Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank, Mary Meehan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                       THE LAND OF STRONG MEN

                         BY A. M. CHISHOLM

     AUTHOR OF _"Precious Waters" and "The Boss of Wind River"_

ILLUSTRATED BY
FRANK TENNEY JOHNSON

New York
THE H. K. FLY COMPANY
Publishers

Copyright, 1919, by
THE H. K. FLY COMPANY


[Illustration: _Before the heavy snows these bunches were rounded up and
driven to the ranch._]




CONTENTS


       I Lost and Found

      II A Death Bed

     III Angus Asserts Himself

      IV Judge Riley--Drunk and Sober

       V Angus in Love and War

      VI Gain and Loss

     VII The Frenches Again

    VIII Old Sam Paul Makes a Proposition

      IX Dorgan

       X Before the Race

      XI A Hold-up

     XII The Race

    XIII Mainly About Chetwood

     XIV A Fight with a Grizzly

      XV Faith Winton Turns Up

     XVI A Talk with Judge Riley

    XVII A Crisis

   XVIII Christmas at the Frenches

     XIX Introducing Mrs. Foley

      XX An Enemy at Work

     XXI Watching

    XXII Brother to Brother

   XXIII Faiths's Farm

    XXIV A Demand and Answer

     XXV Cross Currents

    XXVI Conspiracy

   XXVII While Shelling Peas

  XXVIII Mrs. Foley on Marriage

    XXIX Sudden Death

     XXX Strangers Ask Questions

    XXXI The Auction

   XXXII Chetwood Unmasked

  XXXIII Another Surprise

   XXXIV A New Complication

    XXXV Braden Misses Some Papers

   XXXVI Turkey Plays a Hand

  XXXVII Duplicate Deeds

 XXXVIII Garland Plays a Hand

   XXXIX The Turning of the Screw

      XL Signs and Omens

     XLI Terror

    XLII Outlaws!

   XLIII Taking the Trail

    XLIV The Red Avenger

     XLV The Great Show-Down

    XLVI Strong Men

   XLVII Peace




ILLUSTRATIONS


Before the heavy snows these bunches were rounded up and driven to the
ranch

He turned the corner, and came full upon a huge, old-man grizzly

Angus swung his arm against it, and it roared in his ear

To Faith these trips were a novelty, opening a world new and wonderful




The Land of Strong Men




CHAPTER I

LOST AND FOUND


It was light, but not yet day. The shadows of the night seemed to
linger, to retreat with reluctance; and as they were beaten back by the
sun, still far below the eastern curve of the earth and further
blockaded by giant mountain ranges also to the eastward, the clinging,
gray morning mists of early Fall came to replace them. In the pallid
light, a-swim with vapor, objects loomed gigantic and grotesque.

The house which stood among the mists was of squared timbers, mortised
and fitted. It was unpainted, and the interstices were neatly filled
with plaster. The main part was two stories in height, but back of this
and joined to it was another log building, long and low. Evidently this
had been the original dwelling, to which the more pretentious structure
had been added. From one window of this rear building a light glimmered.

The house was surrounded and in summer would be shaded by trees,
cottonwoods and soft maples; but these had shed most of their leaves and
the ground was yellowed with them. Close beside the house ran an
irrigation ditch in which clear mountain water purred and gurgled
softly. To the south loomed the roofs of stables, sheds, high corrals
and stacks of hay and straw. Beyond these were cleared, level fields. To
the northward, protected to some extent by the buildings and trees, was
a small orchard in neat rows.

Now, the light in the rear window went out, and a moment later a door
opened and a boy emerged. He was apparently about eighteen, but
unusually tall and long of limb. At a casual glance he seemed to run to
legs and arms, but a second look would have shown that his chest was
broad and deep, and that his apparent ungainliness was due to age
merely. His face, naturally dark, was tanned to the color of an old
saddle. The cheekbones were high, the nose prominent, the mouth straight
and the boyish jaw firm. The eyes were dark, steady and sombre, shaded
by black eyebrows which slashed straight across the face, meeting above
the nose. The darkness of complexion, the heavy brows, the straight
mouth conveyed an expression almost of grimness. The boy wore a battered
felt hat, a fawn mackinaw coat, pants thrust into high socks and a pair
of moosehide moccasins. In his right hand he carried a rifle, in his
left a small cotton bag. The wooden handle of a knife stuck from a
jam-sheath in his belt.

For a moment he stood sniffling the morning air like a dog, and then
with a light swiftness which gave the lie to his apparent ungainliness,
made for the stables. In a few moments he led out a brown pony. He tied
the cotton bag to the cantle, thrust the rifle into a saddle holster and
swung up.

As he did so there was the sound of running feet, and a girl sped toward
him from the house.

"Angus! Wait a minute!" she cried. She was apparently a couple of years
younger than the boy, slim, brown of hair, eye, and face, delicate of
feature. She held out a paper-wrapped parcel. "Here's some doughnuts for
your lunch," she said.

But the boy frowned down at her. "I've got my lunch," he said tapping
the cotton bag. In it there was bread and cold meat, which he esteemed
manly fare.

"But you like doughnuts," said the girl, "and I thought--I thought--"

Her eyes filled with moisture which was not that of the mists, and the
boy either because of that or affected by the silent argument of the
doughnuts, relented.

"Oh, well, give 'em here," he said, and dismounting untied the bag,
thrust in the doughnuts, made all fast again and remounted. "Tell father
I'll be back in time to feed the stock to-night."

"Yes, Angus. I hope you'll get a deer."

"Sure, I'll get one," the boy replied confidently. A thought seemed to
strike him. "Oh, thanks for the doughnuts."

The girl beamed at this belated recognition. She felt fully repaid for
both the cooking and the early rising. For when a brother is going
hunting naturally his thoughts are far above such things as doughnuts
and younger sisters. Recognizing the propriety of this she turned back
to the house.

The boy rode fast. He passed the boundaries of the ranch, followed a
road for a mile and then, turning into a beaten cattle trail, headed
eastward toward the flanks of a mountain range showing beneath the
skirts of the rising mist.

The trail wound sinuously, rising from benchland to benchland, but the
boy stuck to it, for he knew that cattle invariably choose the easiest
way. Also he knew the country so near home like a book, or rather better
than he knew any written books. To him the land, lying as yet much as it
came from the hands of the Creator, carried more messages and held more
interesting things than any printed pages. Grouse scuttled aside or rose
with a roar of wings, and the boy eyed them regretfully. Once he caught
sight of a coyote, an arrogant, bushy-tailed youngster which, apparently
knowing that he was in a hurry, stood in full view watching him. Once he
stopped short at a momentary glimpse of something in thick bush. But as
he did not see it again, he rode on.

While he still rode in the shadow of the eastern hills, the sun from
behind them struck the face of the western range ten miles or more
across Fire Valley. Behind that again it glinted on peaks still capped
with the snows of the previous winter. The sunshine moved downward to
the valley and eastward across it in a marching swath of gold. In that
clear, thin air to the keen eyes of the boy, peaks and rocks and even
trees miles away were sharply defined. Below him was a lake, pale silver
where the mists that still clung to its surface had parted. Half an hour
later it would take on the wondrous blue of mountain waters. But the boy
did not care for that, nor just then for the great unfolding panorama of
rolling, timber-clad hills, bare, gray peaks and blue sky. He was an
hour late and, as everybody knows, the early morning is the best time to
hunt.

He had intended to enter a pass leading into the hills and turn from it
up a big draw which he knew held blacktail, but he gave up the idea and
turned along the base of the mountain. He was now in a country of
jackpine with huge, scattered, gloomy firs and chumps of cottonwood.
Numerous little spring-fed creeks ran through it, and there were rocky
coulees and small ponds. It was an ideal country for whitetail. There
the boy dismounted, hung his saddle from a tree out of the reach of a
possible porcupine, and put his pony on a rope. He glanced around
mechanically, noting the exact position and registering landmarks. Then
he levered a cartridge into the chamber of his rifle, dropped the hammer
to half cock, tucked the weapon under his arm and struck off parallel
with the base of the mountain.

In motion the impression of awkwardness vanished. He walked with the
peculiar straight-footed, bent-kneed slouch which is the distinctive
mark of the woodsman and moccasin wearer; and is, moreover, extremely
easy because the weight of the body cushions on the natural
shock-absorbers, the ball of the foot and the bend of the knee, and so
is quite a different method of locomotion from the ordinary heel-jarring
stride. Also it is much faster than it looks. And so the boy moved
easily and silently, his moccasined feet automatically avoiding sticks
and loose stones.

He did not hurry. Now and then he stopped, his eyes keen as a young
hawk's fixed on some ill-defined object, and he remained absolutely
motionless until it defined itself to his gaze. Occasionally he
inspected the soft ground, but though he saw many impressions of the
hoofs of deer he paid little attention to them. He followed the only
practical method of still-hunting, prowling along quietly and
watchfully.

But luck seemed against him. Twice, in spite of his care, he heard the
thumping beat which told that deer, alarmed, were making a get-away, but
he did not see them. Being pardonably proud of his eyes and his ability
to move quietly, the boy was disgusted. Noon came and he had no meat. He
sat down by a spring which gushed cold from the base of a hill, and ate
his bread and meat and two doughnuts. Of the latter four remained. These
he saved against an emergency, and stretching himself on a patch of
yellow, sun-dried grass went to sleep like a young dog.

In an hour he awoke, stretched himself, drank from the spring and
circling toward the mountain began to work back toward his pony. He had
covered perhaps half the return distance when he came suddenly upon a
young buck. At the same time the buck caught sight of him and set sail
for the protection of thick brush.

Though taken by surprise, the boy was unflurried. He planted his feet
solidly, swung his rifle swiftly but without hurry, caught the leaping
form fair with the bead and squeezed the trigger. A second time the
rifle rapped on the heels of its own echo, and the buck pitched forward
sprawling, the stiffening gone from his slim limbs which kicked
convulsively.

But instead of running forward eagerly, the boy scarcely shifted his
position as he pumped another cartridge into place. As the deer did not
rise he fed two fresh shells to the magazine methodically. There was no
youthful triumph in his face. Instead it showed a certain
dissatisfaction.

"Ought to have downed him first shot," he muttered, and went forward. He
turned the deer over finding that the first bullet had stuck too far
back. Laying the rifle aside he stuck the animal and proceeded to dress
him. Completing his task he rose and scanned the brush thirty yards away
for a convenient sapling on which to hang his meat.

As he looked, his eye was arrested by a movement in the bushes of
something dun or brown. Without taking his eyes from the spot he stooped
for his rifle, cocked it and advanced slowly.

When he was within thirty feet of the bushes they shook, and the boy
halted, throwing his rifle forward, the butt halfway to his shoulders.
Then, from the shelter of the bushes out stepped a girl.

She was apparently several years younger than the boy, slight, straight,
fair of hair, with clear blue eyes which, however, seemed a little puffy
and reddened. Her face, too, was streaked as with tears, and one sheer
stocking was torn so that the flesh peeped through. She held her arms
straight by her sides, her fists gripped tight. Plainly she was
frightened, but though her mouth quivered a little she looked the boy
straight in the face.

If it had been a grizzly he would have been less surprised. The girl was
a stranger and, moreover, her dress of neat brown linen, her shoes, and
even the sheer, torn stockings, showed that she did not belong in that
neighborhood.

"Hallo!" he said. She gave a little, gasping sigh of relief.

"Why," she said, "you're just a white boy." She spoke with a faint
little lisp, which was really enticing. But her words did not please the
boy who privately considered himself a good deal of a man.

"What did you think I was?" he asked in as gruff a voice as he could
attain.

"I thought you were an In-di-an," she said, pronouncing the word in
syllables; "a growed-up--I mean a grown-up-In-di-an."

Having known Indians all his life the boy found her words unflattering.
"What made you think that?" he queried.

"Because you looked so black and bloody," she told him frankly.

The boy was disgusted. What business had this girl to call him black?
"What's a kid like you doing away out here?" he demanded severely. And
he added wickedly: "Don't you know these woods are full of grizzlies and
cougars and wolves? It's a wonder you weren't eaten alive."

The girl shivered and glanced fearfully back into the gloom of the firs.

"I didn't mean to get lost, really."

"Lost, are you?"

"I was," she said, "but now, of course, you've found me. I'm not afraid
now, because I know you wouldn't let anything hurt me."

At this belated tribute to his manhood the boy's expression softened.

"Well, I guess you're safe now," he admitted. "How did you get lost, and
where from?"

"I got lost from Uncle Godfrey's ranch."

"Do you mean old Godfrey French's ranch?"

"I mean Mr. Godfrey French's ranch," she corrected him. "You'll take me
there, won't you, like a nice boy?"

The boy snorted. The ranch in question was nearly ten miles distant. Of
course she would ride his pony. He did not in the least mind the
walking, but it meant that he would have to leave the deer until the
next day, and meat was needed at home. However, there was no help for
it.

"I suppose I'll have to," he said with the candor of his age. "How did
you get lost?"

Her explanation was commonplace. She had gone for a ride in the morning,
and the mountains had seemed closer than they were. Tiring she had
dismounted, and had been unable to catch her pony. She had followed him
until finally he had disappeared, by which time she was hopelessly
confused.

"Then," she said, "I walked and walked, and I found a lot of paths, but
they didn't seem to go anywhere. I--I was frightened. And then I heard
two shots and I ran as hard as could, and when I saw you I was
frightened again. But now of course it's all right."

The boy grunted. It was just like a girl to let her pony get away, and
get lost, and follow cattle trails all over the country instead of
taking her bearings and striking for home as any intelligent being would
have done. Girls were fools, anyway. They were always getting into
trouble, and dumping themselves down on a man to be looked after. If old
Godfrey French was her uncle, why in blazes didn't some of the French
boys take care of this kid? They hadn't anything else to do.

The boy had little or no use for the French family, which held itself a
little aloof from most of the inhabitants of the district. It consisted
of Godfrey French, his four sons and one daughter. The sons were young
men. They were all big, powerful young fellows, and one of them, Gavin,
was reputed to be the strongest man in the neighborhood. The daughter, a
long-limbed slip of a girl who rode like a cow-puncher, was about the
boy's age. Though Godfrey French had a ranch it was worked scarcely at
all. The boys did not like work, and apparently did not have to. Godfrey
French was reputed to have money. His ranch was a hang-out for what were
known as "remittance men", young Englishmen who received more or less
regular allowances from home--or perhaps to keep away from home. There
were rumors of gambling and hard drinking at French's ranch.

"Well, I'll take you home," the boy said. "You can ride my pony. He's on
a rope a mile from here. But I'll have to hang up this buck, or the
coyotes will chew him."

He found two small saplings close together, bent them down, trimmed them
and lashed their tops. Over these he placed the tied legs of the buck.
With a little search he found a long dry pole. With this he had a
tripod. As he hoisted with the pole the spring of the saplings raised
the buck, which dangled clear, out of reach of all four-footed
marauders. The girl watched him, wide-eyed. To her it seemed a
marvellously clever piece of engineering.

"Well, now we'll be going," the boy announced. He started at his
ordinary pace, but reduced it immediately because she seemed very tired.
Coming to a creek she hesitated and stopped.

"Won't you wash your face and hands, please?" she said.

The boy stared at her, but washed obediently. So did she, and began to
dry her face with a tiny handkerchief at which the boy cast a glance of
contempt. He drew forth his own, which was two feet square, and
originally had been figured in red and yellow, but unfortunately the two
colors had run together.

"Here, take this," he said. But the girl looked at the variegated square
suspiciously.

"No, thank you. I'm afraid it's not san--sanitary."

"It ain't--what?" the boy queried.

"I mean it's not clean."

"Sure it's clean," he returned indignantly. "You're mighty particular,
seems to me." Struck by a sudden thought he took the remains of his
lunch from his pocket and opened it, exposing four sadly crushed
doughnuts. "I don't s'pose you'd eat these, would you? Maybe they ain't
sanitary enough."

But the girl who had had nothing to eat since morning, eyed the
delicacies longingly.

"I--I'll take one, thank you."

"Eat the bunch," said the boy generously. "I've had all I want. Sit down
and rest. There's no rush."

The girl sat down, munching the crushed doughnuts with keen enjoyment,
while the boy stretched on the grass, his head pillowed in his locked
hands watched her curiously. Looking up she met his gaze.

"They're awfully good," she said. "Did your mother make them?"

"My mother is dead. Jean made 'em. She's my sister."

"What is your name, please?"

"My full name is Angus Struan Mackay."

"How do you spell it?"

"M-a-c-k-a-y."

"But k-a-y spells 'K'. Why do you pronounce your name 'McKi'?"

"Because it is," young Mackay replied with finality.

"How many brothers and sisters have you?"

"There's just father, and Jean and Turkey and me."

"'Turkey'!" she exclaimed. "What a funny name! Is it a boy or a girl?"

"His real name is Torquil," young Angus explained, "after my
grandfather. He's just a kid, like you. What is your own name?"

"I am Faith Winton."

"Faith Winton French?"

"No, just Winton. Uncle Godfrey isn't really my uncle. That is, he is my
mother's uncle by marriage. My mother is dead, too. My father is Sewell
Winton."

She stated the fact proudly; but the boy was unimpressed.

"What does your father do for a living?" he asked.

"My father is a great artist."

"Is that so," said young Mackay. "You mean he paints pictures?"

"Of course he does--great pictures. But I suppose, living here, you've
never seen them." Her tone expressed pity.

"I've never seen painted pictures that looked like anything at all,"
Angus Mackay returned with contempt. "There was a teacher at our school
that painted things, but you could not tell what it was all about. She
would paint what she would call a cow, but it would look like a horse,
all but the horns, and a poor horse, too. Has your father come here to
paint?"

"No, he isn't well. He thought the change might do him good, but it
doesn't seem to. We are going away in a few days."

But young Mackay was not interested in the painter's health, nor was he
specially interested in the painter's daughter. His immediate object now
that she had finished the doughnuts was to get her off his hands. And so
he set a good pace toward his pony, saddled, shortened the stirrups and
helped the girl up. No longer restrained by her inability to keep up
with his stride, he struck a swift, swinging gait which was faster than
the pony's walk. He paid little or no attention to girl or pony. It was
their business to keep up with him. He led the way without hesitation,
around sloughs, down coulees, through timber. When they had been
traveling thus for an hour or more he stopped suddenly.

"Somebody is shouting," he said. "It will be your people looking for
you, likely. We will just wait here. You had better get down, for I am
going to shoot and he might not stand still."

He fired three shots close together, and after an interval three more.
Soon afterward they could hear a distant whoop. Mackay answered, and in
a few minutes the search party which had been strung out combing benches
and coulees, began to converge upon them.

First came Kathleen French, a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl sitting
astride a slashing, blaze-faced sorrel, and following her, her three
brothers, Blake, Gerald and Lawrence, the latter leading the pony which
had evaded Faith Winton. The pony had come in, it appeared, with the
saddle twisted down under its belly and kicked to flinders, and the
Frenches had united in blaming Larry, the youngest, who had given Faith
the pony and saddled it for her.

"And lucky for you she wasn't hurt," Blake told him. He was a big,
powerfully built man, with a heavy, florid face which was already
beginning to show signs of the life he led. "If she'd been smashed up
you'd have got yours."

Larry, a rangy, hawk-faced youngster, eyed his brother insolently. "I
would, hey! Well, not from you, and you can make a note of that."

"Shut up!" said the sister. "Quit your scrapping. We may as well be
drifting. Climb up on this pony, Faith."

Faith Winton held out her hand. "Good-by, Angus Mackay. And thank you so
much for finding me, and for the ride, and for the doughnuts."

Young Mackay shook hands limply. "That is all right," he said,
embarrassed. But Kathleen French was reminded of an omission.

"We're a nice lot!" she exclaimed. "Not one of us has thanked him for
looking after Faith. Well _I_ do, anyway. It was good of you, Angus
Mackay."

"Oh, sure," Gerald French concurred carelessly. Not so heavily built as
his brother Blake, he was as tall and finer drawn. His face was oval,
his eyes dark and lazy, and his voice a drawl. "Thanks, Mackay."

"Ditto," said young Larry.

Blake French, reaching into his pocket pulled out a roll of currency and
stripped off a bill. "No, no, Cousin Blake!" Faith Winton exclaimed, but
he held it out to the boy.

"Here you are, Mackay. That's better than thanks. I guess you can use
it."

But the boy made no movement to take the money. "I was not bringing her
home for money, nor for thanks either," he said uncompromisingly.

Blake laughed loudly. "I never heard of a Mackay refusing money."

The boy scowled at him. "There will be other things you have not heard
of," he said coldly.

Blake French stared at him, and laughed again.

"Well, give him a kiss, Faith. Maybe that's what he'd like. Or has he
had it?"

"Cousin Blake, you're horrid!" the girl cried indignantly.

"The kid isn't used to talk like that, Blake," Kathleen told him. "Have
some sense."

"Where would he get it?" young Larry asked insolently. For answer his
brother cursed him.

"Cut that out, Blake," Gerald drawled, but his tone was edged.

"Then let that young pup keep a civil tongue in his head," Blake
growled.

"Pup, hey?" said young Larry. "Well, I'll never make a yellow dog,
anyway." The insinuation was obvious. Blake's face blackened with fury,
but wheeling his horse he rode off after the girls. Gerald and Larry
with brief nods to young Mackay, followed.

The latter stood looking after them, his heavy brows drawn in a frown.
Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he lengthened his stirrups and
swung up on his pony.




CHAPTER II

A DEATH BED


Deciding that it was too late to go back after the deer, Angus headed
for home. The sun was down when he struck into a wagon trail a couple of
miles from the ranch, and he had followed it but a few hundred yards
when he heard the sound of hoofs behind him. Turning in his saddle he
recognized horse and rider which were overhauling him rapidly.

"What's the rush, Dave?" he asked as they drew level.

Whatever the rush had been it seemed to be over. The rider slowed to a
walk. He was a small man, apparently in the forties, wiry and sun-dried.
His name was Rennie, and he was nominally a homesteader, though he did
little more than comply with the statutory requirements. In winter he
trapped and in summer he turned his hand to almost anything. He was a
wizard with horses, he knew the habits of most wild animals thoroughly
and he had seen a great deal of the old West. He and young Mackay were
friends, and he had taught the boy many things from his own store of
experience. As he pulled up, the boy noted that Blaze's bright coat was
dark with sweat and that his head hung wearily.

"You've been combing some speed out of that cayuse," he commented.

"He's been on grass and lathers easy," Rennie returned. "But I was--I
was sorter lookin' for you, kid."

"Why?"

"Well, you see--your daddy he wants you."

"He knew I was hunting. I got a two-year old buck, but it was too late
to pack him in. What does he want me for?"

The question seemed to embarrass Rennie exceedingly. He gulped and went
into a fit of coughing which left him red in the face.

"He wants to talk to you," he replied at last. "He--he wants to tell you
something, I guess. He--he ain't right well, your daddy ain't."

"Not well!" the boy cried in amazement. "Why, what's the matter with
him, Dave?"

"A little accident--just a little accident, kid. He--he--now you don't
want to go worryin' about it; not yet, anyway."

But Rennie's effort to break bad news gently was too obvious. The boy's
voice took on a sharp note of alarm.

"What sort of an accident?" he demanded. "Is he hurt? Talk up, can't
you?"

"Well, now, durn it, kid, I'd ruther break a leg than tell you--but your
daddy, he's been shot up some."

"Do you mean he's dead?" the boy cried in wide-eyed horror.

"No, he ain't dead--or he wasn't when I started out to find you.
But--but he's plugged plumb center, and--and--Oh, hell, I guess you
know what I'm tryin' to say!"

The boy stared at him dumbly while the slow thudding pad of the horses'
feet on the soft trail smote on his ears like the sound of muffled
drums. He failed at first, as the young must ever fail, to comprehend
the full meaning of the message. His father dead or dying! His father,
Adam Mackay, that living tower of muscle and sinew who could lift with
his hands logs with which other men struggled with cant-hook and peavie,
who could throw a steel-beamed breaking plow aboard a wagon as another
man would handle a wheel-hoe? It was unbelievable.

But slowly the realization was forced upon him. His father had been
shot, and with the knowledge came the flame of bitter anger and desire
for revenge that was his in right of the blood in his veins. And the
desire momentarily overwhelmed sorrow.

"Who did it?" he asked, his young voice a fierce, croaking whisper.

"I dunno. He won't tell anybody. Maybe he'll tell you."

"Come on!" Angus Mackay cried, and dug heels into his pony.

The pony was blown and gasping as they rode up to the ranch and Angus
leaped from his back. Rennie's hand fell on his shoulder.

"Kid," he said earnestly, "you want to brace up and keep braced. If it's
a show-down for your daddy he'll like to know you're takin' it like a
man. Then there's Jean and Turkey. This here happens to everybody, and
while it's tough it's a part of the game. And just one more thing: If
you find out who done the shootin', let me know!"

The boy nodded, because he could not trust himself to speak, and ran
into the house. It was hushed in the twilight. Already it seemed to hold
a little of the strange stillness which comes with the departure of a
familiar presence. As the boy paused, from a corner came a little,
sniffling sob, and in the semi-darkness he saw his young brother,
Torquil, curled miserably upon a skin-covered couch. Paying no attention
to him he crossed the living room and as he did so his sister Jean
entered. In some mysterious way she seemed years older than the
girl-child who had come running after him in the gray mists of that
morning. Dry-eyed, slender, quiet-moving, like the shadow of a girl in
the gloom, she led him back and closed the door. He obeyed her touch
without question, without a trace of his superiority of the morning. In
face of sickness and death, like most of his sex he felt helpless,
impotent. He put his long arm around his sister and suddenly she clung
to him, her slender body shaking.

"He's not--dead--Jean?"

"Not--not yet, Angus. Dr. Wilkes is with him now. He says he won't live
long. He didn't want to tell me, but I made him."

She told him all she knew. Adam Mackay had ridden away by himself that
morning, no one knew whither. In the afternoon he had come home swaying
in his saddle, shot through the body. Then young Turkey has climbed into
the blood-soaked saddle and ridden for the doctor. As to how he had met
with his hurt Adam Mackay had said no word.

The inner door opened to admit a burly, thick-bodied man with reddish
hair sprinkled with gray and grizzled, bushy eyebrows. This was Dr.
Wilkes. He nodded to Angus.

"You're in time. Your father wants you. Go to him, and call me if
anything happens."

"He's going to--going to--"

The boy was unable to complete the sentence. The doctor put his arm
over his shoulder for a moment in a kindly, elder-brotherly touch.

"I'm afraid so, my boy. In fact, I know so. Keep a stiff upper lip, old
man. He'll like that."

Adam Mackay stared at his eldest son hungrily from the pillows. Above
his great black beard his face was gray. He was a great frame of a man,
long, lean and sinewy. The likeness of father and son was marked. He
held out his hand feebly and the boy took it and choked. Then Adam
Mackay spoke in a little whisper so unlike his usual deep voice that the
boy was startled, and because it was near the end with him his words
carried the sharp twist and hiss of the Gaelic which was the tongue of
his youth; for though Adam Mackay had never seen Scotland, he had been
born in a settlement which, fifty years before, was more Gaelic than the
Highlands themselves.

"It cannot be helped, son, and it is little I care for myself. When you
come to face death, many years from now, please the God, you'll find it
no' sic' a fearful thing. But it is you and the children that worries me
now, Angus."

"Never mind us, father," the boy said. "I can look after Jean and
Turkey."

The stricken giant smiled at him with a quiet pride of which the
recollection years after warmed the boy's heart.

"I had hoped for twenty years of life yet, by which time you would have
been settled, with children of your own. Eh, well, the young birds must
fledge and fly alone, and your wings are well sprouted, Angus-lad. You
have in you the makings of a man, though yet headstrong and dour by
nature. And now listen, son, for my time is short: I look to you to
take the place I can no longer fill. You are the Mackay, the head of the
family. Remember that, and cease before your time to be a boy."

"I will, father," the boy promised.

"There is little or no money, worse luck," the man went on. "All I have
had I have put into land and timber, and the fire burnt the timber: But
in time the land will make you rich, though not yet awhile, maybe. But
till it does, the ranch will give you a living. Sell nothing now--not an
acre. Promise me, boy!"

"I promise, father," the boy replied.

"A promise to a dying father is an oath," the man went on. "But no
Mackay of our Mackays ever broke his word passed for good or ill.
Remember that, too. I have made a will, and all I have is left to you as
the eldest son. That has ever been our custom. When the time comes, and
they are older, deal generously with your sister and brother. That is
our custom, too. Of this will, the man Braden is named as executor. I
had intended--but it is too late now. He is a man of business and has
the name of an upright man. But if you need advice, son, go to Judge
Riley, drunkard and all as he is. But for that he should have been in
Braden's place. That is all, I think. I feel more content now." And he
closed his eyes with a sigh.

"I will remember, father," the boy said. "But who did this? Who shot
you?"

The eyes opened and searched his deeply for many seconds.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I ought to know," the boy replied.

"You want to know," his father said, "so that if the law should fail,
you would take the old law of the old days into your young hands. Is
that it, my son?"

"Yes," the boy admitted, "that is it. And why for no, father?"

For a moment the graying face of the dying man lighted with a swift
gleam of pride and satisfaction. Then he lifted his great hand feebly.

"You have bred true, lad. Ever were the Mackays good haters, bitter of
heart and heavy of hand. So I have been all my days, and no man did me
wrong that I did not repay it. But listen, son o' mine: Lying here with
my man's strength gone from me and the shadows on my soul I see more
clearly, as clearly as old Murdoch McGillivray, who is dead, and as you
know had the gift while he lived. And I tell you now that hate and
revenge are the things worth least in life; and, moreover, that the
things worth most in life and much more in death, are love, and work
well done, and a heart clean of bitterness. And so I will tell you
nothing at all."

"Please, father!" the boy pleaded, for as his father had said he had
bred true.

"No and no, I tell you, no!" Adam Mackay refused. "No killing will bring
me back. I will not lay a feud upon you. Blood and blood, and yet more
blood I have seen come of such things. I know you, Angus, bone o' my
bone and flesh o' my flesh as I know my own youth, and of the knowledge
in that one thing I will not trust you. I die, and that is the end of
it, for me and for all of me. Your duty is to the living. And now call
you Jean and Torquil, that I may bid them farewell. And take you my
blessing such as it is; for I feel the darkness closing upon me."

An hour later Adam Mackay was dead. And that day was the last of Angus
Mackay's careless boyhood.




CHAPTER III

ANGUS ASSERTS HIMSELF


Though the death of Adam Mackay made a great local sensation, its cause
remained unexplained. Apparently he had been unarmed, and so it seemed
plain murder. But on the other hand his strange silence was puzzling. He
had been on good terms with most of his neighbors, or at least not on
very bad terms with anybody, save a couple of Indians whom he had caught
stealing and handled roughly. But these Indians had a perfectly good
alibi. There was no clew, no starting point. Nobody knew even which way
Mackay had ridden on the day of his death. And so after a while it was
classed with those mysteries which may be solved by time, but not
otherwise.

Meanwhile, young Angus took up the burden of his responsibilities. So
far as he knew he had no near relatives, and search of his father's
papers confirmed this. He was rather relieved than otherwise. He found
his father's will, and struggling with its verbiage, set it aside to
await the return of the executor Isaac J. Braden, who was absent on a
business trip.

Braden was known to Angus by sight and by reputation. He lived in
Mowbray, the nearest town, which was some sixteen miles from the ranch,
where he was the big frog in its little puddle. He had a good many irons
in the fire. He ran a sort of private banking-loan-insurance business,
dealt in real estate, owned an interest in a store, dabbled in local
politics and was prominent in church matters. He was considered a very
able and trustworthy man. But young Angus, though he had very misty
notions of the functions of an executor, had a very clear and definite
conviction that it was up to him to run the ranch and look after his
sister and brother. That was his personal job. And so he took stock of
the situation.

Adam Mackay had owned in all a block of nearly two thousand acres. Of
this about three hundred was cultivated or in pasture. The whole block
was good, very level, with ample water for irrigation. On the range was
nearly a hundred head of cattle. There were horses in plenty--a couple
of work team, a team of drivers, and each young Mackay had a saddle
pony. The buildings were good, and the wagons, sleighs, tools and
machinery in excellent condition. The ranch was a going concern,
apparently in good shape. None the less it was a hard proposition for a
youngster to handle. It was like putting a cabin boy on the bridge to
navigate the ship.

Having been brought up on a ranch, he knew quite well how most work
should be done, and he had acquired by absorption rather than by
conscious thought a good deal of theory. But Adam Mackay had himself
done rather more than half the work. He had had but one steady hired
man, Gus Gustafson, a huge Scandinavian who was a splendid worker when
told what to do, but who had no head whatever. As Angus could not do the
work his father had done he had to obtain additional help, and so he
made a proposition to Dave Rennie.

Rennie was not much of a farmer, but he came to the ranch temporarily at
first out of his friendship for Angus, and remained.

On a certain Saturday afternoon Angus and Dave Rennie, engaged in
hanging a new gate, saw a two-seated rig with three men approaching.
Rennie peered at them.

"There's Braden," he said. "I heard he'd got back."

"And that's Nick Garland driving," Angus observed. "Who's the other
fellow?"

"Stranger to me. Garland, huh! I never had much use for that sport."

Garland was a young man whose business, so far as he had any, was
dealing in cattle. Uncharitable persons said that he dealt more poker.
He was a good-looking chap, after a fashion, who affected cowboy garb,
rode a good horse, was locally known and considered himself a devil
among the girls, and generally tried to live up to the reputation of a
dead-game sport.

The third man, whom neither Angus nor Dave recognized, was a
nondescript, sandy individual with drooping shoulders, a drooping nose
above a drooping moustache which but partially concealed a drooping
mouth. On the whole, both Garland and this stranger seemed uncongenial
companions for Mr. Braden.

That celebrity grunted as he climbed down. He was a fleshy man of middle
age, clean shaven, carefully dressed, with small, somewhat fishy eyes.
He took Angus' brown, hardened paw in a soft, moist palm, putting his
left hand on his shoulder in a manner which he intended to be
sympathetic and protecting; but at which Angus squirmed inwardly and
grew rigid outwardly, for in common with normal boys he hated the touch
of a stranger.

"And so," said Mr. Braden in a short-winded, throaty voice which held
an occasional curious pant like an old-time camp meeting exhorter, "and
so this is Angus! It is a matter of great regret to me, my boy, that I
was absent at the time of your bereavement. You and your young sister
and your young brother have my heartfelt sympathy in this your time of
tribulation--huh. Your father was a very dear friend of mine, a man in a
thousand, one of nature's noblemen. 'We ne'er shall look upon his like
again,' as the poet truly remarks. However, there is no use crying
over--that is, the Lord giveth and taketh away--huh, as you have been
taught, no doubt. As executor of your father's will my dear boy, I
regard myself as in loco parentis, and I hope you will regard me in that
way, too."

He beamed most benevolently, but Angus was unimpressed. Mr. Braden, if
he had only known it, could not have made a worse start. A quiet word of
sympathy or a firm grip of the hand without words would have gone far.
As it was, he quite failed to inspire liking or confidence.

They went to the house together, where Mr. Braden said much the same
thing over again to Jean, and patted her head. And young Turkey,
unwarily peeping through the door, was called in and addressed as "my
little man" and patted also; which attentions he acknowledged with a
fierce scowl and a muttered word, which fortunately Mr. Braden did not
hear.

But these preliminaries over, Mr. Braden got down to business at once.
In a few brief but pointed questions he found out all there was to know
about the ranch and the stock, and he skimmed through such papers as
Angus produced, with a practised eye.

"H'm, yes, yes," he said. "Now I think I understand the situation. I
have given the future of you young people the most careful
consideration, because it is for the future that you must now prepare.
Youth is the time of preparation. It is the building time. As we sow in
youth, so we reap in age--huh. Then let us ask what to-day is the great
essential of success? There is but one answer--education. And so it
follows that you young people must receive the best education that your
father's estate can give you; and as Art is long and Time fleeting, as
the poet truly remarks, you young people must enter upon the path of
learning at once."

The young people said nothing. The flow of words bewildered them. Mr.
Braden then got down to brass tacks:

"I will make the necessary arrangements right away," he said. "We will
rent the ranch and sell off some of the stock, and the money will be
used in sending you all to some good school which will fit you for
success in life."

This was definite, concrete, different from generalities. Angus stared
at the executor.

"Rent the ranch!" he exclaimed. "I guess not. I'm going to run it
myself."

Mr. Braden smiled tolerantly. "Your spirit is very creditable, my boy,
but you are too young and inexperienced."

"I'm running it now," Angus told him, "and I'm going to keep on. I won't
stand for having it rented."

"At your age, my boy, you don't know what is best for you. You must
allow me to be the judge."

Youth is hot-headed, and the tongue of youth unruly.

"I will not stand for having the ranch rented," Angus repeated. "I am
going to stay here and work it, and that's all there is to it."

Mr. Braden frowned at this brusque ultimatum. "I have already made
arrangements with Mr. Poole, here, to take it over."

Angus looked at the drooping Mr. Poole and decided that he did not like
him.

"I don't care what you have made," he said bluntly. "Renters rip the
heart out of a ranch. They take everything from the land and put nothing
back; and when they have worked it out they quit. That's not going to
happen here, if I know it."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Mr. Poole observed.

"I think I know more about ranching than you do," Angus retorted.

"I was ranching before you was born," Mr. Poole told him loftily.

"Then why haven't you got a ranch of your own, instead of hoboing it
around, renting places?" Angus demanded.

Mr. Poole reddened and scowled. "I had a blame sight better ranch than
this, but I sold it," he said.

"By your looks I think the sheriff helped you," Angus said. "You look to
me like a man that is too lazy to turn over in bed, like a man that
would sleep in winter and never hear his stock bawling for feed. You
will never have this ranch. If you try to come on it--"

"Angus," Mr. Braden broke in with dignified severity, "you are
forgetting yourself. You must not talk in that way to your elders."

But by this time young Mackay's temper, which had been gradually
rising, was beyond being damped off by a stern voice and dignified
manner.

"I will say what I think," he declared, "to this man Poole, or to you,
or to anybody else, and I will back up what I say the best way I can.
You come here and talk about renting the ranch and selling stock as if I
had nothing to say about it. I tell you, now, it doesn't go. I am
staying here, and so are Jean and Turkey. If you try to put us off, or
put this Poole or anybody else on, there will be trouble you can scoop
up in a bucket."

Garland chose that moment to laugh. Angus turned on him with a scowl. He
was like a young dog cornered by older ones, nervous, snarling, but
quite ready to fight for his bone. He looked Garland in the eye.

"And that goes for you too," he said. "You will buy nothing with the MK
brand from anybody but me. You try to take a single head of my stock off
the range, and you'll do it in the smoke, do you savvy that?"

Garland laughed again, but there was a note of uneasiness in it, for
next to the real "bad man," cold, experienced and deadly, comes the boy,
who, bred in the traditions of the old West, has the recklessness and
hot passions of extreme youth. The history of the West teems with
examples.

"You're making a fool of yourself, kid," he said.

Here Dave Rennie broke the silence which had enwrapped him.

"Oh, I dunno," he observed.

"What have you got to say about it?" Garland demanded.

"I ain't said much so far," Rennie pointed out, "and I ain't goin' to.
Only this: Don't nobody overplay his hand in this game--nobody at all."

"Who are you?" asked Mr. Braden.

"Me? Dave Rennie. I'm workin' for the kid."

"Then," said Mr. Braden, "I fail to see what interest you have in the
matter, my friend."

"I get in this way," said Dave. "I'm a friend of the kid's, as well as a
hired man. You can take what you like out of that."

Whatever Mr. Braden took out of it he did not immediately speak, but
drummed with his fingers on the table.

"One of my rules of life," he said, "is to get along without friction; I
trust I am a reasonable man. When I find that my views conflict with
those of others, I weigh both carefully. They may be right and I may be
wrong. We must have no friction at the outset, Angus, and I think that
you have misunderstood me. As you object to renting the ranch I am going
to give you an opportunity to think it over, and I am going to think it
over myself. Then we will have another talk. Naturally, I must do what
is best for the estate, but I wish to meet your wishes as far as
possible. My sole desire is to do my best for all of you. No
friction--no, no. We do not want friction, do we, my boy?"

"I do not want trouble at all," Angus said. "All I want is to run the
ranch, and that is what I am going to do."

"Yes, yes, I understand," Mr. Braden returned. "Well, do so for the
present, my boy. Then we will talk it over again."

"There is no use talking it over," Angus maintained. "I have made up my
mind."

Mr. Braden looked as though he desired to express his opinion of this
boyish obstinacy, but changing his mind he smiled benevolently and
suggested a look around the ranch. Angus accompanied him, pointing out
what was needed and what he intended to do. The executor listened,
asking an occasional question, giving now and then a bit of advice. But
when he had driven away Angus was thoughtful.

"You and him was gettin' to be some tillikums," Rennie observed.

"He seemed all right while I was going around with him," Angus admitted.
"He wants to get that notion of renting out his head, though. I wonder
how it would be on a show-down, Dave? Do you suppose he could rent the
place, no matter whether I wanted to or not, or was he only running a
sandy?"

"I dunno," Rennie admitted. "If I was you I'd go and have a talk with
old Judge Riley, like your daddy told you to do if anything come up. You
may catch him sober. Not," he added, "that the old boy ain't pretty wise
when he's drunk."




CHAPTER IV

JUDGE RILEY--DRUNK AND SOBER


"Judge" Riley had once been on the bench, but for some reason had
resigned and gone back to his profession, hanging out his shingle in
Mowbray. There was no doubt of his natural and professional ability, but
it was the inability to let liquor alone, even when business demanded
attention. Hence he had little of the latter.

He was not sober when Angus entered his untidy little office. At Angus'
entrance he stared up with dull eyes from beneath a thick thatch of gray
hair which had fallen across his forehead like a horse's forelock. For a
moment he had difficulty in identifying his visitor, but succeeded.

"Angus," he muttered, "sure, yes, Angus Mackay. Sit down, Angus. And how
is your father?"

"My father is dead, Judge Riley," Angus reminded him.

"Dead!" said the judge, "dead!" His voice altered at the repetition of
the word, and his eyes lost a little of their dullness. "Why, I knew
that," he muttered to himself, "I knew Mackay was dead. I--I beg your
pardon, Angus. Not--not exactly right just now. A little--a little touch
of something. All right, presently."

"I'll come in again," Angus said. "I wanted to see you on business."

"Bus'ness?" the judge queried. "Always 'tend to bus'ness. Not so much of
it now. State your bus'ness."

Though he did not see much use in doing so in the judge's condition,
Angus told him what had happened and asked what powers the executor
possessed.

"Exec'tor governed by will," the judge told him. "Never give 'pinion on
written instrument without seeing instrument."

"You drew the will yourself, judge--at least it has your name on it."

"Good will, then," said the judge, "perfec'ly good will."

"There's nothing in it about renting the place."

"Exec'tor's powers broad," said the judge. "Gen'ral law of trustees.
Governed by will, though. Princ'ples governing construction of will--"

But just then the judge was in no condition to enunciate them. His voice
trailed off into a murmur and his head dropped.

"I'll come in again," said Angus, "and pay for your advice. What do you
charge, judge?"

"Charge!" muttered the judge lifting his head. "Charge, Chester, charge!
On, Stan--"

"Your fee," Angus interrupted.

"Oh, fee!" said the judge. "Yes, fee. Very proper. Fund'mental princ'ple
of law, never neglect fee. Fifty dollars!"

"Fifty dollars!" Angus gasped.

"Merely nom'nal fee," the judge murmured. "Avoid lit'gation, young man,
'void lit'gation!" And his head fell forward and he slept.

Disappointed in obtaining legal advice from the judge, Angus left his
office. He was determined, however, to know where he stood, and two days
afterward he entered the judge's office again. This time the judge was
sober and busy.

"Glad to see you, Angus," he greeted cheerfully, "sit down and have a
chat."

Angus sat down and, taking fifty dollars in bills from his pocket,
handed the money across the desk. The judge did not take it. He frowned
at the tenderer.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"Your fee," Angus explained.

"For what?"

"For telling me what I want to know."

"Indeed!" rasped the judge. "And how the devil do you know that I can or
will tell you what you want to know? And who gave you the authority to
fix my fee?"

"You fixed it yourself," Angus reminded him. "When I was here two days
ago you told me your fee for advice was fifty dollars; and now I have
brought the money for the advice."

A dull color rose in the old lawyer's cheeks.

"You mean I was too drunk to give it," he said. "I remember that you
were here, but nothing about fifty dollars. Put it back in your pocket,
and tell me what you want to know."

"But I want to pay for what I get."

"Well, you won't," the judge snapped.

"Why not?"

"Because I regulate my own charges," the judge told him. "I've enjoyed
your father's hospitality and yours, and not a cent would you Mackays
ever accept for the time you lost, or for the hire of horses or their
feed, or mine. Damned proud Highland Scotch, that must always give and
never take! Put your money in your pocket, I tell you, and let me know
what's worrying you."

So, seeing that he meant it, Angus put his money back and stated his
case.

"H'm," said the judge. "So Braden wants to rent the ranch, does he, and
sell some stock. Under certain circumstances that might be expedient. An
executor's powers are broad enough, within certain limits, which you
probably wouldn't understand. But what do you want to do yourself? What
do you think is the best thing for you and your sister and brother?"

