.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 55645
   :PG.Title: The Valley of Gold
   :PG.Released: 2017-09-27
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: David Howarth
   :MARCREL.ill: \H. Weston Taylor
   :DC.Title: The Valley of Gold
              A Tale of the Saskatchewan
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1921
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE VALLEY OF GOLD
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   .. _`"Bridges are all burned. To-morrow I begin teaching—where do you think?"`:

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      :alt: "Bridges are all burned. To-morrow I begin teaching—where do you think?"

      "Bridges are all burned. To-morrow I begin teaching—where do you think?"

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      The Valley of Gold

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      A Tale of the Saskatchewan

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      BY DAVID HOWARTH

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      FRONTISPIECE BY
      \H. WESTON TAYLOR

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      \A. \L. BURT COMPANY
      Publishers New York

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      Published by arrangement with Fleming H. Revell Company
      Printed in U. S. A.

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      Copyright, 1921, by
      FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

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      New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
      Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave.
      London: 21 Paternoster Square
      Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street

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      *TO MY MOTHER*

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   Contents

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I.  `Heavy Odds`_
II.  `The Valley of Gold`_
III.  `Bouquets`_
IV.  `The Man, Rob McClure`_
V.  `At the Water-Hole`_
VI.  `The Threshing Champions`_
VII.  `Hallowe'en on The Qu'appelle`_
VIII.  `The Rival Bosses`_
IX.  `A Land Shark`_
X.  `The Dreamer`_
XI.  `The Third Rider`_
XII.  `Anything is Fair in Love`_
XIII.  `The Red Knight Scores`_
XIV.  `Behind the Green Baize Door`_
XV.  `One Black Night`_
XVI.  `The Spider Weaves`_
XVII.  `Hank Foyle, Unexpected Guest`_
XVIII.  `The Bird of the Coulee`_
XIX.  `Chesley Sykes Uncovers His Hand`_
XX.  `A Fawn at Bay`_
XXI.  `The Counterplot`_
XXII.  `Wolves`_
XXIII.  `The Adventure at the Bridge`_
XXIV.  `The Storm Rock`_
XXV.  `The Empty Saddle`_
XXVI.  `The Red Knight Sings of the Fairies`_





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.. _`HEAVY ODDS`:

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   \I


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   HEAVY ODDS

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The east wind blew furiously, beating gray
sheets down the streaming panes.  Along
the village street flowed a turbid torrent,
the squalid wash of an "old-timer-three-days'-blow"
from the Great Lakes.  Threshing was
hung up.  Every wheel was stopped for a
thousand miles across the prairies.

Sparrow's pool-room was a cavern of smoke.
Through the blue-ringed mists of tobacco moved
the unkempt silhouettes of boisterous threshermen.
Suddenly over the hubbub rose a jeering cry.

Ned Pullar leaned down and knocked the ashes
out of his briar.  His immobile face gave no sign
that the cry was an insulting challenge.  Opening
his knife he slowly scooped out the bowl of his
pipe.  Tapping the inverted briar on the palm of
his hand, he proceeded leisurely to fill in the
tobacco.  This act duly completed, he turned about
and looked McClure in the face.  In his eyes was
a faint twinkle, but he elected to hold his tongue.
His deliberate silence provoked his tormentor.
Hitherto McClure had addressed him in a low
tone.  Now his great voice rose above the chatter
of the players and the noise of the crashing balls.

"Come, Pullar!" he sneered.  "You're yellow.
How about odds?"

Play ceased and all eyes turned on the two men.

"Pull easy, Rob!" adjured some partisan of
McClure's.  "He's soft in the mouth."

The crowd raised applauding guffaws.

"Naw, it's the blind staggers, pards," cried a
smooth voice.  "Watch his blinkers."

The immoderate laugh of the crowd had a curiously
menacing note.

Pullar's blinkers were not blinking, however.
He held McClure's eyes with a level glance.

Thrusting hands to hips akimbo McClure cried
insolently:

"S-s-stumped!  You quitter!"

Pullar was still silent.  His clear eye was taking
in the situation.  McClure was plainly bent on
baiting him and his purpose was beginning to dawn
on the Valley boss.  A quick survey of the room
discovered to him the presence of nine of
McClure's men.  He could see them moving about
into position to cut off all egress from the one door.
Not a man of his own gang was in sight and the
two or three outsiders were not promising allies.
The stench of liquor and the savage flashing of wild
eyes warned him of their fell intention.  In the
swift process of his thought he realized that they
were about to pull him down and "jump" him
with the unspeakable savagery of drunken fools.
He was trapped.  With every sense alert he went
ahead imperturbably preparing to light up.

Drawing a wad of bills from his pocket McClure
thrust them under Pullar's nose.

"Five hundred bucks!" he challenged.  "Five
hundred little bucks to lay against you two to one
that we can lick the Valley Outfit in a thirty day
run any old time you want to take it on.  No time
like the present, Pullar!"

Ned Pullar stood straight and immense, a
muscular figure in overalls and smock.  His fresh,
youthful face looked almost innocently from under
the peak of his cap.  His eyes were serious for an
instant, then released an amused smile.

"Rob McClure!" he said quietly.  "You are
developing an interesting humour.  Three times
to-day you have flaunted this trifling wager in my
face.  It means nothing to me—nothing more
than do you yourself, Robbie, mon, or your engaging gang."

The mocking tone provoked a swift change in
McClure.  His eyes narrowed to slits that gleamed
evilly.  The rush of passion rendered him impotently
mute.  Backing their boss with yells of rage
the gang moved menacingly toward the speaker.
Suddenly above the foul oaths rang out a voice.
It was one of the outsiders who had slipped
unnoticed to the door.  With his hand on the knob he
called out:

"Hold 'em, Ned.  I'll fetch the Valley Outfit
mighty quick."

There was a rush toward him, but he dashed out
of the door and away.

Then followed an instant move toward the
solitary and defiant figure of the Valley boss.

"Halt!  You drunken dogs!" cried Pullar in a
voice that effected his purpose.

Pausing, the crowd eyed their quarry cautiously,
warned by the terrible flame leaping from the eyes
where but a moment before glimmered a whimsical
smile.  Holding his pipe to his lips with a
match ready to light, he addressed them quietly.

"I was getting ready," said he, "to hit the trail
for The Craggs when McClure worked himself up
over this bet.  I'm not interested in his little
gamble.  But I am tolerable anxious over the important
matter of hiking along home to milk the cows.
I'm going to pass out that door and I'd hate to
hustle any of you fellows unnecessarily."

He took a step toward them.  There was an
involuntary movement to retreat.  Pullar laughed
and the threshers, with wild yells, rushed at their
prey.  Above the clamour rose the bull-like roar of
McClure.

"Throw the big stiff!" he shouted.  "Mush
him under your boots before his gang get here.
Put him out and we'll handle them."

With answering shouts they leaped to the attack.
Pullar stepped back lightly, feigning retreat.
Drawn by the ruse two sprang after him.  Suddenly
they felt a clutch like steel.  Separating the
two assailants he brought them together with a
trap-like shutting of his muscular arms.  Their
heads met with a muffled shock and he sent them
reeling to the wall.  Hands were grasping for him
as he shot out his right fist and his left and two
more of his demented foes sank to their knees.
Making a lightning side step he sprang away,
freeing himself from the gripping tentacles of the
gang.

In a flashing glimpse he found that he had
dodged the attack en masse only to throw himself
in the path of Snoopy Bill Baird.  The huge slouching
form was charging him wickedly.  He twisted
aside to elude the onset but was unable to avoid
the kick of the heavy boot.  It caught him along
the cheek-bone, ripping the flesh.  He closed,
clinching his assailant.  The big fellows were well
matched, but with a confusing speed Pullar had
pinned Baird's arms in a girdling grip.  Tripping
his great, writhing captive over his hip he flung
him clean away above his head.  Like a flying
missile the man shot through the air, crashing
down sprawlingly upon a pool table.

Pullar was not aware that his huge antagonist
lay on the table a groaning heap, for they were
dragging him down on all sides.  Two of his
assailants clung to his arms, robbing him of any
means of defense, while a third belaboured him
fiercely about the head.  Still another fastened on
his throat.  This latter clutched Pullar's neck with
both hands, gouging his thumbs into the windpipe
with vicious design to strangle.  The vital grip
began to tell and slowly at first, then with a chuck,
they went to the floor.

"Hold him!  Hold him!" shouted McClure
gleefully as he danced about seeking a chance to
strike.  But a sudden change came over the battle.
The fall had shaken the bulldog clutch.  By a
prodigious effort Pullar wrenched his right arm free.
There was a series of quick, jabbing motions and
the four assailants fell magically away.  With a
bound Pullar was on his feet facing McClure.  The
latter struck furiously for the face but his blow
was swept aside by something rigid.  Pullar stood
inside his enemy's guard.  He had but to strike
and it would be over.  He did not strike.  Instead
he smiled through the blood and stepped lightly
back.

"No, McClure!" said he with a grim smile.
"I don't need to."

The other looked at him a moment then
breathed a low oath of surprise.  At that instant
there was a great shout and the Valley Gang
charged through the door.  Turning to the gang
Ned Pullar lifted his hands and shouted out above
the tumult:

"Back, men!  This fracas is over!"

"Not on yer life!" cried Easy Murphy,
angered to fighting-mad pitch by the sight of the
bloody face of his boss.

"The fight is over!" cried Ned, holding back
his men.

"Begobs!  Ye don't know this wan Irish divil,
Ned?" screamed Murphy.  "I wull be afthurr
pluggin' the lights uv me frind McClure."

At the words he stepped toward McClure, followed
by the others.  But he was intercepted by a
swift motion of Pullar.

"No, Easy!" cried the young boss firmly.
"Stick with me, lad.  This is my powwow.  We
are about to smoke the pipe of peace."

For a fleeting instant he caught the Irishman's
eye.  The flash of intelligence that passed between
them checked the belligerent passion in Murphy's
wild heart.  With a significant and rueful nod the
thresher agreed to Pullar's wish.

"Ah, Ned, darlint!" said he affectionately,
taking in the room at a sweeping glance.  "For why
have ye bin mussin' up Rob's bowld byes?  'Tis a
cyclone blower ye are, me hearty.  Go ahead wid
the show.  The Valley Gang's occupyin' the front
sates."

With a very bad grace the Valley Outfit followed
their spokesman's lead.  The eyes of the
two gangs turned to Ned.

Aside from the gash along his cheek he was
unhurt.  Walking in among McClure's men he
picked up his pipe.  Repacking the tobacco
carefully he lit up.  Throwing a series of blue circles
to the ceiling he indulged in a moment's reminiscence.
Finally he spoke, addressing Easy Murphy
in his usual quiet tone.

"A few minutes ago," said he, "Rob McClure
was eating his head off over a certain little
proposition when—we had a slight interruption.  In
fact, I was anxious to get home to the milking.
I have changed my mind.  Rob's proposal will
interest you.  He wants to stack his huskies up
against the Valley Gang on a thirty-day run.  He
contends laying down a trifle of five hundred
dollars that he can lick my gang——"

Here arose a sudden commotion, savage threats
and a sinister movement of the Valley Gang.  Ned
waved his men back with a laugh.

"Just a minute, lads," said he.  "Let me have
my say.  McClure pretends that he can lick the
Valley Outfit in a thirty day out-put.  Strange as
it may seem I cannot agree with him.  If he will
make a real bet, make it cash and approve Jack
Butte as holder of stakes, we'll be able to start
something right off the bat."

On the heels of his words rose a chorus of defies
from his men.  Hands flew to pockets and wads
appeared.  Snoopy Bill caught his feet groggily
scenting a gamble.  In Rob McClure's eyes shone
the gleam of the shark.

"Now you're spunking up!" said he with a
sneer.  "Butte's our man."

Turning to one of his gang, he said:

"Scoot out, Ford, and get him."

While the man started off to carry out his bidding
he whipped out his check book and filled in
a form.  As Snoopy Bill spied the amount he let
out a low whistle.

"Two thousand!" he exclaimed.  "Rob, you're
a la-la."

McClure handed the book to Pullar.  Ned read
it with immobile face.  Amid a deep silence the
crowd pressed around the bosses.  Would Pullar
call the bluff?

The year of which we write was the fall of
nineteen hundred.  The smoke of the tractor was
rarely seen in the land.  Of the gas-power
machine there was no sign whatever.  For five years
Ned had swung steadily along the Valley's brow
with his twenty-horse, thirty-six inch portable
mill, threshing the line of farmers rimming the
northern bank of The Qu'Appelle.  If a farmer
got Pullar's mill it assured him a straight crew, a
quick, clean job and all his grain.  The Valley
Gang was thoroughly workmanlike, the crack
outfit of the Pellawa stretches.

This supremacy was now disputed.  Some ten
years before McClure had come from the East
with bags of money and bushels of confidence, not
to mention a stock of real ability.  He was keen to
get and heady and aggressive in the getting.
Three years before he had entered the threshing
game and pitched in with his usual gusto.  One
of his first moves was to cross the Valley and
make a bold raid on Pullar's run.  But his effort
failed.  Pullar's line of jobs remained intact.  He
managed to pick up a few farmers thrown on the
threshing market through the defunct condition of
their syndicate machine.  Since Pullar's outfit was
full up for a big season the cluster of jobs fell to
McClure.  The farmers of the Pullar run threw
out some banter and an occasional jab resenting
the attempt of McClure to cut in.  This nettled
McClure and was the small beginning of a bitter
rivalry.  Smothering his chagrin McClure set to
work to build up a gang that would lower the
colours of the Valley Outfit.  At the end of the
season it was found that Pullar's bushelage had
far exceeded that of the rival machine.  The
following year repeated their fortunes.  Then
McClure startled Pellawa by exchanging his portable
outfit for an immense forty-inch separator driven
by a thirty-horse tractor steam power, of course.
The new machine was equipped with self-feeder,
self-bagger and cyclone blower.  Adding extensively
to his run he put on a large gang and began
the season with everything in his favour.

Though facing alarming odds, Pullar took up
the gauge in his quiet way.  Rumours of record
days by both machines drifted about the settlement
with the result that the annual threshing derby
began to show a tendency toward even money.
The interested public pricked up its ears, enjoying
the come-back of Ned.  This popularity, with the
complication of a three-day boose fest, was
responsible for McClure's insulting challenge.

Ned was still scanning the check when Jack
Butte appeared in the doorway.

"Just in time, Jack!" greeted Ned with a grin.
"Hold this money for McClure.  We are hooking
up for a two-hand game, gang for gang."

There was a roar of applause from the Valley
threshers.  Above the noise rose the voice of Easy
Murphy.  He was performing the sailor's hornpipe
before the shifty form of Snoopy Bill.

"Come across wid yer dust," challenged
Murphy.  "Fifty till fifty we skin ye aloive!"

"Taken!" was the eager acceptance.  "Here,
Butte's the dough.  You can hand it back when
the cows come home."

Butte was deluged with wagers.

"Hold your horses!" cried he, lifting protesting
hands.  "Two at a time.  Come along quietly
and we'll fix it all snug."

Taking out his note-book he made punctilious
entry of all stakes.  His task completed he took
the trouble to plainly restate conditions.

"I'll bank this bunch of grass," he concluded.
"The game winds up at eight P.M. on the last day
of October.  We'll meet in Louie Swale's Emporium
and cash in.  Meet me there at ten o'clock.
And, gentlemen——"

He paused, reading the faces of the bosses and
their men with keen eyes.

"This game's to be run on the square.  Do you
get me?"

"Right-o!" agreed McClure.  "We'll shear
these lambs on Hallowe'en."

Ignoring the jibe Ned Pullar pointed to the
checks wedged in the pile of bills.  They were
McClure's and his own.  Speaking quietly to
Butte he said:

"You'll cash those papers and re-bank the whole
amount in your own name?"

"Exactly!" replied Butte, flashing sharp eyes
at the young boss.

"Good!" was the low response.

Taking a step nearer McClure, Pullar fastened
his eyes on the face of his enemy.  The lips of the
older man were parted about to make some insulting
fling when he bit his tongue.  Ned's eyes were
smiling but behind the smile glittered an ominous
light that made McClure strike an attitude of
defense.  He retreated a step, watching the other.
In an instant the air was electric.  There was a
shout from the Valley men and they leaped up
beside their boss.

"Since this little deal is satisfactorily arranged,
McClure," said Ned casually, "it may occur to
you that your cows need milking.  At any rate,
the Valley Gang have taken a sudden whim to be
alone.  Think it over.  We'll give you exactly
one minute to get out.  If you are here sixty
seconds hence we'll maul you a little and—throw you
out."

Ned took his watch from his pocket while the
Valley Gang let out a defiant and joyful shout.

There was a malignant growl from the belligerent
gang across the room at the sudden challenge.
Rage swept over them but they made no move to
close with their taunting enemies.  The Valley
men flung jeer and jibe in wild effort to provoke a
charge.  Hissing a terrible oath McClure turned
to his men.  What he saw decided him.  Pointing
to the door he addressed them.

"Cowards!" he snarled.  "Get out!"

With a slouching alacrity they obeyed, vanishing
through the door in swift and ignominious retreat.
McClure passed after them without a word.

"Tin seconds till spare, the lucky divils!" cried
Easy Murphy regretfully.

At his rueful words the Valley Outfit lifted a
victorious roar, following McClure and his men
with shouts of derision.

Ten minutes later as Ned Pullar stood in the
pool-room door a white horse dashed by, cantering
along the slushy street.  Astride swayed the form
of a girl clothed in a slicker.  Beneath her quaint
hood flashed the light of brown eyes.  Their quick
glance caught his salute.  She acknowledged the
greeting by a dainty tip of her head and the
faintest of smiles.

The slight recognition sent his blood atingle.  In
a moment she disappeared about a building.  The
vision of the girl remained with him and a shadow
contended with the pleasure the sudden meeting
had brought into his face.  Finally the shadow
triumphed and a deeply troubled look came into
his eyes.

"Ah, Mary!" he reflected.  "Where will this
day's work lead us?"

The girl was Mary McClure, only child of his
avowed enemy.





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.. _`THE VALLEY OF GOLD`:

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   II


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   THE VALLEY OF GOLD

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The wind drifted along the valley crisp
with the breath of the harvest dawn.  It
blew gently over the prairies flowing in
from the west.  Speeding valleyward a horse and
rider zigzagged in easy canter through the
shrublands.  They clung to the deep paths of the
buffaloes, dug long years ago by countless droves
threading their way to the stream in the great
ravine.

It was the girl's delight to "trail" these
grass-grown ruts through the dense groves hanging
shaggily to the south banks.  In a little they ran
out on a high shoulder of The Qu'Appelle.  Here
the bare hill was ribbed with the parallel paths to
the number of seven or eight that slipped over the
ravine crest, disappearing a few paces below into
a thick grove of stunted oak.  Halting the eager
broncho, the girl let her eyes rest on the valley.

It was a pretty gulf cleaving the prairie for a
width of two or three miles and winding out of
sight into the blue distance.  There was visible the
shine of lakes and their linking streams.  Under
the amber light of the autumnal sunrise the valley
was pricked out into a landscape of gold.  The
bank upon which they stood swept away to the
southeast in a forest crescent wonderful with the
variegated leafage of the searing year.  Paling
greens, bright yellows, faint oranges mingled with
browns and buffs and the brilliant wines and reds.
Falling away from their feet the colourful forest
was a charming Joseph's coat, but in the spacious
distance its mottled glory blent into the
russet-yellow of the prairie autumn.

The north bank rose beyond, walling the ravine
in a billowy rank of great, rounded hills bald as
the skull of the golden eagle and seamed with dark
lines of wooded gulches.  Here and there along
the crests hung over the edges of the great, harvest
blanket, strips of wheat fields studded with their
nuggets of brown stooks.  In the blue radiance
above drifted a fleet of soft clouds with creamy
breasts and fringes of amber fire.  On the floor of
the valley lay a lake spread out in a broad silver
ribbon that rose to the skyline for miles into the
west.

"You beautiful Qu'Appelle!" cried the girl
softly.  "We love you—Bobs and I."

For many minutes she revelled in the ecstasy of
gleaming morning and golden valley, her cheeks
bitten to roses by the tanging wind-drift.  At
length she granted release to her impatient horse
and let him dash down into the trees.  Under their
branches she drew him to a walk and, leaving the
selection of their trail to the petulant Bobs,
abandoned herself to the alchemy of the harvest woods.

Passing slowly through the depths of a grove
of white-stemmed poplars they ran out into a tiny
glade.  Here The Willow, a pretty brook, dammed
by industrious beavers, gathered itself into a little
pond before its last wild rush to the lake.  As
they cleared the trees Bobs pricked up his ears and
quickened his step, giving a low whinny.  His
rider glanced curiously ahead, surprised to see a
horseman in the pool.  Her face changed suddenly
from surprise to pleasure.  The horse was sipping
the cool water.  The rider was Ned Pullar.

"Mary!" he cried delightedly, sending his
horse through the stream.  "This is my lucky day.
Darkey and I have been haunting Willow Glade
for an hour past hoping just this, but never
dreaming that you and Bobs would really show up."

"How did you know I was coming?" demanded
the girl happily.

"I did not know," was the reply.  "I only
knew this to be one of your favourite haunts on a
Sunday morning and conceived a long chance of
meeting you here.  It was necessary to have a
personal talk with you.  This morning I determined
to see you before the day was gone."

"Are you in trouble, Ned?" cried the girl suddenly,
a soberness driving the pleasure from her face.

"Very great trouble, Mary," said Ned.  "Do
you not know?"

Deeply he searched the eyes looking into his.
He could tell by the innocence, the solicitude of
them that they had not learned the thing he feared.
He was greatly relieved.

"What is it, Ned?" was her anxious query.
"I have heard of no trouble."

"Perhaps it is only a cloud over the sun,"
was the reply.  "It may pass by.  Indeed you
have brightened things a lot for me already.
Let us breathe our broncs while we talk it all over."

Slipping from his saddle he assisted her to
dismount.  Taking charge of the horses he secured
them to adjacent trees and followed to where she
had seated herself on a gnarled log at the foot of
the little falls.

"I have a little surprise for you," said he,
throwing himself on the leaves at her feet.  "I
am not returning to college this fall."

Her eyes opened wide, expressing a mystified
incredulity.

"Sad but true!" was his reiteration.

"But your year, Ned!  It is your final.  You
must finish."

"Sheer foolishness, eh?  This smashing of a
final year?  So it seemed to me for a little.  Only
a little.  I cannot leave Dad."

At the words he averted his eyes.

She studied the downcast face, an expression of
pride growing in her eyes.

"You understand, I am sure," said he softly.
"It has been worse this vacation than ever before.
Dad's at a great disadvantage now and I have to
watch him like a lynx.  Swale's bar is a powerful
lodestone.  But he is bracing gamely.  He has
not touched the stuff for three weeks and if I stay
with him now I believe he'll win out.  Then I'll
not lose the year after all.  A steady grind at the
homestead should work out an extra-mural pass,
and I could pull down my degree with the rest of you."

"You will be missed, Ned."

He looked up quickly into her eyes.  They were
a peculiar mixture of sympathy and fun.

"Undoubtedly!" agreed Ned disconsolately,
though his eyes twinkled.  "How the Registrar
will grieve at the non-appearance of my hitherto
regular fee.  And Grimes, sweet janitor!  He
will drop not a tear, but a diabolic wink at my
sudden demise."

"Mercenary Registrar!" sighed Mary.  "And
unspeakably happy Grimes!  Doubtful mourners,
I admit.  But others will follow the two chiefs.
I see the Rugby Team pacing after slowly and
aghast.  They mourn Captain and star punter at
one fell stroke or rather in the unavailable person
of one fellow, Pullar.  Methinks there was to
have been a great International Debate.  But
now?—How can I go on down the long line?
Behold the Winged Seven, favourites for the
Hockey Cup, now, alas, the Wingless Six!  And
the Eight-oared Crew?—Can you not see that you
will be missed ever so little?"

Ned looked up with a rueful grin.

"Grave losses all," replied Ned.  "The ironic
heartlessness of the small Co-ed notwithstanding.
Varsity will gradually recover from her terrible
handicap.  Infinitely more terrible is it for me.
Calculate the unmaterialized wisdom of four hundred
priceless lectures.  But, after all—it is nothing."

"No-o?" commented Mary slyly in sceptical demur.

Ned glanced into the brown eyes in time to
surprise a smile uniquely pleasing in its whimsical
delight.  Instantly they became mockingly sober.

"Mary!" said he seriously, holding her gaze.
"Will you miss me?"

The girl's eyes wandered suddenly to tree, sky,
brook, finally resting on a log at their feet.

"What a sudden switch from general to particular,"
said she, absorbed apparently in the task
of pecking a hole in the bark with the dainty toe
of her riding-boot.

Laughing quietly Ned proceeded.

"If you could peep into my mind, Mary, you
would find a seething resentment there.  And all
because of you.  Soon you will be rejoining the
old class.  There's the rub.  I cannot conceive of
Pellawa without you."

"Indeed?"

"And a very big 'indeed,'" aggrieved Ned.
"To think that Rooter Combes and his rah-rahs
will be in clover.  This obsession has been actively
depressing since last Thursday.  Perhaps you
remember riding by Sparrow's.  You looked
quaintly desirable in that chic, brown slicker——"

"With my face all spattered and Bobs a mud
tramp!"

"I did not see Bobs at all, just a chicily hooded
girl with peeping curls of brown hair, flashing eyes
and a nod adorably imperious but very welcome."

"I should not have recognized you."

"But you did and at that particular moment the
act was doubly precious to me.  How can I resign
you, Mary, to the too tender solicitude of Combes
and those dear fellows?"

Mary tipped her head reflectively while she read
his half-serious eyes.

"Is this your trouble, Ned?" said she smiling
frankly down at him.  "Do you mean that you
will miss me—quite a little?"

"Just so.  Since you comprise the population
of Pellawa—for me.  But——"

"You may not be called upon to forego the
society of this so immensely necessary person."

Now it was his eyes that opened wide.

"I have a piece of big news for you," continued
Mary, shaking her head wisely while she enjoyed
his surprise.  "I, too, am dropping out.  No
Varsity for me this term.  You see me to-day, Ned, a
specially permitted schoolma'am.  Last Thursday
as I rode by Sparrow's I was on my way to
sign the entangling documents.  Bridges are all
burned.  To-morrow I begin teaching—where do
you think?"

He shook his head.

"In the school of—The Craggs.  I shall be
your very close neighbour.  Mary McClure is not
flitting away from you.  Combes and his
tender-hearted fellows should worry very considerably, I
fancy."

"Mary, Mary!" was the elated cry.  "I am
sorry for you but riotously happy for myself."

She looked down upon him a moment with eyes
brimmingly glad, then a shadow crept into them.

"I am spending this year with Mother and
Dad," she said simply.

Looking earnestly at her he caught the shine of
tears.  Stifling the gay words leaping to his lips he
rose and stepping to her drew her head to his
breast.

"Mary," said he gently, "our work is planned
for a year ahead.  Home is the only place for us
just now."

"We'll make it a great year, Ned," was the
hopeful reply.  "When I was a little girl,
everything good for Mother and Dad was described as
'bestest.'  This is to be the 'bestest' year for our
loved ones that they have ever known.  Can we
make it so?"

"You are only a little girl yet," said Ned, kissing
the face turned up to him.  "And this is to be
their 'bestest' year.  We shall see to that.  Now
for my trouble, the thing that drove me out to find
you.  These last moments have made it deepen
rather than vanish.  On Thursday afternoon, a
short time before I saw you, I had an adventure.
Have you heard of it?"

"Not even a rumour, Ned.  Mother and I are
not as intimate with Pellawa life as we should be."

"I am glad you have not heard," said Ned
earnestly.  "There was an encounter in the
pool-room.  Your father was involved."

At Ned's words a fear flashed into the girl's
eyes.

"Your father and I have made rather slow
progress in our mutual acquaintanceship.  We got
to know each other much better at Sparrow's.  I
cannot say the event has helped any.  We are now
enemies publicly acknowledged.  At least your
father so considers me.  The clash was sharp and
promises serious trouble ahead for us.  It will
hamper us not a little in our plans of the last few
minutes."

"Ned!" she cried with lips a-tremble.  "You
did not fight?  Not that?"

He looked at her, deeply troubled by the white
face and the pain in her glance.  She was looking
at the scar on his cheek.  He thought of the wager.
A staggering regret swept over him.  He was
about to tell her the whole story, but now?  No.
She should not know all—just yet.  Forcing a
reassuring smile he replied:

"No.  We did not fight.  It was a touch and
go but resulted in nothing more than a sharp brush
with your father's gang.  That scratch is from the
boot of Bill Baird.  I was able to restrain the
Valley Gang, thanks to Easy Murphy's loyalty.
Otherwise the worst would have happened.  We
did not fight and I am confident I can give you my
promise that we never shall."

Immense relief filled the girl's eyes.

"You were in a hard place," said she, her look
of strange comprehension searching his face.
"You held your hand because—because of our
love.  I know it."

Her sure intuition astonished him, but before he
could speak she continued:

"There is startling cause for cheer in all this,
Ned.  If you can prevent the terrible possibility I
am thinking of, you can win Dad."

"How would you have me do it, Mary?" was
his abrupt appeal.

She pondered deeply, her eyes growing in solicitude
as the moments passed.  At length she looked
at him with troubled face, shaking her head.

"I do not know," was her helpless confession.
"How would you win him?"

"The only way is to play the man with him,"
was the slow answer.  "He would turn over
heaven or hell to break me.  Obviously I must
break him."

The girl shuddered at the words.  Watching the
quivering face he was surprised to hear her say:

"I know there is no other way.  One of you
must conquer.  But there is a condition I want to
make.  You will be right, always, Ned, as well as
irresistible.  I know you will."

"I shall always have the right with me.  I have
it now," was the quick reply.  "I expect to butt
into stone walls at times, but we shall win out.
There is only one great, lurking dread.  Sometimes
I fear your father may strike at me through
you, we mean so much to each other."

As he spoke he fancied he saw in her eyes the
glimmer of a haunting fear.  But it vanished so
swiftly he doubted he had ever glimpsed it.  The
big eyes reading his were heavy with grief.  With
sudden impulse he crushed her in the shelter of his
great arms.

"I should not have breathed the thought," said
he penitently.  "Nothing conceivable can ever
strike our love, Mary.  You are not afraid?"

"Not of that," was the reply as she nestled
contentedly within the strength of him.  "Many
things may happen, but not that.  Just now Father
is obsessed with his new friendship.  It is a
thousand pities that the friend should be Chesley Sykes.
His presence in Pellawa is an ominous mystery to
me.  So far he has deported himself with desirable
aloofness.  May he continue to do so.  He is
completely outside of this beautiful moment.  Let
us forget him."

"And ride away together," suggested Ned.

"I have an hour yet," calculated Mary.

"We'll spend it riding No-trail Gulch," tempted Ned.

"Let us away," laughed the girl gaily.  "For
the trail——"

"Is luring," completed Ned, leading her to the
horses.

A moment later they clattered over the gravel
bed of the brook and into the trees.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BOUQUETS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   III


.. class:: center large bold

   BOUQUETS

.. vspace:: 2

The month of October sped swiftly away
in one long attack on oceans of stooks
amid the blue blaze of cloudless skies.
The threshers were having a run of "great
weather" as the blank fields and the piles of straw
averred.  The matter of the McClure-Pullar
wager had of course leaked out and become the
one thrilling feature of the annual wind-up.
Aside from the two gangs there was a keenly
interested and, alas, gaming public.  The sympathy
of the plains went to Ned Pullar; the odds to Rob
McClure.  Jack Butte had become an inhuman
sphinx.  Into Jack's elevator had come the steady
stream of grain from the contending mills but to
no one had he divulged the respective records.
No system of tapping his books had yet succeeded.
This was due to the fact that Jack Butte was an
irreproachable and resourceful stakeholder.  As
rare evidence of his unique qualifications he had
sworn the secrecy of every farmer threshed by
the rivals.  It was a tribute to the sporting public
that with but three days to run only one man
knew of the interesting situation.

The Valley Outfit was resting.  Ned Pullar was
oiling-up and cleaning his engine during the
dinner interim.  Every bit of brass about her was
gleaming gold while the friction surfaces shone
clean like new silver.  The "Old Lady" had
established a personal reputation in the Valley as a
"mighty good engine," and her engineer was
justly proud of her.  To Ned she had become a
living thing.  Mounting on the footboard he
grasped the throttle.  During the pounding grind
of the past month he had formed the habit of
communing with this thing of power that he
controlled with so masterful a hand.  As his eyes read
gauge and water-glass with satisfaction he spoke
to the engine, addressing her not by word of mouth
but with the voice of his reflection.

"Just a couple of days more and we'll ease up
on you, old girl.  You've been a game old Pal and
you'll not throw me down now."

The Old Lady made violent protest at even the
hint of such infidelity by throwing a hissing cloud
of steam from her exhaust.  Ned smiled, gripping
the throttle with a fond clutch.

"Same old ready bird!" said he.  "Eager to
get at it, are you?  Just five minutes, Old Lady,
and we'll set you purring again."

With the flames roaring through her flues the
thing of steel waited restively for the thing of will
that held her levers in sinewy grasp.

At the separator the men resting for a few minutes
upon the straw were looking up into the face
of Andy Bissett, the separator man, listening to
him as he worked away with wire prod and oil can.

"I tell you, lads, we are up against a stiffer
proposition than any of you fellows think.  Ned's
out for blood.  He doesn't care a whiff for that
wager Butte holds.  But he's got to win it."

"Hold on, Andy!" cried Lawrie, the big feeder.
"You've got me up in the air.  I thought the
Valley Outfit was after McClure's long green."

"So they be," agreed Dad Blackford belligerently.
"And Ned, 'e's a-goin' to get hit."

But Andy shook his head.

"You don't get me," said he, pausing in his
work.  "And I can't explain for I'm as much at sea
as the rest of you.  But we've got to win this little
bet.  If we put it over McClure it will only be by a
thousand or two.  Ned says he won't push the
Outfit any harder, but I've taken the liberty to put
on the squeeze play for a couple of days.  Grant's
putting on two extra stook wagons and a couple of
men.  Here they come now.  We're going to slam
through a couple of thousand above the regular.
If Grant can bung this old fanning mill I don't
know it."

The men leaped to their feet, for the extra
wagons had rattled up.  There was a fresh
determination in every face.  They had been working
at high pressure for the long run, but they were
right on their toes in the face of the challenge.
Each man went to his place addressing himself to
the struggle in the workmanlike fashion of the
Valley Outfit.  Jean Benoit, the little French
bagger, plucked the tankman's sleeve as the group
broke up.

"What Ned hole on hees cheek?" questioned
the Frenchman excitedly.

Easy Murphy looked at him a moment deeply
puzzled.  Suddenly light broke.

"Begobs, 'tis the tongue in his chake yer dappy
about.  Why, sez you, does not the sly divil be
afthur-r showin' the hand uv him?  Shure Ned's
not wearin' his heart on his lapel, me frind from
Montmorenci."

Jean searched the Irishman's face as it went
through the contortion of an excessively wise and
secretive wink.

"Mon Gar!" exclaimed the confused fellow.
"De boss wan woodhead!  Why he de debble not
squeal?  Eef we know, den lak wan blankety busy
bee we work de whole gang.  Eef we not know,
Ned he ged him on de neck."

"You're right, Jean!" was the emphatic
pronouncement.  "And yit Ned wull not be afthurr
tellin' his saycrits till the gintle lugs uv the Valley
Gang.  Can't ye see whut's eggin' him on?  'Tis
not the wee wager.  'Tis a man."  Tapping the
Frenchman wisely on the breast he whispered
tragically, "The boss is thrailin' a varmit be the
cognomin uv Robbie McClure and he'll be
afthurr gittin' his man dead or aloive.  Put that
intill the poipe uv ye and smoke ut, not forgettin'
till wur-rk like —— in the manetoime.  Farewell!"

Jean did not understand quite all but he turned
to the bagger with fierce resolution.  As he
knocked the filling bag with his knee he caught
sight of McClure's smoke through the cloud of
dust enveloping him.  His dark eyes shone.

"We lick heem!  We lick heem!" was his low
soliloquy.  Then he added joyously as he gave
the bag a vicious jab, "Ha!  Eet will be good!"

The thought energized him mightily.  Deftly
settling the bag and closing it he seized it adroitly
and by united force of arms, knees and back hurled
it up into the wagon, remarking ferociously:

"So we give McClure the beeg fall.  We give
him beeg scare too, eh?  And mebbe leetle licking
also."

