of sharp claws upon the woodwork, then the
animal stood in the room. And his attitude as he eyed the two seated
upon the sofa said as plainly as possible, "Well, which one is it to
be first?"

Robb felt uneasy. Alice was decidedly alarmed at the dog's truculent
appearance.

But the tension was relieved a moment later by the brute's own strange
behaviour. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Neche plumped down
upon his hind-quarters. His pricked ears drooped, and his two fore
paws began to beat a sort of tattoo upon the floor. Then followed a
broken whine, tremulous and blandishing, and the great head moved from
side to side with that curious movement which only dogs use to express
their gladness. Then the strange, three-legged beast went further.
Down he threw himself full length upon the floor and grovelled
effusively, whining and scraping the boards in a perfect fervour of
abject delight.

Robb looked hard at the dog. Then he laughed and turned to Alice.

"What is the creature's name? I didn't catch it."

"Neche," she replied.

Robb held out his hand encouragingly and called the dog by name. The
animal continued to squirm but did not offer to come nearer. Every now
and then its head was turned back, and the green eyes looked up into
Prudence's face. At last Robb ceased his efforts. His blandishments
were ineffectual beyond increasing the dog's effusive display.

"A husky," he said, looking across at Prudence. "A bad dog to have
about the house. He reminds me of the animals we had up north in our
dog-train. They're devils to handle and as fierce as wild cats. We had
one just like him. Unusually big brute. He was our 'wheeler.' The most
vicious dog of the lot. The resemblance is striking. By Jove!" he went
on reminiscently, "he was a sulky, cantankerous cuss. His name was
'Sitting Bull,' after the renowned Sioux Indian chief. We had to be
very careful of the other dogs on account of his 'scrapping'
propensities. He killed one poor beast I think we nicknamed him rather
appropriately. He was affectionately dubbed 'Bully.'"

As Robb pronounced the name he held out his hand again and flicked his
fingers. The dog rose from his grovelling posture and came eagerly
forward, wagging his lank tail. He rubbed his nose against the man's
hand and slowly licked the sun-tanned skin.

Robb's brows drew together in a pucker of deep perplexity. He looked
the animal over long and earnestly, and slowly there crept into his
eyes an expression of wondering astonishment. He was interrupted in
his inspection by the girl at his side.

"Why, he's treating you like an old friend, Robb."

The man sat gazing down upon the wiry coat of the beast.

"Yes," he said shortly. Then he looked over at Prudence. "Yours?" he
went on.

The girl shook her head.

"No, he belongs to Hervey."

"Um! I wonder where he got him from," in a meditative tone.

"Somewhere out in the wilds of the Yukon," put in Alice.

"Ah! The Yukon." And Robb's face was serious as he turned towards the
window and looked out at the creeping shadows of evening.

There was a pause. Prudence was thinking of anything but the subject
of Robb's inquiries. Alice was curious, but she forbore to question.
She had heard her lover's account of his misadventure in the Alaskan
hills, but she saw no connection between the hound and that disastrous
affair. But the man's thoughts were hard at work. Presently he rose to
depart.

He bade Prudence good-bye and moved towards the door. The dog remained
where he had been standing and looked after him. At the door Robb
hesitated, then he turned and looked back.

"Poor old Bully," he said.

With a bound the dog was at his side. Then the man turned away, and,
accompanied by Alice, left the room. In the passage he paused, and
Alice saw an expression on his face she had never seen before. He was
nervous and excited, and his eyes shone in the half-light.

"Al," he said slowly, "I know that dog. _And his name is Bully_. Don't
say anything to anybody. Hervey may be able to tell me something of
those who robbed us up in the hills. But on no account must you say
anything to him; leave it to me. I shall come here again--soon.
Good-bye, little woman."

That evening as Robb Chillingwood rode back to Ainsley he thought of
many things, but chiefly he reviewed the details of that last
disastrous journey when he and Grey had traversed the snow-fields of
Alaska together.



CHAPTER XVII

THE LAST OF LONELY RANCH


There are moments which come in all lives when calm reflection is
powerless to influence the individual acts; when calmness, even in the
most phlegmatic natures, is impossible; when a tide of impulse sweeps
us on, giving us not even so much as a breathless, momentary pause in
which to consider the result of our headlong career. We blunder on
against every jagged obstacle, lacerated and bleeding, jolting cruelly
from point to point, whither our passions irresistibly drive us. It is
a blind, reckless journey, from which there is no escape when the tide
sets in. We see our goal ahead, and we fondly believe that because it
is ahead we must come to it. We do not consider the awful road we
travel, nor the gradual exhaustion which is overtaking us. We do not
realize that we must fall by the wayside for lack of strength, nor
even, if our strength be sufficient to carry us on to the end, do we
ask ourselves, shall we be able to draw aside out of the raging
torrent when our goal is reached? or shall we be swept on to the
yawning Beyond where, for evermore, we must continue to struggle
hopelessly to return? Once give passion unchecked sway, and who can
say what the end will be?

It was at such a moment in her life at which Prudence had arrived. Her
mind was set upon an object which absorbed all her faculties, all her
brain, all her feelings. Had she been able to pause, even for one
moment, reason must have asserted itself and she would have understood
the folly of what she was doing. But that moment was denied her. All
the latent passions of a strong nature had been let loose and she was
swept on by their irresistible tide. She believed that she was the
appointed avenger of the man she had once loved, and that this duty
unfulfilled would be a crime, the stain of which nothing could wipe
out. Iredale must be confronted, challenged, and----

And so she came to Lonely Ranch on her self-imposed errand of
justice.

The man she sought was not in the house when she came. The valley
seemed to be devoid of life as she rode up. But the solitude was
almost instantly broken by the appearance of Chintz from the region of
the barn. She dispatched him in search of his master and passed into
the bachelor sitting-room to await his coming.

She was restless and her nerves were strung to a great tension. Her
eyes still shone with that peculiar light which ever seemed to look
out of her brother's. There was no yielding in the set of her mouth.
Her resolve disfigured the sweetness which usually characterized her
beautiful features.

She stood before the window, looking out upon the shadow-bathed
valley. She saw before her the dark wall of foliage which rose to the
heights of the Front Hill. Not a living soul was about, only was there
a rising wind which disturbed the unbroken forest of pines. She
turned abruptly from the view as though she could not bear the
solitude which was thus made so apparent. She crossed over to where
the bookcase stood against the wall, and glanced in through the glazed
doors. But she comprehended nothing of what she saw. She was thinking,
thinking, and her mind was in a tumult of hysterical fancies. And she
was listening too; listening for a sound--any sound other than that
which the wind made. Mechanically she came over to the table and leant
against it in an attitude of abstraction. She shivered; she stood up
to steady herself and she shivered again. And all the time the
frenzied eyes gleamed in their beautiful oval setting, the lips were
drawn inwards, and there remained only a sharply-defined line to mark
the sweet mouth. Presently her lips parted and she moistened them with
her tongue. A fever seemed to be upon her, and mouth and throat were
parched.

Suddenly the sound for which she waited came. She darted eagerly to
the window and saw Chintz pass round in the direction of the barn.
Then she saw the burly figure of the man she was awaiting appear in
the clearing fronting the house.

George Iredale came along at a robust gait. He was clad in moleskin
riding-breeches, much stained with clay, as though he had been
digging; a soft shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up above the
elbow; his Stetson hat was adjusted at the correct angle upon his
head; and he wore a pair of tan-coloured field boots, much smeared
with the signs of toil. He came rapidly towards the house. There was
nothing furtive, nothing guilty about this man's bearing; he came
readily to meet his visitor, and his appearance was the confident
bearing of a man who has little to fear.

She saw him look towards the window where she stood, and his
smile of welcome set her nerves tingling with a sensation she
failed to understand. Her hand went round to the pocket of her linen
riding-skirt and remained there. She heard his step in the hall;
she heard him approach and turn the door handle. As he came into
the room she faced him.

"Why, Prudence, this is a delightful----" he began. But she
interrupted him coldly.

"One moment," she said, and her voice was hoarse with the dryness of
her throat. "I have not come over for any visit of pleasure, but
strictly upon a matter of--of--business. There are some explanations
which we both need to make, but more especially you."

"Yes."

Iredale was gazing earnestly into the face before him. He was trying
to fathom the meaning of her coldness. For the moment he wondered;
then, slowly, he began to understand that Hervey had been at work.

"You got my note," he said, choosing to ignore the result of his
observations. "My delay in calling at the farm was unavoidable. I am
in the midst of disposing of my ranch. I had not expected that I
should have been called upon to do so so soon. I beg that you will
forgive me what must seem an unwarrantable delay."

Prudence's nerves were so strung that she felt as though she could
strike him for his calm words. Her condition demanded the opposition
of passion equal to her own. His coolness maddened her. So long had
she dwelt upon the accusation Hervey had brought against him that she
believed in this man's guilt. The evidence of her own senses had
militated against him, and now she steeled herself in an armour of
unbelief. But, in spite of herself, the dictates of her heart were
struggling hard to find the joints of her armour. Nor were the
struggles lessened now that she stood confronting him. His coolness,
though maddening to her, was not without effect. The moral influence
he wielded was great.

She backed to the table; then she plunged into the subject of her
mission without further preamble. Her eyes stared straight into his,
and her tones sounded incisively in the stillness of the room.

"I little knew the man whom I was listening to when he offered me his
life, nor had I an idea of how near I was to the man who inspired the
words which have appeared in the paper--the words which were the last
Leslie Grey ever uttered. What must have been your feelings when I
told you that I knew their author to be a murderer?" Then, with
scathing bitterness: "But your feelings must have long since been
dead--dead as the poor creature you so wantonly sent to his reckoning.
The time has come for you to defend yourself; that is, if defence you
can offer. No flimsy excuse or extenuation will cover you. Even the
Scriptures teach us that the penalty is 'a life for a life.' Yours is
the hand that struck Leslie down, and now you must face the
consequences of your wanton act."