"I want to stay on the ranch. I can make a living there. Jean and Turkey
are going to school now, and it will be some years before they are
through with it. Then it will be time enough to think of another
school."

"How about yourself?" the judge queried. "You are at the age when you
should be laying the foundations of more education if you are to get it
at all."

"I have thought of that," Angus replied, "and I do not think I have the
head for books, like Jean. I might spend years learning things that
might be well enough to know, perhaps, but of no real use to make a
living, which is what I have to do. And meanwhile the ranch would be run
down and the ground be worked out and dirty with weeds. And then there
is my promise to my father. I am taking his place as well as I can; and
that place is on the ranch."

"I see," said the judge thoughtfully. "You may be right, my boy. Many a
good rancher has been spoilt to make a poor something else. The
professions are crowded with failures. But let's go back to the point:
Whether Braden has or has not the power to rent the ranch and sell
stock, is immaterial so long as it is not done. I will see him, and I
think I can explain the situation to him perhaps more clearly than you
can. How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Angus replied. "I wish I was older."

The judge looked at him and sighed. "Believe this," he said; "that when
you are older--much older--you will wish much more and just as vainly to
be eighteen. It's three years before you come of age. Even then--" He
broke off and for a moment was silent. "Angus, you are a close-mouthed
boy. If in the future you have any trouble with Braden, or if he or
anybody else makes you any proposition involving the ranch, will you
come to me with it?"

"I'll be very glad to," Angus told him gratefully.

"All right. And, Angus, I'm going to give you a word of advice, which
may sound strange from me. Never drink. Never start. Not only not now,
but five years hence, nor ten, nor thirty, nor forty."

"I don't intend to," Angus said, in surprise. "I don't think I'd ever
drink much. There isn't anything in it, it seems to me."

"You're wrong," the judge told him gravely. "You know nothing about it.
In youth there is pleasure in it, and good fellowship that warms the
heart, and bright eyes and soft lips--which you know nothing about
yet--and dreams of ambition and temporary equality with the gods; and
later in life there are the faces and voices of old friends, of men and
women dead before their time, and the golden past and golden youth leaps
and lives again, and the present is forgotten. And at last--Do you know
what there is at last, Angus?"

"No, sir," said the boy with equal gravity. "What is there?"

"Damnation!" the judge replied slowly. "Damnation, deep and living. The
damnation of those who knowing the better have chosen the worse; who
living the worse can yet see the better and the great gulf fixed
between. The hell of the hereafter--phutt!" And the judge snapped his
fingers.

The boy stared at him wonderingly. The judge interpreted his thought.

"The gulf is fixed, because the will, which is the only thing that can
bridge it, is the first thing to be destroyed. Where there is no will to
fight there is no fight. And you think, too, that this advice comes
strangely from me. But who can speak with greater authority--I, or the
man who never took a drink in his life?"

"You, of course," Angus admitted.

"Yes, I," said the judge. "And I tell you who are on the threshold of
manhood to let liquor alone; not because there is nothing in it, as you
say in your ignorance, but because there are most things--or the
semblance of most things--in it that the heart of man desires. Remember
not to prove these things. That's all I have to say on the subject. And
now clear out, for I am busy."

But when Angus had gone the judge did not appear to be very busy. He
filled a disreputable old pipe with a somewhat shaky hand, and lighting
it passed into a period of reflection. At the end of it he put on his
hat and proceeded up the street to Mr. Braden's office.

Mr. Braden, spick and span and freshly shaven, enjoying a very good
cigar, looked with surprise and some distaste at the rumpled, unpressed
clothes, unshaven cheeks and untidy hair of the old lawyer. He had
little or no use for him.

"And what is it this morning, judge?" he asked.

"Mackay estate," said the judge.

Mr. Braden's eyes closed a little.

"Yes, I know you drew Mackay's will," he admitted, "but Crosby and Parks
do all my business, and of course--"

"Wrong foot," said the judge, "I'm not asking for any of your business,
Braden. Angus Mackay tells me you were speaking of renting the ranch,
and he wanted to know if you had the power to do it."

"Of course I have," Mr. Braden asserted. "The boy--"

"I told him," the judge went on, "that whether you had the power or not,
it was most unlikely that you would exercise it."

"What do you know about it?" Mr. Braden demanded brusquely.

"Not a great deal just yet; but enough to tell him that."

"Well, that may be your personal opinion. I haven't made up my mind yet.
But if I consider it in the interests of the estate to rent the ranch to
a competent man I shall most certainly do so."

"Poole a competent man?" the judge queried.

"I believe so. What do you know about him?"

"Not a great deal--yet," the judge returned again. "What makes you think
it would be best to rent the place--to a competent man?"

"Under the circumstances I should think it would be obvious."

"If it is obvious why isn't your mind made up?"

"Look here," Mr. Braden snapped, "you aren't cross-examining me, Riley!"

The judge smiled blandly, but somehow the smile reminded Mr. Braden of
the engaging facial expression of a scarred old Airedale.

"Perhaps you'll explain the obvious, Braden."

"I don't know why I should explain anything to you. I don't recognize
your right to ask me any questions whatever."

"Pshaw!" said the judge. "Think a little, Braden."

Whatever Mr. Braden thought he saw fit to adopt a different tone.

"Just look at the situation from my standpoint," he said. "By their
father's untimely death these children are thrown on the world with no
ready money whatever. Their only source of income is the ranch, which
they are too young and inexperienced to make pay. The only sensible
thing to do is to put it into the hands of some competent man, so that
it will yield a steady income. Isn't that common sense?"

"As you state it--yes," the judge admitted.

"Ha, of course it is," said Mr. Braden triumphantly. "Then as to the
children themselves, I feel my responsibility. They must not be allowed
to grow up wild like--er--cayuses, as it were. They must have an
education to fit them for the Battle of Life, and as you know they can't
get that at a country school. The rental of the ranch, plus the proceeds
of a sale of some of the stock could not be better employed than in
sending them to some first-class institution. In these days education is
the right of every child. It is the key to Success, which, when
Opportunity knocks at the door--What the devil are you grinning at?"

"Go on."

"Well, that's all I was going to say," said Mr. Braden whose wings of
fancy had suddenly dragged before the old lawyer's cynical smile. "Rent
the place; get money; apply the money to educate the children. That's it
in a nutshell. Any court would approve such action of an executor."

"Possibly--on an _ex parte_ application. But meantime who pays the
mortgage?"

"Mortgage?" said Mr. Braden.

"The mortgage Adam Mackay made to you on the ranch to obtain money to
enable him to buy timber limits which were subsequently fire-swept.
That's subsisting, isn't it?"

"Certainly it is." There was a shade of defiance in Mr. Braden's tone.
"I hope I am not a harsh creditor. The interest might run along and all
the rental go toward educating the children."

"Very creditable to your heart," said the judge. "But practically the
result would be that the interest would accumulate and compound, and
that when these young people had received the education which is the key
to Success the property would be saddled with a very heavy encumbrance,
more, in fact, than they might care to assume."

"Well," snapped Mr. Braden, "what would you have me do? Insist on my
interest and rob these poor children of their chance of life?"

"Very hard situation, isn't it?" said the judge blandly. "It is just as
well to look it in the face, though. If, some years hence, the children
couldn't pay off these mortgage arrears the property would have to be
sold. In fact you might be forced to buy it in to protect yourself."

"Do you suggest--"

"I don't suggest anything. Let us look at another angle of it. Suppose
the place is rented and a crop or two fails and the lessee proves
incompetent. Then the time comes when, to educate the children, the
property, or some of it, must be sold. Again you might be forced to buy
it in to protect yourself."

"I don't want the ranch," Mr. Braden said.

"No, of course not. But that is the situation. Now young Angus is a
well-grown boy. I think he can run the ranch fairly well. The other
children are going to a school which is good enough for their present
needs. Angus feels very strongly about the matter. In fact I think he
would ask me to oppose any endeavor to rent the place."

"Are you threatening me with a lawsuit?"

"Not at all. There can be no action unless there are grounds for one,
and of course a wise trustee walks very carefully. That's all I have to
say. Good morning, Braden."

Mr. Braden from his window looked after the bulky, square-set figure of
the old lawyer as he made his way down the street.

"You will, will you, you old bum!" he muttered. Then his gaze shifted to
a large map of the district which hung on the wall. For some minutes he
contemplated it, and then his pudgy finger tapped the exact spot which
represented the Mackay ranch. Then half aloud he uttered an eternal
truth. "There's sev'ral ways," said Mr. Braden, "of skinning a cat."




CHAPTER V

ANGUS IN LOVE AND WAR


The judge merely told Angus that if he could work the ranch properly it
would not be rented; and thus encouraged he buckled into the work. The
responsibility thrust on him changed his outlook even more than he
himself realized.

Jean felt her responsibilities as much as he. She was fond of books, but
she grudged the time spent at school, and from before daylight till long
after dark she was as busy as a young hen with a brood of chicks. The
boys helped her with the hard tasks, and on the whole she got along very
well.

But though Angus and Jean felt their responsibilities and endeavored to
live up to them, young Turkey did not. He was a curious combination,
with as many moods and shifts as an April day. By turns he was
headstrong and impulsive, and then coldly calculating. If he felt like
it, he would be industrious; but if not, he would be deliberately and
provokingly idle. In the days of Adam Mackay these qualities had been
not so apparent; but with the passing of his father he recognized no
authority and he resented bitterly the least suggestion of control.

He would soon have gotten completely out of hand had Angus permitted it.
Matters came to a show-down one morning when Turkey, snug between his
blankets, delivered a flat ultimatum to his brother's command that he
get up and help pick potatoes.

"You go plum!" said Turkey. "Saturday's a holiday, and I'm goin'
fishin'. Pick spuds yourself!"

The next moment he was yanked out of his nest by the ankle and, fighting
like a young wildcat, was thrown on the floor.

"Will you pick those spuds?" Angus demanded.

"No!" Turkey shouted, and Angus whirled him over on his face and
reaching out acquired a leather slipper.

"Get this straight," he said. "You'll pick spuds, or I'll lick you till
you do."

"You lick me, and I'll kill you," roared Turkey, emphasizing the threat
with language gleaned from certain teamsters of his acquaintance, but
which was cut short by the slipper.

"Will you come to work now?" Angus asked after a heated interval.

"No!" yelled Turkey, sobbing more with rage than with pain, "no, I
won't, you big--"

But again the slipper cut him short, and this time his brother put his
full strength into it. Finally, Turkey recognized the old-time doctrine
of force, and gave up. That day he picked potatoes with fair diligence,
and though he would not speak to Angus for a week, he did as he was
told.

And so that Fall the young Mackays were very busy, and the threshing was
done, and the roots dug and got in, and some fall plowing, before the
frosts hardened the earth and the snow came to overlie it.

With winter the work of the ranch lightened--or at least its hours
shortened. But still there was plenty to do.

But there were the long evenings, when all the work was done, and supper
over and the lamps lit, and they sat by the big, airtight heater, and
Angus at least enjoyed the warmth the more because, well-fed and
comfortable himself, he knew that every head of his stock was also
full-bellied and contented in pen and stable and stall and shed, and the
wind might blow and the snow drift and not matter at all.

A year passed uneventfully. The ranch paid its way, though Angus could
not meet the mortgage interest. In that year Angus had grown physically.
Adam Mackay had been a strong man, and his son was beginning to show his
breed, and the results of the good plain food and open air and hard
exercise which had been his all his life.

He was yet lanky and apparently awkward, being big of bone, but long
ropes of muscle were beginning to come on his arms and thighs, and bands
and plasters of it lay on his shoulders and along his back and armored
ribs. He took pride in the strength that was coming upon him, rejoicing
in his ability to shoulder a sack of grain without effort, to lift and
set around the end of a wagon, to handle the big breaking plow at the
end of a furrow, and he was forever trying new things which called for
strength and activity. At nineteen he could, though he did not know it,
have taken the measure of any ordinary man. And about this time an
incident occurred which nearly turned out disastrously.

Angus had delivered a load of potatoes at a hotel much frequented by
lumberjacks, and, seeking its proprietor, he entered the bar. A logging
camp had broken up, and its members, paid off, were celebrating in the
good old way. As Angus approached the bar he passed between two young
men. These, with one telepathic glance, suddenly administered to the
unsuspecting youth the rite known as the "Dutch flip." Although the
humor of the "flip" is usually more apparent to perpetrators and
onlookers than to the victim, Angus merely grinned as he found himself
on his feet again, and all would have been well if, in his involuntary
parabola, his feet aforesaid had not brushed a huge tie-maker. This
tie-maker was a Swede, "bad," with a reputation as a fighter and the
genial disposition of a bear infested with porcupine quills. Also he was
partly drunk. In this condition he chose to regard the involuntary
contact of Angus' heels as a personal affront. With a ripping blasphemy
he slapped the boy in the face, and as instantly as a reflex action
Angus lashed back with a blow clean and swift as the kick of a colt, and
nearly as powerful.

The logger recovered from his surprise, and with a roar sprang and
caught him. Strong for a boy, Angus was as yet no match for such an
adversary. The weight of the man, apart from fighting experience, made
the issue undoubted. But suddenly the Swede was twisted, wrenched loose,
and sent staggering ten feet. Straight down the length of the room the
big tie-maker shot, landing with a terrific crash, and lay groaning.

"Let the kid alone!" a deep voice commanded.

Angus' rescuer was Gavin French, the eldest of the brothers. The largest
of a family of big men, Gavin stood three inches over six feet in his
stockings, and tapered from shoulders to heels. He was long of limb,
long of sinew, and so beautifully built that at first sight his real
bulk and weight were not apparent. His hair, reddish gold, was so wavy
that it almost curled, his eye a clear blue, but as hard as newly-cut
ice. He nodded to Angus.

"All right, Mackay; I won't let him hurt you."

Gavin French surveyed his handiwork with cold satisfaction.

"Give the boys a drink," he said. And when the drink had been disposed
of he walked out without a second glance at his late adversary who was
sitting up. Angus followed him.

"Thanks for handling him," he said. "He was too strong for me."

The cold blue eyes rested on him appraisingly.

"You'll be all right when you're older. Better keep out of trouble till
then."

"He struck me," Angus said, "and no man will ever do that without
getting back the best I have, no matter how big he is. That was my
father's way."

Gavin French made no reply. He nodded, and turning abruptly left Angus
alone.

This episode, trivial in itself, gave Angus food for thought. For long
months the sight of the big Swede hurtling through the air was before
his eyes, and he admired and envied the mighty strength of Gavin French.
By contrast his own seemed puny, insignificant. He set himself
deliberately to increase it.

The second fall after Adam Mackay's death the school which Jean and
Turkey attended had a new teacher. Jean fell in love with her from the
start, and even Turkey, who had regarded teachers as his natural
enemies, was inclined to make an exception. Jean brought this paragon to
the ranch over Sunday. Alice Page was a clear-eyed young woman of
twenty-four, brown of hair and eye as Jean herself, full of quiet fun,
but with a dignity which forbade familiarity. She was the first person
who had ever given Angus a handle to his name. This was at dinner, and
Turkey yelped joyously:

"Ah, there, 'Mister' Mackay!" he cried. "A little more meat, 'Mister'
Mackay, and a dose of spuds and gravy, 'Mister' Mackay. I see you missed
some of the feathers by your left ear when you was shavin', 'Mister'
Mackay!"

Having just begun the use of the razor, Angus reddened to the ear
aforesaid. Like most taciturn, reserved people he was keenly sensitive
to ridicule.

"'Meester' Mackay! Haw-haw!" rumbled big Gus through a mouthful of food.
"He's shave hees viskers! Das ban purty good von. Ho-ho!"

Dave Rennie grinned. Angus' black brows drew down, but just then he
choked on a crumb of bread which went the wrong way.

"Pat 'Mister' Mackay on the back!" shrieked Turkey.

"I'll pat you, young fellow!" Angus wheezed.

But Alice Page saw how the land lay; saw also that the black-browed,
awkward boy was in danger of losing his temper.

"Shall I call you 'Angus'?" she asked, and there was something in her
tone and friendly smile which calmed him.

"That would be fine," he said. "And if you would lick Turkey Monday
morning it would be a great favor."

A month afterward Alice Page came to live at the ranch. Her
companionship meant much to Jean. It meant more to Angus, who presently
suffered a severe attack of calf-love.

Being in love, Angus began to suffer the pangs of jealousy, for there
were others who found Alice Page attractive. Chief among these was Nick
Garland, the young man who had accompanied Mr. Braden on his first
visit to the ranch. His visits became frequent, and he made himself very
much at home at the ranch, treating Angus with a careless superiority
and seniority which the latter found intensely irritating.

Now Garland, who esteemed himself a devil of a fellow, was merely
attempting a flirtation with the pretty school teacher. He could not but
notice Angus' attitude toward himself, and in a flash of perception
divined the cause. He found it humorous, as no doubt it was. He did not
like Angus, which made it the more amusing. He intended to tell Alice
Page the joke, but in the meantime kept it to himself.

He rode up one moonlight night while Angus was in the stable dressing by
the light of a lantern the leg of a horse which had calked himself, put
his mare in a stall and forked down hay as a matter of course. Angus,
after a short greeting, maintained silence. Then picking up his lantern,
he left the stable. Garland thought his chance had come.

"They tell me you're going to school this winter," he observed.

"No," Angus replied.

"Mighty pretty teacher," Garland insinuated. "If I had the chance, I'd
sure go. I think I could learn a lot from her."

"There would be lots of room," Angus retorted.

"What!" Garland demanded, stopping short.

"Ay," Angus said grimly, setting his lantern on the ground and facing
him. "You might learn to mind your own business."

Garland peered at him in the moonlight.

"I'm not used to talk like that, young fellow."

"You need not take it unless you like," Angus said.

Garland laughed contemptuously. "Sore, are you? This is the funniest
thing I ever came across. I'm on to you, kid. It's too good to keep.
I'll have to tell her."

Angus scowled at him in silence for a moment. Then, deliberately,
bitterly, he gave him what is usually regarded as a perfectly good
_casus belli_.

Garland began to realize that he had made a mistake. He had anticipated
fun, but found this serious. If he thrashed Angus he could not very well
continue to call at the ranch. Also, looking at the tall, raw-boned
youth confronting him, he had an uneasy feeling that he might have his
hands full if he tried. He had not realized till then how much the boy
had grown. At bottom Garland was slightly deficient in sand. And so he
tried to avert the break he had brought about.

"That's no way to talk," he said. "You'll have to learn to take a joke,
some day."

"Maybe," Angus retorted. "But I will never learn to take what you are
taking."

Garland flushed angrily. The element of truth in the words stung.

"I'd look well, beating up a boy," he said loftily. "I'm not going to
quarrel with you. When you're older maybe you'll have more sense."

He left Angus, and marched away to the house. Angus looked after him
till the door closed, and then struck straight away across the bare
fields for the timber.

These night rambles by moonlight were a habit which fitted well with his
nature. He was taciturn, reserved, with an infinite capacity, developed
by circumstance for solitude. But that night, as he covered mile after
mile with a swift, springy stride, his mood was as sinister as the black
shadows the great firs threw across his path. His naturally hard, bitter
temper, usually controlled, was in the ascendant. His long dislike of
Garland had come to a head. And yet there was Garland seated in his
house with Alice Page, while he was forced to walk in the night. It
amounted to that in his estimation.

At last he turned back, in no better temper. It was late, and he was
sure that Garland had gone. But as he came to the road leading to the
house he saw figures black in the moonlight approaching. Just then he
was in no mood to meet any one. An irrigation ditch bordered by willows
paralleled the road. He jumped the ditch and, concealed by the willows,
waited till whoever it was should go by.

It was Alice Page, and Garland, leading his horse. Opposite him they
halted. Snatches of conversation blurred by the gurgle of running water
came to his ears. Garland moved closer to her. Suddenly he caught her in
his arms. She strained back, pushing him away, but he kissed her, and at
that moment Angus leaped the ditch, landing beside them. The suddenness
of his appearance startled them. The horse snorted and pulled back.
Garland released Alice with an oath and turned to face the intruder.

"It's you, is it?" he said angrily.

"You had better get out of here," Angus told him, "and be quick about
it."

But Garland, being angry, forgot his prudence. He was not going to be
ordered off by a boy, especially before Alice Page.

"Be civil, you young fool!" he said. "I've taken enough from you
to-night."

"Will you get on your horse and pull out?" Angus demanded between his
teeth.

"When I get good and ready, and not before," Garland replied.

Without another word Angus went for him. Garland was older, heavier and
presumably stronger, and furious as Angus was he felt that probably he
was in for a licking. But he went in hard, like a forlorn hope, and like
a forlorn hope he intended to do as much damage as he could.

Garland tried to fend him off with a push, and failing, hit. But his
blow glanced from Angus' head and the latter slashed up under the ribs
with a vicious right hand, and was amazed at the depth his fist sank in
the body and the rasping gasp it brought forth. Angus' knowledge of
offensive and defensive was not great. But at school he had engaged in
various rough-and-tumble affairs and one winter a lithe young fellow
hired by the elder Mackay had shown him how to hold his hands. But these
things were quite forgotten for the moment. Like his claymore-wielding
ancestors, his one idea was to get to close quarters and settle the
matters there. He caught Garland around the middle and was gripped in
return.

For a moment he thought Garland was not trying, was not doing his best;
and then, suddenly and joyfully, he realized that he _was_ doing it, and
that it was not good enough. He was stronger than Garland. He had the
back, and the legs, and the arms and the lungs of him, man though he
was. With the knowledge he snarled like a young wolf, and suddenly
strength swelled in him like the bore of a tide. He ran Garland back
half a dozen paces, and wrenched and twisted him. Getting his right
hand free he smashed him again under the ribs, and as Garland, gasping,
clinched, he locked his long arms around him, and with his shoulder
against the stomach, his legs propped and braced, and every muscle from
jaw to heel tautening, he squeezed him like a young python.

Garland tried to hold the walls of his body against the grip, and
failed. Angus heard him pant, and felt the tremors of the man's frame as
the strength oozed out of him. Garland's grip weakened and loosened, and
he tried for Angus' throat and failed, for the boy's chin was tucked
home on his breast-bone, and he beat him over the back and head wildly
with his fists and caught at his arms; and then his head and body began
to go backward.

Angus heard Alice Page's voice as from a great distance, for that locked
grip of his was like the blind one of a bulldog.

"Angus! Angus! let him go!"

And he plucked Garland from his footing easily, for the latter was now
little more than dead weight, and threw him on his back into the running
ditch. He stood above him, his chest heaving, like a young wolf above
his first kill.

Garland splashed into the chilly water, and drew himself out of it
gasping and cursing with returning breath. Angus tapped him on the mouth
with the toe of his moccasin.

"That is no talk for a woman to hear," he said. "Get out, or I'll throw
you back in the ditch."

Garland got to his feet unsteadily, and went to his horse.

"I'll fix you for this," he said as he got into the saddle.

"You are a bluff," Angus told him, "and you know it as well as I do. Get
out!"

When horse and rider were indistinct, Angus turned to Alice Page.

"You saw him--kiss me, Angus?" she said.

"Yes," he admitted, "but I didn't mean to. I had words with him
to-night, and I was waiting till you would go past, but you stopped
right in front of me."

"I'm very glad you were there. I don't want you to think I am the sort
of girl who is kissed by moonlight."

"I'd never think that," Angus said. "I think you are the finest girl in
the world."

She stared at him in amazement, as much at his tone as at the words.

"Why, Angus!" she exclaimed.

"I do," he asseverated, "the very finest! I've wanted to tell you so,
but I hadn't the nerve. I--I think an awful lot of you."

So there it was at last, blurted out with boyish clumsiness.

"Good heavens!" cried Alice Page. "I never--why, Angus, my dear boy--"
She laughed and checked herself, and the laugh turned into a little
hysterical sob, and without any further warning she began to cry.

Utterly dismayed Angus stood helpless. And then, because it always
seemed to comfort Jean when in trouble, he put his arm around her. For a
moment Alice Page leaned against him, just as Jean did, but somehow the
sensation was quite different. Very hesitatingly and awkwardly, but
doing it as well and carefully as he knew how, he kissed her. Whereupon
Alice Page jumped as if he had bitten her.

"You, too!" she cried. "O Angus! Oh, good heavens, what a night! Let me
go, Angus!"

He let her go, feeling all palpitant and vibrant, for he had never
kissed any girl, save Jean, who naturally did not count, but glad that
at any rate he had stopped her crying. And Alice Page, who had a large
store of common sense, did the very best thing possible. Sitting down on
the bank of the ditch she made him sit beside her, and talked to him so
gently and frankly that after a while, though he still considered
himself to be in love, he felt resigned to its hopelessness, and in fact
rather proud of his broken heart and blighted life, as boys are apt to
be. Indeed, with his knowledge that he had squared the account with
Garland, he was almost happy.




CHAPTER VI

GAIN AND LOSS


Alice Page was but an episode in the life of the Mackays, but her
influence was far-reaching, at least with Angus and Jean. She stimulated
in the former a taste for reading, dormant and unsuspected. She made him
see that he was wasting his evenings, and she got him books of history
and travel and voyages, with a sprinkling of the classics of English
fiction. Angus, who had been unaware that such books existed, took to
them like a young eagle to the air, for they opened the door to the
romances of the world.

Though nobody save Alice Page suspected it, the grim-faced boy was full
of the romance of youth. At heart he was an adventurer, of the stuff of
which the old conquistadores were made.

Jean needed no encouragement to study. Outwardly, Angus was hard and
practical. Outwardly, Jean was thoughtful and at times dreamy. Inwardly
the reverse was true. Jean was more practical than he, less inclined to
secret dreams. She intended to fit herself to teach, and her studies
were a means to that end. But most of Angus' reading, apart from
technical works, was the end itself. He was not conscious that it was
developing him, broadening his outlook, replacing to some extent more
intimate contact with the outer world of men and affairs.

Thus time passed and another year slid around. Alice Page was gone,
teaching in a girls' residential small college on the coast. The ranch
was beginning to respond to the hard work. Stock on the range was
increasing in numbers and value. More settlers were coming in, and land
which had been a drug on the market was beginning to find purchasers.

Angus had grown into a young man, tall and lean, quite unstiffened by
his hard work. Turkey was a youth, slimmer of build and smaller of bone
than his brother, but wiry and hard and catlike in quickness. Jean had
grown from a slip of a girl into a slender, brown-eyed maid. She was
through with the local school, and though she never hinted at it, Angus
knew quite well that she desired to attend the college where Alice Page
taught. It was characteristic of him that he said nothing until he could
speak definitely. But one night he told her she had better get ready to
go. Jean was startled.

"How on earth did you know I was thinking of that?"

"It didn't need the second sight of old Murdoch McGillivray," her
brother returned. "You had better get such things as you want."

"But--can you afford it?" she asked doubtfully.

"Yes. You write to Alice to-night."

So in the early fall Jean went away, and her brothers missed her very
much; Turkey, because he had now to mend his own clothes and take a turn
at the cooking, and Angus because he had confided in her more than in
anybody else.

When the fall grew late and the snow near, Rennie rode the range for
stock, which was usually split up into small bands, scattered here and
there in valleys and pockets along the base of the hills. Each bunch had
its own territory, from which it seldom strayed unless feed got short.
Therefore any given lot could usually be found by combing a few square
miles. Before the heavy snows these bunches were rounded up and driven
to the ranch to winter there. But this time Rennie could find no trace
at all of one bunch.

"It's them three-year-old steers," he said, "that used in between Cat
Creek and the mountain. They sure ain't on the range."

"They must have drifted off. Maybe the feed got short."

"The feed's good yet--never saw it better this time of the year."

"Likely they've gone up one of the big draws off the pass," Angus
suggested.

"Well, I wish you'd tell me which. I've rode every draw for ten miles
each way, and durn' if I can find a hoof."

This was serious. It was up to them to find those steers before the snow
came. Angus had no mind to see them come staggering in in mid-winter,
mere racks of bones; and apart from that he had counted on the proceeds
of their sale to pay Jean's expenses and some of the interest on
Braden's mortgage. Accordingly, he turned himself loose on the range
with Dave and Turkey. They spent the better part of a week in the saddle
and rode half a dozen ponies to a show-down, but of the missing stock
they found never a trace.

"I'll bet somebody's rustled them," Turkey decided.

"Bosh!" said Angus.

"If you're such a darn' wise gazabo, why don't you find 'em?" Turkey
retorted. "What do you think, Dave?"

"Don't know," said Rennie. "Blamed if it don't look like it."

"Rustled--nothing!" Angus exclaimed contemptuously. "There aren't any
rustlers here."

"There never was no rustlers no place till folks began to miss stock,"
Rennie pointed out mildly.

"But who would rustle them?"

"Well, of course that's the thing to find out."

It was a puzzle. Every steer wore the MK, and mistakes of ownership were
out of the question. From calfhood they had summered on that range,
coming in fat and frisky to winter by the generous stacks. There was no
good reason why they should have left it. Not only had the entire range
been combed carefully, but none of the other cattle owners had seen
them.

"If they been rustled," Rennie decided, "it's good bettin' it's Injuns.
Some of the young Siwashes is plenty cultus."

"What could they do with them? They couldn't range them with their own
stock."

"No, but they could drive them south if they was careful about it, and
mix 'em up with the stock of them St. Onge Injuns, and nobody'd be apt
to notice. I've sent word to a feller down there to ride through and
take a look."

In due course Rennie heard from the "feller." The steers were not on the
St. Onge reserve. Thus Angus was up against a blank wall. Nobody would
deal openly in stock plainly branded. Garland knew as much as anybody of
transactions in stock, but he had heard nothing which might give a clew
to the missing steers.

With the passage of time Garland and Angus were on terms again, though
naturally there was little cordiality. But apparently Garland retained
no active ill-feeling. The occurrences of that night were known to
nobody but the three participants. As for Garland himself having had
anything to do with the steers, it seemed out of the question. He had
never been mixed up in any shady transactions, and apart from that,
handling stolen stock would be too risky for him. There were only a few
white men who were not above all suspicion; and these there was no
reason at all to suspect. But for that matter there was no more reason
to suspect any Indian. Rennie, however, had a species of logic all his
own.

"No reason!" he grunted. "Why, you say yourself there ain't no reason to
suspect a white man. Then it's got to be an Injun, ain't it? Sure! On
gen'ral principles it's a cinch."

But Angus did not hold with this view. Though he had no special
affection for Indians--as few people who know them have--in his opinion
they were no worse than other people in the matter of honesty. The older
men he would trust with anything. Some of them, especially the chief, a
venerable and foxy old buck named Paul Sam, had been friends of his
father.

"I'll have a talk with old Paul Sam the first time I see him," he told
Rennie. "He's as straight as they make them."

"Well, I guess he's the best of the bunch," Rennie admitted.

A day or two afterward Angus met Paul Sam on the range, looking for
ponies. Though the Indian was old, he sat his paint pony as easily as a
young man. In his youth he must have been as straight and clean-cut as
a lance, and even the more than three score and ten snows which had
silvered his hair had bent his shoulders but little. He was accompanied
by his granddaughter, Mary, a girl of Jean's age, who, being his last
surviving relative, was as the apple of his eye. He had sent her to
mission school and denied her nothing. As he owned many horses and a
large band of cattle, Mary had luxuries unknown to most Indian girls.
She was unusually good-looking and a good deal spoiled, though Paul Sam,
being of the old school, cherished certain primitive ideas concerning
women.

He listened in silence to Angus' statement regarding the missing stock,
surveying him with a shrewd old eye.

"You think Injun kapswalla them moos-moos?" he asked with directness.

"I didn't say anybody stole them. I'm just trying to find out what's
become of them."

Paul Sam grunted. "All time white man lose moos-moos, lose kuitan, him
tumtum Injun steal um," he said. "All time blame Injun. Plenty cultus
Injun; plenty cultus white man, too."

"That's true," Angus admitted.

"You nanitch good for them moos-moos? Him all got brand?"

"Yes."

The old man reflected. "Spose man kapswalla um no sell um here," he
announced. "Drive um off--si-a-a-ah--then sell um."

This was precisely Rennie's reasoning.

"Where?" Angus queried. But on this point Paul Sam had no theory. Nobody
could tell, but some day it might be cleared up.

"Well, if you hear anything of my steers, let me know," continued Angus.

Paul Sam nodded. "Your father my tillikum," he said. "Him dam' good
skookum man. S'pose me hear, me tell you."

But the young eyes of Mary had sighted ponies to the left. She announced
this to her grandfather in soft, clucking gutturals.

"Goo'-by," said Paul Sam.

"Good-by," said Angus. "Good-by, Mary."

The girl nodded, with a flash of white teeth and a glance which dwelt
for an instant admiringly on Angus' long, lean body. Then she shook up
her fast pony and sailed away through the timber of the benchland to
round up the bunch of half-wild cayuses, while her grandfather followed
at a pace better suited to his years.

But the fall went and the snow came, and Angus got no news. It was a
heavy loss just then, which he could not afford. Somehow it must be made
up, and the only way he saw to do it was to cut cordwood. The price was
low and the haul was long, but it was a case, for he had to have the
money.

So all that winter he and Gus cut and split, while Rennie hauled and
Turkey looked after the house and the feeding. And so all through the
cold weather they made cordwood. It did not make up for the loss of the
steers, but it helped, and he was able to send money to Jean.

The long winter passed. The days lengthened and the sun mounted higher,
so that it was warm on the south side of house and barn and stack. The
snow went in a glorious, booming Chinook wind that draped the ranges
with soft, scudding clouds, and set every gulch roaring with waters.
The ground thawed, and earth-smells struck the nostrils again. Up
against the washed blue of the sky flocks of geese bore their way
northward. One morning they heard the liquid notes of a meadow-lark.
Then came robins and bluebirds, and a new season opened with a rush.




CHAPTER VII

THE FRENCHES AGAIN


That spring Angus kept three teams going steadily on plows and disks
while the high winds dried the soil to a powder, raising dust clouds
that choked and blinded, so that they came in black and gritty to a
shower bath of Angus' invention. He had accomplished this by a primitive
water wheel operated by the swift water of the irrigation ditch back of
the house. The water was always cold, and invigorated accordingly. But
it was icy in the morning. Rennie tried it once and gave it up, while
big Gus scornfully refused to experiment with a morning bath.

"It'll brace you up," Turkey urged.

"Vatter ent brace nobody," Gus replied with contempt. "Dees all-over
vash by mornin' ban no good. Ay ent need him. It ent make me dirty to
sleep."

But the dust vanished with the spring rains, and the grain sprouted in
the drills. One day the fields lay bare and bald and blank; and the
next, as it seemed, they were covered with a film of tender green. Then
all hands began to clear and repair the irrigation ditches, so that when
dry weather came the fields should have water in plenty.

So the early summer came and with it Jean's holidays. Her return, Angus
recognized, necessitated some preparation.

"She'll have a fit when she sees the house," he told Turkey.

"What's the matter with it?" that young man asked.

"She'll find plenty the matter with it," Angus predicted apprehensively.
"We'd better clean up a little."

"Well, maybe we had," Turkey admitted.

They gave the house what they considered a thorough cleaning, which
consisted in sweeping where it seemed necessary, and removing some of
the pot-black from kitchen utensils which Jean had never set down on the
fire. Angus eyed the rusty-red kitchen range, which Jean had kept black
and shining.

"I wonder if we hadn't better give that a touch of polish," he said.
"Where is the polish, anyway?"

"Search me," Turkey replied. "I've never seen any. What's the use? It
cooks all right."

They could not find Jean's polish, and experimented with black harness
dressing. But the smoke when the fire was lit drove them out of the
house, and they let it go.

Angus drove into town to meet Jean behind a pair of slashing,
upstanding, bright-bay three-year-olds, of which he was very proud. Jean
had never seen them in harness--indeed they had been harnessed less than
a dozen times--and he anticipated her pleasure in them, for she loved
horses. He put up and fed the colts at the livery stable, had his
dinner, made some purchases, and as it was nearly time for the river
steamer on which Jean would arrive, turned toward the stable to hitch
up.

As he turned a corner he met Garland, Blake French, and several other
young men. Apparently they were out on a time, for none of them were
entirely steady upon their legs. Blake French, however, was much the
worst.

In the years that had passed the French family had not changed their
habits. The ranch was still a hang-out for every waster in the country.
But the young men were away a great deal in the summer and fall,
following the various local races. They had two or three good horses,
and seemed to find the sport profitable. Also they had achieved a rather
unenviable notoriety. They had all been mixed up more or less in various
rows, but somehow these matters had been hushed up. Nobody desired to
incur the enmity of a family which was supposed to have money, and one
way and another a good deal of influence.

Angus would have passed, but Garland stopped him, asking him to come and
have a drink. Angus refused civilly, and Blake sneered.

"It won't cost you anything," he said thickly.

"I don't drink," Angus said shortly.

"Do you do anything?" Blake sneered. "Do you have any fun at all?"

"What I have is my own business," Angus returned, his temper beginning
to ruffle.

Blake French, his brow lowering, caught him by the lapel of the coat.
"Are you telling me to mind my own business?" he demanded.

"That will be plenty of that sort of thing," Angus told him. "Let go,
now, and don't pull me about."

But Blake, being surly and quarrelsome even when sober, gave the lapel a
savage jerk, and reached out with his other hand. Angus caught his
wrist, and brought a stiffened forearm across his throat. At the same
moment he stepped forward, crooked his right leg behind Blake's left
knee and threw his full weight against him. Blake went down hard, but
was up in an instant and made a staggering rush. Angus dodged.

"Take care of him, you!" he said to Garland. "I don't want to hit him."

Blake's friends closed in on him, and Angus made his escape. He was glad
to get clear so easily, for he had no mind to be mixed up in a fight on
the street. He hooked up the colts and drove down to the landing,
hearing as he did so the deep bellow of the river steamer's whistle.
When he got the colts tied and went out on the wharf the boat had
already docked. Behind a group of passengers a girl was bending over a
couple of grips. Her back was toward Angus, and never doubting that it
was Jean, he reached down with one hand for a grip, while he slipped his
other arm around her waist.

"Hello, old girl!" he said. But to his utter amazement, as she snapped
erect in the crook of his arm, it was not Jean at all. This girl was
taller, black of hair and blue of eye. For a moment he did not recognize
her, and then he knew her for Kathleen French, whom he had not seen for
more than a year. "Oh," he said blankly, "it's you!"

"I think so," she said dryly. "I can stand without being held, thanks."

Angus dropped his arm from her waist, blushing.

"I thought you were Jean. I'm awfully sorry."

Kathleen French's dark blue eyes looked him up and down, and to his
relief she seemed more amused than angry.

"But your sister wasn't on the boat. It's nice to be welcomed by
somebody." She frowned, glancing down the wharf. "Have you seen any of
my brothers? Somebody should be here to meet me."

"Blake is in town. I haven't seen any of the other boys."

"Then why isn't Blake here?" she demanded.

"I don't know," Angus returned. "It's not my fault, is it?"

"No, of course not. He was to be here--or somebody was--and drive me
out. I suppose I'll have to go somewhere and wait his pleasure. Where is
he, do you know?"

"Why--" Angus began doubtfully, and stopped.

"Look here," said Kathleen French, "has Blake been drinking?"

"I think he could drive all right."

"Pig! Brute!" Blake's sister ejaculated viciously. "He couldn't keep
sober, even to meet me. Didn't think I mattered, I suppose. I'll show
him. Able to drive, is he? Well, he isn't able to drive me. I'll get a
livery rig."

"I will drive you out."

"That's good of you. But it's out of your way."

"It will do the colts good--take the edge off them. But I don't know
what to do about Jean. She was to have come on this boat."

"She must have missed it. Likely she will be on the next."

This seemed probable. As there was nothing to be done about it, Angus
went for Kathleen's trunk. He wheeled it on a truck to the rig, picked
it up and deposited it in the wagon back of the seat without apparent
effort. As the trunk went up Kathleen French's eyes widened a little. He
turned to her.

"The step is broken and if you climb in the mud will get on your dress,"
he said. "I had better lift you over the wheel, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind."

He lifted her up as one holds a child aloft to see a passing parade,
until her feet set on top of the wheel. As she seated herself she
glanced at him with a queer expression of puzzlement. He unhitched the
colts, gathered up the lines and came up over the wheel beside her. As
he dropped into the seat the team got away with a plunge and they went
townward with slack tugs, the reins and Angus' arms pulling the load.

"They're a little frisky," he said. "They'll be all right when they get
out of town."

"You don't think I'm afraid, do you?" she said.

"No, I guess you are not nervous of horses."

Angus hoped they would see nothing of Blake. But as they clattered up
the main street, the colts dancing and fighting the bits and Angus
holding them with a double wrap and talking to them steadily to quiet
them, Blake and his companions were crossing from one side to the other.
He recognized Angus and his sister, and probably remembered that he was
to meet her. With the memory of his recent encounter surging in his
fogged brain he lurched out into the roadway and called on Angus to
stop; and as the latter did not do so, he made an unsteady rush for the
colts' heads.

Just then Angus could not have stopped the colts if he had wished to,
and he did not wish it. He knew that if Blake got hold of them it meant
a wrangle on the street, and so he loosed a wrap and clicked a sharp
command. The colts went into their collars with a bound.

As they did so Kathleen French reached swiftly across and plucked the
whip from its socket on the dash. Angus had time for just one glance.
The nigh forewheel was just grazing Blake, so that he jumped back. His
flushed, scowling face was upturned, his mouth open in imprecation. Then
with a vicious swish and crack the lash of the blacksnake curled down
over his head and shoulders, and he went out of sight.

Angus was too fully occupied with the colts to look back. They missed a
wagon and a buggy by inches merely, and were a mile out of town before
he was able to pull them down to an ordinary gait; and he was in no
sweet temper at them, at Blake, and even at Blake's sister; for that
young lady's swishing cut with the whip had put the finishing touch to
the colts' nerves.

Kathleen herself had not uttered a word, nor had she grasped the seat
rail, even when in danger of collision. Now she sat upright, an angry
color in her cheeks, her mouth set in a straight line, and the whip
still in her hand. She met Angus' eyes with a defiant stare.

"Well?" she said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking a lot, though."

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are! And don't you say a word of it to me. I can't stand it."

"I am not going to say anything," Angus told her, and stared ahead over
the colts' ears, in which companionable fashion they drove for nearly
two miles. Then he felt her hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, Angus. I was utterly rude. Let it go, won't you?"

"Of course," he assented. "I wasn't any too polite myself. The team
nearly got away from me."

"And then you think I shouldn't have taken the whip to Blake."

"You might have taken an ax to him for all I'd care," Angus admitted.

"Hello!" she said. "Have you had any trouble with Blake?"

"No real trouble." He told her what had occurred.

"Well, I'm glad I used the whip," she commented. "He won't be proud of
it--before his friends. Wait till I see the boys! A nice lot, sending
Blake--Blake!--to meet me." Her teeth clicked over the words. "I
suppose," she went on bitterly after a pause, "there's a black sheep in
every family. But in some families--What do you think of our family?"

Angus stared at her. He had never thought much about the Frenches, who
were outside his orbit. Being young, one side of him had at times envied
their easy life; but another side of him held for them the grim, bitter
scorn of the worker for the idler and waster. These things, however,
were far below the surface.

"I don't know your family very well," he said.

She did not press the question.

"That is so. Angus--I hope you don't mind being called that, any more
than I mind being called by my first name--we've known each other for
years, but not very well. Perhaps we'll know each other better. I'm home
for good. I'm supposed to be a young lady, now."

"Are you?" said Angus. She laughed.

"My education--polite and otherwise--is finished. That is what I mean. I
am now prepared to settle down to the serious business of life--of a
young woman's life."

"And what is that?"

"If you don't know I won't tell you. Never mind about me. Tell me about
yourself."

"Myself? Oh, I've just been living on the ranch."

She considered him gravely, and he stared back. Whatever she saw, he
found her decidedly good to look upon, not only because of her eyes and
hair and clear, satiny skin, but because of the lithe, clean-run shape
of her, which he admired as he would that of a horse, or an athlete's in
training. She broke the silence abruptly.

"Do you know what my trunk weighs?"

He glanced back at it, shaking his head. "No. It's riding all right
there."

"Do you know what I weigh?"

"Perhaps a hundred and thirty."

"Ten pounds more. And the trunk weighs more than two hundred."

"Well, what about it?" Angus asked, puzzled.

"What about it? Are you in the habit of picking up trunks like that as
if they were meat platters, and girls as if they were babies? I was
watching you, and you didn't even breathe hard."

"Oh, is that it?" Angus laughed. "That's nothing. Any of your brothers
could handle that trunk."

"Gavin could, of course. But he's very strong."

"Well?" said Angus, smiling at her.

"Why, yes, you must be. But I've always thought of you as a boy. And I
suppose you've thought of me as a gawky, long-legged girl."

"I haven't thought of you at all," Angus told her.

"Now I know I'm going to like you," she laughed. "I don't know a
man--except my brothers, who of course don't count--who would have told
me that."

Angus flushed, but stuck to his guns.

"Well, why should I think of you?"

"No reason. You don't know much about girls, do you?"

"Not a thing. I have had no time for them."

"And no use for them!"

"I did not say that."