Smiling gleefully he settled to the grind.

Easy Murphy was absorbed in a brown study as
he climbed up on his water tank and started his
horses over the stubble.  Suddenly he came out of
the maze of his cogitations and called fiercely at
his horses.

"Arrah, me beauties, shake the legs uv ye or
I'll be afthurr pokin' yer rumps wid me number
tins."

The horses took the hint and broke into a
lumbering trot.  They were making a trip to the
water-hole and at the moment were passing
through a field of oats into which they would soon
be hauling the Outfit.  As he drove through the
wire gate out into the road-allowance he saw a
buckboard pull up at the fence some distance
away.  The sole occupant dropped out of the
vehicle and passing through the strands of wire
walked for a considerable distance into the stocks.
Pausing for a moment the stranger knelt down
beside a stock, then rising walked on to another,
where he knelt again.  His actions excited a keen
curiosity in his observer.

"Begobs, me hearty!" exclaimed Easy.
"Ye're not pickin' pansies in an oat-field.  Nathur
are ye adorin' the Almighty, for ye're almighty
loike Snoopy Bill Baird, head foozler of McClure's
bums.  I'll hail yuh, Bill, till I find out yer
tack."

He was about to yell when he checked himself,
muttering:

"Howld yer jaw, ye owld fool."

The other had noticed his approach and loitered
a few minutes shelling the grain, interested
evidently in the yield.  This matter duly settled, he
climbed back through the fence and reëntering
the buckboard drove slowly along toward the tank.
It was Snoopy Bill all right.  As they drew abreast
Easy pulled up his horses.  A roguish twinkle
played in his eyes as he said:

"'Tis a foine day wur-r havin', Bill.  A pleasant
day indade for pluckin' swate bokays."

"Great day!  Great day!  Murphy!" was the
jocular reply,

"Bin pickin' pansies the day," continued Easy
naïvely, curious to discover what he could.

Snoopy Bill looked at him sharply.  But no
guile could he discover in the face grinning down
at him.

"No such luck, Murphy," said he casually.  "I
was taking a squint at the yield.  Pretty durn
good, eh?"

"And it's the yield ye're afthurr meddlin' with
and not the swate and gowlden daisies.  I saw yuh
pokin' around among the stooks as I pulled
through the gate."

The smile on Snoopy Bill's face ceased to
deepen while the whole man became suddenly
alert.  Easy Murphy caught the change.

"Ye're Snoopy Bill, shure enough," blurted he.
"And I'll lay ye a tin-spot ye were up to no godly
devowshuns kneeling in the muck by the stooks.
Ye're not prominint for religion, are ye, Snoopy?"

Snoopy Bill's tone was galling to Easy's
inflammable spirit as he replied imperturbably:

"Leaving the matter of the 'swate daisies'
aside, Murphy.  I was praying for you, honest.
I was putting in a lick for the Valley Gang asking
the good Lord to have a look to Pullar's Outfit
when we clean them up."

Easy's jaw set, a sign that an ultimatum was
imminent.

"Ye blatherin' spalpeen!" he cried, his hands
opening and shutting convulsively.  "I'll be
afthurr spilin' yer sassy mug if ye open it
agin."

Snoopy Bill opened his "mug" with commendable
lack of hesitation.  An impudent drawl
pointedly accentuated did not tend to reduce
Easy's evident irritation.

"Talking about mugs, Murphy," said he
confidentially, "it seems to me we have some curious
and fine large samples hereabouts gopping wide
open for free inspection."

The sardonic grin that accompanied the casual
observation touched off a whole magazine of high
explosive.  Easy's mouth was a generously ample
specimen and his posture of attention was to sit
with it ajar.  The amplitude of that particular
area of his facial map was a source of constant
regret.  Hence the remark rankled.

"Ye've said it!" was his angry utterance as he
threw down the lines.  With a leap he was off the
tank.  They dropped to the road together, but
Snoopy Bill having a shorter descent recovered
first and rushing at his antagonist swung swiftly
and struck, planting a powerful blow on the chest,
hurling the other against the tank.  He followed
quickly for the head with his other hand but
Easy's native wit acted with surprising speed and
he ducked.  Snoopy Bill's closed fist rapped on the
hard surface of the tank, skinning the knuckles.

"Thry agin!" yelled the Irishman mockingly,
with a vicious thrust into his enemy's ribs.  The
blow staggered his opponent.  Swiftly he followed
it with a jolting up-cut, yelling again, "Take wan
yersilf and be hanged!"

The blow made Snoopy Bill's head bob back
and he dropped to his knees.  Easy stood over
him furiously triumphant.  Stooping he called into
the other's ear:

"Git busy at yer devowshuns, me hearty.  Put
in a wur-rd for McClure and his divils."

With a weak smile Snoopy Bill staggered to his
feet.

"You are a hard hitter, Murphy," said he
dazedly.

Picking his late antagonist up bodily Easy
bundled him into his buckboard and slapping the
horse smartly on the hip sent him off at a trot.
Placing his hands to his mouth the tankman
shouted:

"If ye want anny more forgitmenots come
back the morrow, the garden's full."

With this parting shot he climbed up on his tank
and resumed his trip to the water-hole.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MAN, ROB McCLURE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE MAN, ROB McCLURE

.. vspace:: 2

Rob McClure sat before his roll-top
desk, his head resting upon his hands.  He
was perturbed.  Occasionally his head
would sink into a posture of dejection.  In a
moment he would straighten, shrug his shoulders and
look out of the window, his face swept by the
irony of an uncouth smile.

He was a man of powerful physique, large of
frame, possessor of a presence singularly impressive.
He was conscious of his power.  An habitual,
impatient shrug revealed a restive spirit deeply
antagonistic to baffling elements.  A relentless,
implacable expression inwrought the face that exhibited
even in the act of smiling the dominance of an
over-riding will.  There was something cruel in
the hard lines about the mouth, while the deep
little wrinkles about the eyes more than hinted
brutal cunning.  One felt that given sufficient
pressure Rob McClure was capable of the unspeakable.
There were, however, relieving features to
the hard visage, most prominent of all a high,
expansive brow and great, volcanic eyes.

Looking out of the window his eyes fell on the
yellow stretches of stubble, empty now save for the
huge piles of straw thrown up by the blower.  In
the west the plain was gulfed by the blue depths
of The Qu'Appelle Valley.  His glance swept over
the autumn landscape all unseeing, for his gaze
was fixed on two streams of distant smoke that
rose for a little in straight columns, then floated
off in long parallel lines to the west.  Clenching
his fist he brought it down on the desk.

"I've got him nailed!" he breathed fiercely,
smiling his strange smile.

Then his confidence seemed to shake.  The two
lines of smoke were streaming over the fields
evenly abreast.

"Pullar's a silent devil," he whispered darkly.
"He is deep—deep as ——, and he cleans up
a pile of stuff."

He meditated for a little then added decisively:

"But I've got him nailed tight."

The irresolution disappeared and the cruel
smile stole out again.

"If he should win," was the jocular reflection.
"We'll take a look at the little game proposed by
Reddy Sykes.  Reddy has a way—a fetching
way."  The name brought a certain merriness to
his face.  The humour was not attractive.

With a satisfied shrug he rocked back in his
chair.  As he did so his eyes rested on a
photograph above his desk.  Down upon him gazed two
beautiful faces.  Instantly a tender light softened
the hard features.  His lips moved, shaping
involuntarily the names:

"Helen!  Mary!"

The picture held his searching gaze until the
sound of approaching footsteps broke the spell.
At the sound the tender light vanished and a
conflict surged over his face.  Gradually his jaw set
and the steel of the unyielding will revealed itself.
The door opened quietly and in a moment a hand
rested gently on his head.  The voice that fell on
his ear was sympathetic and affectionate.  Mary
had broken into his sanctum.

"Why, Daddy," she cried, "you are looking
very serious.  Are you troubled about something?"

The very solicitude of the voice seemed to chafe
him.

"No," he exclaimed abruptly.

Nothing daunted she fondled his hair.

"Is the mill not running well, Daddy?"

The appeal in the voice caused a relenting of his
face but his tone was forbidding as he replied:

"Yes.  She's running along fine.  I must go out
to her right away."

Submitting brusquely to her kiss he rose and
snapping the roll-top shut took his departure.

Mary McClure sat down in the vacated chair,
resting her head on her hands as her father had
done.

"Poor Daddy!" she murmured.  "You are so
busy, so preoccupied."

There was a trace of pain in the voice, a great
wistfulness in the eyes.  Once again she was
confronted with the tragedy of affection unrequited.

Looking at the father one would expect in his
daughter the robust, ample type.  But she was
small and fragile, a delicate bloom of young
womanhood.  Out of the bright face looked lustrous
brown eyes, a seriousness lying in their playful
depths.  In appearance only was she fragile,
for the small form was well compacted, lithe and
wiry, capable of really great endurance.  She was
more than equal to exhausting rides along the
ravine and the trails of the upper country.  Sitting
by the desk she was a diminutive, disconsolate
figure.  She had drooped into a pensiveness that of
late visited her all too frequently.  Nose and chin
had the dainty grace of the spirituelle and such
was Mary McClure.  Yet was she human, fired
with an intense passion for people.  A quick, light
glance of her eyes or the flash of her smile threw
the spell that was irresistible.  Life opened to her
on all sides.  The girl was fortunate in her mother.
The glory of a great affection enveloped her.  In
the mother appeared the culture of Old Varsity,
giving to the McClure home a distinguishing
atmosphere not often found on a Western farm.
Helen McClure was a fine companion for the
vivacious girl, and the two enjoyed a delightful
camaraderie.

In her father Mary was presented with the most
cruel enigma.  Here lay the secret of the solemnness
that so often filled her eyes.  By him all
affectionate approach was resented.  He seemed
deliberately striving to quench her natural attachment.
But Mary's affection knew no repulse.  Patiently
she pressed the attack, intent on destroying
the barrier he would insist on building between
them.  At times she fancied a relenting had
rewarded her efforts.

Rising, she walked to the window and looked out
pensively upon the autumn fields.  Her heart was
conscious of a dearth as great as that of the
barren stubble.  Her lips trembled as she whispered
musingly:

"Daddy doesn't seem to want my love.  Why is
he so busy—so—so unfriendly?  So buried from
us in a hundred cares?"

As she pondered she shuddered, for she remembered
times when he was well-nigh brutal.  Then
the fetid odour flowed from his breath.  Rapt in
the poignant moment her face drew into sad lines
and a mist stole over her eyes, blurring the autumn
vision.

McClure had made all haste and drew near his
machine.  As he approached the engine slowed up
and stopped and the pitchers, jabbing their forks
into the sheaves, lay down on the loads.  Urging
his horse to great speed he rode up to the machine.
A lively altercation was in progress.  A knot of
excited men were gathered about Snoopy Bill
Baird and Sid Smithers, the farmer.  Smithers'
voice rose high in angry tones.

"She stops right now," he cried vehemently.
"And you pull your Outfit off my farm."

Throwing down the lines McClure strode in
among the men.  His heavy voice rose above the
hubbub.

"What's the kick?" was his demand.

"Smithers is trying to put a crimp in this job,"
replied Snoopy Bill.  "He's ordered the mill off the
farm.  He contends we're throwing over his grain."

Smithers interposed warmly.

"And you are doing it," said he wrath fully.
"It's a cussed shame.  I can prove it.  Come
back to the straw pile."

He promptly led the way and the crowd moved
back quickly to the blower.  Reaching into the
straw pile Smithers drew out a coal shovel.  His
voice was indignant as he said:

"Here's what I caught in five minutes at the
mouth of that blower."

The men crowded round.  Cleaning the straws
away he disclosed a layer of plump yellow grains
covering the bottom of the shovel.  As the sight
met his eye McClure gave an involuntary start and
his face grew dark.  His voice was mollifying,
however, when he spoke.

"That looks pretty bad, Smithers," said he
quietly.  "But you just happened to catch a shoal
of grain thrown over on a bunch of straw.  I'll bet
you ten to one we haven't thrown over five bushels
in the last three days."

But Smithers stood firm.

"You can't pull the wool here, McClure," was
the menacing retort.  "There is a heap of my
stuff going over and you quit.  Easy Murphy gave
me a line on Grant's yield and he's beating me bad.
My crop's as good as Grant's and you know it.
Haul your Outfit off my farm."

Smithers was determined.  For a moment McClure
was silent.  Then he spoke in an appeasing
tone.

"I don't want to quit this job right now," said
he.  "I'll tell you what I'll do.  Let me finish this
run in my own way and if your yield doesn't equal
Grant's I'll make up the shortage and not charge
you a sou for your threshing.  Is that square?"

Smithers turned the matter over deliberately.

"Make it law," said he shrewdly, "and I'll hook
up with you."

"Agreed!" was the quick response.  "I'll sign
the papers to-night.  Meet me at Reddy Sykes' at
ten and we'll put it through."

"Go ahead on that condition," said Smithers,
climbing into his wagon.

Quickly the men were in their places and the
machine went roaring into the twilight.  As
McClure stood by the separator he signalled to
Snoopy Bill.

"Let her rip, Bill," was his shout.  "Crowd
through a couple of thousand extra before to-morrow night."

Snoopy Bill passed the word and the engineer
opened the throttle.  The gang responded with a
will and soon a great stream of straw was gushing
from the blower.

.. vspace:: 2

At that moment Mary McClure was standing
up in her stirrups with eyes fixed intently on a spur
of the north bank of the Valley.  As she watched,
a yodling scream came over the rounded hilltops.
She smiled delightedly.  On the tip of the lofty
spur she caught sight of a red flash that she knew
instantly as the shining coat of a certain bay
broncho.

"It is Flash with Margaret up!" was the
pleased exclamation.  "I believe she wants me."

Forming a horn with her hands she called back
in the cry of the hills.  The rider on the spur
waved her gauntlet in reply, beckoning to the rider
in the Valley.  Instantly Mary turned Bobs into
the trees, sending him up a steep bridle path to the
left.  In a few minutes the girls were together and
they set out through the stubble to where the
Valley Gang was finishing the wheat.

"We are just in time to see the move," said
Margaret.  "For you, of course, the engineer is
the whole gang.  You will be able to see Ned in
action."

"And you will be absorbed in the rest of the
gang, that is in the antics of the separator man,"
countered Mary.

"At present," laughed Margaret, "I am going
to make a raid on your preserves and talk to Ned."

She rode up to the engine.

At that moment there was a boisterously gallant
salute from the gang, accompanied by a vigorous
waving of caps and the shrill scream of the
engine.  The girls acknowledged the reception by
a gay flourish of gauntlets.

"We are going to time the move, Ned,"
shouted Margaret above the roar of the engine,
showing him her watch.  "Let us see what the
Valley Outfit can do."

Drawing his watch from his pocket Ned blew
the whistle, promptly gaining the attention of the
whole gang.  Waving his hand toward the site of
the new setting, he lifted high his watch and
pointed to Margaret.  With a ringing cheer they
accepted the challenge and addressed themselves to
the race against time.  One of the feats of a crack
outfit is the swift move to a new setting without
mishap or confusion.

Already the last stock teams have pulled away
from the separator and are careering in wild race
to the adjacent field.  With the tossing in of the
final shovelful of chaff the separator stands clean
and naked above the stubble.  As the last bit of
wheat dribbles into the bag Ned signals the stop
and Margaret lifts her watch aloft.

"It is up to the Valley crew now," comes the
silvery challenge, and the boys respond with a
merry shout and the address that marks the
discipline of the gang.

As the fly-wheel slows up the pitchers deftly
throw the belt, roll it up and hang it in place.  At
the same time the carriers are lowered and secured
and the two waiting grain-teams hooked to the
separator.  Leaning well on the lines the drivers
give the word.  With a sharp gee and a steady
pull they haul the mill up on the stubble and head
in a curved line for the site of the new setting a
quarter of a mile away.  There a space has been
already cleared and a circle of loaded stook-wagons
is beginning to form, awaiting the arrival
of the machine.

The feat par excellence of all the teaming about
a threshing mill is that of pulling the engine out
of the holes into which she has settled and over
the intervening stubble.  Usually two teams are
detailed to this duty, but here the big tank team is
sufficient.  At the drop of the belt Easy Murphy
hitched the grays.  The two big beasts stand
expectant.  Seizing the lines Easy gives the inspiration
of his invigorating brogue.  Thrusting their
great shoulders at the collars the team leans
steadily forward.  Straining with their mighty muscles
they sink their toes deep into the turf.  The traces
stretch into tense, vibrating thongs.  Hawing
sharply the real pull commences.  The mass
begins to move.  Swaying slightly as his horses'
heads go down, Easy heartens them.

"Stiddy now, me beauties, and aisy ut is or the
stubble wull be afthurr ticklin' the bellies uv ye."

Suddenly the wheels rise out of the holes and
the heavy mass rolls along.

"Aye, 'tis an aisy waltz fer yez, me bantams!"
crows the tankman as the big team swings through
the soft muck with the weighty Old Lady in tow.
At precisely the same instant the separator has
made its start.  Glancing at her watch Margaret
is surprised to observe that barely a minute has
elapsed.

Arriving at the cleared area the separator,
under the guidance of Andy Bissett, circles to the
east, coming up to position in the teeth of the wind.
The engine takes a curve to the west, swinging
east to meet it.  With the separator in place and
blocked, every man springs to his task.  Carriers
are swung into proper elevation, feeder and
band-cutter's stands dropped and the belt run out to the
engine.

Ned stands on the rear of his engine with eye
sighting along the fly-wheel.  Now is the critical
moment.  An inch too much to right or left means
the loss of minutes.

"Gee a little!" comes the crisp command.
"Steady ahead!  Let her swing to gee!  Easy
now!  Hold!"

At the final order Easy Murphy brings his
horses to a dead stop.  Quickly the belt is slipped
on and tautened.  Every man stands in his place
poised for work.  Two short shrieks of the siren
and the whole scene leaps into animation.  Volumes
of smoke belch from the funnel, the big belt
speeds flapping along to the separator, starting the
whirring of a maze of lesser belts and the spinning
of countless pulleys.  In a moment the cylinder
is devouring an endless flood of sheaves.
From the side of the mill the oats gush out while
the straw rolls up over the carriers in a golden
stream.

The girls ride up to the engine, admiration in
their eyes.

"What time did we kill?" inquired Ned, smiling
through his layers of grease.

"You made time," corrected Mary, flashing a
bright smile down upon him.  "That was
wonderful work, quite worthy of the Valley Outfit."

"Time," said Margaret with official dignity, "is
the surprising record of eight minutes and twenty
seconds."

"I must let the gang know," said Ned in high
elation.  "That is a pretty decent record."  Reaching
out he blew eight screeching calls.  The
threshers paused long enough to respond with a
trio of husky cheers.  Then back they went with
a will to the grind.

"What a furiously busy gang you have, Ned,"
was Mary's ingenuous observation, her eyes on
the lively sight.  "You all work as if we are to
have a two-foot fall of snow, during the night.
Why this haste?"

Ned smiled peculiarly and was silent.  Margaret
came quickly to his relief.  She was aware
of the exact situation and entirely disapproved, but
she knew Ned wished to hold the truth from Mary.

"The Valley Outfit have been rushing along
at this breakneck speed for the whole of October,"
said Margaret.  "They are gambling, Mary.  The
boys have a wager that they can pile up a record
output for the month.  The trial winds up
to-morrow night.  Ned Pullar and his vaunted Valley
Gang are a company of very foolish gentlemen."

"There are exceptions in the case, I suspect,"
insinuated Mary.  "Our little Miss Grant exempts
all tall, good-looking separator men.  Hum!"

Ned laughed.

"Were it not for the dust," said he, "I would
take you girls over for a chat with our rather
handsome fellow.  I have a hunch, however, that
Margaret would scarcely enjoy it."

"What?  The handsome fellow?" posed Mary
mischievously.

"No.  The dust," replied Ned.

"It is a little matter," agreed Margaret.

"The handsome fellow?" teased Ned.

"No.  The dust," prompted Mary archly.

All three laughed.

"Here, White!" called Ned to his fireman.
"You handle the throttle while I take the girls to
the mill."

In spite of the dust the four-cornered interview
though necessarily brief resolved itself into a
charming "little matter."  Andy was back in his
place on top of the mill oiling near the carriers.
Ned stood beside the girls, who were sitting their
horses just beyond the cloud of dust.  They were
enjoying a few moments' contemplation of the
lively scene before departure for the Grant
homestead when suddenly a vivid light flashed red in
the twilight, flaring on the sweating face of
Lawrie, the big feeder.  Instantly followed a loud
metallic crashing.  With a strange, muffled shout
Lawrie threw up his hands and fell on the feed table,
pitching forward into the jaws of the machine.  An
instant more and he must be seized by the deadly
teeth of the whizzing cylinder.

At the blare of fire Ned uttered a cry of alarm
and rushed toward the separator.  Realizing
Lawrie's horrible plight he shouted to White at
the throttle and taking a lightning leap drew
himself up on the separator above the whirring teeth.
Already they were fanning the hair of the
insensible feeder as his head settled nearer to the
blurred shine of the hideous jaws.  Reaching over,
Ned seized the helpless man and lifted him by the
sheer strength of his powerful arms out of the
fangs of the machine.  But the weight of his inert
burden swinging suddenly overbalanced him.
Poised over that maw of whirling death the two
men hung for an awful instant as Ned fought to
recover.  But the weight was too much; Lawrie
began to sink.  It was evident the two men were
falling back into the cylinder.  A scream of terror
leaped from the lips of the horror-stricken band-cutters.
Then it was Ned felt his shoulder clutched
in a mighty grip and he with his precious burden
was dragged back to the roof of the mill.

"Thank God you were there, Andy!" exclaimed
the big fellow breathlessly as they composed the
huddled form of the unconscious Lawrie.

"A touch and go, Ned!" was the solemn rejoinder.
"I did not know anything was amiss—until
I heard your shout.  It took me an instant
to spot you in the dust.  Lawrie's badly smashed."

And so it seemed, for the man's face was washed
with blood.

Meanwhile White had shut down and willing
hands helped them move the wounded man to the
ground.  Water was speedily applied and the
blood sopped up, revealing a deep gash along the
forehead gouged by some missile thrown out by
the rotating cylinder.  Under the steady bathing
there were soon signs of returning consciousness.
Slowly opening his eyes Lawrie was surprised to
find Ned bending over him, looking at him with
anxious, sober gaze.  A gleam of intelligence crept
into the man's face and he smiled faintly.

"Oh, yes!" he said reminiscently.  "I remember.
I felt it slip in and tried to draw it back but
it got away."  After a moment's pause he added:
"I am afraid it has played hob with the cylinder
and concave.  Have you taken a look, Ned?"

"You Lawrie!" cried Ned, smiling at the
game fellow.  "It's the man first here, you know.
How are you feeling?"

"O.K., Ned, though by gum I seem to have
taken the count."

Recovering he rose on his elbow and looked
around curiously.  The gang were gathered about
him, a circle of solemn faces.  Giving a little
laugh he said naïvely:

"What's got your goat, pals?"

"Shure 'tis the lucky, quare divil ye are," said
Murphy, "till be dead wan minute and assistin' at
your own post mortin the nixt."

A hearty laugh passed round the circle relieving
the tension.  No more was said, but Lawrie
understood the grip of Ned's strong hand.

"We must fix that cut, Lawrie," said he, looking
helplessly about.  "This dirt will never do."

The moment the girls realized the accident they
had dismounted and assumed the official duties of
Red Cross first aid.  Mary McClure smiled at
Ned's words.  She had already arrived at a solution.
Rising from her place beside Lawrie she spoke.

"Ned," said she curiously, "have you a knife?"

"Here," was the prompt response as he produced
a jack-knife.

"Margaret, you take it," said the girl, "and if
the Valley Gang will close their eyes for a minute
I'll direct you what to do."

At the words she lifted her skirt daintily,
revealing the snowy white edge of the petticoat
beneath.  With dancing eyes the gang made the
right about turn and Lawrie decided on an
immediate snooze.  A few minutes later his brow was
bound with a clean bandage and he was making
his way shakily to the feed-board.  Calling a
farewell the fair riders rode away over the stubble,
followed by the applause of the grateful fellows.

Meanwhile at the machine there were interesting
developments.  Jean Benoit, who was working
in on the shakers, gave a sudden shout and popped
up out of the separator holding something in his
hand.  It was a heavy wrench.  He examined it
in a puzzled manner for a moment then handed
it to Easy Murphy.  The tool was minus one of
its jaws.  On the remaining jaw some initials had
been punched, but they had been almost obliterated
through the recent offices of a file.

"Dat no Valley wrench!" exclaimed Jean.

"Probably one of Grant's left on the stock
during the binding," said Ned.

Easy Murphy shook his head sceptically.

"Ah!" was his fierce cry as he tipped the tool
at a new angle to the light.  "So I think.  By the
Howly St. Paddy!  Take a look, Ned.  Can you see?"

Ned took a look and there in the bright shine of
the filed surface were good traces of the punch
marks forming plainly the letters, R-M.  Over
him swept an ominous conviction.  Without a
word he placed the wrench carefully in the tool-box.

"'Tis the hand uv Snoopy Bill," said Easy
Murphy darkly.  "And 'tis his foul plot near did
fer Lawrie and Ned."  Clenching his hands he
dropped suddenly into a vengeful silence.

A desire for revenge swept through the gang
like an electric shock.  Even Ned's cool eyes
emitted a dangerous glare.  Andy Bissett saw the dire
change in his companion.  Laying his hand on
Ned's shoulder he said quietly:

"Ned, it's a dastardly trick but Lawrie will be
well in half an hour.  It's up to the Valley Outfit
to call the bluff and play the winning card.  Half
a dozen teeth are gone in the concave and several
others twisted.  The cylinder is about as bad.
With fast work it will mean only a two-hour stop.
Let us finish strong."

"Very well!" agreed Ned.  But his face did
not resume its usual imperturbable demeanour.

There was no more threshing that night.  Morning
found them out an hour earlier, however,
pounding grimly ahead, bent on recovering the
lost time.  As Ned stood at the throttle, a masterful
shadow in the gray dawn, he thought over the
adventure of the night before.  It seemed to hold
some sinister portent.  Easy Murphy had in the
meantime recounted to him the episode with
Snoopy Bill Baird.  Two more heavy tools had
been discovered in one of the loads.  Suddenly he
became conscious of the malignant nature of the
foe with whom he was striving.  His jaw set
tightly and a mighty resolution shot from his eyes.
Unconsciously he opened the throttle and the
power throbbed with a fresh leap along the great
belt.  As he did so a vision flitted unexpectedly
before him.  He saw Mary McClure standing
amid the gang, her eyes alight with laughter while
she held her skirt daintily lifted to disclose the
snowy fabric for Lawrie's wound.  Suddenly his
face lost its seriousness and he laughed delightedly.

"Mary!" he cried softly.

Shutting off the throttle he curbed the engine
in her impulse to race.

"I guess we have a bunch of pressure left, Old
Lady," said he confidently, as he guided her into
steadiness.  The thing of power steamed on into
the strenuous day while the thing of will threw
down the challenge of youth.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AT THE WATER-HOLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   V


.. class:: center large bold

   AT THE WATER-HOLE

.. vspace:: 2

Easy Murphy shaded his eyes from the
sun as he gazed eagerly over the prairie.
After a prolonged look he remarked:

"Begobs, I belave he's coming!"

A further scanning of the landscape elicited a
cry of satisfaction.

"Nick's headin' fer the howl all right," said he
elatedly.

The Irishman was standing on the tank, his
hand on the pump-handle.  He had backed the
grays into a pool fed by a small creek that here
expanded into a miniature pond some dozen yards
across.  In Western threshing the tankman draws
his water from the nearest hole or stream.  For
some days both Easy and Nick Ford, the McClure
tankman, had been filling their tanks at the same
pool.

Nick Ford was known familiarly as Boozey
Ford, a self-explanatory sobriquet.  Whiskey
aside, he was one of the most reliable tankers
along the Valley.  With whiskey by his side his
water-wagon was apt to receive a diluted attention.

As the days sped by the struggle between the
two outfits became intense.  The two tankmen
were nearing the point of interpersonal complications
in their heated conversations on the issue.
Easy Murphy was feeling irrepressibly loquacious
on this occasion, for he had not met Boozey since
the affair of the R-M wrench.  However, as Nick
drove up he began a foxy approach, greeting him
in a friendly manner.

"Nick!  How is the wur-r-rld using you?" was
his opening.

"So, so!" was Nick's no less friendly response.

"Ye'll be afthurr faylin' a demi-semi-quaver in
yer boots, Nick, since till-night's the night the
Valley Outfit take the candy from the kid."

"There's sure going to be a lark to-night,"
agreed Nick.  "We'll have a howling time putting
the kibosh on your little, old Outfit.  You
mark my words, Murphy, when Jack Butte hands
out his estimates you'll freeze stiff.  I'll bet you
even money we lick you by a thousand."

"Just cover that wee trifle," said Easy, revealing
a ten-dollar bill.

"Sorry to rob you, Murphy," said Nick, "but
it's awfully decent of you to accommodate me.
We'll hand it to Butte just before the curtain
goes up."

"'Tis a great pleasure till contribute," agreed
Easy light-heartedly.  Then he added slyly, "By
the way, Nick, did ye miss anny tools from yer
tool-chist lately?"

"Not that I know of," was the frank reply.

"Shure we found wan uv Rob McClure's
wrenches in our separator yisturr-day."

Nick's interest perceptibly increased.

"'Tis not the act uv a gintleman, but a dirty
trick uv Snoopy Bill Baird, and 'tis achin' I am till
spile the impudint jaw of the Snoopy wan fer the
same foul act."

Nick's blood began to sweep into his animated
face.  But the other continued:

"Howld yer timper, lad.  I'm not afthurr
blamin' you, Nick.  Yer as innocent as the lambs
in the spring."

His voice grew sweet as honey and he made a
suspicious motion to his breast pocket.

"We'll just have a wee dthrop as gintlemen
together on the head uv the divilmint, and part—frinds."

He drew an amber-coloured flask from his
pocket.

"'Tis the rale Irish, Nick.  Be afthurr washin'
down a swate swallow."

He extended the bottle convivially.

Nick took in the sight with fascinated and
thirsty eyes.  All hostility magically vanished and
a supreme joy capered shamelessly into his face.

"Don't care if I do," said he, with a too casual
unconcern.  "Dad, that's prime stuff!" was his
genuine approval as he handed back the flask.

"Shure I'm afthurr sayin' the same mesilf.
Yer over modest, lad.  Take a sip that wull tingle
the toes uv ye."

So gracious a pressure was not to be resisted,
and Nick responded with a ready acquiescence that
left nothing to be desired.  Easy emulated in
pantomime, tipping the flask adroitly but permitting
no drop to pass his lips.  Taking another "sensation,"
Nick scurried off to his own tank and began
pumping vigorously.  Soon, however, he felt the
desire for still another touch and was back at the
flask.  Easy Murphy kept the bottle supplied from
some mysterious source about his person.  So the
best part of an hour passed and signs began to
appear that Nick was rivalling the tanks in the
quantity of liquid he was carrying.  In the
meantime Easy had leisurely filled his own tank.
Suddenly The Mogul, McClure's giant engine, sounded
the water call.  Nick recognized the signal and,
dropping the pump-handle, seized the lines and
started off, urging his amazed horses in a line of
patter that was new to them.  As he drove away
Easy slipped down off his own wagon and, stealing
craftily after, tapped the bung of Nick's tank with
a stone.  One or two skillful knocks and the peg
fell out, letting the water away in a heavy gush.
Throwing the bung into the grass, Easy climbed
up on his tank and followed.

Ahead drove Nick, supremely unconscious of
the fact that his tank was fast emptying.  When
they reached the road-allowance he became
suddenly confused.  His trail lay directly across the
road and into a field.  His horses would have
taken the right way, but Nick pulled them up
sharply.  His eyesight was temporarily impaired.
He could see only the good road running east and
west.  Pulling on the left line, he turned into the
east.  Yet he was not sure, and drew up his horses
once more.  His tongue was thick as he called
back:

"Hello, Eashy! (hic) Ish the trail (hic) all
right?"

"Shure and indade it is that," came the wily
response.  "Go right ahead to yer outfit, Nick,
man.  It's a foine road, the smoothest in the howl
counthry."

With a flourish of his whip Nick sent the
unwilling team on down the road.  Crossing the
road-allowance, Easy entered the oat-field through
the wire fence and made straight for his own
machine.  As he hit the stubble trail he heard the
Mogul whistle impatiently for water.  A moment
later she called again.  Turning around, he looked
at Nick.  He, too, had heard the urgent calls and
was standing up driving like Jehu.  The tank was
now empty and the horses responded by breaking
into a smart trot.  The sight was hugely
entertaining to the watcher.  He slapped his thigh,
shouting in unholy glee.

"Be the wake uv me grandmother!" he cried
exultingly, "it's now we get back the swate and
precious minutes they filched by their rascalities uv
yisterday."

Away in the distance Nick was driving like mad
while the Mogul tattooed her calls for water with
an angry insistence that drove him from her at
accelerated speed.  The circumstance was too
much for the delighted Irishman.  Laughing till
the tears rolled down his cheeks he called after the
disappearing Nick:

"Go it, me hearty!  Kape it up, bye, and ye'll
soon reach the broad Atlantic.  Begobs!  Call in
at Winnipeg.  They're shy on water-wagons in
the Gateway uv the Gowlden Wist."

Never a word of the matter did he give to
his young boss as he emptied his tank in preparation
for the next trip.  His wickedly radiant
face attracted Ned, however, stirring his curiosity.

"What's tickling you, Easy?  Been filling your
boiler at Louie's tank?"

"Niver the dthrop, Ned.  Not wanct since the
twilfth uv July have I shined up till the dementin'
crathur.  'Tis the whistle uv the Mogul that's
drivin' me tipsy.  Somehow the thirsty screamin'
uv it tickles me since uv the rediculous."

"Rob's engine is out of water.  She's been
callin' for over half an hour," observed Ned, looking
over the stubble at the rival outfit.  "Indeed,
Easy, she's hung up.  Their blower is stopped."

At an unusual hearty chuckle from the tankman,
Ned eyed him sharply, a suspicion leaping into his
mind.

"Shtopped's the wurrd!" exclaimed Easy in
feigned surprise, shading his eyes the better to
study the Mogul.  "Rob wull be afthurr havin' a
brathin' spell.  May it last a wake."

Ned's eyes detected an unusual excitement on
his companion's averted face.  His suspicion took
a sudden definite form.

"Easy," said he seriously, "you are mighty
pleased about something and yet not at all
surprised.  Let me into the secret."

"Shure 'tis plazed I am this minute, Ned,
and the most astonished critter on the Valley
Gang."

"Steady, lad," cautioned Ned.  "You can't
fool me.  You know more about the water shortage
at Rob's outfit than Rob himself.  What's
keeping Nick?"

Easy found a matter for precipitate occupation
in the barrel he was filling and did not reply at
once.  He was seized with sudden panic, for he
had caught sight of Ned's face.  The unsmiling
eyes filled him with trepidation.  When he at
length looked up Ned's clear eyes looked through
him.  For once the garrulous Irishman was speechless
while a blush flamed slowly over his brown face.

"Tell me," said Ned simply.

Hitching his overalls nervously and somewhat
forcefully, Easy let a broad, sheepish grin play on
his ample face.  He attempted jocularity.

"'Tis a lugoobrius confession ye'll be draggin'
out uv me wid the third degree uv yer blazin' eye."

"Tell me," repeated Ned.

"Wull," said Easy, scratching his head with
obvious regret, "since 'tis implacabul ye are, I'll
make it short and swate.  Nick and yer humble
sarvint meets at the mud puddle.  We pass the
complimints uv the sayson, git intill a small fracas
uv the tongue and out uv it by the bottle.  We
had a wee dthrop.  That is, Nick had.  Thin he
took another and another, et cetra and so on.
Nick was oncommon thirsty.  In a wurrd, I filled
Nick till the neck and pulled the bung uv his tank.
The one is impty and the other full.  'Tis the
Mogul and mesilf knows which and,—yersilf,
begobs, since ye tapped me wires.  To sum up fer
ye, me inquisitive frind, Rob's tank is impty and
his tankman full, and the pair uv thim is headin'
fer salt water at a spankin' trot.  'Tis comin' till
the blackgards if ye ask Easy Murphy."