Iredale's quiet eyes never attempted to avoid the girl's direct
gaze, nor did he flinch as the accusation fell from her lips.
Never was he more alert, never more gently disposed towards this
half-demented creature than at that moment. He recognized the hand
that had been at work, and he laid no blame upon her. His feelings
were of sorrow--sorrow for the woman he loved, and sorrow for
himself. But his thoughts were chiefly for her. He knew, as she had
said, that his time had come.

"So Hervey has been to you to sell the discovery which I rejected at
the price he asked. He told you that I was a smuggler; that the
announcement in the paper was mine. And did he tell you that I was the
murderer of Leslie Grey? Or did your heart prompt you to that
conclusion?"

The girl supported herself against the table with one hand, and the
other was still in the pocket behind her. Iredale noted these things
without moving his eyes from her face.

"Hervey told me the facts and the inevitable proof they bore. Nor was
his statement exaggerated. My own reason told me that."

The man sighed. He had hoped that the work had been only of the
brother's doings. He had hoped that she had come bearing Hervey's
accusation and not her own.

"Go on," he said.

"I know you for what you really are, George Iredale. And now I have
come to you to give you the chance of defending yourself. No man must
be condemned without a hearing. Neither shall you. The evidence
against you is overwhelming; I can see no escape for you. But speak,
if you have anything to say in your defence, and I will listen. I
charge you with the murder of Leslie Grey."

Just for one brief moment Iredale felt a shiver pass through his body.
The icy tones of the girl's voice, the seemingly dispassionate words
filled him with a horror unspeakable. Then he pulled himself together.
He was on his defence before the one person in the world from whose
condemnation he shrank. He did not answer at once. He wished to make
no mistake. When at last he spoke his words came slowly as though he
weighed well each syllable before he gave it utterance.

"With one exception all that Hervey has doubtless said of me is true.
I am a smuggler; I inspired that line in the paper; but I am
no--murderer. Leslie Grey's life was sacred to me at the time if only
for the reason that he was your affianced husband. I loved you at that
time as I have loved you for years, and all my thoughts and wishes
were for your happiness. It would have made you happy to have married
Grey, therefore I wished that you should marry him. I am quite
unchanged. I will tell you now what neither you nor Hervey knows, even
though it makes my case look blacker. I knew that Grey was on my
track. I knew that he had discovered my secret. How he had done so I
cannot say. He quarrelled with me, and, in the heat of his anger, told
me of his intentions. It was late one night at a card-party at your
house, and just before he was so foully murdered. No doubt you, or any
right-minded person for that matter, will say that this evidence only
clinches the case against me. But, in spite of it, I assert my
innocence. Amongst my many sins the crime Hervey charges me with"--he
purposely avoided associating the charge with her--"is not numbered.
Can I hope that you will believe me?"

The gentle tones in which the burly man spoke, the earnest fearlessness
which looked out from his quiet eyes, gave infinite weight to all he
said. Prudence shook her head slowly, but the fire in her eyes was
less bright, and the voice of her own heart crying out began to make
itself heard in the midst of her chaotic thought.

She tried to stiffen herself for the task she had undertaken, but the
result was not all she sought Still, she replied coldly--

"How can I believe with all the black evidence against you? You, in
all this region, were the one man interested in Leslie's death. His
life meant penitentiary to you; his death meant liberty. Your own
words tell me that. How can I believe such a denial as you now make?
Tell me, have you no proof to offer? Account for the day on which
Leslie met his death; prove your movements upon that day."

The girl's denial of belief was belied by the eagerness in her voice.
For one brief instant a flash of hope rose in her. She saw a loophole
for her lover. She longed to believe him. But the hope died down,
leaving her worse distracted for its coming.

For Iredale did not speak, and his face assumed a look of gloom.

"Ah, you cannot--you cannot," she went on hysterically. "I might have
known, I did know." A world of passion again leapt into her eyes. Then
something of the woman broke through her anger, and a heart-breaking
piteousness sounded in her voice. "Oh, why, why did you do this thing?
Why did you stain your hands with such a crime as murder? What would
his living have meant to you? At worst the penitentiary. Was it worth
it to destroy thus the last chance of your immortal soul? Oh, God! And
to think of it! A murderer!" Then the fierce anger became dominant
once more. "But you shall not escape. Your crime shall be expiated as
far as human crimes can be expiated. The gallows awaits you, George
Iredale, and your story shall be told to the world. You shall hang
unless you can give to judge and jury a better denial than you have
given to me." She suddenly broke off. A whistling indrawn breath
startled the man before her. She gazed round her wildly; she had
remembered what she had come for. She had forgotten when she had
talked of "judge and jury." Her face assumed a ghastly hue at the
recollection. Her eyes alone still told of the madness that possessed
her.

Nor was Iredale without an uneasy feeling at what he saw--that catch
of breath; that hunted look as she gazed about the room. Intuition
served him in the moment of crisis. What was the meaning? Why was that
hand concealed in her dress? There was only one possible answer to
such questions, and he read the answer aright.

"Prudence," he said, in his deep musical voice, whilst his keen eyes
riveted her attention, "I can prove my innocence of the crime you
charge me with. Listen to me patiently, and I will tell you how. Do
not let your anger drive you to any rash act which might bring
you--lifelong regret."

The girl made a sharp ejaculation. But she did not attempt to
interrupt him.

"I can prove that I was not within three hundred miles of this place
on the day of Leslie's death," the man went on. "That I was in a city
to the west of here distributing"--bitterly--"my wares. I can prove
all this--to you. And I intend that before you leave me to-day you
shall be a witness to my innocence, even against all prejudice. But
before judge and jury it will be different--very different." He
sighed. "There I cannot prove my innocence, for to do so would be to
betray my comrades--those who have traded with me and trusted me--and
send them to the penal servitude which also awaits me." His eyes had
become reflective. He seemed to be talking to himself now rather than
to the woman before him. "No, I cannot save myself at such a cost.
Even to escape the gallows I will not play the part of Judas."

The woman made no reply. She stood staring at him with all that was
best in her shining in her eyes. She was trying to follow his every
word and to take his meaning, and the one thought which dominated her
whole mind was his expressed ability to prove his innocence to her.

He seemed to awake from some melancholy reverie, and again his eyes
sought hers.

"Do you wish me to prove my innocence?"

"Yes; you must--you shall!"

The girl moved from the table; and, for the first time during the
interview, her hand was removed from the pocket in her skirt. Hope
filled the heart in which but now the fires of hell had seemed to
burn. She drank in his words with a soul-consuming thirst The proof!
That was what she required.

Iredale went on with grave gentleness.

"The proof is in here." He moved to the bookcase and opened a secret
recess in the back of it, "In this cupboard."

He produced a pile of books and brought them to the table. Picking out
one he opened it at the date of Grey's death. It was a diary. He read
out the entries for the entire week, all of which bore out his
testimony. Every one was dated at a different town or village, and
related to his sales of opium. He then opened another book and showed
the entries of his sales and the figures. He went through the whole
pile, book after book, and all of them bore out his statement as to
his whereabouts. Then he produced several contracts; these were deeds
between himself and various traders, and were dated at the towns at
which they were signed. Each book and paper he passed on to Prudence
for her scrutiny, drawing her attention to the corroboration in the
evidence. There could be no doubt as to the genuineness of these
facts, and the girl's last shadowy doubts of his innocence evaporated
before the overwhelming detail. The hope which had filled her heart
was now replaced by a triumphant joy. This man had shown her, had
convinced her, and she wanted nothing more at that moment.

She looked up into his face, hoping to see a reflection of her own
happiness in it. But there was no happiness there. His face was calm,
but the melancholy had deepened in his eyes. What she saw came like an
icy douche to her, and the happy expression died upon her lips. She
suddenly remembered that he had said he could not use this evidence to
publicly declare his innocence.

"But----" she began.

He shook his head. He knew that she wished to protest. For a moment
they looked into each other's eyes. Then the woman, the weaker, broke
down under the strain. Tears came to her eyes, and she poured out all
the pent-up grief of her hours of misery.

"Oh, George," she cried, "can you ever forgive my wickedness? I ought
never to have believed. My heart told me that you were innocent; but
the evidence--oh, the evidence. I could see no loophole. Everything
pointed to you--you. And I, wretch that I am, I believed." And the
girl sobbed as though her heart would break. Iredale made no attempt
to soothe her; he felt that it would be good for her to weep. She
leant against the table, and after a while her sobs quietened. Then
the man touched her upon the shoulder.

"Don't cry, Prue; my heart bleeds for you when I listen to your sobs.
You're not to blame for believing me guilty. Twelve jurymen will
shortly do the same, and who can blame them?" He shrugged. "I must
face the 'music' and take my chance. And now, child," he added, his
hand still resting upon her shoulder, and smiling down upon her from
his superior height, "give me that which you have concealed in your
pocket. We will throw it away."

Prudence sprang up and moved beyond his reach.

"No, no! I can't! Don't ask me. Spare me the shame of it. As you love
me, George, don't ask me for it."

"As you will, dear; I merely wished to rid ourselves of an ugly
presence. While we are together--and it may not be for long
now--nothing should come between us, least of all that."

The girl's tears had dried. She looked over at her lover. His
compelling influence was upon her. She paused irresolute; then she
plunged her hand into her pocket and drew forth a large revolver.

"Here, take it. Take it, and do what you like with it" Then she
laughed bitterly. "You know me as I am now. I brought that to shoot
you with, and afterwards to shoot myself. You see, I am a murderess at
heart." And she smiled bitterly.