"But you looked it, Angus. I'll never forget the look of relief on your
face years ago when we appeared to take poor, little lost Faith Winton
off your hands--and off your pony. And yet she liked you. She speaks
still of how good and kind you were to her, though you frightened her at
first."

"She must be thinking of Jean's doughnuts," Angus grinned. "I had
forgotten all about it. Where is she now?"

"I don't know. She and her father were in Italy when I heard from her
last."

"She would be grown up," Angus deduced. "I wonder if I would know her?"

But the French ranch hove in sight, its big two-story house and maze of
stables in a setting of uncared-for fields, which Angus never saw
without something akin to pain. A chorus of dogs greeted the sound of
wheels, and half a dozen of them shot around the corner of the house.

Angus liked dogs, but not when he was driving colts. But just as they
began to dance and the nigh bay had lashed out with a vicious hoof,
Gavin French came around the corner, and at his command the dogs shrank
as if he had laid a whip across them. Just then Gavin was wearing riding
breeches, moccasins, and a flannel shirt wide open at the throat and
stagged off at the sleeves, so that the bronzed column of his neck and
the full sweep of his long, splendidly muscled arms were revealed. He
strode softly, cat-footed, gripping with his toes, and the smoke of the
short pipe which was his inseparable companion, drifted behind him.

"Hello, Kit!" he said, and nodded to Angus. "Where is Blake? He went for
you."

"Blake's drunk," Kathleen replied.

"Drunk, is he?" Gavin said without surprise.

"And you're a nice bunch of brothers to send him! Couldn't one of you
have come?"

"Oh, well, he was going, anyway," said Gavin carelessly. "Did you see
him?"

"Yes, I saw him. He tried to stop Angus' team on the main street, and I
slashed him back with the whip."

"You little devil!" said her brother, but with a certain admiration in
his voice. "But that's pretty hard medicine, Kit!"

"And what sort of medicine is it for me to have a drunken blackguard of
a brother run out on the street to hold up the rig I'm driving in?" she
flared. "I'm entitled to ordinary respect; even if I am a sister, and
Blake and all of you had better understand it now."

"Pshaw!" said Gavin. "The trouble with you, Kit, is that you've got a
wire edge. You're set on a hair-trigger."

"And the trouble with Blake and the whole lot of you is that you've run
wild," she retorted. "You've got so that you don't care for anything or
anybody. You're practically savages. But I can tell you, you'll remember
some of the ordinary usages of civilization now I'm home."

"And a sweet temper you've come back in!" said Gavin. He lifted his
sister down over the wheel and reached for the trunk.

"It's heavy, Gan," she said, with a glance at Angus.

"Is it?" said Gavin, gripping the handles. He lifted it without apparent
effort, and set it on his right shoulder. "I may be able to stagger
along with it," he told her ironically. "Would you like me to carry you,
too?"

"You can't!"

"Can't I?" laughed the blond giant. "Have you any money left to bet on
that?"

"Five dollars that you can't carry me and the trunk--upstairs and to my
room."

"My five," said her brother. "Come here." With the trunk on his shoulder
he bent his knees till he squatted low on the balls of his feet. "Now
sit on my shoulder and put your right arm around my neck. Give me your
left hand. All set?"

"All set."

Angus watched with interest, doubtful if he could do it. But slowly,
steadily, without shake or tremor the knees of the big man began to
straighten, and his shoulders topped by girl and trunk to rise, until he
stood upright. Upright he hitched to get a better balance, and strode
off for the house as easily as Angus himself would have carried a sack
of oats. Kathleen looked back at him and laughed.

"Good-by, Angus. Thank you ever so much--and come and see me."

The last thing Angus saw as he wheeled the colts for home, was the
burdened bulk of Gavin French stooping for the doorway.




CHAPTER VIII

OLD SAM PAUL MAKES A PROPOSITION


Jean arrived on the next boat three days later, with a tragic tale of
missed connections. It seemed to Angus that the few months of absence
had made quite a difference. She seemed, in fact, almost a young lady,
even to his brotherly eye.

But however she had changed she had not lost her grip on practical
things, and when she began to look around the house Angus and Turkey
found that their trouble in cleaning up had been wasted. For Jean dug
into corners, and under and behind things where, as Turkey said, nobody
but a girl would ever think of looking; and in such obscure and
out-of-the-way places she found some dirt, some articles discarded or
lost, and the more or less permanent abode of Tom and Matilda.

Tom and Matilda were mice, which had become thoroughly tame and
domesticated. In the evenings Rennie fed them oatmeal and scraps of
cheese, chuckling to see them sit up on their hunkers and polish their
whiskers and wink their beady, little eyes, and all hands had united in
keeping the cats out. Everybody had regarded Tom and Matilda as good
citizens; and they had developed a simple and touching trust in mankind.
But Jean broke up their home ruthlessly, with exclamations of disgust;
and commandeering all the men for a day, turned the house inside out,
beat, swept, washed and scrubbed; and then put everything back again.
She professed to see a great difference, but nobody else agreed with
her.

"The only difference I see," said Turkey, "is that I don't know where to
find a darn thing."

"Well, you won't find it on the floor, or under a heap of rubbish six
months old," Jean told him.

"Oh, all right," Turkey grumbled. "Now you've got all our things mixed
up maybe you'll be satisfied."

Jean appealed to Angus, who agreed with Turkey. Whereat Jean sniffed and
left them to their opinions.

Angus was a little apprehensive of his first meeting Blake French, but
to his relief the latter chose to ignore what had occurred. Rather to
his surprise Kathleen rode over to call on Jean, and the two girls
struck up a certain friendship. Thus Angus saw more of Kathleen and her
people than he had ever done before, including the head of the family,
Godfrey French himself.

Godfrey French, though well on in years, was still erect and spare. He
had a cold, blue eye, much like Gavin's, but now a trifle weary, and a
slightly bent cynical mouth beneath a white moustach. He was invariably
courteous and dignified, and whatever might be said of his sons, there
was no doubt that the father possessed the ingrained manner of a
gentleman. Yet Angus did not like him, and he thought that old French
had little or no use for him. Somehow, French put him in mind of a
gray-muzzled old fox.

One day in mid-summer as Angus sat in the shade of the workshop mending
a broken harness, old Paul Sam on his single-footing pony drew up at the
door.

"'Al-lo!" he greeted.

"Hello, Paul Sam," Angus returned. "You feel skookum to-day?"

"Skookum, me," the Indian replied. "Skookum, you?"

"Skookum, me," Angus told him.

The old man got off his pony, sat down on an empty box, and drew out an
old buckskin, bead-worked fire-bag. From this he produced a stone pipe
bowl and a reed stem. Fitting the two together he filled the bowl and
smoked.

This, Angus knew, was diplomacy. Whatever the Indian had come for, not a
word concerning it would he say till he had had his smoke. Then it would
probably be unimportant. So Angus waited in silence, and Paul Sam smoked
in silence. Finally the latter tapped out and unjointed his pipe and put
it away in his fire-bag.

"Me got cooley kuitan," he announced.

"Cooley" is apparently a corruption of the French word "courir," to run.
"Kuitan" is a horse. Hence a "cooley kuitan" in Chinook signifies a race
horse.

Angus shook his head. He knew very well what Sam Paul intended doing
with this race horse. There was a local race meet each year, in
connection with the local fair. The race meet outsized the fair, dwarfed
it in interest. It drew tin horns and sure-thing gamblers as fresh meat
draws flies. These gentry ran various games, open when they could and
under cover when they could not. Then there were men with a seasoned old
ringer under a new name, or a couple of skates with which to pull off a
faked match race. There were various races, but the big event was a mile
for horses locally owned. There was some excellent stock in the country,
and great rivalry developed.

In this race each year the Indians had entered some alleged running
horse and backed it gamely. But each year they lost, their horses being
neither trained nor ridden properly, and being completely outclassed as
well; for as a rule they were merely good saddle cayuses and
overweighted at that. This year French's horse, a beautiful, bright bay
named Flambeau, seemed likely to win. Angus had seen him and admired
him. Therefore he shook his head.

"You only think you've got a cooley kuitan," he said. "Keep out of that
race, Paul Sam. You'll only lose money."

"Him good," the Indian insisted. "S'pose him get good rider him win.
Injun boy no good to ride. Injun boy all right in Injun race; no good in
white man's race."

"That's true enough," Angus agreed. "Injun boy don't kumtux the game.
Well, what about it?"

"Mebbe-so you catch white boy to ride um?" Paul Sam suggested.

"Do you mean Turkey?" Angus queried.

"Ha-a-lo," Paul Sam negatived. "White boy, all same ride white man's
horse."

"A jockey! Where would I get you a jockey?"

But that detail was none of Paul Sam's business.

"You catch um jock!" he said hopefully.

"But I don't know where to get one. A jockey would cost money, and you
wouldn't win, anyway. You Injuns start a horse every year, and you never
have one that has a lookin. You'd better get the idea out of your head."

But an idea once implanted in an Indian's head is apt to stay. Paul Sam
grinned complacently.

"Me got dam' good cooley kuitan. Me kumtux kuitan."

He told Angus the history of his horse, as he knew it. Stripped of
details, it amounted to this: Some five years before a fine English mare
which had been the property of a deceased remittance man, had been
auctioned off. She was in foal, and the colt in due course had been
sold, and in some obscure and involved cattle deal had become the
property of Paul Sam, who had let him run with his cayuses. When he
broke him to the saddle he found him remarkably fast. Being a real fox,
he said nothing about the colt's turn of speed, but bided his time. Now,
in his opinion, he could make a killing and spoil the Egyptian, alias
the white man, if only the colt were properly trained and ridden. He
applied to Angus for help, as being the son of his tillikum, Adam
Mackay. He invited him out to inspect the horse.

Angus went and took Dave Rennie. The horse which Paul Sam led forth for
inspection was a big, slashing four-year-old, with a good head, an
honest eye, deep chest and clean, flat limbs. Every line of him told of
power and endurance; and to the eye which could translate power into
terms of speed, of the latter as well. Rennie whistled softly.

"He looks to me like he had real blood in him. He's a weight carrier.
English hunting stock, I sh'd say. Some of 'em can run, all right. If
the mare was in foal when she was brought out, I wouldn't wonder if this
boy's sire was real class. He looks it." The big horse reached out a
twitching muzzle to investigate. Rennie stroked the velvet nose. "Kind
as a kitten, too. He seems to have the build, but that don't say he can
run."

"Him run," Paul Sam affirmed. "You ride him."

He cinched an old stock saddle on the chestnut, and Rennie mounted. He
cantered easily across the flat and back.

"He's easy as an old rocker and light as a driftin' cloud," he said.
"The bit worries him, though. He needs rubber. You get on him, and see
what a real horse feels like."

Angus lengthened the stirrups and swung up. As soon as he felt the
motion he knew he was astride a wondrous piece of mechanism. The
undulating lift of the big chestnut was as easy and effortless and
sustained as a smooth, rolling swell. Of his own accord the horse
quickened his pace from the easy sling of the canter to a long,
stretching, hand-gallop, drawing great lungfuls of air, shaking his
head, rejoicing in his own motion, glad to be doing the work he was
fitted for. At the end of the little flat Angus pulled up and turned.
Rennie's distant shout came faintly:

"Let him come!"

Breathing the horse for a moment, Angus loosed him from the canter to
the gallop and then, as he felt the coil and uncoil of the splendid
muscles, and the swell and quiver of the body, and the increasing reach
and stretch of the ever-quickening stride, he let him run.

All his life Angus had ridden ponies, cayuses, but now he had a new
experience. The big chestnut, as he was given his head, made half a
dozen great bounds and then, steadying himself, he stretched his neck,
his body seemed to sink and straighten, and with muzzle almost in line
with his ears he began to put forth the speed that was in him. The rapid
drum of his hoofs quickened to a roar; the wind sang in Angus' ears; the
figures of Paul and Sam and Rennie seemed to come toward him, and he
shot past them and gradually eased the willing horse to canter and
walk.

"Him cooley kuitan, hey?" Paul Sam grinned. "You catch um jock?"

"But I don't know where to get one," Angus replied.

"Well," said Rennie, "I don't know where to get no regular jockey, but I
know an old has-been that used to ride twenty years ago, before he got
smashed up. I dunno 's he'd ride now, in a race, but he could put the
horse in shape. He's got a fruit and chicken ranch somewheres on the
coast. Me and him was kids together, and he might come if I asked him.
Only he wouldn't do it for nothing."

"You catch um," said Paul Sam. "Me pay um. Mebbe-so me win hiyu dolla!"




CHAPTER IX

DORGAN


In due course a small, clean-shaven man who walked with a slight limp
surveyed the big chestnut with a shrewd, bright eye. This was Rennie's
friend, the ex-jockey.

"Like his looks, Pete?" Rennie queried.

Pete, whose surname was Dorgan, nodded. "I like 'em some ways," he
admitted. "He's got power to burn, and that'll give him speed--some. In
five miles he'd be runnin' strong, but he might not be fast enough at a
mile. 'Course, I don't know nothin' about what he'll be up ag'inst. What
time has this race been run in, other years?" When Angus told him he
grunted. "Good as that? Must be some real horses here. You're sure he
ain't stolen? I wouldn't want to be mixed up in a deal like that, even
if I am out of the game."

"He ain't stolen. This old Injun is as straight as you are."

"Well, I've been called crooked before now," Dorgan grinned. "But if you
say so, Dave, I guess this old boy is all right. You can tell him I'll
put the horse in the best shape I can, and maybe I'll ride him. If I
don't, I'll get a boy. But I ain't goin' to live with a bunch of Injuns
while I'm doin' it, and the horse has to be taken out of here." He eyed
Paul Sam's primitive stable arrangements with disgust. "He's ruinin' his
feet."

Paul Sam made no objection, and the big chestnut which Dorgan christened
"Chief," was brought to the Mackay ranch. There he was installed in a
disused building which lay behind the other stables and some distance
from them.

"The way I get it," said Dorgan, "we better keep this horse under cover
as long as we can. From what you say, there ain't been no class to the
hay-hounds the Siwashes has started other years, and so an Injun entry
is a joke entry. Nobody knows this horse, and seein' him the way he is
now, not many'd pipe what he really is unless they was wised up. But you
let some of these wise local birds lamp him after I've had him a couple
of weeks, and they might smell something. Then I may's well keep dark
myself. Not that I'm ashamed of myself more'n I ought to be, but
somebody might remember me, though I ain't ridden for years. So I'll be
an extra hand you've hired, see? Me and Chief will take our work-outs on
the quiet as long as we can."

So Dorgan gave the horse his exercise on a little prairie a mile back of
the ranch. As he had predicted, a couple of weeks made a vast difference
in his appearance. Groomed till his chestnut coat was gleaming, dappled
satin, his feet trimmed and cleaned and polished and shod by Dorgan
himself, fed bright, clean grain and savory mashes and bedded to the
knees nightly in sweet straw, Chief tasted for the first time the joys
of the equine aristocracy to which he belonged.

But somehow the rumor that the Indians had a mysterious horse and rider
got going, and one day Dorgan, who had been to town, came to Angus.

"Say," he said, "do you know a hard-faced bird, near as big as you are
but older and heavier, that looks like a bad actor and likes the juice?
He seems to be the king-pin of a bunch of young rye-hounds that think
they're sports."

"Do you mean Blake French?"

"That's the outfit that owns this Flambeau horse, ain't it?"

"Yes. What about it?"

"Nothin' much. He'd have bought me a lot of friendship sealers if I'd
let him. Then there was a feller, name of Garland, that thinks he's a
warm member, and claimed he'd seen me ridin' long ago when he was a kid.
He might of, at that. They sorter fished around to find out what I was
doin' here. But they know, all right. If I was crooked I b'lieve I could
do business with them two."

"I've never heard that they would do anything crooked. Of course they
might try to find out all they could."

"If I'd taken all the crooked money I've been offered," said Dorgan,
"and got away with it, I wouldn't need to be worryin' about apples and
chickens now. I know when a feller's feelin' me out, same as I know when
a couple of young burglars is holdin' a pocket open for me to ride
into."

"But they don't know if Paul Sam's horse can run or not."

"That's their trouble. But if they can fix somebody, they don't need to
care."

A couple of days after this, Angus, coming around Chief's quarters from
the rear, overheard Dorgan earnestly assuring Kathleen French that Chief
was quarantined for threatened influenza; and further that he was a
saddle horse, pure and simple, with no more speed than a cow. With a
glance at Angus which was intended to convey grave warning, he beat a
retreat.

"Who is the remarkable liar?" Kathleen asked.

"Is he that? His name is Pete Dorgan."

"If you have a deadline on the place you ought to put up a sign," she
told him. "How did I know I was butting in?"

"How do you know it now?"

"Because I have average intelligence. I didn't know there was a horse
here at all. I was looking for Jean, and when I saw a perfectly
splendid, strange animal, naturally I stopped to look at him. I also saw
a little, flat pigskin saddle, and I saw that the horse was wearing
plates. Then this Dorgan appeared and lied straight ahead without the
least provocation, looking me in the face without the quiver of an
eyelash. I didn't ask him a single question, I give you my word.

"There's no special reason why you shouldn't. The horse isn't mine. But
the fact is, his owner and Dorgan aren't saying anything about him."

"Angus! he isn't--but no, of course he isn't!"

"Isn't what?"

"A ringer. I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't go into anything like that if
you knew it."

Angus laughed. "He's no ringer. He belongs to Paul Sam." He told her as
much as he thought necessary of the animal's history.

"Thanks for the confidence," she nodded. "I'll say nothing about it. If
you had treated me as Dorgan did, I should have felt hurt."

"He didn't know you. He thinks this horse will give you a race."

"What, beat Flambeau!" she cried. "Nonsense!"

"Well, he seems to be a pretty good horse."

"Then I'll bet you an even hundred now!" she challenged.

"No, no. I don't want to bet with you."

"Oh, you needn't have any scruples. The boys take my money--when they
can get it."

"But I don't think I'll bet at all."

"Then what on earth are you doing with the horse?" she asked in frank
astonishment.

"He is just stabled here."

"But I don't see why you won't bet if you think the horse has a good
chance."

"Because I can't afford to lose."

"But that makes it all the more exciting."

"It makes it all the more foolish," Angus told her grimly. "It is all
very well for you; you people can afford to play with money."

"How do you know we can?"

"Well, I've always heard so."

"And therefore it must be so." She switched the grass, looking down.
"Well, whether it is or not, we're born gamblers--the whole family.
Perhaps we can't help it. But sometimes--sometimes I wish it were
different. I wish the boys would work as you work; and--and that I were
a home girl with a nice big brother."

"You have enough big brothers," Angus told her. "I think myself it would
do them no harm to work, but it is none of my business. I did not mean
to seem curious about your affairs. Anyway, some day you will be
marrying and leaving them."

"Perhaps," she admitted. "The chief end of--woman! Oh, I suppose
so--some day. Well?"

"That's all. You will likely marry somebody with plenty of money, and
then you will go away."

"Do you mean that I shall marry for money?"

"No, but if your husband has it, it will be no drawback. Lots of these
young fellows who go to your ranch are well fixed--or will be when
somebody dies."

"How nicely you arrange my future. Which one of them am I to marry,
please?"

"Whichever one you love best."

"What on earth do you know about love, Angus Mackay?"

"Nothing at all. But that is why people get married, isn't it?"

"I think I have heard so," she said dryly. "Will that be why you will
marry--some day?"

"Why else?"

"Oh, Scotch! A question with a question! Would you marry for any other
reason?"

"I would not marry a girl because she had money," said Angus, "because
the money would not be worth the nuisance of her if I didn't love her."

Kathleen laughed at this frank statement, and went to find Jean. Angus'
reflections as to Kathleen were broken by the reappearance of Dorgan.

"What did I tell you?" said the little man. "I guess my dope was poor,
huh!"

"Your dope on what?"

"On what? On them fellers I was talkin' to yesterday. Now here's
French's sister comes on the scout. When I seen her she was sure gettin'
an eyeful of Chief."

"She was looking for my sister. She told me how it happened."

"I'll gamble she did," Dorgan returned skeptically, "and I s'pose you
fell for it, like young fellers do. When a crook can't get the real dope
any other way, he plants a woman. That skirt----"

"Go easy," Angus warned him. "That young lady is a friend of mine."

"She ain't a friend of mine, and I got my own idea of what she was here
for. If you don't like it I'll keep it to myself."

"You're barking up the wrong tree," Angus laughed. "She's as straight as
they make them. She says you're a remarkable liar, if you want to know."

Dorgan grinned. "I said she was wise. Maybe my work was a little raw,
but she took me by surprise, and I was just doin' the best I could
off-hand."

"You can't keep the horse cached forever."

"That's all right. There's no use tellin' what you know most times. This
Flambeau from what I hear will carry a whole bunch of money for them
Frenches. They're givin' as good as five to three against the field.
That means they got the field sized up, or fixed. But they ain't got a
line on Chief, nor they ain't got me fixed, so their calculations has
been clean upset. Somebody's been watchin' me exercise, the last day or
two, but whoever it is ain't had a chance to clock nothin', because they
don't know the distances, and anyway I didn't let him out. They ain't
wise to him, but they're wise to me. They dope it out I wouldn't be
wastin' time on a horse that hadn't a chance. See what I'm gettin' at? A
pill or the needle would put Chief out of the money."

"Nobody around here would do that," Angus told him.

"They wouldn't hey?" said Dorgan with sarcasm. "Let me tell you that
right in the bushes is the place they put over stuff they couldn't get
by with nowheres else. The things I've seen pulled at these little,
local races would chill your blood. There's a bunch of murderers follows
'em up that'd hamstring a horse or sandbag an owner for a ten-case
note."

"But--" Angus began.

"But--nothing," Dorgan interrupted with contempt. "Don't you s'pose I've
been in the game long enough to know it? There'll be a bunch of tinhorns
and a wreckin' crew of crooked racin' men with a couple of outlaw
horses, all workin' together to skin the suckers. All them Frenches have
to do is to say it's worth fifty to fix any horse. You can maybe tell me
things about raisin' alfalfa, but not about racin'. When a woman gets
into the game, it's serious. After this I'm goin' to sleep right here."




CHAPTER X

BEFORE THE RACE


A few days before the race Dorgan moved Chief to one of half a dozen
sheds on the fair grounds, which a load of lumber and another of straw
made comfortable. There he dwelt with him, giving him easy exercise and
sizing up the other horses.

"Outside this Flambeau there ain't much to worry about," he concluded.
"Only with a field of seven, like there will be in this race, there's
always the chance of something going wrong. Chief ain't wise to starts,
nor to running in company."

"You catch 'um good start," Paul Sam advised.

"You're a wise Injun," Dorgan told him. "I'll try to be somewhere's on
the line--or in front of it. Still, I ain't quite burglar-proof."

At the fair Angus had a number of exhibits of ranch produce, cattle, and
his team of young drivers. The night before the race he had been
arranging his exhibits. This done he had supper, strolled around for an
hour, and then returned to the National House, which was the leading
hotel, in search of a man to whom he hoped to sell a few head of cattle.
He got the number of his prospective customer's room, but apparently he
had been misinformed, for the room held a poker game in full blast, the
players being Gavin and Gerald French, two somewhat hard-faced
strangers, and a young fellow about his own age whom he set down as an
Englishman.

The French boys nodded a greeting.

"Hold on a minute," said Gerald as Angus would have withdrawn. "I want
to see you."

So Angus remained, and standing behind Gerald watched the play.

One of the strangers dealt. On the draw Gerald held a full house; and
yet he dropped out, as did Gavin. The Englishman who stayed lost most of
his remaining stack. But the winning stranger did not seem elated. He
scowled at the pot as he took it in.

Wondering what intuition had bade Gerald lay down a full--for the pot
had been won by fours--Angus continued to watch the game. The deal came
to Gerald, who riffled the cards.

"Time we had a drink," said he and rising brushed past Angus to touch a
wall button. Reseating himself he began to deal.

One of the strangers opened. Gerald, as Angus could see, had nothing.
Nevertheless he stayed, drawing three cards. Everybody stayed. The
betting was brisk, and the pile of chips in the center grew. Gerald was
the first to drop out. One of the strangers and the Englishman followed
suit. Thus it was between the remaining stranger and Gavin. They
proceeded to raise each other.

"If the limit was something worth while," said the stranger, "I could
get proper action on this hand."

"It's high enough for these ranchers," the other stranger observed.
"They don't like a hard game."

"What would you like?" Gavin queried.

"If you're game to lift it, you can come after a hundred."

Gavin, reaching into his pocket, brought forth a sheaf of currency from
which he stripped two bills.

"_And_ a hundred," he said.

The stranger's breath sucked hard through his teeth. His companion
glanced swiftly and suspiciously at him and then at Gerald.

"This started out as a friendly game," he observed, a note of warning in
his voice.

"Well, there's his hundred," the player said. "What you got? Come
on--show 'em." He leaned forward.

"All the bullets," Gavin replied. He spread four aces face up, while his
other hand reached for the pot.

The other stranger leaned forward, also, peering at the cards. Suddenly
he started and his hand shot toward them. But Gavin's fell on it,
pinning it to the table.

"What are you trying to do?" he demanded. Beneath the coldness of his
tone there was something hard and menacing. The stranger wrenched to
free his hand. It remained pinned in Gavin's grasp.

"I want to see those cards!" he cried with an oath.

"Where do you come in?" Gavin asked. "You didn't call me."

"But I did," the losing stranger broke in. "I want to see those cards,
and I'm going to."

"You're looking at them now," Gavin pointed out.

Gerald coolly swept up the cards.

"I dealt them," he said. "They look all right to me. Four aces and a
club seven. Take a look at them, Mackay, and see if this man has
anything to kick at."

Thus appealed to, Angus took the cards. "I don't see anything wrong with
them," he said.

"You don't, hey?" cried the loser. "I'm wise to you now. You did it, did
you?"

"Did what?" Angus queried.

"Slipped him a cold deck!" the other roared. "You did it when he got up
to press the button."

"I did nothing of the sort!" Angus denied in amazement.

"You're a liar!" the other shrilled. "D'ye think we're going to be
cold-decked by a bunch of hicks?" He turned to Gavin. "Come through with
that money, or----"

"Or what?" Gavin asked.

By way of bluff or otherwise the stranger resorted to the old, cogent
argument. His right hand dropped swiftly. But as it did so Gavin thrust
the table forward violently. The man went backward, chair and all.
Gerald pounced on him like a leopard, caught his arm and twisted a
short-barreled gun from the clutching fingers. Gavin, with equal
quickness and less effort, caught and disarmed the other man, who
without a word had reached for his gun to back his friend.

"Bad actors, you two!" Gerald sneered. "Gamblers--gunmen. Shocking!
What'll we do with them, Gan?"

"Let 'em go," said the big man contemptuously, releasing his captive and
flipping the cartridges from the gun. "Beat it, you blighters, and pick
out easier marks next time."

"You big crook!" snarled the owner of the gun, "I'll get you----"

He never finished the sentence, for Gavin was on him. He caught him by
the clothes above his breast, lifted him clear and slammed him back
against the wall. There he held him, pinned with one hand, like a moth
in a show-case.

"Get me, will you?" he growled hoarsely. "If I hit you, you cheap
tinhorn, you'd never get me or anybody else. Try to get me, and I'll
break your back over my knee. Like this!"

He plucked the man away from the wall as if he had been a doll, and
threw him, back down, across his knee. For an instant he held him, and
then set him on his feet. The man's face was the dead gray of asbestos
paper.

"Git!" Gavin commanded. "Don't fool around here or make any more bluffs.
Get out of town."

When the two strangers had gone, Gerald laughed gently.

"This breaks up our game, I guess," he said. "By the way--Angus
Mackay--Mr. Chetwood."

The two young men shook hands. Chetwood was a long-limbed young fellow
with the old-country color fresh in his cheeks, frank blue eyes with a
baby stare which would have been a credit to any ingenue, but which held
an occasional twinkle quite at variance with their ordinary expression.
Angus was inclined to like him. Chetwood, on his part, eyed the lean,
hard, sinewy bulk of Angus with admiration.

"I say, what was all the row about?" he asked Gerald. "They accused you
of cheating, what?"

"Old game," said Gerald carelessly. "They went up against an unbeatable
hand, lost more than they could afford, and tried to run a bluff. They
were both crooks, anyway."

"But if you knew that, why the deuce did you play with them?"

"You can't be too particular if you want a game," Gerald laughed.

"You do things so dam' casual out here," Chetwood complained
whimsically. "Now when they tried to draw revolvers--'guns' you call
them out here--I should have given them in charge."

"Too much trouble and no police force handy," said Gerald. "But I wanted
to ask you about that horse you've been training for the Indians,
Mackay. Are you betting on him?"

"I haven't been training him, and I don't think I'll bet. The Indians
will, though."

"Tell 'em we'll take all the money they have, at evens."

"Even money against the field?"

"Exactly. You'd better take a little yourself."

But Angus refused, principally because he had no money to lose. They
went down to the lobby. This was crowded. Blake French, standing on a
chair, was flourishing a sheaf of bills, offering even money as his
brothers had done. He had been drinking, and his remarks seemed to be
directed at some certain person or persons.

Looking over the heads of the crowd, Angus saw Dorgan and Paul Sam
standing together. The old Indian, bare-headed, his gray braids hanging
in front of either shoulder, wearing a blanket coat, skin-tight leggins
and brand-new moccasins, made an incongruous figure. The two, seeing
Angus, made their way toward him.

"That bird," said Dorgan nodding toward Blake, "is makin' a cinch offer.
Take all you can get. The old boy, here, was just waitin' for you to
hold the bets."

"S'pose you hold money, me bet him now," Paul Sam confirmed.

"Come on, come on!" Blake vociferated from his perch. "Put up a bet on
your--cayuse. Here's real money. Come and get it!"

Dorgan turned to face him.

"You're makin' a whole lot of noise on that handful of chicken feed," he
observed.

"Come and take it then," Blake retorted. "They tell me you used to ride
for white men once."

"Well, that never gave _you_ no first call on me!" Dorgan shot back.

Somebody laughed, and Blake's temper, always ugly, flared up.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, you down-and-outer, or I'll throw you
out!" he rasped.

But Dorgan was not awed by the threat, nor by the size of the man who
made it.

"Your own tongue ain't workin' none too smooth," he retorted. "Throw me
out, hey? About all you'll throw will be a D. T. fit. A hunk of mice
bait, that's about what you are, color and all."

With an oath Blake leaped from his chair, sending it crashing behind
him. Perfectly game, little Dorgan crouched to meet the rush, in an
attitude which showed a certain experience.

But Angus, cursing the luck which seemed to lead him athwart Blake,
stepped between them.

"Hold on, now," he said. "You mustn't----"

"Get out of my way!" Blake roared.

"Now wait!" Angus insisted pacifically. "It wouldn't----"

But Blake struck at him. Angus dodged and clinched. But as he began to
shove Blake back Gavin's great arms were thrust between them.

"Let go, Mackay," he said. "Quit it!" he commanded Blake.

"I'll show that runt he can't insult me!" the latter frothed. "Yes, and
Mackay, too. Turn me loose, Gan----"

"You can't beat up their jockey before the race," his brother told him.
"Too raw. Mackay? Mackay'd make a mess of you. Quit it, I tell you."

"I'll----" Blake began. But Gavin suddenly cursed him.

"Do you want me to handle you?" he demanded. In his voice came the
hoarse, growling note it had held when he had spoken to the man pinned
against the wall. His hand clamped his brother's wrist and his eyes
blazed. Half drunk as he was, Blake apparently recognized these danger
signals.

"Let go," he said. "I won't start anything."

His brother eyed him for a moment and turned to Paul Sam.

"How much do you want to bet?"

For answer the Indian pulled forth a huge roll of bills bound by a
buckskin thong. They represented sales of steers, cayuses, skins of
marten, beaver, bear and lynx, bounties on coyotes and mountain lion.

"Bet um all!" he announced succinctly.

"See what he's got," Gavin said to Angus, "and we'll cover it."

Angus sorted out the currency. It was in bills of various denominations
and various stages of dilapidation. The amount totaled a little over
twelve hundred dollars.

"We'll put up a check," said Gerald.

But when this was explained to Paul Sam, he interposed a decided
negative. He himself was putting up real, tangible money, that could be
handled and counted. Similar money must be put up against it. And when
this was procured, with considerable difficulty at that time of night,
he would not hear of it being put in the hotel safe, but insisted that
Angus should hold it literally.

"Ha-a-lo put um in skookum box," he declared positively. "Me know you.
S'pose you keep money, s'pose me win, me catch um sure. S'pose him put
in skookum box, mebbe so me no catch um. You keep um money."

Reluctantly, Angus accepted its custody, but privately he made up his
mind to deposit it in the safe as soon as the old Indian had gone. Soon
after, Chetwood drew him aside.

"I've a fancy to have a little on the old buster's horse," he announced.
"What do you say?"

"I don't say anything; it's your money."

"Quite so. But what sort of a run do you think I'll get for it?"

"The best the horse has in him, whatever that is."

"Then I've a notion to have a go at it."

"Do you know anything about the horses?"

"Not a thing," Chetwood replied cheerfully. "In the expressive language
of the country, I'm playing a hunch. That old Indian takes my eye,
rather."

"He's foxy enough. But the Indians have entered a horse every year, and
never won yet."

"But a chap can't lose all the time," Chetwood observed. "And then the
Frenches are offering even money against the field. No end sporting of
'em, but risky. That little ex-jockey knows his business?"

"I think so. Perhaps you'd like to have a talk with him and see the
horse. He's going out now, and we'll go with him, if you care to."

"Thanks," Chetwood acknowledged. "That's very decent of you, Mackay. I'd
like it very much."




CHAPTER XI

A HOLD-UP


The road to the track, which was nearly a mile beyond the town, was
lonely and dark. Most of the way it ran through a wooded flat, and the
tree shadows overlay it with denser gloom. But at last they emerged from
the trees upon the natural prairie which held track and fair grounds.
Along one side was a row of sheds, and here and there a lantern gleamed.
Toward one of these lights Dorgan led them.

Dave Rennie, reading beside a lantern, nodded silently and, introduced
to Chetwood, regarded him with disfavor, as a remittance man, one of the
balloon-pants brigade.

"Everything all right, Davy?" Dorgan asked.

"Quiet now. There was a row down among the sheds a while ago. A pair of
drunks mixed it, till we pulled 'em apart."

Dorgan picked up the lantern and illuminated a stall at the rear. Chief
seemed uneasy, sidling away from the light, snorting and shaking his
head. Chetwood moved with him, inspecting him closely.

"I should say that he has plenty of staying power," he observed. "At the
distance I'd back him rather than any weedy, greyhound stock."

"And you'd be a good judge," Dorgan agreed, regarding Chetwood with more
respect. Chief blew noisily, shaking his head and rubbing his nose
against the feed-box. "How long's he been actin' that way, Dave?"

"Maybe an hour. I thought it might be a fly or a bit of foxtail in his
feed."

"Not a bit of foxtail in his hay or beddin'. Might be a fly. Hold the
lantern a minute."

He passed his hand over Chief's muzzle, and the horse thrust against his
body, twisting and shaking his head. Dorgan examined his ears.

"Seems all right. What's worryin' you, old boy?"

The horse nosed him again, and exhaled a deep breath. Chetwood uttered
an exclamation.

"How was his wind to-day when you exercised him?"

"Wind? Good. Why?"

"No cold--no stoppage of the nostrils?"

"No. What you gettin' at?"

"Listen to his breathing. There's something about it--not clear--a
little, straining wheeze----"

Eyes narrowing, vibrant with quick suspicion, Dorgan took the horse's
head on his shoulder and leaned his ear to the nostrils, listening
intently. Suddenly he swore, a single, tremendous expletive, deep with
venom, turning on Rennie.

"Did you go to see that fight you was speakin' of?"

"Sure. But I wasn't away five minutes."

"Was the horse uneasy before that?"

"I didn't notice it till I come back," Rennie admitted, and Dorgan swore
again.

"They got to us somehow. Wait now. Hold still, Chief. So--o, lad! Quiet,
boy!" Gently he laid his face against the muzzle. "By----, it's
sponges!" he exclaimed suddenly.

"Sponges?" Angus repeated, puzzled.

"Sure--sponges! One of the bloody, dirtiest, meanest, surest-fire tricks
in the whole box. A little, soft sponge shot up each nostril. A horse
can't blow 'em out. He can breathe all right when he's quiet, but when
he starts to run he can't get wind enough through 'em to feed his lungs,
and they choke him off. It don't take a minute to work the trick on a
quiet horse. It can be put over five minutes or a day before a race. A
rider can do his best and get no speed. A crooked owner can fix his own
horse and tell his boy to ride to win. That's what somebody's put over
on us, and I'll gamble on it. Dave, fetch me my little black bag."

The bag contained a kit of veterinary instruments, and from them Dorgan
selected a pair of long, slender forceps. But Chief objected and had to
be thrown. Angus sat on his head while Dorgan worked. In the end he got
the sponges, and Chief released, struggled up snorting, but apparently
relieved and glad to be able to fill his lungs full once more.

"And a devil of a note a night before a race!" Dorgan commented. "Some
horses it would put clean up in the air. But I'll bet Chief will fix
this French bunch now, in spite of their dirty work."

"What makes you think they did it?"

"Ain't they givin' even money against the field? That means they think
they got us fixed. That big stiff that tried to beat me up to-night
would have fixed me if he could. They framed that fight to get Dave away
from here. Well, there's no use makin' a roar, because we got nothin' on
them. We're lucky to get wise." He nodded to Chetwood. "I dunno's we
would if it hadn't been for you. I didn't think you knew a thing about
the game, but I guess you do."

"Even if I am a pilgrim?" Chetwood laughed. "But you know we have
horses and a few races in England."

"The smoothest crook I ever come across in the racin' game was an
Englishman," Dorgan admitted generously.

Chetwood laughed at this ambiguous testimonial, and Angus liked him the
better for it. Leaving Dorgan and Rennie to look after the horse, they
took their townward way. The darkness seemed more intense. They stumbled
on the deeply-rutted road.

"We should have borrowed a lantern," Chetwood observed. "The bally trees
make it black as the devil. I think--Look out, Mackay! 'Ware foot-pads!"

As he spoke a dry stick cracked sharply. Angus whirled to his right.
Three black figures were almost on top of them. He had no time to dodge
or brace himself. An arm swung around his neck, and he got his chin down
just in time. He grasped the arm, tore it down across his shoulder, and
would no doubt have broken it with the next wrench; but just then
something descended on his head, and he went down unconscious in the
dust of the trail.

He came back to the world of affairs with a ripple of artistic English
swearing in his ears, and sat up.

"That you, Chetwood?" he asked.

"Right-o, old chap!" Chetwood replied, in tones of relief. "You've been
in dreamland so long I was afraid the blighters had jolly well bashed in
your coco."

"What happened?" Angus demanded.

"Well, it's a bit thick to me," the Englishman admitted. "There were
four of the beggars, and three of them went for you while the other gave
me all I could do. They floored you, and then rapped me on the head
with a sandbag, I should say." He felt his cranium tenderly. "Laid us
both out side by side like a pair of blinking babes in the wood. I came
around first, and that's some minutes ago. You're sure you're quite all
right, old man?"

But struck by a sudden, horrible suspicion, Angus put his hand in his
pocket and gasped.

"What's the matter?"

"Matter enough," he replied. "They have rustled all the money I was
holding for Paul Sam and the French boys!"

"My aunt!" Chetwood ejaculated. "We must have been followed."

Angus nodded gloomily, cursing his own folly. Why had he been such a
fool to carry nearly twenty-four hundred dollars in his pocket? He had
fully intended to deposit it in the safe, but had neglected to do so.
Now it was gone, and naturally he was responsible.

"I guess we were," he agreed. "You didn't recognize any of them, of
course?"

"No. Too dark. I say, Mackay, this is beastly rotten luck."

"Worse than that for me. I'll have to make good."

"Yes, 'fraid you will. I say--you'll pardon me, I'm sure--but in the
expressive idiom of the country, will it throw a crimp into you to do
it?"

"Will it?" Angus replied grimly. "I have no more than three hundred
dollars in the bank, and it keeps me scratching gravel with both feet to
make ends meet on the ranch and pay what I have to pay. It puts me in a
devil of a hole, if you want to know."

"Hard lines!" Chetwood sympathized. "In the breezy phraseology of the
country, it's sure hell. But buck up, old chap! Let me be your banker."

"You mean you'll lend me the money?" Angus exclaimed.

"Like a shot."

"Are you that strong?"

"Strong?" Chetwood queried.

"I mean that well fixed financially."

"Another delightful idiom!" Chetwood laughed. "Must remember it. Well, I
have some money to invest, and this looks like my chance."

"It looks to me like a mighty poor investment," Angus told him. "I
couldn't pay you for the Lord knows how long."

"Shouldn't expect you to."

"No, I can't do it," Angus decided, "though it's mighty white of you,
and I am just as much obliged. I'll get it from somebody who is in the
loaning business."

"Back your paper, if you like."

"Nor that either. I will kill my own snakes."

"Obstinate beggar!" Chetwood commented. "Highland blood, and all that
sort of thing." He was silent for a moment. "By George, I've got it!" he
exclaimed. "I know how we'll turn the corner. Simplest thing in the
world. I'll bet the amount you've lost, we win it, and there we are.
Rippin' idea, what!"

"Suppose we don't win?"

"Don't be a bally pessimist. It's more than a sportin' chance; it's a
sound declaration. I'll have a go at it."

Seeing that he was thoroughly in earnest, Angus endeavored to dissuade
him, and at last apparently succeeded.

"But we'll find some way out," he said. "Never say die. No surrender.
Yard-arm to yard-arm, and keep the ruddy flag flying, Mackay."

But Angus slept little that night. The problem of raising the money
worried him. He thought he could get it from Mr. Braden, but he was not
sure. And what worried him just as much was that eventually it must come
out of the ranch. His carelessness had saddled it with a fresh load of
debt. Then there was Jean. Whatever happened, her education must not be
interrupted, her way must be paid. He would see to that if he had to
sell every head of stock on the range. The first pale dawn was rousing
the birds to sleepy twitterings when he finally forgot his problems in
troubled slumber.




CHAPTER XII

THE RACE


Mr. Braden regarded Angus Mackay severely across his desk. "Tut, tut,
tut!" he said. "A very bad business, indeed. Bad company. Evil
communications, horse racing, gambling. Very bad!"

"But all I did was to hold the stakes," Angus protested.

"That was just what you didn't do," Mr. Braden pointed out. "It is a
large sum."

"I know that, but I have to have it. I am good for the money. Chetwood
offered to lend it to me or endorse my note, but----"

"Chetwood, hey?" said Mr. Braden with sudden interest. "Why should he do
that?"

"No reason at all. That's why I wouldn't let him."

"Do you know what he is going to do in this country?"

"He spoke of ranching."

"Ha!" said Mr. Braden. "Has he bought any land yet?"

"I don't think so."

"He should be careful," said Mr. Braden. "He should go to some reliable
person. Too many irresponsible dealers. He might get--er--stung. I have
some very attractive propositions. Did he mention any amount that he was
prepared to invest?"

"No. He's going to look around before he buys."

"Glad to show him around," said Mr. Braden heartily. "Bring him to me,
Angus, and he won't regret it. Neither--er--neither will you."

"How about lending me this money?" Angus asked.

"Oh--ah--yes, the money. H'm. Well, under the circumstances I will
advance it on your note. Not business, but to help _you_ out----Well,
don't forget about Chetwood. Bring him in. He might get into wrong
hands, you know. Bring him in, my boy, and you won't regret it."

With the settlement of the money question Angus was greatly relieved. He
was saddled with an additional debt, but at least he was in a position
to pay the winner, which as he looked at it was the main thing.

With Jean he went out to the track early in the afternoon. Here and
there in the crowd he noted the tall figures of the French brothers.
Apparently, they were still taking all the money they could get. On
their way to the stand to secure seats, they came upon Chetwood, who was
eying the motley crowd whose costumes ranged from blankets to Bond
Street coats, with pure delight. But being introduced to Jean, the young
Englishman lost all interest in the crowd, and accompanied them.
Kathleen French waved greeting to them, and they found seats beside her.
It appeared that she had met Chetwood.

"Well, Angus, do you want any Flambeau money?" she laughed.

"I wouldn't bet much, if I were you," he advised her seriously.

"I will bet every dollar I can. That's what the boys are doing, and
they're good judges of a horse."

"I think Dorgan is a better one."

"What does he know about Flambeau?" she asked.

"He seems to be satisfied with knowing Chief."

A little line came between Kathleen's eyes, but she shook her head.
"Flambeau carries all the money we can get up."

Angus having given her his advice said no more, and went to have a final
look at Chief.

"I've had Dave bet my roll for me," Dorgan told him. "I ain't a regular
rider no more, and I need the money. Barring accidents, Chief wins
handy."

"The Frenches are just as sure of Flambeau."

"Yeh," Dorgan replied calmly. "I just seen the boy burglar that's ridin'
for 'em. There's tracks he couldn't work on, but I ain't makin' no kick.
If he puts anything over on me, it'll be new stuff. But I guess they
figure they got the race won in the stable."