Easy stood before his boss with hanging head.
His confession had not stimulated any risible
emotions in Ned.  Ned, on his part, said nothing, but
stood looking for a little at the culprit, a kindly
light mingling with the flash of his eyes.  Then
he stepped over to his engine and, seizing the
whistle-cord, gave it a jerk, blowing the one sharp
shriek that signals stop.  Instantly the work
ceased and the outfit slowed to rest.  Amid the
shouts of the men demanding the cause of the stop,
Easy Murphy ran swiftly to Ned.

"Ye're not afthurr killin' the outfit," cried he,
a peculiar pleading in his voice.

"Easy," said Ned quietly, "the Valley Outfit is
running this little jig on the square.  Not a wheel
turns on this mill until McClure makes up every
minute we've killed for him."

The Irishman looked into Ned's face.  There
had been the glimmer of an accusing look but it
was gone.  In its place was something big and
honest that hushed the angry protest about to leap
forth.  Their eyes held for a moment, then the
tankman's fell while the flush swept his face once
again.

"I'll explain to the boys," said Ned, moving
away toward the separator.

"No, lad," cried Easy, impulsively seizing his
arm.  "'Tis the hot curse I was nearly givin' ye.
Ye're too white, Ned, fer a divil the loikes uv wan
Easy Murphy.  Shure 'tis right ye are, though
I'm hatin' the idea.  I'll hike till the mill and make
me diplomatical defince before the gang.  Sind me
carcas till Belfast whin the boys git through wid ut."

Making a comical grimace, he set off to the
separator to do the hardest thing he had ever
attempted.

The men listened silently while Easy made his
brief and self-accusative explanation.  At the
abrupt conclusion there resulted a most awkward
pause.  The gang were dumb at the unexpectedness
of it.  Each man was torn by several desires.
He wanted to laugh, to howl, in fact.  But
something fine in him rendered him mute.  There was
a great admiration for their game boss and an even
greater admiration for their game and artful
culprit.  The embarrassment had about reached the
explosive point when Jean Benoit let out a scream.

"Ze res' do moche good, I tink," said he, shaking
with laughter.  "Wan, two, tree cheer on de
boss an' dees ver bad Irish fellow."

At his words there broke out a jolly shout while
the gang lay back on the straw and laughed to
their heart's content.

Through the long wait there was not a murmur.

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile in McClure's gang consternation
reigned.  The last drop of water had been sucked
up by the inspirator and the water was sinking
in the glass.  The men were perched on all vantage
points on the lookout for the delinquent.  No
sign of him could they discover.

"Get Smithers to haul these barrels filled at the
slough," directed McClure to Snoopy Bill, pointing
to the barrels about the engine.  "They'll
keep her going until I can find that blankety Nick."

McClure had barely set off on his quest when
one of the teamsters called the attention of the
gang to the sudden "hang-up" of the Valley
machine.  As an hour passed and there was no sign
of the Valley men resuming work, Snoopy Bill
and his companions grew jubilant to a degree.

Nearly two hours later McClure appeared riding
the tank and towing his buggy, in which lay
the inebriate tanker.

A few minutes after, the Mogul was driving
ahead under full pressure, joined shortly by the
distant hum of the Valley Gang.  Into the dark
they raged, fighting ahead until eight, when the
defiant whistles of the rival engines told that the
great run was over.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE THRESHING CHAMPIONS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE THRESHING CHAMPIONS

.. vspace:: 2

Louie Swale's restaurant was full,
choked with threshers agog for the result
of the great struggle.  Almost every
individual present had a stake involved.  The
building was a uniquely composite plant, comprising
department store, café, bar, club, all under the
solitary genius of the rotund and active Swale.
He combined the offices of proprietor, manager,
floor-walker, bartender, chef, cashier, possessing
an innocent smile of friendliest amenity and the
obsequious deportment of a suave head-waiter.
He had certain periodic fines to meet for the vending
of ancient beverages that fell without the code.
These he paid promptly with sanguine light-heartedness.
Louie Swale was universally liked, as are
all good fellows whom careless Nature throws into
life incomplete in the entire central osseous system
of the vertebrate.  He was a fat, juicy, even
companionable earthworm.

The store carried a thorough line from roots to
ribbons, occupying the front section of the
building.  Out of the store one wandered into a long
room, low and rectangular, where Louie dispensed
the quaffable and edible mysteries of his bar-café.
The rear apartment was a blind room some twenty
feet square, containing a few rough chairs and a
round table covered with a green baize cloth.  A
well-thumbed pack on the centre of the table was
the only purposeful article visible.  There were
two doors, both provided with heavy bars on the
inside.  One opened into the outshed; the other
into the bar.  This door was locally renowned as
The Green Baize Door, and was believed to secrete
behind its baize-covered panels a barrel of mysteries
unco', cabalistic and otherwise.  Since it was
windowless, two dirty lamps did duty night and
day.  Obviously, when the "Square Room" was
occupied seriously the Green Baize Door was to be
found shut.  At such times a peculiar knock was
the sesame.

Store and café were crowded with men anxious
to hear the momentous decision of Jack Butte.
Suddenly there arose a stamping and shouting.
The stakeholder had climbed up on a table and was
calling order.  Glasses were set down and cards
stacked.

"Gentlemen!" he cried.  "There is a little
preliminary or two I must pull off before I can
announce the winner of the threshing bout between
Rob McClure and Ned Pullar.  Whatever the result,
I appeal to the winners and losers to take
their medicine.  I want the word of both bosses
that they will not stand for any sorehead business
or rough house.  I'll not hand out the totals until
I get that word."

Butte paused significantly.

"Go ahead," said Ned, with a grin.  "We'll
be good."

"Agreed!" exclaimed McClure.  "My gang is
no bunch of squealers.  Spit it out."

"Thank you, gentlemen," said Butte.  "That
is satisfactory.  But there is another matter.
Before I hand out the stakes I want you to choose
two rank outsiders from this crowd who shall go
into the Square Room with me and verify my
figures.  When they have made an audit I will come
out and give you the facts."

Speedily the arrangement was effected and the
three men went in behind the Green Baize Door.

During the interim Easy Murphy shuffled close
to Snoopy Bill Baird.  Grinning insolently into
his face he addressed him in a cavernous stage
whisper.

"How's the buttercups, Snoopy?" said he.
"Ye did not consarn yersilf wid a second bokay."

Andy Bissett, standing near, placed his hand
deterringly on Easy's shoulder.

"Steady, lad!" he whispered.  "Ned's given
his word.  Keep in line."

Snoopy Bill ruffled instantly at the thrust.  With
a quick snatch at his breast pocket he drew out a
bunch of bills and fluttered them flauntingly in
Easy's face.

"How about a bokaa-y of these nice green
shamrocks?" said he, with an exasperating laugh.
"Have you the eye for a fresh fifty?"

"Indade, and they are the purty flowers," was
the quick response.  "They're to be had fer the
pickin'.  I'm wid ye, Snoopy."

Quickly he covered the bet, placing the stake
with a bystander.  The incident stimulated an
emulation in the crowd, and by the time Butte
appeared again the excitement had risen to the point
of explosion.

"Hold your horses for a little!" he cried, smiling
into the glaring eyes of the gamesters.  "I'll
go right to the point.  For a month past these two
gangs have been hammering away to roll up a big
total, and I want to tell you they have done it.
The gangs have worked twenty-seven full days
and have made the record runs of the Pellawa
country."

Butte's deliberate manner was too slow for his
strained audience.

"Cut the talk, Jack!  Cough up the totals!"
yelled a voice.

"Hear, hear!" came an applauding roar.

"To resume," said Butte, bowing pleasantly,
"in estimating the oats I reduced them to a total
weight and then dividing by sixty, found the
equivalent in weight of wheat.  The total is
therefore stated in terms of wheat.  This was agreed
upon by the two bosses.  Rob McClure's machine
has turned out a total of seventy thousand, eight
hundred and twenty-one bushels."

At the announcement the McClure gang and
their partisans lifted a shout of elation.  Above
the ensuing hubbub rose the brogue of Easy
Murphy:

"Shure, Johnny Butte, 'tis a swell towtal.  But
ye'll hev till open yer mug wider, begobs, whin ye
give the Valley count."

In spite of the extreme tension a boisterous roar
greeted the defy.

"Against this," said the stakeholder amid a
breathless silence, "the Valley Outfit have rolled
up the huge total of seventy-one thousand, nine
hundred and fifty-five bushels——"

His words were drowned in a wild ringing
cheer.  Led by Murphy's deep bass roar, the
Valley Outfit let go.  As the rumpus died down Andy
Bissett lifted his cap and shouted:

"Three cheers for Rob McClure's gang.  They
made a great run."

Ere they could raise the shout McClure yelled:

"No!  Saw off your blankety howl.  We want
none of it.  You doped one of my men or you
would never have turned the trick."

Easy Murphy's lips were framing a reply when
Ned spoke up.

"I want to state," said he with quiet deliberateness,
"that as far as my knowledge goes, the Valley
Gang has run this thing as straight as a whip.
I appeal to Jack Butte.  Do we win on our
merits?"

A chorus of applause greeted Ned's words.

"Gentlemen!" replied the stakeholder.  "This
game has been run on the square.  My figures
have been verified and are open to the public.  The
Valley Outfit are the undisputed champions of The
Qu'Appelle.  Come up to the counter and I'll pay
over the cash."

The convivial spirit ran high as the wagers were
collected.  In the rear of the room McClure and
his men held angry concourse.  Suddenly they
pushed their way to the counter.  McClure spoke
loudly, his face and eyes aflame.

"Come, Swale," commanded he.  "We set up
the drinks for the house.  Make it hard stuff all
round."

His manner was offensive.  Ostensibly the host,
he was really the bully.  The Valley Outfit made
no move to accept the proffered treat.  Ned
Pullar stepped up to his sullen opponent.

"No, Rob McClure!" was his crisp exclamation,
accompanied by a flash of indignant eyes.
"We don't drink with gentlemen who insult us
in the same breath.  The Valley Outfit, with their
little thirty-six inch mill, beat you to a frazzle.
You'll never have a chance like this again, for next
fall will find The Qu'Appelle Champions
capering about the finest mill on the Pellawa plains.
You look, Rob, almost mad enough to fight.  Very
well.  I have given Jack Butte my word to keep
quiet.  The Valley Outfit is going to get out and
leave you the whole house.  If you want to mix up
with us, don't let us get away.  If you are afraid
of mussing up Louie's joint we'll wait for you
outside.  Meanwhile, will you accommodate us,
gentlemen, by clearing away from that door?"

At the words he brushed past McClure, who
stood glowering at him with eyes that streamed a
liquid hate.  For all his rage McClure was held
from battle by a subtle enervation that baffled
him.

"The Valley Outfit will leave at once," was
Ned's cry as he flung open the door.  With his
hand on the knob he waited for his men to pass
out before him.  With surprising promptitude
they complied.  Easy Murphy was the last to
leave.  Pausing on the threshold he turned about.

"'Tis a braw bunch ye are, McClure, wid yer
blower bunged and yer engine buckin'.  Begobs, I
cud put the howl gang uv ye till slape on a wathurr
wagon.  Come out intill the moonlight."

With that he went out, followed by a flying flask
and the curses of McClure.

"Good-night, gentlemen!" said Ned, a mocking
light in his eye.  "We'll hang around outside for
ten minutes or so.  If you can make it, why—the
Valley Outfit would be delighted."

Once out among his men they urged him to go
back.  But he shook his head.

"No, lads!" he said firmly.  "I do not want
to fight.  If they come out we'll sail in.  I think
I've something better than even a good fight.  I'll
put you next when we pull away from Louie's."

The ten minutes passed.  The door opened once
but shut again.  The Valley Gang hooted
derisively.  They waited five minutes longer.
McClure had evidently passed up the challenge.
Though his men knew it not, Ned was intensely
relieved.  He could scarcely understand.  The
fact was McClure apprised the situation exactly
notwithstanding his rage.  He was no coward;
nor was he a fool.  He knew that gang for gang
Ned had him beaten in more ways than in the mere
threshing.  Let the Valley Outfit pull off its bluff.
He would nurse his chagrin and strike—later.

When Ned got his men well out of ear-shot he
addressed them in a sudden light-heartedness that
surprised them.

"I want to thank you, lads, for holding
yourselves so wonderfully when I know you were
itching to get your hands on McClure and his
oary-eyed crew.  This is a great night.  We've threshed
Rob McClure twice to-night.  We've out-milled
him for a month and gathered in the wager and
we've handed him a mighty hard punch by forcing
him and his gang to funk.  We are now going to
pull off a little stunt that will be remembered for
many a day along The Qu'Appelle.  Easy will come
with me.  The rest of you get back to the caboose
with Andy.  He'll put you next.  We'll meet you
there at eleven o'clock.  You will all remember
that to-night's Hallowe'en."

By a mighty effort of self-restraint the men
acceded to Ned's request to leave the village.
Eleven o'clock found them waiting with Andy, all
agog for the next move.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HALLOWE'EN ON THE QU'APPELLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VII


.. class:: center large bold

   HALLOWE'EN ON THE QU'APPELLE

.. vspace:: 2

At eleven o'clock McClure and his men
staggered out of Swale's joint.  For half
an hour they prowled the streets, alarming
the village with their wild whoops.  At twelve
they scrambled into their grain wagon and tore
down the main street at a furious pace.  Out to
Smithers they raced, a roistering company of
drunken fools.

Ned and Easy, posted among the poplars in the
grove north of the barn, saw them ride into the
barnyard.  In the light of the moon the two men
could see them tumbling out of the wagon, sprawling
over each other, noisy and ill-humoured.

"I see Rob at the heads uv the horses," said
Easy.  "He niver goes home whin he's rale well
pickled."

"We've got the whole crew at home, then,"
whispered Ned.  "We are in luck.  Come, let us
round up the boys."

Slipping quietly away, they arrived at their own
caboose.

Andy and the rest were awaiting them.  Briefly
Ned rehearsed his plans and was gratified to find
them primed and ready to the last detail.  In a
few moments they set out for McClure's caboose.
They carried planks, ropes, hammers and spikes,
while Easy Murphy brought up the rear with his
huge span of grays.  The team was shrouded in
great dark blankets with black nets covering their
light heads.  Each man was masked with his
bandanna handkerchief, giving the marauders the
appearance of a gang of bandits or a lynching posse.

At the edge of the grove they paused and
listened intently.  Not forty yards away stood the
caboose with its crew of quarrelsome men.  A
confusing dialogue of altercations was in progress.
After a time the men settled into their bunks,
where the bibulous debate was drowsily maintained,
finally simmering to the thick-tongued harangue
of one persistent individual.

At a signal from Ned the Valley Outfit crept
noiselessly upon their unsuspecting prey.  Arrived
at the caboose they made a swift survey.  The
farmstead was quiet.  Smithers and his men were
sound asleep.  No interruption from that quarter.
The caboose was the usual midget bunkhouse, a
rectangular box on truck chassis with a bow roof.
At the tongue end was a door.  In the other end
near the roof was a tiny window, too small for the
exit of a man's body.  Andy and his men stole
around to the rear of the caboose.  Striking one
end of the plank solidly into the ground, they
placed the other against the middle of the door.
Two men held it in place while two swung their
weight on it, holding the door shut as with a vise.
McClure and his men were trapped.  Quickly a
stout plank was placed across the top of the door
and nailed with five-inch spikes to the corner posts.
Another plank was nailed similarly across the
bottom, perfectly sealing the caboose.

By this time a commotion had arisen within.
Snoopy Bill could be heard shaking the men and
dragging them out of their bunks.  Above the
tumult soared McClure's heavy voice, disclosing in
the angry vehemence of his curses a swift conclusion
as to the identity of the assailants.  Outside
in the moonlight frolicked the masked figures.
The excitement was intense.  At Ned's desire all
audible speech was to be suppressed.  Easy
Murphy was in his element and wanted to holler.

"Be the ghost uv me grandfahthurr!" he whispered
to Jean Benoit.  "'Tis the happiest hour
since Oi left Owld Oireland."

Amid ill-suppressed laughter the freak
proceeded.  Backing his horses to the tongue, Easy
speedily hitched on and pulled out of the barnyard.
Long before Smithers and his men could
wake and realize what had happened the big grays
had spirited away the caged crew, surrounded by
the triumphant body-guard of Valley threshers.

Urging his horses to a trot, Easy turned into the
west road and bowled along merrily over ruts and
stones to the fierce accompaniment of the
pandemonium from within.  Once a head unwisely
protruded itself through the small opening only to
receive a smart rap and to be instantly drawn in.

"Head across the Northwest Cut," directed
Ned.  "We'll run them up on Bald Hill, where
they can get a good view of the lake."

When the brow of the Cut was reached Easy
reined in his horses.

"Shall we cross be the thrail," said he in a loud
whisper to Ned, "or shall we bounce sthraight on
over the rocky road till Dublin?"

"Give them the rocky road," was Ned's grim
response.

"Begobs, yer a darlin'!" cried Easy, with a
muffled whoopee as he swung the grays off the
prairie down the side of the Cut.

Then began a half-mile of rocking and tossing,
pitching over hillocks, boulders, badger holes and
stumps, the caboose lurching about like a ship in a
heavy sea and thoroughly churning up its human
contents.  The little bunkhouse became hideously
vocal as execrations came forth, vengeful chorus
from its tormented interior.  Easy's eyes seemed
to have uncanny vision for holes and hidden logs
and jolting rocks, while the big grays, alarmed by
the outrageous tumult, snorted wildly, plunging
through everything with irresistible force.

The weird passage of the gulch was at length
accomplished, winding up on the windy skull of
Bald Hill.

"They'll have a very fine stretch of the valley
to look into from here," said Andy with a grin, as
his eyes took in the sweep of the hill.

"Indade, 'tis rale illigint," said Easy.  "Rob
wull be chargin' a nickel a pape from the bay
window above."

"Unhitch the grays, Easy," said Ned, his eyes
darting mischief.  "We are not going to leave the
caboose here.  The fun is about to begin."

Ned's remark was cryptic.  "If we are not
going to leave them here, why unhitch?" was the
query in every mind.

"Ah, Ned!  'Tis a darlin' I said ye wuz!"
exclaimed Easy, seized by a sudden inspiration.  He
had tumbled to Ned's dark design.  "Ye wull be
afthur shootin' the shoot wid our frinds in the
packin'-box?" was his sly guess.

"Hats off to our little boss!" cried Andy softly,
shaking with laughter.

"By gar, dat cabooze yump on de lake lak beeg
eggspress!  Ha!"  Jean forthwith "went up"
venting his ecstasy in a series of handsprings.

When he came down he did what the rest were
doing.  He took a swift, keen glance at the hill.
The slope fell rapidly away, dropping evenly
hundreds of feet to the sandy shingle of the beach over
a quarter of a mile away.  Through a wide gap in
the shore bluffs could be seen the silver shimmer
of the waves.  There could be but one end to the
proposed flight of the caboose,—the cold, white
bosom of the lake.

With deliberate thoroughness the Valley men
made their preparations.  The horses unhitched,
the tongue of the caboose was roped high and
locked firmly so that it could have no side swing.
Then the men took their places about the wheels
and rear.

"Just a minute!" whispered Ned.  "One of
you lads had better pull a watch on this thing.
This old bus is in for her record run."

A chorus of subdued laughs rose above the noise
emanating from the interior of the doomed vehicle.

"Shoulders to the wheels!" was Ned's low
order.  "Now, all together!  Send her a-kiting."

Every man got down with a will and a smothered
yo-heave started the caboose down the slope.
With a final united shove they sent it away from
their hands in mad career toward the lake.
Down the hill it sped, swaying in its course like a
drunken man, but heading straight for the water.
In fearfully accelerated speed it shot over the short
sand beach and crashed in the gleaming waves.
Carried along by its great momentum it charged
the lake like a racing motor-boat, throwing a huge
prow wave as it ran into the deep water.  Weighted
with its heavy truck and human freight it sank
almost half-way to the roof before coming to a
standstill.

While the caboose sped down the hill the perpetrators
of the deed watched its flight in breathless
interest.  As it plunged into the water a cheer
roared down the hillside.

Meanwhile in desperate rage and no small alarm
McClure with his gigantic strength had torn a
hole in the roof and thrusting his shoulders
upward broke through and climbed out just as the
car came to rest in the bed of the lake.  Looking
up the moonlit hill he could plainly see the group
of men crowning its height and caught the cheer
that swept down.  No word, however, escaped
him.  Thoroughly sobered, the full significance of
the daring lark burst upon him, sealing his lips.
There were times when Rob McClure was unexpectedly
silent.  Reaching down he helped his
men one by one out to safety.  Soon the roof was
black with men.

"Dey some leetle drown rat!" exclaimed Jean
Benoit, shaking with laughter at the sight.  "What
dey goin' to do?"

Through the quiet air came the answer.  It was
McClure's voice.

"I guess there is nothing else for it," said he.

Instantly came the sound of a splash.  Other
splashes followed and then could be seen a straggling
line of dark figures plunging through the surf.

"Now let them have it," cried Ned.

With all the vigour of seventeen pairs of
powerful lungs they lifted cheer after cheer.

"Enough!" cried Ned at last.  "This beats a
fight.  We have licked the whole gang without
anybody getting mussed up.  The cold water will
help to sober them."

A moment later Bald Hill was bare.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RIVAL BOSSES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE RIVAL BOSSES

.. vspace:: 2

McClure sat in his office nursing his
choler, with a face bitterly inexorable.
The routine of threshing moved on.
Looking through the window, as upon a former
occasion, he saw the two lines of smoke trailing
off together over the fields.  The sight caused a
tightening of jaws.  For an hour he had sat
moodily thus, plunged in gloom.

The loss of the heavy wager was not desirable
and the defeat galled.  But it was not this that
caused the baleful smouldering within the eyes.
He tossed away the stake with the sang-froid of
the gamester.  He would get it back when the luck
turned.  The thing that incensed him was not the
utter rout but the manner of it.  His shoulders
had been pinned to the mat by the swift address
of an antagonist he had despised.  The conviction
sank in upon him that this young and resourceful
foe had toyed with him.  This levity was the barb
that inflamed the wound.

The episode of Hallowe'en was a cup of gall to
him.  The kidnapping and ducking of himself and
gang was a daring act deep and wily in its
deliberate insolence.  He fancied he caught the
mocking laugh on Pullar's face.  Ned had used him for
a public burlesque.  The caboose still lay in the
lake.  Pellawa was highly amused and—talking.
Defeat was complete and bitter.  Added to this
was the condemnatory voice of an inner and subtle
monitor that told him he had been wrong from
the start and moreover had not scrupled to foul
his man.  His opponent on the other hand had
played fair.  These facts did not trouble the
conscience of Rob McClure.  They nettled him.  He
resented the alignment of public opinion with his
adversary.  He would use the same tactics again.
But he would see to it that the camouflage was
perfect.  The longer he brooded the deeper grew
his dour morosity.  Vengeance cried loudly within
him.  He vowed a tenfold reprisal.  Some day he
would put on a burlesque himself and then——

Suddenly he was roused from his malignant
reveries by a light step outside the door.  In a
moment it opened quietly, admitting Helen
McClure.  Her face so compellingly attractive had a
tragic weariness in it.  A close observer wondered
at the acute pain that would glance at times from
the clear eyes.  Neither the beauty of her fragile
person nor the remarkable dignity of her bearing
could hide the reality of suffering.  Rob McClure,
man of steel though he was, secretly acknowledged
the noble strength of his wife.  In a soft
voice she announced:

"Mr. Pullar wishes to see you, Rob."  Turning
to the newcomer she smiled brightly, inviting
him in.  Motioning him to a chair she withdrew.

Ned remained standing.

"Sit down," said McClure coldly.

"No, thank you!" returned Ned courteously.
"My business will be brief.  Man to man I want
to know whether or not you are satisfied with
Jack Butte's decision."

McClure darted a swift look into the other's
eyes.

"It is a mere trifle," said he with a deprecatory
gesture.  "Butte is straight.  You got the lucky
breaks."

"Very good!" said Ned.  "It gratifies me to
hear you say it.  You positively agree that the
Valley Outfit win?"

"You got the lucky breaks," repeated McClure.

"That satisfies me," said Ned conclusively as
he took a package from his breast pocket.
Reaching forward he placed the bundle on the desk
before McClure.  His eyes flashed and his voice
had a ring of steel as he said:

"That is your share of the wager just as it was
handed to me by Butte.  You will remember, I
think, that I did not desire to take up your bet.
There is your cash.  I will not touch the winnings.
Gaming is the expedient of a lazy thief willing to
take a chance.  You can keep the swag.  It is
yours.  Or—you can burn it.  This completes my
business.  I wish you good-day."

McClure was astounded.  His eyes dropped
amazedly to the package before him.  For a full
minute he stared at the wad of ragged edged bills.
Then into his face flooded a black tide.  His hands
clenched, clutching in a horrible convulsion of
rage.

"You insolent devil!" he cried fiercely, hurling
the package to the floor.  Turning he flashed
angry eyes about, surprised to find that he was
alone in the room.  He leaped to his feet,
nonplussed, baffled.  His eye caught a motion outside
the window.  It was Ned unhitching his horse
from the post not thirty yards away.  At sight
of his enemy a fearful idea came to him.  Reaching
down swiftly he opened a drawer and snatching
out a revolver broke open its blue chambers.
There was a gleam of brass rims.  It was loaded.
With a menacing cry he stepped to the window
and threw up the sash.  He was dropping the
sight on the tall figure when his ear caught the
tripping of light feet along the hall.  It was Mary
coming to his room.  He held the gun on his
target for the briefest instant, then dropped the
muzzle and thrust it covertly into his pocket.  As
he whirled about Mary burst through the door, a
lithe, little figure in riding boots, sombrero and
habit.  She looked at him, her face radiant, her
eyes dancing with the joy of living.  He seemed
hesitant.  Could it be that for once her father was
inviting?  With a happy cry she closed upon him.
He smiled a strange, relieved smile.

"Daddy!  Daddy!" she cried delightedly.  "I
have had such a glorious ride.  Bobs pranced
down the trail a thing of wildest life, making the
trip from The Craggs in less than an hour."

Throwing her arms about his neck she drew his
head gently to her.  Swept off his feet by the
swift dénouement of the last few minutes, he
submitted to her will.  For the first time in years she
felt the absence of chilling repulse.  Holding him
close in her ecstasy she kissed his forehead again
and again.  With a final caress she laid her cheek
against his for one silent, happy moment, then
broke away and ran off to her room thrilling with
pleasant emotion.

Mary McClure did not know that her glad arrival
had held her father's hand from an unspeakable
crime.  He was indeed grateful to her for the
interposition, though his face showed no repentance.
There was, though, a regretful pang in the
breast.  It was caused not by any faint penitence
for his evil design but by the memory of Mary's
cheek against his.  The "feel" of her soft, tender
touch was there.  For some strange reason the
memory of it sank deep.  The sound of her
footsteps had scarcely died away, however, when the
old ruthlessness returned.  The relief he now felt
was that of one who had been saved from
committing a violent inexpediency.  Glancing through
the window he saw the horseman cantering
leisurely down the trail.  As he watched the hard
lines drew about his mouth.  He began casting
about for the package of money, finding it at
length near the door.  Picking it up he looked at
it a moment with bright eyes that acknowledged
an enigma.  Walking to the window he looked out,
smiling secretively and shaking the wad ominously
at the Valley boss.

"It will help to break you, Pullar," was his
threat.

Going to the desk he opened a large drawer and
deposited the money carefully in a tin box.

Above in her room Mary watched Ned ride out
of sight into the Valley.  She was greatly mystified
as to the purpose of his visit.  She regretted
missing a meeting with him, but reflected with
deepest happiness on the friendliness of her father.
The moment, she felt, was full of happy augury.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A LAND SHARK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IX


.. class:: center large bold

   A LAND SHARK

.. vspace:: 2

Reddy Sykes had drifted into Pellawa
during the early weeks of summer.
Though at first an anomaly in the little
town, the citizens grew used to his presence.  It was
hard to define Sykes' business.  He was not a lawyer,
though he had a distinctly legal turn of mind.  He
had acquired the title of Commissioner.  He began
work in the village with a command of considerable
capital.  His most lucrative line was real
estate.  He bought and sold farms and manipulated
the transfer of large acreage blocks.  A few city
shingles decorated his window but the great urban
boom of the West was as yet on the verge and the
subdivisional mania had not got properly under
way.  The ability of the new arrival in his selected
field was so surprising and apparent that his
presence in Pellawa was a poser to the shrewd minds
of the plains.  He could have made things hum
in a bigger world.

Personally, Sykes was a character that invited
scrutiny.  He was comparatively young, still in the
early thirties, possessing a full-blooded interest in
life.  His face was unusually hard for so young
a man and wore an habitual calculating expression.
He was a man of scheme and intrigue.  His
motion as he moved about was very like that of
Reynard as he slunk through the night en route
to Mr. Farmer's chicken coop.  He lived by his
wits, searching the trail closely for tracks of his
prey.  His nose was always in the wind.  He was
alert for the lucky cast of the die that should
tumble fortune into his lap.  Inventive and
resourceful, his mind stored a great fund of
premises.  He could adopt and discard twenty
viewpoints in as many minutes.  The stolid,
common-place farmers fought shy of Sykes, shunning his
speciousness, afraid of a snare.  They felt the
unrelenting, unscrupulous thing in the man, though
unable to detect it in his handsome face.

Notwithstanding the diffidence of the farmers
to enter into free commerce with the real estate
agent he had become an accepted cog in the social
wheel.  He had made one powerful friend—Rob
McClure.  The two drew together like steel and
magnet.  The attraction fused into an implicit
partnership from the very start.  There was a
reason for this, a matter on which Rob McClure
was utterly in the dark.  Only one person in the
settlement had even surmised it.  Reddy Sykes
was dominated by the mightiest of human
motives in his facile address at fostering a strong
friendship with McClure.  Ned Pullar alone
understood that he was at once lured by the passion
of love and urged by the fell ardour of hate.  The
object of his regard was Mary McClure.  The
object of his rancour, Ned himself.  He had
effected his purpose with McClure by an ingratiating
cunning assisted by an unusual mutual attraction.
His relations with Mary and Ned ran back into
the cross currents of their university life.  Of
that again.

Sykes' friendship with McClure opened to him
the McClure home.  He availed himself of the
hospitality in a wise and restrained use of the
privilege.  His reception had been cordial.  The
two women were only too glad to promote
goodwill with a friend of Rob's.  Helen McClure was
always pleased to welcome the gentlemanly guest.
Mary in her secret mind was very considerably
perturbed, remembering certain advances made by
Sykes in the past.  She had turned him down on
occasion and once had deservedly and effectually
snubbed him.  She was agreeably surprised,
however, at his casual gallantries.  He was courteous
and companionable, but did not in the faintest
degree press his attentions.

Sykes had been moving about his office studying
closely certain realty maps of local townships.
His search over, he sat down at his desk and
picking up a letter read it carefully.  This was the
third perusal.  He was pondering some undoubtedly
alluring proposition.  In his mouth he held
an unlit cigar, rolling it around in unconscious
habit, occasionally chewing off the end and
throwing it away.  Looking through the window out
upon the street he saw something that brought
sudden resolution into his eyes.  Andy Bissett
was dashing by with his team of blacks.  He pulled
up in front of a store and hurriedly tied his horses
to a post.  He was about to enter the store when
Sykes hailed him.  Andy walked over and entered
the office.

"How's the Valley Outfit?" inquired Sykes
pleasantly.

"Laid up with a broken shaft," was the reply.

"I've been looking out for you to-day, Bissett,"
said Sykes affably, plunging into business.  "I
want you to read this."

He handed over the letter he had just been reading.

"This," said he, "is a communication from a
farmer in Northern Alberta who is anxious to get
hold of a farm in this settlement.  He owns a
section and is willing to swap it for an improved half
in the Pellawa district.  The full description of
the land is there.  It is a big snap."

Andy read the letter rapidly then handed it back.

"I have nothing I would care to exchange for
that," said he quietly.

"How about the quarters you are renting to the Poles?"

Andy shook his head.

"Not in the market."

"Some of your friends might consider the
proposition."

"No," said Andy decidedly, "I could not
recommend the deal to any of my friends.
Personally I do not like it."

Sykes looked up sharply with the Reynard-like
movement.

"This is an A-1 chance, a windfall for somebody."

"It may be," agreed Andy dubiously.  "It
seems to me unusual.  Aside from that, however,
it is not the snap it appears."

Sykes' voice sounded a shade metallic as he said:

"How do you make it?"

Andy noted the change in tone but continued
pleasantly:

"In the first place this land about Pellawa is
simply wonderful.  That other may be good.
Then again there is a pretty fast movement up in
this Valley land.  We are expecting it to
skyrocket.  Things are promising hereabouts.  I
think it will be well to stick."

"Still," objected Sykes, "the difference in
acreage is great.  It covers all rise."

"That may be.  Who can tell?  That point
would have to be settled by a personal visit to the
Alberta farm."

Sykes shifted his cigar impatiently, biting it
viciously.

"How about Pullar?" he queried carelessly.
"He might swap the homestead.  He is young
yet—just the age to pitch into a section of virgin
land.  Pullar's the man."

"You mean Ned?" said Andy.

"Of course."

"Ned would not consider the matter for a minute."

"Why?"

"That land is his father's.  Ned is manager
and real head, but the land is still deeded to his
father.  Although the old man has desired to make
all or any part over to the boy, Ned would not
agree."

Sykes seemed to muse on the matter a moment.
Andy did not notice the cunning light flash into
the other's eyes.  His companion's quick mind had
gathered something of great interest to him.

"The fact is," said Andy deliberately, "I would
not recommend this to any friend of mine, as I
have said."

Suddenly a resentful light burned in Sykes' eyes.

"Do you mean to say you will knock this
deal?" said he.

"Sure," said Andy smiling.  "I'll knock it into
a cocked hat if anybody appeals to me."

"Say!" said Sykes, the lash of sarcasm entering
into his tone.  "You rubes carry some side,
eh?  A few of you little farmers think you can
chin-up to Reddy Sykes.  Bah!"

He turned on his heel.

With a cheerful "Good-day!" Andy took his
departure.

Looking at the figure crossing the street Sykes
smiled sardonically.

"Much obliged, Bissett!" was his muttered
soliloquy.  "You were easy.  Ha!  It looks pretty
good!  Pretty good to me!"

Late that night McClure appeared in the office.

"Anybody with you?" inquired Sykes, looking
up as he entered.

"No.  I am alone," was the response.  "Took
a skip in to get a line on business.  Anything
new?"

For answer Sykes thrust the letter into his hand.
McClure recognized the source instantly.

"He has located another spot, I see."

Sykes nodded.

Looking up from the letter McClure ruminated
for a moment.

"There's good money in these transfers if we
can get them going.  That's where good fishing
comes in."

"Tried Bissett to-day," observed Sykes ruefully.

"It was no go?"

"No."

"Keep away from Bissett," was McClure's low
counsel.  "There are easier prospects.  If not
we'll have to chuck it."

"Chuck nothing!" was Sykes' incisive ejaculation.
"This community's full of suckers.  There
are droves of easy rubes hereabouts fairly
howling, 'Come touch me up.'"

For a moment McClure rubbed his chin
reflectively.  Sykes eyed him closely.

"I know what you are hunting down," said he,
looking McClure full in the eye.  "You're on just
one trail these days.  You are tracking the boss of
the Valley Outfit."

McClure looked up surprised.

"I see I've hit it," resumed Sykes with a laugh.
"Bissett put me next a little fact that has a whole
barrelful of possibilities.  He informs me that
Pullar's three-quarter sections are all in the old
man's name."

McClure shook his head.

"Don't believe it.  Ned's too good a head to
stand for that."

"It's a fact, just the same," maintained Sykes.
"Bissett told me all about it."

"What if it is?"

"I guess you know old Ed. Pullar.  Thirsty
old guy at times."

McClure laughed wisely.

"That's the point," said Sykes in a whisper.
"We have an even chance of getting him there."

McClure said nothing, but Sykes, watching him
from the foxy crevices of his half-shut eyes, knew
that he had probed a mighty impulse in his
companion.  The gloating of anticipated revenge
looked out of Rob McClure's great eyes.  He was
roused from his baleful reverie by the voice of Sykes.

"That prospect pleases you, Rob," said he in a
significant tone that drew the swift glance of
McClure.  "And I am with you to the limit provided——"

He paused and looked peculiarly at the other.
McClure was puzzled.

"Provided," resumed Sykes, "you do the same
with me."