Iredale took the weapon and placed it in his bookcase. Then he came to
the girl's side and put his arm tenderly about her shoulders.

"Forget it, child; forget it as you would a hideous dream. Your
feelings were forced upon you by--well, through my wretched doings.
That which I have done to gain wealth has brought only what might have
been expected in its train. No work of evil is without its sting, and,
as is always the case, that sting seeks out the most sensitive part of
its victim. The chastisement for my wrongdoing has been inflicted with
cruel cunning, for you, Prue, have been made to suffer; thus is my
punishment a hundredfold greater."

He drew her to him as he spoke, and gently smoothed her dark hair.
Under the influence of his touch and the sound of his voice, the girl
calmed. She nestled close to his side, and for a moment abandoned
herself to the delight of being with him. But her thoughts would not
remain idle for long. Suddenly she released herself and moved to
arm's length from him.

"George," she said, in a tone of suppressed eagerness, "they cannot
try you for--for murder. You will tell them. You will show them
all--these. For my sake, for the sake of all your friends, you will
not let them--condemn you. Oh, you can't allow it. Think," she went
on, more passionately; "no men would willingly let you be declared
guilty when they know you to be innocent. It must not be."

Iredale gave no outward sign. He had turned his face away and was
gazing in the direction of the window. His reflective eyes looked out
upon the valley, but his resolve was written plainly in them.

"Do not tempt me, Prue," he said quietly. "Were I to do otherwise than
I have resolved, and obtained an acquittal thereby, I should live a
life of utter regret. I should despise myself; I should loathe my own
shadow. Nothing could be more revolting to me than the man who plays
the part of a traitor, and were I that man life would be impossible to
me. Think of it only for one moment, sweetheart, and your own good
heart will tell you how impossible is that which you ask me to do. It
cannot be. All the world would despise me. But even so, its utmost
execration would be nothing compared with my own feelings at the
thought that I had saved myself by such methods." He withdrew his hand
from her embrace. "No, when the time comes and I am forced to stand my
trial for Grey's murder, I shall face it. Nor shall I betray my
friends by one single word. And, too, when that time comes there will
not remain one single trace of the traffic which has hitherto been
part of my very existence. There shall be no possible chance of
discovery for those who have trusted me. Your brother Hervey will
never hold his hand. I know that. I realized that when he left me
after seeking 'blackmail.' His vindictive nature will see this
through. And perhaps I would rather have it so. It will then be
settled once and for all. I may get off, but I fear that it will be
otherwise."

At the mention of her brother's name, Prudence started, and the blood
receded from her anxious face, leaving it ghastly in its pallor. She
had forgotten that he was even now on his way to Winnipeg for the
express purpose of denouncing Iredale. For one instant she shook like
an aspen. Then she recovered herself. What was to be done? She tried
to think. This matter of Hervey was of her doing. She had driven him
to it; urged him to it. Now she realized the full horror of what her
foolish credulity had led her into. It had been in her power to stay
his hand, at least to draw his fangs. Now it was too late. Suddenly
she turned upon her lover in one final appeal. At that moment it
seemed the only chance of saving him.

"George, there is a way out of it all; one last resource if you will
only listen to me. You love me even in spite of the way I have wronged
you. You belong to me if only by reason of our love. You have no right
to throw your life away when you are innocent. God knows I honour you
for your decision not to betray your companions. If it were possible,
I love you more than ever. But the sin would be as great to throw your
life away for such a shadow as it would be to deliver your friends up
to justice. You can save yourself; you must. The border is near. We
are right on it. Surely the way you have brought the Chinese into the
country should provide an exit for us. Oh, my poor love, will you not
listen to me? Will you not give me the life I crave? George, let us
go--together."

Her words came passionately. She had stepped forward and placed her
two brown hands upon his great shoulders, and her dark, earnest eyes
gazed lovingly up into his.

The temptation was a sore one, and the man found it hard to resist. He
experienced a sudden rush of blood to the brain. His body seemed to be
on fire. He was pulsating with a mad passion. The thought of what she
suggested came near to overthrowing his sternest resolve. To go with
her. To have her evermore by his side. The thought was maddening.
Surely he had never realized until that moment how dearly he loved
this woman. But his strong nature came to his rescue in time. The
passion had died down as swiftly as it had risen and left him cold and
collected.

He gazed down into the brown eyes ever so kindly, ever so lovingly;
and his answer came in a tone so gentle that the girl felt that
whatever the future might hold for them, this moment had been worth
living for.

"No, no, sweetheart. Not flight, even though you would be my
companion. We love one another dearly, and for that very fact I could
never allow myself to remain under this cloud. At all costs we will
have the matter cleared. I owe it to you, to those at the farm, and to
myself."

The girl's hands dropped to her sides and she turned away. Then all
the agony of her soul found vent in one exclamation.

"Oh, God!" she cried. And with that last cry came the revealing flash
which answered the question she had so repeatedly asked herself. She
turned back to her lover, and the agonized expression of her face had
changed, and in her eyes was the eager light of excitement. Iredale
saw the change, but did not recognize its meaning. He felt that she
must no longer remain there.

"Child, I want you to go back to the farm and tell them of the
accusation that has been brought against me. Tell them all the
circumstances of it. Tell them that I have clearly convinced you of my
innocence; but, as you love me, I charge you not to reveal the manner
in which it was done. Tell your mother that I shall come over
to-morrow, and she shall hear the whole story from my own lips. I wish
to do this that she may hear my version before she reads of what must
happen in the papers. After that I shall go into Winnipeg and set the
law in motion. I will clear myself or--otherwise. But on your honour
you must promise that all I have shown you to-day remains a secret
between us."

Prudence listened intently to all he said, but a quiet look of resolve
slowly crept into her eyes.

"I promise," she said, and Iredale thanked her with a look.

There was the briefest of pauses; then she went on--

"On one condition."

"What do you mean?"

Iredale looked his surprise.

"Now you must hear me, George," she went on eagerly. "You have
charged me with this thing. You must abide by my time. A day more or
less can make little difference to you."

"But I wish to give myself up before others can make the charge."

"Just so. And in the meantime I want your promise not to come to the
farm until the"--she paused to make a swift mental calculation--"day
after to-morrow at four o'clock in the afternoon."

"Tell me your reason."

"That is my own." The girl was smiling now. Then she again became
excited. "Promise, promise, promise! There is no time to lose. Even
now I fear we are too late."

Iredale looked dubiously at her. Suddenly he saw her face darken.

"Promise!" she demanded almost fiercely, "or I will not abide by my
promise to you."

"I promise."

An expression of relief came into Prudence's eyes, and she stepped
towards him and looked up into his face.

"Good-bye, George, dearest."

The man suddenly clasped her in a bear-like embrace and rained
passionate, burning kisses on her upturned lips. Then quietly she
released herself. She stood away from him holding one of his great
hands in both of hers.

"Quick! Now my horse."

Iredale departed, and Prudence was left alone. She stood looking after
him thinking, thinking.

"Can I do it?" she asked herself.

Damside City was the nearest telegraph station. It lay nearly
thirty-five miles due west of Owl Hoot It was merely a grain station
for the district and in no sense a village. She must make that point
and so intercept Hervey with a telegraphic message. It was her one
chance. In spite of her lover she would buy Hervey's silence, and
trust to the future to set the rest straight. She was strong and her
horse was good. She must reach the office before it was closed at six
o'clock that evening. She calculated it up; she had just three hours
in which to cover the distance. She looked out of the window. The wind
was blowing from the east; that was good, it would ease the horse. She
looked up at the sky, there were a few clouds scudding westwards.

"Yes, I'll do it," she said at last, "if it kills poor Kitty."

A moment later Iredale returned with the mare. The girl waited not a
second. Her lover assisted her into the saddle reluctantly. He did not
approve this sudden activity on the part of the girl. When she had
settled herself she bent down, and their lips met in one long,
passionate kiss.

"Good-bye, George."

The man waved his adieu. His heart was too full to speak. She swung
her mare round and galloped down the valley to the north. Her object
was to clear the valley and then turn off to the west on the almost
disused trail to Damside.

Iredale looked after her until the sound of the mare's hoofs died away
in the distance. He was filled with wonder at her strange request and
her hurried departure. But his speculations brought him to no definite
conclusions, and he turned abruptly and called to his man, Chintz.

The man hurried from the stable.

"We have been a little delayed. Is everything ready?" Iredale looked
up at the sky, then down at the grizzled face before him.

Chintz nodded.

"Good. Then get to work. Start the first fire directly beyond the
graveyard to the east. The wind is getting up steadily. You are sure
there are no farms to the west of us, between here and Rosy River?"

The man gave a negative shake of the head.

"That's all right then. There will be no damage done. And the river
will cut the fire off. This time to-morrow we shall be homeless
wanderers, Chintz--you and I." And the smuggler laughed bitterly.

Then his laugh died out.

"Well, to work. Set the fires going."



CHAPTER XVIII

THE FOREST DEMON PURSUES


Prudence swung her mare out on to the overgrown trail to Damside City.
Kitty was a trim-built little "broncho," compact, well-ribbed, and
with powerful shoulders and chest. She was just the animal to "stay"
and travel fast. The road cut through the heart of the Owl Hoot bush,
and ran in a diagonal direction, south-west towards the border. Then
it converged with the border trail which skirted the great southern
muskeg, and, passing through a broken, stony country, went on to
Damside.

The wind was rapidly freshening, and the scudding clouds were quickly
changing from white to grey, which, to the girl's practised mind,
indicated an immediate change of weather. But she thought little of
the matter beyond being thankful that the wind was well behind her,
she wished to travel fast, and a "fair" wind is as necessary to the
horseman, under such circumstances, as it is to the mariner.