When Flambeau came on the track, Angus admitted to himself that he
justified Kathleen's confidence. Knowing quite well what he had to do,
the horse was eager. Up on his withers crouched a hard-faced boy in
maroon and silver, who eyed the other horses and riders with cool
contempt.

But Chief was being led through the gate, and up on his back flashed
Dorgan's old black-and-yellow silk. The big horse stepped forward,
looking at track and crowd with surprised and inquiring but quite calm
eyes. Dorgan patted his neck and spoke to him, and he came past the
stand in the long, singing, stretching canter which was deceptive by its
very ease. Angus looked at Kathleen.

"He's a grand horse!" she admitted, and once more the little line lay
between her eyes.

It became evident at the start that it was a fight between Dorgan and
French's boy. Neither would concede the slightest advantage. Both were
warned. As they wheeled back, after half a dozen abortive starts,
French's boy was spitting insults from the corner of his mouth, and old
Dorgan was grinning at him. Side by side, watching each other like
boxers, they wheeled and came down on the line. Crouched, arms extended,
the harried starter caught the bunch fair at last.

"G'wan!" he yelled as his flag swept. "G'wan outa here!" And the dust of
the flurrying hoofs hid him.

At the turn Flambeau was running third, and slightly behind and a little
wide and thus out of a possible danger zone, was the black and yellow.
But in the stretch on the first round Flambeau had drawn level with the
leading horse. As they swept past the stand, Chief, still behind and
well out, was running like a machine. Dorgan turned his face, twisted in
a grin, up to the stand.

"By George, the old boy thinks he has the race on toast!" Chetwood
exclaimed.

"He can't catch Flambeau now!" Kathleen asserted.

But to Angus came the recollection of a piece of the old jockey's
wisdom.

"Not every jock that knows pace is a good jock," he had said; "but no
jock is a good jock that don't. If you know pace and know you're makin'
the time, you don't need to worry. Your leaders will come back to you. I
never was no star rider, but pace is one thing I do know."

At the turn it was plainly a fight between the two horses. Angus saw
French's boy turn his head, and then sit down to ride. Dorgan was
motionless, lying flat, but the gap began to close. Angus glanced at
Kathleen. She was leaning forward, tense, eager, her lips drawn
straight, the color pinched from them. When he looked at the horses
again Chief's head was lapping Flambeau. French's boy went to his bat.
It rose and fell. At the same moment Dorgan seemed to sink into and
become part of his horse's neck.

For an instant they seemed to be running together. Then steadily,
surely, inch by inch the black and yellow crept past the maroon and
silver, and the chestnut head appeared in front of the bay. Into the
stretch they came, French's boy riding it out and fighting it out to the
last inch with Flambeau game to the core under terrific punishment. But
as they thundered past the stand Dorgan, his ear hugging Chief's neck,
was looking back beneath his arm, and there was clear daylight between
the horses.

Once more Angus glanced at Kathleen. She smiled as she met his eye.

"Well, you were right," she said.

"I hope you didn't lose much."

"We--I lost--plenty, thanks. Anyway, I'm proud of Flambeau. He was
outrun, but he ran game to the last foot."

With Chetwood, Angus went to see Dorgan. On the way they came upon Gavin
and Gerald French. The latter was tearing up a bunch of tickets. At
sight of them he laughed, tossing the fragments aloft.

"Good paper--once," he observed. "Give you a check to-night, Chetwood."

"Give you mine, too," said Gavin, lighting his pipe. "Good race, wasn't
it?"

"Rippin'," Chetwood agreed. "No hurry about settlements, you know."

"Oh, we may as well clean up," Gerald returned carelessly. "See you
later."

"So you did bet," Angus observed to his companion as they moved on.

"I told you it was a sound scheme to get back what you lost. I was jolly
right, too. The money is quite at your service if you need it."

"I've raised the money, thanks all the same."

"In the quaint idiom of the country, far be it from me to horn in, but
if I'm not impertinent, how did you do it?"

"Borrowed it on my note."

"Oh, my sacred aunt!" Chetwood groaned. "Now listen to reason, old chap.
Here's this money, just the same as if I'd found what you lost. Take it
and----"

"Cut it out!" Angus interrupted. "That doesn't go."

"What an obstinate beggar you are!" Chetwood observed in disappointment.
"Well, we'll say no more about it, then. Do you know, I fancy the
Frenches have come rather a cropper to-day. Of course, I don't know
anything of their finances, but they were doing some dashed heavy
betting. I fancied Miss French was hard hit."

"So did I," Angus agreed.

"Stood up to it like a major," Chetwood nodded. "Like to see 'em game."

They found Dorgan and Rennie rubbing and sponging the big horse, fussing
over him like two hens with one chick.

"Well, I win me a whole barrel of kale," Dorgan chuckled. "I'll bet them
Frenches will find her a hard winter unless they're well fixed." He eyed
the big chestnut contemplatively for a moment. "And yet, mind you, he
ain't a racin' horse," he said, "and don't you never fool yourself that
he is. He can run now, and he'll always run as long as an eight-day
clock, because he's got the works. But he's a weight carrier, that's
what he is. He's a white man's horse, and I hate like poison to see him
go back to them Lo's. Why don't you buy him? He'd carry your weight, and
you'd be ridin' a real horse."

"I haven't the money," Angus replied regretfully, for in his heart he
had coveted Chief from the time he had first mounted him.

Later, when he had handed over his winnings to Paul Sam, Angus drove
homeward with Jean. The day had been fine, but in the west a blue-black
sky, tinged with copper, bore promise of storm. He sent the team along
at a lively clip to reach home before it should break.

He reflected that it had been a most expensive race for him. He did not
know when he would be able to repay the money he had borrowed. But his
crops were looking well, and his grain was almost ready to cut. His hay
was already in. This year he could pay interest on Braden's mortgage.
Jean would require more money. She was going to take a special,
qualifying course, after which she would be able to teach. But he rather
hoped she would not. Undoubtedly, she livened up the ranch.

Recently Jean had developed. She had grown not only physically but
mentally. She was, Angus realized, a young woman. He had heard Chetwood
ask permission to call at the ranch.

"How do you like this Chetwood?" he asked.

"Where did you meet him?" Miss Jean countered.

"With a couple of the French boys."

"Oh," said Miss Jean, who was under no delusions as to the boys
aforesaid, "then he's apt to need his remittances."

"He seems a decent chap," her brother observed.

"He may be," Miss Jean returned nonchalantly, "but I'm not strong for
these remittance men."

But the black cloud was mounting higher and higher. A gust of cold wind
struck their faces. The dust of the trail rose in clouds, and behind it
they heard the roar of the wind. Beyond that again, as they topped a
rise and obtained a view, a gray veil, dense, opaque, seemed to have
been let down.

"I'm afraid we can't make the ranch without a wetting," Angus said.

"And my best duds, too!" Jean groaned.

A quarter of a mile ahead there was the wreck of an abandoned shack
which might suffice to keep Jean dry, and Angus sent his team into their
collars; but they had not covered half the distance when with a hissing
rush the gray barrier was upon them. And it was not rain, but hail!

The stones varied in size from that of buckshot to robin's eggs. Under
the bombardment the dust puffed from the trail. The horses leaped and
swerved at the pelting punishment, refusing to face it.

"Throw the lap-robe over your head," Angus told Jean, and thereafter was
occupied exclusively with his team.

The colts swung around, cramping the wheel, almost upsetting the rig.
Angus avoided a capsize by a liberal use of the whip, but with the
punishment and the sting and batter of the icy pellets the animals were
frantic. They began to run.

Not being able to help it, Angus let them go, having confidence in his
harness and rig. Just there the road was good, without steep grades or
sharp turns. He let them run for half a mile under a steady pull, and
then after reminding them of their duty by the whip, he began to saw
them down. Inside a few hundred yards he had them under control, and
pulled them, quivering and all a-jump, under the shelter of two giant,
bushy firs.

There Jean, peeping from beneath the robe, saw her brother by the colts'
heads.

"Thanks for the ride!" she observed with mild sarcasm. Angus stiffened
arm and body against a sudden lunge.

"Stand still, you!" he commanded, "or I'll club you till you'll be glad
to!" And to Jean: "They wouldn't face it, and I don't blame them. I
thought we were over once."

"Some hail!" Jean commented. "I never saw anything like it."

But already the storm was passing. Came a tail-end spatter of rain, and
the sky began to clear. But as he wheeled his team out from shelter
Angus' face was very grave, and a sudden thought struck his sister.

"Why," she exclaimed, her brown eyes opening wide, "do you suppose that
hail struck the ranch?"

"I don't know," he replied, "but if it did, there won't be any threshing
this year. It was bad."

As they drove on there was evidence of that. The grass was beaten flat,
bushes were stripped of leaves. They passed the body of a young grouse
which, caught in the open and confused, had been pelted to death. It was
without doubt very bad hail.

When they came in sight of the ranch, Jean, unable to restrain her
impatience, rose to her feet and, holding her brother's shoulder, took a
long look. He felt her hand tighten, gripping him hard. Then she dropped
back into the seat beside him.

"It--it hit us!" she said.

In a few moments Angus could see for himself. The fields of grain which,
as they had driven away that morning, had rippled in the fresh wind,
nodding full, heavy heads to the blue sky, were beaten flat. The heads
themselves were threshed by the icy flail of the storm. He knew as he
looked at the flattened ruin that there would be no threshing. He was
"hailed out"!

Though the event assumed the proportions of a disaster, Angus said not a
word. His black brows drew down and his mouth set hard. That was all. He
felt Jean's arm go beneath his and press it.

"I'm sorry, old boy!" she said. "We needed the money, didn't we!"

"Yes," he replied.

"Oh, well, it can't be helped," she said. "I'll stay home this winter,
of course. I can do that much to help, anyway."

"You will do nothing of the sort," her brother declared.

"But----"

"I will find the money. You will finish what you have begun, and that is
all there is to it."

"I won't----"

"You _will_!" Angus said in a voice his sister had never heard before.
"I say you will. You have a right to your education, and you shall have
it. If I cannot give it to you, I am no man at all!"




CHAPTER XIII

MAINLY ABOUT CHETWOOD


When Angus came to investigate the damage wrought by the hail, he found
it very complete. There would be no grain to thresh. It turned out that
his had been the only ranch to suffer, the swath of the storm having
missed his neighbors. It seemed the climax of the bad luck which had
attended that twenty-four hours.

Jean, when she saw that her brother was absolutely determined that she
should have another year of study, gave in, knowing nothing of the money
he had borrowed. In the fortnight that elapsed before her departure, she
was very busy, not only with her own preparations, but with preserving,
pickling and mending for the ranch.

During this time Chetwood was an intermittent visitor. On these visits
most of his time was spent in Jean's vicinity. Thus, on the eve of her
departure, when she was very busy with a final batch of preserves, he
appeared in the door. In his eyes, Jean, uniformed in a voluminous blue
apron, her face flushed and her strong young arms bare, made a very
charming picture. But Jean did not know that. She was extremely hot and
somewhat sticky, and believed herself to be untidy. She felt all the
discomfort and none of the dignity of labor. Hence her greeting was not
cordial.

"I haven't time to stop," she said, indicating preserving kettle and
jars with a wave of a dripping ladle. "You had better go and find the
boys."

"Please let me stay. I like to watch you."

"I don't like being watched. You can't find much amusement in watching
me work."

"Very jolly thing, work," Chetwood observed gravely.

"Bosh!" Miss Jean returned. She eyed her guest with pardonable
irritation. "What do you know about work?" she demanded.

"Why--er--not a great deal, I'm afraid," he admitted.

"Then don't talk nonsense."

"But it isn't nonsense. I mean to say work keeps one occupied, you
know."

"I notice it keeps me occupied," Miss Jean retorted, still more
irritated by this profound observation.

"I mean one gets tired of doing nothing."

"Then why doesn't one do something?" she snapped.

Chetwood regarded her whimsically. "I'm afraid you mean me."

"Well," said Miss Jean, "I would like to see you busy at something,
instead of looking so blessed cool and--and lazy."

"Oh, I say!"

"A man who doesn't work in this country," Jean stated severely, "is out
of place."

"But a man who is out of a place doesn't work, does he?"

"I'm not joking," Miss Jean said with dignity. "I believe in work for
everybody."

"So do I. Admire it immensely, I assure you."

"Bah!" Miss Jean ejaculated. "I don't believe you could do a day's work
on a bet. You're like all the rest of--of----"

"Go on," Chetwood encouraged as she came to a stop in some confusion.

"Well, I will," said Miss Jean with sudden determination. "You're like
all the rest of the remittance men. That's what I was going to say."

"One would gather that your opinion of what you call 'remittance men,'
is not high."

"High!" Miss Jean's tone expressed much.

"H'm! Wasters, rotters, what?"

"And then some."

"And I'm like them, you think?"

"Oh, well, I didn't mean just that," Miss Jean admitted under
cross-examination. "But you _don't_ work, you know."

"Would you like me to work?"

"Why should I care whether you work or not?"

"It _is_ strange," Chetwood murmured.

"I _don't_!" snapped Miss Jean. "I don't care a--a darn! But I'll bet
when I come back in the spring, if you're here you'll be doing just what
you're doing now."

"I'm sorry you're going away. I thought if we were better acquainted we
should be rather pals."

"We might be," Miss Jean admitted, "but we have our work to do--at least
I have."

"I see plainly," said Chetwood, "that this demon of work will get me
yet."

"Well, it won't hurt you a little bit," Miss Jean told him, and
thereafter gave her exclusive attention to her preserving.

With the going of Jean, Angus buckled down in earnest. The next year
must make up for his loss, and with this in view he began to clear more
land. He threw himself into the labor, matching his strength and
endurance against the tasks and the time. He worked his teams as
mercilessly as he worked himself, and for the first time he began to
drive others.

But to this speeding-up Turkey did not take kindly. By nature he was
impatient of steady work, of control, of all discipline. He craved
motion, excitement. He would ride from daylight to dark in any sort of
weather rounding up stock, and enjoy himself thoroughly, but half a day
behind a plow would send him into the sulks. He had broken a fine, young
blue mare for his own use, and he took to being out at night, coming in
late. He never told Angus where he went, but though the latter asked no
questions the youngster could feel his disapproval. But as he possessed
a vein of obstinacy and contrariness, this merely confirmed him in his
course.

Angus maintained grim silence, repressing a strong desire to speak his
mind. He recognized that the boy was becoming increasingly impatient of
his authority, and desired to avoid a clash. As he let things go, Turkey
took more and more rope. Angus learned accidentally that he consorted
with a number of men older than himself, of whom Garland and Blake
French were leading spirits. He knew that this was no company for the
boy, but as reference to it would inevitably lead to unpleasantness, he
put it off. But Turkey's deliberate slacking of work, just when it was
most necessary, got on his nerves to an extent greater than he knew.

It was necessary to explain to Mr. Braden that he was unable to meet the
mortgage payments. To his relief, the mortgagee made no difficulty about
it. Indeed he was most genial.

"I heard you had been hit by the hail," he said. "Well, well, these
things will happen, and I am not a harsh creditor. I will carry you
along."

"That's very good of you," Angus acknowledged. "I am doing considerable
breaking, and next year, if I don't bump into more hard luck, I'll be
able to make a good payment."

Mr. Braden nodded. "Meanwhile there is something you can do for me. I am
selling a piece of land to young Chetwood--about five hundred acres--but
before closing the deal he wants your opinion of it."

Angus had not seen Chetwood for nearly a fortnight. He had not
introduced him to Mr. Braden, but it appeared that they had become
acquainted otherwise.

"Do I know the land?" he asked.

"I think so. It's about five miles from your ranch, on Canon Creek.
There is a little cleared, and an old shack, but otherwise it is mostly
unimproved. A splendid opportunity for an energetic young man to build
up an excellent ranch."

"Do you mean the old Tetreau place?" This was a piece of land long since
abandoned by a man of that name.

"Why--er--yes, I believe that is what it is called," Mr. Braden replied.
"It's good, level land--most of it. I am offering it at a very low
figure--all things considered--twenty dollars."

"And I particularly want this deal to go through," he concluded. "I
should not mind paying you a little commission, my boy--say five per
cent.

"I couldn't take a commission from you for valuing land for a buyer."

"Nonsense! Done every day. I might--er--stretch it a little. You are not
to worry about that note of yours and the mortgage money, my boy. One
good turn deserves another, hey?"

"I know the place," Angus said, "but I never thought of putting a value
on it. How about water?"

"Tetreau had a record of eight hundred inches on Canon Creek. That goes
with the place. And there's a good spring creek."

"That little spring wouldn't irrigate more than a few acres," Angus
objected. "Seems to me I heard the old man quit because he couldn't
bring water from the main creek."

Mr. Braden frowned. "Nonsense! Plenty of water. Tetreau was too lazy to
run a ditch, that's all. Lots of water. Never mind that. The main thing
is the land, which is good. I'll depend on you for a good report, and
I'll tell Chetwood to run out and see you."

Angus rode home, none too well pleased with the prospect. He could just
remember Felix Tetreau, a stooped old Frenchman, and he had a vague
recollection that the latter had given up the place after a vain attempt
to make water run up hill. But it was possible that he had been wrong in
his levels, or, as Mr. Braden had suggested, too lazy to put in a ditch.
Anyway, he had gone years before, and it appeared that Mr. Braden who
owned a big block of land in that vicinity, had acquired his holding.
The clearing had grown back to wild, which as there had not been much of
it, mattered the less. But the question of water mattered a great deal.

For in that district water was a _sine qua non_. Angus was no victim of
the dry-farming delusion. Water and plenty of it, was essential in most
years to grow paying crops. Therefore the value of the land, no matter
what the quality of the soil, was conditional upon whether water could
be brought upon it. It was that question which, in spite of Mr. Braden's
airy dismissal, must be investigated in justice to Chetwood. Therefore
when the latter came to the ranch, Angus took with them a hand level.

The land in question lay close to the foothills, and back of it a small,
round mountain rose, but this was evidently not part of the parcel. The
soil was a dark, sandy loam, which would give good result if properly
fed, watered and cultivated. Angus pointed out these facts to the
prospective buyer.

"Then you think it a good investment?" Chetwood queried.

"I did not say just that," Angus replied. "You have to add the cost of
clearing to your purchase price. Then there will be your buildings and
fencing and ditches. You have to figure on raising enough to pay
interest on your total investment, and wages as well."

"I meant to ask you about the price. Is it fair, or shall I jew old
Braden down a bit? Fancy I could, you know."

"The price is high--as land sells," Angus told him. "You can get good,
wild land now for ten dollars an acre. Five years ago you could have got
it for two dollars, and five years before that for fifty cents."

Chetwood whistled. "In the noble language of the country, I was about to
be stung."

"Well," Angus explained, "if land values keep climbing, it might be a
good investment, after all. I would not say it might not be. But you can
buy just as good land cheaper."

"Then why does Braden ask so much?"

"I suppose he thinks he can get it."

Chetwood grinned. "In the terse vernacular of the land, 'I get you,
Steve.' Shall I offer him ten dollars?"

"That would depend on the water supply."

"Oh, that's absolutely all right. I've seen the government certificate.
Eight hundred miners' inches. That's ample, what?"

"Yes--if you can get it on the land."

"But surely that sort of thing was looked into long ago, when the record
was made."

Angus shook his head. "A water record isn't a guarantee of water. It's
merely a right to take it if you can get it. Water is one thing you
can't take for granted. We have time to run a line to the creek, and see
where we come out. As for the spring here, it wouldn't water more than
ten acres or so."

There is nothing more deceptive, even to the trained eye, than levels in
a broken country. The unaided eye can tell nothing about them. To all
appearances, in many places, water runs up hill. Nothing but the level
can prove whether it can be brought upon any given area.

Starting from the upper end of the block they began to take sights. The
distance to the creek was further than Angus had supposed. They ran into
a broken country where the ground was rocky and less adapted to
ditching. There were sidehills, which are dangerous because they have an
annoying habit of sliding when water-soaked, and gulches which would
necessitate fluming. All the time they drew nearer and nearer to the
base of the round mountain. Unless the line could run around the lower
foot of it the way was barred to water. And finally the line ran into
the base of the hill. There was no going around it. It definitely
settled the question of water. The land, then, was non-irrigable.

"I wonder if that old blighter, Braden, knew this?" Chetwood speculated.

"He might not," Angus replied, though he had his own ideas on the
subject.

"And then again he might," Chetwood grinned. "_Caveat emptor_, and all
that sort of thing. I'm awfully obliged to you, you know."

"That is all right."

"Left to myself I might have bought." He hesitated. "I wish there were
some way for me to show my appreciation."

"Any one who knew the country would have told you the same thing."

"I'm not so sure of that. For instance, there is a rancher named
Poole--know him?"

"Yes," Angus returned, for Poole to whom Braden had once purposed
renting the Mackay ranch, had now some sort of place on the other side
of town.

"Well, friend Braden, when I spoke of getting the opinion of some
practical rancher, suggested Poole. Took a look at Poole, and thought
I'd rather have you. Braden didn't seem to take kindly to my
counter-suggestion, which naturally confirmed me in it. It's a sound
system to play the game your opponent doesn't like. I'll tell the old
blighter you didn't recommend the buy."

"That will be the truth."

Chetwood glanced at him keenly.

"I say," he exclaimed, "I don't wish to seem impertinent, but is there
any personal reason why I should let Braden suppose I am doing this on
my own?"

Angus hesitated. "I owe him more money than I can pay just now," he
said, "but you may tell him what you like."

"Oh, thunder!" Chetwood ejaculated. "I'm afraid I've let you in for
something. I'll say we never mentioned water, and quite on my own I'll
tell him I must have an engineer's report on that."

But perhaps Chetwood did not tell his story convincingly. Or perhaps Mr.
Braden was too old a bird. At any rate, when he next saw Angus he asked
him what he had told Chetwood. Angus replied bluntly. Whereupon, Mr.
Braden in high indignation accused him of blocking the sale.

"I merely told him what is so," Angus said.

"You brought up the water question yourself."

"Land is no good without water. You know that as well as I do."

"I don't admit that water can't be got on this land. Now, see here, I'm
going to have a surveyor run the line of a ditch, and I want you to tell
Chetwood you were mistaken in your levels. Understand?"

"If you can show me I'm mistaken, I'll be glad to tell him. But I'm
certain of them. I've checked them up since."

"Dammit!" Mr. Braden exploded angrily, "do you know I hold a mortgage on
your ranch? Do you know I hold your note? Hey?"

Angus stared at him for a moment, his black brows drawing down, his eyes
narrowing. "And what has that got to do with the levels of this land?"
he asked with disconcerting directness.

But Mr. Braden shirked the show-down.

"Do with it, do with it!" he sputtered. "Oh, not a thing, not a damned
thing, of course. You were my agent to conclude this sale, and you threw
me down."

"I wasn't your agent. I was acting for Chetwood."

"You were to get a commission from me."

"I told you I couldn't take one."

"Well, you won't get one," Mr. Braden snapped. "Levels! What do you know
about levels? I'll get somebody that does."

But for some reason Mr. Braden did not do so.

It was nearly a week after this interview, that old Paul Sam rode up on
his paint pony, leading Chief.

"Me sell um cooley kuitan," he announced.

"Who bought him?" Angus asked. For answer the old Indian drew forth from
the recesses of his garment a slip of paper, which he handed to Angus.
The latter read:

     "Dear Mackay: I want you to let me have the pleasure of
     presenting a good horse with a good owner. This, not by way of
     payment for the service you did me, but in token of my
     appreciation of kindness to a pilgrim and a stranger here. Am
     leaving for a few weeks, and will look you up on my return.
     Faithfully,

     "E. W. F. CHETWOOD.

     "P. S.--Don't be a bally ass. Keep the horse."

From this surprising letter Angus lifted his eyes to the big chestnut.
As he did so he realized that he had wanted him very badly. He took the
lead rope from the old Indian.

"All right, Paul Sam," he said. "Thanks for bringing him over. Put your
cayuse in the stable and come up to the house and have some muckamuck."




CHAPTER XIV

A FIGHT WITH A GRIZZLY


Now, though Angus was working hard under pressure, the hard part of it
was not the work but the things he wanted to do and could not. Though he
plugged away steadily at his tasks, his thoughts were not of them, but
of lonely trails, and steep hills, and deep timber, and the surging
waters tumbling down in nameless creeks from hoary old glaciers; and he
would have given all he owned if he could with a clear conscience have
quit the ranch work and taken a holiday. But as he could not, he worked
on grimly.

Occasionally, however, he rode the range after stock, and on these
occasions he carried a rifle, on the chance of getting a shot at a deer.
Invariably now he rode Chief, who was becoming a most dependable saddle
horse. And so one bright fall morning he rode along the foothills to
find, if he could, a small bunch of cattle which he himself had not seen
since Spring.

Shortly after mid-day he found himself near the site of an old logging
camp, where several creeks united to form a muskeg, and at the foot of
it a little lake. Out of the lake a larger creek ran, and across it
stood the old camp buildings, now worn and weatherbeaten and roofless.
The banks were steeply cut and the old pole bridge was rotten. Therefore
Angus put Chief on a rope where the grazing was good, and taking his
lunch and rifle, crossed the creek, intending to eat beside an excellent
spring which was better than the creek water.

He leaned his rifle against one end of the ancient bunkhouse, went the
length of it, turned the corner, and came full upon a huge, old-man
grizzly.

[Illustration: _He turned the corner, and came full upon a huge, old-man
grizzly._]

The bear had been digging at a rotten stump, which strewed the ground in
fragments, and the brawl of the creek had drowned whatever noise Angus
had made. Thus it was a case of mutual surprise. As Angus turned the
corner the bear's senses brought him warning. He turned his great, flat
head, and at sight of the intruder his mane roached and bristled, and he
swung about with unbelievable quickness. Being more or less penned by
the wall of the eating camp and an old pole fence, he probably believed
himself cornered. He half rose, with a snort, and his fierce, little
eyes lit with a green flare.

Angus had had no first-hand experience with grizzlies, though he had
seen them at a distance. Nevertheless, he knew a good deal about them
from men who had, and his information amounted to this: The ordinary
grizzly will run if he can; but if he is wounded or believes himself
cornered, there is no telling just what he will do. Also there are "bad"
bears, just as there are "bad" bulls or stallions.

The bear was a complete surprise to Angus. He was so close that he could
almost smell him, could see the little pieces of rotten, wet wood and
slaver on his jaws, the red of his mouth and the white of his tusks all
speckled with dirt from his grubbing. For a moment his heart almost
stopped beating, his hair prickled, and stood on end, and his knees
knocked together. For an instant he stood frozen in his tracks, and then
as he saw the great brown bulk gather itself he came to life and action.
With an involuntary yell he leaped into the air like a scared lynx,
turned and hit the ground running.

Behind him he heard a short, coughing roar, and it nearly doubled the
stretch of his stride. He made the length of the bunkhouse, turned it
and grabbed for his rifle. But his fingers merely brushed the barrel and
knocked it down. There was no time to pick it up. He doubled the next
corner like a rabbit and after him came the grizzly, with most infernal
persistence.

For a short distance a grizzly is as fast as a good pony, and all that
had saved Angus was dodging around corners. But that could not go on
indefinitely. The walls of the roofless bunkhouse were of logs, closely
mortised, but inside he knew there were the remains of some old,
double-decked bunks. It was taking a chance, but he ducked through the
door opening, scrambled up on the bunks, the old poles crashing beneath
him, and straddled the top log just in time to escape the swipe of a
steel-garnished paw which actually brushed his leg.

From this strategic position, rather out of breath and somewhat shaky,
he looked down at the grizzly, and the bear looked up at him, rumbling
and grumbling to himself, his wicked, little eyes burning with unholy
lights. He was a big bear, shaggy and rough, with a sprinkle of gray in
his mane, and there was no doubt that he was annoyed. As a beginning he
knocked a bunk to pieces with one lift and bat of a paw, and rearing he
reached for Angus. Luckily the wall was high, and the big claws raked
bark and slivers below him. Not being able to reach his enemy, the bear
dropped back with a grunt, and stood swinging to and fro gently.

It occurred to Angus that he might drop over the wall, get his rifle and
call for a show-down, but as he waited to get back some of his breath
and steadiness, meanwhile hitching along the wall to get closer to the
gun, the bear shambled through the door. He trotted around the
bunkhouse, and coming to the rifle sniffed at it and took a wide circle.
Perhaps he knew the smell of steel, and suspected a trap. But after
prowling up and down for a few minutes eying the treed man, he did not
go away, which was quite contrary to what Angus had heard of the habits
of bears under similar circumstances. He lay down like a dog, apparently
prepared to camp there indefinitely.

From where Angus sat he could see Chief, standing hip-shot and half
asleep, quite unconscious of the bear, and he was glad that the latter
was equally unconscious of the horse, for he seemed full of racial
prejudice against man and his possessions. All Angus could do was wait
it out. An hour passed, and he grew weary of his position, and indignant
at being forced to lie along a log like a lizard by a low-grade
proposition like a bear. He tore off bark and pelted him with it. The
grizzly merely eyed him evilly and sniffed at what he threw; so Angus
gave it up, and more time passed.

In spite of his position the sun and wind made him sleepy. Perhaps he
dozed. He had seen and heard nothing. But suddenly as he turned his head
he saw a girl a few yards away from the old eating-camp.

For a moment Angus did not believe his eyes. It seemed one of those
vague visions which flit across the mental retina in that dim shadowland
between wakefulness and slumber. She was looking down into the finder of
a camera, while back of her, reins lying on its neck instead of a-trail,
stood a pony. She was tall and straight, and a crown of hair shone to
the slope of the afternoon's sun, for she was using a pony hat to shield
the camera's lens.

Angus gaped and blinked, and then he knew it was no dream vision, but
real flesh and blood. Just then she got her picture and took a step or
two in his direction, winding up the film.

"Hi!" Angus hailed, "don't come here. Get on your pony, quick."

Being very much in earnest, voice and words were harsh, peremptory. The
girl stopped short and looked around. Then for the first time she saw
him perched on the wall.

"I beg your pardon!" she said, her voice carrying clear and full, a
touch of hauteur in her tone answering the harshness of Angus' command.
"I'm not to come there, you say. Why not?" Her chin lifted as she spoke
and she took another step forward.

"Bear!" Angus returned. "Get back, I tell you. I'm treed by a bad
grizzly. Get on your pony and pull out before he sees you."

The girl stopped. "Do you mean that?" she demanded incredulously.

"Do I mean it?" Angus yelled, exasperated by her delay and frightened at
her very real danger. "Get a move on you, woman, if you have any sense!
He hears you now!"

His tone left no doubt of his sincerity, and the girl, turning, ran
toward her pony. But the animal, not being anchored by the reins, sidled
away at her swift approach.

"Hurry up!" Angus shouted, for the big savage below him, hearing another
voice, was bristling afresh and suddenly started around the corner of
the building to investigate. Just then the pony either sighted or smelt
the bear, for he snorted, wheeled and broke into a gallop. "Run!" Angus
yelled. "Get behind that eating-camp. Try to climb it, quick!" And not
having time for more words he dropped from his perch, lit sprawling
alongside his rifle, seized it, and jumped around the corner into the
open in the wake of the grizzly, his hand hooked into the lever, while a
long soft-nose snicked home in the chamber.

The girl, now fully alive to her danger, was running for the corner of
the eating camp, and the grizzly, halfway between, was after her. So
much Angus saw at a glance, and then he caught the lumbering but swift
bulk fair center with the bead, and unhooked.

With the high-pitched, smacking voice of the rifle mingled the roar of
the wounded grizzly. He went heels over head like a shot rabbit, came on
his feet again facing the gun, took a second bullet as if it had been a
pellet of bird-shot, and coughing out a fighting roar that seemed to
hold all the bestial ferocity of the ages, came for Angus like a furry
tornado.

There is this about a grizzly which entitles him to respect: When he
charges, he charges home. This fact Angus knew very well. The bear was a
scant forty yards away. Angus caught the center of him with his sights,
and began to pump steadily. His entire attention was concentrated on
holding the sights, and otherwise the gun seemed to shoot itself.
Missing was next to impossible at that range, but so also was choice of
aim. "When anything's comin' for you close up," Rennie had once advised
him, "don't try to hit nowhere's special, but just hold plum' center and
keep shootin'." While Angus did not consciously remember this advice, he
followed it, with a dull wonder that the stream of soft-noses tearing
through the great brute's vitals did not stop him. His last shot was
fired at ten feet, and the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber. As
the brown bulk hurled itself upon him, he lunged the rifle barrel with
all his force into the yawning, white-tusked, red mouth. But as he tried
to leap aside a huge paw blurred for an instant before his eyes and then
blotted out the world. He went down, crushed and smothered as by the
weight of mountains.




CHAPTER XV

FAITH WINTON TURNS UP


Angus came out of the darkness slowly with the weight still upon him.
There was a strange, salt taste in his mouth and a rank smell in his
nostrils. His head seemed pillowed, but his eyelids were gummed, and
when he threw up his hand to clear them his fingers touched wetness.
Then through a raw, red fog he saw a girl's face bending above him, and
blue eyes that seemed misty as an April sky through showers, though
perhaps it was only his uncertain vision that made them so.

"Please say something--if you can hear me!" said a low, clear voice as
his senses came back fully.

"All right," he said. "I'm all right, I guess. What's holding me? What's
on me?"

As his eyes shifted downward, a huge mound of brown fur rose against
them, hiding the landscape. It was the carcass of the bear which lay
across his legs, burying them from the waist down.

"I can't move it," the girl told him. "Oh, are you badly hurt? Can you
take a drink of water? I'll lift your head!" She spoke all in a breath,
tremulously, for she had considered him almost a dead man. She lifted
his head from where it lay in her lap, and held an old tin can full of
spring water to his lips.

Angus drank and felt better.

"I don't think I'm hurt much," he said. "Where is all the blood coming
from?" He put his hand to his head, touching gingerly a four-inch rip in
his scalp. There was a pain in his side which was worse when he moved,
but he said nothing about that and otherwise he could find nothing
wrong.

"You must get out from under that brute," the girl told him. "I've tried
to pull it off, and I've tried to pull you out, but I'm not strong
enough."

She stooped behind him, her hands beneath his shoulders, and he drew his
legs clear of the weight. When he got to his feet he was giddy for a
moment and leaned against her for support. With her assistance he got to
the spring, and washed off the coagulated blood, while she made a
bandage of their handkerchiefs and fitted it deftly. The icy water
cleared away the last of the fog, and save for a growing stiffness and
soreness he felt well enough. He looked at the girl who sat beside him
on the brown grass and wondered who she was and where on earth she had
come from.

The girl was tall, and clean and graceful as a young pine. She carried
her head well lifted, which Angus considered a good sign in horses and
human beings. A mass of fair hair was coiled low at the base of it and
drawn smoothly back from a broad forehead. Her eyes were a clear blue
which reminded Angus of certain mountain lakes, and yet a little weary
and troubled as if some shadow overcast them. Her smooth cheeks, too,
were pale, with but little of the color that comes from the kiss of wind
and sun. She was an utter stranger to him, and yet there was something
vaguely familiar.

The fact was that he was staring at her. She met his gaze evenly.

"Do you know that you are lucky not to be badly hurt?" she said.

"It would have served me right if I had been."

"Why?"

"For leaving my rifle in the first place, and for rotten shooting in the
second," he replied seriously. "I should have stopped him, and so I
would if I had taken my time about it. I guess I got rattled."

"Is that your trouble?" she laughed. "The bear is simply riddled with
bullets."

"Is that so?" he returned with obvious pleasure. "Tell me what
happened."

"I stopped running when you fired the first shot," she said. "You and
the bear seemed to go down together, and he rolled clean over you. It
was only in his last flurry that he threw himself across your legs."

"Lucky he didn't claw me up in that flurry. He was a tough old boy."

"If you had been killed it would have been my fault," she said
seriously. "You were quite safe, and you attacked him to save me."

"I would have come down, anyway, the first chance he gave me to get hold
of my rifle."

"It was stupid of me," she persisted. "At first, you see, I couldn't
believe there was a bear. I thought you were trying to frighten me. And
then I just _couldn't_ catch that pony. I'm not used to horses, I'm
afraid."

Now, as she spoke, something in her voice struck a chord in Angus'
recollection. Where had he heard that faint lisp, that slurring of the
sibilants? For a moment he puzzled, groping for an elusive memory. And
then suddenly it leaped at him out of the one day, years before, whose
happenings, even the least of them, he never forgot. And he saw a little
girl, frightened but trying to be brave, and a lanky boy confronting her
with a rifle.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "you are little Faith Winton!"

She frowned, drawing herself up a little.

"I am Faith Winton, but how do you know? Have I ever--" She broke off,
staring at him. "Why, it's impossible. You can't be _that_ boy!"

"I used to be," he told her. "I've grown a little, since."

"Angus! Angus Mackay!" she cried, her face lighting swiftly. "Oh, I know
you now. I've never forgotten. And your sister's doughnuts! How good
they were, and how good you were to me!" She leaned forward, catching
his great, brown, work-hardened paws in her slim hands. "Oh, I'm so glad
to see you again, Ang--I mean Mr. Mackay."

"My name is still Angus."

"Oh, but that was years ago. How did you recognize me? I was such a
little girl. To think of meeting you again--like this!"

"I knew you by your lisp," he told her. "And I wish you would call me
'Angus.'"

"Well--Anguth!" She said it with the old lisp. "I can't help it
sometimes," she confessed. "I struggle and struggle, and then I forget
myself and--lithp. Do you mind it very much?"

"I like it."

"Tho nithe of you to thay tho!" she exaggerated laughing. "No, I won't
lisp any more--until I forget myself. But how big you are--almost as big
as Gavin himself."

"I am big enough," Angus admitted. "I get in my own way sometimes." For
the first time he noticed a black band on her sleeve. She caught the
glance.

"My father died two months ago." Her voice broke, and Angus looked away.

"I am sorry," he said awkwardly.

"I can't talk about it very well yet," she said. "I didn't mean to. One
shouldn't--to a stranger."

"But I'm not a stranger. You seem like--well--like an old friend."

"I'm glad of that," she said, smiling a trifle sadly. "You see, father
and I were always together, and it's new and--and hard to be alone. But
I suppose I shall get used to it after a while."

"You have your kin here," he ventured.

"Yes, I have them," she agreed. "But they are not really my kin. And
then I won't be with them very long."

"You are going away?" For some reason Angus experienced a sensation of
regret.

"No, I am going to stay here. I am thinking of ranching."

"Ranching!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. Why not?"

"Do you know anything about it?"

"No, but I could learn, I suppose."

"I suppose you might. But the work is hard--man's work. I wouldn't buy a
ranch, if I were you."

"But I have one--or the makings of one. A few years ago Uncle Godfrey
bought nearly a thousand acres for father. I'm afraid there isn't much
of it cleared, and there is no house fit to live in. I had been to look
at it, and was riding back by this old logging camp. That's how I
happened to be here."

"Where is this land?" Angus asked.

Her reply gave him almost as much of a shock as he had received from the
bear; for as she described it, the land, or at least part of it, was
none other than the old Tetreau place which Mr. Braden had painstakingly
tried to unload on Chetwood. But if it belonged to her or to her father
how could Braden sell it? And then, again, she had spoken of nearly a
thousand acres, while the old Tetreau place comprised some five hundred
only. Something of his thoughts reflected in his face.

"Do you know the land?" she asked.

"Yes, I know it," he admitted. "Have you ever thought of selling the
land instead of ranching it? Has any one ever tried to sell it for you?"

"Oh, no," she replied. "I don't want to sell it--yet, a while, anyway.
Father's idea was to hold it till land increased very much in value.
Uncle Godfrey told him that was bound to occur. It was an investment,
you see. It cost only ten dollars an acre."

"You mean your father paid ten thousand dollars for the land!" Angus
exclaimed.

"Yes, in round figures. He never saw it. Uncle Godfrey said it was well
worth that, and of course he knows."

There was little that Angus could say. He was no stranger to
wild-catting in lands, but he held to the old idea that agricultural
land is worth what it will grow and no more: a maxim which, if
remembered by prospective purchasers, would cut down both sales and
disappointments. But the puzzling thing was that Godfrey French, who
wasn't an easy mark by any means, should have advised his relative to
pay ten dollars an acre for land half of which was too rough to
cultivate and of which all was non-irrigable; and this at a time when
good, wild land was to be had in plenty for from three to five dollars
an acre. Added to that was the abortive Braden-Chetwood deal. The one
clear thing was that Faith Winton had a bunch of worthless land. He
hoped that it did not represent her entire patrimony.

"You will find it hard work starting a ranch," he said. "Clearing,
breaking, fencing and so on are expensive, too."

"But whatever I spend will make the place worth that much more, and then
if I wish to sell I would have a better chance. People always prefer to
buy improved properties, I'm told."

Angus had neither the heart nor the nerve to tell her the truth.
Everything went to show that her father had been deliberately stung by
Godfrey French. Never in the world would he have paid ten dollars of his
own money for such a property. Had he paid ten dollars of Winton's
money? Angus doubted it. In plain language, his thought was that French
had paid about three dollars an acre, and either pocketed the difference
or split it with the seller.

"What does your uncle think about it?" he asked.

"He doesn't want me to try ranching. He says the place is increasing in
value anyway, and that I should not be in a hurry to sell."

Naturally, thought Angus, that would be French's advice. Perhaps he had
had the handling of the property, and Braden had been acting for him
when trying to sell to Chetwood. If that sale had gone through, half the
property would have been sold for what had been paid for the whole, and
the remainder, worthless or not, would have been velvet. But as it was
French was in a tight box, and the only thing he could do was to advise
the girl to let the place alone, and hope that nothing would occur to
arouse her suspicions. Angus half wished for her sake that he had not
blocked the sale to Chetwood.

"You see," she said, "I have to do something for a living. I haven't
enough to keep me in idleness, and anyway I don't want to be idle. But I
didn't mean to bother you with my worries. I don't know why it is, but
I find myself talking to you just as frankly as when I was the little,
lost girl and you were the big boy. Perhaps I am a little lost, still.
You--you seem comforting, somehow." She considered for a moment.
"Perhaps it's the bigness of you. But I don't talk to Gavin as I do to
you, and I know him much better. Why is it?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad of it," Angus told her. "I want to help you
if I can."

"Now, I believe that's why," she said. "You want to help folks who need
it. That's the secret of it."

"Nothing of the sort," Angus told her. Suddenly he realized that the sun
was low above the western ranges and that the early fall evening was
coming. "We'll have to be moving if we're to get home by dark," he said.
"To-morrow I'll skin out the bear."

"Oh--my pony!" she exclaimed. "I never thought of him."

"No use looking for him. Likely he headed for home. You'll ride my
horse."

"And let you walk? Indeed, no!"

"Of course you will."

"But I won't. You're hurt--"

"Not a bit," Angus lied cheerfully.

"Yes, you are. There, you see, you're almost too stiff to walk. I won't
have it, Angus, really I won't."

Angus did not argue the point further. He was accustomed to having his
own way with girls, or at least with Jean. He was sore and stiff, and
when he first moved a sharp pain in his side made him catch his breath,
but he knew that the best cure for stiffness is movement. They crossed
the creek and he saddled Chief, and without a word began to take up the
stirrups.

"Angus," said Faith Winton, "I meant what I told you. I rode your pony
years ago, when I was a little, lost girl--"

"What are you now?"

"A pedestrian," she said with determination.

"Now, see," Angus urged. "It's over five miles. Your shoes would be cut
to pieces on the rocks, and you'd be tired out. So you're going to
ride."

"I'm _not_, Angus! What are you--Oh!"

For Angus, finding that argument was a waste of time had picked her up
and put her in the saddle. Thence she stared down at him, and now there
was no lack of color in her cheeks.

"Angus Mackay! What--what do you mean?"

"You are going to ride," Angus told her with finality, "and that is all
there is to it."

"I'm not used to being thrown about like a sack of oats!" she flashed,
and would have dismounted, but he stopped her. "How dare you!" she
cried. "Let me down! Take your hands off me, Angus Mackay!"

"Then behave sensibly!" said Angus.

"Sensibly! My heavens! do you think I'm a child?"

"A child would be glad to ride."

"Do you think you can make me do things merely because you're stronger?"

"Yes," Angus told her flatly, "some things. This, for one."

"Admitting that--you're brutal!"

"And admitting that," Angus returned, "will you act like a sensible
girl?"

For a moment she frowned at him, her eyes stormy, dark with anger. And
then, slowly, she bent low over the saddle horn, and turned her face
away, while a sob shook her slight figure. At which awful spectacle
Angus' resolution suddenly melted to contrition.

"Don't do that!" he pleaded. "Don't cry. I didn't mean it. Come on and
walk. Walk all you like. Walk a lot. I'll help you down."

She turned her face to him and he gasped; for in place of tears there
was laughter, mocking laughter.

"You--you fraud!" he exclaimed.

"You--you bluff!" she retorted. "This was one of the things you could
make me do because you were stronger, was it? Oh, Angus Mackay, what a
soft heart you have in that big body!"

"It would serve you right if I made you walk!" he told her indignantly.

"Yes, wouldn't it? But you won't. I'll ride--if you'll promise to tell
me if you get tired."

And so they went down the old tote road in the wan light of the fall
sunset.

"It's exactly like that day so many years ago," she said.