"You have me guessing, Reddy."

"You do not know what I am driving at?"

McClure shook his head.

"Then I'll set you right.  For some years I
have known the daughter of Rob McClure.  All
these years I have regarded her as the one thing
desirable.  That is why I am out among the rubes.
She has never been more gracious than since my
arrival here.  You stand by me there and I'm with
you.  You can do a lot."

The two men looked long into each other's eyes.
Then McClure's gaze became abstract and far
away.  He was seeing something other than Sykes'
glittering eyes.  He saw Mary as she burst in upon
him the day of his interview with Ned.  He felt
the soft touch of her cheek.  Suddenly he was
recalled to the issue.

"Well?" was the crisp challenge.

"Go right in and win," said he with a strange
smile.  "Do it right and I'm agreeable.  So far as
I know you have a clear field.  You can count on me."

"You think the field is open?" said Sykes.

"There isn't a doubt.  I know all about my girl."

Sykes smiled and let it go at that.  There was
some information he could impart to this cocksure
father but it would be more serviceable later.
He reflected for a moment on the effect of the
disclosure that Ned Pullar was very much in the
field.  Then he smiled again, conscious of holding
a rather high hand.

McClure could see no untoward possibility and
was satisfied.

So they made the compact.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DREAMER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   X


.. class:: center large bold

   THE DREAMER

.. vspace:: 2

The watcher stepped back into the shelter
of the maples.  She had emerged from
them but a moment before and had been
on the point of addressing the worker when her
capricious will deterred her.  She was looking
upon the great figure of a man.  He was aged,
nearing the fullness of the allotted span.  His
shoulders, however, were square and his back
straight.  His form rose to a towering height,
retaining its lines of strength and was crowned by a
shapely head with its resplendent glory of long
white hair.  The face was noble with a touch of
gentleness.  The intelligent eyes had a masterful
light mingling with the dreaminess of them, while
his cheeks had the soft rotundity of a child's and
the roses of a girl.  Before her stood the father
of Ned Pullar.  Often had she heard of him.
This was the first time she had really beheld him.
She was very surprised, agreeably so.

The old man was busy flailing a bag of chaff.
So absorbed was he in his employment that he was
rudely startled when a woman's voice accosted him
gently.

"Mr. Pullar, I believe!"

Looking up suddenly he detected a small girlish
figure in white.  Her face was attractive with a
bright friendliness that set him instantly at ease.

"I am highly honoured," was his reply as he
set down his stick and bowed with courtly stateliness.
"Is it the little teacher I have the pleasure
of greeting?"

"I am Mary McClure!"

The old man walked over and held out his hand
with Western hospitality.

"Welcome to The Craggs, lassie.  The lad,
Ned, has been telling me much about you.  Will
you not sit down?"

He placed a rustic chair before her.

"I have been waiting for you to call on your
new neighbour," said Mary with a smile as she
accepted the proffered chair.  "But you have not
favoured us yet.  I am afraid you will find me a
very impatient and exacting neighbour, Mr. Pullar."

His eyes twinkled at her speech.

"Well now, that is a pretty rub," said he
amusedly.  "I shall have to hunt up my visiting
cards and call around."

"Now, see that you do," was the girl's reply as
she shook an accusing finger at him.  "But you
must not entertain now, Mr. Pullar.  I came over
to watch you at work.  I am curious to know why
you were belabouring that poor sack so roundly."

The old man laughed delightedly.

"I will tell you all about it," was the reply.  "I
am threshing the wheat that is in it."

"But why do you have to do that with a stick?
Is Ned not the best thresher along the Valley?"

A proud look came into the old man's eyes.

"Do you think so, lass?"

"Indeed I do.  And so does the whole settlement."

"It is so, I believe," was the frank agreement.
"But Ned does not thresh this.  Those bags are
filled with rare wheat heads selected from our
head-row plots.  For them I use the flail."

He had pointed to where a line of a dozen bulging
grain sacks swung on a stout rope between
posts.

Mary's eyes opened.

"Mr. Pullar," said she engagingly, "I have
heard most interesting rumours of what a wizard
you are with seeds.  One man told me solemnly
that he believed you could grow a good crop in a
field of dry dust.  Is it true that you have
developed a new variety of wheat?"

For a moment the old man did not answer.  Instead
he read earnestly the beautiful, vivacious
face of the girl and the eyes deep in their
intelligence.

"I believe, lassie, you would understand," was
his satisfied reflection.  "Would you like to hear
the truth about The Red Knight?"

Mary looked steadily into the eyes above her.
She did not comprehend the meaning of his
question but she was fascinated by the noble
enthusiasm that swept over the fine old face.

"Tell me.  Will you?" was her soft voiced reply.

"Come with me," said he.  "I will show you
something."

The tone of his voice deeply impressed her.
She knew that she was about to venture into the
sacred recesses of a life.  She followed him to
the porch where rested a tub.  Seizing the handle
he pulled it out into the sunlight.  Lifting a
covering he disclosed to her eyes a mass of
grain—beautiful wheat, brown-gold in colour, with the
wealthy red tinge that tints the peerless milling
kernel.  The plump, red berries suggested to her
heaps of tiny, golden pebbles.  She was
astonished and silent.

"It is The Red Knight," said he simply, stooping
and dipping up a handful.  She observed how
fondly he held it in the palm of his great hand.

"It is very dear to you," was her gentle remark.

Once again he studied her eyes.  They looked
up at him with a clear-eyed rapture that provoked
his grateful confidence.

"Come, lassie!  Rest while I tell you the tale
of the finding of The Red Knight.

"It will be forty years, come Maytime again,
since I brought Kitty Belaire from the old East
over the Valley of The Qu'Appelle to The Craggs.
Here we set up a home in the little log hut you can
see at the end of the lane.  In the log hut was
born the first wee bairn.  He did not stay with us
long and we laid him away in the dip beyond the
bluffs.  There, too, Ned came to us, filling the sore
spot in our hearts left by his little brother.  We
were happy, the three of us, though we had little
to do with, and the work was hard.  The years
were years of struggle.  We fought the winds and
the drought, rust, smut, hail and the frost with
little success to boast about.  One year we had a
bumper crop with prices low.  Then followed one
or two without a harvest.  Ned was growing to
be a husky little chap when a crop grew on the
place that promised us a forty-bushel yield.  But
one day a black cloud swept over the homestead
and in ten minutes it was gone.  We had no seed.
On the heels of the hail came a drought year.
Following it appeared a crop that filled the
settlement with hope.  We were getting ready to cut
when a blight appeared.  The rust reduced the
yield from forty bushels to five.  So passed the
years and the battle went against us, with the frost
the worst enemy of all.  One terrible harvest it
came to me that the seed was wrong.  It matured
too slowly.  What we needed was a seed that
would come along fast enough to harden before
the blight of the rust or the nip of frost.  The
following harvest I set out on a quest.  One day
I discovered a patch of ripe heads among the
filling grain.  Upon shelling them I found a plump
kernel fully matured.  I plucked the strange heads
and carefully preserved the wheat.  When seeding
time came round again I sowed them on a bit of
new ground in the garden.  They came up strong
and far outstripped the other grain.  I had great
hopes.  Filling time arrived and I watched
developments.  It was now plain to me that the new
variety would ripen fully two weeks ahead of the
old type.  Then, in the depths of night, a crashing
hailstorm and—my precious plot smashed into the
earth.

"I had made the fatal mistake of not preserving
a few kernels against accident.  But that was the
beginning.  Henceforth I was alert to discover
any quickly maturing plants among my fields of
grain.  By hand selection I began to improve the
standard varieties.  By use of head-row plots I
was able to provide myself with a purer seed.  But
it took a great deal of time.  My neighbours began
to surpass me in quantity of yield.  Eventually
they regarded me as luny.  At last only Kitty and
Ned believed in me.  They never failed me.  They
became experts in seed selection.  They helped me
with their sympathy.  Together we made thousands
of tests.  Gradually we caught our feet.
One year we started cutting a full week ahead of
the settlement.  We had escaped the rust and
showed a plump sample.  We were alone in our
good fortune.  From that time we were the first
into the binding, our yield was at the top, and
under Ned's wise management our quantity began
to pull ahead, always showing a consistently high
sample.

"It is four years this harvest that Kitty and the
lad went out on a 'roguing' stalk.  Perhaps you
do not know that a 'rogue' is a foreign variety of
grain that has appeared for some reason in your
field.  The task of plucking these 'rogues' is
called 'roguing.'  Upon their return the mother
handed to me a headed plant of wheat carefully
lifted from the ground.  How well I remember
it!  She gave it into my hands with a smile.

"'Here, Edward!' she said brightly.  'Here is
your Red Knight at last.  I found him growing in
the twenty acre field on the little knoll.'

"I took the plant and carefully examined it.
The straw was strong and erect, the roots the most
perfect I had ever looked upon.  But it was the
head that caught my eye, as it had caught Kitty's
and Ned's.  It was not exceptionally large but well
compacted and heavy, its spikelets packed with
wonderful kernels.  We were not led into fond
hopes by the remarkable heads, as we had tested
many another apparently as perfect."

Here the old man paused, lost a moment in reverie.

"That winter the Mother died," resumed he
softly.  "But she left a legacy that will forever
bless mankind.  We carried out our tests.  We
have put The Red Knight through every conceivable
trial and it remains pure, repeating its superior
qualities each harvest.  It is of the highest
milling grade, grows a strong straw and erect,
compact head, maturing three full weeks before any
other wheat.  This tub is filled from our
head-row plots with the very purest Red Knight.  In
addition Ned has already cut and threshed a five
acre field.  The yield has been true to promise
and will astonish the world.  Red Knight, the gift
to the world of Kitty Belaire, has averaged this
year over one hundred bushels to the acre."

As the old man finished a deep silence fell on
them, broken at length by Mary.  At the first
accents of her voice her companion looked up.  He
was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

"Mr. Pullar!" she said hesitantly, her voice
touched with awe.  "You and Ned and—his
mother are—gracious benefactors.  You are
bringing a wonderful boon to the West—to the
whole world."

Leaning forward the old man looked eagerly
into the earnest eyes before him.

"Ah, lassie," he said kindly, "you are a wonderful
little soul.  You are seeing deep into this
thing, God bless you.  'Tis a vision the three of
us have had.  The Red Knight will mean a steady
and reliable living for the farmers round about
us and a sure crop for the struggling pioneer in
the new places of the world.  It will mean that a
million homesteads will spring up in the great
Northern plains where men could scarcely live
because of the rust and frost.  It will fill up the
bread-basket of the world and make cheaper food
for the hard-pressed masses, for The Red Knight
will push the grain belt three hundred miles nearer
to the poles the whole world round."

"Just a moment, Mr. Pullar!" exclaimed Mary,
seized by a brilliant idea.  "I've got it!  I believe
every word you say.  It is true.  Gloriously true!
But the world will have to hear about it.  It will
take time to marshall the forces of The Red
Knight and start him on his great crusade.  You
will have to declare him to the world.  The
discovery and mission of this wonderful new
wheat must be placed before the public, and at
once."

"Ah," said he, "you speak the truth.  Ned
and I have thought it over, but we have no gift of
the pen whatever."

Another deep silence fell over them.  It was
Mary who broke it once more.

"Do you think, Mr. Pullar," she said
diffidently, "that—that I could help you?  I have
done a little writing.  We could get the facts into
shape and some editor could put them in form for
presentation to the public."

The old man looked at her with eyes in which
glowed a grateful wonder.

"You believe my story enough to do that,
lassie?"

"Why, of course!  It is simply wonderful!
Come over to the school each day at noon and we
can work at the tale of The Red Knight while the
children are playing.  An hour a day will
accomplish a great deal in a month.  Will you come?"

Her companion reflected deeply before replying.

"It is a noble offer," he said gratefully.  "But
I will think it over.  If I decide it is best I will
come to-morrow."

"Thank you, Mr. Pullar!" was the pleased
reply.  "This has been an amazing hour.  But I
must be going.  You will be sure and come?"

Waving good-bye she vanished through the
trees.

For a long time the man reflected on the happy
interview.  At length he returned to the sack of
unthreshed wheat.  Picking up the flail he held it
poised ready while his gaze grew pathetically
reminiscent.

"Ah, Kitty," he whispered.  "'Tis an angel she
is.  Our dreams will come true after all, dear
heart."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE THIRD RIDER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE THIRD RIDER

.. vspace:: 2

Margaret Grant paced the terrace,
her black hair flowing in the wind.
The sun flooded the Valley with a
prodigal outpouring of his golden tanks.  The
girl's eyes snapped with the vivacity of life, for
the world was streaming with light and the birds
were carolling in joyous abandon.  Something in
the bubbling wildness of the morning lent a
nimbleness to her feet, and she would change her
sedate walk for a tripping scurry across the lawn.
She cast frequent glances over the gorge to the
Peak of the Buffalo Trails in evident anticipation
of some appearance there.  While she waited she
let her eyes sweep down the Valley, her heart and
ofttimes her feet dancing with the sun.

Margaret was a child of The Qu'Appelle.  The
gleaming valley had nursed her through childhood,
writing the beauty of hill and stream and
wind and sun into the little girl, making her skin
as brown as that of the metis maiden, her blood
warm and red and her soul free with the purity of
the flashing light.  She loved the cottonwoods and
the poplars and the clustering, glistening birch,
while the oak and willow folk cast a spell over her.
She knew the berry and cherry trees and the
sun-steeped slopes where browned the sweetest
hazelnuts.  Ask her where coquettes the wine-black
saskatoon or the wonder berry—and she can tell.
As for the flowers, the bees and Margaret were
twin possessors.  Equally dear were the people of
feather and fur.

The lake was a fascinating, joyous mystery,
whether it lay under her eyes a thing of shimmering
light or frowning shadows.  Its magic swept
her most powerfully.  In the moments of its hush,
when it became a great calm silence, rippleless and
infinitely deep, a new vastness with its own blue
sky and clouds and shapely hills.

Far out in the lake lay a tiny island tufted with
cottonwood shrubs and one ragged scrub oak.
This tree had grown out of a crevice in the rock.
The island was nothing more than a huge boulder
and the bower of cottonwoods and bit of turf held
precariously to the smoothed surface.  Here the
girl enjoyed the dulcet music of the waves and the
solitude, reaching the island easily by aid of her
birch canoe.  From its behaviour in time of
tempest this lonely spot had received the name of The
Storm Rock.  Long before the waves had worked
into rollers an angry cloud of white spray above
the rock portended the fury of the storm.

Suddenly the girl paused in her walk and fastened
her eyes on the Peak of the Buffalo Trails.
A glimmer of white crowned the Peak.  She gave
an exclamation of delight as she defined the form
of Bobs.  Astride was Mary McClure.  A signal
passed between the girls.  Turning slightly,
Margaret swept the north bank with a keen glance,
emitting another ejaculation as she saw a rider
cantering along the shoulder of the hill making his
way down into the valley.

"Ned!" she observed, with a droll tip of her
head.  "You are remarkably punctual, my fine
fellow.  You need not push Darkey so fast, however,
for Flash and I are going to take a very
considerable time to saddle up."

Turning about, she glanced up at the Peak
again.  Bobs and his rider had disappeared.  As
she continued to look at the empty summit she was
surprised to see another rider trot out on the hill.
It was a man, and he halted his horse in the
identical place where Mary had sat Bobs but a moment
before.  He looked over the valley toward the
Grant homestead, then turning, vanished
hurriedly down the hill.

The watcher was at a loss to account for the
appearance of the strange rider.  She pondered a
moment.

"One of Blythes' cow-punchers!" was her
conclusion.  "He is probably beating up strays."

Satisfied and relieved at her surmise she ran
into the house to prepare for the ride to Willow
Glade.

Ned rode swiftly along, skirting the lake about
the Pellawa end.  He had an hour of fast riding
before he at length disappeared into the groves
near the brook.  As he broke into the Glade he
saw Bobs tied to a tree and his mistress seated on
the log beside the stream.

"Ho, ho!  Darkey!" he cried softly.  "High
fortune is ours!"

Bobs tossed his head in equine friendliness, but
the figure on the log was absorbed in a study of
the tree-tops.  Tying his horse, Ned stole up on
the silent one.

"Room for another on the observation car?"
called Ned in her ear.

With a casual "Good-day, Ned!" she glanced
into his eyes.  Her face was so irresistibly teasing
that he seized her hands.

"I am welcome, Mary?" said he.

Her reply was smothered by his lips.  When
conditions had become normal once more she
announced importantly:

"I came here to-day, Ned, with the deliberate
purpose of having an interview with you."

"That is delightfully gratifying," was the reply.
"But since I know the lady so well I fear there is
another reason forthcoming."

"We are to have a chaperon," resumed Mary.
"I signalled Margaret from the Peak of the Buffalo
Trails.  She will be here—within—an hour
or two.  Flash has taken to loitering, I fear."

"Yes, we know what a sleepy nag Flash can be
when Margaret has so made up her mind."

"You speak as though there is a little plot on
foot."

"Rather on four feet, Mary."

Catching his eye Mary laughed.

"But there is another reason?" was his serious
question.  "Are you in trouble, Mary?"

"No," was her reply.  "I am deeply interested
in some one other than Mr. Pullar, Jr.  And also
in a number of things—the Red Knight, for
example.  Why have you not come over to the
school sometimes with your father?"

He looked into her eyes with a frankness that
satisfied her.  She nodded comprehendingly.

"You did right," said she gently.  "We agree
that it was best.  But I have wanted to consult
you about the Red Knight.  I think it is such a
big, wonderful thing, and it means so much to
your father.  Do you——"

Further speech was suddenly interrupted by a
commotion in the woods.  Bobs gave a vigorous
whinny to which Darkey responded in a
half-frightened way while both horses moved restively
about their trees, nostrils distended and ears
pricked forward.

"What can be troubling the horses?" said
Mary looking about.

A careful scrutiny of the trees and underbrush
failed to discover anything unusual.

"Probably a fox or a wolf," surmised Ned.
"The brute was bold to come so near.  The horses
have become aware of some marauder."

They let it go at that, little thinking that the
horses had a surprising reason for their unrest.
For five minutes past a shadow had been slipping
through the dense growth running toward the
lake and had chanced a flit of a half dozen yards
in the open to a clump of willows within a rod of
the log on which they sat.  Screened in the low
trees lurked the crouching figure of Reddy Sykes.
It was a fox, indeed, a human fox that had
agitated Bobs and his companion.  The face of the
agent was uncouth in its strange determination
and jealousy.  Waiting until quiet was restored
he parted the leaves and took a glance at the
objects of his bold espionage.  At sight of the lovers
his face went white and a wave of passion swept
over him.  As Mary resumed the conversation he
listened with an eagerness wild and intense.

"I was saying," said Mary, "that The Red
Knight has a powerful interest for your father."

"I am sure you discovered that easily,"
returned Ned.

"Yes.  It is as dear to him as life itself.  No
mother could lavish more fondness upon her babe
than your father does upon this marvellous new
wheat."

"And because it means so much to Dad," said
Ned gently, "it means even more to me.  Yet I,
too, am foolish over The Red Knight.  I wonder
can any one understand how it is that the roots
of this plant go back so deep into the lives of Dad
and me?  It has grown out of the hard, glorious
years.  It is the one living thing linking our dear
dead to us.  Mary!  It is my little mother's
forget-me-not.  The tenderest sentiment gathers about
The Red Knight."

Mary laid her hand gently on his arm.

"Ned," she said, looking at him with the shine
of dew in her eyes, "you will always foster this
dear foolishness, will you not?"

Drawing her to him he kissed lips and cheeks
and hair.

"I know you will," was her glad cry.

"But there is the other side," said Ned in a
little.  "The Red Knight is as astonishing a
discovery for the good of the world as was steam in
its application to transportation and industry.
This is how Dad views it.  Like the discovery of
a new element it should be retained for the
common human good.  If controlled by the commercial
interests and monopolists it will be lost.  The
Red Knight needs the care of the keenest and
surest cultural science as well as the protection of a
wise government.  This new variety of wheat is
very precious now or will be when the great
experts have repeated the tests put through by Dad
and myself.  By spring, should our own experiments
satisfy the competent judges, every bushel
of Red Knight would be worth one hundred
dollars.  Forty thousand dollars!  It sounds
fabulous to farmers who have spent a lifetime
in the fight to catch their feet.  Dad,
however, will not sell it in that way.  He
intends to distribute his unique seed in such a way
as to insure its preservation and reproduction.
Each bushel will go to a source that meets with his
entire approval.  Some will pay the hundred
dollars per bushel, not that a monopolist's price may
be realized but that the recipient may be impressed
with the rare pricelessness of The Red Knight.
Others will pay but a pittance.  The great national
farms will not be overlooked.  It is Dad's purpose
that when harvest rolls round again there will be
from thirty to forty thousand bushels of Red
Knight in the hands of the National Government
and a corps of splendid farmers.  They will agree
to keep Red Knight pure and further improve his
singular qualities by faithful selection and experiment."

As Ned finished speaking a deep silence fell on
them, broken at length by Mary.

"That four hundred bushels of Red Knight is
precious in many ways, Ned," said she.  "You
have taken precaution to protect it from harm?"

"We are doing our best to avoid misfortune.
We have broken the bin up into three.  There are
two hundred bushels in the house; we have one
hundred in the big granary and the balance is
isolated in one of our galvanized-iron, portable bins
set in the centre of a large ploughed field.  This
should provide for the preservation of The Red
Knight."

They had fully discussed the scheme of launching
the astounding fact of the discovered variety
when Margaret Grant dashed into the glade with
a shout and a clatter of hoofs.

"Greetings, kind friends!" she announced with
a swagger.  "Permit Flash, four-footed gentleman
of the highroad, to join your sweet company
with Gooseberry up."

"To horse!" cried Ned, catching the conceit of
the girl.  "To horse!  We ride with the gallant
Goose!"

"The very thing!" laughed Mary.

Riding close Margaret struck vengefully.  But
Ned dodged and assisting Mary into the saddle
swung up on Darkey and the laughing cavalcade
rode out of the glade.

From his covert Reddy Sykes saw them depart.
Waiting until he was sure they were safely away
he returned to his horse and mounting rode hastily
back to Pellawa.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ANYTHING IS FAIR IN LOVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XII


.. class:: center large bold

   ANYTHING IS FAIR IN LOVE...

.. vspace:: 2

The troop of three were retracing the
course followed by Ned in his ride to the
Glade.  Trotting along the wet sand at
the water's edge they had rounded the Pellawa end
of the lake and were hugging the north shore,
riding into the west at a spanking gait when Ned
suddenly pulled Darkey and pointed up the sheer
hill.  A black speck was moving along the summit far above.

"Margaret!  Behold!" was Ned's laughing shout.

The girls reined in abruptly and followed his hand.

"It is Andy!" cried Mary gaily.  "I see where
we lose our Gooseberry, promptly and automatically."

As she uttered the words a shout floated down
from the silhouette above and the rider sent his
mount over the bank.  The brave brute took the
precipice with a sure nonchalance, sliding on all
fours or "sitting" the perpendicular slides with
swift and perilous drop.

"Lucifer hits the toboggan!" cried Ned.

"The magnificent dare-devils!" exclaimed
Mary, thrilled by the sight.  In a moment it was
over and Andy closed in upon them at a smart
trot, reining his horse on his heels but a length
before them.

"A mighty fine slide!" applauded Ned.

"Margaret can't peep," teased Mary.  "Her
heart's in her mouth."

Margaret acknowledged the newcomer with a
sedate bow.  Her voice was severely accusing as
she said:

"Why do you find it necessary to skid that
horrible hill on poor Night?"

"Just dropping into good company, Margaret,"
was the bright reply.  "Night likes it."

"Very well!  You are welcome to—the
skidding," was the demure impertinence.

She turned from him to glance over the lake.
Had Andy caught her eyes he would have seen
deep down in their dark depths a gleam of exquisite
pleasure.  Good riding, and daring at that,
could not fail to delight Margaret, and of this the
wily Andy was well aware.  A moment later he
was enjoying her gay sallies as they rode side by
side.

The four riders advanced abreast with the girls
in the centre, the sound of their voices mingling
with the champing of bits and the restless tramping
of prancing hoofs.  Suddenly, to their right,
a gully opened up, winding its way into the hills.
Andy caught Ned's eye flashing him some significant
message.  Ned instantly realized his intention
and seizing Bobs' bridle turned abruptly into the
gully.  In the meantime Andy had adroitly
directed Margaret's attention to a big loon basking
in the water near the shore.  They were well past
the gully before she discovered that two of the
party were missing.  She halted Flash and looked
blankly at Andy.  With remarkable address he
simulated her expression.  She searched his
nonplussed features critically, passing their
fluctuations through her mental sieve.

"Two is company!" ejaculated Andy, shrugging
his shoulders and looking back upon the
empty trail.

"And three a crowd!" supplemented Margaret.

"And four a multitude!" completed Andy, a
tone of satisfaction betraying him.

Margaret tipped her head a trifle haughtily and
looked thoughtfully out over the lake.

"We have good company here, at any rate,"
ventured Andy.

Again Margaret gave him that searching glance.
For a moment she studied him, then the glimmers
of a whimsical mischief shone in her eyes and
throwing back her head she laughed merrily.

"What transparent creatures you men are!"
was her naïve remark.  "Obviously you and Ned
arranged this sudden and innocent happening."

"How do you know?" challenged Andy boldly.

"How very like a man!" she cried, laughing
quietly.  "There you go confessing it.  How do
I know?  Simply because Mary and I did not
arrange it.  It just happened.  And Mary!  I
wonder.  Was Mary kidnapped or is she an accomplice
deep-dyed in guilt?  Never mind.  There's a
loon on the water and two more on the shore.
We'll go ahead to the Big Stone and wait for
them."

So came Andy's opportunity, effected by his
masterly strategy and the conniving Ned.

Their horses secured, they took seats in
comfortable niches of the great stones and let their
gaze sweep over the lake.  A steady breeze fanned
their faces and the water lapped musically about
the base of the rock.  It set Margaret musing.

"Do you hear it, Andy?" she cried.  "I could
stay here forever and dream of the sea.  The sea
is in my blood and—my heart,—always in my
heart.  I have but to shut my eyes and I am a wild,
free Norse-girl tossing on the deep, or—a bold
pirate."

"Pirate is better," said Andy with a grin.
"You are always stealing something from
me—secrets and other things.  These dead Norse
maidens appear to better advantage these days
among the zoological collections of infamous old
bones in famous old museums."

Margaret looked up severe and shocked.

"Thank you!" said she with dignity.  "You
have an affectionate regard for my ancient ancestors."

"None whatever!" retorted Andy.  "Not a little
bit.  They are animals of another and stonier
age.  Give me a nice living girl with plenty of
breath in her body and a soft heart,—one with a
laugh in her eyes and her soul, who can loll
comfortably on a rock and revel dreamily in sheer
langour and laziness; a girl for instance like
Margaret Grant."

"You don't like me when I'm poetic—rapt."

"Don't I?  How like a woman!  You want me
to confess that I am mad about you.  But I will
not, for I am not—not the very slightest."

Margaret glanced up curiously, a smile playing
about her lips.

"The fact is, Margaret," continued Andy, "I
do like you—just you, in any mood, at any time
and on any condition.  It is not a foolish, mad
regard; just a cool, composed, deliberate but fatal,
tremendously fatal affection."

"Why fatal, Andy?  I don't like the word."

"Take a look at me.  Can you not see doom
written all over me?"

Margaret looked.  Their eyes met.  She smiled
whimsically.

"You look for all the world like a Norseman
ready for Valhalla.  But you are a very live and
hopeful and preposterous Yellow-hair.  In what
way am I connected with this horrible doom?"

"You are the wild Norse girl that has demented
your Norseman."

"Then you are mad after all?"

Again their eyes met.  A unique confusion lay
behind the light in the man's; something inscrutable
behind the humorous banter in the girl's.
Yet it was a happy unembarrassed moment.  Andy
seized it.

"Margaret," he said, rising and stepping toward
her.  "You guessed my artifice all right.  I alone
am to blame for sending Ned and Mary up the
gully.  There was no plot, only on my part.  I
decided that we must come to a clear understanding.
Lately I have had hours of anxious reflection.
I wanted to see you alone to-day.  Do you
think you love me, Margaret?"

The girl turned frank, open eyes upon him, all
levity gone.  There was something looking out of
his eyes that made her tremble.  A deep seriousness
stole over her face.  Slowly she averted her
gaze, looking out into the lake.  For a long time
she was silent.  Then she said gently:

"I love no one else, Andy.  But—I—I cannot
answer your question.  I know you love me.  I
am not sure that I love you.  Do I love you?
I—I cannot say.  Perhaps I do.  I have always
thought I did.  It may be true.  It may all have
come about in a way so gradual, so natural, so
ordinary that I am confused.  I cannot answer
you—now.  I do not know.  Something will help us."

Looking up she met his eyes.  They were full
of trouble.  A wave of compunction swept over
her.  Holding out her hands she leaned toward
him.

"Come," she said simply, "you may kiss me,
Andy.  I love your kisses."

"How I would like to," was his quiet return as
he fought the temptation.  "But I cannot.  It
would not be right.  You have a tender heart,
Margaret.  I love you ever so much more in the
last few moments.  I shall wait for the right to
kiss you.  Perhaps it will come."

The girl looked up surprised, a faint flush
dyeing her face.  Their attachment had obtained for
years and since the engagement two years before
they had enjoyed the sweet amenities of true
lovers.  A pang smote her as she realized that he
was right.

Upon riding back they discovered the delinquent
couple enjoying the shade of a giant oak just
beyond the entrance to the gully.  Joining forces the
troop rode homeward.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RED KNIGHT SCORES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE RED KNIGHT SCORES

.. vspace:: 2

The air was full of the merry laughter of
children.  It was the hour of noon and
Mary McClure was busy placing some
afternoon work upon the blackboard.  A sound on
the porch caused her to hold her flying hand.  In
a little there was a rap at the door and a giant
form stepped in.

"Good-day, lassie," said the deep voice of Ed. Pullar.

"Well, Mr. Pullar!" was the girl's cordial
greeting as she turned toward him.  "How glad
I am to see you.  Have you news of The Red
Knight?"

The venerable face was wreathed in smiles.
The happiness boded good tidings.

Bowing with cavalier grace he replied:

"Here is the communication.  I want you to
read it, lassie."

Stepping lightly to him she took the sheet and
pored over it swiftly.  Its contents were of
extreme interest to her.  It ran:

.. vspace:: 2

DEAR SIR:

.. vspace:: 1

Doubtless you have received my letter
acknowledging the safe arrival of your packages of
Red Knight.  The tests are proceeding apace and
already we are able to report results that may be
of far-reaching import to the grain growers of the
WORLD.  They will assuredly be gratifying to you.

Your samples have been subjected to an exhaustive
series of milling tests, disclosing the presence
in Red Knight of ASTONISHING MILLING PROPERTIES.

Also, we have studied carefully your very
complete history of the discovery and isolation of the
new variety and find that throughout the germination
tests up to the present stage, our observations
have resulted in a remarkable parallel of
your own record.

On the afternoon of the nineteenth we are holding
a Staff Conference to consult on the phases of
Red Knight, referred to above, with a view to
consider the speeding up of test operations.  The
imminency of the ensuing seed-time demands this
if we are to launch comprehensive field tests in
ALL OUR NATIONAL FARMS.

At the close of the Conference an informal
luncheon will be tendered to the DISCOVERERS of
THE RED KNIGHT.  We request the presence of
yourself and your son as the honourable guests of
the occasion.

I have the honour to be, sir,

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   Your obedient servant,
       JOHN T. C. NORRGRENE,
           *Minister of Agriculture*.

.. vspace:: 2

As she finished Mary clasped the letter to her
breast, lost in a moment's pensiveness.  Then she
lifted to the earnest face above her eyes aglow
with a brimming pleasure.

"You will go, Mr. Pullar!" she cried delightedly.
"You will go, of course, both you and Ned."

"Yes, I will go," was the quiet reply.  "I have
no desire now to tramp abroad but I am going to
do whatever I can to help these great men
discover the true character of The Red Knight.  Ned
is coming with me.  Dad Blackford will take care
of the farm.  It is a great moment for Ned and me."

The gray head lifted with a perceptible pride.

"Mr. Pullar!" she cried, stepping nearer to
him.  "Do I look pleased?"

He read the girl's face.

"Aye!  It is so, lassie.  'Tis the bonny bit you
have been with your bright, loyal heart."

"I am more than pleased," returned Mary.  "I
am elated.  It means that your big, noble plans will
be realized.  There can be no hitch now.  The Red
Knight is doing splendid work alone, but when
you and Ned join forces with him you will be
irresistible.  I see glorious times ahead."

The old man looked deep into the eyes bright
with the magic of a great hope.

"Bonny Mary!" said he gently.  "Bonny
Mary!—that is what I have been calling you in my
secret mind.—You have been a right wonderful
blessing to me for you—you believe in me.  And
your beauty and tenderness they have been recalling
the past these happy hours in the wee school-house.
I cannot thank you——"

"Hush, Mr. Pullar!" was her gentle interruption.
"You cannot thank people for their—their
regard, for their—love.  You—you just do
it too.  You love them back.  Do you not?"

The naïve, girlish innocence touched him.
Placing a great hand gently on her head he stooped
down and brushed her brow ever so lightly with
his lips.

"God bless you, lassie!" was the reverent benediction.

She watched him go out, his face beautiful with
a new light.

On the edge of the clearing he halted and looked
back to the school.

"Aye!  God bless you, lassie!" was his whisper.
"May He keep the light o' laughter always in your
bonny eyes!  Always!"

The proud form that vanished into the trees was
not unlike the strong young Apollo who wooed
the dainty Kitty Belaire.  Old Ed. Pullar was
putting up a fight, the stress of which was known
to only two.  Ned realized it by the insight of his
great affection; and Mary by the tender intuition
of her woman's heart.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BEHIND THE GREEN BAIZE DOOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIV


.. class:: center large bold

   BEHIND THE GREEN BAIZE DOOR

.. vspace:: 2

It was December, but the balm of the bright
days belied the season.  The fall had
elongated into a second springhood and save for
a crispness in the evening air it might have been
April.  Then, with the sudden vagary of prairie
weather, came a change.  It was three days after
the reception of the invitation to the luncheon.
The morning opened up with the mellow warmth
of Indian summer.  Ned Pullar and his father
carried their light overcoats upon their arms as
they boarded the seven-thirty for the long ride to
the City.  An hour later a chill breath swept down
from the north and winter was on.  Before their
journey was half completed the yellow and black
landscape had given place to a truly December
white.

Winter assumed the reins of power by the
grand inaugural of a considerable blizzard.  The
wind was not as riotous and gusty as in the
dreaded storm but steady and cold, snowing
heavily and driving a close, surface blow.  Night drew
down the curtain with the temperature slightly
lower, the breeze unabated in its mild steadiness
and the snow falling in a thickening sheet.  With
the stars blanketed by heavy clouds and the moon
stark dead the night was black.  The white
covering of snow made little difference to the
impenetrable pall.

Pellawa was unusually quiet though a few
hardy pedestrians braved the deepening drifts.
Louie Swale's joint, however, boasted a small and
interesting crowd.  About the bar were some
familiar faces, Snoopy Bill Baird, Nick Ford and
other members of McClure's Gang.  The Green
Baize Door was shut.  Two men occupied the
privacy of the "Square Room," sitting on opposite
sides of the table, each with his amber-hued
flask.  Rob McClure was plainly on the defensive,
withstanding some daring proposition being urged
by Reddy Sykes.  Their frequent swigs were
beginning to undermine McClure's scepticism.

"You think this Red Knight wheat, as you call
it, is no hoax," said Rob.

"It's the real goods," averred Sykes positively.
"Pullar has tested it for four years and the
experts in the University have pronounced it O.K.
That is why Ned and the old man are toting into
the City.  It is good enough to be valued by Ned
at one hundred dollars a bushel.  They tell me
John T. C. Norrgrene is interested in this thing
himself.  This wheat is due to cause a sensation
with the result that Ned Pullar's stock goes up
higher in the community as well as somewhere
else.  Ned Pullar's a mighty clever gink and I
have a hunch that he has nothing on his old man.
They've hit it lucky.  The Red Knight is a gold
mine to them."

McClure scowled.

"Grant that there's anything in it, how do you
propose to get hold of the wheat?  Four hundred
bushels is a big thing to lift."