For a time the roughness of the road required her attention. Kitty was
surefooted, but the outstanding roots with which her path was lined
needed careful negotiation. Presently the trail became wider and its
surface more even, and signs of recent usage became apparent. The
roots were worn down and the projecting stones had been removed.
Neither did it take the girl long to decide whose servants had done
these things. On this obscure trail were to be seen many signs of the
traffic upon which the owner of Lonely Ranch had been engaged. Now
Prudence gave Kitty her head, and the mare travelled at a great pace.

The breeze had chastened the laden air of the pine world. The redolent
woods no longer scented the air, which had in consequence become fresh
and bracing. For the moment the emergency of her journey had dulled
the girl's sensibilities to her surroundings. She looked out upon the
beautiful tinted world, but she heeded nothing of what her eyes
beheld. Her mind was set upon the object of her journey, and her
thoughts were centred round the players in the drama of her life.

How different her life seemed to have suddenly become from that which
she had contemplated that morning. A great triumphant joy was with her
since her lover had established his innocence to her. Her troubles and
anxieties were still many, and the least thing might upset every hope
she entertained, but there was always with her the remembrance that
George Iredale was innocent, and in that thought she felt a wonderful
security. That he was a smuggler was a matter of insignificance. She
loved him too well to let such knowledge narrow her estimation of him.
She was too essentially of the prairie to consider so trifling a
matter. Half the farmers in the country were in the habit of breaking
the Customs regulations by cutting wood and hay on Government lands
without a permit, and even hauling these things from across the border
when such a course suited them, and in every case it was "contraband";
but they were thought no less of by their friends. Iredale was no
worse than they, in spite of the fact that his offence carried with it
a vastly heavier sentence.

But for the dread that she might be too late to intercept her brother,
Prudence would almost have been happy as she raced along that
westward-bound trail. She knew her brother's nature well. She knew
that he was vindictive, and no doubt her own treatment of him had
roused his ire and all the lower instincts of his malignant nature;
but she also knew that he loved money--needed money. His greed for
gold was a gluttonous madness which he was incapable of resisting, and
he would sacrifice any personal feeling provided the inducement were
sufficiently large. She meant that the inducement should be as large
as even he could wish, and she knew that in this direction his ideas
were extensive. Her one trouble, the one thought which alarmed her,
was the question of time. If the office were closed when she arrived,
her journey would have been in vain, for the operator lived in Ainsley
and would have gone home; Hervey would have arrived in Winnipeg, and,
by the time the office opened the following morning, the mischief
would have been done.

She flicked her mare with the end of her reins and touched her flank
with her heel. Kitty responded with a forward bound. The increased
speed was all too slow for the rapid thought and deadly anxiety of the
girl, but she was too good a horsewoman to press the willing beast
beyond a rational gait.

The hardy mare "propped" jerkily as she passed down the sharp side of
a dried-out slough. She plunged through a thicket of long grass, and a
grey cloud of mosquitoes rose and enveloped horse and rider. The
vicious insects settled like a grey cloth upon the heated mare, and
Prudence's soft flesh was punctured by hundreds of venomous needles at
once. The girl swept the insects from neck and face, heedless of the
torturing stings. The mare fretted and raced up the opposite slope,
while the girl leant forward in her saddle and sought to relieve the
staunch little creature's agony by sweeping the poisonous insects from
her steaming coat.

The mare pressed on. Suddenly she threw up her head and snorted
violently. Prudence was startled. Something had distracted Kitty's
attention, and her wide-set ears were cocked in alarm. Her nose was
held high, and again and again she snorted. In consequence her pace
was slackened and became awkward. She no longer kept a straight line
along the trail, but moved from side to side in evident agitation.
Prudence was puzzled and endeavoured to steady the creature. But Kitty
was not to be easily appeased. She rattled her bit and mouthed it
determinedly, grabbing at the side-bar with an evident desire to
secure it in her teeth. The girl kept a tight rein and attempted to
soothe her with the tender caress of her hand; but her efforts were
unavailing. The ears were now turned backwards, and had assumed that
curiously vicious inclination which in a horse is indicative of bad
temper or equine terror. Kitty had no vice in her, and Prudence
quickly understood the nature of her mare's feelings.

The failure of her soothing efforts alarmed the girl. She sat up and
looked about her. In the dense forest there seemed to be no unusual
appearance. The trees were waving and bending in the wind, and their
groanings had a sadly mournful effect, upon the scene, but otherwise
there was nothing strange to be observed. The sky had assumed a leaden
hue, and in this direction the prospect was not alluring, but the
clouds were fairly high and there was no suggestion of immediate
storm.

Suddenly a couple of jack-rabbits darted across the road. The mare
"propped," reared, and swung round towards the trees. Prudence brought
her up to her work sharply. Then she saw that the rabbits were racing
on ahead, down the trail. For the moment her patience gave way, and
she dug her heel hard against Kitty's side and the mare plunged
forward. But her gait remained unsteady, and in her agitation she kept
changing her stride, and once even tripped and nearly fell.

A coyote followed by his mate and two young ones ran out on to the
trail and raced along ahead of her. They did not even turn their heads
to look at her. Further on a great timber-wolf appeared and trotted
along the edge of the woods, every now and then turning its head
furtively to glance back.

Then quite suddenly Prudence became conscious of something unusual.
She raised her face to the grey vault of the sky and sniffed at the
air. A pungent scent was borne upon the wind. The odour of resinous
wood, so strong as to be sickly, came to her, and its pungency was not
the ordinary scent of the forest about her.

Half-a-dozen kit-foxes dashed out on to the trail and joined in the
race, and the "yowl" of the prairie dog warned her that other animals
were about. The resinous odour grew stronger every moment, and at last
Prudence detected the smell of smoke. She turned her head and looked
back; and behind her, directly in her wake, she saw a thin grey haze
which the wind was sweeping along above the trees.

She drew her mare up to a stand, and as she sat looking back, a deadly
fear crept into her eyes. Kitty resented the delay and reared and
plunged in protest The restraint maddened her. And all the time the
girl saw that the smoke haze was thickening, and some strange distant
sounds like the discharge of heavy ordnance reached her.

The sweet oval face wore a strained expression; her eyes were wide
open and staring, and the fear which looked out of them was fear of no
ordinary danger. She watched the dull haze as it thickened and rolled
on towards her. She saw it rise like great steam-jets and wreath
itself upwards as fresh volumes displayed the lower strata. She saw
the dull brown tint creep into it as it densified, and she knew that
_it was smoke_. The rest needed no explanation beyond the evidence of
her senses. The sickly resinous smell told her what had happened. The
forest was on fire!

The thought found vent in a muttered exclamation. Then came an
afterthought--

"And the wind is blowing it straight along behind me."

For a moment she gazed about her wildly. She looked to the right and
left The forest walls were impassable. She looked back along the
trail. The narrow ribbon-like space was filled with a fog of smoke
which was even now enveloping her. What should she do? There was
nothing for it but to go on. But the fire must be travelling apace in
the high wind. Still she stood. It seemed as though for the moment her
faculties were paralyzed with the horror of her discovery.

But at last she was moved to action. The mare became troublesome. The
girl could no longer keep her still. The distracted animal humped her
back and began to show signs of "bucking." Then came a rush of animals
along the trail; they came racing for dear life, and their numbers
were augmented from the wooded depths which lined their route.

Antelope led the way; with heads thrown up and antlers pressed low
down upon their backs they seemed to fly over the sandy soil. Then
came the "loping" dogs, coyotes, prairie wolves. Birds of all sorts
assembled in one long continuous flight. The animal kingdom of that
region of forest seemed to have become united in their mutual
terror--wolf and hare, coyote and jack-rabbit, hawks and blackbird,
prairie chicken and grey-owl; all sworn enemies in time of calm
prosperity, but now, in their terror, companions to the last. And all
the time, in the growing twilight of smoke, came the distant booming
as of the discharge of great cannon.

The girl leaned forward. She clapped her heel hard against the mare's
side, and with a silent prayer joined in the race for life.

She had no exact knowledge of how far these woods extended, or where
the break would come which should cut off the fire. The wild beasts
were speeding on down the trail, and, with the instinct of her
prairie world, she reasoned that in this direction alone must lie
safety.

The smoke grew denser and more choking. Her eyes became sore. Under
her she felt the mare stretching herself to the utmost of her gait.
She came up with many of the racing denizens of the forest, but they
did not attempt to move off the trail at her approach. They were
beyond the fear of human presence. A more terrible enemy was behind
them, pursuing with gigantic strides which demolished space with
incredible swiftness.

Every moment the air grew hotter in spite of the mare's best efforts,
and Prudence knew that the fire was gaining. Hill or dale made no
difference now. It must be on--on, or the devouring monster would be
upon them. Kitty never flagged, and with increasing speed her footing
became even more sure. A loose line, with body bent well forward to
ease the animal, Prudence did all she knew to assist her willing
companion; but for every stride the faithful mare took, she knew that
the fire was gaining many yards.

The booming had increased to a steady roar, in the midst of which the
deep, thunderous detonations came like the peals of a raging storm;
the wind rushed headlong forward, the fire bringing with it an almost
cyclonic sweep of heated air. The mighty forest giants about her bent
like reeds under the terrible force, and shrieked aloud their fears at
the coming of the devouring demon.

The mare rushed down into a wide hollow. A culvert bridged a reedy
slough. The affrighted beast raced across it. The stream of the animal
world swept on about her. She breasted the steep ascent opposite, and
Prudence was forced to draw rein. She dared not allow the horse to
race up such an incline, even though the fire were within a quarter of
a mile of her; she would have been mad to exhaust the faithful
creature, which was now her only hope. Even the poor forest creatures,
mad as they were with terror, slackened their gait.