But Angus, though he agreed with her, was privately conscious of a vast
difference. On that far-away day he had considered the little, lost girl
a nuisance and an imposition. Now he felt a strange, warm glow and
thrill as he walked beside her, and a sense of contentment strange to
him. He was conscious of this feeling. But, quite honestly, he
attributed it to the fact that he had just got his first grizzly, and
what was more, centered him, charging, with every shot; which, as he
looked at it, ought to be a source of satisfaction to any properly
constituted man, and adequately explained the sense of contentment
aforesaid.




CHAPTER XVI

A TALK WITH JUDGE RILEY


Dr. Wilkes investigated the naked torso of Angus Mackay with skilled
fingers.

"Two ribs cracked," he announced, "and you're lucky at that, young man.
The scalp wound is nothing. The ribs will be all right in a few weeks,
if you give them a chance. Mind, you, Angus, no hard riding, no lifting;
move gently and rest all you can."

"But the fall work--" Angus began. The doctor cut him short.

"Work!" he exploded irritably. "There's that word again. By heaven, you
all say it! It's 'I can't go away, doc, I can't take a holiday, I can't
rest. I've got to work.' Lord knows how many times I've heard it, and
from men who wouldn't work a sick or lame horse on a bet. You'd think
health was the least important thing on earth, something to be fixed up
in a day or two with a Blaud's pill. Work is a fine thing to keep folks
out of mischief, but it isn't the chief end of man, and it isn't a
damned fetich that demands human sacrifice. Who'll do your work when
you're dead?" He glared at Angus ferociously beneath shaggy,
red-and-gray brows.

"Well, I won't worry about that," Angus laughed. "I hope it's a long way
off."

"It missed your head by about an inch yesterday," Wilkes told him.
"There you stand, over six feet, and nearly two hundred pounds of as
fine bone and sinew and flesh and blood as I've ever seen, every organ
of you, as far as I can tell, as sound as clear pine. And you may be
good for seventy years more--or seventy hours. A long way off! Your
horse steps in a hole, or a team bolts and you happen to fall wrong, or
a little drop of blood clots somewhere. And puff! away you go like a
pinch of dust on the trail, which is exactly what you are. A long way
off! Of all the blasted but blessed cocksureness of youth!" And he
grumbled and growled as he strapped up the injured side.

But Angus paid little attention to the doctor's homily. From the
latter's office he went to see Judge Riley who, much to everybody's
surprise, had cut his drinking down if not out, and in consequence was
much busier than of old. Before him Angus laid the puzzle of Faith
Winton's property, Godfrey French's connection therewith, and Braden's
attempt to sell part of it.

"There may be a perfectly good explanation," said the lawyer. "For
instance, there may have been other properties or other transactions
involved. Then as to Braden's attempt to sell to Chetwood, he may have
been acting for French, who may be Winton's executor. In any event, if
half of this land could be sold for as much as was paid for the whole,
nobody but the purchaser would be apt to make subsequent objection."

"But if French paid only about three dollars for the land and split the
difference with somebody, couldn't Miss Winton claim the difference?"

"Undoubtedly. But you have no evidence of that. If you like, I'll search
the title and find out who sold the land and what consideration is
stated in the conveyance to Winton. Drop in some time next week."

Angus waited the week with impatience. Convinced that there had been
crooked work somewhere, he was anxious to get at the facts. Also he
chafed at the comparative inactivity imposed on him by his injured
ribs.

"Well," said the judge, when Angus sought him again, "I haven't found
out very much. But Braden apparently owns this property."

"Braden!" Angus exclaimed.

"Yes, he is the registered owner of a large block of land which seems to
include this. So far as most of the land is concerned, he is the
original grantee. As to the Tetreau land, Tetreau was the original
grantee of that. Five hundred acres was granted to Tetreau, and sold by
him to Braden for an expressed monetary consideration of one thousand
dollars and certain other considerations not specified. When he acquired
that land from Tetreau, Braden then had a compact block, and apparently
he has it still."

"But there must be a deed to Winton."

"If so it isn't registered. Braden can convey and give a good registered
title. There is nothing to show any interest of Winton's. Are you sure
this is the property his daughter meant?"

"From her description, it can't be any other."

"Then probably there is an unregistered conveyance from Braden to
Winton, or to French as the latter's trustee. As to the price paid, it
may have been high, but it does not prove nor even raise the presumption
of fraud. You can't tell the girl your suspicions, when they are mere
suspicions, especially while she is under French's roof."

"I believe both Braden and French are crooks. I never liked Braden, but
up to a little while ago, I thought he was straight. And I always
thought old French was a gentleman."

"So he is."

"Not if he is a crook."

"Nonsense!" the judge returned. "Gentlemen have been pirates, outlaws
and highwaymen. A gentleman may be a blackguard, just as a well-bred dog
may be a sheep-killer, or run wild with wolves. It's one word, not two.
It's a name for a breed, not a descriptive term for qualities such as
honesty, courtesy or the like."

"If a man has those qualities, isn't he a gentleman?"

"No," said the judge, "though he may be something a good deal better.
I'm as democratic as they make 'em, but it is an undoubted fact that
there are strains of men, just as there are strains of animals.
Considered as a strain of mankind, a gentleman is a gentleman, no matter
how big a rascal he is. The Frenches are all gentlemen--that is, all but
Blake."

"Why not Blake, if it is a breed?"

"God knows," the judge replied. "Blake is a full brother to the rest,
but he's not the same breed. He's a throwback to something that crept in
somehow, maybe a century or so ago, when nobody was looking. He has the
body, but not the heart. He is a cur, while the rest are--wolves." He
drummed on his blotter. "In confidence, Angus, I am going to tell you
one or two things: The first is that the Frenches have little or no
money left. They have been going down hill steadily for years. This
horse racing and gambling is not amusement, but their living. Their
ranch is mortgaged for all it will stand, and more. So you see, it's not
likely French could repay the girl, even if we proved he cheated Winton.

"And now for Braden:" He paused for a moment, and his bushy brows drew
down. "If there is one thing I despise," he said with emphasis, "it is a
hypocrite. More repulsive to me than even sordid crime is hypocrisy,
snivelling righteousness, a lip-and-broadcloth service of the Almighty,
the broad phylacteries of the Pharisee. All my life I have hated such
things. And Braden, mark you, is a hypocrite. Outwardly, he is full of
good works. Your father was deceived in him, and I told him so when he
would have made Braden his executor, but I had merely my own opinion.

"Well, when your father died, Braden conceived an ingenious plan to get
hold of the ranch, knowing that it would increase in value very much,
eventually. The first step was to get you children off it, to put
somebody else on, to allow the rent to get into arrears, to let the
place run down a little. With the accumulating interest on the mortgage,
ownership would involve a heavy financial burden. Then a straw man would
have made an offer for the place, d'ye understand me? And to get money
for your education and maintenance Braden would have accepted, and to
keep his skirts clean he would have got a court order approving the
sale. Afterward the straw man would have transferred to Braden. Is that
clear to you?"

Angus nodded, amazed.

"Also absence from the place would have weaned you youngsters away from
it," the judge continued. "When you came to me for advice I went to
Braden and read his mind to him, and his face told me I had read it
aright. Since then he has hated me for knowing him for what he knows
himself to be. So, in course of time, he laid a trap for me with a
pretended client and monies for a certain investment. The idea was that
the man with whom I was to invest the monies was to deny it, and they
thought they had it arranged so that I could not produce evidence of
what had become of it. But they were wrong. I had evidence, and with a
very little more I'd have had a clear case of conspiracy against them.
However, I fell short of that and let it go. But one thing it did for
me: It showed me that I needed a clear head, and it gave me the will to
fight the habit that had a grip on me. So there's information in
confidence for you, Angus. Now Braden and French are working together.
French and his sons get the confidence of young fellows with more money
than experience, steer them to Braden who sells them land, and the
commissions are split. Perhaps that is what happened in the Winton case.
Only we can't prove it."

"No," Angus admitted. For the first time he told the judge of the money
he had borrowed from Braden. The old jurist whistled softly.

"What with that and the mortgage arrears, you are not in good shape, my
boy. If I were you, I should make every effort to get clear as soon as
possible."

"The hail hit me badly, but next year, with a good crop and all the new
land I have broken, I ought to be able to make a good payment. Then you
think nothing can be done to help Miss Winton?"

"Braden tried once to find a purchaser for part of it, and he may try
again." The judge's eyes twinkled. "In that case would you consider it
your duty to warn the intending purchaser?"

Angus grinned, flushing a little. "If it would help Miss Winton I would
consider it my duty to mind my own business."

"It seems to me about the only chance she has to get back part of the
money," said the judge. "While that chance exists, it is just as well to
say nothing to anybody."




CHAPTER XVII

A CRISIS


Winter came with the going of the last brigades of the geese. The
sloughs and lakes froze, and the ground hardened to iron, ringing
hollowly beneath hoofs, rumbling dully to wagon wheels. It was cold, but
there was no snow in the valleys, though it lay white well down the
flanks of the ranges. On the benchlands there was nothing to relieve the
dark gloom of the firs, the bareness of the deciduous trees, the
frost-burnt dead of the grasses.

Angus had seen little of Faith Winton. At the French ranch he felt like
a cat in a strange garret. He had little or nothing in common with the
French boys, and certainly nothing with the young men who made the place
a hang-out. Though old Godfrey French was polite enough, Angus felt or
thought he felt a certain cool contempt. Kathleen was the only one of
the family with whom he was at ease.

He was now able to ride, and help round up the cattle for the winter.
But to his annoyance there were several head which could not be found.
Again they were steers, beef cattle. As in the case of the others, some
years before, they seemed to have vanished utterly. Rennie was sure they
had been rustled, and again he blamed the Indians. In the end he took
his rifle and an outfit, and Angus knew that very little would escape
his methodical combing. On top of his other hard luck Angus felt the
loss badly. He was going to be very hard run for money. None too
cheerfully he went at the various tasks of snugging up for the winter.

In these he had little or no assistance from Turkey. The youngster was
absent more than ever, and, one morning when, instead of helping with
fencing, he led out his mare saddled, Angus ventured remonstrance.

"There are a whole lot of things to do," he observed.

"No rush," Turkey returned. "Let 'em wait."

"I am not waiting."

"Well, I am," Turkey said, his tone suddenly truculent. "I've worked all
summer and fall, and I want some fun. I'm going to have it, too."

"Perhaps I want some myself," Angus suggested, holding his temper.

"Oh, you!" Turkey's voice held careless scorn of Angus' desire for
recreation. "Well, if you want it, go and get it. Nobody's stopping you.
And nobody's going to stop me."

Angus shut his lips grimly over the words which rose to them. He saw his
brother ride away, defiance in the set of his shoulders, and he turned
to his work, bitterness in his heart. That, he reflected sourly, was
what he got for sticking to work. He was the steady, reliable old horse.
Nobody suspected him of a longing for other things. A working machine,
that's what he was. For Jean he did not mind, but for Turkey! Why, in
weeks the boy had made a mere bluff at working, for months he had
slacked. Instead of doing a man's work as he should, he had been barely
earning his grub. In sudden anger Angus sank a staple with a blow which
snapped the hammer handle like a stick of candy. He threw the fragment
from him with a curse. But the action and the oath did not relieve.
Instead of acting as a safety valve, his self-control slipped by that
much. A black mood descended on him and persisted through the day. That
night he ate in glum silence, smoked in silence, and went to bed
without uttering half a dozen words to Gus, who, Turkey not having
returned, was his sole companion.

He slept badly. In a period of wakefulness he heard the drum hoofs on
the frozen ground and knew that Turkey was coming home at last. Looking
at his watch by the light of a match he saw that it was nearly two
o'clock in the morning. A nice time for a fellow to come home who
expected to do any work the next day. But perhaps Turkey didn't intend
to.

Turkey took his time putting up his mare. When he entered the house he
tripped over a chair, coming down with a crash. Whereat he swore, and
something in his voice made Angus jump out of bed and light his lamp.
With it in his hand he entered Turkey's room.

One look confirmed his suspicions. Turkey was more than half drunk.
Angus stared at him in angry amazement, and Turkey stared back, sullen
and defiant, the butt of a cigarette between his lips.

"Well," he said, "what you lookin' at?"

"At you," Angus returned. "Who got you drunk?"

"I ain't drunk," Turkey denied. "If I want a drink I guess I can take it
without asking you."

"Who were you with?" Angus persisted.

"None of your dam' business!" Turkey told him flatly.

Angus hesitated. He felt a strong desire to man-handle his young
brother, but finally he decided against it. He went back to bed, but not
to sleep. His anger struggled with a feeling of responsibility for
Turkey. The boy must not be allowed to make a fool of himself; but he
was difficult to handle. He realized that he himself was the last person
from whom he would take advice, but something had to be done.

Puzzling over his course he became aware that the room was no longer
dark. It was not the dim light of dawn, but a reddish, reflected glow.
With the realization he bounded from his bed and into the living room.
There the light was brighter, and through a window which faced the
stables he saw a shaft of flame lick high in the air.

"Gus!" he shouted. "Fire!"

As he dashed for his room and pulled on trousers and moccasins, he heard
the weight of Gus hit the floor above. Not waiting for him, he ran for
the stables.

The stable yard and corrals were drenched in a red glare, and smoke and
leaping sheets of flame were driving with a bitter south wind. The stock
in corrals and sheds was bawling; in the stable horses were stamping and
whinnying. For a moment he thought the stable was on fire, but as he
vaulted a five-foot gate, not waiting to open it, he saw that it was not
the stable but the great stack of hay close to it and directly to
wind-ward.

Nothing could save the stack. The fire had a good hold and the flame
sheets were leaping and smothering in hot smoke with the noise of a
hundred flapping blankets. The fire and the sparks were driving directly
at the stable. Its walls were of peeled logs, which offered little hold
for fire, but its roof was of split shakes and its mow full of hay.

He threw the doors wide and began to turn the horses loose. But
frightened by the glare and the smoke and the roar and crackle of
flames, they hung back snorting, cowering in their stalls.

It was no time for half measures. Gus joined him, a fiendish figure in
red flannel underclothes, which he wore day and night all the year
round, for the big Swede had waited only to pull on a pair of
moccasins. With whip and pitchfork they slashed and prodded the animals
out.

"By the Yumpin' Yudas!" Gus cried, "Ay tank dae stable ban go."

It looked like it. The flames were reaching and snapping back, and
flying streams of sparks were now driving upon the weather-worn, dry
shakes. If the roof caught, or if a vagrant spark reached the hay with
which the mow was filled, nothing could save it. But Angus was not
inclined to lose his stable without an effort.

"Get all the horse blankets and wagon covers, soak 'em, and throw 'em up
to me," he ordered. "I'm going up on the roof. Help me with the ladder."

A ladder hung on the north wall of the stable. Together they shot it up.
Angus grabbed a coil of lash rope and a couple of lariats, and ran up
the ladder. Making the rope fast to the top rung and taking the coil
over his arm he crawled up the steep slope of the roof. As he put his
head over the ridge smoke stung his eyes and bit at his lungs. The pitch
was fairly bubbling from the old shakes on the southern exposure.

Behind him Gus staggered up the ladder with an armful of dripping horse
blankets which he had soaked in the ditch. Angus ripped off a bit of
loose lining and tied it over his nose and mouth. Then, taking the wet
blankets on one arm and a turn of rope around the other, he drew a full
breath of good air and went over the ridge into the smoke and flying red
cinders.

Down close to the eaves he saw a little, blue flame start and die, and
start again and live. He went down, his body at right angles to the
pitch of the roof against the pull of the rope, and spread a dripping
blanket on it. As he did so a big fluff of burning hay lit above him.
He extinguished that. Little, creeping lizards of fire began to glow,
and he beat them out and yelled for more blankets. The moisture was
being sucked from his body, his eyes stabbed with pain and his lungs
ached. Sparks clung to him and burned through to the skin, the heat of
the roof struck through the soles of his moccasins. The little, creeping
flames, starting everywhere, seemed personal enemies, and he beat upon
them with wet blankets, and stamped upon them and croaked curses at
them. Then Gus was beside him, a very welcome demon in his red garments,
working like a maniac and swearing strange oaths. Together they kept the
roof till the heat lessened, and the tongues and sheets of flame snapped
no more in their faces, and blackened and gray ashes instead of red
cinders powdered them, and where Angus' fine stack of bright hay had
been was a red and glowing heap.

They came down from the roof and drank deeply from the running ditch,
and the cold wind striking their overheated bodies through burnt and
insufficient clothing, cut to the bone.

In the house, changing his burnt garments for warm clothes, Angus for
the first time thought of his brother and looked into his room. The boy
slept. He had known nothing of the fire.

"By Yimminy, dat kid sleep like a mudsill," Gus commented. "Ay holler at
him when Ay go out, too."

"Let him sleep," Angus said. "Come on and get the horses into the stable
again."

He spoke quietly, but there was bitter anger in his heart. It was bad
enough that Turkey should lie in drunken slumber; but far worse than
that he was the last person who had been near the stable and stack.
Neither Angus nor Gus had been out of the house for five or six hours
before the fire. As they put the horses back Angus found Turkey's mare's
manger full of hay. Drunk or sober the boy would look after the animal's
needs. But to get hay he had either to fork it down from the mow or get
it from the stack. As the mow was dark, with a ladder to climb, there
wasn't much doubt that he had got it from the latter. Then at the stack
he had either dropped the butt of a cigarette or the end of a match.
There was no doubt in Angus' mind as to the origin of the fire.

But as was his custom, he kept his thoughts to himself. He sent Gus to
the house to get what sleep he could, and he remained on guard against
chances from stray sparks.

As he stared at the heap of black and gray and red which had been his
stack his anger hardened. In the heart of the heap he seemed to see the
fields where the hay had grown, green and tender in the spring, laced
with the silver threads of irrigation waters; and lush and high and
waving in the summer winds, tipped and tinged with the pink and red of
clover and alfalfa and the purple bloom of timothy. He thought of the
labor that had gone into it--the careful irrigation, the mowing, the
raking, the hauling, the stacking--all to the end that the stock should
be full-bellied and fat-clad against the cold and snow that shrinks
ill-nourished stock to racks of hide-tied bone. He looked ahead--two
months, three--and he could hear the hunger-bawling of the cattle
clustered by the corral bars, and see them hump-backed and lean and
shivering, and weak and dying of cold and hunger. He could see their
eyes, looking to him for the food man should provide.

Unless he would see that picture become grim reality he must buy feed,
and he had no money to spare. His straw was quite insufficient to
winter his stock on. Then he had counted on selling some of the hay. It
all meant that his debt must be increased. In the breath of the fire the
fruits of his hard work had been wiped out. As he thought of all these
things he was filled with bitterness against his brother.

When dawn came and all danger was over he went in to breakfast. Turkey
still slept. Angus let him slumber, and going to the workshop went to
work repairing a set of sleighs.

He had worked for an hour or more when Turkey emerged from the house,
his hands in his pockets, his back hunched. At first he did not notice
the absence of the stack. When he did, being almost at the stable, he
stopped short, staring at the black heap, at the frozen blankets and
covers hanging on the fence. He entered the stable, came out again, and
hearing Angus' hammering, made for the workshop. As he came in Angus saw
that his mouth was set, his face flushed, his brow scowling.

"Say--" he began and stopped. "Say--"

"Well?" Angus returned, coldly.

"The stack!"

"You can see for yourself, can't you?"

"Why didn't you call me?"

"You'd have been a lot of use!"

The boy flushed darkly.

"What started it?"

"You ought to know," Angus replied, "whether you do or not."

"What do you mean?" Turkey cried.

"I mean that you started the fire yourself."

"What?" Turkey exclaimed. "I didn't! What do you take me for?"

"Where did you get the hay to fill Dolly's manger?"

"From the stack," Turkey admitted.

"I thought so. And you dropped a butt or a match. Nobody else had been
near there for hours."

"I didn't. I didn't light a cigarette till after I came out of the
stable."

"I don't think you know what you did. The stack is gone. We have to buy
feed now, and we haven't the money to pay for it."

"That's not my fault," Turkey asseverated. "I won't be blamed for what I
didn't do."

"No," Angus returned grimly, "but for what you did do."

"If you say I started that fire you're a ---- liar!" Turkey flared.

Angus looked at him with narrowing eyes.

"You had better go slow, Turkey," he warned. "I don't feel like taking
much from anybody this morning. And I'll take less from you than
anybody."

"Then don't say I started that fire!" Turkey cried "The hay was mine as
well as yours. You act as if you were boss here, and I won't stand for
it any longer."

Under ordinary circumstances Angus would have let that go. But now he
was sore and worried and angry. He had worked hard, denied himself a
good deal to hold the ranch together and make a living for them all. It
seemed that a show-down had to come and he was ready for it.

"We may as well settle this now," he said. "I am boss. I mean to stay
boss, and while you're on this ranch you'll toe the mark after this,
understand?"

"Is that so?" Turkey sneered.

"It is so," Angus repeated. "Let me tell you something: I've given you
the easy end right along, and you haven't held up even that. You've
shirked and loafed every chance you've had. This has got to stop. And
there will be no more of this coming in at all hours of night."

"I'll come in when I like and go where I like," Turkey declared
defiantly, "and I'd like to see you stop me."

"You will see it," Angus told him grimly. "You ought to be ashamed of
yourself. You've burnt up our stack--"

"You're a liar!" Turkey cried hotly. "Don't you tell me that again!"

"Tell you again!" Angus said contemptuously. "I'll not only tell you
again, but for two pins I'd hand you something to make you remember it."

"Then fly at it!" Turkey cried, and struck him in the face.

For an instant Angus was so surprised that he did nothing at all. Then,
taking another blow, he caught his brother by wrist and shoulder and
slammed him back against the wall with a force which shook the frame
building. He was white-hot with anger, and all that restrained him was
fear--fear that if he once lost grip of himself he would go too far. As
he held the boy pinned and helpless he fought his fight and won it. His
grip relaxed and he stepped back.

"Don't ever do that again, Turkey," he said quietly.

Turkey, freed, stared at him. "I called you a liar and hit you twice."

"I know it," Angus returned impatiently. "And I could beat you to a
froth, and you know it. I don't want to start--the way I'm feeling.
That's all."

"Then I'm sorry I hit you," Turkey conceded. "But all the same, I didn't
fire the stack."

"We won't talk about it."

"Yes, we will. If you think I did, I'm pulling out."

"You'll do as you please," Angus said coldly. "You'll come back mighty
soon."

"Don't fool yourself," Turkey retorted. "I'm sick of this dam' place,
and working day in and day out."

"I've told you what I think of your work. If you're sick of it I'm just
as sick of coddling you along. Can't you get it through your head that
you're almost a man?"

"Yes," Turkey returned, "and I'm going where I'll be treated like one."

"Then you'll have to change a lot," Angus informed him. "When you behave
like one you'll be treated like one, here or anywhere else. Till you do
that, you won't. And here it is cold for you, Turkey, with no trimmings:
You may go to the devil if you like; but you can't stay on this ranch
and do it, because I won't stand for it."

And so, at last, the issue between the brothers, so long pending, lay
clear and sharply defined. There was no middle course. For a long minute
they looked each other in the face. Then said Turkey:

"You and the ranch can go to hell!"

He turned on his heel and went to the house whence, a few minutes later,
he emerged wearing wool chaps and a heavy mackinaw. In one hand he
carried his pet rifle; in the other a canvas warbag. He went into the
stable and presently led out his mare, saddled. Then he jogged away
without a glance in Angus' direction.




CHAPTER XVIII

CHRISTMAS AT THE FRENCHES


On Christmas Day, Angus and Rennie found themselves alone on the ranch.
Gus had gone to town, which meant that he would be drunk for some days.
Turkey had not returned since he rode away, nor had Angus seen him,
though he had learned that he was helping Garland to round up a drive or
two of cattle and would probably feed a bunch through the winter for a
grubstake.

The weather had turned mild. The day was warm as October, and the frost
was coming out of the ground, for still there was no snow. Rennie was
busy with preparations for an elaborate night dinner, but Angus was
restless.

"I think I'll go out and look for that old buckskin cayuse," he said.

"He ain't worth lookin' for," Rennie returned; "but if you go, you
better pack that old buffler coat."

But Angus did not take the old buffalo riding coat which had been his
father's. He got into a pair of leather chaps and tied a mackinaw on the
saddle.

The big horse wanted to go, and Angus let him. When he left the road it
was to follow cattle trails, on which Chief sailed smoothly. Now and
then he pulled up to listen for bells, but the buckskin was merely an
excuse. He was an old sinner, with a habit of staying out as long as he
could rustle feed. When Angus ran across him at last, late in the
afternoon, he was with a band of half-wild, disreputable friends, from
whom he had no intention of being separated. They knew every foot of
every trail in a badly broken country, and Chief, though sure-footed,
was not a stock horse. The continued twists and turns and brush worried
him. He could not use his speed, and not knowing exactly what was
expected of him, began to fret. After an hour of fruitless chase Angus
gave it up and looked around to get his bearings.

He found himself up under a mountain in a rough country some fifteen
miles from home. The sun was gone; and all over the north and west and
overhead the sky was blue-black, trimmed with dirty gray. As he sat
breathing Chief he could hear a far-off straining and sighing. A gust of
cold wind drove past, and borne with it were white flakes.

Angus needed nobody to interpret these signs, and he cursed the buckskin
and his own carelessness in neglecting to watch sun and sky. Real winter
was opening with a blizzard, and from all indications it was going to be
the real thing.

In five minutes the snowflakes had become a white blur. He could not see
fifty yards ahead. Trails vanished. Landmarks were invisible. The air
was full of drifting white. It was as if one had suddenly gone nearly
blind, unable to see beyond a short radius. No man could hold a course
with certainty. Constantly it grew colder, and the light began to fail.

Riding fast in the growing darkness was impossible. The cold began to
nip his fingers through his light buckskin gloves, and his toes, for he
was wearing leather boots and but a single pair of socks. He steered a
general downhill course which he knew in time must intersect a wagon
trail which led past the French ranch and thence home. The trouble was
that in the darkness he might cross it. In that event it would be a case
of spending the night out.

It grew utterly dark, save for a certain dim light which the snow seemed
to hold. Warned by a growing numbness in his feet Angus dismounted and
stamped the blood back into them. He decided that it must be below zero.
On the brows of the benches the wind was bitter.

Just as he decided that he must have passed it, he came on the wagon
trail. He mounted and gave Chief his head. But once more his feet began
to numb. Again he got down and stamped the circulation going, but as
soon as he began to ride again they numbed. To take off boots and rub
was out of the question, so he sent Chief sailing into the blinding
storm, trusting to luck to keep on the road.

After several miles of blind riding he saw the far flicker of a light
which he knew must come from the French ranch. He had no wish to intrude
on Christmas night, but he knew that unless he was to have badly frozen
feet he must get to shelter at once. He struck the fence, followed it to
the gate, and turned in.

The house, when he got close enough to see through the driving snow, was
brightly lighted behind drawn blinds. The chords of a piano came to him,
accompanying a strong, ringing baritone, and as he passed beneath the
window the old, rousing, hunting chorus of "John Peel" crashed out.

A devil of a time to butt in, Angus reflected grimly, as he led Chief
under the partial shelter of the house. No doubt there was a Christmas
party on. However, it was no night to indulge in pride or shyness.

He could not leave Chief out in the storm, and an attempt to stable him
himself would probably mean a battle with the dogs which slept in the
stables. He banged on the door, and as no one answered stepped into the
hall. After the temperature outside it seemed tropical, friendly with
the smell of warmth and good tobacco. Being in a hurry, he did not stand
on ceremony, but opened the door to his left just as the last notes of
"John Peel" died. For a moment he blinked in the light like a
storm-driven night bird.

There were nearly a dozen men besides the Frenches, and among them he
recognized Chetwood. Kathleen was swinging around from the piano,
laughing up at the singers. Tobacco smoke eddied blue around the hanging
lamps. A couple of card tables were going. After the hours of cold and
darkness and the sting of the wind-driven snow, it seemed to Angus
extraordinarily warm and cosy and comforting.

Kathleen was the first to catch sight of the snow-plastered apparition
in the doorway.

"Why, Angus!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Angus said, "but I got caught back on the
range, and my feet are touched a little. If I can put up my horse--"

But Gavin French rose from his card game.

"Larry will look after your horse. You come along with me out of this
heat."

Angus stumped after the blond giant down the hall and into a back
kitchen, where he unlaced his boots while Gavin brought in a dishpan of
snow.

"Toes and heels," the big man observed as he rubbed briskly. "It's no
night for leather boots. It's close to fifteen below now, and a wind
with it. Feel the blood starting yet?"

Angus felt the welcome tingle of returning circulation and continued the
rubbing himself, while Gavin brought him his own moccasins and a pair
of heavy woolen socks. As he was putting them on Kathleen entered.

"If you were caught on the range you haven't had anything to eat. I've
got something ready in the dining room. You can go back to your game,
Gan. I'll look after him."

"Don't bother about me," Angus said.

"I'm not. Come along and eat."

He followed her into the dining room where the table was spread with a
substantial cold meal. She sat down with him.

"Now, see here," he said, "this is not right. I'm taking you away from
your guests--"

"You're one of them," she laughed.

"An unbidden one."

"But a very welcome one. Don't be silly."

Angus ate and drank, and the food and hot coffee warmed him through.

"And now," said Kathleen, "we'll join the festive throng."

But Angus balked. He was not dressed for such things. He preferred to
stay out in the kitchen.

"Angus Mackay, you make me tired!" Kathleen told him. "What do I care
about your clothes? You're still thinking of yourself as an unbidden
guest, after I've told you you're more than welcome. I'm not going to
let you sit out in the kitchen like an Indian. Come along, now, like a
good boy."

As there was no way out of it, Angus followed her, feeling very
conscious of his worn riding-clothes. But as everybody was playing cards
nobody cast more than a casual glance in his direction, save Faith
Winton, who rose and came toward them.

"Kathleen, I've driven my unfortunate partner nearly crazy. He's too
polite to tell me what he thinks of my play, but see how wistfully he's
looking at you."

Kathleen laughed.

"Well, take care of Angus, then. And keep his mind off his clothes. He's
worrying because he isn't dressed like a head waiter." With a nod she
left them and seated herself at the vacant table.

"They were relieved to get rid of me," Faith Winton laughed. "Shall we
sit down and talk? I haven't seen you for weeks. Why didn't you come to
see me once in awhile?"

"I wanted to, but somehow--"

"Never mind excuses. When I get a place of my own perhaps you will be
more neighborly. I've made up my mind to build a house on my ranch in
the spring."

She told him her plans. She would have a cottage built, buy a few head
of stock and some chickens, break a few acres as a start and set out
fruit trees. Between the rows she would grow small fruits, feed,
vegetables. When the trees came into bearing she would have an assured,
definite income.

Angus listened in grim silence. He had heard it all before from the
hopeful lips of new settlers. Theoretically, so many bushels may be
grown to the acre, a tree so many years old will bear so many boxes of
fruit. This is quite unassailable, proven by actual experience, by
incontestable data, set out in reports which are the gospel of the new
and especially the inexperienced settler. He seizes these facts avidly,
but overlooks or refuses to consider a number of other things, such as
drought, hail, frosts early or late, winter-killed trees, pests, poor
years, low prices, and a hundred other factors which taken together make
those actually used entirely misleading. But the one big factor which
the inexperienced invariably refuse to consider at all, is that
inexperience itself.

"I don't want to discourage you," he said, "but you know, don't you,
that you can't do this work yourself. Hiring will eat up your profit."

"But there must be a margin. You hire men yourself."

"I hire two men to about three hundred acres. You are thinking of hiring
about one man for ten. At that rate I should have thirty men, and the
land wouldn't pay for them."

"But I could hire a man as I needed him, and what improvements I make
will increase the value of the place. And when I get more cleared--"

Metaphorically, Angus threw up his hands. It was no use. Also it was
impossible to tell her the truth about the property under the
circumstances. With actual experience she might give up the idea. All he
could do was to make the experiment as cheap as possible for her.

"Well," he said, "when the winter breaks up, if you're of the same mind,
I'll do your breaking and disking for you, if you like, and seed it down
to something. I can clean out the spring and run a ditch and fix it for
irrigating. You needn't bother with water from the creek for a few
acres. While I'm about it I might as well do the fencing and fork out
the sods for a garden patch. When the sleighing is good I'll haul over a
few loads of well-rotted manure."

"Thank you," she said, "but--"

"Oh, that's all right," Angus continued. "I guess you don't know much
about planting trees and garden truck. I'll attend to that. I may as
well order your seeds while I'm getting my own. I can run a cultivator
through the garden now and then in the evenings. I can fix you up with
all the tools you'll need. Then I can give you a milk cow, a nice
quiet--"

"Wait, wait!" she interrupted as Angus began to think of other items.
"What are all these things and all this work going to cost?"

"Cost?" Angus echoed blankly. "Why, nothing, of course. They don't
amount to anything."

"Don't they? It seems to me you're calmly arranging to do all my work
yourself--the work you said I'd have to hire done."

"These are just a few little chores for a neighbor. Nobody would think
of charging for them. We sort of swap work about here."

"But what work could I do for you?"

"Huh!" Angus hesitated, at a loss for an answer. "Oh, lots of things.
You could--er--um--yes, of course you could."

"You can't think of one single thing I could do!"

"You could pick berries," said Angus struck by a brilliant thought.
"Yes, you could do that better than any man. I always have a lot more
than I can use, and you could put up all you needed for the winter."

"And you think giving me fruit would pay for--p-pay for--"

She broke off, and Angus saw to his utter amazement that her eyes were
full of tears, as she bent her head.

"Whatever is the matter?" he whispered. "Is it anything I've said?"

"It's--it's everything you've said," she murmured. "Don't say anything
for a minute, please."

So Angus kept silence, sorely puzzled, and in a few moments she looked
him in the face with eyes still misty and a little, tremulous smile.

"Yes, it's everything. I couldn't stand it. Nobody else has really
offered to help me. The boys think it's a joke, and Kathleen thinks I'm
mildly crazy. And then you, a stranger--"

"I'm not. And I might as well put in my spare time helping you."

"You have no spare time, and I know it. I must pay for what you do."

"All right. I'll send you a bill."

"For a fraction of what the work is worth!" she scoffed. "Not that way,
Angus Mackay!"

"Any way you like," Angus said, knowing that he could make it up to her.

"Very well--and thank you. I'll be an independent ranch lady--unless I
sell the place."

"Has any one made you an offer?"

"No. I would rather not sell, anyway."

"You have your title deeds all in order, in case you should want to
sell?"

"I suppose so. Uncle Godfrey would attend to that."

"He has the title papers?"

"Yes. I never saw them. I don't know much about such things. Father told
me Uncle Godfrey had them all."

Angus dropped the subject. He could not very well suggest that she take
a look at these papers. Faith Winton on her part appeared satisfied.
Presently she suggested music and went to the piano. Lying back in a
chair Angus watched the soft curve of her cheek, her clean-cut profile,
the certain touch of her fingers on the keys. Absently his gaze wandered
to the card players. He had no idea of the stakes, but the players were
tense, absorbed. Faith Winton, glancing at him, marked his expression.

"What are you thinking of?" she asked without interrupting the play of
her fingers.

"I was wondering how on earth these people can sit playing cards all
night."

"I hate this," she said. He looked at her in surprise. "All of it. It's
not like Christmas night. It's not even sociability. It's gambling, pure
and simple. Uncle Godfrey and Kathleen will stop presently, but the boys
will play till morning."

Shortly, the first half of her prediction was verified. The games broke
up. Godfrey French apologized perfunctorily. Time was when he would have
spent the night in such good company, but now he was no longer young.
With him went Faith and Kathleen.

With their going the business of the evening began in earnest. A quartet
stuck to bridge, but the rest embarked on a poker game. Scotch
circulated briskly.

Angus, very much out of it, sat and smoked, regarding the players idly.
He noted that the French boys--Blake was absent--drank very little. On
the other hand, some of the players drank a good deal. But finally he
lost interest. He became sleepy and dozed in his chair.

He was awakened by loud voices. The poker game had broken up; the
players were on their feet.

"I tell you, Willoughby," Gerald French was saying, "you are quite
mistaken. Nothing of the sort happened.

"I saw it," Willoughby maintained doggedly.

"You are a guest," said Gerald, "but don't abuse your privileges."

"I am aware of my obligations as a guest," Willoughby retorted, "but
they do not include allowing myself to be rooked at cards."

Instantly Gerald struck him hard across the mouth and Willoughby lashed
back. Another guest sought to interfere. Young Larry pushed him back.

"Keep out!" he said. "Mind your own business."

"Keep your hands off me!" the other returned, and caught at his arm.

Larry pinned him, and somebody else tried to pull him loose. Larry came
loose with remarkable alacrity, and did so hitting with both hands.
Gavin, pushing forward, was caught by two men. Instantly a rough-house
started.

Angus sat where he was, taking no part. He saw Chetwood plunge into the
fray and go back from a straight punch. Gavin shook off three men as a
bear shakes clear of a worrying pack, and as he did so another man who
had caught up a chair, swung it at his head. The big man partially
dodged the blow, wrenched the chair away and brandished it high. As he
did so he emitted a short, deep roar of anger.

Fearing that somebody might be seriously hurt, Angus decided to
interfere. He leaped forward and caught the chair as it poised for a
moment aloft.

"Don't do that," he said. Gavin's ordinarily cold eyes were blazing.

"Keep out of this," he said. "It's nothing to you." As he spoke he tried
to wrench the chair free; but Angus' grip held. Letting go himself, the
big man clinched him.

Angus felt himself caught in a tremendous grip; but the wrench and heave
that followed did not pluck him from his footing. He locked his long
arms around Gavin, and the arch of his back and the sinews of his braced
legs held against him.

Suddenly Gavin gave ground, swung and tripped with the heel. Angus felt
himself going, but he took his man with him. They rolled over and over.
By this time Angus had lost all his indifference. For the first time
since his full strength came upon him, he was putting it all forth
against a man as strong or stronger than himself. And then he became
aware that nobody else was fighting. Gavin's grip loosened.

"Let go, Mackay," he said. "Cut it out now."

Then Angus saw Kathleen. She had slipped on some clinging thing of blue
and lace, and her hair in its night braids hung to her waist. Her face
was pale and her eyes stormy with anger.

"Well," she said, "_gentlemen_!"

She accented the word with bitter irony. Her eyes swept over them
disdainfully, resting for a moment on Angus.

"All right, Kit," Gavin said. "You can go back to roost."

"If you're quite through!" she said. "Otherwise I'll stay."

"Oh, we're through," Gavin assured her.

Without another word Kathleen left the room. Behind her there was utter
silence for a moment. Then with one accord the guests moved toward the
door. Gavin halted them.

"No," he said, "you can't go till this blizzard blows out. Don't be
damned fools just because we've had a row. Mackay will tell you what
it's like outside. Now we'll leave you alone, because you probably want
it that way." He turned to Angus who stood apart from the rest, and
lowered his voice. "You're a good, skookum man, Mackay. I half wish
Kathleen hadn't butted in."

"So do I," Angus returned. The big man smiled.

"No hard feelings on my part," he said. "I'd just like to see which of
us was the better man. I never hooked up with anybody as husky as you.
You're not like these blighters." His eyes rested on his guests with
utter contempt. "You were right in catching that chair. I might have
hurt somebody. Thanks. Good night."

Left alone, Angus after telling the others that in his opinion it would
be folly to venture out before daylight, established himself in his
corner, where Chetwood presently joined him.

"Pleasant evening, what?" he observed. He grinned.

"I didn't know you were back."

"Just got in the other night, and intended to look you up to-morrow."

"Do it, anyway."

"I wanted to ask you if you could do with another man on your ranch?"

"Not till spring."

"Wages secondary object. Primary one a Christian home for an honest but
inexperienced young man whose funds are not what they should be."

"Who is he?"

"His full name is Eustace William Fitzroy Chetwood. But he would answer
to 'Bill.'"

"You?" Angus exclaimed. "You're joking."

"Not a bit of it. I have the best of reasons for asking. Tell you about
them some time. To-night is my last night of the gay life. Thought I
might win a little money, but instead of that I lost. I am an applicant
for work."

"You're welcome. I can't pay much, but the meals come regularly."

"That's very good of you," Chetwood acknowledged. "I'll move my traps
out to-morrow."




CHAPTER XIX

INTRODUCING MRS. FOLEY


That spring, as soon as the frost was out of the ground, Angus did his
promised work for Faith Winton, while a couple of carpenters ran up a
cottage, stable and outbuilding. With this extra work, Angus was more
than busy. The Frenches did nothing to help. They seemed to regard the
girl's actions as folly of which the sooner she was cured the better.

"I am getting a companion, an old friend of mine," Faith told Angus one
day as the cottage neared completion. "It may be cowardly, but I don't
want to live here alone."

"Of course it would be lonesome," he agreed. "It will be nice for you to
have a girl friend."

She stared at him for a moment and laughed. "Oh, very nice. We'll move
in some time next week."

A week passed and another, and Angus, though he had heard that the new
ranch was occupied, had had no opportunity to visit it. Then one evening
he saddled Chief and rode over.

He saw smoke rising from the chimney, and when he dismounted and
ascended the steps he heard a strange swishing and thumping, accompanied
by a melancholy moaning which put him in mind of a dog scratching a sore
ear. Wondering what on earth the racket was about, he knocked.

The noise ceased, heavy footsteps utterly unlike Faith Winton's crossed
the floor, the door opened and a strange lady confronted him. She was
short, but extremely broad of beam. Her hair, streaked with gray, had
once been a fiery red. She had keen, aggressive blue eyes, a short,
turned-up nose, and a wide mouth with perfect white teeth. Her sleeves
were rolled above her elbows, showing a pair of solid, red, freckled
forearms, and in one hand she carried a mop. Amazed at this apparition,
Angus gaped at her.

"Well," said the lady in accents which left no doubt of her nationality,
"well, misther man, an' phwat will yez be wantin'?"

"Is Miss Winton at home?" Angus asked.

"She is _nat_."

"She's living here now, isn't she?"

"She is."

"Which way has she gone?"

"I dunno."

"Then I'll wait," Angus decided.

"Outside!" the lady also decided.

Bang! The door shut in Angus' face. Immediately the thump and swish
began again, though the moaning obligato did not. Angus sat down on the
steps and filled his pipe, but found he had no matches. For some moments
he sat there, sucking the cold stem and wondering where the deuce Faith
Winton had picked up this woman. No doubt she and her girl friend had
gone for a walk. Well, he might as well be doing something.

He went around to the back of the house where he had hauled a pile of
wood, picked up an old ax and began to split. Once the lady of the mop
came to the back door and took a long look at him. By and by, tiring of
splitting and wanting a smoke very badly, he put on his coat and went to
the door to request a match. The lady of the mop met him on the
threshold.

"Could you give me--" he began, but she cut him short.

"I could _nat_," she said grimly. "Who asked ye to do ut? On yer way!"

"But--"

"They's nawthin' comin' to ye," the lady asserted. "Ut's no handout
yez'll get here."

"But I don't want--"

"Yez want coin, do yez? Divil th' cint will yez get!"

"No, no," Angus protested, "you're all wrong. I want--"

"An' do I care phwat yez want, ye black-avised bo?" the lady shouted in
a tops'l-yard-ahoy bellow. "Beggars on harrseback I've heerd iv, but
ye're the first I've seen. On yer way; or th' flat iv me hand and th'
toe iv me boot is phwat ye'll dhraw, for all the bigness iv ye, ye long,
lazy, herrin'--bel--"

"Give me a match!" Angus roared through this wealth of personal
description, despairing of making his want known otherwise. "I want a
match, that's all."

"A match?" the lady exclaimed.

"Sure, to light my pipe with," Angus told her. "I'm not a hobo. I'm
working the place for Miss Winton."

"And why couldn't ye say so before?" she demanded, frowning at him.

"Because you wouldn't give me a chance. You wouldn't let me get in a
word edgeways."

"God save us all, an' maybe I wouldn't then," she admitted. "Is Mackay
th' name iv ye? Come in an' sit down. A match, is ut? Here ye are,
then."

Angus sat down and lit his pipe, while she stared at him.

"Faix, then, I wouldn't have knowed ye at all, at all," she said.

"Well, you never saw me before."

"Be description, I mane. She said--"

"Miss Winton?"

"Who else? Yez do be big enough, but homelier than she said."

"Did she say I was homely?"

"Did I say so?" the lady returned, and her blue eyes twinkled.

"Not exactly. But--"

"Then don't be puttin' words into a woman's mouth, for God knows they's
no need iv ut," she told him. "An' so ye do be th' Mackay lad I've been
hearin' iv, that found her whin she was a little, lost wan, an' shooted
that murtherin' divil iv a grizzly bear!"

Angus acknowledged his identity and diffidently inquired the lady's
name.

"Me name, is ut? They's times whin I have to stop an' think. Mary Kelly
I was born, an' me first was Tim Phelan. A slip iv a gyurl I was then,
an' little more when they waked him. Dhrowned he was, but sure wather
was always fatal to his fam'ly, an' maybe it was all for the best, as
Father Paul said whin he married me to Dan Shaughnessy after a dacint
year. But he died himself, the holy man, before Dan fell off the roof,
an' it was Father Kerrigan said the words over me an' Pether Finucane.
It was Dinney Foley brought me th' news iv th' premachure blast that tuk
Pether, an' I married him. Dinny was me last. So me name's Mrs. Foley."