"Easy when you go about it right.  I've got it
whittled to a hair trigger.  Touch it and away she
comes.  You want to clap your claws on Pullar.
Here is your chance to sink 'em deep.  That four
hundred bushels of Red Knight means more to
old Ed. Pullar than his farm, stock and the whole
works.  He's doting on it.  That makes it mean
still more to Ned.  Here is your chance to hand
Pullar and Son a dizzy one."

Sykes paused a moment while he took a long
drink.  McClure pondered the proposition with a
face that grew craftier the longer he simmered.
His cogitations were suspended suddenly, however,
by an innovation in the features of his
companion.  The pull of liquor had provoked
immediate result, altering Sykes' countenance and
causing a sudden expansion of his confidence.  With
his face overspread by a secretive leer he leaned
closer and whispered:

"I haven't let it loose before, Rob, but I have
red-hot grudge against your friend Pullar.  That
party has cut into my trail three or four times in
as many years.  We've locked horns before but the
breaks went to him.  His luck takes a sag to-night.
There are three ways we can beat him up.  We
can get him through the old man in the way we've
been figuring.  This would cripple him for fair, but
we've got to wait for our chance.  It will come.
The next best bet is a raid on The Red Knight.
This thing is bigger than you are reckoning.
Relieve him of this bunch of seed wheat and what
have we done?  We take forty thousand dollars
out of his pocket and smother the one big howl of
the old man's life.  I am for putting over this
surprise right off the bat."

He paused.  McClure waited patiently.

"Go on," said Rob.  "Give us your third bullet.
It may do the trick alone.  What is it?"

At the query Sykes' face changed in a manner
that surprised even his hardened colleague.  The
unscrupulous plotter became a fiend repulsively
malicious.  From his eyes shot a jealous malignity,
while upon every muscle of his face outcropped
the pure depravity of hate.  The mask had
inadvertently slipped.  Instinctively Sykes caught
himself and replaced it.  As McClure continued to
search his face he realized that his companion was
wearing his usual inscrutable smile.  He could
scarcely believe that the fiendish thing had
disclosed itself.

"Never mind number three," said Sykes.
"This is not a good time to consider it.  It will
be useful later."

McClure looked at him askance.  The fellow
possessed a knowledge that baffled him.  A vague
uneasiness crept into his mind, a premonition
warning him of the man.  Sykes realized that he
had jeopardized matters not a little and exercised
all his congenial graces to destroy the effect on
the mind of his companion.  He turned adroitly to
levity and the flask and very soon they were on
the old footing of boon companionship.

"We must get hold of The Red Knight," said
McClure, swinging suddenly in line under the spell
of the odorous whiskey.  "And the sooner, the
better."

"To-night!" announced Sykes with a fierce
shutting of his jaws.

McClure looked surprised.

"It's blowing a blizzard," was his objection.
"And it's a good ten mile run."

"The kind of night I should select to kill a
man," returned the other.  "I could slip up to him
out of the storm, pass him out and drop into the
blizzard again.  The snow would obligingly cover
all trails.  It is now eight o'clock.  Bill Baird and
his men are ready, six teams all told.  They will
pull the little raid at twelve.  Each man will have
a sleigh with double box and no bells.  They will
slip up the Valley along Pullar's hay trail to his
barnyard, coming in from the field instead of the
road.  The wheat is all located—two hundred
bushels in the house, a hundred in the granary and
the balance in a portable bin in the southeast
quarter."

"But Blackford is at the house.  He'll put up a
scrap.  You can't pull Dad's leg.  He'll make a
mess of it."

"We've arranged to put the old bloke away
while the fun is on and it won't need any rough
work.  Leave Blackford to me."

"But they'll drop on us instantly without a clue.
They'll search my farm and the elevators and
every building in Pellawa."

Sykes threw back his head in glee.

"You're late coming into the game, Rob.
That's the trouble!"  And he poked the other
playfully on the chest.  "We are not bringing the
wheat in here.  Oh, no.  There is Old Hunt's, the
Squatter's shack.  It is water tight and drift tight
and has not been used since the old geezer kicked
out two years ago.  The boys will drop the stuff
there and we can market it by degrees through the
winter.  We'll hush up the detective stunt with an
alibi, an alibi that will cover the honour of eight
good men.  Here's the how.  The gang's with
Louie now.  When we are ready they come in here
for an all-night deal.  Louie and the crowd see
them enter.  We let them out quietly through the
rear into the dark.  They sneak through the snow
and do the job and turn up here in the wee sma'
hours.  Louie will not disturb the Square Room.
But he can swear that we held it for the night.
We'll make it worth his while.  There you are.
But the alibi will not be needed at all.  The
blizzard will blind the trail and pad the whole event.
This storm will cover over any track in ten minutes.
It is getting late and the men are waiting."

Sykes paused significantly.

"Call them in," said McClure, rubbing his
hands in glee.  "You are a wonder, Red!  We'll
send them on the smart hike."

The Green Baize Door opened and closed a few
minutes later on the full gang of plotters.  After
being put through a detailed rehearsal of Sykes'
plan they drank a copious draft to the success of
the adventure.

"This will be a come-back on that blankety
Hallowe'en foul," said Snoopy Bill with an avenging
grin.  "We'll proceed to tap Pullar a little for
his fun."

The remark was followed by a chorus of curses
that revealed the rankle of revenge.  This motive
was the sleeping thing Sykes had roused in his
plying of the gang.

"You'll reach Pullar's farm around twelve,"
concluded Sykes.  "A half-hour should see you
loaded for the haul to Hunt's.  You'll be back here
by four.  Come in quietly."

Thus adjured, Snoopy Bill and his men, stealing
out through the rear, vanished into the darkness
and set off on their expedition.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ONE BLACK NIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XV


.. class:: center large bold

   ONE BLACK NIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

Dad Blackford was late in doing up
the chores, for the snow had presented
him with some unforeseen problems, hampering
greatly the bedding and feeding.  Not until
everything was snug from the storm did he think
of indulging in his evening solace.  While dreaming
amid the blue circles of smoke there came to
him Ned's admonition about The Red Knight.  It
was his last word.

"See that no harm comes to The Red Knight,
Dad," was Ned's laughing caution.  "It is the
one thing on the farm that Dad would not part
with."

"Ah!" said the old man with sudden decision,
"I maun take a turn hout to the barn.  The snow
moight 'arm the bonny corn."

Lighting his lantern he went out and was
gratified to find that the grain was snugly secure.
When he came in he went to the room where lay
the two hundred bushels.  Opening the door he
flashed his lantern about.  Here, too, all was
weather-tight.  At sight of the pile of wonderful
wheat he exclaimed in admiration.  Picking up a
handful he held it close to the light.

"'Ee's wealthy-loike!" said the old man, caressing
the plump brown grains with his fingers.
"'Ee's the fat corn und 'evvy!  The old un'll make
a pile on un."

Shutting the door he returned to his pipe and
dreamed of visions of riches in store for Ned and
his father, his innocent old face glowing with
pleasure at the contemplation of their good
fortune.  Rising at length he went to the door, took
a long look out into the black night, then shut it
carefully and retired to his bed.

It was nearing the hour of midnight when he
was aroused from sleep by a thumping upon the
door.  Rising he threw up the sash and looked
down.

"Hello!  Is that Mr. Blackford?" called an
anxious voice.

"Hit be," was the succinct response.

"I am from Jake McCarragh's.  One of his
mares is down and he wants you to come over and
give us a hand."

"Ah!  'Ee's a 'orse sick.  Ah'll coome along,"
was the kind response.

"I'm on the hike," said the voice below.  "I'll
foot it back on the double quick and help Jake.
You hurry after as fast as you can."

The case was evidently urgent.

"Hal roight, go a'ead.  Ah'll be along," replied
the old man, hastening to dress.

In a short time he was ready and stepped out
into the storm, trudging down the lane and off
into the north with the blizzard in his face.  He
did not hear the muffled beat of galloping hoofs as
he emerged into the road-allowance.

.. vspace:: 2

As we have mentioned before, there were pedestrians
about the drifted streets of Pellawa.  One
of these venturesome wanderers was the little
French bagger of the Valley Outfit, Jean Benoit.
He had come to Pellawa in the morning and untoward
obstructions had kept him from setting out
on his return home.  He was still "hung up" and
was plunging impatiently through the drifts with
determination to make a swift wind up of business
when he heard a voice down the lane to his right.

"You are sure Pullar's away?" came clearly
through the storm.

"Went in on the morning train with the old
man," replied another voice.

Jean halted.  The mention of Pullar had
awakened his curiosity.

"I'd hate to run into the Valley boss.  He's a
bang-up hitter."

"No danger.  We're squaring with Pullar to-night.
He'll never know who pinched his wheat."

At this point a mutual laugh came through the
darkness.

"You meet me with the others at Morrison's
bluff.  That's the line, eh?"

"Righto!  We'll slip into Pullar's yard about
twelve.  So long."

There was no more.  The men had passed on.
Jean lingered.  He had not caught the full
significance of the brief dialogue, for he could not
hear every word and the English troubled him in
places.  He pieced enough together, however, to
conclude that some foul work was meditated
against Ned.  He held his counsel and rushed
through preparations for departure.  As he took
the South Cut in his descent into the Valley he
saw a light in the Grant home.  So agitated had
he become in his review of the incident in the
village that he decided to lay the matter before
Charles Grant.

The farmer was in bed, but at his knock a light
step tripped down the stairs and Margaret opened
the door.  She invited him in.  Grant was
promptly aroused and evidenced serious
perturbation at Jean's story.

"I am afraid there is some devilment afoot,"
was his comment.  "You say there may be a big
gang at work?"

"Wan, two, tree, four!  Mebbe other!  I do
not know.  I tink many."

"Can it be an attempt to steal Mr. Pullar's new
wheat?" ventured Margaret.  "Mary has been
telling me so much about it.  I saw her to-day.
Ned and his father have gone into the City at the
call of John T. C. Norrgrene."

"It may be that, lass," agreed her father.
"Jean's tale points that way."

"They are after The Red Knight!" said Margaret
with intuitive conviction.  "It is a terrible
night.  What can poor old Dad Blackford do
against a gang of daring thieves?"

"We'll take a hand in it ourselves," said Grant
grimly.  "Jean, you take the south trail and let
Easy Murphy know.  I'll dress and pick up
Lawrie and——"

"I'll saddle Flash, Dad," interrupted Margaret.
"I'm all ready.  I can ride over and let Andy
know."

Grant looked at the girl a second, considering.

"Very well, lass!  Do it," said her father with
a smile.  "Ye're good for it and there is not any
time to waste.  Be careful, for the night is dark."

Before her father had reached the stable
Margaret was in the saddle and away.

Andy was easily aroused and in an incredibly
short time was astride Night.

"You ride back home," directed he to Margaret.
"I'll push Night through.  It is half-past
eleven and we have four miles to run.  I may be
in time to scare them off.  Your Dad and the
others will be right on my heels."

With a farewell shout he plunged into the
storm.  The sound of Night's speeding hoofs
smote her ears then died away.  Reluctantly she
turned Flash for home and trotted off.  They had
proceeded but a few rods when she reined him in
and halted abruptly, loitering irresolute.

"Come, Flash!  About!" was her sudden command.
"We'll be in it, too."

Wheeling her mount she sent him at a gallop
after Night and his rider.

.. vspace:: 2

Andy put his horse through at a stiff pace.  The
homestead was shrouded in blackness as he
approached.  Riding through the gate he cantered
swiftly down the lane, and pulled up beside the
house.  He had but halted when he discerned the
dim movement of figures on all sides of him.
With the consciousness of their presence came the
realization that they were men.

"Good-night, gentlemen!" he called.

But there was no reply.  Instead he could hear
smothered cries of chagrin and savage anger,
followed by a rush of the encompassing forms.
Night's bridle was seized and strong hands
grappled him, dragging him from the saddle.
Terrified by the rough handling and mysterious
commotion the horse reared and plunged, tearing away
from her captors.  Leaping free she dashed off
down the lane.

As Andy came to earth he clutched one of his
assailants and they rolled over.  In the darkness
the others seizing his foeman by mistake wrenched
him away, leaving Andy free.  Leaping to his feet,
he backed to the wall of the house.  Discovering
their mistake they rushed him again.  He struck
out and a shadow staggered and fell.  They closed
in as another went down.  Hands seized him on
every side.  He was struggling mightily, tossing
his assailants about, when he heard a voice shrill
out above the smothered tumult.  He realized that
it was Margaret's cry and conscious that help was
near, fought with renewed fury to free his arms.
Then something crashed upon his head and he
tottered back, falling in a heap against the wall.

Speeding along on the trail behind, Margaret
had not spared her horse.  She had slowed up and
was peering through the darkness for the gate
when Flash swerved violently, almost unseating
her.  At the same time there dashed past her some
fleeing thing.  All she caught was the dim shadow
of an empty saddle and flying stirrups.  She knew
it was Night.  Thrilled by a foreboding of disaster
she charged down the lane.  She rode up to the
house, halting Flash on his haunches at the group
of struggling men.  She could hear the heavy
breathing and knew that Andy was fighting
desperately with his back to the wall.  She thought of
riding Flash upon them but checked him, fearing
she might injure Andy himself.  A sense of
impotence swept over her.  Then flashed into her
mind an idea.  Rising in her stirrups she shouted:

"Father!  Men!  This way!"

Immediately Andy went down, but at the same
instant Snoopy Bill and his men were stampeded.
Sure that a rescue party was on them they dropped
their victim and bolted for the sleighs.  Leaping
in they whirled their teams about and lashing them
to a run fled out of the yard and back over the
fields.

Ten minutes later when Grant galloped up with
the others they found Margaret sitting in the snow
with Andy's head upon her lap.

"Lassie!" cried the astonished Grant.  "You here?"

"Yes, Father!" was her quiet reply.  "I got
here too late to save Andy.  They've hurt him
terribly."

"Be easy, lass!" soothed the man, "it may not
be sae serious.  The lad will be coming round in a
meenit."

They carried him into the house and laid him
upon a couch.  A quick examination discovered
a gash in the head from some heavy implement.

"It is a concussion," said Grant.  "But not
vera deep.  Aye, he is coming out."

Andy opened his eyes.  The first object he
became conscious of was the face of Margaret
bending over him.  Smiling faintly he observed in
surprise:

"You here, Margaret?  I thought I heard you
shout just before they got me."

He closed his eyes drowsily.

"You sent me home," she whispered in his
ear.  "But I changed my mind and followed you."

When she looked up she discovered that they
were alone.

"You should not have come," was the gentle
reprimand.

"Indeed?  I think you were very rude to send
me away."

"But I am glad you are here, now," said he
contentedly.

"You really are?"

"Really."

"And so am I," said the girl softly.  "Because—because,
Andy, that wonderful 'something' has
happened.  Now I know beyond all doubt that I
have always loved you and—I love you now."

"Then," said he, drawing her head down to
him, "then——"

"You may kiss me with a clear conscience, Andy."

.. vspace:: 2

While Margaret was dispensing her welcome
ministrations Grant and his men were going over
the buildings.  Their swift search found everything
intact.  Two of the riders who had gone out
to the portable granary reported all well there.
Not a grain of The Red Knight had been touched.
While this was gratifying, the men's faces were
exceedingly grave.  Nowhere on the premises
could they find Dad Blackford.  They were
beginning to discuss the probability of foul play
when Easy Murphy gave a yell.

"Hist, ladies and gintlemen!" said he.  "Take
a look.  'Tis the missing link himsilf, disguised as
Santa Clause."

They all took a look and there on the porch
stood Dad Blackford hatless and dishevelled, with
snow-matted beard and a very red and perspiring
face.  He was blowing like a grampus and looked
for all the world like the merry personality of
Christmas tide.  His eyes were astonished at the
sight they met and how they sparkled as they
recounted to him the night's adventures.  His joy at
finding that all was well more than compensated
for the shameless treatment he had received at the
hands of the artful Sykes.

When Margaret got him alone she somewhat
surprised him.

"Never mind, Dad," she confided.  "After all
it's been a delightful adventure.  Andy got a sore
head but it will soon be better.  His heart is well
again."

Dad looked at her a moment dumbfounded.
Then he tumbled and the laughter of a merry
heart twinkled in his eyes.

"Been 'avin' a quarrel with un?" he teased.

"No.  Just a little misunderstanding," she
whispered back.

This bit of confidence turned the whole affair
into a thing of joy for the kind-hearted old Englishman.

.. vspace:: 2

While this tête-à-tête was taking place the men
were riding down the vandals by the aid of lighted
lanterns.  The trail was dim to begin with,
however, and grew dimmer as they swerved to the west
out upon the high prairie.  Here it vanished
altogether and the party returned.  The blackness of
the night and the heavily drifting snow enabled
Snoopy Bill and his men to make a clean get-away.

Following Sykes' plan providing for misadventure
they turned into the west instead of the east
and recrossed the Valley about the west end of the
lake, eventually arriving in the Square Room
thoroughly wearied and disgruntled and two hours
behind schedule time.

Sykes' face was a picture of blank dismay;
McClure's of rage.

"Where is the squealer?" cried Bob McClure
as he stalked among the men.

Blasphemous and resentful protestations quite
evidently sincere came from all parts of the room.

"No, Rob!" said Snoopy Bill deliberately.
"You are a liar if you say it.  There isn't a
squealer in the gang.  Not a man laid down.  Any
squealing that may have taken place was let out
by the gents who stayed behind."

Reddy Sykes read the savage light in Baird's
eyes.

"You are straight, Bill," he cried soothingly.
"Straight as a die and I know it.  The boys came
through.  But somebody outside got wise.  We'll
find out and when we do somebody's due to get a
blankety unpleasant surprise.  The whole thing
ran out to dope.  We should have that wheat in
Hunt's shack.  It's Pullar's luck.  But it will
change.  Here's to a lucky break."

He held his flask high.  The men caught his
spirit and responded with a shout.  For an hour
the crew caroused, drinking heavily as they
debated the fiasco, breaking up before dawn.

Dad Blackford made a full report to Ned.
Though no trace of the perpetrators of the offense
had been obtained, his mind flew instantly to his
two enemies.  The Red Knight had been their
objective.  The incident was big with warning to
him.  It assured him of two things: of their
malicious, untiring hate; of their dangerous resource.
Thoughts of Mary pressed heavily upon him.  He
remembered her words:

"There is no other way.  But, Ned, you will
have to be right, always, as well as irresistible.  I
know you will be."

"It's a stiff programme, little girl," he reflected
ruefully.  "But we'll stay with it."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SPIDER WEAVES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE SPIDER WEAVES

.. vspace:: 2

Snow!  Snow!  In glistening deserts!
Ghastly white blankets of it hung to the
sky-rim!  The hills, frosted bridal cakes,
terrace on terrace!  The valleys, rolls and folds
and gouges of white!  Over all the blue yawn of
an empty sky!  The air stabs with its invisible,
minute Damascus daggers.  It is a smiting vacuity,
frozen, tense.  One's breath floats from the
lips in a powdered cloud of whitening mist.  It is
winter—the snapping, crackling, detonating,
hoary-headed winter of the North!

The February sun pours down on the plains in
a fierce, garish flow, shedding no warmth from its
low-slanting shafts.  Pellawa is hushed to
sepulchral solitude in the grim embrace of "forty
below."  An occasional sleigh drifts phantom-like
along the street, its runners emitting a frosty
singing.  Only the dozens of smoke columns rising
straight and high in the air proclaim the village a
haunt of the living.

Wrapped in the comfort of an immense buffalo
coat, Reddy Sykes stepped into a waiting cutter.

"Rob McClure's!" was his brief direction to
the driver.

As the team trotted down the street and out
over the white expanse he settled himself snugly
among the robes.  Sykes was in fine fettle, with
eyes unusually bright.  His great chest expanded
in deep breaths of self-gratification.  His elation
was somewhat due to the bibber's effervescence.
The odour of his habitual elixir exhaled copiously
from his breath.  But here was another stimulant
none the less powerful.  The fox was out with his
nose in the wind hugging a live trace.  There was
game in the wind.

He reached McClure's as the sun rolled under
the reddened valley in a disk of blood.  Leaving
the cutter he stepped briskly to the door.  While
stamping the snow from his feet, preparatory to
knocking, a musical voice greeted him and Mary
McClure appeared miraculously at his side, an
apple-cheeked, cherry-lipped Venus-in-furs.  She
had just driven in from The Craggs.

"Pardon me!" said Sykes, in cavalier
attentiveness, reaching out for the knob she had
already taken.  The rare beauty of the girl and her
close presence ensnared him.  Recklessly obedient
to a sudden impulse, he seized her hand and drew
her closer to him.  For the briefest instant he
looked into her eyes with daring assurance.

"Mary!" he said softly, imprisoning firmly her
struggling hand, "what a chic little wench you are!
Do you realize that you are maddening in those
furs, with your eyes and colour and lips?  Your
lips!" he repeated, leaning toward her.

The cordial smile faded swiftly from her eyes
and the red cheeks blanched.

"Please release my hand, Mr. Sykes," she
commanded, in a low, distressed tone.

Looking down into her indignant eyes he saw
something there that counselled hasty obedience.
He let go at once.

"Sorry, Mary!" was his apology in a tone
affecting deep penitence.  "I am demented over you.
You are distracting to-night.  Will you let me in?
I have come to see your father."

Making no reply she opened the door.

"Mr. Sykes is here, Mother," was the quiet
announcement.  "He drove up just as I came in
from stabling Bobs.  He wishes to see Father at
once."

Mrs. McClure cordially welcomed the effusively
agreeable guest, guiding him to the office.  In a
very few minutes he reappeared, accompanied by
McClure, who proceeded to make hasty preparations
for the trail.

"You go ahead," said he to Sykes.  "I'll come
along in my own rig."

"Are you leaving before tea?" asked Mrs. McClure
in surprise.

"Yes," was the abrupt response.  "We have a
big deal on.  I'll not be back until late."

As the men went out the two women looked at
each other in silent significance.  On the topic of
father and husband their lips were sealed.  At the
moment their minds were exceedingly busy.  The
burning light in Mary's eyes disturbed her mother.

"You are troubled, daughter?" was the gentle
question as she threw her arms about the girl.
"Perhaps it will help us both to talk it over.  I
think it high time that we should resume our little
confidences."

Returning the embrace and caress, Mary looked
soberly into her mother's eyes.

"It is a fear I have had for weeks, Mother,"
said she, responding to her mother's question.
"Until to-day it was more or less vague.  Now it
is real.  I am convinced there is ground for a
little anxiety on my part.  Can you not surmise it?"

Helen McClure studied the serious eyes so near
her.  She shook her head.

"No.  I do not think it would be wise to guess.
Can you not tell me?"

"I shudder at the influence Mr. Sykes has over
Father," said Mary reminiscently.  "It alarms me
to see that power grow stronger every day.
Candidly, Mother, I am afraid of the deal they are in
such haste to arrange.  There was something
unpleasantly secretive in their manner just now.  I
did not like the look in Dad's eyes."

"Is this your fear?" pressed the mother gently.

"This is involved," returned Mary.  "I have
an even more personal anxiety.  I am afraid of
the man, Chesley Sykes.  He is growing too
attentive and familiar.  Why?  I do not know.  I
have never liked him and he has no right to press
his intimacy.  He is irrepressible, laughs at my
snubs and deports himself with such annoying
confidence.  This all came about suddenly in the early
winter.  Why should he insist on a friendship that
is detestable to me?"

Mary paused, awaiting some response to her
appeal.  But her mother hazarded no guess.

"You will remember, Mother," resumed Mary
reflectively, "that I stopped riding the Valley
during those wonderful days in December.  I did that
because of a wholesome fear of Chesley Sykes.  I
had a persistent feeling that he was shadowing me.
Several times during my rides along the river I
'happened' upon him.  One day, seized with an
intuition that somebody was trailing me, I slipped
into a cowpath and detouring quickly, watched the
back trail from a covert.  In a few minutes Sykes
rode up on that big hunter of his.  He pulled up
at the cowpath and leaning down studied it a
moment.  Satisfied, at length, he turned into Bobs'
tracks and followed me.  As he turned down the
path he spoke to his horse.  I caught the words
and they frightened me.

"'King!' said he, with that confident laugh,
'nothing our little lady can do will blind our trail.
She'll find one Sykes in at the killing.  She's a
neat little fox but we'll gather her brush.'

"I shook him by sending Bobs into the Willow
and up-stream.  After riding out of sight about a
bend we stole into the trees and made all haste for
home.

"To-night at the door he was rude and maudlin.
He had been drinking and was therefore unwise.
He professed to be penitent, yet I could see his
audacious assurance cropping out.  This is the
thing that makes me tremble.  He has some reason
for this boldness.  He has Dad's approval.  It is
evidently Dad's will that I foster intimate relations
with his friend.  That I will not do."

Looking into her daughter's glowing eyes,
Helen McClure was deeply conscious of the
trouble there.  Her own mind was alarmed and
had been for many days.  She knew only too well
that Mary had plumbed correctly her father's
intentions as to her relations with Sykes.  She was
also sure of something that the girl was only dimly
suspicious of.  She had long since concluded that
the two men had reached some definite agreement
that had far-reaching interest for Mary.  Their
projects seemed to involve her compliance.  The
mother knew that circumstances were leading to a
clash of wills.  But she decided that reticence was
best for the present.

"I am sorry you are in trouble, Mary," said the
mother affectionately.  "You have certainly real
ground for your distrust of Sykes.  Avoid him.
And if a swift decision should ever be thrust upon
you, follow your heart.  That is the only safe
way.  But we must not grow pessimistic, daughter.
There are bright days ahead.  We will help
them to come quickly."

The reserve with which her mother spoke
convinced Mary of grave reasons for caution.
Running up to her room she pondered the events of
the last hour.  As she dwelt upon her experiences
and pieced her disturbing reflections she found
herself looking into the future with a distinct sense
of trepidation.

The night was dark, a night of stars dazzlingly
bright.  There was a traveller on the Pellawa
trail.  Ned Pullar was drawing near the homestead
upon his return from the village.  The air
was calm save for the slight drift of a five-mile
breeze caused by his ride into the north.  Even
this faint wind had the biting tang of the
extremely low temperature, forcing him to avert his
face from its freezing breath.  Giving a sudden,
piercing whistle he sent his horses into a smart
trot.

He was the prey to a vague uneasiness.  That
morning he had set out with his father with their
two loads of Red Knight.  A great deal of time
had been spent at the village making up the
shipments to the various national farms.  It was late
before they were ready to set out for home.  Then
occurred a hitch.  They were taking back with
them a power fanning mill.  When they drove
up to Nick Ford's implement shed they were
disappointed to find that the mill had not been
completely set up.  It would take quite half an hour,
so Ford advised them.

"I'll take the engine with me," said Ned.  "I
can set out ahead and get busy with the chores.
You will be along in an hour or so."

"That will be the best plan," agreed the old man.

His father had no sooner agreed to the suggestion
than a misgiving swept over Ned.  A glance
at his father's face reassured him, however, and he
let the arrangement stand.  Loading the gasoline
engine he set off.  As he drove along he debated
the wisdom of his decision.  Three months ago he
would not have left his father alone in Pellawa.
But these months had seen a remarkable change in
Edward Pullar.  He had developed a dignity and
self-reliance that Ned knew was based in a sudden
accretion of strength.  His dreams of The Red
Knight were ennobling and the achievement of the
hopes of long years had rallied him.  He felt it
safe to trust him alone in the village with its
lurking danger, and yet—he wished again and again
that he had waited with his father.  The nearer
he drew to the homestead the greater grew his
uneasiness.

Edward Pullar went into the little office
occupying a corner of the implement shed and sat down
prepared to patiently await the completion of
Ford's task.  It was the only place in the village
where he could pass the time with safety.  Louie
Swale's and Sparrow's both occurred to him as the
common rendezvous of travellers, but he passed
them up with a shudder.  He well knew his weakness
and wished greatly to vindicate Ned's faith in
him.  The business of setting up the mill did not
progress continuously.  In fact, several times
Ford had dropped his tools to visit the Square
Room.  There he at length met Sykes and
McClure.  The trio held ominous consultation.

"Old Ed. is in my office," replied Ford to a
question from Sykes.  "Ned must be nearly
home.  You did not meet him?"

"No.  He slipped down into the Valley just as
we drove out of Rob's."

"I've killed about all the time I dare without
arousing his suspicion.  Let us get him in here."

McClure shook his head emphatically.

"Nothing doing," was his impatient retort.
"He's dodged it for months.  We'll have to get
him without his knowing it."

Sykes sat back watching the others and sipping
his glass reflectively.  With a laugh of easy
assurance he rocked forward in his chair.

"It will be easy," said he with a cryptic smile.
"It all depends on you, Ford.  If you will take
your time and keep your head the thing is done.
I've got the paper ready.  Old Ed. can hold a
tankful and walk as straight as a post.  I've seen
him drunk as a lord but to all appearances as quiet
and wise as a judge.  We'll get Cy Marshall in to
witness the deal.  Cy's eyesight is not what it used
to be, but it is all we could desire.  Might be lucky
later to have the documents OK-ed by a magistrate
whose record is without blemish.  Here is a
little secret," said he, drawing a small vial from
his pocket.

Opening the tube he dropped a tiny tablet into
his palm.  Glancing significantly at Ford he said:

"You are the only one who can use it, Nick."

But Ford shook his head dubiously.

"Perfectly harmless!" urged Sykes.  "He'll
sleep it down in six hours and—it gets you a
couple of hundred now and a share when Foyle
comes through."

Ford shifted.  Sykes took out a roll of bills.
While Ford hung back Sykes opened a flask and
dropped in the tablet.  The drug dissolved swiftly,
leaving the liquor as before.  Sykes laughed.

"I repeat, it is perfectly harmless," said he.  "I
could drink it myself."  Then he added with a
fiendish glimmer in his eyes Rob McClure had seen
there once before, "They got you sloppy drunk
last fall, Nick, and put Rob's gang on the hog,
then threw you into the lake to cool you off.  Here
is your chance to hand Pullar a sleeper.  Are you
afraid to put this easy thing across?"

With a vengeful laugh Nick reached for the
flask.

"See what we can do with it," said he grimly.
"The laugh's on Ned."

"Rob and I'll meander down to the office," said
Sykes casually.  "We'll camp there for an hour.
Cy is handy any time we want him.  I'll stay at
the desk.  Rob will keep his eye on you and Old
Ed.  We'll have to work fast, but without any
hurry, remember that, without any hurry while
Cy is around."

Thrusting the flask in an inner pocket Ford took
his departure.

Meanwhile Edward Pullar waited in the
implement office.  The room was very small and
warmed by a very large air-tight heater.  He
grew so warm he took off his fur coat.  Ford
passed in and out, spending a moment in pleasant
chat.  Alone once more his inactivity and the
warmth combined to make him drowsy.  His head
dropped forward at times in a brief doze.  But
he would instantly rouse and glance out the
window.  His throat and lips grew dry and a thirst
came over him.  He went over to a pail in the
corner, but was disappointed to find it contained no
water.  He resumed his chair.

As he sat by the window looking out into the
falling night Ford entered and after shuffling a
moment about the little desk went out.  The thirst
recurred, but as there was no way to slake it, he
patiently endured the discomfort.  His thoughts
followed Ned along the trail or drifted into the
fascinating world of The Red Knight.  Then the
"thing" began to creep upon him.  Gradually he
became aware of an odour familiar and bibulously
gratifying.  At first it was but a fleeting
inhalation.  Then it became continuous, tripling in its
pleasing gratefulness.  A possibility flashed into
his mind.  He glanced about.  There it was upon
the desk within easy reach.  He could just discern
it in the dim light.  It was a flask three parts full.
Ford had left it carelessly on the edge of the drop
leaf, the cork out.  Without any act of volition
his hand reached out and his fingers closed on the
glass.  As he felt the dear, familiar form of the
flask a mighty thirst welled up.  But he halted,
and, letting go of the bottle, snatched his hand
away as if stung by a serpent.  The realization of
what he was about to do shook him strangely.
Clenching his hands he turned away, lifting his
head in proud resolution.  He would fight this
devil sitting so quietly by him.

Ford came in again and lit the dirty lamp.  He
picked up the bottle.

"You'll excuse me, Ed.," said he apologetically.
"But it's so raw out there I've got to take a
warmer.  Just a nip.  There!"

He had tipped the glass, but none of the liquor
had passed his lips.  The gurgle was maddening
to the old man.

"You're welcome to a swig, Ed.," said Ford in
a friendly manner.  "But I'll not ask you to
indulge, for I know you're on the water-wagon these
days.  I'll leave the 'wee drap' handy in case you
take a notion."

He went out.

Ten minutes passed and the fight against the
heat and the terrible thirst went swayingly on.
The sight of the yellow liquid coupled with the
subtle and odorous fumes from the breath of
Bacchus plied him with an exquisite torment.  He
began to fear the "thing" again.  Rising, he put
on his coat and prepared for a stroll in the keen
night without.  With his hand on the door-knob
he looked back, pausing irresolute.  Slowly his
fingers relaxed and he sat down once more.

A physical lassitude began to steal over him, due
to the excessive heat.  The desire to drink became
overmasteringly insistent.  The smell of the
vaporizing whiskey was sweeter than perfumes of
Arabia.  In a little he became conscious of
nothing else.  Then he found himself sitting beside the
desk, leaning heavily upon it, the empty flask in his
hand.  His throat was parched and his brain on
fire.  He looked at the bottle with burning eyes.
It was empty!  Empty!  As he contemplated it
wildly Ford entered.

"Your mill is about ready," said he.  "How
are you making it?"

"Say, Nick!" whispered the old man cunningly,
"I've stolen a march on you.  The whiskey's
all gone.  I'd give a hundred dollars for a
right good drink.  Where can we get it?"

Ford looked at the inebriate, startled at the wild
leer and the pitiable obsequiousness of the great
figure.

"Too bad she's dry!" was the response.  "That
was the last drop I had.  Come along with me.
I'll fix you up."

They went out together, arriving a few minutes
later at Sykes' office.  Before they entered Ford
whispered in his ear:

"Straighten up, Ed.  That was strong stuff.
It's got you swinging.  These fellows will let you
have all you want after you sign up."

"How?—how is that?" cried the old man in a
half-startled voice, as he forced himself to walk
erect.

"Hush!" was the admonitory reply.  "It's
this way.  They have no right to let you have it,
and unless you sign three or four little papers,
promising not to give them away, why, of course,
they don't take the chance.  You do the signing
and leave the rest to me.  Keep straight while we
are inside.  We'll get a bottle and go back to the
shed."

"I understand, Nick," was the solemn response.
"I'll protect the boys."

They entered.  McClure, Sykes and Cy Marshall
were within.

"Here is Ed. Pullar," said Nick.  "He's ready
to sign up and in an all-fired hurry.  It's a long
trip to The Craggs."

"We'll let him go quick," responded Sykes in a
businesslike tone.  "You sign here, Mr. Pullar."

Exerting all his power of will Edward Pullar
wrote his name on a number of papers.  The
signature was duly certified by Cy Marshall.  They
loitered a moment, during which Sykes kept up a
casual chat.  Stepping near, Ford at length
whispered:

"We'll get out.  I've got it.  Steady and slow,
old man."

Obediently the old man followed him through
the door.  As the door shut his fingers closed
around the promised flask.  Then with a drunken
punctiliousness he halted.

"Say, Nick!" was the shocked whisper.  "We
forgot to settle with the boys!"

Nick laughed.

"It's all right, Ed.," was the soothing response.
"I laid down the price.  It's my treat."

With a relieved laugh the old man trudged after
him.

Ford assisted his victim to hitch up his horses
and load the mill, joining him in a last drink
before he sent him into the bitter night.

At his office Sykes sat back in his chair rubbing
his hands complacently, while Rob McClure stared
at the parchments decorated with the clear
signature of Edward Pullar.

"It's a tidy little clean-up," was Rob's gratified
observation.

"Tidy's the word and tight!" agreed Sykes
with acquiescing nods.  "We've got Pullar
hogtied with a two-inch rope.  The law isn't made
that can bust these agreements.  When Hank
Foyle signs up we wind up a very pleasant and
totally regular deal."