At length the hilltop was gained, and a long descent confronted them.
Kitty showed no signs of exhaustion yet, and faced her work amidst the
rush of refugees with all her original zest. Down into the valley they
tore, for the worst of all perils was in pursuit.

The valley stretched away far into the distance; ahead, here, in this
hollow, the air was clearer. The hill had shut off the fog of smoke
for the moment The refugees now had a smooth run, and a faint glimmer
of hope gladdened the heart of the girl.

Without slackening her speed, she looked back at the hill, fearing to
see the ruthless flames dart up over the path which her mare's feet
had so recently trodden. But the flames had not yet reached the brow,
and she sighed her satisfaction. The smoke was pouring over the
tree-tops, and, circling and rolling in a tangled mass, was creeping
down in her wake, but as yet there were no flames. She looked this way
and that at the dark green of the endless woods, the gracious fields
of bending pines. She thought of the beauty which must so soon pass
away, leaving behind it only the charred skeletons, the barren,
leafless trunks, which for years would remain to mark the cruel path
of flame.

Suddenly the roar, which had partly died away into a vague distant
murmur beyond the hill, burst out again with redoubled fury. Again she
looked round, and the meaning was made plain to her. She saw the
yellow fringe of flame as it came dancing, chaotic, a tattered ribbon
of light upon the brow of the hill; she saw the dense pall of smoke
hovering high above it like the threat of some dreadful doom. The
black of the forest upon the summit remained for a second, then over
swept the red-gold fire, absorbing all, devouring all, in an almost
torrential rush down to the woods below.

And now she beheld a sea of living fire as the hills blazed before her
eyes. It was as though the whole place had been lit at one touch. The
sea rolled on with incredible swiftness, as the tongues of flame
licked up the inflammable objects they encountered. The efforts of her
mare became puerile in comparison with the fearful pace of the flames.
How could she hope to outstrip such awful speed?

On, on raced the mare, and on came the molten torrent. Now the heat
was intolerable. The girl leant limply over her faithful horse's neck;
she was dizzy and confused. Every blast of the wind burnt her more
fiercely as the fire drew nearer. She felt how utterly hopeless were
her horse's efforts.

The mare faltered in her stride; it was her first trip. The girl
shrieked wildly. She screamed at the top of her voice like one
demented. Her nerves were failing, and hysteria gripped her. Kitty
redoubled her efforts. The fear of the fire was aggravated by the
girl's wild cries, and she stretched herself as she had never done
before.

Now it seemed as though they were racing in the heart of a furnace.
The whole country was in flames, and the roar and crashing of falling
timber was incessant, and the yellow glow was everywhere--even ahead.

Blinded, dazed, the girl was borne on by the faithful Kitty. She no
longer thought of what was so near behind her. What little reason was
left to her she centred upon keeping her seat in the saddle. An awful
faintness was upon her, and everything about her seemed distant.

Kitty alone fought out the battle of that ride; her mistress was
beyond all but keeping upon the faithful animal's back. Had she been
less exhausted, the girl would have seen what the mare saw. She would
have seen the broad stream of the Rosy river ahead, and less than a
quarter of a mile away. But she saw nothing; she felt nothing; she
cared for nothing but her hold upon the saddle. Thus it was that when
she came to the riverside, and the mare plunged from the steep bank
into the deep, quick-flowing stream, she knew not what had happened,
but, with a strange tenacity, she held to the pummels of her saddle,
while her loyal friend breasted the waters.

How they got out of the river Prudence never knew, nor did she fully
realize all that had happened when at last the horse and rider again
stood on firm ground. And the tough little broncho had covered another
mile or more before the girl awoke to the fact that they were now in
an open prairie country, and skirting the brink of the great southern
muskeg. Then it all came back to her, and, as Kitty kept steadily on,
she looked fearfully about her. She saw away in the distance the awful
pall, the lurid gleam of the flames; and a heartfelt prayer of
thanksgiving went up from that lonely trail for the merciful escape
which had been hers. The girl leant over her mare's shoulder and
caressed the foaming neck.

"Good Kitty, faithful little mare," she exclaimed emotionally. Then
she looked ahead and she remembered all. "But on, girl, on. There is
more to do yet."

                  *       *       *       *       *

The telegraph operator at Damside was closing up his little shack. He
had just disconnected his instrument and was standing in his doorway
gazing out across the prairie to the east, watching the vast clouds of
smoke belching from the direction of the woods. All about him was a
heavy haze, and a nasty taste of smoke was in his mouth. He looked
across to the only other buildings which formed the city of Damside,
the grain elevator and the railway siding buildings. His own hut was
close beside the latter. The men were leaving their work. Then
presently he looked back in the direction of the distant fire.

"'Tain't the prairie," he muttered. "Too thick. Guess the woods are
blazin'. That's beyond the Rosy. Can't cross there, so I reckon
there's no danger to us. The air do stink here; guess I'll go and git
my hand-car and vamoose."

He turned back to the room and put on his hat. Just as he left his
doorway to pass over to where his hand-car was standing on the railway
track, he brought up to a halt A horse and rider were racing up the
trail towards him.

"Hullo, what's this?" he exclaimed sharply. "Maybe it _is_ the
prairie."

Prudence drew rein beside him. She had seen her man, and she knew that
she was in time. Her joy was written in her face.

"My, but I've had a time," she exclaimed, as she slid down from her
saddle. "I thought that fire had got me. Call up Winnipeg, please, Mr.
Frances."

"Why, Miss Mailing, have you ridden through that?" asked the operator,
pointing to the distant smoke.

"Not through it, but with it distinctly hot upon my heels--or rather
my mare's," the girl laughed. "But I want you to send a message for
me. It isn't too late for Winnipeg?"

"Late, bless you, no. But what is it? Prairie or forest?"

"Forest," replied the girl shortly. "Where's a form?"

They passed into the hut. Prudence proceeded to write out her
message while the man connected up Winnipeg and carried on a short
conversation.

"Bad fire," he said.

"Very."

Prudence began to write.

"Just where?"

"Owl Hoot."

"River'll stop it"

"Yes."

"Good."

Prudence went on writing.

"Iredale's ranch burnt out?"

The girl started.

"Don't know."

"Must be."

"Oh!" Then: "Here you are; and do you mind if I wait for an answer?"

"Pleasure." And the man read the message--

  "To Hervey Malling, Northern Union Hotel,
  Winnipeg.

  "Return at once. Money awaiting you. Willing to pay the price on
  your arrival. Do not fail to return at once. The other matter can
  rest.

                                                       "PRUDENCE."

The operator tapped away at the instrument.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Hervey was sitting in the Northern Union Hotel smoking-room. He was
talking to a burly man, with a red face and a shock of ginger-grey
hair. This was the proprietor of the hotel.

"How long can you give me? I can settle everything by this day month.
The harvesting is just finished. I only need time to haul the grain to
the elevator. Will that satisfy you?"

The big man shrugged.

"You've put me off so often, Mr. Malling. It's not business, and you
know it," he replied gutturally. "Will you give me an order on--your
crop?"

He looked squarely into the other's face. Hervey hesitated. He knew
that he could not do this, and yet he was sorely pressed for money.
However, he made up his mind to take the risk. He thought his mother
would not go back on him.

"Very well."

He turned as the bell-boy approached.

"Telegram for you, sir; 'expressed.'"

Hervey took the envelope and tore it open. He read his sister's
message, and a world of relief and triumph lit up his face.

"Good," he muttered. Then he passed it to his companion. "Read that.
Do you still need a mortgage? I shall set out to-night."

The hotel proprietor read the message, and a satisfied smile spread
over his face. It did not do for him to press his customers too hard.
But still he was a business man. He, too, felt relieved.

"This relates to----?"

"An ouylying farm of mine which I have now sold."

"Your promise will be sufficient, Mr. Malling. I thought we should
find an amicable settlement for our difficulty. You start to-night?"

"Yes."



CHAPTER XIX

THE AVENGER


Alice was standing at the gate of the little front garden. She was
talking to her lover, who had just ridden up from the direction of Owl
Hoot. Robb had not dismounted, and his face was very serious as he
leant down towards her.

"And I never knew a word about it. It's a jolly good thing I obtained
the delivery of his bunch of cattle when I did, or goodness knows what
would have happened. Well, anyhow I've lost a nice lump. My client,
when he heard about the place being for sale, wanted to buy it for a
back country for his beeves to winter in. Just my confounded luck. I
knew there was a big fire out this way, but I never thought that
Iredale was the unfortunate victim. Now I've got to go over to
Lakeville to see him--he's staying there, you know, since he was burnt
out. I'll come back this way, and if Mrs Malling can put me up for the
night, I'll be grateful. My 'plug' won't stand the journey back home.
You say Hervey will be along this evening?"

"Yes," replied the girl Then seriously, "What are you going to do?"

"Interview him. There are things about that dog that want explaining.
I take it he can explain 'em. I don't easily forget. And I owe some
one a deal more than I've yet been able to pay. P'r'aps that dog'll
help me to discharge my debt. Good-bye, Al; I must be off or I shan't
get back this afternoon."

Robb turned away in his cheerful, debonair manner and rode off.
Troubles sat lightly on his stout heart. His effervescent nature never
left him long depressed when Fortune played her freakish tricks upon
him. He had lost his commission upon the sale of Iredale's land, but
he had secured the better deal of the cattle. Therefore he was
satisfied. But Robb was a very persistent man in his seemingly
haphazard fashion. He had promised himself an interview with Hervey
about his dog. He had never forgotten or forgiven the disaster in the
mountains, and he believed that Hervey would be able to set him on the
track of Zachary Smith, whom he felt certain he had seen at the
Winnipeg depôt. He hoped so; and, for this purpose, he intended to
spend the night at Loon Dyke Farm.