"And is Mr. Foley here on the ranch?" Angus asked.

"I hope not," Mrs. Foley returned with apprehension. "Givin' him th'
best iv ut, he's wid th' blessid saints. A voylent man was poor Dinney,
as broad as ye, but not so high, an' a lion wid a muckstick. But phwat's
a muckstick to knives? Sure thim dirty dagoes is born wid thim in their
hands. Though he stretched thim right an' left wid th' shovel, he could
not gyard his back. So whin I buried him I quit. No, I've had no luck at
all keepin' men." And Mrs. Foley sighed, pursed up her lips and shook
her head at Angus.

"You do seem to have been out of luck," Angus sympathized gravely. "Have
you known Miss Winton long."

"As long as she is. I nursed her wid me own b'y that died."

"And have you known this girl friend of hers, long, too?"

"Phwat gyurl friend?"

"The one who is here with her--her companion."

"I'm her," Mrs. Foley returned. "Where do ye get this gyurl friend
thing, anyway?"

But Angus could not tell. He had put his own construction on Faith
Winton's words. At any rate Mrs. Foley seemed a capable companion.

"Well, I hope you'll like it here," he said. "It may be a little lonely,
but there's nothing to be afraid of. Bears seldom come down on the
benchlands now, and there are no hoboes worse than I am."

"Afraid, is ut?" Mrs. Foley snorted. "An' wud I that has lived wid four
men be afraid iv a bear? I am not even afeard iv a mouse. Anyways, for
bears an' bos they's a dog."

"I thought I heard him whining when I came to the front door."

"Whining?" Mrs. Foley ejaculated.

"Well, sort of moaning as if he was scratching a sore ear. And then he
howled."

"Howled!" Mrs. Foley cried. "Th' nerve iv ye!"

"What's the matter?" Angus asked. "It sounded like a lonesome pup to
me."

"Did ut, indade!" snorted Mrs. Foley. "Ye big, on-mannerly blackgyard,
that was me, singin'!"

"Singing?" Angus gasped.

"Singin'," Mrs. Foley repeated firmly. "An' a sweet song, too, a rale
Irish song. Color blind in th' ears, ye are, ye long lummix! May th'
divil--But phwat's the use? Th' ign'rance iv ye is curse enough!"

"What's the matter, Mary?" Faith Winton's voice asked from the door.
"You're not quarrelling with Angus Mackay, I hope."

"I wud not lower mesilf!" Mrs. Foley replied loftily, "though he said me
singin' was like the howlin's iv a purp."

"No, no," Angus protested, "I didn't mean that. I heard your singing,
too, and it was fine."

"Yez may be a willin' liar, but yer work is coorse," Mrs. Foley informed
him. "Well, I do not set up f'r to be wan iv thim divas. I can raise th'
keen fine over a corpse, but me singin' is privut an' so intended. So I
forgive ye, young man, more be token I can see it's herself thinks it's
a joke on the old gyurl. For shame, Miss Faith! An' me that's crooned ye
in yer cradle many's the long night!"

But there was a twinkle in Mrs. Foley's blue eyes, and Angus began to
suspect that her bark was much worse than her bite.

"Mary was my nurse," Faith told him when they were seated in the living
room. "She really thinks the world of me, spoils me--and bullies me. But
what do you think of my humble home? You haven't seen it since it was
finished."

Angus approved the room and its furnishings. There was space to move,
and a fireplace. The chairs were comfortable and strong; there was a
spacious couch, a well-filled bookcase, a piano and a banjo case.

"I like it," he said. "It's not cluttered up with a lot of junk.
Everything looks as if it could be used. That's what I like. Is that a
banjo and do you play it?"

"Yes, I play it."

"I like a banjo better than a piano."

"You Philistine! Why?"

"Perhaps because I'm a Philistine. I don't know just why. All I know is
that I _do_ like it better. A piano is sort of machine-made music to me;
but with a banjo the player seems to be making the music himself, as if
he was singing."

"You mean there is more personal expression."

"Maybe. I don't know anything about music. But a banjo seems to _talk_.
It's the thing for the tunes that everybody knows."

"You and Kipling agree, then. You know his 'Song of the Banjo':

    "And the tunes that mean so much to you alone--
    Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose,
    Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that hides the groan--
    I can rip your very heartstrings out with those."

"Yes, that's the idea. He's right enough there."

"And how about:

    "'But the word, the word is mine
    When the order moves the line,
    And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die,'?"

she asked curiously.

"The only music to fight with and to die to is the pipes," Angus said.

"The pipes? You mean the bagpipes."

"Of course."

"Some people," Faith laughed, "would say that death would be a blessed
relief from the sound of them."

Angus smiled grimly. "I know. There are plenty of jokes about the pipes.
But they are no joke to the men who meet the men played into battle to
the skirl of them."

"I believe you are right in that," Faith admitted. "I haven't a drop of
Scotch blood, so far as I know. But I have heard a pipe band playing
'Lochaber No More' behind a gun carriage which bore a dead soldier; and
I have seen the Highland regiments march past the colors at a review, to
'Glendarual' and 'Cock o' the North,' and heaven knows what gatherings
and pibrochs, and I have stood up on my toes and my back hair has felt
crinkly. I own up to it. But I love the banjo. It's a little sister of
the lonesome."

She took the instrument, a beautiful concert model, from its case, keyed
it for a moment and spoke through low, rippling chords.

"Sometimes at night I pick it by the hour--oh, very softly, so as not to
disturb anybody--not any particular tune--just odds and ends,
anything--and my thoughts go away off wool gathering and I am quite
happy. Can you understand such foolishness?"

"Yes," Angus replied seriously. "I can't play anything, or sing, but
there are times when I want to--if you can understand that."

She nodded, her fingers brushing the strings. "Yes, I know. Often the
person who knows least about music loves it best--down in his soul."

"Play something," Angus urged.

And so Faith Winton played. At first she played consciously; but as the
daylight faded and the twilight came she let the strings talk. Bits of
old half-forgotten melodies rippled from her fingers, changing,
shifting, mingling and merging, now familiar or half familiar and then
quite strange; but always tugging, tugging at the heartstrings, as if in
the gut and parchment there dwelt a wayward, whimsical soul, half-sad
and half-merry, whimpering and chuckling in the growing darkness.
Suddenly the music swept into a rolling, thunderous march, shifted to a
rollicking Irish jig, and stopped abruptly with a crash of chords and a
ringing of gut and iron.

"Don't stop," Angus said.

"But I've played myself out--for this time. It's dark--quite dark--and I
didn't notice. I must get a light."

"I must go. I have never heard playing like that--never. I'll take much
of it home with me."

"Come and get more any time," she laughed. "When shall I see you again?"

"To-morrow or next day. There are several things to be done here. If I
can't come myself, I'll send Gus."

"Try to come yourself," said Faith Winton.

Angus, as he rode homeward, found himself dwelling on these words.




CHAPTER XX

AN ENEMY AT WORK


Spring merged into early summer, and Jean came home. Angus met her, and
before they were clear of town he was undergoing a feminine
cross-examination as to Faith Winton.

"Is she pretty, Angus?"

"You girls are all alike," he grinned. "That's what she asked about
you."

"What did you say?"

"I said I hadn't noticed."

"You're a nice brother!"

"That's exactly what she said."

"Well, I like her for that. But is _she_ pretty?"

"Well, I don't know that a girl would call her pretty. She doesn't dress
herself up like a French wedding and frizzle her hair and all that, but
she's--she's--oh, darned if I know! She looks _clean_."

"Clean!" Miss Jean cried. "Well, I should hope so!"

"I mean clean-run, clean-strain, clean-built, like a good horse."

"My heavens, Angus, don't tell me she's built like a horse!"

"Don't be a little fool!" her brother growled. "She's better built than
you are, young lady, and prettier, too."

"Oh, indeed!" Miss Jean sniffed. "Well, beauty doesn't run in our
family. Now tell me about Turkey."

But Angus could not give her much information. Turkey was working
around, here and there, but he never came to the ranch.

"Can't we get him to come back, Angus?"

"He can come when he likes."

"Yes, I know. But won't you ask him?"

Angus did not reply at once.

"No" he said at last, deliberately, "I won't. It's not the fire; I don't
care for that. But we haven't got along well for a long time. It had to
come to a show-down."

Out of her knowledge of her brother, Jean dropped the subject
temporarily. She asked casually about Chetwood.

"Did he ever tell you why his remittances had stopped?"

"No. Of course I never asked. I got the idea that something had gone
bust--that there was no more money coming in. He wasn't actually a
remittance man, you know. He had some money of his own."

"It comes to the same thing--if he hasn't any now," said Miss Jean. "It
will be a good thing for him to do some work."

She exhibited no special enthusiasm when she met the young man. Chetwood
in overalls, with nailed boots, hard and brown, differed materially from
the young idler of the summer before, but his cheery good nature was
unchanged. Apparently the loss of his income or capital, or both, did
not worry him.

The next day Jean rode over with Angus to make Faith Winton's
acquaintance. Angus left them alone to be friends or otherwise.
Returning a couple of hours later, he found that there was no doubt
about their mutual attitude.

"Why, she's a dear!" Jean declared enthusiastically as they rode
homeward. "Why didn't you tell me what she was like?"

"I tried to."

"You said she was clean-built, like a good horse. I told her--"

"What!" Angus cried in horror.

"Not that, of course. I told her you were a clam. She said from your
description she thought I was a skinny, little girl in braids and short
dresses."

"I never said anything about braids and dresses."

"Did you say I was skinny?" Miss Jean demanded.

"Well--"

"Then you did say it. Ye great, long, lummix--"

"Hello!" said Angus. "That sounds like Mrs. Foley.

"'And so yez do be th' sister iv that great, long, lummix iv an Angus
Mackay,'" said his sister in startling imitation of that lady. "'Yez do
not favor him, bein' a good-lookin' slip iv a colleen.' What do you
think of that, Angus?"

"That you're making the last part up," her brother grinned.

"Not a word, not a syllable. I told her I thought you were a big,
fine-looking young man, and what do you think she said?"

"I'll bet she didn't agree with you."

"''Tis yer duty as a sisther to stand up f'r yer brother,' she told me,
'an' I am not mixin' it wid yez on th' question iv his shape. 'Tis true
he's that big they was a good pair iv twins spoilt in him, and he has
th' legs an' arrums an' back iv a rale man; but his face is that hard it
wud make a foine map f'r a haythen god.'"

"Huh!" Angus snorted. "She ought to look at her own."

"Heavens, Angus! I believe you're vain."

"Vain--blazes!" Angus growled. "I suppose I ought to be tickled when an
old she-mick says I look like a totem pole."

"Like a god!" his sister chuckled. "Don't get sore, old boy. Miss Winton
says she's never complimentary to the people she likes best. She thinks
you've made a hit with the lady."

"Then I wonder what she'd have said about my figurehead if I hadn't?"
Angus grinned. "I like the old girl, myself, but she sure does hand it
to me. Well, I guess I can take my medicine."

But Angus had more important things to think about. One which began to
worry him was exceptionally dry weather. High, drying winds sucked all
the moisture from the soil, and with the loss of it the surface earth
shifted and blew away from the roots of the grain. Deprived of this
support, they twisted in the winds, their arteries of life hardened and
withered. The grass crops were poor, short and wiry when they should
have been lush and long. Pallid green instead of dark dominated the hue
of the fields, the worst possible sign to the eye of the rancher. And
this was in spite of the best that could be done by way of irrigation.

Now Angus obtained the water for his ditch system from a mountain creek
fed by innumerable springs as well as by melting snows back in the
hills. But for the first time in his experience he found himself without
sufficient water. For he had been clearing land steadily, year after
year, without enlarging his main ditch. So far the seasons had favored
him. But now, in the first, old-time dry season for years, he found that
his ditch was insufficient to irrigate his enlarged acreage.

It was out of the question to deepen or broaden the ditch just then. To
do so would be a task of some magnitude, for from intake to ranch was
nearly two miles. Time had packed and cemented the gravel of its banks,
and further bound them with roots of grasses and willows. Again, to
avoid expensive fluming the ditch wound sinuously around the flanks of
several steep sidehills, and to disturb existing sidehill ditches is to
invite slides, which necessitate flumes. He made up his mind to enlarge
the ditch before another season, but meanwhile he had to depend on it.
So he took every drop of water it would carry. The creek was high, a
muddy torrent, and he set the water gate of his intake so that the ditch
should run rap full, but no spill, and thus cause washouts along its
banks.

One morning in the gray of dawn Angus awoke. The wind which had blown
all night seemed to have lulled. He heard Gus pass his door on the way
to the stables, but as he was dressing the big Swede returned. He
pounded on Angus' door.

"Hey, gat oop!" he cried. He stuck his head inside, his eyes round and
goggling. "We ent gat no watter!" he announced.

"The devil we haven't!" Angus exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

"Ay be goldarn if Ay know. She's yoost oft. Mebbe dae ditch ban plug."

"Glom a shovel for me and get an ax and pick and I'll be right with
you," Angus told him.

Dressing hastily, he struck the main ditch behind the house. It was dry,
save for little pools in which water lingered. They crossed the rear
fence, finding no obstruction, and followed the ditch until it struck
the sidehill section. Then Gus who was in the lead, stopped with an
oath.

"By Yudas Priest!" he ejaculated, "dae whole dam' sidehill ban vash to
hal!"

Pushing past him, Angus surveyed the damage. Where the ditch had run was
a raw, gaping wound in the hillside. Hundreds of tons of gravel, earth
and small bowlders had slid down on it. The far end of the ditch vomited
water upon the mass. Even as they looked a few yards of hillside
undermined by its rush came down upon the broken end, blocking the
water. This, backed up, began to pour over the banks of the ditch.

Left to itself the whole ditch would wash away. Circling the break, both
men took the trail to the intake. The water gate was wide open. The high
water of the creek was hurrying through in a swift flood, far more than
the ditch could carry. They threw their weight on the lever and shut it
off.

"Who opened it this far on that water?" Angus demanded.

"Ay ent been near him," Gus replied. "Mebbe dae Engelschman monkey med
him."

It was most unfortunate. In other years the ditch had carried a full
head without accident. This time, however, it had failed just at the
time when water was absolutely necessary to the crops. The only way to
get water now was to build a flume; and so, immediately after breakfast,
Rennie started for a load of planks, while the others began to get out
timbers to support them, and to clear away the mass of dirt. Chetwood,
it appeared, had not been near the water gate. Somebody, however, had
changed it.

They dug into the mess, and sank holes for timbers to support the flume.
Now and then a small bowlder or a little dirt came down from above,
where the hill rose sheer above the slip. Gus, looking up at it, shook
his head.

"Mebbe she come anoder slide an' take dae flume, hey! Mebbe I better put
in leetle shot up dere an' fetch him now?

"You might fetch half the hill."

"Yoost vat you say."

"Well, make it a darn small one."

So Gus put in a very small shot which brought down a small patch of dirt
and gravel, but did not budge the mass.

"I guess she ban O.K.," he admitted.

It took four days to put in the flume. When water was running once more
and the long, silver ribbons of it were trickling down the length of the
fields giving fresh life to the grain which, even in that short time was
yellowing with the drouth, Angus heaved a sigh of relief.

"Thank the Lord that's done," he observed.

"If we couldn't have put her in we'd have had a hundred years of dry
weather," Rennie grumbled. "But now, of course, she'll rain."

That night, as if to make his prediction good, thunder-heads rose above
the ranges and lightning was splitting the back of the southwest sky.
But all that came of it was a heavy wind, though some time in the night
Angus was awakened by what he thought was a heavy roll of thunder. But
as he emerged from the house in the early morning the sky was clear and
the day seemed to promise more heat than ever.

Thankful that he had water anyway, he stood for a moment cleaning his
lungs with big draughts of mountain air; but as he stood he seemed to
miss something which was or should have been a part of that
early-morning stretch and breath. Puzzled for an instant he would not
tell what was missing. And then he knew. He could not hear the gurgle of
water in the ditch which ran beside the house.

He reached it in two jumps. It was dry. For a moment he stood
contemplating it, and then started on a run for the flume. There his
worst fears were verified. There was no flume. The hanging section of
sidehill above it which Gus' shot had failed to shake, had fetched away
and swept the structure out of existence. The only evidence of it was a
few ends of planks and timbers sticking up at crazy angles. All the work
and a great deal more was to do over again.

Angus stood scowling at the wreck. His crops needed water very, very
badly, and this time, to judge from appearances, it would take a week to
make repairs. If the dry weather continued that would mean practical
ruin to his crop.

But standing there would not help matters and time was precious. As soon
as he had shut off the water he returned to the house, and after
breakfast all hands tackled the job.

It was harder than before. Much earth and loose rock had to be moved.
The morning was hot, breathless. As the sun gained power the sidehill
absorbed its rays and threw off a baking heat. Chetwood, unused to such
work, puffed and gasped, but stuck to it. Angus and Gus labored
steadily, without respite. But Rennie after a while leaned on his shovel
and stared up at the raw earth above.

"Where'd you put in that shot, Gus, when you was tryin' to shake her?"
he asked.

Gus told him, and soon after he abandoned his shovel and climbing around
the track of the slide he got above it. There he poked around for some
time. Coming down he beckoned to Angus.

"How long do you s'pose it'll take to put in this flume?" he queried.

"Maybe a week."

"Uh-huh! And then s'pose she goes out again?"

"What's the use of supposing that?" Angus demanded irritably, for his
hard luck was getting on his nerves. "What the devil are you croaking
for? I've got troubles enough."

"I'm goin' to give you more," Rennie told him. "Look a-here!" He
exhibited four or five small stones with fresh, yellow earth still
clinging to them, and a piece of broken root. "What do you think of this
lay-out?" he asked.

Angus frowned at the junk impatiently. The stones came from the layer of
like stuff which lay beneath most of the land in the district. The root
was fir, old, resinous, so that it had not rotted with the tree it had
once helped to anchor, and apparently it was freshly broken off and
twisted.

"I've been shoveling stuff like that for hours," he said. "What about
it?"

"Quite a bit. You seen me nanitchin' round up there, and I s'pose you
damned me for a lazy cuss. Well, up there's where I find them things."

"You could have found plenty of them without climbing."

"But I'm tellin' you I found these here _above_ the slide."

Angus stared at him, slowly taking in his meaning.

"Above it!" he exclaimed.

"That's what I said. Up hill from the slide. Slide stuff never runs up
hill. This stuff was _blown_ there."

"Gus put in a little shot--"

"Near a week ago. The dirt on these rocks ain't dry yet. Same with the
wood. They ain't been lyin' out in the sun no time at all. All Gus did
was to put in a little coyote hole, and she blew straight out. This
shot was above, and when she blew she ripped the whole sidehill loose.
Mebbe there was more than one shot. I'll bet I heard it, and thought it
was thunder. Anyway, all this stuff was above where the slide started.
And that's what made the first slide, too. It wasn't water. Some son of
a gun shot the ditch."

Angus turned the bits of evidence over in his hands, frowning.

"Who would do a trick like that?"

"You can come as near guessin' as I can."

Angus shook his head. Nobody, so far as he knew, would deliberately cut
off his water. And yet, according to this silent but conclusive
evidence, somebody had done so. The repairs had been wrecked as soon as
completed. They might be wrecked again. It gave him a strange,
uncomfortable feeling, akin to that of a mysterious presence in the
dark. Also it moved him to deep, silent anger.

"I would give a good deal to know," he said quietly.

"Nobody hangin' round lately that I've noticed. But somebody was keepin'
case all right, 'cause we only got water a few hours. And I'll tell you
somethin' else: When we get the flume pretty near in again I'm keepin'
case myself."




CHAPTER XXI

WATCHING


It took nine days to complete the flume a second time, and all hands
were dog-tired. All the time the heat had continued and the hot winds
were constant. The ranch had suffered badly. Irreparable damage had been
done. The grain was stunted, yellow. There would not be half a crop.

These things bit into the soul of Angus Mackay as he labored fiercely,
pitting his strength and endurance against relentless time. He could get
no clew, no inkling of the person responsible for the trouble.

On the afternoon of the day when the flume was completed, Rennie was
absent. After supper he sought Angus.

"I went across the creek this afternoon," he said, "and I clumb up onto
that hill across where we was workin'. There was somebody there across
the gulch from me. Course I went down and over, but he'd gone. Found
where his horse had been standin' on top of the hill."

"You couldn't tell who it was?"

"No. I don't think he seen me. But whoever it was, was sizin' up the
flume. I'm goin' to take my blankets and camp alongside it for some
nights."

"So will I," Angus said. "If I can find out who is doing this, Dave, I
will handle them myself. I will not bother about the law."

A little spark lit in Dave Rennie's mild, blue eyes.

"Sure; best way," he agreed. "Things was a darn sight better and safer
and less skunks and sharks when every gent packed his own law below his
belt. Law don't give you no action when you want it. Well, let's get
organized."

Angus had told Jean nothing of his suspicions as to the destruction of
the flume. But now it was necessary. She listened, wide-eyed.

"But who would do it, Angus?"

"If I knew," he replied, "I would be hunting him now."

Jean looked at her big, swarthy brother, noting the grim line of his
mouth, the smouldering anger in his eyes.

"Don't get into any trouble, Angus."

"It will be somebody else that will get into trouble if I find him."

"But if you can avoid--"

"I will avoid nothing," he told her sharply. "Let others do that. I have
never injured a man in my life, of my own will, and nobody shall injure
me and get away with it."

Going into Rennie's room he saw his blankets on the floor ready for
rolling. On them reposed a worn gun-belt with two holsters, from each of
which protruded an ivory butt. Angus stared at this artillery, which he
had never seen before.

"Sure, take a look at 'em," Dave said, interpreting his gaze. "I ain't
wore 'em for so long they feel funny now. Time was, though, when they
felt natural as front teeth."

Angus drew the guns. They were ivory-handled, forty-one calibre, heavy,
long-barreled, single-action weapons of an old frontier model. Though
they had evidently seen much service, they were spotless. The pull, when
Angus tried it, was astonishingly quick and smooth, and in his hands
they fitted and balanced perfectly.

"Them guns," said Dave, "pretty near shoot themselves if a feller
savvies a gun at all. A feller give 'em to me a long time ago."

"Some present," Angus commented.

"Well, he hadn't no more use for 'em," Dave explained. "Tell you about
it some time. What gun you takin'?"

"I don't know."

"Take a shotgun with buck. That's the best thing at night."

Angus stared at him. In all the years he had known Rennie the little man
had been meek and mild, apparently the last being on earth to exhibit
bloodthirsty tendencies.

"I don't want to blow anybody to pieces," he said.

"Well, you won't--unless you get to shootin' at mighty close range,"
Rennie pointed out; "and then you won't care. Take a double bar'l and a
box of goose loads, anyway."

An hour later they picked a level spot near the new flume, wrapped up in
their blankets and lit pipes. But soon Angus dozed.

"Go to sleep," said Rennie. "I'll wake you after a while."

Angus went to sleep instantly and gratefully. He woke some hours later
with Rennie's hand on his shoulder.

"It'll be light in two hours, and I'm pinchin' myself to keep awake.
You're awake for sure, are you? All right."

He settled himself in his blankets, sighed and slept like a tired dog.
Angus sat up. The night which had been bright with stars was now
overcast and a wind was blowing. He could hear it straining through the
tree tops and booming back in the hills. The creek roared and brawled
noisily. A couple of horned owls hooted at their hunting in the timber.
There were noises close at hand; the faint, intermittent gurgle of
water, little rustlings of grasses and leaves, the occasional scurry of
tiny feet, the buzz and click of insects. He had a hard job to fight off
sleep. But suddenly a sound which did not blend with the natural voices
of the night drove every bit of drowsiness out of him.

It was faint, like the clink of metal on stone. While Angus listened it
was repeated. He touched Rennie. Instantly the latter's breathing
stopped and changed.

"Somethin' doing'?"

"Listen!"

Clink, clink, clang! Down the wind came the sound.

"It's on the next sidehill," said Rennie. "Rippin' the ditch out, or
makin' a hole for a shot. She's a worse hill than this, too." He rose,
shook himself, and buckled on his belt. "We'll hold 'em up. Sneak up as
close as we can, and tell 'em to h'ist their paws."

"Suppose they don't," said Angus, slipping a couple of shells into the
breech of his gun.

"When you tell a feller to put 'em up and he don't, there's only one
thing to do; 'cause there's only one thing he's goin' to do, and you got
to beat him to it."

The ditch, leaving the sidehill with the new flume, crossed the end of a
flat and struck another sidehill. This was brushy halfway to the top,
marking the track of an old slide of many years before. But above it,
where the ancient slide had started, the bank rose sheer, overhanging.
As they struck the flat they heard more plainly the clink of tools.

"Right under where that old slip hangs," Rennie deducted. "That's the
place 'd make most trouble to fix. It's a darn sight worse than what we
did fix. Now--"

His words were interrupted by the shrill blast of a whistle from
somewhere above. It was repeated, and from where the sounds of work had
been came the crash of brush. Rennie swore, and a gun seemed to leap
into his hand.

"Their lookout seen us on this blasted flat!" he cried. "They're
climbin' the hill. If we had any sense--Come on! Maybe we can head 'em
off!"

They rushed at the steep, brush-covered hill. To their right, but
invisible, others seemed to be climbing also. Suddenly from above a gun
barked, and a bullet drilled above Angus' head and spatted on a rock
below. Again a spurt of fire lanced the night, and another bullet
buzzed, this time to the left.

Angus had never been shot at before. He had supposed that he would be
nervous if ever called on to stand fire. But actually his main feeling
was indignation that any one could shoot at him. And just as
automatically and unthinkingly as he was accustomed to swing on a bird,
he sent a charge of shot at the second flash of the gun. But a third
shot answered and he fired again, and broke the twelve gauge and shoved
in fresh shells, and started forward, only to be pulled back by Rennie.

"There ain't no cover ahead. You'll get plugged."

"But they'll get away!"

"Well, so'll you," Dave told him; "but if you go crowdin' up without
cover somebody'll have to pack you home. Have sense! And lay down.
You're so darn big you'll stop something if you keep standin' up!"

Angus dropped beside him in a little hollow, and a bullet droned through
the space his body had just occupied.

"Told you so," Rennie grunted. "There's one man up there savvies
downhill shootin'. If I could--" The gun in his hand leaped twice so
quickly that the reports almost blended. "Don't believe I touched him.
Outa practice with a belt gun. Dark besides. Scatter some shot around
near the top."

Angus used half a dozen shells, guessing as best he could. A shot or two
came back. Rennie suddenly turned loose both his guns in a fusillade,
and for an instant Angus saw or thought he saw moving figures
silhouetted against the sky on the hill's rim. At these, he let go both
barrels. Dave, swinging out the empty cylinders of his guns, swore.

"Darn 'f I b'lieve we've touched hide nor hair. They got horses up
there. What darn fools we was to camp down in this bottom. There they go
now."

Angus could hear the faint drumming of hoofs over the hill. There was
nothing to be done about it. Disgusted they went back to their blankets,
but not to sleep, and with dawn they returned to investigate.

An endeavor had been made to tear out the wall of the ditch, and above
it a hole had been started, apparently with intent to use powder. A shot
there would have split off a section of the precipitous bank, and
brought it down, trees and all, into the ditch. Angus, surveying these
things with lowering brow, saw Rennie stoop and pick up something.

"What have you got there?" the latter asked.

Without a word Rennie handed him an old, stag-handled jack-knife. Angus
knew it very well. He himself had given it to his brother, Turkey.

Angus stared at the knife, at first blankly and then with swiftly
blackening brow. He heard Dave's voice as from a distance.

"Now don't go off at half-cock, Angus. Maybe--"

"You know the knife," he said, his own voice sounding strange in his
ears.

"Well, that don't say Turkey was in this. Maybe he lost it, and
somebody--"

"Quit lying to yourself!"

"By gosh, Angus, I'll bet Turkey don't know a darn thing--"

But Angus was not listening. Out of the glory of the sun rising over the
ranges, one of the black moods of the Black Mackays descended on him.
All his life he had struggled against the hardness and bitterness of
heart inherited from his ancestors, men dour and vengeful, whose creed
had been eye for eye and tooth for tooth through the clan feuds of the
dim centuries. Hard and bitter men, these bygone Mackays whose blood ran
in his veins, carrying the black hate in the heart, even brother against
brother. There was even that Mackay of a dark memory--and his name, too,
was Torquil--who after a quarrel with his brothers had slain them, all
four. Old tales, these, handed down through the years, losing or gaining
in the telling, perhaps, but all stormy and full of violence and hate
and revenge. And in all of them there was never one of a Mackay who
forgave an injury. One and all they brooded over wrong and struck in
their own time. With them it was not the quick word and blow--though if
other tales were true they were quick enough with both--but the deep,
sullen, undying resentment under injury.

As he thought of these things with the black mood upon him, Angus' heart
hardened against his brother. He did not doubt that this was Turkey's
revenge. There was his knife, and he should account for it. Since he had
not been alone he should tell the names of his confederates. And then,
like the bitter, dour Mackay he was, Angus put the knife in his pocket
and turned a grim but composed face to Rennie.

"Maybe you are right," he admitted, though he had not heard a word the
other had been saying. "Let's go home and get breakfast. And say nothing
at all to Jean."




CHAPTER XXII

BROTHER TO BROTHER


Jean was left in ignorance as to the occurrences of the night. No
further attempts were made to interfere with the ditch; but the flume
itself sagged in the middle by natural subsidence of the loose soil, and
much of it had to be set up again. Angus was sick at heart, for the
damage done by the combination of hot winds and lack of water was
irreparable. Much of his crop would not be worth cutting.

And this, of all times, was the one chosen by Jean to re-open the
question of Turkey's return to the ranch. She urged Angus to ask him.
Angus flatly refused.

"He is our brother--our younger brother," Jean urged.

"If he were fifty times my brother, I would not. I tell you he has worn
out my patience, and I am glad he went. He made trouble enough when he
was on the ranch, and now--"

But suddenly recollecting himself he broke off. Jean's face was grave.

"Angus," she said, "what has Turkey done?"

"Nothing," he replied sullenly.

"That is not the truth, Angus."

"Then whatever he has done it is more than enough. Let it go at that. I
will not talk about it to you or any one."

"The black dog is on you," Jean told him. "I have seen it for days."

"And if it is, your talk doesn't call it off," Angus retorted, and left
the house. And that night, being in a worse mood than ever, he threw a
saddle on Chief and rode away to have it out with his brother.

Turkey dwelt alone in a log shack on the outskirts of the town. Angus
had never visited him, but he knew the place well enough. There was a
light in the shack, and after listening a moment to make sure there was
nobody else there, he knocked. Turkey's voice bade him enter.

Turkey was lying on a bunk reading by the light of a lamp drawn up
beside him, and his eyebrows lifted as he recognized his visitor.

"It's you, is it?" he said.

"I have come to talk to you," said Angus.

"Then you'd better sit down while you're doing it," said Turkey, as he
got out of his bunk.

Angus sat down. There was but one room, in which Turkey ate and slept.
The walls were decorated with pictures cut from magazines. A rifle and
shotgun leaned in a corner with a saddle beside them. At the head of
Turkey's bunk hung a holstered six-shooter. The place was tidy enough,
save for burnt matches and cigarette butts which Turkey had carelessly
thrown down.

"To save time," Angus began, "I'll tell you that this is a show-down."
Turkey's eyes narrowed at his tone, and the old, latent hostility sprang
to life in them.

"Then spread your hand," he said. Angus took the knife from his pocket
and tossed it on the table.

"That's yours, isn't it?"

Turkey picked up the knife, surprise in his face.

"You ought to know it."

"I do know it."

Turkey shrugged his shoulders. "All right. Thanks. Say whatever you have
to say, and don't stall."

"I can say that in a few words," Angus returned. "It is not because you
are my brother, but only for Jean's sake that I keep my hands off you.
Do you get that?"

"I can tell you another reason," Turkey retorted, his young face
hardening, "which is that I won't let you put your hands on me. You'll
get hurt if you try it. Now go on."

"I want the names of the men who were with you."

"What men? With me when?"

"You know mighty well," Angus accused him.

"All right, have it your own way."

"I want their names."

"Then keep on wanting them," Turkey returned. "If you think I know what
you mean, keep on thinking it. Keep on having your own way, same as
you've always had. Same as you had when you got me to quit the ranch.
Now you can go plumb, understand?"

"Before I leave here," Angus said, "you will tell me what I want to
know, or--"

"Or what?" Turkey demanded.

"Or you will lie in that bunk for a week and be glad to do it," Angus
finished grimly. His young brother's eyes closed down to mere slits.

"Get one thing straight," he said. "I'll take no more from you now than
I would from a stranger. Remember what I told you about keeping your
hands off me. I mean it!"

"And so do I," said Angus rising. "No more nonsense, Turkey. Will you
answer my question?"

Turkey was on his feet instantly. He took a step backward. "No," he
said; "I won't tell you one damned thing. Keep away from me, Angus. Keep
away, or by--"

Unheeding the warning, Angus sprang forward. Turkey dodged, leaped back,
and his hand shot for the gun hanging by his bunk. It came out of its
holster. Angus swung his arm against it, and it roared in his ear. He
grasped it as the hammer fell a second time, and the firing pin pierced
the web of his hand between thumb and finger. He ripped the weapon from
Turkey's weaker hands and threw it away. Then he lost control of himself
and let his anger have full sway.

[Illustration: _Angus swung his arm against it, and it roared in his
ear._]

Turkey was a strong, active young fellow, but against his brother's
thews and bulk he was helpless. Angus did not strike him; he poured his
strength in a flood upon the body in his grasp, shaking and worrying it
as a great dog might worry a fox. But as the tremendous handling shook
away the last of Turkey's power of resistance, the door opened, there
were voices, a rush of feet, a hard fist came against Angus' ear, and an
arm shot around his neck.

With this assault sanity came to him. He caught the wrist of the arm and
twisted it, and he heard a yell of pain. He thrashed himself free,
leaping back against the wall.

The newcomers were Garland, Blake French, Gerald, Larry and two young
men strangers to Angus. Blake French, nursing a twisted wrist, cursed
him.

"By ----, he was trying to murder Turkey!" he declared.

The younger Mackay swayed forward, his face white in the lamplight.

"Shut up!" he said. "Don't talk damned foolishness!"

"He was choking you," Garland cried. "Somebody used a gun. The room's
full of powder smoke."

"If you don't like smoke the air's good outside," Turkey told him.

Angus stared at his young brother in amazement. He had expected
denunciation.

"This isn't your put in--any of you," Turkey declared.

"But--"

"But--nothing!" Turkey snapped. "Mind your own business, can't you! Who
asked you to horn in?"

Gerald grinned, a certain admiration in his lazy eyes.

"All right, Turkey, I get you completely. See you later. Come on, boys."

When the door closed behind them Turkey dropped into a chair, shoved his
hands into his pockets and stared at his brother.

"You're a husky devil!" he said after an interval of silence. "What were
you trying to do--kill me?"

"I don't know," Angus admitted.

"If you had been just a shade slower," said Turkey, "I would have blown
your head off. So I can't blame you much. Well--what happens now?"

"Nothing," Angus replied. "I'll be going." Getting up he walked to the
door, his anger replaced by shame and disgust. At the door he turned. "I
am sorry," he said, "and ashamed of myself. To prove it I will say what
I never thought to say, meaning it: Will you come back to the ranch?
Jean wants you. Maybe we can make a fresh start."

Turkey stared at him in amazement for a moment.

"You didn't come here to say that, did you?"

"No," Angus admitted. "But Jean wanted me to."

"Oh, Jean!" said the younger man. "I get on with Jean all right. But
you're doing it not because Jean wants you to, but to square yourself
with yourself. You always were a sour, proud devil, so I know what it
costs you. I won't crowd you, though. I'm getting along all right this
way, and so are you. No, I won't go back."

"Suit yourself," said Angus. Turkey nodded.

"I wouldn't go back on a bet. Some day you can buy out my share of the
ranch cheap--that is if I have any share. That's up to you."

"When I can afford it, I will pay you what your share is worth," Angus
told him. "Father left me all he had, because I was the eldest and he
knew I would deal fairly. I think it would be fair if we took a third
each. That is what I have always intended."

"More than fair," Turkey admitted. "You have done most of the work. I'll
hand you that much. So when the time comes, split my third two ways.
I'll take one, and you and Jean can take the other."

"You can do what you like with your share," Angus told him, "but of
course I will not touch one cent of it. Meanwhile the ranch is
increasing in value."

"I know all that," Turkey replied. "Don't tell me you're working for
me."

"I will tell you this," said Angus, "anything that injures the ranch
injures you."

Turkey eyed him for a moment.

"Well?"

"Well--remember it."

"I'll try," said Turkey. "We don't get along well together. Best way is
not to be together. So after this you keep plumb away from me, and I'll
keep away from you. Does that go?"

"Yes," said Angus. "And mind you keep to that, you and your friends. Let
me alone, and let the ranch alone!"

Turkey stared at him, frowning, and half opened his mouth in question,
but let it go unuttered. Without another word Angus left him and rode
home through an overcast night. As he turned in at the ranch gate a drop
struck his hand. As he stabled Chief it began to rain softly and
steadily. Angus Mackay turned his face to the sky, and out of the
bitterness of his heart cursed it and the rain that had come too late.




CHAPTER XXIII

FAITH'S FARM


Angus was riding fast for Faith Winton's ranch. Rain had fallen steadily
for two days, and was still falling. The hills were veiled to their
bases in low clouds. Mists hung everywhere, rising from little lakes,
hanging low over the bottoms, clinging to the tree-tops of the
benchlands. The rain would do good, undoubtedly, but it could not repair
the damage of the drouth.

Angus had not seen Faith for a fortnight. As he rode, head down against
the rain, half unconsciously he began to picture unimportant details. Of
course, on such a beastly day, she would be at home. There would be an
open fire, and perhaps music. Music and an open fire! The combination
suited him. Perhaps--

A live bomb landed beneath Chief's feet with an explosion of barking.
The big horse, taken by surprise, bounded and kicked. And as Angus
caught him hard with the rein and a word picked at random from a
vocabulary suited to the comprehension of western horses, he saw Faith
Winton.

She was cased against the rain in a long slicker, and a tarpaulin hat
protected her fair head. Beneath the broad brim of it her face, rosy and
clear-skinned, laughed up at him as he brought Chief up with a
suddenness which made his hoofs cut slithering grooves in the slop.

"Jehu, the son of Nimshi, rideth furiously. Also he useth vain words to
his steed."

Angus reddened, for a man's remarks to his horse are in the nature of
confidential communications.

"I didn't see you," he said, dismounting beside her.

"Melord of many acres honors the poor ranch maiden. Methought he had
forgotten her existence."

"You know better than that."

"Well, perhaps I do. I hope your flume is all right now. But of course
this rain--"

He did not undeceive her.

"I never expected to see you out on a day like this."

"Like this? Why, I never could stay in, on a rainy day. I must get out.
Good for the complexion."

"I can see the complexion part of it. I wonder if you know how becoming
that slicker hat is?"

She laughed up at him. "Of course I know. Do you think I'd wear it if I
didn't?"

"I never saw one on a girl before."

"No? They're supposed to be purely masculine, I know." She cocked the
hat on one side and sang:

    "If it be a girl she shall wear a golden ring,
    And if it be a boy he shall fight for his king,
    With his tarpaulin hat, and his coat of navy blue
    He shall pace the quarter-deck as his daddy used to do."

Her rich contralto rang down the misty aisles beneath the dripping firs.

"Fine!" Angus applauded. "That's a great old song." She nodded and swung
into the old, original refrain, her voice taking on the North Country
burr:

    "O-ho! it's hame, lads, hame, an' it's hame we yet wull be--
    Back thegither scatheless in the North Countree;
    Hame wi' wives an' bairns an' sweethearts in our ain countree--
    Whaur the ash, an' the oak, an' the bonnie hazel tree,
    They be all a-growin' green in our ain countree."

"I like those old songs," Angus approved.

"So do I. Modern songs seem to me cheap things, written just to sell.
But the old ones--the real, old songs that were the songs of generations
before us--weren't really written at all. Somehow, when I sing them I
feel that I am almost touching the spirits of those who sang them many
years ago." She stopped abruptly. "And now you'll think I'm silly!"

"Not a bit. Spirits! Old Murdoch McGillivray--"

"Who was he?"

"A friend of my father's. He had the gift."

"The gift?"

"I mean the second sight."

"You believe in that?"

"Well, he foretold his own death."

"Not really?"

"It comes to the same thing. The last night he was at our house he was
playing the pipes, and suddenly he stopped and would play no more.
Before he left he told my father he had seen himself lying dead beside
running water. A week after that they found him dead beside the creek.
What would you think?"

"I don't know," Faith admitted. "It's a thin veil, and some may see
beyond." She shivered. "I wish you had the second sight yourself. Then
you might tell me what to do."

"About what?" he asked.

"Uncle Godfrey has made me an offer for my land, and I don't know
whether to accept it or not."

"Will he give you a fair price?"

"He offers the price paid for the land and the cost of the improvements
I have made."

It seemed to Angus that Godfrey French had some conscience left. But it
might be less conscience than fear that the girl would find out how he
had cheated her father. Restitution was practically forced on him if he
had the money to make good, and apparently, in spite of what Judge Riley
had said, he had.

"I would take his offer," Angus advised reluctantly, for it meant that
he would lose his neighbor.

"Why?"

"Why? Why, I've always told you you can't make a success of ranching."

"And I've never admitted it. I'm gaining experience. And land is going
up."

"Some land."

"Then why not this? What is the matter with my land?"

Angus evaded the direct challenge. "The place is too big for you.
There's a lot of it, like that little, round mountain, that's no good at
all."

"Which is directly against your contention that the place is too big for
me. But if this land is worth what was paid for it, it should be worth
more to-day."

Suddenly Angus began to wonder what had spurred French's conscience.

"Why does he want to buy?"

"Partly, he says, to take a white elephant off my hands; and partly for
Blake."

"For Blake?" Angus exclaimed in amazement.

"Blake wants a ranch of his own. You don't believe it?"

"Not a word of it."

"Perhaps Uncle Godfrey is merely inventing that reason. He may have no
other than a desire to take the property off my hands, if he thinks I
can't work it profitably."

"It seems funny," Angus said, thoughtfully. "If he wants to buy for
Blake he may offer more. I don't think, after all, I'd be in a hurry to
decide."

"I'll take that advice, and wait. But here we are at the house. Put
Chief in the stable. You'll stay for supper, of course."

Angus stayed. But all evening he was preoccupied. Again and again he
went over the puzzle. Why did Godfrey French want to buy that dry ranch?
Why had he given a reason which was not a reason? Why had he lied about
Blake? He could find no satisfactory answers to these questions.

His reflections were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of Blake
himself, and Blake was obviously half-drunk. He acknowledged Angus'
presence with a nod and a growl, and thereafter ignored him, devoting
himself to Faith. His attitude toward her was familiar, and when at his
request she went to the piano glad to escape his conversation, he leaned
over her, placing a hand on her shoulder, an action which made Angus
long to break his neck. But she rose from the piano.

"No, I won't play any more. You must have some refreshments. Tea, coffee
or cocoa?"

"Not strong on any of 'em," said Blake. "But all right if _you_ make
'em. Drink anything _you_ make, li'l girl!"

Without reply Faith left the room, and without invitation Angus followed
her. In the hall she turned fury blazing in her eyes.

"He's disgusting!"

"Shall I send him home?"

"He wouldn't go. I wish he would."

"I can make him go," Angus said hopefully. "I'd like to."

"No, no, that wouldn't do. I'll just have to put up with him. Perhaps
he'll be better. Why, there's somebody in the kitchen. I didn't know
Mrs. Foley had a visitor. Why, it's your man, Gus!"

Gus was established in a chair which he had balanced on its hind legs
against the wall. Around its front legs his huge feet were hooked. A
pipe was clenched in his teeth, and on his face was placid content.

"Yaas," he announced, "Ay ban purty gude man on a rench. Ay roon dat
rench for Engus, yoost like Ay roon him for hes fader."

"Ye run th' ranch f'r th' ould man, did ye?" Mrs. Foley commented.

"Sure," Gus affirmed. "Me and him we roon him. Engus, he don't know much
about a rench. If it ent for me, Ay tank he mek dam' fule out of the
whole t'ing."

"Gawd, but ye hate yerself!" said his auditor. "If ye know so much, why
ain't ye got a half section or bether of yer own, instid of dhrillin'
along a hired man?"

"Vell, Ay don't see yoost vat Ay like," Gus explained. "Ay mek gude
money."

"Who gets it?" asked Mrs. Foley. "Th' barkeep?"

Big Gus grinned. "Mebbe he gat some. But Ay got a stake saved up. Ven Ay
see a gude rench mebbe Ay buy him. But a faller alone on a rench haf
purty hard time. He needs a woman to cook and vash by him."

"Is that so?" snorted Mrs. Foley. "But, be me sowl, I b'lieve ye're
tellin' the stark, naked trut' as ye see ut. That's all the loikes iv
yez sees in a woman."

"Soome time," said Gus reflectively, "mebbe Ay gat me a voman."