Arrived at the homestead, Ned worked swiftly
at his tasks.  The chores finished, he ran into the
house and busied himself preparing their simple
meal.  This too accomplished, he opened the mail
and delved into the pile of letters.  He had barely
entered upon the perusal of the first letter when he
set it down absent-mindedly.  He was troubled at
the non-appearance of his father.  The uneasiness
aroused along the trail changed suddenly to a fear
that all was not right.  He had expected to hear
the bells within an hour after his arrival.  It was
now nearly two.  Throwing on cap and coat, he
walked down the lane to the road-allowance and
peered into the main trail.  It was empty as far as
the eye could define.  With hand to ear he
listened.  There was no sound in all the frozen
stillness.  It was a deadly night for the helpless
traveller.  The temperature was creeping lower every
minute.  He thought of the white death that steals
noiselessly through a night like this.  With the
thought came a premonition.  A depressive fear
weighed him down.

Hurrying back to the house he made ready for a
drive, leaving the waiting meal untouched.
Throwing the driving harness on Darkey and his
mate he hitched them to the cutter and set off for
the village.  They sped along at a twelve-mile clip,
their nimble hoofs tattooing the dash with a
fusillade of snow chips.  The wind of their own
motion smote his face with its subtle sting, blanching
its exposed surfaces before he realized the frost
was at work.  Ducking into the warm collar, he
avoided a bad bite.  Crouching behind the wall of
fur, his mind swiftly conjured the fate of an
unfortunate numbed by the fancied warmth of liquor.
Pathetic cases of terrible exposures and death
flitted before his mind.  Scarcely aware of it, he
urged his flying horses to fifteen miles.

Unceasingly he searched the shadowy twin-ribbon
of trail beyond the end of the cutter tongue.
At length they dipped into the Northwest Cut
and dashed over the Valley to the south climb.
There as they were taking the sharp curve about
a shoulder of the hill, his horses swerved suddenly
in a shying leap.  He halted them perilously near
the edge of the steep embankment.  Coming slowly
about the hill was his father's team.  They were
taking the decline soberly and carefully and
apparently on their own initiative.  There was no driver
in sight.  At a sharp command from Ned they
halted.  Leaping from his cutter, he looked over
the edge of the double box.  In the bottom of the
sleigh lay his father, motionless.

With a poignant cry Ned vaulted into the sleigh.
He was shocked with a horrible fear as he
discovered cap and gauntlets removed and coat wide
open.  A quick glance filled him with increased
alarm.  Hands and face of the sleeper were white
with the wax-like colour of the dead.  Hastily he
thrust on cap and gauntlets and closed the open
coat.  Arranging the robes in the cutter, he
carried the drunken form to the vehicle and placed it
upon the seat.  Taking the robes and even the
empty bags out of the sleigh, he wrapped them
about his father and took his place beside him.
Whirling his frost-coated drivers about, he sent
them furiously down the hill, leaving the heavy
team to follow at their own sedate pace.

He did not spare the willing brutes ahead and
pulled them up at the door in a cloud of steam.
Throwing the robes upon them, he carried his
father in and laid him upon the floor.  Rushing
out, he brought in pails of snow and set to work
massaging the frozen face and hands.  Circulation
once more established, he carried the still inert
form to his bed.  This accomplished, he went out
to his team and stabled them.  The dumb brutes
wondered at the swift tenderness with which he
groomed away the thick coat of frost.

"You are not hurt a whit," said he gratefully,
as he watched them happily munching their oats.
"And you saved Dad."

The gentle taps with which he bid them good-night
were comforting to their faithful equine
spirits.

Out into the darkness he stepped, missing with a
sudden and strange acuteness the mute sympathy
of the animals now shut in the stables.  The night
was colder than ever and breathless with the hush
of the lowering temperature.  The silence of the
farmstead depressed him.  He looked at the house.
It was a mysterious shape in the darkness, sheltering
within it the wreck so pitiably still.  Entering,
he sat down to his long vigil.  It was a lonely
night for Ned Pullar—the loneliest he had ever
known.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HANK FOYLE, UNEXPECTED GUEST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVII


.. class:: center large bold

   HANK FOYLE, UNEXPECTED GUEST

.. vspace:: 2

Three weeks later Edward Pullar was
sitting up for the first time since his
unfortunate visit to Pellawa.  The scars
of his terrible exposure were losing their virulence
and strength was creeping back into the emaciated
limbs.

No conversation touching the lamentable adventure
had taken place.  Once only had the father
referred to it in broken and pathetic apology that
was instantly hushed by the son.  With the gentle
assiduity of a mother Ned had nursed his patient
and nobody in the settlement was aware of the
disgrace of Edward Pullar, or of his narrow escape
from the White Death of the northern trails.

For Ned, the lapse was after all only one in
many.  It was the latest, only a little more
disappointing, more unfortunate and with the addition
of tragedy barely avoided.  To the father it was
all this and more, infinitely more.  There was a
fear at his heart.  He was penitent as usual, with
an almost childish contrition.  The debauch was
mysteriously clouded.  All he could remember
was the fact of draining Nick's flask.  This was
clear.  After that he had faint intimations of a
hellish thirst—some effort to satisfy it.  Through
all his secret musings there ran a fear, a vague
foreboding, but he could not define it.  Memory
would not work.  He dwelt in a state of suspense,
the victim of an intangible but real Nemesis.  He
expected something inimical to strike.  Ned could
see that something unusual was preying upon his
father's mind and it troubled him deeply.

One thing that surprised Ned was the fact that
his father had never referred to The Red Knight.
He seemed to have utterly forgotten this darling
of his life.  Another week passed and the old man
was about.  Though correspondence was pouring
in relative to the planting and culture of the new
wheat, Edward Pullar evinced no interest in the
matter.  The heavy task of writing fell upon Ned.
All efforts to rouse his father failed.  He seemed
unaware of the existence of the thing that had so
lately made life new for him.  At times an
unspeakable fear swept over him as he realized how
hopeless was this condition of disinterest.

Late one afternoon Ned was busy at his desk in
diligent effort to reduce the piles of unanswered
letters when a knock sounded upon the door.  On
opening, a strange face presented itself.

"Come in!" said Ned courteously.

"Is this Edward Pullar's ranch?" queried the
man as he stepped in.

"It is," said Ned.  "Have a chair."

The stranger seated himself and glanced about
inquisitively.

"My name is Hank Foyle," said he.  "I live
up to Athabasca Landing.  I was out on a hike in
the timber limits when the letter got to me telling
me about the deal.  That is why I am a month late.
I toted along last night and wrote my name into
the papers this morning.  Thought I'd take a
squint at the farm and buildings before moseying
back to the Landing.  You've shore got a comfy
joint here.  Buildings first-rate."

Ned looked at his visitor with a puzzled face.
Into the old man's eyes leaped a fear, vacillating
and furtive, but real.

"I hardly understand," said Ned with an apologetic smile.

The other grinned.

"Naturally you don't know me," said the man,
with a series of nods.  "I am the guy that made
the swap with you.  Hank Foyle's my name—Foyle
of Athabasca Landing."

The stranger paused, confident that the reiteration
of his name would clear up matters.  But
Ned still looked at him with a nonplussed
expression.  His father's face had grown white while
the nails of the old man's clenched hands dug into
the flesh.

"Sorry I'm so dense," said Ned, with a
good-natured laugh.  "Would you mind going into
detail a little?"

Foyle looked at him keenly, studying the firm
mouth and chin and the direct eyes.  There was
something fearless in that face that hinted the
possibility of a serious hitch.

"You ain't changed your mind?" said Foyle,
with a narrowing of his eyelids.  "You're a
month late, farmer.  The deal's salted away long
ago, all regular signed and witnessed.  You are
no soft come-back, are you?"

Ned still smiled his perplexed smile.

"Very well!" said he affably.  "What is the
deal to which you refer?  I'm open to rather
detailed explanation, for I have heard of no such
project."

The man rose and stepped up to Ned, looking
curiously into his face.

"Say, Pard," said he quizzically, "are you
Edward Pullar or just plain hired man?"

"There is Edward Pullar," said Ned, pointing
to his father.  "He is owner of this farm."

"You mean the man as was owner," corrected
Foyle.  "This half section belongs to me
now."

As he spoke he looked at the old man.

"You're the Edward Pullar person what's
scratched his name on them agreements?" was his
observation as he studied the other contemplatively.
"What's eating you now?"

Ned was surprised to see a look of terror dart
from his father's eyes.  There was a confusion
about the manner of the old man that caused a
little alarm in Ned himself.

"I—I don't understand," said Edward Pullar
helplessly.

At his words an angry flush darkened Foyle's
face.

"Like the hired man, here, you ain't wise to the
deal, eh?"  There was a note of derision in his
voice.  "Better put it straight," said he, with a
shutting of his jaws.  "You mean you don't want
to understand.  Getting foxy, old boy?  It won't
do, farmer.  You can't string Hank Foyle.  You'll
have to tumble to facts.  Hank Foyle shuts up
like a clam; sticks like a leech.  Noted for it.
Your farm's mine and mine's yours, and you are
due in Athabasca Landing agin the crops are in.
That's what the paper says.  You plant the crop
here.  I plant it at the Landing.  Then we swaps
farms and hikes for home.  You'll have a whole
section a scrub to wander through a-lookin' fur the
cows."

"You are on the wrong farm," said the old
man weakly.  "We have not entered any such
deal."

"You're Edward Pullar, what owned this
place?" quizzed Foyle, with an impudent grin.
"You haven't said so yet."

"I am Edward Pullar," was the acknowledgment.

"I reckon there ain't two Edward Pullars.
Therefore I conclude there ain't any mistake
either."

Deliberately Foyle drew a package from his
pocket.  Drawing out two papers he opened them
carefully and, stooping, held them before the old
man.

"Them's the real thing," said Foyle casually.
"Take a good, long squint.  You'll find
everything proper."

Edward Pullar examined the documents.  They
were, indeed, agreements of surrender and
exchange signed by Foyle and a signature that was
undoubtedly his own.  The transaction was duly
witnessed by Silas Marshall, magistrate.  The old
man stared at the papers, striving to catch the
flying tags of mystery.  Things seemed to clear
a little, resulting, however, in deeper depression.

"I did not sign it," said he dazedly.

"Here, hired man," said Foyle, handing the
papers to Ned.  "Go right through 'em.  You'll
find them agreements square as an eight-inch
bent."

Ned looked.  A close study of the documents
astonished him.  The signature ascribed to his
father was clearly his.  As to Silas Marshall's
there could be no mistake.  He had seen it many
a time.  A seriousness spread over his face,
mingling slowly with the amazement in it.

"This seems all right," said he, slowly perusing
the papers.  "But—but, of course, these papers
are simply evidences of some fraud."

The date caught his eye.  In a lightning play of
thought he associated the mystery with the tragic
trip to Pellawa.  He straightened up and his chin
rounded in a decisive firmness.

"Do you remember having anything to do with
Cy Marshall, Dad?" was his quiet question.

"I do not," was the unhesitating reply.  "And
yet there is something familiar about it all, even
those papers.  I feel positive I have seen them
before."

"Just possible!" commented Foyle insolently.
"Probably caught a peep of 'em about the time
you scrawled yer name."

"What agent put this through?" demanded
Ned of Foyle.

"No kidding," was the fierce response.  "You
know all right.  Sykes is the gent—Chesley
Sykes—and a hum-dinger of an agent he is!"

Ned's eyes flamed upon the man.

"It is what I feared," said he, smiling the smile
with which he faced McClure and his men in
Sparrow's pool-room.  "Here, take this rubbish,
Mr. Foyle.  You are either a crook or a dupe.
Reddy Sykes has put through a real Sykes' deal.
I want to warn you that it is the fraudulent plot
of a clever swindler.  This farm is my father's.
I am Edward Pullar.  There are two of us, and
we are going to fight you.  My father never signed
away his homestead voluntarily.  You can gain
nothing by pressing the matter.  For a stranger,
you have been grossly insulting.  Take my advice,
tear up those papers and hit the trail for Athabasca
Landing.  You have about two minutes to pack up."

With a savage laugh Foyle folded the papers
and deposited them carefully in his pocket.

"Pullar and Son," said he pugnaciously,
"you're a pair of dang poor bluffers.  But I'll
call you.  There ain't a flaw in the deal.  This
farm's mine.  Come the time the grain's in you'll
find Hank Foyle camping——"

He did not finish, for there was a swift motion
on the part of Ned.

"Sorry, Hank!" said he with a grin.  "But
time's precious.  Open the door, Dad."

With a wild laugh Foyle swung for the smiling
face.  Ned ducked and Foyle missed and continued
the swing, the force of his empty blow
spinning him around.  When he had half completed
the circle he felt himself seized by the scruff of the
neck and the seat of his trousers and lifted high
by the powerful derricks of Ned's arms.  Through
the door he was carried with arms windmilling
and legs kicking, and dropped ignominiously into
the cold receptacle of a melting drift.  As he
scrambled to his feet he heard the door shut.  For
a moment he hesitated, savaged with rage.  But
the memory of those steel arms was salutary, and
he turned about and walked down the lane.  For
a mile or more there were mutterings filling the
air about him such as would come fittingly from
an Athabasca Lander on landing unexpectedly.

For a long time after Foyle's exit there was
silence in the room.  The two men were thinking
hard.  The last hour had been one of revelation
to them both.  Ned looked up about to speak, but
desisted, hushed by the sight that met his eyes.
His father sat huddled in a rocking-chair, his face
buried in his hands.  A pang pierced Ned as he
realized the pitiable state of his father's mind.

Walking over, he laid his hand gently on the
bowed head.

"Never mind, Dad," said he cheerily.  "Reddy
Sykes is not going to steal the homestead so easily.
Of the foul work we are positive.  We have only
to track it down.  We have until June to ferret out
the rogues.  You made a good fight, Dad.  You
were drugged.  I have known that ever since I
found you on the hill."

Raising his head he looked at Ned.  Through
the misery of grief there was a pathetic eagerness.

"Do—do you believe—I put up a fight, laddie?"
was the trembling plea.

"I do, Dad," was the swift response.  More
Ned could not say, but he enveloped his father in
a strong, steady embrace, tenderly holding the
gray head that sobbed upon his breast.  His eyes
were wet.  What they wanted just then was Kitty
Belaire.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BIRD OF THE COULEE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE BIRD OF THE COULEE

.. vspace:: 2

There is life on the road—a rush into
the April shine; muffled clatter of galloping
hoofs; the rhythmic sway of a girlish
form to the drum and flute of flying feet and
carolling lips.  Youth and beauty in the saddle of
spring!

Mary McClure was enjoying the leisure of the
open trail and halted Bobs on the floor of a coulee,
a narrow, stream-like depression with abrupt banks.
It was a pretty green dip zigzagging out of sight
into east and west, and lined on either bank with
rounded clumps of willow.  There were gleams of
a tiny creek.  From the willows near her came the
soft twitter of nesting birds.  Restraining the
impatient Bobs, she strove to discern the sweet
singers.  The cries were familiar—all but one.  It
was a strange little call with a plaintive, human-like
wail and a ventriloquistic quality that led one to
think it came from far away.  She was positive it
was the cry of some rare bird hidden in the leaves.

Swinging Bobs she trotted close to the trees.
The birds, alarmed, took flight down the coulee.
She followed cautiously and listened again,
delighted at length to distinguish the voice of the
feathered stranger.  A sudden impulsive advance
of Bobs, who essayed to crop a mouthful of leaves,
put the birds to flight once more.  They doubled
back in a cloud of whirring wings.  She was about
to follow when the cry of the strange bird came
again out of the tree before her.  It alone had
remained.  She searched the tree, but no sign could
she discover of the mysterious creature.  Concluding
at length that the sound came from a more distant
clump, she rode further into the east.  The
sound now seemed much nearer.  Tree after tree
was passed, with the strangely recurring result of
a growing clearness.  She was deeply puzzled and
intensely curious as to the enigma.  Finally she
reached the end of the bluff and still she could
hear the call coming with an undoubted increase
of volume.  Pondering the circumstance she suddenly
concluded that her bird was a weird illusion.

"Bobs!" she cried perplexedly, "our bird is
not a bird.  It is a disembodied voice."

Then as the cry broke clearly from a distance,
she said in alarm:

"It is a human voice, Bobs.  Somebody is in
distress far down the coulee.  Let us listen
carefully.  No champing of that bit, please."

The voice came again.  It was indeed a human
cry, smothered in some inexplicable way.  The
tone was one of plaintive terror.  Urging the
horse ahead, she cantered along the creek.
Rounding a bend, she realized that the sound came from
some point very near.  Rising in her stirrups, she
searched the coulee.  The only unusual object
that met her eye was the carcass of a horse.  It lay
in a sharp curve of the north bank close in.  The
noise was emanating from the vicinity of the dead
animal.  Riding toward it, she was thrilled to
catch sight of a bit of red clothing.

"Bobs, Bobs!  What a terrible thing!" was
her horrified cry as she leaped to the ground beside
the horse.

Crowded into a hole between the horse and the
bank lay the figure of a little boy, scarcely five
years of age.  He was stretched upon the ground
with his small body half twisted into the bank.
His bare limbs, right arm and left leg, were
clutched in the steel fangs of a brace of great wolf
traps.  The dead horse had been used as a bait by
some trapper who had set his traps between the
horse and bank, at head and feet, in order to catch
his wolf as it sought the entrails.  Instead they had
caught the curious child.  Both limbs were torn
and bloody from the grip of the biting steel as the
boy twisted under the torture.  His cry for help
had been muffled by the encroaching bank.

The little fellow moaned for release as he caught
sight of the girl.  Looking up with wild, dazed
eyes he cried:

"Take me, Mummie!  Take me away!"

"You poor laddie!" comforted the girl.  "I
will help you, darling.  You will be out in a
minute.  Do just what I say."

The sight of the small unfortunate made a powerful
appeal to the sympathies.  The little face was
streaked with the pitiable wash of tears.  The
child could scarcely see.  At a glance she saw that
he was near collapse.  She acted swiftly.  Placing
her foot upon the spring of the trap imprisoning
the leg, she rested her whole weight upon it and
it sank.  With a quick motion of her deft fingers
she opened the jaws and took out the limb.  A
moment later the arm, too, was free.  Released, the
little form rolled upon its back and lay helpless.
Stooping she picked him up gently and carried him
to the bank of the creek, laying him upon the
grass.

"Lie here quiet, laddie," she enjoined in a
soothing voice, "and I'll ride back to the village
for a carriage.  I'll be back in a few minutes."

But the child clung to her crying fearfully:

"Take me!  Take me!  Brubbie afraid!"

Kneeling beside him she gathered the small
bundle into her arms.

"I will not leave you, darling," she soothed,
hushing his fears.  "I will take you with me.
Bobs will have to be a very gentle stretcher bearer.
You must trust me, little one, and be careful to
obey me.  Bobs will carry us back.  But first I
must cover these poor torn limbs."

Producing clean bandages, with the resource of
a former occasion, she wrapped the wounds
securely from air and dirt.  Then she placed the boy
upon Bobs' neck while the intelligent brute stood
motionless, obedient to her low voiced commands.
Climbing carefully into the saddle she took the
child in her arms and guiding Bobs by voice and
knee, rode back along the coulee.  The child slept
almost instantly, lulled by the gentle pace of the
horse and endearing cooings of the girl.

Aware that the surgeon's skill was urgently
needed, she made her way to the doctor's office.
He discovered her approach and running out
to the curb relieved her of her burden.  In a few
words she informed him of her discovery of the
boy and his misfortune.

"Will you come in?" said he.  "You have done
wonderfully and can help me with this operation.
There is no nurse in the village just now."

"Gladly, if I can be of service," was the quick
reply.

"Rest assured you can.  With your assistance
I shall be able to avoid the anæsthetic, though
these wounds are a ragged mess.  The poor little
kid must have lain in those traps for hours.
Pierre Leduc set them out for wolves.  These
curious little busybodies fall into surprising
adventures.  Brubbie will not forget this day for the
rest of his life."

Swiftly the doctor performed his work, cleaning
the frayed lacerations and stitching with
nimble address, while Mary beguiled the boy from
his pain by the charm of her caress and the soothing
touch of her woman's hand.

"There now, Brubbie!" said the doctor at
length.  "You are fit.  Come, we'll take you to
your mother.  Miss McClure had better come along
and take charge of this most difficult phase of the
operation.  Will you, Miss McClure?"

"Still at your service, Doctor.  But who is
Brubbie, as you call him?"

"Brubbie?  Why, Brubbie is the young scamp
of Pellawa, general town favourite and Nick
Ford's baby.  Brubbie is an incorrigible little
vagrant.  I'll warrant his mother hasn't even missed
him.  This will be some shock to her."

It was a very startled and white-faced woman
who gathered the small form to her breast.

"Mummie, Mummie!" was the penitent cry.
"Brubbie run away.  He step on traps and dey
bite him.  Brubbie think he will die and cry, cry,
cry.  But the leddy come and take Brubbie out of
the traps and bring him home on the nice horse.
Oo, oo!"

He encircled the woman's neck with a strangling hug.

Mary smiled, relieved that the explanation had
been made.

"Brubbie has given you all the facts, Mrs. Ford,"
corroborated she.  "I heard the cry of a
strange bird in the coulee and followed it.  The
bird turned out to be Brubbie.  Bobs carried him
to the doctor here, who has fixed him up
splendidly.  He will soon be around again."

The mother was dumb.  For some minutes she
could only nestle the child to her breast.
Suddenly, as she thought upon the circumstance, a
shudder swept her.  A gruesome possibility had
occurred to her.

"What would have happened to my baby if you
had not heard him crying, Miss McClure?  To-night
the wolves would have come.  God bless you
for this."

The woman's eyes filled with tears.  Under the
impulse of her natural gratitude she seized the
girl's hand and kissed it reverently.

"You saved Brubbie!  You saved him!  You
saved him!" she cried again and again, in a quiet,
grateful voice.  "Nick will thank you with all his
heart.  Cod bless you!"

As Mary passed through the coulee on her way
home, she pulled Bobs again and listened to the
birds afresh.  This time the strange call was missing
and a serious look crept into the girl's eyes as
she thought upon it.

"Little birds!" she whispered.  "Happy little
birds!  Your sweet singing saved a dear little life
to-day."

The happiest musings attended her as she let
Bobs follow the trail of his own sweet will.  The
mission of the birds was not yet ended.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHESLEY SYKES UNCOVERS HIS HAND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIX


.. class:: center large bold

   CHESLEY SYKES UNCOVERS HIS HAND

.. vspace:: 2

The night of the day upon which Mary
McClure hunted the bird of the coulee,
an interesting council was held in the
realty office of Reddy Sykes.  The councillors
comprised McClure, Foyle and the agent himself.
They sat about the flat-topped desk, three shadows
in the blue fog of the dim lamplight.  There were
the usual convivial evidences, Foyle having been
the first to arrive at that affable condition
obtaining in the mazy borderlands of sobriety and
inebriety.

"Pards!" said he, smashing the desk with his
open hand, "I'm taking yer lead and tickled to do
it.  Yer shore handing me the whole deck.  I'll see
that Ford gets his little share all right and a bit
over."

"You've tumbled, Foyle," replied Sykes.
"You have been mighty apt at getting the hang
of things.  You have nothing to do but sit tight.
I give my cheerful and professional guarantee
there isn't a flaw in the deal.  If Pullar is fool
enough to hold you off we'll turn on the screw
and evict him.  The law is the prettiest, most
efficient automatic instrument invented by the genius
of that good fellow, man.  The law is behind us
everywhere.  Don't you do any talking.  Meanwhile,
mosey around and make yourself generally
useful.  That bunch of scrub out of Athabasca
Landing won't need your tender offices any more.
Leave it to Pullar and Son.  They are mighty good
farmers."

"Ha!  That's the big noise!" agreed Foyle,
with a chuckle.  "I've taken to the climate
hereabouts.  Got to stay.  Doctor's orders.  Ha, ha!
You'll find Hank Foyle sticking around any old
time you want him."

"You're a good sort," commended Sykes
warmly.  "I'll want the help of a reliable man in
a day or two.  In fact I'll want you bad, Hank."

"Put it here," cried Foyle, springing to his feet
with extended hand.  "I'm spoiling for exercise.
Used to scrubbing, you know.  Anything you want
done kind of quiet-like just drop a wink."

"Hank, you're a game sport," was the hearty
response.  Then he added: "You're a marked
man.  I'll trail you when I want you.  And now,
this ends our confab for the present.  Rob and I
have a pile of work to go through before we get
out of here to-night.  You are overdue at the
Dominion House.  Bye, bye!"

Foyle laughed good-naturedly.

"I'll scoot," said he.  "And don't forget I'm
handy when you want a leg up."

For a considerable time after he left there was
silence between the partners.  Then McClure fixed
his eyes curiously on Sykes.  There was something
in his companion's eyes he had never seen there
before.  He instantly realized that something
momentous was being debated in the mind of the agent.

"Pulling a bluff on Hank just now?" was his quizz.

"Better have an eye-opener, Rob," was the
reply, as he pushed a glass and bottle to his
companion's elbow.  "You are keen enough on some
things and mighty dense on others.  I have a
surprise for you.  In a few days I am pulling down
my shingle."

McClure knit his eyebrows in perplexity.

"This is one thing you've been hopelessly
opaque on, Rob," said he as he casually filled his
own glass.  "Did you expect I had come to stay?"

"No-o," was the slow reply.  "I knew you had
a card up your sleeve.  I hold no hand in the
game."

Sykes smiled.

"A clear case of cobwebs," observed the other
to himself.  "You are in this game very much and
have been all along.  There will be nothing
obscure in your mind as to my intentions when I'm
through with you to-night.  Since the onus of
revelation is upon me you will maintain a purely
receptive attitude.  This is coming to me.

"Now to begin.  Here are some photographs.
You have heard of John Sykes, millionaire
broker?  Here he is and there is the mater.  This
is our hang-out on the Crescent.  John Sykes is a
rather close relative of mine.  Here is the
prospectus of Sykes and Sykes, the new partnership
replacing John Sykes.  I hold a third of the stock,
the old man the balance."

Sykes paused while the other was examining the
photographs.  McClure was visibly impressed.
The faces looking at him were handsomely
autocratic.  John Sykes had a set to his jaw that was
familiar.

"They have some class," said he, handing back
the photographs.  "This looks like the firm may
have a pretty tidy turnover."

He continued to make a careful perusal of the
prospectus.

"Cold figures," agreed Sykes.  "We have the
best connections, private wires through to
London, New York, etc., all of which means a big
place in the financial world.  Here are our ratings."

McClure looked them over, his eyes evincing
the most intense interest.  Before he could speak
Sykes thrust into his hand a paper.

"A little bit of Who's Who?  Read it over; it
will acquaint you with public opinion.  It speaks
well of us."

As McClure finished he looked up, his eye
fascinated by some alluring mental object.  Sykes
was sitting back nonchalantly in his swivel chair,
his partially emptied glass poised in his hand.  He
observed his companion with a smile.

"What do you make of it all?" was his question.

"It is a great surprise to me and yet—I long
ago surmised something like this.  I knew of John
Sykes as a prominent financier, but had not the
faintest idea there was any connection between
you."

"There may not be," said Sykes, with a peculiar
laugh.  "I may be faking.  It would be easy to
frame up a setting like this."

McClure shook his head.

"You look too much like John Sykes.  He is
the only man I have ever seen with a jaw like
yours."

Sykes laughed silently at the personal allusion
as he handed over another photograph.

"Here," said he, "is a picture the mater
insisted on having."

It was a likeness of himself and his mother.

"I'll complete this personal art exhibition by
troubling you to run through this folio."

It was a set of athletic photographs, splendid
pictures of an eight-oared crew.  In the first a
superb figure stood before him holding a long scull.
In the second the athlete was seated in a single
shell, his sculls poised for the long sweep.  There
were others of the "Eight" in various poses of
rest and action, several with the setting of foreign
regattas.  One caught the crew sweeping along the
Thames.  The athlete was Sykes.

"McClure!" said he seriously, "I had a fairly
free fling in the younger days.  But I kept the
going under hand.  Do you think the type of physical
man you see there would go very far wrong?"

McClure laughed in some embarrassment.

"No use putting such a decision up to me," said
he.  "But you shape up prime in your racing
stumps."

"That will do," commented Sykes with a grin.
"The art display is over.  You may think this
irrelevant to the business in hand.  Perhaps it is.
At any rate keep everything you have learned in
the back of your head while I spiel a bit.

"You are right in your guess.  I am not in
Pellawa to push petty finance.  I am here hunting
the biggest game that runs.  We have been
associated in some rustic ventures and they have not
all come through.  Forget it.  These have been
trivial undertakings.  Study that Who's Who? and
you'll find that I get every big thing I go after.
I am after the biggest thing right now I have ever
set out to lift.  You probably can tell me what it is."

McClure shook his head.

"I am not guessing to-night," said he, holding
Sykes' glance.

"Then prepare for a sweeping away of all
cobwebs.  My sole object in this visit to Pellawa,
Rob, is your daughter, Miss Mary McClure.  I
have been playing the game for that stake right
through.  The time has come for a show-down.
It is up to us to deal a new hand.  I have
approached your girl from every conceivable angle.
She is obdurate.  There is a mighty good reason.
She is the victim of a silly infatuation.  She has
a local rube."

McClure sprang to his feet.

"It's a lie!" was the swift retort.

Sykes smiled darkly, shaking his head.

"No, Rob, this is not hearsay.  This is personal
knowledge.  I hold the facts and I will lay them
before you—later.  There is this infatuation.
These youthful attachments seldom result in
happy matrimonial alliances.  This amour is no
more promising than any other.  It is not disturbing
and need have no undesirable results if we act
quickly.  I am willing to accept Mary on any
terms and by means of any expedient.  I offer
her everything a woman could desire.  Give me
your complete coöperation in my plan to gain my
purpose and I promise you unheard-of compensation.
Just a moment!"

He lifted his hand silencing McClure, who was
about to speak.

"I have told you to listen while I spiel.  That
is the only thing for you to do yet.  I want you to
be confident of this.  With Mary as my wife, she
will gain everything and lose nothing.  For
yourself it means a chance that does not come to one
man in a million.

"I have watched you, Rob McClure, as you
went to it in this world of small farmers.  You
are too big a man for Pellawa.  Don't misunderstand
me.  I do not propose to flatter you.  What
I am about to propose is frankly my own project
to gain my personal purposes.  Were it not for
this I certainly would not dream of handing out
the deal I am going to offer you.  But the fact
remains.  You have the gray matter to come
through if you decide to avail yourself of this
opportunity.  You will be at home in the big financial
world.  Take a look at that rating."

He handed his companion a certified document.

"A third of that is mine.  That gets me into
seven figures.  What is your own rating, land and
all?"

McClure calculated swiftly.

"Roughly, seventy-five thousand."

"Rather a difference!  However, it is not your
fault.  It is your fate.  You have done
wonderfully well.  But you have been playing a small
game.  I had the luck to be reared in a bigger
world.  The pater assures me that I have added
a million to the total during my university years
when I had been supposedly engaged in the serious
task of reading law.  You may think this egotism
or even bluff.  Perhaps it is."

McClure read the fellow's face.  He was instantly
convinced of the truth of his words.  He
was silent.

"Now, Rob!" said Sykes, levelling at the other
a glance at once piercing and calculating.  "Take
in what I am about to say.  It means tremendous
things for you.  At the same time what may seem
remarkable to you is as nothing to me compared
with the big thing I am out after.  Help me to
get this thing and——  But wait a minute.  My
rating upsets yours thirty to one.  How would a
ratio of fifty-fifty place you?  Think in the totals.
A million and a quarter!  You will never reach that
in this little world of Pellawa.  Never.  Yet that
would be commensurate with your sheer ability.
Are you ready to take in that dream?  Listen,
Rob McClure!  It is yours now, to-day.  I have
an immense mellon.  I will cut that mellon exactly
in half and give you one half for the hand of
Mary McClure.  I offer you a partnership on the
basis of fifty-fifty.  To show that I mean business,
I will give half the legal grip even before Mary
becomes my wife.  The balance after.  There
shall be this one stipulation only.  The partnership
is conditioned on the fact that Mary joins hands
with me in a legal marriage."

Sykes ceased to talk.

McClure was mute, the great eyes darting
flames.  Sykes knew that the crucial moment had
arrived.  For months he had fostered this
friendship, spun his web.  Would the victim break
through the mesh and go free?  The farmer
looked at him, his face convulsed in conflict.  At
one instant the eagerness of an overmastering
ambition looked out craftily; the next it was swept
with a mighty anger.  While the fierce debate
raged, Sykes addressed him in a low, steadying
voice.

"Rob," said he considerately, "this is a fairly
sizable proposition.  Don't make a snap decision
and regret—anything.  Keep the lid on a little
longer.  You have not yet heard all.  You have
not learned who is the rube that has fascinated
Mary.  Perhaps you already know or can guess?"

"I will not guess," he flung out fiercely.
"There is nothing in it.  If there had been, Mary
would have let me know long ago.  She has never
hinted such an attachment."

"You are logical, Rob.  But you are wrong.
You have hit the wrong premise.  Sometimes a
good girl is induced into a clandestine amour.  It
has often happened.  It has happened now.
Unsympathetic parents are not auspicious persons in
which to confide the tender sentiments.  The
parent might have a positive hostility to the dear
object of one's regard.  This is pointedly true in your
own case.  I know there is no love lost between
you.  And now you know the party."

McClure leaned forward, a sudden intelligence
flashing a wild light in his eye.

"You don't mean——?"

McClure read Sykes' cold, bright eyes.  He understood.

"It is Ned Pullar?"

"Pullar's the man, Ned Pullar," was the
deliberate agreement.

Slowly the indecision vanished from McClure's
face and in its place appeared a black resolution.
A malignant light darted from his eyes.  Seizing
the neck of the black bottle before him, he clutched
it menacingly, as if about to hurl it at his companion.

"Rather be excused," said Sykes, lifting a
defensive hand.  "Remember I am not Pullar."

Banging the bottle on the desk, McClure whirled
about and began pacing about the room, muttering
vengeful execration, oblivious apparently of the
other's presence.

At this moment of his fell triumph, the real
Sykes looked forth once more.  A repulsive delight
played in his eyes and they shut to, in a sort
of gloating muse.  While the evil light glittered
through the lashes, an unsightly grin contorted his
face, drawing slowly to a wolfish snarl about
mouth and nose.  The face was grotesque and
hideous to look upon.  Could he have trained one
rational, though fleeting glance upon that unspeakable
face, McClure would surely have been
forewarned.  But he was blind with rage.  Out of the
fury of that fatal moment flew the foul bird of a
pitiless resolution.  He chuckled balefully.  At
the sound Sykes laughed softly.  Ripping out an
oath McClure whirled about.  Thrusting his head
forward he searched Sykes' face with blazing
eyes.  He was too slow, however.  The malign
thing had hidden itself with swift adroitness.
What he saw was the open, sympathetic countenance
of a gentleman.

"I want the facts," challenged McClure.
"What do you know?"

Dissembling his intensity of interest, Sykes
divulged what information he deemed expedient to
his purpose.  The effect on McClure was
powerfully cumulative.

"Look here," said the agent finally, picking up
a photograph of the eight-oared crew.  "You did
not detect this party."

McClure looked surprised to recognize the face
of Ned Pullar.

"Our coach selected Pullar for number seven to
hold my oar," explained Sykes.  "Until Pullar
caught the place we had trouble holding balance.
With his arrival the kink smoothed out magically
and we went overseas a wonder crew.  He held
my stroke.  Pullar is the only man who ever did.
You have not yet realized what this man Pullar is
capable of.  He takes the inside every time and
sets a killing pace.  He'll beat you out now like he
faded you in the threshing game unless you take
my way to kill him.  I'll come across with the
specific code any time you want it.  You must act
swiftly and stick it.  The stake is big.  For me,
it means one thing only—Mary McClure.  For
Mary, it means a brilliant chance.  For you it
means a flying start in the big world where big
men hold the throttle.  For both you and me it
means the smashing of Pullar."

He paused.  The two men eyed each other, McClure
with flaming, searching glance, Sykes with
steady, persistent gaze and eyes that poured upon
the other the mesmeric power of will.

"I have had my say," said Sykes quietly, holding
that compelling glance.  "I have been straight.
It is up to you."

For a long time there was silence in the room.
Then McClure spoke slowly, weighing each word,
held from a full committal by some sudden instinct
of caution.

"I believe you, Sykes," was his low-voiced
admission.  "At present I don't see anything against
your plan.  But it is a big thing, and you have
rushed it up to me.  I want time to think.  I'll
not say just now whether I'll hook up with your
offer or not.  I have a stipulation to hand you
before we go ahead.  You must see the chit
yourself and make her a fair proposition.  Put it
straight to her and make it as rosy as you can.
If she throws you down I'll probably take a hand."

Sykes nodded his head in reluctant acquiescence.