As her lover rode away Alice turned back to the house. The anxious
look was still upon her face. She knew that there was serious trouble
in the family, and she could see no way of helping these people she
loved. Prudence was in sad disgrace with her mother; she had been
absent from the farm for two days and had only returned that morning.
Mrs. Malling had been distracted with anxiety and grief until the
re-appearance of her daughter, and then, when she saw that she was
well and that no accident had happened to her, she had flown into such
a terrible passion that even Prudence had quailed before her. Never
in her life had Alice seen the kindly old soul give way to such rage.
No disparaging epithet had been too bad for her child, and she had
literally chased the girl from the room in which they had met. Since
then Prudence had retreated to her bedroom, and Hephzibah had poured
out the vials of her wrath upon an empty kitchen, for even the
long-suffering hired girl had feared to face her.

Now, as Alice approached the front door again, she heard the sound of
high-pitched voices coming from the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge had come
over while the farm-wife's rage was at its height; and, as Alice
listened, she thought that these two old cronies were quarrelling. But
her ears quickly told her that her surmise was wrong. She heard
Prudence's voice raised in angry protest, and, instead of entering the
house, she discreetly withdrew, passing round to the farmyard
instead.

In the kitchen a stormy scene was being enacted.

Prudence was standing just inside the door. Her mother was beside a
long table on which were laid out the necessaries for pastry-making.
She had faced round upon the girl and stood brandishing a rolling-pin
in one hand, and in the other she held a small basket of eggs. Sarah
was seated in a high-backed Windsor chair. Her arms were folded across
her waist, and her face expressed perplexed alarm. Prudence's face was
aflame; nor were her eyes one whit less angry than her mother's.

"But I say you shall hear me, mother, whether you like it or not. I'll
not let you or any one else call me the filth which you did this
morning for nothing."

The girl's voice was hoarse with nervous feeling, Mrs Mailing shook
her rolling-pin in a perfect fury.

"Out of this kitchen, you baggage! Out of it, do you hear me? Go an'
get your garments packed up, and out ye go into the street. Child o'
my flesh, are ye? Out of my house, you drab, or maybe I'll be doing
you a harm. I'll teach the like o' you to be stoppin' out o' nights
an' then to come back wi'out a word of explainin'. I'll teach you."

"Give the child a hearing, Hephzibah," said Sarah, in her soft even
tones, as there came a lull in the angry mother's tirade.

Prudence shot a grateful glance in her preceptor's direction.

Hephzibah turned swiftly on the peaceful Sarah. But the words of anger
which hovered upon her lips remained unspoken. Sarah was an influence
in the old lady's life, and long association was not without effect.
She visibly calmed. Prudence saw the change and took advantage of it.

"How could I explain when you wouldn't listen to me?" she exclaimed
resentfully. "Almost before I could say a word you called me all the
shameful things you could think of. You drove me to silence when I was
willing to tell you all--I was more than willing. You _must_ know all,
for the story I have to tell as nearly affects you as it does me. I
stayed away from home to save an innocent man from the dreadful charge
of murder, and your son from perpetrating the most wanton act of his
worthless life."

A dead silence followed her words. Hephzibah stared at her with an
expression of stupefied amazement, while Sarah turned in her chair
with a movement which was almost a jolt. The silence was at last
broken by the girl's mother.

"Murder? Hervey?"

And there was no understanding in her tone. Her mind seemed to be
groping blindly, and she merely repeated the two words which struck
her most forcibly.

"Yes, 'murder' and 'Hervey,'" Prudence retorted. "Hervey has accused
George Iredale of the murder of Leslie Grey. Now will you listen to my
explanation?"

Hephzibah precipitated herself into a chair. The rolling-pin was
returned to its place upon the dough-board with a clatter, and the
basket of eggs was set down with a force that sorely jeopardized its
contents.

"Yes, girl. Tell me all. Let me hear what devil's work my Hervey's
been up to. La sakes! an' George Iredale a murderer!"

And Prudence, her anger evaporated as swiftly as her mother's, told
the two old ladies of her love for Iredale, and how he had asked her
to be his wife. She told them how Hervey had come to her with the
story of his discovery; how, after attempting to blackmail his victim,
he had offered his information to her at a price. How she forced him
to prove his case, and had sent him to Winnipeg with that object; how
she had been nearly distracted, and eventually made up her mind to go
and see Iredale himself; how the accused man had established to her
his innocence beyond any doubt, and how he had shown her how
impossible it would be for him to use the same means of clearing
himself in a court of law. She dwelt upon each point, so that these
two, who were so dear to her, should not fail to understand as she
understood. Then she told them how, recognizing George's danger, she
had resolved to intercept Hervey, and, with her mother's assistance,
pay him off; and, finally, how she had been overtaken by the forest
fire; and how, her mare exhausted, she had arrived at Damside in time
to send her message to her brother; and how, failing any other means
of returning home, she had taken shelter with the elevator clerk's
wife until her mare had recovered and she was able to resume her
journey to the farm.

It was a long story, and the many interruptions of her mother gave the
girl much extra trouble in the telling; but with a wonderful patience,
born of her anxiety for her lover, she dealt with every little point
that puzzled her audience.

When the story was finished its effect was made curiously manifest.
The one thing which seemed to have gripped her mother's intensest
feeling was the part her boy had played. Her round eyes had grown
stern, and her comely lips had parted as her breath came heavy and
fast. At last she burst out with a curious mixture of anger and sorrow
in her words.

"Bone of my Silas; flesh of my flesh; an' to think o' the like. My
Hervey a whelp of hell; a bloodsucker. Oh, that I should ha' lived to
see such a day," and she rocked herself, with her hand supporting her
head and her elbows planted upon her knees. "Oh, them travellin's in
foreign parts. My poor, poor Silas; if he'd jest lived long 'nough to
git around our boy with a horsewhip we might ha' been spared this
disgrace. Prudence, girl, I'm that sorry for what I've said to you."

Tears welled in the old eyes, which had now become very wistful, and
slowly rolled down the plump cheeks. Suddenly she gathered up her
apron and flung it up over her head, and the rocking continued
dismally. Prudence came over to her and knelt at her side, caressing
her stout figure in sympathy. Sarah sat looking away towards the
window with dreamy eyes. The old school-mistress made no comment; she
was thinking deeply.

"Don't cry, mother," said Prudence, with an ominous catch in her
voice. "Whatever Hervey's faults, he will reap his own punishment. I
want you to help me now, dear. I want you to give me the benefit of
your experience and your sound, practical sense. I must see this
through. I have a wicked brother and an obstinate lover to deal with,
and I want you to help me, and tell me what is best to do."

The apron was removed from Mrs. Malling's head, and her eyes, red and
watery, looked at the girl at her side with a world of love in their
depths.

"These two men will be here this afternoon," the girl went on. "George
is coming to tell you his story himself, that you may judge him. He
declares that, come what may, he will not rest with this shadow upon
him. In justice to us, his friends, and to himself, he must face the
consequences of his years of wrongdoing. Hervey will be here for his
money. This is the position; and, according to my reckoning, they will
arrive at about the same time. I don't quite know why, but I want to
confront Hervey with the man he accuses. Now tell me what you think."

"I'm thinking you make the third of a pack of fool-heads," said the
farm-wife gently. "George is no murderer, he's not the killin' sort.
He's a man, he is. Then why worrit? An' say, if that boy o' mine comes
along he'll learn that them Ar'tic goldfields is a cooler place for
his likes than his mother's farm." The old woman's choler was rising
again with tempestuous suddenness. "Say, he's worse'n a skunk, and a
sight more dangerous than a Greaser. My, but he'll learn somethin'
from them as can teach him!"

"Yes, mother," replied the girl, a little impatiently; "but you don't
seem to see the seriousness of what he charges----"

"That I do, miss. Am I wantin' in understandin'? George is as innocent
as an unborn babe, so what's the odds along o' Hervey's accusin'? It
don't amount to a heap o' corn shucks. That boy ain't responsible, I
tell ye. He's like to get locked up himself in a luny 'sylum. I'll
give him accusin'!"

"But, mother, that won't do any good. He must be paid off."

"An' so he shall--and so he shall, child. There's more dollars in this
farm than he reckons on, and they're ready for usin' when I say the
word. If it's pay that's needed, he shall be paid, though I ain't just
understandin' the need."

Sarah's voice broke in at this point.

"The child's right, Hephzibah; there's money to be spent over this
thing, or I'm no judge of human nature. Hervey's got a strong case,
and, from what the story tells us, George is a doomed man if he goes
before the court. Innocent he may be--innocent he is, I'll wager; but
if he's obstinate he's done for."

The farm-wife made no reply, but sat gazing wistfully before her.

"Yes, yes," Prudence said earnestly. "It is just the money--nothing
more. We must not let an innocent man suffer. And, 'Aunt' Sarah, we
must prevail upon George to let us stop Hervey's mouth. That is our
chief difficulty. You will help me--you and mother. You are so clever,
'Aunt' Sarah. George will listen to you. Oh, we must--must save him,
even against himself."

Sarah nodded her head sagely; she was deeply affected by all she had
heard, but she gave no outward sign.

"Child," she replied, "we will all do our best--for him--for you; but
yours is the tongue that will persuade him best. He loves you, child,
and you love him. He will not persist, if you are set against it."

"I hope it will be as you say," replied Prudence dubiously. "But when
he comes you will let him tell his story in his own way. You will
listen patiently to him. Then you can laugh at his determination and
bring your arguments to bear. Then we will keep him until Hervey
arrives, and we will settle the matter for ever. Oh, mother, I dread
what is to come."