"Hiven help her!" said Mrs. Foley piously. Gus surveyed her calmly.

"If Ay gat a voman," he announced, "Ay skall gat one dat ent no fule."

"Any woman ye get will be," Mrs. Foley retorted with a meaning which got
past Gus entirely.

"Vell, Ay don't know," he returned. "Some vomans is gat soome sense ven
dey gat old enough. Ay don't vant no good-lookin' young dancin' girl dat
don't know how to cook. Ay gat me soome day a rench, and a gude strong
voman like you, and settle down."

Faith smothered her mirth with difficulty. "There's a pointer for you,
Angus!" she whispered.

"Mrs. Foley will murder him now," he returned.

"Ye have ut down fine," Mrs. Foley snorted, "an' all I hope is that ye
get a woman that'll lay ye out wid a rowlin' pin in life, an' wid a
cleaner shirt nor ye have on now, when yer time comes. An' ut's me
that's lit candles, head an' feet, for foour men already. Though belike
ut's no candles ye'll have to light yer way up or down. Phwat belief are
ye, ye big Swede?"

Gus scratched his head and pondered.

"Ay vote democrat in Meenneesota," he replied, "but Ay tank Ay ban
socialist now."

"Agh-r-r!" snarled Mrs. Foley. "I mean phwat religion are ye, or ain't
ye?"

Gus scratched his head again.

"Ay tank mebbe Ay ban Christian," he said doubtfully.

"Ay tank mebbe ye're a Scandahoovian haythen," Mrs. Foley mimicked.

But the entrance of Faith and Angus cut short her further theological
research. Faith explained her wants.

"It's for Blake French, Mary," she said. "He's--well, we thought he
might feel better if--"

"Is he dhrunk, bad scran till him?"

"Half," Angus nodded.

"Then, instid of feedin' him why don't ye t'run him out?"

"I'd be glad to, but--"

"No, no," Faith broke in, "he may be better--"

"A bad actor an' a raw wan is that same lad," Mrs. Foley announced with
conviction, "an' comin' around here too much. I am not yer mother, but
if I was--"

"Please, Mary!" Faith cried, her cheeks scarlet.

"Well, well," Mrs. Foley observed, "coffee an' pickles is th' best thing
f'r him, barrin' p'ison. Go yer ways, an' I'll bring ut in whin ready."

They returned to the living room and the society of Blake. He met them
with a scowl. He chose to interpret the fact that he had been left alone
in the light of an insult. He was surly, glaring at Angus. The coffee,
cold meat and pickles which presently appeared did not change his mood.
The liquor dying in him left a full-sized grouch as a legacy.

Angus ignored his attitude. Faith tried to make conversation, but it was
a failure. Time passed and it grew late. Apparently Blake was waiting
out Angus. The latter did not know what to do, but he had no intention
of leaving Blake behind him. Finally, however, he was forced to make a
move. He bade Faith good night. She turned to Blake.

"Good night, Blake."

"Oh, I'm not going yet," he announced.

"It's late, Blake, and I'm tired."

"I want to talk to you."

"Not to-night, please. Come to-morrow."

"No, I'll talk to you to-night."

"Not to-night, Blake."

"Well, you will," Blake declared with an oath. "Trying to get rid of me,
are you? And I suppose this Mackay--"

"That will do now," Angus interrupted. "Be careful what you say."

"Say!" Blake roared, his temper getting the better of his prudence,
"I'll say what I like. What business have you hanging around here? It's
time--"

"It's time you went," Angus told him, "and you're going, do you savvy?
Come along, or I'll take you."

"You--" Blake began, but got no further, for Angus slapped the words
back against his teeth and caught him by wrist and collar.

The struggle was short and sharp. A couple of chairs went over. And then
Angus got his grip.

"Give him th' bummer's run!" shrieked Mrs. Foley from the door.

"Open the front door!" Angus commanded Gus.

When it was open he shot Blake through with a rush and outside released
him.

"Now, Blake French, I want to tell you something," he said. "You have a
dirty tongue in your head. See that you keep it between your teeth, and
mind that never again do you come here drunk. For as sure as you do and
I hear of it, I will break half the bones in your body. Is that plain
enough for you?"

Blake swore deeply. "I'll get you for this," he threatened.

"Then get me right," said Angus, "for the next time I lay my hands on
you I will break you. Remember that."

Riding homeward beside Gus he thought over the events of the evening. It
seemed fated that he should lock horns with Blake. He regretted that he
had not thrown him out sooner. For the latter's threat he did not care
at all. As he looked at it Blake had not enough sand to make his words
good.

"Ay tank," said Gus, "dat faller, Blake, he'd do purty dirty trick."

"Maybe."

Gus was silent for a mile.

"Dat's purty fine voman," he announced.

"Yes," Angus agreed absently, "Miss Winton is a fine girl."

"Ay ent mean her," said Gus; "Ay mean dae Irish voman."

Angus grinned in the darkness. "Sure," he said, "she's a fine, strong
woman."

Gus sighed.




CHAPTER XXIV

A DEMAND AND AN ANSWER


A few days after the episode with Blake, Angus busy in his workshop
ironing a set of whiffletrees, had a visit from Godfrey French. French
made the reason of it plain at once.

"You know," he said, "that I have offered to buy my niece's land. She
doesn't want to sell, and in that I am under the impression that she is
acting on your advice? Is that so?"

"At first I advised her to sell," Angus told him, "but when I thought it
over it seemed to me she shouldn't be in a hurry."

French studied him for a moment. "What made you alter your advice?"

"It doesn't pay to be in too much of a hurry to sell."

"And sometimes it doesn't pay to refuse a fair offer. Now I was always
opposed to this foolish idea of hers that she could ranch, but I
couldn't prevent her doing it. I made up my mind, however, that she
should not lose by her play; that is that I would take the place off her
hands at cost, plus whatever she had spent on improvements, providing
these were not too expensive. I can do that now, but I can't pay for
more improvements, because I am not a rich man, and I can't keep the
offer open indefinitely. She must make her choice now. And so, as she
seems to rely on your opinion, I come to you. I hope you will persuade
her to take my offer and give up the absurd idea of ranching."

Angus thought as rapidly as he could.

"She told me you wanted to buy the place for Blake."

French gave him a swift, keen glance of scrutiny.

"And you didn't believe it?"

"No," Angus admitted, "I didn't."

French laughed. "And not believing it you drew the natural conclusion
that I had some other motive. Well, I will be quite frank with you: If I
had said I wanted to buy merely to take the property off her hands she
would not have allowed me to do it. But what I said about Blake is
partly true. I don't know that he himself wants to ranch--but I want him
to settle down. So that is the situation."

Once more Angus did some swift thinking.

"I don't know what to say about it," he admitted frankly.

French's eyes narrowed a trifle in suspicion.

"Do you think she can succeed--make the ranch pay eventually?"

"No."

"Do you think the land is worth more than I have offered?"

"I don't know why it should be."

"Then why not advise her to get rid of it?"

"Because," Angus told him, "there are some things I don't understand at
all."

"For instance?"

"Well, in the first place the price her father paid was much more than
the land was worth at the time."

"Doesn't that make my offer all the fairer?"

"I don't understand how it was paid at all. The land wasn't worth half
of it then."

"That is a matter of opinion."

"There is no opinion about it. It's a matter of fact. Just as good land
could have been bought for two or three dollars an acre. And yet you
invested Winton's money in this at ten dollars."

"Excuse me, but I did nothing of the sort. Winton had seen the land,
wanted it, and was looking for something to hold for years. As a matter
of fact, I advised him not to buy, because I considered the land too far
back to be readily salable if he ever wished to dispose of it. But he
instructed me to buy at the price at which it was held. I can show you
his letter to that effect."

As this was entirely different from Faith's version, Angus was taken
aback. "But," he said, "last fall Braden tried to sell part of it to
Chetwood. How could he do that when it wasn't his?"

"I told Braden to try to sell it, because the sale, if it had gone
through, would have given her in cash a large part of her father's
investment, and no doubt she would have ratified it. I thought and still
think it was the best thing that could be done. I understand that you
were responsible for that sale falling through."

"It's a dry ranch, except for the spring."

"Nonsense! There's a water record."

"That record is more nonsense. You ought to know that if you are
thinking of buying the place for Blake."

"I take that risk when I offer to purchase."

"Yes," Angus admitted, "and that's another thing I don't understand."

French's gray brows drew together for an instant.

"If it is in my interest not to buy isn't it in my niece's interest to
sell?"

"It looks like it," Angus admitted, "but still I don't understand--"

"What?" Godfrey French demanded as Angus paused. "I have explained as
well as I can. Do you mean that my explanations are not satisfactory?"

"Perhaps."

"In what particular?"

"They don't seem to explain."

"What do you mean by that?" Godfrey French rasped. "Do you mean that you
question the truth of my words?" He frowned at Angus angrily.

"You are putting words into my mouth," Angus replied. "But I mean just
this: The land was worth only about a quarter of what was paid for it.
You and Braden both knew it. If you had told Winton that, he wouldn't
have paid what he did unless he was crazy. I wonder why you let him pay
it. Now you want to buy back worthless land, and I wonder why."

Their eyes met and held each other. In those of each was suspicion,
hostility. French moistened dry lips.

"I admire your frankness," he said. "Have you told my niece that in your
opinion the land is worthless?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I would rather not say."

"I insist on an answer."

"Very well," Angus returned. "I did not tell her, because she would have
wondered what sort of a man you were to let her father load himself up
with stuff like that, and I was not trying to make trouble."

Godfrey French's fists clenched. "Thirty years ago," he said, "for that
you should have proved to me what sort of a man _you_ were."

"Well, I can't help your age," Angus retorted. "I would not have told
you, but you would have it."

"There are some things," said Godfrey French, "which it seems you do not
understand. But understand this very clearly. Hereafter you will keep
your nose out of things that don't concern you. You will keep away from
me and mine, which includes my niece. Do you understand that?"

"I hear what you say," Angus returned. "But nobody but herself is going
to forbid me to go to your niece's ranch."

"I forbid you," said Godfrey French. "I won't have you hanging around
there. I won't have her name coupled with yours."

"I did not know it was being coupled," Angus said, "and I do not think
it is. But if it is--what then?"

"What then!" Godfrey French exclaimed. "Have you the consummate
impudence to imagine that my niece would think twice of an ignorant
young hawbuck without birth or education? Bah! You're a young fool!"

At the words, entirely insolent, vibrant with contempt, a hot fire of
anger began to blow within Angus. With all his heart he wished that
Godfrey French had been minus the thirty years he had regretted.

"Those are hard words," he said, and it was characteristic of him that
as his anger rose his voice was very quiet.

"True words," Godfrey French returned.

"At any rate," Angus told him, "I make a clean living by hard work."

"And I suppose you think 'A man's a man for a' that,'" Godfrey French
sneered. "Don't give me any rotten nonsense about democracy and
equality."

"I am not going to," Angus replied. "I think myself that every tub
should stand on its own bottom. But if, as you seem to think, there is
something in a man's blood, then perhaps mine is as good as your own."

"Fine blood!" Godfrey French commented with bitter irony. "Wild, hairy
Highlanders, caterans and reivers for five hundred years!"

"Ay," Angus Mackay agreed with a grim smile, "and maybe for five hundred
years back of that. But always pretty men of their hands, good friends
and bad enemies, and ill to frighten or drive." Then, following the
custom of his blood, he returned insult for insult. He launched it
deliberately, coldly. "And it is not claiming much for the blood of a
Mackay to say it is as good as that which comes from any shockheaded
kernes spawned by a Galway bog."

White to his twitching lips, Godfrey French struck him in the face.
Angus caught his hand, but made no attempt to return the blow.

"I think you had better go," he said. "You have too many years on your
head for me."

Godfrey French stepped back.

"That is my misfortune," he said. "Well--I have sons. Remember what I
told you, young man."

"I will remember," Angus said, "and I will do as I please. If your sons
try to make your words good they will find a rough piece of road."

He watched Godfrey French drive away, and turned back to his work. But
presently he gave it up, sat down and stared at vacancy. For an hour he
sat, and was aroused from his brown study by Jean.

"I've called and called you," she told him.

"For what?"

"For supper, of course. Heavens, Angus, what's wrong that you forget
your meals?"

He did not answer for a moment.

"I have been making up my mind about something."

"About what?"

"Just something I am going to do. I will tell you later."

He ate supper, and immediately saddled Chief and rode away in the
direction of Faith Winton's ranch.

Faith listened in amazement as he told her of the high price her father
had paid; of the abortive sale and his discovery that the land was
non-irrigable; and finally of French's request that he should advise her
to sell.

"But why didn't you tell me these things before?"

"I could not very well tell you while you were under his roof."

"No, I suppose not. You are sure of what you say--that the land could
have been bought for so much less then, and that I can't get water on it
now?"

"Absolutely."

"Then why does he want to buy the ranch now?"

"I wish I knew."

"I am going to find out before I sell it. He lied about Blake, and I
don't believe he just wants to take it off my hands. There is some other
reason."

"I think so myself, but I don't know what it is. There is something else
though. We had a few hard words, and the upshot of the whole thing was
that he forbade me to have anything to do with him or his. I suppose he
has that right. But also he forbade me to come here."

The girl stared at him, amazed.

"Is he crazy? He has no right--"

"So I told him."

"And you will always be welcome, while the ranch is mine, or beneath any
roof that is mine."

"Thank you," he said simply.

"But this is beyond everything!" she flamed indignantly. "I am not a
child. I make my own friends. I will tell him--"

"He is an old man. Pay no attention to it. I am sorry, now, that I said
to him what I did."

"What did you quarrel about? Tell me!"

"About the whole thing, I think."

"Then it was all on my account. From first to last, I've made trouble
for you. I am sorry."

"You needn't be. All the trouble you have made me is a joy."

"Why--Angus!" The color rose in the girl's cheeks.

"Didn't you know it?"

"I know you have been very--good--to me."

"You have known more than that," he said.

"No, good heavens, no! Angus--"

"I have only known it myself since that day in the rain," he
interrupted. "Before that, I thought I was only helping you, as I would
have helped any woman--or man, either. But then I knew it was something
else. And to-day when Godfrey French said he would not have our names
coupled together--"

"Oh!" the girl cried sharply.

"And that you would not think twice of a rough, uneducated man like
myself," he pursued. "I decided to find out to-night whether he was
right or wrong."

"He was wrong!" she cried. "That is--I mean--that you are not rough and
uneducated, and--"

"I am both," Angus admitted gravely. "I have worked hard since I was a
boy, and what education I have I have got for myself. In that he was
right. And so I find it very hard to tell you what I want to, as a woman
should be told, because words do not come to my tongue easily, and never
did. The thoughts I have had I have always kept to myself, for that, and
because there was no one who would understand even if I could have put
them into words. And this is all I can say, that I love you as a man
loves one woman in his lifetime, and I want you for my wife. Is it yes
or no, Faith?"

"But--Angus--I never thought of such a thing--not really, I mean. You
were always kind, helpful, but never like--like--"

"Never like a lover?"

"Well--no."

Angus laid his great hands on her shoulders. The ordinary grimness of
his face was lacking. It was replaced by something ineffably tender.
Slowly he drew her to him until they stood breast to breast.

"I can be like a lover, Faith," he said, "if you will have it so."

For a long moment Faith Winton's clear eyes looked into his, and then
went blank as she searched her own heart for an answer and found it.

"I will have it so--dear!" she said.




CHAPTER XXV

CROSS CURRENTS


Jean Mackay, rustling through the house with broom and duster after
breakfast, came on her brother reading what at first glance she took to
be a magazine. This gave her what was destined to be the first of a
string of surprises, for Angus never loafed around the house.

"Shoo! Get out of here!" she said. "You'll get all choked with dust. I
declare I don't know where all the dirt comes from."

In proof of her words she raised a cloud which made him cough. "Told you
so," she said. "Do go somewhere else, Angus. You're only in my way."

"In a minute," he replied, frowning at his reading.

"Where did you go last night--to Faith's?"

"Uh-huh!"

"You might have asked me to go along."

"Huh!"

"You're extra polite this morning!" his sister observed with irony.
"Whatever are you reading? Well, of all things! A jeweler's catalogue!
What on earth--"

Angus held it out to her.

"Here," he said, "I know nothing about such things. Pick out a ring."

"A ring!" Miss Jean exclaimed, astounded. "I don't want a ring, I mean I
can get along without one."

"That's lucky," said her brother, "because the ring I want you to pick
out is for Faith."

"Good Lord!" cried Miss Jean, and fell limply upon a couch. Recovering
herself she rushed upon him, threw her arms around his neck, and
punctuated her words with emphatic hugs. "You big, old fraud. But I'm
glad, really I am. When--where--"

"Last night," Angus told her. "That was what I was making up my mind
about. I didn't know whether I should ask her just now."

"Why shouldn't you? If she cares--"

"It wasn't that. You see I owe a good deal of money."

"How much?" asked Jean, who knew little about the finances of the ranch.

"Nearly ten thousand dollars."

"What?" gasped Jean. "Impossible."

"Nothing impossible about it. That includes the principal of the
mortgage father gave Braden when he bought that timber that was burnt
out afterwards. When I had to run the ranch I couldn't pay much
interest, and Braden carried it along. Then of course there was the hail
last year, and the drouth this. And I had to borrow money from him on my
note, to pay something that wasn't my fault, but couldn't be helped. Now
I have just had a letter from Braden saying that the mortgage and note
are past due. I suppose that's a matter of form, and I can make
arrangements with him."

"And with all that you sent me off to get an education," said Jean
bitterly. "Oh, I wish--"

"That was a mere drop in the bucket. Nobody can take that away from you,
no matter what happens. Now about this ring--"

"Do you think you should buy one--now?"

"I would buy a ring and a good one now if it took my share of the
ranch," Angus declared frowning. "You will pick out one that she can
wear in any company at all. Find out what she prefers, and get one like
it but a good deal better, and never mind the cost. And to save trouble,
you had better order a wedding ring at the same time."

"Quick work!" beamed Miss Jean. "When _is_ the wedding?"

"Wedding? I don't know," Angus admitted. "We didn't talk about that."

"You're going to buy a wedding ring and you don't know when you'll be
married?" Miss Jean cried scandalized.

"Well, we'll be married some time. I always order more repair parts of
machinery than I want, and they always come in handy. So will the ring."

"Repairs! Machinery! Oh, my grief!" ejaculated Miss Jean. "I suppose you
_have_ a soul, but--Oh, well never mind!" She threw her broom recklessly
at a corner, and her dust cap after it. "Go and saddle Pincher for me,
will you? And you men will have to get your own dinner. I'm going over
to spend the day with my _sister_!"

When she had gone, burning up the trail toward Faith's ranch, Angus
saddled Chief and rode to town, taking with him the notice he had
received from Mr. Braden. He looked upon it as a matter of form, and
attached little importance to it. With the undoubted security of the
ranch he anticipated no difficulty in securing an extension.

"Of course," he said to his creditor, "I don't suppose this means just
what it says."

"It means exactly what it says," Mr. Braden informed him. "The loan is
very badly in arrears, and I have made up my mind to call it in."

"But the security is good for double the money."

"Security isn't money. You are away behind. Then there is that note,
past due. I can't let these things run on indefinitely."

"You always told me not to worry about interest payments."

"It doesn't look as if you did worry about them. I carried you along
because you were a mere boy, and under the circumstances I couldn't
press for money. But you have increased your debt instead of decreasing
it. I have been easy, that's what I've been--too easy. I can look back
at my dealings with you," Mr. Braden continued with virtuous
satisfaction, "and I can truly say that I have dealt tenderly with
the--er--fatherless. But of course there's a limit."

"Well, if you feel that way about it, the only way I can pay up is to
get a loan elsewhere."

"There's another way," Mr. Braden told him. "I make the suggestion to
help you out, principally. If you will sell the place I will take it
over at a fair price, and pay you the difference in cash."

"I don't want to sell."

"Think it over. The ranch is saddled with a heavy debt. _You_ are
saddled with more than a young man should be called on to carry. _You_
are the one who will have to pay, if you keep the ranch, by your own
hard work. You will be handicapped for years, deprived of many things
you would otherwise have. On the other hand," Mr. Braden continued,
warming to his subject, "if you sold this place all debt would be wiped
out, you would have a nice lump sum in cash, and you would be as free
as--er--birds. You could take a year's holiday, travel, or," he added,
seeing no signs of enthusiasm in Angus' face, "you could go into one of
the new districts just opening up, buy virgin land, full of--of--er--"

"Full of alkali?" Angus suggested gravely.

"Alkali! Not at all," said Mr. Braden frowning. "'Potentialities' was
the word I had in mind. Yes, full of potentialities. In a new district
you would become prosperous, free from the ball and chain of debt. That
is the sensible course. Now what do you think of it?"

"Not much," said Angus.

"Huh! Why not?" Mr. Braden inquired, plainly disappointed at this
reception of his disinterested advice.

"Because I have a good ranching proposition here. And you wouldn't pay
what the land will be worth some day if I hang on."

"What will it be worth?"

"About a hundred dollars an acre."

"You're right, I wouldn't pay it," Mr. Braden concurred. "Ridiculous. I
would give you say twenty dollars, all around, and that's more than it's
worth."

"Just as it stands--stock, implements and all?"

Mr. Braden looked at Angus, but failed to read his face.

"That's what I had in mind. But if you were making a start elsewhere and
needed some of the implements and stock--why I wouldn't insist. Say for
the land alone."

Angus laughed.

"All right, laugh!" said Mr. Braden frowning. "Go and get a new loan,
then. And don't lose any time about it, either."

"You seem to be in a hurry."

"I never delay business matters," Mr. Braden replied. "Get your loan,
and get it at once. Otherwise I shall exercise the rights which the
mortgage gives me."

"That is plain enough," said Angus.

"It's intended to be," said Mr. Braden.

Thence Angus went to Judge Riley's office and told him the situation.
The Judge jotted figures on a pad.

"To clean up you will want nearly eleven thousand dollars," he said.
"That's a large sum for this country."

"The property is worth three or four times that."

"Yes, on a basis of land at so much per acre. But uncultivated land
isn't productive. You have to pay interest out of what you grow. Few
concerns will lend money on raw land. Then you are borrowing to pay off
accumulated debts, and not to improve property, buy stock or the like.
These things have an important bearing. You may have trouble in getting
money. And I think Braden will try to see that you have."

"What will he have to do with it?"

"Bless your innocence, he knows the loan companies operating here, and
their appraisers. They'll ask him what sort of a borrower you have been
and are apt to be, and why he is calling his loan in, and he'll knock
you as hard as he can. He doesn't want the loan paid off. He wants to
sell you out, and buy the place in. He is still at the old game. He'll
try to work it now by a mortgage sale."

"But that would be a public sale. He'd have to bid against others."

"Nobody in this country has money enough to pay a fair price for the
ranch as a whole. That would practically knock out competition. That's
what he is counting on."

"He hasn't got me yet," said Angus. "It's funny, but old French is
trying to buy out Miss Winton, too." He told the lawyer of French's
offer.

"Then Braden is putting up the money for French," the lawyer deduced. "I
don't understand it any more than you do, but I do know that neither of
these men would knowingly buy anything valueless. So far as your place
is concerned, the value is there. As to the other it doesn't seem to be.
But I think you did right in advising her not to sell."

Angus rode homeward thoughtfully. His thoughts affected his pace, and so
when under ordinary circumstances he would have been home, he was little
more than halfway. Chief suddenly pricked his ears, and Angus became
aware of Kathleen French upon her favorite horse, Finn. She seemed to
have been riding hard, for his coat was wet and his flanks drawn and
working.

"What's the hurry?" he asked. She brushed her loosened hair away from
her forehead.

"He wanted to run and I let him. I'll ride along with you now."

"I suppose you know that your father wouldn't like it?"

"This isn't the Middle Ages," she replied scornfully. "These family
feuds make me tired. I have no quarrel with you."

"I don't want to make trouble for you."

"You won't," she told him. "I can look after myself."

They descended a steep grade, which at the bottom made a sharp turn
opening upon a flat through which ran a little creek. As they made the
turn they came face to face with Blake French, Gerald and Larry. At
sight of Kathleen their faces expressed astonishment. Blake uttered an
oath.

"What the devil are you doing with him?" he demanded.

"Riding with Angus Mackay!" said his sister. "I'll ride with any one I
like, when I like. Do you get that, Blake? Pull out. You're blocking the
trail."

Gerald French laughed. "I thought you were up to something, Kit."

"That's what I thought about you," she retorted.

As Angus rode past the French boys, who had not addressed him at all, he
met their eyes. Their stares were level, hard, insolent. He rode on,
half angry and much puzzled. Kathleen lifted her horse into a lope and
he followed. Then she pulled to a walk.

"The boys didn't like you being with me," he said.

"Never mind what they like. I'm glad I was in time--" She broke off, but
a sudden light dawned on Angus.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Is that what you were running your horse for? You
mean they were waiting for me?"

He wheeled Chief abruptly, but more quickly she spun Finn on his heels,
blocking the back trail.

"I won't let you go back!" she cried.

"That was a nice trick to play on a man!" he told her indignantly.

"And that's a man gratitude!" she retorted bitterly.

"Gratitude! I know you meant well, and I thank you. But it looks as if I
had hidden behind your skirts, and I am not that kind of a man. I am
going back."

"You are not. I won't have any trouble between you and the boys to-day.
You said you didn't want to make trouble. Well, then, don't."

"I don't want to make trouble, but I am not going to run away from it.
If your brothers want to take up their father's quarrel--and I am not
saying they haven't the right to, mind you--I will meet them half way.
I am not going to be hunted by them in a pack. I don't have to be
rounded up. If there is going to be trouble I am going to have some say
about the time of it."

"And so am I," Kathleen declared. "I will put a stop to this."

"Men's affairs must be settled by men," he told her.

"I believe you are all savages at heart," she said. "This will blow over
if you will let it. Whether you like it or not, I am going to interfere.
I blame Blake for this."

"You may be right. I had to put him out of Faith's house the other
night. He was drunk."

"Pah!" said Blake's sister in disgust. "I'm glad you told me. He has
been going there lately, I knew. Well, I'll see that he stops _that_."

"You need not bother. I will look after that myself. Faith won't be
there long."

"Is she going to sell? I'm glad of it."

"I don't know about selling. But she is coming to my ranch."

"On a visit to Jean?"

"No, she is going to marry me."

The girl stared at him. He saw a flood of color rush to her cheeks and
recede, leaving her face white. Her strong hand gripped the saddle horn
hard.

"She is--going--to marry you!" she said in a voice little more than a
whisper.

"Yes," Angus replied, "why shouldn't she? She is too good for me, I
know, but I hope you don't think, like your father, that I am not fit to
marry her."

Kathleen French smiled with stiff lips.

"What rot!" she said. "I didn't know my father thought anything of the
kind, and certainly I don't. I hope you will be very happy. When did it
happen?"

Angus told her, but it was a subject on which he did not care to
enlarge. Where the trail forked to the French ranch they parted and he
rode on. But if he had turned back and ridden half a mile on the other
trail, and two hundred yards to the right behind a thick growth of
cottonwoods, he would have seen a girl lying on the ground, her face
buried in her arms, while a big, bay horse with a sweat-dried coat stood
by flicking the flies and regarding his mistress wonderingly.




CHAPTER XXVI

CONSPIRACY


On the chance that, after all, water might be got on Faith's ranch,
Angus had his own levels checked by a surveyor. The result was to
confirm them. Thus most of the level land was undoubtedly worthless for
agricultural purposes. As for the rest of the property, it was hill and
coulee and included the round mountain. Angus had ridden over it and
hunted through it and he thought he had nothing to learn about it. He
dismissed it with contempt. The only reasonable explanation of French's
desire to purchase seemed to be that he was acting for Braden and that
Braden had some purchaser in view. That being so, it would pay to hold
out for a better offer.

So far as his own affairs were concerned, the outlook was not promising.
His loan applications were turned down cold by various loan companies,
as Judge Riley had feared. And one day he received a formal demand for
payment of mortgage and note, coupled with an intimation that, failing
immediate payment, legal proceedings would follow.

"Yes, I thought this was about due," Judge Riley said when Angus showed
him the letter of Mr. Braden's lawyers. "There are no grounds for
defending the actions, that I know of."

"The money is owing, no doubt about it. And I can't pay it."

"Then it will have to be realized upon the security. I'm sorry, my boy.
I don't know where you can raise a loan. If I had the money I'd lend it
to you myself, but I haven't. Braden will get his judgments and sell."

Angus himself saw nothing else for it. This, then, was the end of his
years of work, of struggle, of self-denial. The land he had promised his
father to hold would be sold and bid in by Braden for a fraction of its
value. For himself, so far as the financial loss went, he did not care
especially. But with it Jean's share would be swallowed up. Without any
fault of his own, so far as he could see, he had failed in his duty to
her. And the thought was bitter.

As he walked down the street his thoughts went back over the years. He
could not attribute his failure to lack of hard work, to lack of
planning, to lack of care. All these he had given, without stint. The
seasons had been against him, but they had been against others. He had
lost cattle mysteriously, but that was merely an incident. There was the
fire which had destroyed his hay, but his own brother was responsible
for that. Finally there was the ruin of his present crop by the
destruction of the ditch. That was the only definite act of hostility on
which he could lay his finger. But apart from that he could not have
paid Braden.

If he was to lose the ranch it did not matter who had wrecked his ditch.
Turkey would be hoist by his own petard. Angus smiled grimly at the
thought that his brother had contributed to his own loss. And just then
he saw Turkey going through the door of Braden's office. To Angus it was
as if a searchlight had been turned upon a dark corner, as if a switch
had been closed establishing a connection.

Up to that moment he had seen no object, other than spite, in the
wrecking of the ditch. But now, as things were turning out anything
which injured him financially would further Braden's carefully laid
plans to obtain the ranch. Might he not be responsible? There, at last,
was motive, the thing he had sought vainly.

The idea was new and amazing. But once formed it grew in probability.
Would Turkey deliberately lend himself to a plan to deprive not only
Angus but Jean and himself of the ranch? Likely he had not thought of
that. The boy had been a catspaw without knowing Braden's ultimate
purpose. There were others besides Braden in the game. Braden himself
did not do the work of destruction; but no doubt he had instigated and
paid for it. As to these others, Angus made up his mind to settle the
score with them if he ever found out their identity. Never again would
he lay a hand on Turkey. As for Braden--his mouth twisted scornfully at
the thought of the latter's fat body in his grip.

But Turkey's visit to Mr. Braden's office was with quite a different
object than Angus' interpretation of it. Between Turkey and Mr. Braden
there was little more cordiality than on the day when the latter had
patted the boy on the head. When he had left the ranch Mr. Braden had
extended sympathy, condemned Angus for harshness; but Turkey had been
unresponsive. He looked on family quarrels as the exclusive property of
the family.

Turkey knew of the mortgage which Mr. Braden held but nothing of its
condition. The burden of financing the ranch had been upon Angus, and he
had not shared it. Nor did Turkey know anything of the further sum Angus
had borrowed. And so Turkey, if he thought of the mortgage at all,
assumed that it was all right. It was Angus' business.

He heard of the action which Mr. Braden was taking quite by accident. On
the occasion when Angus had seen him entering the office he had gone
there merely with reference to a transaction in cattle in which Garland
was interested. But on hearing that Braden had launched a mortgage
action, he went there to get first-hand information.

"Do you mean," he queried with a scowl when Mr. Braden had stated the
case succinctly, "that the ranch will be sold?"

"I am afraid there is nothing else for it," Mr. Braden replied in
regretful tones. "I offered to buy it at a fair price, but your brother
wouldn't sell."

"He wouldn't, hey!"

Mr. Braden shook his head sadly. "I am sorry to say that the present
condition of affairs is due to his recklessness and mismanagement."

"Huh!" said Turkey.

"It would have been much better," said Mr. Braden, "if I had insisted
upon my original view after your father cash--er--was called hence. I
felt that your brother was incompetent, and results have proved it. I
was weak; yes, I admit that I was weak."

"Then the size of it is, that we lose the ranch?"

"If my claim is satisfied otherwise I shall be very glad. But of course
I have to protect myself."

"Who gets it? You?"

"It will be sold publicly to the highest bidder."

"Is that you?"

"I may have to bid it in to protect myself," Mr. Braden explained. "It
is forced on me, and I fear others--you and your sister--must suffer for
your brother's incompetence."

Turkey, scowling said nothing for a moment.

"I remember the day you came to the ranch after father died," he said at
last irrelevantly.

"Um," Mr. Braden returned. "I felt very deeply for you in your
bereavement. You were quite a small boy then. I--er--patted you on the
head."

"I didn't know you then," said Turkey, "but do you know what I thought?"

"No," smiled Mr. Braden. "I suppose you stood somewhat in awe of me, my
boy."

"I thought you were a fat, old crook," Turkey announced.

"Hey!" Mr. Braden ejaculated.

"Of course, I know you better now," Turkey added.

"Yes, yes, just so," said Mr. Braden with comprehension. "Childish
impressions. Most amusing. Ha-ha! Huh!"

Turkey looked him in the eye.

"And now you're fatter and older," he said deliberately, "and I believe
you're a damned sight crookeder than I thought you were then. You
pork-faced old mortgage shark, I'll like to burn your ears off with a
gun!"

Mr. Braden gasped. Turkey's voice was as venomous as his words. His
hard, young mouth twisted bitterly as he spoke. "You're damned anxious
to sell the ranch, aren't you?" he went on. "Angus had the right steer
about you. He thought you were trying to put something over. I was a
kid, and he wasn't much more, but we both had you sized for a crook.
Well, we're not kids now. Since I left the ranch I've been hearing about
you. I'll tell you what I've heard."

Mr. Braden expressed no undue anxiety to hear. "I don't know what you
have heard and I don't care. If you can't talk decently, get out of
here."

"In a minute," said Turkey, "when I've told you what I think of you."

His spoken opinion caused Mr. Braden to change color from time to time,
but the prevailing hue was red.

"Get out of my office!" he roared, rearing his impressive bulk against
Turkey's slimness. "Get out or I'll throw you out!"

"Shucks!" said Turkey with contempt, and dug a hard, young thumb into
Mr. Braden's forward over-hang. "That's the only thing you can throw
out, you old tub of lard. You'll drop dead some day with a rotten heart.
And now I'm telling you something: I guess I can't stop you from selling
the ranch, but if you do, I'll get you somehow, if you live long
enough."

Turkey, as he went down the street from this interview, was in a
poisonous temper. His was the impotent rage of youth, which failing
expression in physical violence, finds itself at a complete loss. Though
he had said a number of highly insulting things, he was not satisfied.
He told himself that he did not care a hoot about Angus, nor about his
own prospective share in the ranch, which would be wiped out by a forced
sale. But he thought it hard luck for Jean. In spite of their quarrel,
he recognized that his brother had done most of the work for years. The
thought that a pork-faced old mortgage shark should get the ranch that
had been his father's was bitter.

However, he did not know what could be done about it. No doubt Angus had
consulted old Riley. The law was against him. The darn law, Turkey
reflected, was always against the ordinary man, which was not to be
wondered at since it was made by darn crooks. Coming such, Turkey
unconsciously sighed for the good, old days of stock which had no
special respect for the law, as days when dispossession was attended by
difficulties other than legal.

Under the circumstances, it seemed to Turkey that he should have a
drink. To get it he went around the block to a hostelry immediately
behind Mr. Braden's office. There he had a drink with the proprietor,
one Tom Hall. Then Tom had one with him. Five minutes later both had two
more with two strangers. Hall took his drinks from a private bottle
which contained cold tea. But four drinks of the kind he dispensed to
customers furnished a very fair foundation. Turkey had nothing
particular to do. Thus the end of a decidedly imperfect day found him
gently slumbering in an upstairs room of Tom's place.

When he awoke it was dark. He did not know where he was, and did not
care. Being young and in perfect health he had not the traditional
"splitting head." He was very dry, but that was all. He lay still, and
remembered that Tom had helped him to that room, taken off his boots and
told him to sleep it off. Apparently he had.

The window was open and the night air blew softly upon his face,
bringing with it the sound of voices from the next room. He heard the
scraping of chairs, the pop of a safety match, the clink of glass. Then
the voices became more audible, as if the occupants of the room had
drawn closer to the window. Listening idly, Turkey caught his own
surname. In a moment it was repeated.

In spite of the adage concerning what listeners are apt to hear of
themselves, and all honorable theories against eavesdropping, the
average person hearing his own name will prick up his ears. Turkey
rolled softly out of the bed, and in his stockinged feet went to the
window.

It was a rear window, looking out upon the roofs of sheds and the backs
of other buildings. The night was dark and, save for a soft breeze,
quiet. The first words Turkey heard were calculated to destroy any
scruples.

"I thought the boys were going to beat Mackay up," said a voice which at
first he could not identify. Another voice which he knew for Garland's
replied:

"They will, later. Blake has it in for him good and plenty."

"Over that girl on the dry ranch, I s'pose," the other speculated.

"There's a lot of things."

"Blake's a darn fool," said the other, and now Turkey knew the voice. It
was Poole's. "He's too fond of women and booze. He's in a mess right
now. That klootch wants him to marry her."

"She's got another guess coming."

"Well," said Poole judicially, "if he ain't going to marry her, if I was
him I'd pull out for a while. Some of her folks might lay for him."

"She hasn't got any folks but her grandfather."

"At that, some of these old bucks is bad medicine. Well, it's none of
our funeral. When will the Mackay ranch be sold?"

"Soon as the old man can work it. I wish we could touch him up for some
coin. I'm broke."

"Me, too," said Poole. "Trouble is we ain't got nothing on him. We
couldn't give him away without giving ourselves away, and he knows it.
We couldn't prove a darn thing, anyway. _He_ didn't rustle them cattle
either time, nor he didn't blow out Mackay's ditch in the dry spell. We
couldn't prove that he even knew of them things, let alone framed 'em up
and paid for 'em. He'd give us the laugh if we tried to hold him up."

Turkey, leaning out into the night, listened in amazement. So the stock
had been rustled. The speaker could not refer to anything else. But what
was this about the ditch? Turkey made a swift deduction which was fairly
accurate. That was what Angus meant when he had demanded the names of
men responsible for something unknown to Turkey. Somehow, Angus had
connected him with it. It must have been through his knife. That must
have been found on the ground, and Angus had naturally assumed that he
had been there. At this point obstinacy had prevented an understanding,
set him and Angus at cross-purposes, and led to a fresh quarrel.

Turkey ground his teeth softly and cursed beneath his breath. So that
was the stuff that was being put over on Angus. The "old man" must be
Braden. For the first time, Turkey began to see clearly through the
mists of hurt, boyish pride, to perceive realities undistorted by
youthful grievances. Angus might not have been tactful--but he had been
right. And he, Turkey, instead of helping his own had deserted them.

In Turkey's inner being sounded the rallying call of the blood. It was
no time for family feuds. If he had been a young fool, he would make up
for it. He would play a lone hand, taking his time, and he would play
more than even. But now he must not lose a word.

"The old man's pretty darn smooth," Poole went on. "Take that time he
lent Mackay money to make good them bets he was holdin'. That put Mackay
further in the hole to him. It's lucky Mackay don't know who rapped him
on the head and rolled him that night. You get a feller like him on the
prod, and I'd rather take chances on a mad grizzly. You take that kid
brother of his, too. There's a bad actor. You can see it in his eye."

"He's just a young fool," Garland said contemptuously. "He hates his
brother like poison. I wish he'd blown his head off. There was some sort
of a gun play, I know."

"And that's what I'm tellin' you. The big man would kill a man with his
hands, but the kid would go for a gun fast and quiet. If he knew he'd
been trailed home that night he was full and the stack fired, there'd be
trouble."

"If the stable had gone with the hay it would have thrown a crimp into
Mackay. I don't savvy why it didn't go. The wind was right."

Suddenly the blackness of the back wall of the building opposite was
split by a slot of light, revealing a railed landing on a level with the
second story. A bulky figure stepped out and the light disappeared. Came
the creak of wooden steps beneath a heavy body. Garland swore softly.

"There he is now!"

"The old man?"

"Sure. There's an outside flight of steps from the back up to his room.
I wonder what he's up to. Douse our light for a minute."

The light in the next room went out and Turkey drew back. His neighbors
evidently occupied the window. From the darkness beneath came the sound
of a badly-hung door rasping on its hinges.

"There's a shed down there he keeps a lot of old plunder in," Garland
observed.

A silence of minutes and the door rasped again. Following that came a
series of metallic sounds and once more the creak of steps. The slot of
light of an open doorway appeared again. The bulky figure showed in it,
carrying some heavy object hung in its right hand. Then the door
closed, all but a crack through which a light filtered.

"He was carrying something," said Garland. "Could you see what it was?"

"No. Sounded like a milk can or a tin trunk."

The light went on again in the next room, but the men moved away from
the window, and Turkey heard no more than odd snatches of conversation
which were not relevant to his affairs. Listening proving unprofitable,
Turkey softly opened his door and carrying his boots went downstairs.
Nobody seemed to be about. He went down a hall to a rear door and slid
out into the night. Thence he picked his way through the litter of a
back yard to the foot of the flight of steps which led to Mr. Braden's
apartments, and leaving his boots at the bottom ascended with great
care.

Turkey had identified the object which Mr. Braden had brought back with
him as a typewriter in its carrying case. To Turkey it seemed
mysterious. Why should Braden who had two perfectly good machines in his
office below, go out the back way and bring in a machine from an old
shed? It was funny. But he had made up his mind to find out all he could
about Braden and his doings, and to start at once. Braden had been
playing a crooked game right along. If Turkey could catch him in
anything--get something on him--it might help to save the ranch. If not
that, it would help him to play even. He put his eye to the crack of the
door.

He saw Braden and Godfrey French. They were at a table on which stood a
typewriter, and Braden appeared to be signing some legal documents. They
were talking, but Turkey could not distinguish words. Presently French
rose, folded up some papers and put them in an inner pocket. Braden went
with him to the door which was the ordinary entrance to the apartment,
and gave upon a hall and flight of stairs leading down to the office.

Turkey went down the outside stairs and put on his boots. He was
disappointed in not being able to over-hear their conversation, but he
had heard a good deal that night.

What would he do?




CHAPTER XXVII

WHILE SHELLING PEAS


Miss Jean, spick and span in a cool dress of wash fabric, took a
critical survey of herself in the mirror, and adjusted a wide shade hat
at exactly the right angle. Then, taking a bright tin pan she sallied
forth into the afternoon sun. Her course led her back of the house,
through the orchard, and finally to a garden patch a couple of acres in
extent. There, by a strange coincidence, Chetwood was working among the
plants. At sight of her he paused, straightened his back and leaned upon
his hoe.

"Oh, are _you_ here?" said Miss Jean in tones of extreme surprise.
Chetwood looked down at his feet, tapped his head and finally pinched
himself.

"Rather," he announced gravely. "At least my mortal body seems to be."

"Don't let me interrupt you," said Miss Jean. "I came to pick peas."

"I'll help you."

"I don't require help, thanks."

"You might get thorns in your fingers."

"Peas haven't thorns!" said Miss Jean scathingly. "You ought to know
that by this time."

"Observation has taught me that in this world one finds thorns in the
most unexpected places. Even roses--fragrant, blushing roses--"

"Don't be absurd!"

"Then let me help you pick peas."

"But the garden needs hoeing."

"The bally thing always needs hoeing," Chetwood commented with deep
resentment. "It has an insatiable desire to be tickled with a hoe. What
a world it would be if weeds would die as easily as plants, and plants
thrive as carelessly as weeds. Bright thought, what?"

"Nonsense!" said Miss Jean.

"Oh, I say! It's really profound."

"It's profoundly silly. You had better stick to the hoe."

"My back is broken."

"Well," Miss Jean relented, "you may help me if you like."

On either side of tall vines trained on brush they began to pick the
big, fat Telephones. Now and then, in the tangle of the vines, their
fingers touched, as both reached for the same pod.

"This beats hoeing," Chetwood announced.

"I'm afraid you're lazy."

"I am. I always was. But to help a girl, especially a pret--"

"If you are going to be silly I shall go to the other end of the row."

"'O stay,' the young man said, 'and rest thy weary head up--'"

Miss Jean promptly picked up the pan and marched to the other end of the
row. Chetwood followed her.

"They _are_ better here," he said. "It's a genuine pleasure to pick such
peas together." Miss Jean did not reply. "Don't you like to pick peas
with me?"

"When you talk sensibly I don't object. There, the pan's full. Thanks
very much."

"And now we'll shell them."

"I'll take them to the house to shell."

"Please don't. Here is shade, running water, the company of an
industrious young man. You can't overlook a combination like that--if
you have a heart."

"It _is_ nice shade," Miss Jean admitted.

They sat in it, the pan piled with peas between them, and began to
shell. Miss Jean's hand diving for a pea, encountered Chetwood's and was
held fast.

"Mr. Chetwood!"

Without relinquishing his prize that gentleman set the pan aside and
with considerable agility seated himself beside Miss Jean.

"My full name is Eustace William Fitzroy Chetwood. I prefer the second.
William is a respectable name. Do you know what it means?"

"I didn't know it meant anything."

"Oh, yes; it means 'Bill.' I answer beautifully to 'Bill.'"

"Will--"

"'Bill'!"