"Very well," said he.  "I'll meet you.  I'll
talk to the little girl, though I know it will do no
good.  It may stampede her into some decision
that will queer our game.  She is no fool."

"I insist," said McClure firmly.  "Get busy.
In the meantime I'll catch my feet.  For to-night
I have had enough."

Seizing his hat, McClure took his abrupt departure.

As he shut the door Sykes put out the lamp.
Taking a cigarette from his pocket he struck a
match and proceeded to light it.  In the red glow
his face seemed to float out of the black pall of the
night, an impish thing from the pit.  The grin of
the wolf snarled off the lips as they opened to emit
a soft, chuckling laugh.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A FAWN AT BAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XX


.. class:: center large bold

   A FAWN AT BAY

.. vspace:: 2

The following afternoon Mary McClure
sat pensively at her piano, her spirit
awander in the dulcet shadowlands of
an improviso.  She was pondering a remarkable
thing.  At that moment her parents were out for
a jaunt in the Valley, the first in years.  She
recalled the pleasure lighting her mother's face as
she accepted the unique proposal.  Hope of
happier relations had stirred in her breast.  For all
the bright little circumstance there was a query in
Mary's mind that drew minor strains from the
plaintive piano.

It was some weeks since she had seen Ned
Pullar.  They had then agreed to terminate their
covert meetings, hoping for a turn in the wheel of
fate that would be auspicious.  She was deeply
troubled over rumours that hinted embarrassment
for Ned and his father.  She had not learned the
true facts but had drawn shrewd deductions from
the reports of Mrs. Grundy.  Lately a fear had
obsessed her.  She tried to banish the thought in
view of the glad incident of the afternoon, but
those minor vagaries would persist in stealing
from her fingers.

A chat with Margaret Grant had informed her
of the presence of the stranger Foyle as inimical
to Ned.  The old homestead was in some way
involved.  Shortly after her chat with Margaret
she had observed her father in friendly conversation
with Foyle before the office of Chesley Sykes.
At the sight a shadow had flitted through her
mind.  Was her father involved in Ned's trouble?

She had abandoned herself to a sombre brooding
upon this disquieting theme when a knock
sounded upon the door.  It startled her, for she
was alone.  Lifting her hands from the keys, she
went to the door.  On opening she was confronted
with the great figure of Chesley Sykes.  A smile
lit his handsome face.  Touching his hat with
graceful courtesy, he greeted her respectfully.

"Good-day, Miss McClure!" was his quiet salute.

At the sound of his voice the episode at the door
flashed into her mind.  She regretted the absence
of her parents.

Hospitality forbade rudeness and she invited
him within.

"I have come to see you, yourself," said he,
smiling at her formality.  "I am heartily glad
there is nobody else about.  I have been anxious
to crave your pardon for my part in the incident
at the door.  It was inexcusable and foolish, I
acknowledge.  I am sorry."

The girl looked away with serious face.  Instinct
warned her against the man, but his tone
and manner were agreeably penitent.  She believed him.

"I do not hold grudges, Mr. Sykes," was her
reply.  "I remember the matter well and I am
glad to forget it, since you desire it."

"That relieves me," was the pleased reply.  "I
promise to observe the good old conventions in the
future.  There was something extenuating, had
you known it.  Have you no suspicion of what a
real fact lay behind that silly act?  Of that fact I
am not ashamed."

Mary offered no surmise and moved to the window,
where she became absorbed in the world
without.

"I want to talk some things over to-day," said
he frankly, moving to her side.  "This is probably
the last time I shall solicit your forbearance.
I am leaving Pellawa.

"You know of the college years and the unswerving
interest a certain student at law took in
a certain small co-ed.  That interest had deepened
during these days in Pellawa.  You and you
alone, Mary McClure, are the reason for my
presence here.  I have been chasing the gleam.  I
have been bitterly disappointed.  The rustic life
has not drawn us any nearer.  And yet—I—I
have not thrown up the sponge.  I am not resigning
you, Mary.  That is my purpose here to-day.
I want to let you know this.  I have only one
objective, only one dream in the alluring puzzle
called life, and that is, Mary McClure.  My single
ambition is to win you for my wife.  Some day,
Mary, will you marry me?"

The girl turned toward him, astounded at his
impudence, a flush rising in her cheeks.  At sight
of him she could not doubt his sincerity.

"Mr. Sykes," she said quickly, "you have no
right to make such an approach to me."

"Only the right of a mighty big regard that
keeps on growing without any especial attention
from the most desirable quarter."

She remained silent a moment, suddenly reflective.

"Perhaps you are right," she said thoughtfully.
"If you are, you already know my answer.  I
can never become the wife of Chesley Sykes.
Never."

Her manner was so emphatic, so deliberate, that
the confidence of the man received a jolt.  He
heard the ring of steel on steel and looked in
wonder at the dainty antagonist.

"I am sure you will not approach me again,"
said she in a manner he realized was imperative.
Then she smiled.  "You are Daddy's friend," said
she, with a pleasant courtesy.  "I will not forget
that."

There followed a long silence.  At length she
looked up.  His face was a surprise to her.  There
was no vexation, no displeasure.  Instead, the
passion of the man expressed itself in a great
friendliness.  There was something else that
disturbed her.  It was a confidence, an assurance, a
determination not to be denied.

With a shrug of his shoulders he seemed to
throw off the gloom that attended his defeat and,
smiling ingenuously, said:

"Play for me that sweet thing you were dreaming
over when I broke up your paradise."

She shook her head.

"No," was her quiet refusal.  "I cannot.  My
mood is not musical any longer.  I hear Father's
bells.  He will be better able to entertain you."

"Sorry you cannot draw to me to-day," said he
regretfully, taking up his hat.  "But your mood
will change.  Some day you will take a delight in
delighting me.  I, myself, am not now in a frame
of mind to be companionable.  It is better that I
return to Pellawa.  Give my regards to your
parents.  And remember," enjoined he with peculiar
emphasis, "remember that I am still on the trail
of my distracting little Will-o'-the-wisp."

Sykes had gone but a few minutes when Helen
McClure entered.  Her face was flushed and
unhappy.  Gathering Mary into her arms, she kissed
her with impulsive tenderness.

"Whatever happens, darling," she whispered
hurriedly, "follow your heart.  The happiness of
us all depends upon it, though it may seem otherwise."

"Mother!" said the girl, excitement welling up
in her eyes.  "How troubled you are!  What is it?"

"I am a little anxious for you," said the mother,
disengaging herself gently from Mary's clasp.
"Your father has been talking to me of your
prospects.  He wishes to see you in the office.  He is
coming now.  If you follow your heart all will
some day be well."

With the words she bestowed upon Mary a
clinging caress.

The girl walked hesitantly to the office and
stood looking out of the window as she awaited
her father.  She was threatened with panic but
grew composed as she heard his footsteps in the
hall.  She turned as he entered and lifted her
head, meeting his great eyes with the clear gaze of
her own.  He, too, was steeling himself to the
interview.  His unsmiling face distressed her.
Passing by her, he seated himself in his office chair
and whirled about.  Before he could look up to
where she stood he was surprised to feel the touch
of her hands upon his head.  Enfolding him in
her arms, she kissed his brow.  A thrill swept over
him.  For an instant he looked with the inner eye
upon his own soul.  He knew it to be unnatural,
brutal.

"Daddy!" she whispered.  "Let me tell you all
before you speak."

Gently, but with a steady, rigid motion of
his hands, he pressed her back.  The tenderness
that had betrayed him for but an instant
vanished.

"We'll see about that in a moment," was the
cold reply.  "I want to ask you a few questions
before you tell your story.  Sykes tells me he had
a talk with you this afternoon."

"A diplomatic conversation," corrected Mary,
with a faint smile.

"What did he say?"

"A great deal.  It was not, after all, very much
of a conversation.  It was a declaration.  I
almost fancied he was issuing a veiled ultimatum.
He did, however, ask me a pointed question and I
gave him a blunt reply."

"You refused him?"

"Yes."

"Do you know Sykes?"

"Too wisely and too well.  His father is a
wealthy broker; his mother a delightful aristocrat
and a very fashionable lady.  They live in a
dreamland on The Crescent shut in with exclusive
hedges amid the bloom of wonderful flowers.
Their well-trimmed terraces run down to the
water's edge.  Sykes is a fellow-student of some
years' duration.  He has seemed to take rather
more than a mild interest in the lone hope of the
McClures.  But I do not like him, Dad.  I like
Ned."

"So they tell me."

"I love Ned, Dad," was the gentle confession.

"But Sykes is a gentleman," said McClure
testily.

"Ned is a man.  I love a man, a real man,
Dad."

McClure rose to his feet, the old passion rising
afresh.

"I cannot agree with you.  A man would not
sneak into the bluffs to be alone with the girl he
respects."

The stroke drew blood.  A flush swept over the
sensitive face.

"I did meet Ned once alone by accident," was
the admission.  "At all other times Margaret
Grant joined us.  We have not had even these
interviews for weeks."

"How long have you been encouraging Pullar?"

"Ned and I became intimate in our first year at
the University."

"Why did you not tell me?"

The girl looked pleadingly into the eyes that
grew each moment more chill.  She halted in her
reply, irresolute and deeply troubled.  Had she the
courage to drag the family skeleton into the light?
She dropped her eyes and pondered.  When she
lifted them they were wet with tears.

"Come!" was the brusque command.  "Tell
me why you and Pullar skulk about the ravines
like a pair of coyotes."

"The reason I have not confided in you, Father,"
said the girl slowly, "is because of your
strange enmity for Ned.  That, however, would
not have been a sufficient reason had it not been
for the cruel thing that has robbed Mother and me
of our husband and Daddy.  You have become a
stranger to us.  We do not tell these dear tales
to—strangers.  I could love you, Father, if you did
not trample our hearts with your cruel heels."

At her words McClure shrank back.  He
scarcely believed his ears.  Yet it was little Mary
who stood before him self-possessed and unafraid,
smiting his conscience with her gentle voice.  Her
eyes were imploring and beautiful, with a yearning
he could not face.  With an impatient shrug he
turned away.

"What would we have gained," continued the
girl, "had I told you of my intimacy with the man
you hate?  It would have resulted in only deeper
misery for our home.  It is cruel of me to talk
like this, but it is the truth.  Mother suffers
continuous anguish, hiding it from us as only her
wonderful love can devise.  This is my only
reason for loving Ned in secret.  We are not afraid
to let the world know of it.  It already knows.
As you well know, Ned fears nothing, not even the
anger of Rob McClure."

The sight of the girl with her earnest eyes and
tremulous lips touched the buried ruth of the man.
At her frank arraignment he felt the stirrings of a
compunction that was new.  Her piteous helplessness
held off from him by his own chill unrelenting
pierced him to a depth she little dreamed.  The
memory of her suppliant figure haunted him
through the after years.

But he resisted.  A sudden bracing of the
unyielding will stiffened his wavering resolution.  As
is usual when a man stifles the inner voice, Rob
McClure swung instantly to the opposite extreme.
"Here," he mused, "is this daughter of mine,
browbeating me rather than giving me dutiful
obedience."  He was about to lash her with
scandalous insinuation when the ulterior object
recurred to him.  He forthwith tempered his rage
with a wise craftiness.

"You have given a strange reason," said he
judicially.  "I will not give my consent to your
friendship with such a hound.  Why not consider
a red-blooded man like Chesley Sykes?  He is
intelligent, educated, wealthy and delightfully
congenial.  In addition, he is your father's close
friend.  Never before have I used my authority.
But now I forbid you to have anything to do with
Pullar.  Turn your attention to something that
offers you a future."

"You mean that I must break my engagement
with Ned?"

"I do," was the adamant response.

At the brutal tone a swift change came over the
girl.  While an infinite suffering looked out of her
eyes she stood erect and proud.

"Do you also command that I shall accept
Chesley Sykes in Ned's place?"

Her voice had the ring that had shaken the
confidence of Sykes but a short time before.  He felt
the danger in it and tempered his reply.

"No, Mary!  I don't command.  I urge you."

"But you have as much right to command me
to marry Chesley Sykes as you have to forbid my
friendship with Ned Pullar.  Why not, then?"

McClure paused a moment, calculating her intention.

"I have the right to do either," was the
triumphant reply.  There was a threat in his voice.

The girl looked at him a moment, her face
aquiver with pain.  The anguish of her emotion
blanched cheeks and lips.  She addressed him in a
voice strange for its quality of renunciation.

"Father," said she, "your words are terrible
to me.  They mean that you would deprive me of
your affection—of my home.  You have not the
right to command me to do a wrong.  That is not
the prerogative of even a parent.  As for Chesley
Sykes, I abhor him as unscrupulous and cruel.
The more I know of him the less I can discover to
admire.  I will never marry him.  On the other
hand, some day I shall marry Ned.  You
misunderstand him.  He is not your enemy.  He would
be a real friend.  I shall be forced to disobey you,
Father."

Reluctantly the girl turned away and walked to
the door.

McClure was the victim of an overwhelming
rage.  Never had he been so stoutly withstood.
It galled him to know that his daughter was right.
In logic of brain and ethics she had worsted him.
He was eager for savage retort, but the offer of
Sykes dangled before him like golden fruit.  The
venom of his rage would destroy it.  So he was
cunning and remained silent.

"Just a moment, Mary," said he in a conciliatory voice.

She turned eagerly toward him.

"I would not force you to do anything you do
not wish to do," said he.  "But do not be rash.
Think it all over carefully.  Your home is here.
It will always be so.  Perhaps after a time you
will be able to meet my wishes."

Bitterly disappointed, the girl turned away.
She was also surprised.  Her father, though
beyond doubt in a violent rage, had acquiesced to her
will.  Amid all the turmoil of her distress she
recalled the nonchalance of Chesley Sykes as she
refused his proposal.  As with him, her father
seemed not so greatly disappointed.  As she
pondered the enigma a thought flitted into her mind
that caused a cold chill to clutch at her heart.

Without a reply she passed through the door.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE COUNTERPLOT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE COUNTERPLOT

.. vspace:: 2

Following their interview with Mary,
Rob McClure and Sykes concluded it
expedient to make a flying visit to the city.
Mary found her father in remarkably good humour
on his return.  So affable was his mood that
she was beginning to hope for a reprieve of the
fates to avert the calamity she feared.  But her
hope was short lived.  Riding into the stable after
a long evening canter through the Valley she was
greeted pleasantly by her father.

"Is Bobs going good to-day?" was his interested
question.

"Bobs never misses," was the reply.  "He
danced along in wonderful form, but I could not
enter into his gaiety.  I bounced around upon his
back a most unresponsive dreamer."

He lifted his eyebrows.

"Surely you are not yet worrying over our
conversation?"

The kindliness of his tone drew the simple admission:

"Yes, Daddy."

"Have you decided to fall in with your good
prospects?"

She studied his eyes with a keenness that
alarmed him.  He read her answer in the wearied
face and, speaking quickly, forestalled her reply.

"I will say no more about Ned Pullar," said he.
"I am willing to leave it all with you.  I am
confident you will see after a while that it is best to
forget him.  Lest you should act rashly I want
you to know that not only your own happiness but
my future career rests wholly with you.  I am now
a partner in the new firm of brokers, Sykes,
McClure and Sykes.  Nothing but a foolish spurning
of your wonderful opportunity with Chesley Sykes
can hold back the most astonishing possibilities for
us all."

The girl's head drooped.  She realized that
snares were being skilfully and cruelly laid.  To
her father she had become a mere chattel.

"Daddy," she said gently, "it grieves me to
disobey you, to disappoint you.  But once for all you
must know that no inducement, however tempting
to me or however disappointing to you in my
refusal of it, will persuade me to do the thing you
urge."

Again to her surprise, he showed no great chagrin.
Instead he betrayed an over anxiety in his
desire to conciliate her.

Through the long, sleepless hours of the night
she brooded, striving to think a way out.  The
sense of personal peril grew upon her.  She
remembered the light in her father's eyes as he told
her of his good fortune.  She shuddered as she
recalled it.  In the morning, as she rode over the
Valley, she decided to see Ned at the earliest moment.

Rob McClure was greatly alarmed at the
invulnerable front the girl presented.  Arrived in his
office, he drew a bundle of documents from a
drawer and examined them.  The title fascinated
him.  He rocked back in his chair to con its lure
when his eyes caught the vision of the two faces
above.  Suddenly he realized that upon the inscrutable
and inviolable will behind the sweet face of
Mary rested his fortune.  With Mary and not
with himself rested the decision that should ratify
or destroy his arrangement with Sykes.  It all
depended upon the girl above with the innocent face.
Could he leave it to her?  A keen study of the
pure eye and firm brow shook his confidence in a
desirable outcome.  Rising, he leaned toward the
picture with an abandon that betrayed his intensity
of desire.

"Mary!" he whispered.  "You will throw me
down.  I feel it.  Sykes is right.  There is no
other way.  The little chit is blind.  I shall be
forced to do it.  I will see Sykes.  She will
surrender when there is nothing else to do."

This colloquy with the silent photograph had
momentous results for the fair original.

At noon there was the clatter of hoofs outside
the Pullar homestead and the winding of a silvery
halloo.  Ned went out.

"To saddle!" cried Mary as Ned appeared.
"Get Darkey and come!  We'll ride at high
noon!  We'll brew a tale on the King's Highway."

Aware that some serious matter prompted
Mary's visit Ned was up on Darkey in a trice and
they rode out on an endless trail of the undulating
plain.  When deep out in the lonely stretch Mary
drew Bobs to a walk.

"Ned," she said, "are you prepared for a most
unusual proposition?"

"Anything you propose will meet with my entire support."

"Then hear me.  The danger you feared so long
ago is imminent.  Father has learned of our engagement
from the lips of Chesley Sykes.  I have talked
with Father.  You can easily surmise what that
interview involved.  But a few minutes before Sykes
had submitted a personal offer to the present rider
of Bobs.  The offer was declined respectfully if
summarily.  Father has backed his friend and
forbids me you, Ned.  I am to instantly and
casually forget you.  In the selfsame instant I am to
foster the tenderest regard for Sykes.  This very
interview is a disobedience."

She paused, looking up at Ned, her face a compound
of anxiety and mischief.  Ned sent Darkey
to Bobs' flank and threw his arm about the lithe
little rider.

"Mary," said he, "you are a brave girl.  Will
you marry me to-day?  This very day?"

"Hush, Ned!" was her cry as she placed her
hand upon his lips.  "You are stealing my fire.
That is my proposition.  Only I put it this way.
Will you marry me not to-day or to-morrow but
the day after?"

"I'll marry you to-day and to-morrow and the
day after," was the happy response.  "But why
put it off?"

"Now I have broken the ice, Ned, it will be
easier.  I am a frightened little prairie chicken
running for cover.  I was going to ask you to do
this trifling thing for me the day after to-morrow
when you anticipated by two days.  It is very good
of my big farmer to ask no questions and to be
willing even to advance dates, but I have a little
to say in justification of this bold visit.

"Since my interview with Father the firm of
Sykes and Sykes has become the firm of Sykes,
McClure and Sykes.  Last night Father informed
me that if I throw down Chesley Sykes I therewith
crash to the ground his whole brilliant future—that
is Father's."

"You are in a hard place, Mary," said Ned
solicitously.  "It is troubling you terribly despite
your brave front.  You are grieving, I know."

"A little worried, Ned," was the simple
acknowledgment.  "It has been difficult and it will
be.  It is not Father's anger that has driven me to
you.  It is abject fear.  I am afraid of Sykes—and
Father.  I turn down Sykes.  It does not anger
him.  He remains congenial.  I withstand Father
and promise to wreck his whole career.  He is
scarcely disturbed.  Why are they not provoked?
Because they are not.  They are confident of
realizing the thing they want.  Ned, I have become
such a frightened little goose that I carry this."

She drew an automatic gun from some mysterious
repository in the breast of her riding habit.
At sight of the weapon Ned's eyes flashed their
dangerous light.

"You are wise to provide defense," said he
soberly, "since your enemy is Sykes.  Your intuition
has not led you astray.  For all his suavity and
culture Sykes is a savage.  He is the monster our
civilization rears in the lap of luxury.  He has been
trained to expect full satiation of his desires.
He has a maxim that he gets what he goes after.
He knows utterly nothing of self-mastery.  He has
never denied himself.  He never will.  Nor will
he yield to fate.  You are in great danger and have
been for months.  Some conspiracy is on foot.  Its
execution may be a matter of but a few hours.
There is but one thing to do, Mary.  You must
marry me to-day."

The girl looked into his eyes.

"I am glad you understand," said she.  "I will
marry you, Ned, but at the time I have proposed.
They shall lead me into nothing undesirable before
then.  To-day, to-night I want to myself to think it
all out.  To-morrow I shall teach and to-morrow
night I shall tell all to Mother and consult with
her.  She will agree to our marriage upon 'the day
after.'"

Ned demurred but to no purpose.

"Since you insist on your date," said Ned with
a smile, "will you grant me the privilege of
planning the elopement?"

"Your plans first.  This is my escapade."

"Very well.  The 'day after' you ride out to
The Craggs as usual.  I shall meet you at the Peak
of the Buffalo Trails and together we shall ride to
The Fort.  It is only a canter of twenty miles.
There we shall be wed in the parsonage of Oliver
Darwin.  He is our good friend.  Father will go
over to the school and inform the children that
Miss McClure is 'indisposed.'"

"My saddle for a bridal coach!  Ned!  That is
an inspiration.  We'll ride the winding trail into
the mystic West."

She held her lips to him and their kiss was the
pure caress of a noble passion.

That night Ned rode to The Fort and made full
arrangements, reaching home by the gray light of
dawn.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WOLVES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXII


.. class:: center large bold

   WOLVES

.. vspace:: 2

The pastime of draw poker was engaging
the energies of Sykes, McClure, Foyle,
Snoopy Bill and their gang of familiars.
The hour ran long past the closing time of eleven
P.M.

Though stakes had flown high the game had
failed to catch the interest of Rob McClure.  He
played his hand with a detachment that threw him
open to heavy losses.  So far he had escaped.  His
mind was the battle ground of a struggle he had
not calculated on.  Sykes watched him covertly all
evening, striving to pierce the mask of his unsmiling
face.  It delighted him to trace the ruthless
lines about the mouth.  On the other hand it
perturbed him not a little to see distinct evidences of
indecision.  With the deliberate purpose of fostering
the reckless mood Sykes kept up a perpetual
toasting.  He toasted the pot, the queens and the
aces all in turn, drinking lightly himself while
McClure took copious draughts.  With all his apathy
McClure won regularly while Sykes lost as steadily.
The double-plying of the farmer with the frequently
recurring toast and an unswerving success
in the game was fast realizing Sykes' purpose.  He
was growing reckless in his sullen vindictiveness
while the inner struggle was evident in strange
moments of aberration.  A gloominess was gathering
in his befuddled brain.  This greatly puzzled Sykes
and alarmed him as well.  He watched like a spider
in his lair.

Suddenly he leaned forward.  A change had
come over the farmer.  McClure sat in his place,
his head resting heavily upon his left hand.  His
cards lay upon the table before him face up.  The
game was forgotten.  His eyes were reading the
contents of a half-emptied glass with a stare
repellent in its fierce amazement.  Holding the glass
tightly in his right hand he trained bulging eyes on
some sight within.

At that moment Rob McClure was a physical
wreck rolling helplessly on a rough sea.  At best
the conscience of the man was atrophied.  Now it
was incapable as well.  The countenance, spacious
with a native bigness, was marred by the double
bestiality of bibber and rogue.  The rudderless
mind was mighty with unleashed desire.  Amid the
wreck of faculties sat the will, an ominous thing
living, uncontrolled, with strength unimpaired,
ready to strike adder-like in any direction.

Oblivious of the commotion of the game he beheld
the figment of his drugged brain rising to view
in the glass of drink.  His face grew black with
an anger horrible to behold.  Amid the gleam of
the liquor two faces took nebulous shape, growing
in definition the longer he watched.  At length they
rose into view through the bubbles and froth.  They
vanished magically only to reappear with a tripled
vividness of shape.  They were living faces, of
beautiful women sorrowful with a gentle reproach
that stirred some tender, sleeping thing within him,
while at the same instant it bated the savage beast
glaring out of his eyes.  As he looked, one instant
fearful, the next enraged, the tender thing was
suddenly crushed and the beast sprang from his
lair.  A wild vengefulness gleamed in his eyes as
he sprang to his feet with a weird cry.  Swinging
his arm aloft he hurled the glass crashing upon the
table before him.

"Ha!" he cried laughing horribly.  "That will
shut your blankety eyes."

Cunningly he searched the ring of startled faces.
As he looked something clicked in the brain and
the hallucination passed.  His face resumed its
normal expression, though an inkling of what he
had just done remained dimly with him.

The others sprang to their feet in alarm, striking
sudden attitudes of defense.  An instant's contemplation
disclosed to all his drunken state.  His eyes
were fixed curiously upon the shivered glass.  A
chorus of raillery broke out.  But McClure did not
smile.  His face was dark.

"What the ——?" jollied Snoopy Bill.

Stepping to the door he stooped down and
yelled through the keyhole:

"Hi you, Louie!  No more strong stuff for McClure.
He's seeing 'em.  Bring a tray of lemonade."

McClure was in an unfortunate mood for the
jibe.  Stung by the roar of applause he leaped at
Snoopy Bill in swift reprisal.  Gripping him
savagely by the throat he applied a strangle clutch.
Snoopy's head bobbed back and he sank to the floor
with blackening face.  With shouts of alarm the
others sprang toward the two men.  Tearing away
McClure's deadly grasp they pinned him to the
floor.  The struggle aided him to recover his
mental poise.  Looking up at them with a sane glance
he said quietly:

"I'm through.  Let me up."

Released, he regained his feet and resumed his
chair.

Snoopy Bill's face was livid as he sank panting
into his place.  Into his eyes crept a vengeful light.
He glanced sullenly about.  He, too, had imbibed
over freely.  As he recovered the sense of outrage
deepened and he proceeded to wreak immediate
revenge.  With the slyness of the inebriate he
reached out and seized his glass.  Fixing direful
eyes on McClure he drew back his hand.  But the
murderous throw was interrupted.  His wrist was
suddenly caught in the vise-like grip of Sykes'
long fingers.

"Better not, Bill," he admonished in a low
voice.  "Rob is dead drunk.  Don't even know he
fouled you.  If you let him have that you'll be up
against murder."

"He's a blankety coward," was the angry retort.
"I'll get him yet.  Watch me bust up this
gang.  By the blankety blank I'll tip Pullar himself."

Above the growls this threat produced rose
the voice of Sykes roaring blasphemously at
Swale who stood in the open door with mouth
agape.

"You bottle washing smuggler!" he cried.
"Fill up a tray of your dummest swill and hand
it out on the double quick.  No more poison or
we'll blow you up."

Satisfied that the brawl was over Swale disappeared
with the desired alacrity.

McClure's assault had tapped a smoldering
mine.  Though the game was resumed neither
McClure nor Snoopy Bill evinced any interest, while
the latter continued to breathe vengeance.  Beside
him sat Ford who too was showing little interest
in the cards.

"Come, Ford!" challenged Snoopy Bill in a
stage whisper.  "I'll stump you to split on the
hounds.  I'm quitting."

"Cut the ragging!" called Sykes appeasingly.
"This bad stuff all comes from drinking Swale's
rotten whiskey.  Here comes the best ever."

Swale appeared with a loaded tray.  The glasses
were passed around.

"Keep it!" said Snoopy Bill.  "I tell you I'm
quitting."

"Me too," said Nick Ford, pushing his glass
away.  "I reckon I'm with Bill," said he rising.
"This gang's never been right.  But it hit the rocks
good and hard about the time Hank Foyle blew in.
I know I ain't a Sunday-school teacher but I've
felt like a skunk since that steal of Pullar's farm.
I've a sneaking idea there's some scurvy game on
right now.  Rolling an old man is bad enough but
I draw the line at fouling a woman.  I'm through."

Nick's words had a startling effect.  The
drinkers paused in their act of tossing the glass.
There was a passage of swift glances between
Sykes and McClure.  The hush of a deep calm fell
on the room, broken by a wild laugh from Snoopy
Bill.

"Keep it up, old top!" he shouted, slapping
Ford on the back.  "Cough it out.  Spit up
the facts.  We'll enjoy 'em."

Ford gave a knowing smirk.

"No, Bill," was his insinuating reply.  "I ain't
telling all I know.  I'll let it off at the regular
time."

For McClure and Sykes his words had a disquieting
significance.  How much did Ford know?
Beyond all doubt he had an inkling of the facts.

"None of this little party know what Nick is
raving about," said Sykes.  "Nick's had a peculiar
dream.  Louie's poison got him a little differently
from Rob.  Let us forget the gab and every man
hit the bottom of his glass.  There's a tankful left.
Watch us touch the high spots in this little game."

He pointed to the cards.

There was a roar of applause.

"No you don't," said Nick determinedly.  "It's
bye, bye, boys, for me.  I'm taking a walk to myself."

"Take me along," cried Snoopy Bill, rising and
joining him.

The gang watched the two delinquents lock arms
and pass out into the barroom.  No man made a
move to obstruct them.  Any such attempt would
have been organized by either McClure or Sykes
and for some reason they were silent.

With the game broken up the party went out.

"Come over to the office," whispered Sykes to
McClure and Foyle.  "Ford's next our game.
We'll have to finish with a spurt if we are to pull
off a win."

The interview lasted a long time.  They had
barely entered upon it when a shadow crept up and
hung low near the window.  With surprising temerity
the stealthy visitant lighted a cigarette.  In
the light of the match appeared the dark visage
of Nick Ford.  He had sprung a bluff on the plotters,
basing his charge on a phrase or two he had
overheard.  His guess had been shrewd.  Satisfied
that some conspiracy was afoot he decided to
shadow the three men with the result that he now
sat at the window listening with alert ears to the
conversation going on within.  He caught significant
parts of their talk, enough to discover that
some scheme was being concocted against the little
school-teacher.  He listened breathlessly in effort
to learn complete details, but without success.

"Hang my ears!" was his impatient whisper.
"Why can't I get it all?"

He had learned enough, however, to present him
with a serious challenge.

"They've got me!" he whispered half fearfully.
"Sykes has piles of money.  If I chuck him he'll
break me sure."

Hearing signs of a break-up of the party he stole
away to his home debating the momentous demand
the facts he had learned now suddenly made upon
his conscience.  It was easier to threaten to split
on the gang than to come through with the threat,
for Nick Ford was no squealer.  It was dawn before
he arrived at a conclusion.  Finally he decided.

"Ah, Brubbie!" he breathed softly.  "For her
sake I'll do it.  She saved you from the wolves.
Yes, I'll do it.  I'll let Ned Pullar know all."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ADVENTURE AT THE BRIDGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE ADVENTURE AT THE BRIDGE

.. vspace:: 2

The morning following her interview with
Ned, Mary elected to follow the round-about
route of the Buffalo paths.  She
had a desire to flee the highway and sequester
herself in the friendly silences.  The flashing June
morning was zestful with the humours of capricious
little winds that pressed refreshingly on
cheeks and lips and curled the brown hair about
her temples.  She was gratefully aware of all this
caressing though looking out on the Valley with
solemn eyes.

She was deep in the cogitations that pressed her
continually when she realized that Bobs had halted
of his own accord on the bald peak.

Below her the lake lay a glistening quietude in
the verdant lap of the Valley.  Vagrant breaths of
tiny squalls dimpled the water here and there shading
it with fleeting frowns.  Beneath her the Storm
Rock hung on the glassy sheet suspended between
two skies.  Cottonwoods and ragged oak formed
an inviting bower.  The island so lonely and silent
had an unusual attraction for her.

"You dear little covert," she whispered.  "How
I should like to hide in you to-day!"

With a sigh she turned Bobs down the hill and
into Willow Glade where she must perforce halt
again and muse in the precious nook with its
haunting memories.

Throughout the day the children of The Craggs
wondered at the frequent periods of preoccupation
that would creep over their usually so attentive
teacher.  They were deeply touched by the singular
gentleness with which she resumed the task.  For
all their mute sympathy the hours lagged strangely.

.. vspace:: 2

Nick Ford wasted no time in addressing himself
to the task he had resolved upon.  It is hard to
travel back over the devious way one has come
when that way has been too devious.  To carry
out his resolution would involve a divulging of
most unpleasant facts.  He knew of the intimate
relations of Mary and Ned and trusted to Ned finding
some way of foiling the designs of the plotters
once he was acquainted with the fact that there was
a plot.  Hitching his horse he set out for the
homestead with laudable dispatch.

He was bowling along, passing through a bluff
not far from his destination when a shadow darted
out of the trees ahead and his horse stopped
abruptly.  His attention was directed to the
unusual movements at his horse's head when he felt
a strong hand close tightly on his arm.  Turning
with an exclamation of surprise he looked into the
grinning countenance of Reddy Sykes.

"Good-day, Nick!" was the quiet greeting.
"Making a little morning run, eh?"

"Hello, Sykes!" he replied innocently.  "What
are you doing here?"

Sykes grinned afresh.

"Let it out, Nick," was the reply.  "You're
heading for Pullar's.  We've been waiting for you.
I saw the yellow streak in you last night.  We
decided to head you off.  You spoke about skunks in
your little spiel.  You're right and we've trapped
the same polecat this morning."

At the words he dragged the other from the
vehicle.  Realizing his helplessness in the powerful
hands of Sykes Nick decided to submit quietly to
the will of his captor.  Taking him into the trees
Sykes sought to force a confession.  But he found
Nick had no particular use for free speech just then.

"Hide his horse and rig in the bluff," directed
Sykes, addressing Foyle.  "We'll gag this scab and
hitch him to a tree for the present.  If I make the
get-away you can send somebody in to let him go."

In the depths of the bluff they gagged him and
tying his hands behind his back strapped him to a
big tree with his leather lines.  Satisfied of the
security of their prisoner they slipped quietly out of
sight.

.. vspace:: 2

During the noon hour Ned joined Mary in another
ride in which arrangements were perfected
for their sudden nuptials.  Resting in his arms at
parting she looked up into his eyes.

"I am looking forward to our ride to-morrow,
Ned," said she.  "But how I should have delighted
to set out on the great adventure from the doorstep
of Mother and Dad!"

"Keep them back, Mary!" enjoined Ned cheeringly
as he saw the tears shine in her eyes.  Wrapping
his sheltering arms about her he whispered the
optimism of his great heart into her fluttering
spirit.

"In our heart of hearts, Mary," said he, "we
both deplore this premature wedding.  But it is the
only sane thing for us to do.  Your mother will
agree with us when you tell her to-night.  She will
bless us.  It is the one way of assuring your
protection.  I believe another desirable and most
wonderful result will follow.  It will break the spell
Sykes has cast over your father.  A complete
severance with Sykes and the crash of his house of
cards will restore your father to you clothed and
in his right mind."

At the words Ned felt the pressure of dear lips
on his.

"Thank you, Ned!" were her happy words.
"That is beautiful of you.  And you do not hate
Father after all his injustice?"

"No, Mary, I pity him.  It is after all his
greater misfortune."

"Good-bye," said she at last.  "It is very hopeful
after all.  Meet me at the Buffalo Peak in the
morning and we'll ride away into the days of our
happy dreams."

Ned watched from the edge of the trees until
the small white figure disappeared within the
schoolhouse.  He was troubled as she vanished
from sight.  It occurred to him that she was very
frail and lonely.  He had a powerful impression
that he should ride through the Valley with her in
the evening as she returned to her home.  He had
proposed accompanying her to the Peak at least,
but she had demurred.  It was better that they
should not be seen together.  There were eyes that
would draw pertinent conclusions that might
wreck everything.  Reluctantly he turned Darkey
into the trail leading to the homestead.

The last few minutes with Ned greatly lightened
Mary's spirits.  She felt that a wise providence
was guiding them.  On the heels of her great
depression there followed the ecstasy of a greater
hope.  Even storm-clouds show a silver edge at
times.