Mrs. Mailing did not seem to be paying much heed, but, as the girl
moved away from her side, she spoke. There was no grief, no anger in
her voice now. She spoke quite coldly, and Sarah Gurridge looked
keenly over at her.

"Yes, girl, we'll settle this rumpus, and--Hervey."

Prudence moved towards the door. She turned at her mother's words.

"I will go up-stairs," she said. "I want to think."

She opened the door and nearly fell against the dog Neche, who was
standing outside it. There was a fanciful suggestion of the
eavesdropper about the creature; his attitude was almost furtive. He
moved slowly away, and walked with the girl to the foot of the stairs,
where he laid himself down with a complacent grunt. The girl went up
to her room.

"This day's doin's will be writ on my heart for ever," said the
farm-wife plaintively, as the door closed behind her daughter.

"An' see you, Hephzibah, and let no eyes read of them, for there will
be little credit for anyone in those same doings," said Sarah
solemnly.

Mrs. Malling hugged herself, and again began to rock slowly. But there
were no signs of tears in her round, dark eyes. Now and again her lips
moved, and occasionally she muttered to herself. Sarah heard the name
"Hervey" pass her lips once or twice, and she knew that her old friend
had been sorely stricken.

As the time for Iredale's arrival drew near, Prudence became restless.
Her day had been spent in idleness as far as her farm work was
concerned. She had chosen the companionship of Alice, and had
unburdened her heart to her. But sympathetic and practical as her
friend was, she was quite unable to help her.

As four o'clock drew near, however, Alice did the only thing possible.
She took herself off for a walk down the Lakeville trail. She felt
that it was better for everybody that she should be away while the
trouble was on, and, besides, she would meet her lover on his way to
the farm, and give him timely warning against making his meditated
stay for the night.

At the appointed hour there came the clatter of a pacer's hoofs at the
front gate, and a moment later Prudence led her lover into the
parlour. After a few brief words she hurriedly departed to summon her
mother and Sarah. There was a significant solemnity in this
assembling; nor was it lessened by the smuggler's manner. Even the
wolfish Neche seemed impressed with what was happening, for he clung
to the girl's heels, following her wherever she went, and finally laid
down upon the trailing portion of her skirt when she took up her
position beside her lover and waited for him to begin.

The opening was a painful one for everybody. Iredale scarcely knew how
to face those gentle folk and recount his disgraceful story. He
thought of all they had been to him during his long years upon the
prairie. He thought of their implicit trust and faith in him. He
almost quailed before the steady, honest eyes of the old people.
However, he at last forced himself to his task, and plunged into his
story with uncompromising bluntness.

"I am accused of murder," he said, and paused, while a sickly feeling
pervaded his stomach.

Mrs. Malling nodded her head. She was too open to remain silent long.

"Of Leslie Grey," she said at once. "And ye needn't to tell us nothin'
more, George. We know the yarn you are about to tell us. An' d'ye
think we're goin' to believe any addle-pated scalliwag such as my
Hervey, agin' you? Smuggler you may be, but that you've sunk to
killin' human flesh not even a minister o' the Gospel's goin' to
convince me. Here, I respects the man I give my hand to. Shake me by
the hand, George--shake me by the hand." And the farm-wife rose from
her chair and ambled across the room with her hand outstretched.

Iredale clasped it in both of his. And never in his life had he
experienced such a burst of thankfulness as he did at that moment. His
heart was too full to speak. Prudence smiled gravely as she watched
this whole-hearted token of her mother's loyalty to a friend. Nor was
Sarah backward in her expression of goodwill.

"Hephzibah's right, George, and she speaks for both of us. But there's
work to be done for all that. Hervey's to be dealt with."

"To be bribed," said Hephzibah uncompromisingly, as she returned to
her seat.

Iredale shook his head and his face set sternly. Prudence saw the look
she feared creep into her lover's eyes. She opened her lips to
protest, but the words remained unspoken. She had heard the rattle of
a buckboard outside. The sound died away, and she knew that the
vehicle had passed round to the barn. She waited in an agony of
suspense for her brother's appearance.

"You needn't to shake your head," went on the farm-wife. "This
matter's my concern. It's my dollars as is goin' to pay Master
Hervey--an' when he gets 'em may they blister his fingers, I sez."

Prudence heard a footstep in the hall. The crucial moment had arrived,
and her heart palpitated with nervous apprehension. Before Iredale
could reply the door was flung open, and Hervey stood in their midst.
Instantly every eye was turned upon him. He stood for a moment and
looked round. There was a slight unsteadiness in his attitude. His
great eyes looked wilder than ever, and they were curiously bloodshot.
At least one of the three ladies possessed an observant mind. Sarah
saw that the man had been drinking. To her the signs, though slight,
were unmistakable. The others did not seem to notice his condition.

"Ah," he said, with an attempt at pleasantry, "a nice little party.
Well, I've come for the dibs."

His eyes lit upon the figure of George Iredale, and he broke off. The
next moment he went on angrily--

"What's that man doing in this house?" he cried, his eyes fairly
blazing with sudden rage. "Is the place turned into a refuge
for--murderers?"

The man's fury had set fire to the powder train. His mother was on her
feet in a twinkling. Her comfortable body fairly shook in her
indignation. Her face was a flaming scarlet, and her round eyes
sparkled wickedly.

"And who be you to question the calling of my house, Hervey Malling?"
she cried; "since when comes it that you've the right to raise your
voice against my guests? An' by what right d'ye dare to accuse an
innocent man? Answer me, you imp of Evil," she demanded. But she gave
him no time to speak, and went on, her voice rising to a piercing
crescendo. "Spare your wicked tongue, which should be forked by reason
of the lies as has fallen from it. Oh, that you should be able to call
me 'mother.' I'd rather mother the offspring of a rattlesnake than
you. What have you done by us all your life but bring sorrow an'
trouble upon those who've done all that which in them is to help you?
Coward! Traitor! An' you come now with lies on your tongue to harm an
innocent man what's done you no harm." She breathed hard. Then her
wrath swept on, and the room rang with the piercing pitch of her
voice. "You've come for your blood-money--your thirty pieces. You
villain; if your poor father were alive this day he should lay a raw
hide about you till your bones were flayed. Sakes! I've a mind to set
about you myself. Look at him, the black-heart! Look at him all! Was
ever such filth of a man? and him my son. Blood-money! Blood-money!
And to think that I'm living to know it."

She paused. Hervey broke in--

"Silence, you old fool! You don't know what you're talking about. That
man," pointing over at Iredale, who sat waiting for an opportunity to
interfere, "is the murderer of Leslie Grey. I suppose he has been
priming you with blarney and yarns. But I tell you he murdered Grey.
I'm not here for any tomfoolery. I got Prudence's message to say the
money was forthcoming. Where is it? Fifteen thousand dollars buys me,
and that I want at once. If I have any more yapping I'll make it
twenty thousand."

He looked about him savagely, and his eyes finally paused at George
Iredale, seated beside Prudence. He cared nothing for his mother's
vituperation, but he was watchful of the smuggler.

Suddenly the burly rancher sprang to his feet. He stepped up to
Hervey. The latter moved a pace back.

"Not one cent, you cowardly hound!" he roared. "Not one cent shall you
have; do you hear? I thank God that I am here to stop you robbing
these, your mother and sister." Mrs. Malling tried to interfere, but
he waved her back. "I've come at the right time, and I tell you that
you shall not take one cent of the money. I will never leave you lest
you should wheedle it from them. I will spoil your game. This is what
I intend to do. You and I will set out for Winnipeg to-night, and
together we will interview the Commissioner of Police. Do you
understand me? I have the whip hand now. And I promise you your
silence shall _not_ be bought."

Prudence interfered.

"Listen to me, George. I implore you not to do this thing. Hervey can
have all he wants--everything. You are innocent we know, but you
cannot prove your innocence. Why should you break my heart when there
is a way out of the difficulty? There is but one person who can
denounce you, and his silence we can purchase. Oh, George," the girl
went on passionately, "as you love me, listen. My heart will break if
this thing you meditate comes to pass. Oh, my love, say you won't do
it! Let mother pay the man off that he may pass out of our lives for
ever. See, mother is going for the money now. It is so easy; so
simple."

Mrs. Mailing had risen from her seat and moved away to the door.
Hervey stood at the far end of the parlour facing the open window. He
saw his mother pass out, and a great look of satisfaction came into
his eyes. After all, these women meant to treat him fairly, he
thought.

He grinned over at Iredale.

"Better drop it, Iredale, and don't play the fool. When I get the
money I shall forget that I ever knew you."

The smuggler was about to fire a swift retort when the sound of voices
coming in at the open window interrupted him. The voices were a man's
and a woman's. Prudence recognized Alice's tones. The other's she did
not recognize at once.

Sarah Gurridge, who had been a silent observer of the scene, had heard
the sound too, but she was absorbed in what was being enacted about
her. Her eyes were upon Hervey. She saw him start, and his great
haunting eyes were turned upon the window. Suddenly he rushed forward
towards it. He had to pass round the table, close to where Prudence
was now standing. In doing so he kicked against the dog, which was
standing with its ears pricked up and its head turned in the direction
whence the voices sounded.

The man's evil face was blanched. A wild, hunted look was in his eyes.
Iredale saw, was startled, and his reply died upon his lips as he
wondered at this sudden change.

"Shut the window. Do you hear?" cried Hervey excitedly. "Don't let
them hear. Don't let them----"

He had reached the window to carry out his own instructions. His hands
were upon the casements, and he was about to fling the glass frames
together. But suddenly his arms dropped to his sides. He stood face to
face with the figure of Robb Chillingwood!

There was a dreadful silence. Then slowly Hervey backed away; his
glaring eyes were fixed upon the stern countenance of the ex-Customs
officer. Slowly he backed, backed from the apparition; and the
onlookers noted the pallid cheeks and blazing eyes, and they wondered
helplessly. Nor did Hervey pause until he reached the wall furthest
from the window. Then he stood, and his lips silently moved.

Suddenly there was a cry, and it rang with vengeful triumph. It came
from the man at the window--Robb Chillingwood.

"By God! it's Zachary Smith!"

The next instant and he was in the room.

The onlookers gazed blankly from one to the other of the two men. What
did it mean? Who was Zachary Smith? And why did Robb so call Hervey?
Then their eyes settled on the man against the wall. The cheeks were
no longer pallid; they were flushed with a hectic colouring, and those
strange eyes were filled with an awful, murderous light. The lips
continued to move, but he did not speak; only his right hand slipped
round behind him.

Then Robb's voice sounded through the room again.

"So, Mr. Zachary Smith, we meet again. And, by the Lord Harry, you
shall swing for what you did in the mountains! Highway robbery of the
Government bullion under the charge of Leslie Grey, and the murder of
our Indian guide, Rainy-Moon." Then he turned--"Hold that door!" he
shouted; and Iredale sprang to obey.

"But----" Prudence rushed forward, but Sarah stopped her and drew her
back.

A wild laugh came from Hervey's direction.

"And who's going to take me?" he cried. "You, Robb Chillingwood, you?
Ha, ha!" and his maniacal laugh rang out again. "Look to yourself, you
fool. Grey crossed my path, and he paid for it with his life. You
shall follow him."

While his words yet rang upon the air his hand shot out from behind
him, gripping a heavy revolver. The pistol was raised, and a shriek
went up from the two ladies.

Suddenly there was a rush, a snarl; and a great body seemed to
literally hurl itself through the air. A shot rang out; simultaneously
a cry echoed through the room; Hervey staggered as something seized
him by the throat and tore away the soft flesh; another shot
followed.

It all happened in a twinkling. Hervey fell to the ground with a
gurgling cry, and Neche, the dog, until then forgotten by everybody,
rolled over by his side with one dying yelp of pain. Then silence
reigned throughout the room and all was still.

Iredale returned his smoking pistol to his pocket, and went over to
Hervey's side. His movements seemed to release the others from the
spell under which they had been held. Robb, unharmed by Hervey's shot,
came forward, and Sarah and Prudence followed in his wake. But Iredale
waved the ladies back.

"Stand away, please," he said quietly. "The dog had finished him
before I got my shot in to save him. The brute has literally torn his
throat out." Then he looked over at the dead hound. "It's awful; I
wonder what made the dog turn upon him?"

"Are they both dead?" asked Robb, in an awestruck voice.

Iredale nodded.

"It must have been the sight of Hervey's levelled pistol that made the
dog rush at him," said Prudence. "I've seen him do so before."

"Strange, strange," murmured Iredale.

"That dog feared firearms," said Sarah.

"Perhaps he had reason," observed Robb significantly, "he only has
three sound legs. My God! And not content with his victims in the
mountains, he----But, yes, I see it. This man came here without
expecting to meet Grey or me." Robb broke off and looked at Prudence.
"Of course, I am beginning to understand. You and Grey were to have
been married." Then he turned back to the contemplation of the dead
bodies.

"Yes, the murderer of Grey lies confessed," said Iredale quietly, "and
I think that his motives were even stronger than those attributed
to----"

Prudence placed a hand over his mouth before he could complete his
sentence.

They were startled from their horrified contemplation of the work of
those last few moments by the sound of Hephzibah's voice calling from
her bedroom. The sitting-room door had been opened by Alice, who had
entered the moment Iredale had released the handle. Now they could
hear the farm-wife moving about overhead, evidently on her way
down-stairs.

Sarah was the first to recover her presence of mind. She turned upon
Robb.

"Not a word to her about--about----"

Robb shook his head.

Iredale snatched the pistol from the dead man's hand.

Mrs. Malling's footsteps came creaking down the stairs. Suddenly
Prudence's hands went up to her face as she thought of the shock
awaiting her mother. Alice dragged her away to a chair. Iredale and
Robb stood looking down at the two objects on the floor. Master and
hound were lying side by side.

Sarah ran to the door and met the farm-wife. She must never know that
her son was a murderer--a double murderer.

Those within the room heard the school-ma'am's gentle tones.

"No, no, Hephzibah, you must not go in there yet. There are
things--things which you must not see. The hound has killed him.
Hervey enraged the dog, and the wretched beast turned upon him--and he
is dead."

Then there came the sound of a scuffle. The next moment mother Hephzy
pushed her way into the room. She looked about her wildly; one hand
was clutching a bundle of hundred-dollar bills. Suddenly her round,
staring eyes fell upon the two objects lying side by side upon the
ground. She looked at the hound; then she looked upon her son. Iredale
had covered the torn throat with pocket-handkerchiefs.

The bills slowly fell in a shower from her hand, and her arms folded
themselves over her breast. Then she looked in a dazed fashion upon
those about her, muttering audibly.

"He's dead--he's dead," she repeated to herself over and over again.
Then suddenly she ceased her repetitions and shook her head.
"Mussy-a-me, mussy-a-me! The Lord's will be done!"

And she slowly fell in a heap by her dead son's side.



IN CONCLUSION


Time, the great healer of all sufferings, all sorrows, can do much,
but memory clings with a pertinacity which defies all Time's best
efforts. Time may soften the poignancy of deep-rooted sorrow, but it
cannot shut out altogether the pain of a mother's grief at the loss of
an only son. In spite of all Hervey's crimes he was "the only son of
his mother, and she was a widow." The story of his villainies was
rigidly kept from her, and so she thought of him only as a prodigal,
as a boy to be pitied, as one whose offences must be condoned; she
sought for his good points, and, in her sweet motherly heart, saw a
wonderful deal in him on which to centre her loving memory, which, had
he lived, even she could never have discovered. It is something that
erring man has to be humbly grateful for, that women are like this; so
full of the patient, enduring love which can see no wrong in the
object of their affections.

But Loon Dyke Farm became intolerable to Hephzibah Malling after the
ghastly tragedy of her son's death; and when Robb and Alice saw fit to
marry, urged on to that risky experiment by the two older ladies, she
insisted upon leasing the place to them on ridiculously easy terms.
She would have given it to them only for their steady refusal to
accept such a magnificent wedding gift from her.

The old lady was rich enough for her needs and her daughter's, and,
business woman as she was, she was generous to a fault where her
affections were concerned. Prudence too was satisfied with any
arrangement which would take her away from the farm. Knowing what she
knew of her brother, Loon Dyke could never again be her home. So
mother and daughter retired to Ainsley, and only once again did they
return to their old home on the briefest of visits, and that was to
assist at the function of christening the son and heir of the
Chillingwoods.

Later on Prudence induced her mother to make Winnipeg her home, but
though, for her daughter's sake, she acceded to the request, she was
never quite at ease among her new surroundings. Nor was Sarah
Gurridge, when she visited her old friend during her holidays, slow to
observe this. "My dear," she told Alice, one day after her summer
vacation, "Hephzibah is failing fast. She's quite old, although she is
my junior by two years and three months. An idle life doesn't suit
her; and as for Prudence, she wears fine clothes, and goes out in
society all day and most of the night, but she's that thin and
melancholy that you wouldn't know her for the same child. It's my
opinion that she's pining--they are both pining. I found a letter from
Hamilton when I got back home. It was from George Iredale, and I'm
going to answer it at once."

"And what are you going to say in your reply?" laughed Alice. "I know
your matchmaking propensity. So does Robb."

The quiet, dreamy face of the old school-mistress smiled over at the
happy mother.

"Say?" she exclaimed. "I'm going to give George a piece of my mind for
staying away so long. I know why he's doing so, and my belief as to
the cause of his absence is different from what Prudence is beginning
to imagine. She thinks he has left her because of her brother's
doings, and it's that that's driving her to an early grave. I shall
certainly tell George what I think." And Sarah wagged her head
sagely.

And she was as good as her word. She had not seen fit to tell Alice
that she had been in constant communication with George Iredale ever
since the day of the tragedy, or that she was in his confidence as
regarded Prudence. George had left the district to give both Prudence
and her mother time to recover from the shock. And now that a year or
more had passed away, he had written appealing to Sarah to tell him if
she thought the time auspicious for his return.

In a long, carefully-worded letter Sarah advised him not to delay.

"By dint of much perseverance," she wrote, "I have persuaded the child
out of her absurd notions about the reflections her brother's doings
have cast upon her. She looks at things from a healthier standpoint
now. Why should she not marry? What has she done to debar her from
fulfilling the mission which is appointed for every woman? Nothing!
And I am sure if a certain man should return and renew the appeal
which he made at the time when the Lord's anger was visited upon her
brother, she would give him a different reply. However, I must not
waste all my space upon the silly notions of a child with a
misdirected conscience."

And how her letter bore fruit, and how George Iredale returned and
sought Prudence in the midst of the distractions of Winnipeg's social
whirl, and how the girl's answer, when again he appealed to her,
turned out to be the one Sarah had prophesied for him, were matters of
great satisfaction to the sage old school-mistress.

She assisted at the wedding which followed, she saw the bride and
bridegroom off at the railway depôt, she remained to console her old
friend for the loss of her daughter. Then she hied her off once more,
back to the bleak, staring school-house, where she continued to
propound sage maxims for the young of the district until her allotted
task was done, and the tally of her years complete.

THE END



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