Shortly after four Bobs and his rider set out
for home.  The day had been bright, but as the
afternoon sped away a belt of blue clouds appeared
in the north.  From distant bluffs came the
murmurous roar of a rising breeze.  As she topped a
ridge gusts of cold wind swept up behind her and
rushed past, imbuing Bobs with the storm panic.
He scurried down the trail at a spanking canter.
Very soon they rode over the crest of the Cut and
down into its sheltering trees.  She was riding
along immersed in her momentous reflections
when the sudden pricking forward of Bobs' ears
recalled her to the task of guiding him down the
ravine.  The cause of his interest she discovered
in a vehicle ahead.  It was slowly threading the
Cut, evidently on its way to Pellawa.  She was
rapidly overhauling it.  While conjecturing the
personnel of its passengers it wheeled out of sight
about a sharp curve of the hill.  She followed,
cantering a moment later into a narrowed pocket of
the dip.  She slowed her horse, for before her the
road ran over a pretty bridge, scarcely wide
enough for comfort in passing a carriage.  The
equipage had stopped upon the bridge, crowding
close to one side, leaving thus plenty of room for
her to pass.  Sending Bobs ahead she walked him
upon the bridge.  As she drew abreast of the
vehicle she was startled to recognize Chesley Sykes.
An alarm leaped into her breast at meeting him
there, for the gulch was deep and thickly wooded.
It was a hidden bit of road.

Lifting his hat casually, Sykes addressed her in
a friendly voice.

"Good-day, Miss McClure!  An unexpected meeting!"

As he spoke, Bobs came to an abrupt stop.
Mary glanced ahead.  Foyle stood in their path,
his hands grasping the bridle rein.  Instantly the
girl realized an ambuscade.  With a low, frightened
cry she plunged the spurs into Bobs' flanks.
Blocked in front he reared, tossing his head.  His
wild leap lifted Foyle and threw him over the
railing of the bridge.  A second leap and he snapped
the rein out of Foyle's hands, dropping him into
the water beneath.  He had shaken one assailant,
however, only to be confronted by another.

"Do not be alarmed, Mary," called Sykes, as
he grasped the bridle.  "No harm will come to
you."  With Bobs plunging violently, the girl drew
the automatic.

"Let go," was her stern command, "or I'll shoot."

"Blaze away, Mary!" was the cool reply, as
he dodged for shelter behind Bobs' head.

Unhesitatingly the girl pulled and the gun spat
its stream of lead.  In the confusion of the
leaping horse and her dodging target with the effort to
sit her saddle, the balls went wide.  Not all,
however, for twice came the soft wheeze of ball
piercing flesh.  As the balls went home, Sykes cried
out, though his vigour remained unimpaired.
Aware that the clip was empty she dropped the
gun and addressed herself to sitting the saddle and
urging Bobs in his furious struggles to free himself.

Snorting in terror, the horse leaped into the
ditch, dragging Sykes with him into the trees.
Plunging violently the horse galloped up the
hillside through the grove.  Mary kept her seat, Bobs
dodging in wild plunging leaps among the trunks,
until a low limb swept across their path.  She
could not avoid it and it caught her full in the face,
sweeping her from the saddle.  The powerful
rebound of the strong branch flung her to the
ground, where she lay quiet, a bit of white in the
shrubs.

Relieved of her weight and still further
terrorized, Bobs tore free from Sykes and whirling
about, dashed down the Cut.  Running quickly
to where the still figure lay in the underbrush,
Sykes picked it up in his arms and carried it into
a thicket of great trees.  At that instant Foyle ran
up.

"Got the girl!" he applauded.

"Catch that horse," directed Sykes.  "If he
gets away he'll bring a nest of hornets about our
ears.  Run the carriage out of sight until we are
ready.  We made some change in our plans this
morning.  We are crossing the lake to Magee's
Cove.  The horses are waiting there.  It saves us
a ten-mile run about the frequented Pellawa end.
The boat is ready near Grant's Landing.  I am
making a further change in our plans.  McClure
thinks we are taking the Limited for the West.
Instead we are making a bee-line for Uncle
Sam's the instant we reach the Cove.  The
plucky chit got me twice in the right arm.  Only
flea bites, but they are messing me up rather for a
crowded Pullman.  Hold the carriage ready.
You'll never catch that broncho."

Foyle hastened away to do Sykes' bidding.

As Sykes looked upon the face so cruelly torn
he was touched.  He passed his hand over his
brow irresolute.  Only a moment and the
compunction vanished.  Shutting his jaw he muttered
in determination:

"I've got you at last, Mary, and you stay with
me.  Nothing in God's world will take you from
me—and live."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE STORM ROCK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE STORM ROCK

.. vspace:: 2

Hour succeeded hour with snail-footed
pace as Nick Ford stood lashed to his
tree.  He fought with his gag but it was
jammed firmly into his mouth and held with tight
wrapped bands.  The coils of the stout leather
reins swathed him securely to the tree.  At noon
he heard Ned ride by and repass on his way home
again.  The rider was scarcely thirty yards away.
He made a fresh fight to free himself, but without
avail.  He had ceased to struggle long before
Mary cantered by on Bobs as she set out for home.
A pang smote the man as he realized that he had
failed to warn her of her danger.  As the sound
of the horse's hoofs died away a strange emotion
shook him.  Weak from his struggles and the
numbing pressure of his lashings, a pathetic sense
of guilt crept accusingly over him.  Big tears
oozed out and rolled down his cheeks.  Half
crazed, he prayed wild prayers that the girl might
escape the evil fate lurking on her trail.

An hour passed and he heard a voice call
through the trees.  Some urchin was seeking his
cows.  From the sound of the boy's approach he
was coming straight for him.  He was very near.
Would he penetrate the bluff?  The spot was
quiet.  Evidently the boy listened, but no sound
occurring to attract his curiosity, he turned,
whistling away, essaying some other quarter.  Then
happened a surprising thing.  He had made but a
few steps through the grass when Nick's horse
lifted a sonorous whinny.  Nick fervently
blessed him for the intervention.  It sounded like
the sweetest music.  The boy halted as if shot and
whirling about ran into the bluff.  He found the
horse and vehicle at once and, a moment later, the
man.  Alarmed at first he retreated, but in a little
set busily to work releasing the captive.  In a very
short time Nick was free.

"You are a good boy," said he gratefully as he
made swift preparations for the ride to the
homestead.  "I was tied to that tree by a couple of
scamps.  I'll let you know all about it again.  Just
now I am in a great hurry to let Ned Pullar know,
for he is mighty interested.  Many thanks, lad.
Bye, bye."

The boy gazed with astonished eyes as the man
leaped on the bare back of his horse and galloped
through the trees.

Nick soon clattered into the Pullar yard.  At
the sound of the horseman Ned and his father
stepped out of the stable.  The sight of the rider
and his evident excitement filled Ned with
foreboding.

"Why the rush, Nick?" said he as he ran up.

"Listen hard, Ned," was the swift reply.  "Get
your bronc.  I can talk while you saddle.  I hit
out this way this morning to let you know, but
Sykes and Foyle copped me in the bluff near the
school.  You're up against blankety hard luck.
That deal of Foyle's was a frame-up.  I was in it
and helped the gang dope your old man.  I'm
squealing now because you've got the whitest little
girl in the West and you'll have to burn the trail if
you are going to save her from Reddy Sykes.
McClure's bloods are waiting somewhere over the
lake to run them to Whytewold.  There they take
the Limited for God knows where.  You may be
able to overhaul them, for this wind is mussing up
the lake something fierce and they'll lose a couple
of hours scooting around the west end.  Take a
look at Grant's Landing on the go-by."

By the time Nick uttered the last words Ned
was in the saddle.

"Thank you, Nick," was his grateful cry as he
flashed away.

"We'll follow him," cried Edward Pullar, as
he watched the flying horseman vanish at the end
of the lane.  "Sykes is a dangerous man and the
lad has nothing but his bare hands."

Leaning low over Darkey's neck, Ned heartened
the lithe brute with the courage of his voice.  As
they flew along, the school gleamed down a vista.
The memory of their last moments together, of
the small white figure so lonely and beset, swept
him with an agony of apprehension.  Though his
horse was skimming the trail with the speed of a
swallow, their pace seemed laggard to the
anguished rider and he plunged in his spurs.
Smitten with fear, the animal leaped ahead at
breakneck speed.  Instantly Ned realized the wantonness
of the act.  Pulling gently he called penitently
into the black ears:

"Forgive me, Darkey.  I was cruel.  I will do
it no more.  But carry me fast, lad."

The kind tone soothed the horse and he settled
into a steady stride that devoured the miles.
Overhead a change had taken place unnoticed by
Ned in the hurry-skurry of his start.  The belt of
blue clouds had spread over the sky.  Above was
the explosion and flame of the breaking storm,
about him the whirl of the wind and enveloping
clouds of dust.  It was a wild race through the
hurricane to the brow of the Northwest Cut.
Recklessly they dashed down the ravine, the sound
of the pounding hoofs lost in the roar of the
tempest.  The dense cloud masses flung over them the
shadow of a deep twilight.

Bursting from the Cut he halted on the crown of
the slope.  Below was the lake, a frowning gloom,
horrible with the white fangs of the storm caps.
High over the Storm Rock rose an ominous cloud
of spray.  Above the hiss of the whistling wind he
could hear the low moan of writhing waters.

Swiftly he read the turbid surface, tracing the
shore line now scarcely distinguishable in the
brown murk.  Near at hand was Grant's Landing.
He started as he detected upon it a group of
people.  They were looking out into the lake.  At
sight of them, there came to him an augury of
evil.  With a heavy foreboding he sent his horse
thundering down the slope.  Leaping from the
saddle he ran in among the watchers.  In the
uproar they had not heard him ride up.

"There is something wrong!" cried a fearful
voice.  "They are drifting.  They will strike the
rock."

He recognized the voice of Margaret Grant.

Her father was the first to discover his presence.

"Aye, lad!  Is it you?  'Tis terrible distress
we are in.  McClure's bairn is oot on the fell
water."

He pointed to the foam-streaked lake.

"Where are they?" shouted Ned.

Margaret heard his voice.

"Ned, Ned!" she cried, running to him.
"Mary's out on the lake with Sykes and Foyle.
There they are."

Straining his eyes he followed her hand.  The
boat was far out, visible only in fleeting glimpses
when riding the crest of a wave.  They were running
before the wind, bearing down on the Storm
Rock.  Should the boat strike, it would be crushed
like an egg-shell.  They were now so close no
escape was possible.  It was but a matter of moments.

As the terrible truth came home to Ned, he stood
motionless, impotent, looking with blanching face
on the impending tragedy.  A great sob rolled up
his breast.  He wanted to scream a warning over
the chaos of wind and flood.  Suddenly it seemed
to him but a little way to Mary after all.  Only
the threatening chasm of the malignant waters.
Should it keep them apart?  He smiled that
strange, innocent smile that came out somewhere
from the indomitable depths of him.  He would
take up the gauge of the malign thing grinning at
him out there in the gloom.  He would swim to
the rock.  Running far up the shore he divested
himself of boots, coat and vest and threw himself
on the rollers.

Charley Grant had followed him, thinking he
had espied some means of rescue.  As he saw him
plunge into the lake he shouted wildly:

"Come back, mon!  Ye're daft to reesk it.
Ye'll perish, lad."

But Ned could not hear him.

To the little company upon the landing it was
a moment of horror.  Their fearful interest
alternated between the daring swimmer and the boat
careering upon the rock.

"Mother!  They are striking!" cried Margaret
in a voice of awe.

As she was speaking the boat rose high, poised
a moment on the black waters, then vanished.

All eyes were strained to snatch a glimpse of the
unfortunate craft.  But no vestige of it could they
discover.

"They are gone, Mother!  Gone!" moaned the
girl, hiding her face in her mother's breast.

"Can you see the lad?" called the mother, her
vision blurred in tears.

Shading his eyes, Charley Grant searched the waves.

"Aye, aye!  I see him yet," was the relieved cry.

For a few minutes they were able to see the
head of the swimmer bob about on the tossing
flood.  Then it, too, vanished in the ominous
gloom.

.. vspace:: 2

Flung high on a hissing breaker, Ned saw the
boat strike and go out like the snuffing of a light.
For a moment his heart seemed to hold its beat
and he lay weak and helpless in the trough of the
wave.  Then he prayed as men do when they come
to grips with death.  There came a response.  A
new vigour flooded his body and with strokes of
powerful sweep, he swam on toward the rock.  It
was now down wind and he made straight for it,
taking the chance of being dashed upon its granite
face.  Watching with eagle eye he bided his time,
keeping his course dead upon the rock's centre.
As it loomed above a huge swell lifted him.
Blinded with spray he lay on the breaker awaiting
the onset.  It flung him on the rock with the
catapult of its snapping crest.  Holding out his hands
he sought to ward the crash from his head.  His
strong arms took the impact, the bones of his
shoulders creaking under the strain.  Withal his
head struck a jagged point.  Sense reeled and he
rolled hither and thither, like a log on the
churning wash.  By a mighty effort he righted himself
and feeling a sharp edge, clung to it with all the
strength of his powerful clutch.  Caught in the
lateral flow of the split wave he was carried to the
side.  Clinging to the jutting ledge by a sort of
hand-over-hand movement, he was floated around
the rock.  So far was he borne that he could see
the quieter waters of the lee shelter.  Ten feet
more and he would be there.  Then ensued a fierce
struggle.  The subsiding wave sought to drag him
back into the lake.  With hands torn on the ragged
edges he fought to retain his precarious hold.  A
moment's baffling balancing and the wave passed
on.  Quickly he drew himself into a shielding
niche.  There he rested, breathing heavily.  In a
little he would search the rock.

Clambering up the side he attempted to scan the
upper surface, at the same instant lifting a shout.
But the wind snatched the cry from his lips and
flung him down the rock.  The brief glance had
disclosed to him an astonishing thing, however.
The rock was as bare as the nude surface of a
melting berg.  The cottonwoods and their patch
of clinging turf had been swept away, leaving only
the naked contour of the original monolith.  The
emptiness of the place smote him with a dread
fear.  Climbing cautiously into the teeth of the
storm he shouted again, throwing a name into the
uproar.  But the wind hurled him back once more.
As he caught his feet he was thrilled to hear a
shout.  It came from the spot where he had struck.
Shouting with the full power of his throat he
clambered to the edge.  A heavy billow had dashed
upon the reef, flinging aloft a cloud of spray.
Something at the base of the cloud held his
fascinated gaze.  Fighting the buffeting deluge he
sought to visualize the thing before him.  In the
blur of the gray mist he thought he defined a
phantom figure balanced on the wave-battered edge of
the rock.  One arm hung strangely at its side,
while the other was lifted in effort to maintain a
footing upon the slippery surface.  As he looked
there was a thunderous roar.  An enormous wave
had rolled up.  Lifting the struggling figure on its
foaming crest it whisked it across the rock.  In
the swift passage it fought to catch its feet,
succeeding for the briefest instant only.  Upon the
lee edge of the rock the figure stood up in the wave
and lifted a warding hand.  But it could not breast
the whelming flow and was swept like a chip into
the darkness beyond.  As the figure vanished into
the mists there broke on Ned's ear a weird shout.
It sounded like the mocking laugh of a fiend.

A shudder swept over the hearer.  The phantom
was Chesley Sykes.

While the horror of the moment was still heavy
upon him he heard what seemed like an answering
shout.  The quality of it thrilled him, for it was a
woman's cry.  Looking over the bare surface he
was amazed to detect the rump stump of the
ragged oak.  Low at its base lay a clinging
shadow.  Megaphoning with his hands he shouted
with all his might.  He was electrified to catch a
distinct reply.  The voice?  He knew it.  A wild
joy surged through him.  It was Mary.  She was
clinging to the oak.

Swamped by the panic of the mad moment he
was about to dash over the rock, when there
flashed before him the fate of that phantom figure.
He restrained the wild desire and studying the
rock saw that by a detour of the lee side he could
reach to within a few yards of the oak.  A swift
run over a dangerous buttress and he would be
with Mary.  Fearful that the tremendous waves
might wrench her free, he worked about the rock
with furious impatience, making the circuit
without mishap.  With a sharp flit he was over the
buttress.

The girl was plainly nearing the limit of her
endurance and looked into his face with a half-fearful
wonder as he lifted her in his arms.

"Ned!" she cried, "you are not Sykes?  I
thought I heard him cry a little ago with such a
terrible, screaming laugh."

"It is Ned, dear," was his cry as he placed her
more securely against the oak.  "Rest a little.
You are very weak but you will recover shortly."

Kneeling upon the rock, he took the oak in his
hands and, turning his back to the storm, crouched
above her, so shielding her from the pounding
waves and the chill of the hurricane.  Huge
billows continued to deluge the rock and their
smashing force soon began to tell.  She discovered
before he did that his strength was going.  After an
exhausting struggle with an unusually powerful
wave, she called to him.

"Let me go, Ned.  You cannot stand much
more.  That last almost swung you about the
tree."

"I will crouch lower," said Ned.  "The wind
will subside soon.  Then I can carry you to that
shelter under the ledge."

Thrilled by the magic of her clinging touch he
would not acknowledge the fearful inroads the
long struggle had made on his strength.  Now he
knew no terror.  True, a dizziness would confuse
him at times on the heels of the heavier swells, but
he clutched the tree and clung till it passed.

"You cannot stand many more," cried the girl
fearfully.  "Leave me.  You can still make the
shelter or swim——"

"Hush, Mary!" was the cheery reply.  "You
would rob me of the happiest moment I have ever
known.  We'll stick together, dear.  We are good
for a lot of roughing yet."

"You will not leave me, Ned?"

"Not ever, Mary."

"Ned, dear heart!" was the caressing cry.
"This is a wonderful moment.  It is worth all the
cruelty of these last, long months and the horror
of this terrible day.  You are the dearest pal."

"Pal?" cried Ned, looking into the dark eyes.
"What pals we'll be!"

That they were tortured with the smiting waves
and facing death with each succeeding roller, only
enhanced the supreme joy of their confession.

"We are going to get out of this all right," said
Ned, as he breathed heavily from a battle with a
mighty wave.  "You hardly think it possible,
little one, you have been so broken by this battering
storm.  But we'll beat it all, water, wind and
human guile."

Suddenly he straightened up and placed hand to ear.

"Listen, Mary!" he called.  "Can you not hear
it?  There are voices coming up the wind."

They listened.  From the lee of the rock came a
faint shout.  Together they replied.  Again the
shout and this time astonishingly close.

"There is a boat near," cried Ned.  "I caught
a glimpse of it through the spray."

With the sudden prospect of rescue, hope leaped
up afresh.  A new courage entered their minds
and a strange new strength their bodies.  Both
were opportune, for now they entered upon a
desperate struggle with successions of formidable
waves.  They had nearly passed when the black
dizziness, that of late had been recurring with
alarming frequency, fell suddenly upon Ned.
Fainting under the exertion he sank.  His head
hung over the edge of the rock and only the
super-human efforts of his companion prevented him
from plunging headlong into the lake.

"Mary!" he cried as consciousness came dimly
back.  "I have been asleep.  Did the roller beat
me that time?"

"You were nearly gone," cried the girl faintly.

"How did you ever hold me, dear?"

"I don't know, Ned.  But you are here.  You
cannot stand another.  Is the boat near?"

The girl's voice had a terror in it that smote
Ned with pity.

The boat at that moment rode through the
choppy waves, to shelter at the base of the rock.
The instant the prow struck a great figure leaped
out of her and scrambled up over the ledge.  As it
straightened up for the dash to the oak, Ned was
amazed to behold the face of Rob McClure.  It
was distorted by a terror born of no sense of
physical danger.  There was a poignant agony in
his voice as he cried:

"Mary, Mary!  Are you here?"

"She is here and safe," shouted Ned in reply.

Stooping down Ned exerted all his strength and
lifting the small form, placed her in her father's
arms.

"Brace against that stump," cried Ned as a billow
hit them.

"Daddy!  You have come!" cried the girl as
she nestled in her father's arms.  Upon her face
was the look of wonder inexplicable with which
she had greeted Ned.  In Ned's eyes was a wonder
even greater.  He was pondering this astounding
enigma when a cloud swept over his mind with
a horrible enveloping and he fell on the rock.  A
fresh wave clutched him as two shadows darted
to where he lay.

"Just in time!" cried the voice of Andy Bissett,
as he fought the wave for possession of the
inert form.

"Shure, 'tis full spint is the lad," was the
response of Easy Murphy.  "There's been a divil of
a scrap wid wind and wathurr on this
bauld-headed stone."

"It has been a wonderful fight," agreed Andy
as they got their burden safely out of the clutch
of the breakers.

"Thrue, me hearty!  And the swate colleen wuz
worth it, begobs."

In the boat were Lawrie and Jean Benoit and
another—Foyle.  He was haggard and dishevelled
and silent.

Securing their precious salvage the crew
explored the rock, shouting loudly in hope of
another survivor, but the only reply was the uproar
of the tempest.  Convinced that no living thing
remained they shoved off and ran for the southeast
shore.





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.. _`THE EMPTY SADDLE`:

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   XXV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE EMPTY SADDLE

.. vspace:: 2

After tearing free from Sykes, Bobs
galloped through the woods till with true
broncho instinct he circled to the trail and
shot post haste for home.  After a time his terror
passed and he reduced his speed to a comfortable
canter, then to a trot and finally to a walk.  Loitering
leisurely along the way he nibbled choice tufts
of grass.

When the hour of Mary's home-coming arrived
and there was no sight of her along the Valley
trail, Helen McClure grew mildly anxious.  With
the passage of an hour and still no sign she
became alarmed and consulted McClure.  He
betrayed no evidences of anxiety and endeavoured to
calm the agitated woman.  It was during the
furious outbreak of the storm that she saw the
riderless horse trot swiftly down the lane.  A dread
seized her and she called to Rob.

He was seated in his office, his eye fixed in
remarkable tenderness upon the two faces that for
the last few days had haunted him.  The
anguished tone of his wife smote him and a wave of
shame passed over his face.  He dropped his head
upon his hand.  A curious enervation sapped his
strength.  That cry with its tender distress broke
something hard within him.  He could not lift up
his head.  The fact of the bribe and its mighty
lure were forgotten.  In the space of one
marvellous instant he became humane.  In upon him
surged an overwhelming solicitude for Mary's
safety.  Endearing memories rushed upon him.
His dishonour and the pathos of Mary's betrayal
cried out in the smitten cry of his wife.  Remorse
and contrition were strangely confused in the mind
that refused to work with its accustomed celerity.
Grimly he reflected that the office of the blue
automatic was desirable.  Opening the drawer he
thrust his hand within.  The gun was gone.  Who
could take it?  His wife?  Mary?  Ah, it was
Mary.  He brushed his brow in a troubled gesture.
In upon the deepening gloom burst a disquieting fear.

"Rob!" came the cry again in a low frightened
tone.  "Bobs has come home without Mary.  He
must have thrown her.  Perhaps she is injured
or—killed."

"Tut, tut, Helen!" was his answer.  "She is
not hurt.  Have no fear for Mary.  She is too
good a rider.  She is walking along the trail."

"But it is so late," objected the mother
anxiously.

Together they went out to where Bobs was
refreshing himself at the trough.  A quick
examination of the horse aroused in McClure a new
uneasiness.  The bridle was torn and the rein gone.
Suddenly Helen discovered something Rob hoped
she would not see.

"Here are marks of the spurs," called his wife.
"Mary never uses these terrible things."

She pointed to red dabs along the flank.

Passing about the horse Rob discovered a
bloody mark on Bobs' white hip that aroused a
panic in his own breast.  Beneath the smear of
blood there was no wound.  His wife detected
what he was looking at.

"That cannot be from the spurs," she cried in
a stricken voice.  "Mary has met with an
accident, that she made a wild effort to escape."

She sought his eye.

"Listen, Helen!" said he in a low tone, transfixed
by her compelling glance.  "Do not jump to
wild conclusions and believe all I say.  You may
never forgive me.  You must believe me.  Mary
is not hurt.  She has gone with Chesley Sykes.
They will come back again.  He was to intercept
her on her way from school.  It was all arranged.
I gave my consent and Hank Foyle was to help
him out.  He will marry our girl."

His confession had come in a slow, passionless
voice.  As the truth dawned upon her the blood
receded from her face, leaving her white and
haggard.  Old age seemed to have fallen magically
upon her.  Her lips moved as if to speak, but no
sound issued forth.  She reeled as if struck.  Rob
threw his arms about her.  At his touch she stood
erect and rigid.  Thrusting him gently from her,
she turned away with a low moan.

With bowed head he led Bobs to the stable and
went slowly, dazedly into the house.  All within
was quiet.  The stillness troubled him.  His wife
had secluded herself.  He called her name but no
answer came back.  Making a swift search he
found her at length in Mary's room.  She knelt
before the bed fondling some trinkets she had
spread out upon the counterpane.  Her eyes were
fixed upon a tiny photograph.  It was a likeness
of Mary when a babe.

"Ah, poor little baby!" she whispered.  "They
have broken your dear little heart."

As Rob watched the stricken creature an exquisite
pain stabbed his own soul.  Walking over
to her he threw his great arms about her.

"Listen, Helen," said he brokenly.  "Before
God Almighty I'll bring Mary back to you."

She seemed not to hear him.

Rising he walked out.

Hitching up his team he pushed them at a
terrific pace for Magee's Cove.  He arrived at the
Cove thankful to find that the bloods were still
there.  He was ahead of the boat.  He soon
discovered it out in the lake and in grave peril.
Before he could fully realize the situation the boat
crashed upon the Storm Rock.  In the closing dusk
he fancied he saw a gleam of white upon the rock.
Obsessed with a wild hope that it was Mary he
sent his horses at a gallop to Magee's and got out
his big steam launch just as Andy and his party
came up, bent on the same purpose.  Supplementing
the engine with oars they drove for the rock,
picking Foyle up near shore.  The tale he gave
them impelled them to heroic effort and they
fought their way steadily toward the rock.  When
near they discovered two figures, taking them for
Mary and Sykes.  Their astonishment knew no
bounds when they found out that Mary's
companion was Ned.

The return was effected easily and speedily.
The boat was cutting through the breakers not far
from shore when Lawrie, who was in the prow,
gave a peculiar cry and signalled the reversal of
the engine.  It was called forth by an object
rocking amid the flotsam.  Instantly the boat was
halted and backed to where the object lay in the
water.

"My God!" cried Easy Murphy, as they rode
alongside.  "It's Sykes, poor divil!"

At the words a moan came from somebody.
Through McClure passed a shudder and he drew
Mary close to him.  Producing a rope they
attached it to the gruesome thing out in the waves
and started shoreward once more.

Mary was taken direct to her home.  Mrs. Grant
insisted on warmth and refreshment, but Rob
would hear of no delay.

"Her mother is waiting," said he, with the
saddest of smiles.

The drive was accomplished at a speed that
brought the bays to rest at the McClure threshold
in a reek of sweat.

On that home-coming no eyes must peer.  Upon
Helen McClure's face lay the ineffaceable scars of
her dark vigil.  But her heart was healed by the
miracle of the storm.

And Ned?  The tonic of love and youth more
than pulled him through.





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.. _`THE RED KNIGHT SINGS OF THE FAIRIES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE RED KNIGHT SINGS OF THE FAIRIES

.. vspace:: 2

The sun was sinking behind a sky of
golden fleeces.  Through the dazzling
cloud-rims streamed the lava of sunny
light, flooding The Qu'Appelle with its restful glow.
Below lay the lake, a rippling basin of molten gold.

Everywhere the shadowy greens of the crests
were checkered with square patches of ripe wheat.
Some fields were mellow for the sickle.  Upon the
morrow the binders would hum the overture of the
harvest symphony.

Two watchers sat on the Grant lawn drinking in
the liquid glow of the west.  Down upon them
rolled a field of Red Knight, covering the terrace
to their feet.  The light of a blazing summer and
its dews and rains lay before them, stored in a
forest of magic heads.  The grain was standing
thick and erect, its cream-gold surface dappled
with pursuing waves of shade and shine.  The eyes
of the watchers rested on the sea of plumes.  They
were talking of it.

"Wonderful!  Indeed!" exclaimed Margaret
softly.  "It is as wonderful as Ned and his father
think it is."

"Yes!" agreed Andy.  "I for one believe it
will far surpass their hopes.  And yet I am
scarcely qualified to judge since the ride of a
certain girl to the rescue of The Red Knight.  His
precious gold kernels were the sesame that opened
her eyes.  I have a natural bias toward him but he
is a marvel all the same and the king of cereals.
The scientists, the cereal breeders, even the millers
agree with the Pullars and the farmers in
pronouncing The Red Knight a wonder grain.  I
believe with old Edward Pullar that it will be the
elixir of life to millions of farmers.  It is
interesting to conjure just what this will mean to
the future of our country.  Beyond a doubt it
will draw the strong of the earth to the virile
North."

Andy paused musing for a time.  Then he said
gently:

"There is something great, magnificently great
in all this, something that dwarfs The Red Knight
himself."

At his words the girl sought her companion's
eyes.  Swiftly she divined his thoughts.

"You mean somebody is great, do you?" said she.

Andy nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes.  There is Edward Pullar and Ned, himself,
and the little mother.  These dear neighbours
of ours have been great in vision and patience.
We have not understood.  Most people about
Pellawa never will.  The old homestead at The
Craggs has been a place of unobtrusive but
astounding achievement.  These quiet farmers are
mighty benefactors.  What farmers they are!"

"Look!" cried Margaret, suddenly pointing
into the west.

Along the distant edge of the wheat were
moving three shapes, black shadows of riders
suspended in the amber light as they skimmed along
the high shoulder of an upper bench.  A moment
only were they visible.  Then they melted into the
yellow sea.

"The McClures!" announced Margaret, a reflective
light shining in her eyes.  "This is Mary's
first ride—since the storm.  She is happy to-night."

"I am sure she is.  But how do you know?"
mused Andy.

"The curvetings of Bobs assured me," was the
reply.  "Mary is in the happy mood that inspires
Bobs with a foolish notion that he has wings
instead of legs and must fly away."

"Which reminds me," said Andy with a smile,
"that I, too, am foolishly happy.  Have you
observed my grove lately?  If not, better take a
careful look."

Margaret followed his gesture.  She saw a
strange white object among the trees.  Her eyes
brightened, but dissembling with feminine facility,
she looked up in naïve curiosity.

"It is the gable of our roof," explained Andy,
looking deep into the clear eyes.  "I cut down that
old rotten elm that you might get a glimpse of
what is to be expected—of you.  Hum!"

Margaret made no reply except a widening of
innocent eyes.

"To resume," continued Andy.  "It will be
plastered before the frost; during the winter we
shall finish it.  Then, after seeding, some day in
June——"

Andy paused.  The gaze of his companion was
gratifyingly intent.  He waited.

"Well?" came the incurious query.

"Well!" was the deliberate reply.  "What so
rare as a bride in June?"

Margaret read the face above her, read it
deeply, gravely, for a moment, then released an
entrancing smile.

"Would you care to really know?" was her
arch reply.

"Would I?"

"Then hear!  It is the bold fellow who
conspires with himself against her."

.. vspace:: 2

Edward Pullar was passing among his head-row
plots, spending a busy hour in the cool of the
twilight.  His eyes were ashine and a cheerful
humming proclaimed a happy worker, deeply in love
with his work.  And it was so, for was not the
Red Knight scaling another wall in the grand
assault?  Already the aged gleaner had harvested a
wealth of selected heads and the tub on the kitchen
floor was the receptacle of several gallons of the
astonishing brown-red kernels.  There was a
prophetic light on the old man's face as he plucked
the wonderful heads.  So deep was his self-communion
that he was startled when a voice called
for the second time:

"Mr. Pullar!"

The voice was powerful but suppressed, its tone
familiar.  The old man looked up in surprise.

Before him stood Rob McClure and his wife.
With instinctive gentility he doffed his hat and
bowed.

"Good-evening to you, friends!" was his cordial greeting.

"Thank you for your kindness, Edward Pullar,"
was McClure's slow reply.  "I have ridden
over to see you though you may not desire
conversation with me.  I would not blame you——"

Edward Pullar raised his hand.

"Hush!  My friend!" he entreated gently, a
brightness glowing in his eyes.  "I understand all.
Nick Ford has given me the tale without reserve.
The past has been very dark for all of us; the
expiation—costly.  There are enigmas that remain
unexplained but the explanation would merely
satiate curiosity.  It would not alter anything.  We
have forgotten the past.  Life is new, sacredly new
for Ned and me—since the storm.  We want no
confession, no ceaseless grieving, simply your dear
friendship.  We are looking ahead into the gloriously
happy days.  Give me your hands."

The others stepped impulsively to him and
seized his hands.

"You mean it!  I know you mean it!" said
Rob McClure, his great eyes lingering reverently
on the old man's face.  "Do you know that we
attempted to steal your bins of Red Knight?  That
we sold your farm by a devil's ruse?  That we
fought Ned, nine to one, with savage design to
maim him for life?  That we planned a terrible
wrong and carry the red brand of crime?  Do you..."

"Hush!  My friend!" cried the old man, stemming
the hot torrent of self-condemnation.  "Do
not recall it, I implore you.  I know it all, but it
is cast behind.  We hold in our memories only
the joys of those dark days, for there was much
that was precious.  Besides, there are the bairns.
For their sakes and for our own I will be having
you always for my friends."

"Edward Pullar!" cried the soft, thrilled voice
of Helen McClure.  "God will bless you for those
noble words.  He will nourish this dear friendship
into which you are taking us."

As she spoke the moon rolled up over the
prairie edge, throwing over them all a faint,
rosy light through the gauzy fringe of a low cloud.

"How wonderful!" cried Helen McClure.  "It
is the warm light of promise."

Through the shadows of the young night came
suddenly the voice of laughter, silvery as the call
of a bird to its mate.  It was barely audible
indeed, but distinct and athrob with joy.  It was
Mary's voice.  At the sound a wave of deep
emotion swept over the three people and their hands
tightened in a clinging grip.

.. vspace:: 2

Mary was in just the fettle Margaret had
surmised.  Discovering Ned busy at his binders, she
had lured him with her call.  In a moment he was
with her and gathered her into his arms.  About
them flowed the light of the moon, bathing tree
trunks and leaves and the rippling wheat in its
soft, red shine.

"See her!" cried the girl, pointing to the glowing
orb veiled in its tracery of leaves and limbs.
"Have you ever seen her so benign?"

"Never!" cried Ned happily.  "To-night she
is witching.  She is painting you with her dainty
rouge, face and lips, and this soft, brown hair.  In
your eyes her light of wonderful old rose is the
light of dear desire."

"Evidently she holds a spell," teased Mary,
"and does not scruple to throw dream stuff into
the foolish eyes of young farmers."

"What an occult magician she is!" cried Ned
delightedly, abandoning himself to the deceit of
the moment.  "She has everything about us revelling.
The little winds are flirting scandalously
with your curls and there is a whispering music
out there in the moving grain.  There are voices
in the wheat that haunt me.  Often have I dreamed
of them but never have I caught their singing
until now.  Something tells me you understand—you
favourite sorceress of rose-light moons."

"This is our mad-moon, Ned," laughed Mary
softly.  "I begin to feel the strange thrill of its
lunacy.  This old-rose light is a glamourous thing.
Put your cheek against mine, dear pal, and I'll
whisper to you the secret that is throbbing in the
heart of our wonderful Knight.

"His voices come sweetly in stealing from very
far and in all their singing there is a tender tale
they tell of kind eyes that glanced upon him one
great day and of a gentle hand that plucked him
out of the wilds and set his roots in the wise hearts
of men.  With a million, adoring tongues he is
hymning to-night the tender spirit of Kitty
Belaire.  Hark to the legends he sings of the coming
days!  One beautiful noon your father, Ned, told
me a remarkable thing.  'The Red Knight,' said
he, 'will push the grain belt three hundred miles
nearer the poles.'  It is of this The Red Knight is
whispering now.  His prophetic voices are
winging in from everywhere and they tell of a
wondrous host trekking the illimitable plains of this
magic North.  Listen, Ned, and you will hear their
tramp through the enchanting glow of our mad
rose moon."

"I can hear it, Mary!" was the hushed reply as
he nestled the brown head close.  "And in all the
tramping of the countless feet I hear a fairy patter
like the sound of falling leaves.  Are they the fragile
feet of the fairy children flitting to us out of
the infinite?"

"Ned, my Ned!" was the endearing cry.
"The Red Knight is singing of the homes he will
build in his gardens of wheat, of the tiny fairies,
the little children of the plains who shall play in
his gardens—in your garden, Ned, and mine."

Ned's answer was the drawing tight of his great
arms and the sheltering crush of his mightier love.

A mist crept over Mary's eyes.  Looking
through the glad tears she whispered:

"It is the 'bestest' year we have ever seen, both
for us and for—them."

Over all rose the moon, now white and serene,
pouring upon them the silver light of her purity.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center small

*Printed in the United States of America*

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.. pgfooter::