"Will you please let go my hand?"

"'What we have we hold' is a good motto. It seems a sound system to hold
what I have."

Miss Jean sighed. "Then of course I can't shell peas, and you won't have
any for supper."

"Hang supper! Jean, darling, how long are you going to keep me in
suspense?"

"I'm not keeping you at all; and you mustn't call me 'darling.'"

"Are you going to keep me waiting seven years, as Rebecca kept Joseph?"

"It wasn't Rebecca or Joseph."

"Well, it doesn't matter; I had the waiting part of it right. I can feel
the strain telling on me, and when I look into your eyes--like this--"

Here Miss Jean shut her eyes. Chetwood being human did the natural
thing. Miss Jean wrenched her hand away and rubbed her cheek.

"How dare you!" she demanded with really first-class indignation.

"I don't know; but like Warren Hastings, I am astonished at my own
moderation. I should have kissed you before. And I am going to kiss you
again."

Though the prospect did not seem to dismay Miss Jean, she removed
herself swiftly to a distance of several feet, and further consolidated
her position by placing the pan of peas between them.

"Shell peas--Eustace!" she said. Chetwood ground a set of perfect teeth.

"You want to drive me crazy, I see that," he said. "You're too dangerous
to be running around loose. You need a firm hand--like mine. Now--"

What followed was very bad for the peas. Some minutes later Miss Jean,
raising hands to a flushed face and sadly tilted hat, regarded them in
dismay.

"Now see what you've done!"

Chetwood grinned. "Will you carry sweet peas?" he asked. "If we are
married early in September--"

"September!" Miss Jean gasped. "I couldn't think of such a thing,
Bil--ly!"

"You can when you get used to it," Chetwood assured her. "Like getting
into hot water, you know."

"It may be a good deal like it," Miss Jean observed reflectively.

"Eh! Oh, I didn't mean that."

"I know you didn't, but it might be true, all the same. We can't be
married for a long time."

"Why can't we?" the lover demanded.

"For a number of perfectly good reasons," Jean replied, a grave little
pucker coming upon her forehead.

"Wrinkles!" cried Chetwood. "But I'll love you just as much when--"

"Well, goodness knows, I've enough worries without getting married."

"Cynic!"

"Maybe, but I hope I have some horse sense. Now to start with,
Billy--and please don't be offended--I'd like you to make good, more or
less, before I marry you."

"In what way?"

"Well, I'd like you to have a ranch of your own."

"Any special one?"

"Don't joke about it," Jean reproved him. "You'll find it serious
enough. As you haven't any money now you can't buy a ranch. And so
you'll have to homestead."

Chetwood stared at her for a moment and gulped. "I keep forgetting I'm a
hired man. Go on."

"It's doing you good. You're getting a knowledge of ranching. I think
you know almost enough now to take up a homestead."

"But," Chetwood objected, "I'd have to live on the blinking thing in a
beastly, lonely shack."

"Plenty of good men have lived in lonely shacks."

"I didn't mean that. I meant that I shouldn't see you more than perhaps
four or five times a week. Now--"

"You may not see me at all. I'll tell you why, presently. Anyway, I
wouldn't let you waste your time. I'm serious. You see, Billy--" here
Miss Jean blushed--"you'd be working on your homestead for--for _us_."

"Oh, Lord!" said Chetwood. "That is--I mean--yes, of course. Inspiring
thought and all that sort of thing, what? But how much nicer it would be
if I were able to look forward to seeing you in our humble door as I
came home weary from my daily toil, with--er--roses and honeysuckle and
all that sort of thing clambering about don't you know, and the sweet
odor of--of--"

"Of what, Billy?" Miss Jean prompted softly, in her eyes the expression
of one who gazes upon a fair mental picture. "Of what, Billy?"

"Of pies," Chetwood replied raptly. "Ah! Um!"

"Of wha--a--t!" Miss Jean cried, coming out of her reverie with a start.

"Of pies cooking," Chetwood repeated. "Nice, juicy pies."

"Pies--bah!" Miss Jean ejaculated.

"Say not so," Chetwood responded. "I admire pie. The land of my birth, I
sadly admit, is deficient in pie. But here I adopt the customs of the
country. I am what might be called a pie--oneer--"

"Ugh! Awful!" Miss Jean shuddered.

"Now I thought that quite bright."

"That's the saddest part of it."

"My word, what a--er--slam! Strange that you should feel such a sincere
affection for--"

"I don't know whether I do or not!"

"Then, Miss Mackay," Chetwood demanded, "what is the meaning of your
conduct?"

Miss Jean bit her lip, blushed, and finally decided to laugh. "I was
getting sentimental for a moment," she confessed. "Your little word
picture had me going. And all the time you were fooling. That's
dangerous, young man."

"No, on my word I wasn't," Chetwood protested. "I meant it. Only I got
stuck for a word, and I just happened to think of--pie."

"I'm glad you did," Jean admitted. "What I like about you is that you're
cheerful all the time. Angus sulks like a--a mule. So does Turkey. Oh, I
do, too. We all do. But you always have a smile and a joke, though
sometimes they're awful."

"Both of 'em?"

"The smiles are all right," Jean admitted. "But do you know, I've never
seen you serious about anything. And it seems to me that a man who has
a--well, a real purpose in life should be--now and then."

"Perhaps I never had one."

"Well, now you've got me."

"Eh! By Jove, so I have. I'll live in a shack if you say so, but I'd
rather stay on here a bit. I'm learning all the time."

"That brings me to another reason. There may be no 'here' to stay on
at--so far as we are concerned."

She told him the situation briefly. "And so, you see, we may not have a
ranch at all. Then Angus would go away and take up land, and I might go
with him."

"So would I if he'd have me. It would be rather jolly."

"Nonsense!" said Jean. "Making a new ranch isn't fun; it's hard work.
And then, on top of it all, what do you think Angus is going to do?"

"Wring old Braden's neck, I hope."

"He's going to get married!"

"Hooray!" cried Chetwood. "Nail the flag to the mast! Derry walls and no
surrender! Give hostages--er--I mean that's the spirit. Also an example.
Let's follow it. What's sauce for the Mackay gander ought to be sauce
for--er--"

"I'm not a goose," she pouted prettily.

"Duck!" Chetwood suggested.

"Don't be silly. It's a different proposition entirely."

"Why?" Jean did not reply. "Why, Jean?"

"Because Angus can look after himself--and a wife."

Chetwood's perennially cheerful expression sobered. "That's rather a
hard one. I'm not quite helpless, really."

"I'm sorry," Jean said simply. "But I meant just what I said. The
country is new to you and you're new to the country, and we can't be
married till you find yourself. It wouldn't be fair to either of us. I'm
putting it up to you to make good, Billy."

Chetwood nodded soberly, but his eyes smiled.

"I'll make good," he said. "I'll go and see this Judge Riley--about a
homestead. And now, Jean darling, will you oblige me by the size of that
pretty little third finger."

"You are not to spend any money on rings. Keep it for the homestead."

"Oh da--er--I mean high heaven hates a piker. Can't allow you to go
ringless. It's not done, really. I'm going to have my own way. Nothing
elaborate. Just a simple, little ring, costing, say, fifty pounds--"

"Fifty pounds!" Jean gasped. "Two hundred and fifty dollars! Why, I
couldn't--"

"Does sound more in dollars. Tell you what I'll do. I have a ring at
home. It belonged to my mother. I'll send for it if you don't mind."

"I should be proud of your mother's ring," said Jean.

"I think," said Chetwood, "that she would be proud to have you wear it."

"Billy," said Jean, "that's just the nicest thing you ever said--or ever
will say."




CHAPTER XXVIII

MRS. FOLEY ON MARRIAGE


Faith and Angus were to be married at Faith's ranch. There was small
preparation, to the scandal of Mrs. Foley.

"Sure I niver thought to see ye go off this way, wid no style about ye!"
she mourned. "Foour min have I tuk, hopin' th' bether an' gettin' th'
worse, but annyways ivery time they was lashin's to ate an' dhrink, an'
all the folks there we knowed an' plenty we didn't. But here ye're
fixin' for nobody at all."

"Well, there won't be anybody," Faith replied. "It's to be a very quiet
wedding."

"Ye may say that," Mrs. Foley agreed. "All th' differ' bechune it an' a
death-bed will be a docther an' a nurse."

"Oh it's not as bad as that, Mary," Faith laughed. "I really prefer it
that way."

"Bein' a woman mesilf, I know ye're lyin'," Mrs. Foley returned
uncompromisingly. "'Tis not the nacher iv us to dispinse wid frills in
annything."

Faith laughed, stifling a sigh. She had had her dreams. But she was
quite content. Mrs. Foley ran on:

"Sure, thin, iver since ye was a little tot I've been thinkin' that some
day I'd see ye comin' up th' aisle in a big church on yer blessed
father's arrum, all in white wid a big bookay an' veil an' orange
blossoms an' all; an' th' organist tearin' th' bowils out iv th' organ
whiles, an' th' choir rippin' loose; an' a foine fat bishop or th'
loikes, wid a grand voice rowlin' th' solemn words out in his chist.
An' aftherwards atin' an' dhrinkin' an speechifyin', an' showers iv rice
an' shoes an' white ribbon be th' yarrd. Thim's th' things I t'ought f'r
to see. An' instid iv that, ye will stand up in privut in a shack in a
neck iv woods, an' have th' words said over ye by a dom', wryneck,
Gospel George iv a heretic pulpit-poundher, that's dhruv out in a
buckboord dhrawed be a foundhered harrse, to do th' job loike a plumber
comes. Well, God's will be done. An' mebbe yer second weddin' will be
diff'rent. Though they's never th' peachbloom on th' second they is on
th' first, worse luck."

"Mary! what a thing to say!" Faith cried. "There will never be a second
wedding for me."

"Ye say so--knowin' nawthin'," Mrs. Foley responded. "All wimmin say so
before they're first married, knowin' nawthin' iv marriage; an' half iv
thim swear it to thimselves before they've been married a year, knowin'
too much. But sure 'tis th' nacher iv us to take chances, or we'd niver
marry at all. An' f'r why should a young widdy woman like yerself go
lonely all yer days?"

"Heavens, Mary, stop it!" Faith shuddered. "Talking like that before I'm
married at all. I'm not a widow; I won't be a widow."

"I'm wan foour times," Mrs. Foley observed. "An' I've knowed thim that
wud have give their sowls to be wan just wanst. Ye niver can tell."

"To judge by Angus' looks I won't be a widow for a long time," Faith
laughed.

Mrs. Foley shook her head sagely. "Nor ye can't tell about that. Sthrong
th' lad is, but he's voylent, an' voylent min come to quick ends."

"Violent? Nonsense! He never loses his temper."

"All min lose their timpers," Mrs. Foley asserted; "an' th' quoiter th'
man th' bigger divil he is whin he starts. Thim kind is th' worst. It's
not f'r nawthin' he carries that harrd face."

"His face isn't hard," Faith contradicted indignantly.

Mrs. Foley waved her hand. "I was speakin' in parables, loike. I'm not
meanin' it's bad-lookin' he is, but he's harrd. He's th' kind that niver
forgives wrong or slight, an' it wud shtrain him awful to forgive th'
same. They's a divil lives deep down in him, I'm tellin' ye, that's best
left asleep."

"Bosh!" said Faith.

"Ye say that, bein' ign'rant iv min," Mrs. Foley told her gravely. "I
believe he loves ye thrue, an' ut's little th' life iv a man wud be
worth who should speak a light word iv ye, or lay a hand on ye in other
than respect, if he knew it. But take ye heed, my gyurl, niver to rouse
that sleepin' divil an' have him peep at ye through the eyes of yer man.
Niver, as ye value yer station as a wife, give him annything to forgive
in ye as a wife. Forgive it he might, but forget it he niver would."

Faith, her smooth cheeks aflame, drew herself up haughtily. "You have no
right to speak to me like that."

"I am takin' th' right," Mrs. Foley replied steadily. "Do I not know ye
for what ye are--a little lady born an' bred, pure-minded an'
high-minded? Ye blush whin an old woman that's seen th' rough iv ut
calls a spade a spade. I wud tear th' eyes out iv man or woman that
spoke ill of ye. But ye are a woman, an' women will be women, and min
min, foriver an' a day."

"You have never spoken to me so before. Why do you do it now?"

"Bekase ye are about to take a man," Mrs. Foley replied. "A colleen is
her own woman, wid none but herself to gyard an' care for; but a wife is
her man's woman, an' besides herself she must gyard an' care for her man
an' his love for her. The wise wife will gyard herself closer nor whin
she was a maid, an' she will gyard her man closer nor his mother."

"Angus may trust me," Faith said proudly, "as I trust him."

"An' well f'r both iv ye," said Mrs. Foley, "if as ye say now in yer
youth ye do till ye have grandchilder." She wound a great arm around
Faith and drew her to her ample bosom. "There, there, gyurl iv me heart!
Forgive th' rough tongue iv an owld woman wid a long, harrd road behind
her. Th' lad is a rale man, if iver I saw wan. An' as f'r th' divil in
him, I wouldn' give a snap iv me thumb for a man widout wan."

Whereat Faith, being motherless and in spite of her independence lonely
as well, cried a little and so did Mrs. Foley, and both enjoyed it very
much.

The wedding took place a few days later. Kathleen French was the only
one of her family present. Turkey would not come, sending Jean an
excuse. Faith had never even seen him.

There was no wedding trip. But after a few days at the Mackay ranch
Angus began to arrange excursions. So far as he could see, it was now
merely a matter of weeks till the place had another owner, probably
Braden. He had done his best, and he was more or less resigned to the
inevitable. With the resignation a load of worry dropped from his
shoulders. Later he must make a fresh start, but now he would enjoy the
present.

With Faith he took long rides into the foothills, along faint, old
trails first beaten by the feet of the long-vanished elk, through deep
timber where towering, seal-brown trunks shot fifty feet in the air
without a limb and met in dense, needle-foliage above, and the horses'
feet fell without sound; beside creeks fed by the hoary, old glaciers
which far away glinted gray, and ridged, and fissured, relics of the
ancient ice-cap which once overlay and over-rode the land. To Faith
these trips were a novelty, opening a fresh world new and wonderful.
Incidentally they showed her husband to advantage, in a new light and
her trust in him strengthened.

[Illustration: _To Faith these trips were a novelty, opening a world new
and wonderful._]

In such surroundings Angus was at home, adequate, competent. His
knowledge of them amazed Faith, though there was nothing at all
wonderful about it, since he had lived in the open all his life and
consorted with men who had done likewise. His camps were always
comfortable and sheltered. He constructed deep beds in which one sank
luxuriously. Rain or shine he was a wizard with a fire and a frying pan,
building browned and feathery bannocks in a minimum of time, the
doughgods he mixed were marvels, his mulligan a thing to dream of. All
was accomplished without hurry and without fuss. She saw the results
without quite appreciating the method.

Another thing which impressed her was his apparent ability to make the
horses comprehend his wishes. When he spoke to them he seldom raised his
voice. When trouble developed he was infinitely patient; when punishment
was necessary he inflicted it without temper. Faith saw no signs of the
"divil" of which Mrs. Foley had spoken. If he existed at all he dwelt
deep, in the dungeons of the man's being, securely chained.

It was natural that she should take pride in her husband's physique. His
body was hard, lean, in the condition of an athlete's in training. Her
fingers pressing his forearm made scarcely an impression. Once, as he
bent to heave out of the way fallen timber which blocked the trail, she
placed her hands upon his back. He turned his head.

"Lift!" she said, and beneath her hands she felt the long, pliant
muscles spring and tauten and harden. On another occasion a bowlder had
fallen upon the trail, partially embedding itself. It was possible to go
around, but he would not. Finally he worried out the rock and rolled it
down the hillside.

"Heavy?" she queried.

"Pretty heavy. The trouble was I couldn't get hold of it."

"Do you know how strong you are?" she questioned.

"Why, no," he admitted. "That is, I don't know just what I can lift, if
that is what you mean, nor what I could pack for say a mile if I had to.
There's a good deal of knack in that sort of thing--balance and
distribution of weight, and the development of a certain set of muscles
by keeping at it. There are men who can pack five hundred on a short
portage. I've heard of eight hundred--but I don't know."

Faith thought she had known Angus before marriage. But in the
companionship of the trail and beside the evening fires beneath the
stars she learned that her knowledge of him had been superficial. She
found that the country rock of his reserve hid unsuspected veins of
tenderness, of poesy and of melancholy. But though he possessed these
softer veins--and she reflected that it should be her task to develop
them--the man himself was essentially hard and grim. His outlook, when
she came to know it, proved primitive, the code which governed him
simple and ancient--the old, old code of loyalty to friends, and in the
matter of reprisals eye for eye and tooth for tooth.

"But that is not right," she urged when he had set forth this latter
belief. "We are told to return good for evil."

Angus smiled grimly. "We may be told to do so," he said, "and we are
told to turn the other cheek to the smiter. That is all very well when
the evil or the blow is unintentional, sort of by accident. But when a
man does you harm on purpose, out of meanness, the best way to show him
he has made a mistake is to get back at him hard."

"Which makes him hate you all the more."

"Maybe. But it makes him mighty careful what he does."

"But don't you see," she argued, "that if there were no such thing as
forgiveness--if everybody paid back everybody for injuries in the same
coin--the whole world would be at feud and at war. We should go back to
savagery."

"And don't you see," he responded, "that if men knew they could get away
with anything without a comeback the world wouldn't be much better.
There are men and nations who are decent, and there are both who are
not. These have to be kept down. If they ruled, it would be terrorism."

"There would be the law; there must be the law, of course. That would
protect people."

"The law has too much red tape about it. In the old days things were
better. Then a man packed his own law."

"The gun? A horrible state of affairs! Barbarism!"

"Well, it made men careful. Now you take Braden. With the help of the
law he is going to get our ranch for a fraction of its value. I am not
kicking about that. But he blew up my ditch. I don't mean he did it
himself, but he framed it, though I can't prove it. If it wasn't for the
law I would go and twist the truth out of him, and then I would settle
with the men who did it. And then there's your ranch. I know it must be
Braden who wants to buy that. I'd find out about that, too. There's
something wrong. He's trying to put something over." His fist clenched
suddenly. "The rotten crooks!" he growled. "They've got me. But let them
try any dirty work on _you_!"

Secretly, Faith worried a little about the future, the more because
Angus seemed utterly careless of it. He had utterly refused to allow her
to sell her ranch and apply the proceeds to satisfy Braden's claim. If
he had any definite plans for the future he would not talk of them. With
what money he would have from the sale of stock and various chattels
there would be enough for a start elsewhere. But when and where and how
that start should be made was up to Angus.

"Shouldn't we be making some definite plans?" she asked.

"I suppose we should," he admitted. "But I've always planned and
worried, and the best I've made out of it all is to land in this mess.
Now and then I've asked myself what was the use of it."

"But that's no state of mind for a man," she protested. "That's lie down
and quit. You're not that sort, surely?"

"I didn't think I was," he said slowly. "I thought I had sand and
staying power. But I'm tired. Lord, you don't know how tired I am--and
sore! Every thought I've had for years has been for the old place. And
now to lose it! It sort of upsets me--temporarily. I'm deliberately not
thinking, nor planning. When the place is sold it will be different.
Till then I'm going to loaf, body and mind, for all I'm worth."

Though she thoroughly disapproved of this state of mind, Faith said no
more. Time drew on. And one night Angus announced that loafing was done.

"Now I'll get into the collar for another stretch of years," he said.
"To-morrow we'll start back. I want to be at the sale, to see who will
bid the place in."

"It will be like turning the knife, won't it?"

"Yes, but I can take my medicine. Then I'll sell off the stock, turn
everything I can into cash, fix up you and Jean somewhere and go
cruising."

"Cruising?"

"Prospecting for new ground somewhere. The farther away the better. I
want a lot of land--cheap. I'm out to make a stake--to found a fortune
for the Mackay family."

"You'll take me with you."

"No."

"Please!"

"Better not, old girl. I may have to cover a lot of ground before I find
what I'm looking for, and the traveling will be rough. It's better for
me to go alone."

Faith did not press. She recognized the truth of what he said. But she
realized as they rode down out of the hills what a difference already
his absence would make in her life.




CHAPTER XXIX

SUDDEN DEATH


Though Godfrey French's habits could not be called studious his private
room was known as his "study," which possibly was as good as any other
name. The furnishings of the room were of comfortable solidity. Since
the room served as an office in which he transacted such business as he
had, there was a desk with many pigeon holes, and backed against the
wall stood a small safe.

Outside it was dark, and the rising wind was beginning to sigh with a
promise of breeding weather. But in the study, lit by a shade lamp, its
owner and Mr. Braden were comfortably seated. Beside them stood a small
table bearing a decanter, a siphon and a box of cigars.

Mr. Braden helped himself to the whiskey. His drinking was strictly
private, but he indulged rather more frequently than of old, and in
larger doses. Somehow he seemed to require them. As for Godfrey French,
he took his Scotch as he took his tea, as he had been taking it all his
life, and with no more visible effect.

But as Mr. Braden looked at French he seemed to have aged in the last
few weeks. The features seemed more prominent, the keen face leaner and
more deeply lined, the cold, blue eyes more weary and more cynical.

"You look a little pulled down," Mr. Braden commented. "Perhaps a change
would do you good."

"If I could change the last thirty years for the next thirty, it might,"
French agreed grimly.

"None of us get younger," said Mr. Braden. "I myself begin to feel
the--er--burden of the years."

"You're not old. It's the burden of your fat."

"Ha-ha!" Mr. Braden laughed without much mirth. "But what seems to be
the matter with you?"

"The life that is behind me," French replied. "You can't eat your cake
and have it. But what the devil is the use of cake if you don't eat it?
I've eaten my cake and enjoyed it, and I'm quite willing to pay when the
times comes. All flesh is as grass, Braden--even such a quantity as
yours."

Mr. Braden shifted uneasily. Like many men he found any reference to his
ultimate extinction unpleasant.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course we must all pay our debt to nature. No hurry
about it, though. We have a number of things to do first."

"We merely think we have," French returned. "It wouldn't matter in the
least if we both snuffed out to-night."

"It would matter to me," Mr. Braden declared with evident sincerity.

"But to nobody else. Who would care a curse if _you_ died?"

Offhand, Mr. Braden could not answer this blunt question. French grinned
at the expression of his face. "You don't like to face the inevitable,
Braden. Well, since it is the inevitable it doesn't matter whether you
like it or not." He tossed three fingers of straight liquor down his
throat. A shade of color came into his lean cheeks and his eyes
brightened. "Have you heard anything fresh lately?"

Mr. Braden shook his head. "Nothing authoritative. I know the Airline
people are running trial lines east of here. I had a reply to my letter
from the head of their real estate department--McKinley, as near as I
could make out the signature--and he says just about half a page of
nothing."

"He doesn't want to tip their hand."

"That's what I think, I know they are coming through here, and when they
do it will kill this town, because they won't come within fifteen miles
of it. Well, in a week or so I'll own the Mackay ranch, and be in shape
to make them a definite townsite proposition whenever they do come.
There isn't a better natural townsite anywhere."

"No hold-up," French warned. "They won't stand for it. Give them a good
slice if they want it."

"I'll do that because I can't help myself. It's lucky I've been able to
bring on the sale so soon. You were wrong in thinking it would stop the
girl from marrying Mackay, though."

"I thought she would have more sense than to marry him under the
circumstances."

"You've heard nothing about the--er--deeds since you gave them to her?"
Mr. Braden asked.

"Nothing at all."

"Then I guess it's all right. When I sell out Mackay he'll get out of
the district likely. Just as well. He might find out something if he
stayed around here."

"He might," French agreed. "He suspects that we split up the biggest
part of the price that Winton was supposed to pay for the land."

"He can't prove it."

"And possibly he suspects that you are responsible for his failure to
get a new loan. He may even suspect that you had something to do with
what happened to his water supply.

"No; but when a man begins to suspect he interprets things which
otherwise would carry no meaning. So far he connects us only through the
original transaction with Winton. If he knew the truth he'd probably
twist your neck like a chicken's."

Mr. Braden moved that threatened part of his anatomy uneasily. "He
wouldn't dare to attempt physical violence."

French laughed. "You don't know that young man, Braden, because you're a
different breed. I know him, because I've seen his kind before. I made a
mistake in quarreling with him."

"I'd like to see him beaten to a pulp," said Mr. Braden viciously, "but
after all, it's the money we want. I'm having a devil of a time to keep
my head above water, and you're broke."

"Yes, I'm broke," French admitted. "These things are the only chance I
see of getting money. When a man reaches my age and faces poverty to
which he is unaccustomed, he will do almost anything for money. I want
to see the cities and some of the men I knew thirty years ago, before I
die. For money to do that I'd give--give--I would--give--"

Something seemed to have gone wrong with Godfrey French's enunciation.
It resembled nothing so much as a phonographic record with a
running-down motor. He did not stammer, but the words came slowly and
then blurred, as if his tongue had lost power. His face, on which a look
of blank wonder had come, suddenly contorted, his hand caught at his
breast, he threw his head back, chin up, mouth open, gasping.

"What's the matter?" Mr. Braden cried, startled at this sudden
transformation. "Are you ill? What--"

"Get--" Godfrey French muttered indistinctly, "get--" He fell back in
his chair, inert, sagging arms loose, his face gray, unconscious.

For an instant Mr. Braden stared at his associate horrified. It was as
if he had been seized, struck down and throttled by an invisible hand
which might claim another victim. Recovering, he poured a glass of
liquor with a shaking hand, and shivered as the rim clinked against the
unconscious man's teeth. He ran to the door.

"Help!" he shouted wildly to the echoing darkness of the hall. "Come,
somebody! Help!"

His call was answered by Kathleen and young Larry.

"Your father!" Mr. Braden quavered. But Kathleen, pushing past him, ran
to her father's side.

"He has a hypodermic somewhere," she said. "Look in his room, Larry,
quick!" Young Larry bounded for the stairs. "He has had these attacks
before, but this is the worst."

"I'll go for the doctor," Mr. Braden offered.

"Larry will go. Your horse isn't fast enough. I wish you'd stay here, if
you don't mind. The other boys are out and I'm alone."

But in a moment Larry returned with a hypodermic syringe in its case and
a vial of tablets. Kathleen dissolved one of the latter, and baring her
father's arm administered the injection with a swiftness and steadiness
which commanded Mr. Braden's admiration. "We'd better get him up to his
room," she said.

Larry picked up his father's inert body and mounted the stairs. He laid
him on his bed.

"I'll look after him now," Kathleen said. "You won't mind waiting till
Larry comes back, Mr. Braden? And--_ride_, Larry!"

Mr. Braden returned to the study. In a few moments he heard the dancing
rataplan of the hoofs of an eager, nervous horse, a curse from Larry,
the hoof-beats clamored past, steadied to a drumming roar, and died in
the distance. Evidently Larry was riding at a pace which probably meant
a foundered horse.

Mr. Braden helped himself to a drink. Inadvertently he sat down in the
chair which had held Godfrey French, and suddenly realizing that fact
vacated it hastily. Outside the wind had increased to a gale, and with
it was rain. The window was open and the drawn blind slatted to and fro.
Mr. Braden selected another chair and sat down.

But in a moment he arose, went to the door and listened. Leaving it ajar
he went to the desk and proceeded to pull out drawer after drawer,
rooting among their contents. Not finding what he sought he turned to
the safe. He stared at the impassive face of the dial, shook his head,
half turned away, and then caught the handle and twisted it. To his
amazement the bolts snicked back. Apparently whoever had closed the safe
had neglected to turn the knob of the combination.

Mr. Braden burrowed in the safe's contents, and with an exclamation of
satisfaction seized a packet of legal-looking documents bound by a
rubber band. He stripped off the band and riffled the papers. Apparently
he found what he sought, for he selected two documents, replacing the
rest. Then, crossing the room to the light he opened the documents and
proceeded to verify them by glancing at their signatures.

As he stood he fronted the window; and as he raised his eyes from the
perusal the down blind bellied and lifted with a gust of wind. In the
enlarged opening thus made Mr. Braden saw or thought he saw, a face. It
was but the merest glimpse he had of it, white with the reflected light
of the lamp. For an instant it stood out against the darkness, and then
the blind dropped back into place, hiding it.

Hastily Mr. Braden shoved the papers in his pocket, while a gentle but
clammy perspiration broke out upon his forehead. But had he actually
seen a face, or was it some freak of vision? He went to the window,
raised the blind and peeped out. It was pitch dark and raining hard, but
across from him there was a glint of white, and in a moment he
identified it as merely a painted post of a fence glistening in the
rain. So that was the "face." Mr. Braden's heart resumed its normal
action. He closed the safe, spun the combination, sat down and picking
up a paper began to read.

It was more than an hour later when Dr. Wilkes arrived. He came alone,
Larry having gone in search of his brothers. Mr. Braden listened to the
sound of low voices, of footsteps coming and going on the floor above.
Finally Wilkes came down.

"And how is the patient?" Mr. Braden asked.

"Gone out."

"Gone out? You don't mean--"

Dr. Wilkes nodded. Between him and Mr. Braden there was little
cordiality.

"What was the--er--cause of death?"

"Valvular cardiac disease of long standing."

"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" Mr. Braden sorrowed, his hand involuntarily
caressing the papers in his inside pocket. "You never can--or--that is
in the midst of life we are in death. Why, only an hour or so ago he was
planning for a trip abroad."

"He's on a longer trip," Wilkes said grimly.

But the pounding of hoofs outside indicated that Larry had found his
brothers. In a moment he entered with Gavin and Gerald. Dr. Wilkes did
not soften his reply to Gerald's quick question. They stared at him,
stupefied. It seemed to Mr. Braden that he should express his sympathy.

"My dear boys," he said, "I assure you that I feel for you in this dark
hour. Providence in its inscrutable wisdom has seen fit--"

But Gavin interrupted him.

"Cut it out!" he growled. "We don't want any stuff like that from
_you_!"

Shortly afterward Mr. Braden found himself driving homeward. The rain
had turned the road into mud, and was still coming down. It drove though
the lap-robe, wetted his knees and trickled down the back of his neck.
He was thoroughly uncomfortable. Nevertheless he reflected that
Providence in its inscrutable wisdom sometimes arranged things well.
Once more his hands pressed the papers in his pocket. Arriving at his
apartments he placed them in an old-fashioned iron safe which was
operated by a key instead of a combination. There were two keys. One Mr.
Braden carried with others on a ring. The other hung upon a single nail
driven into the wall immediately behind and concealed by the safe
itself. As it was dark there and as the safe was very close to the wall,
it seemed a very secure hiding place. On this occasion Mr. Braden used
the latter key, because he had changed his wet garments and left his
key-ring with them.

But Mr. Braden's trust in Providence might have lessened--or
increased--had he known that outside, chinning himself against the
window-sill which he had just managed to reach from the rickety steps,
hung Turkey Mackay; and that, further, the said Turkey had been a
witness to the manner in which the papers had come into the possession
of Mr. Braden.




CHAPTER XXX

STRANGERS ASK QUESTIONS


When Faith and Angus got back to the ranch Godfrey French's funeral was
over. Faith did not pretend to be specially grieved.

"But of course I must go and see Kathleen," she said.

She went alone, for Angus would not go. He held no particular
ill-feeling toward Godfrey French, but as French had held it toward him
he thought it best to stay away. When Faith had gone he pottered about
the house, stables and sheds, taking an inventory, estimating the value
of the things he could sell, deciding where they could be sold to the
best advantage. There were the tools, implements, rigs, cut crops,
horses and stock on the range. He jotted down a rough estimate and
frowned at the result. Still it was the best he could do.

Chetwood appeared. "Busy?" he queried.

"I've just been figuring up what I can sell and what I can get for it."

"You haven't sold anything yet?"

"No, I'll hold off till the place itself is sold."

"Somebody might bid it up to a good figure."

"Nobody is apt to bid. Nobody here with enough loose money. No,
Braden'll get the place, I guess."

"Old blighter!" Chetwood grunted. "But you never can tell. 'The
best-laid schemes of mice and men' and all that sort of thing. Let's
talk of something else--something I want to talk about."

"Fire away," said Angus.

"Jean and I are thinking of getting married," Chetwood told him bluntly.

"The devil you are!" Angus exclaimed. He was not exactly surprised at
the news, but at the time of its announcement.

"I like you," Angus admitted, "but I don't know a great deal about you.
You're working for wages which aren't very large. They won't keep two."

"No more they will," Chetwood replied. "Jean suggests that I take up a
homestead." Angus shook his head. "You don't like the idea? No more do
I. I shan't do it."

"Have you any idea what you will do? I gathered that you lost what money
you had in some fool investment. You never told me what it was."

"I don't look on it as totally lost," Chetwood responded. "It may be all
right some day. One thing I'll promise you, old man, I won't marry Jean
till I have something definite to go on."

"Good boy!" Angus approved. "That's sense. I'm going to look up a bunch
of land in one of the new districts. When I find what I want Jean will
come and live with us, of course. Then we might make some
arrangement--if you want to buck the ranching game."

When Chetwood had gone, presumably to find Jean, Angus was restless. He
liked Chetwood, but the Lord alone knew when the latter would be in
shape to support a wife unless somebody helped him. He would have to do
that. The fancy took him to walk around the ranch for a last look as
owner. As he walked a hundred recollections crowded upon him. Here there
had been a good crop in one year; there a failure in another. Here was
the place where he had first held the handles of a plow. This was where
a team had run away with a mower. He arrived at the gate and looked
back over the fields. To-day they were his; to-morrow in all likelihood
they would belong to Braden.

Looking up the road he saw a light rig with two men. One of them was
standing up in it, apparently surveying his surroundings through a pair
of field glasses. Presently he sat down and the team came on. By the
gate the driver pulled up and nodded.

"Afternoon!" he said. He was a thickset, deeply tanned man of middle
age, with a shrewd, blue eye. He wore a suit which, though old, was of
excellently cut tweed, and his trousers were shoved into nailed
cruisers. His companion was younger, stout, round-faced and more
carefully dressed, but he, too, possessed a shrewd eye. Neither looked
like a rancher, and both were strangers to Angus. Between them rested an
instrument of some sort, hooded, which looked like a level.

"Nice ranch, this," said the driver, "Yours?"

"Yes."

"For sale?"

"Yes," Angus told him grimly.

"How much have you got here?" the second stranger asked. Angus told him.
"En bloc?"

"Yes."

"What do you hold it at?"

"I don't hold it at anything. It will be sold to-morrow by public sale
under a mortgage."

The two men exchanged glances and eyed Angus with curiosity.

"Who holds the mortgage?" the younger man asked.

"Isaac J. Braden."

"Braden, hey! Isn't that the fellow--" He spoke swiftly in an undertone
to his companion, who nodded. "We've heard of him. Local big bug, isn't
he? What's the amount against the property?" He whistled when Angus told
him. "Why didn't you get a loan somewhere and pay him off?"

"Because I couldn't. Nobody would lend. The loan companies'
appraisers--well, they shied off."

"Braden fixed them, did he?" the other deduced. "Knocked the loan, hey?
Knocked you as a borrower! Shoved you to the wall. Thinks he'll bid the
place in. Anybody else want it? No--or you'd have made some deal."

"That's about the size of it," Angus admitted, surprised at the swift
accuracy of these deductions.

"Will it leave you stranded?"

"Nearly. Not quite."

"Folks depending on you?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you tell me to mind my own darn business?"

"I came near it," Angus admitted; "but you look as if you know enough to
do that without being told."

The stout man chuckled. "I think I do, myself. If I had known of this
place before I'd have made you some sort of an offer for it. As it is,
I'll go to that sale to-morrow. Good day. Drive on, Floyd."

Angus watched them drive away and turned back to the house. It seemed
that Braden might have opposition, and apart from financial reasons he
was glad of it. The strangers did not look like ranchers. Speculators,
likely. Anyway, it had not taken the stout fellow long to size Braden
up. But if he could have overheard the conversation between the two
strangers as they drove away he would have been more surprised at the
accuracy of their mental workings.

"Things like that," the man called Floyd observed jerking his head
backward, "always get my goat. I'll bet that young fellow's got the raw
end of some dirty deal. He's taking a bitter dose of medicine. You can
see it in his face."

"And I can make a pretty fair guess what it is," the other responded.
"This fellow Braden has been trying to get information about our
construction plans. He hinted that he had some sort of a townsite
proposition to make to us, and if that place back there is it I give him
credit for a good eye. He doesn't seem to have been very particular
about how he went to work to get hold of it himself."

"What are you going to do about it, Mac?"

"What I should do," the other replied, frowning thoughtfully, "is to
make a dicker with Braden to take over the land at a reasonable profit,
after he had bid it in for the amount of his dinky mortgage. That's my
plain duty to my employers, the Northern Airline, Mountain Section, for
which they pay me a salary, large it is true, but small in comparison
with my talents."

Floyd grinned. "Yes, I know you _should_ do that. But what _are_ you
going to do?"

"Well," the man called Mac admitted, "I do hate to see a shark get away
with anything but the hook. Besides, it looks to me as if Braden, if he
got hold of the property would try to double-cross us. I'll bet he'd
hold us up for some fancy price. So it's my duty to see he doesn't get a
chance. The property is just about what we want. There's room for a
good, little town. With that creek, a natural gravity water system could
be put in. No trouble about drainage. You can get power, too. A
subsidiary company formed to handle that end would pay well in a few
years when the place got going. Ah, it's a bird of a proposition--too
good to take any chances on."

"That's your end," Floyd nodded. "We go ahead and find the grades and
put 'em in, and you fat office guys come along and clean up. Well,
Healey's notes are all right so far. Easy construction through here.
I'll send young Davis in right away and let him run a trial line east,
for Broderick to tie into."

"Don't be in a hurry," the other responded. "Trouble with you roughneck
engineers, you think all there is to a railroad is building it. You wait
till I pick up what I want. I could fix it with Braden, but he'd get the
profit, and that young fellow back there would go broke, as he said. I
think I'll try to fix it so _he_ gets the profit. I'll just bid the
place in over Braden, and the young fellow will get any surplus over the
mortgage claim. It will be just as cheap for us."

"And the trouble with you," said the chief of Northern Airline
construction to its chief right-of-way and natural resources man, "is
that you're mushy about men in hard luck. I know some corporations you
wouldn't last with as long as a pint of red-eye in a Swede rock gang."

"You're such a hard-hearted guy yourself!" sneered Mac, his round face
reddening perceptibly. "No bowels of compassion. Practical man! Dam'
hypocrite! Yah! you make me sick!"

Mr. Floyd also reddened perceptibly. "Oh, well, I've been in hard luck
myself," he said.

"So've I," his friend admitted. "I know what the gaff feels like.
Well--stir up those horses. We've got a long way to go."




CHAPTER XXXI

THE AUCTION


The sale was to take place at noon in the sheriff's office. After
breakfast Angus went down to the corrals. Faith followed him.

"I'd like to go with you to the sale."

"Why?" he asked.

"I'd just like to be with you."

He stared at her for a moment. In his life this solicitude, almost
maternal, was a new thing.

"Why, old girl, I believe you think I can't stand the gaff. But if you
like, we'll take our medicine together."

Toward noon they entered the sheriff's office. Braden was already there
with his lawyer, Parks, talking with the sheriff. Presently entered the
two strangers with whom Angus had talked the day before. The stout man
smiled and nodded, with a quick appraising glance at Faith. Then came
Judge Riley, and with him, to Angus' surprise, was Chetwood.

"'Under and by virtue of the power of sale contained in a certain
mortgage bearing date--and made between--'"

The sheriff's voice droned on. Angus paid scanty attention. Now that he
was there "to stand the gaff" his feelings were almost impersonal.

"What am I offered for this property?" the sheriff having stated the
conditions of sale was getting down to business.

"Ten thousand dollars." This from Mr. Braden. The amount was slightly
more than his mortgage claim.

"Ten thousand dollars I am offered. Ten thousand. Are there any other
offers? If not--" The sheriff paused, sweeping the room with his eye.
Braden, looking at Angus, permitted himself a grin. "If not, then--"

"Twelve thousand." It was the stout man, Mac. Having uttered the two
words he resumed a conversation with his friend.

"Twelve thousand?" the sheriff repeated. "Was that right sir? You bid
twelve thousand, Mr.--er--"

"McGinity," the stout man supplied.

"Twelve thousand I am offered. Any other offers?"

"Thirteen," said Mr. Braden.

"Fourteen," said McGinity on the heels of Braden's voice.

Faith whispered, "Who is he?"

"I don't know. He was out at the ranch yesterday. I think he'll run
Braden up."

Braden whispered to his lawyer, who shook his head.

"Fifteen thousand."

"Sixteen."

Mr. Braden frowned, hesitated and went over to Mr. McGinity.

"We seem to be opposing each other," he observed.

"Does seem like it."

"Perhaps we could reach an understanding--privately. As it stands, we
are running the price up."

"I can stand it so far," said Mr. McGinity.

"But we are cutting into each other. If you have reached your top figure
I will give you five hundred on it."

"I haven't any top figure--except the value of the property to me."

"You have bid all the property is worth."

Mr. McGinity grinned. "Then naturally you won't bid any more," said he.

"I have--er--sentimental reasons for desiring this property. You won't
enter into any arrangement?"

"Not just now."

"Very well," said Mr. Braden. "Sixteen thousand, five hundred, Mr.
Sheriff."

"Seventeen," said Mr. McGinity, idly creasing his hat.

Again Mr. Braden conferred with Parks. He raised the bid five hundred,
and again the stranger tilted it. The latter did so nonchalantly.
Between bids he conversed with his friend. But when Mr. Braden had bid
nineteen thousand, five hundred, he shot it to twenty-one thousand.

Though the perspiration stood upon Mr. Braden's brow, his pedal
extremities began to suffer from cold. He had not expected any
opposition. The conditions of sale were stringent, as he had intended
them to be, with a view of choking off others; but just then, though few
knew it, certain unfortunate speculations had strained his credit very
badly. Twenty-one thousand was a large sum, more than he could count on
with certainty unless he had time to raise more on the security of the
property itself, even though part of it was his mortgage claim. But he
wanted the property very badly--needed it, in fact. Who the deuce was
this McGinity?

And then, suddenly, he saw light. "McGinity" was the translation of
certain hieroglyphics appended to letters he had received from the
Northern Airline. He had translated them into "McKinley," but with
considerable doubt. So his competitor for possession of the Mackay ranch
was the Airline itself!

So that was what he was up against! Mackay, somehow, must have gotten
wind of his intentions, and himself entered into negotiations with the
railway; and these must have reached a definite point.

It was a difficult situation for Mr. Braden. He saw his dream of carving
up a choice townsite--of seeing it grow in value by leaps and bounds--go
glimmering. He hated to drop out. But what was the use of going on?
McGinity would bid up to whatever he thought the proposition worth, and
not a dollar more. More than that, if he, Braden, overtopped that
figure, they would let him keep the land, and they would make a townsite
elsewhere. Mr. Braden was under no delusions. He had known landowners
who had held the mistaken belief that a strong corporation could be
forced to adopt a certain location for a townsite merely because it was
the best. The said landowners still owned the land, but it was not a
town.

"Twenty-one thousand!" the sheriff repeated. "Any advance? A very
valuable property, gentlemen." He looked at Mr. Braden. That gentleman
sadly shook his head. No, he was out of it. "Then," said the sheriff,
"if there is no higher bid, I--"

"Twenty-two thousand!"

It was Chetwood, and the effect was explosive. Mr. Braden stared,
open-mouthed. McGinity and Floyd turned and eyed him. Faith gasped,
clutching Angus' arm.

"Why--why," she whispered, "how can he--you told me he had lost all his
money!"

"So he told me. He must be running some sort of a blazer. Only, of
course, it won't go. It's foolish of him to try."

The sheriff seemed to share Angus' view. Mr. Braden whispered to him. He
frowned.

"You know the conditions of sale, young man?"

"I heard you state them."

"You are able to meet them?"

"May I point out," said Chetwood, "that you have not asked that question
of any previous bidder. Why favor me?"

"Well--er--you see--" the sheriff was slightly embarrassed--"I
understand that you are working for Mr. Mackay."

"Quite so. And what of it?"

"A man who can pay twenty-two thousand for a ranch doesn't often work on
it as a hired man," the sheriff pointed out.

"It is absolutely none of your business, official or private, for whom,
or for what, or at what I work," Chetwood retorted. "I make that bid,
and I demand that you receive it."

Faith laughed softly. Angus stared at his hired man.

"I may tell you, Mr. Sheriff," the court voice of Judge Riley filled the
room, "that this gentleman is quite able to meet the conditions of sale
in any offer he may make."

"Twenty-three thousand," said Mr. McGinity experimentally.

"Twenty-four," Chetwood returned.

Mr. McGinity turned to his friend. "Now what the devil is up? I've
raised Braden out. Who's this young fellow? And what's this about his
working for Mackay?"

"I'm an engineer and an honest man," Floyd returned. "This is your end,
Mac. But if I were doing it, I'd get together with those boys, now that
the old cuss is out of it."

"I always said you had too much brains for an engineer," Mr. McGinity
retorted. He crossed the room to Angus and bowed to Faith.

"Suppose you tell me what the idea is?" he said. "Is this young fellow
bidding for you?"

"You know as much about it as I do," Angus confessed, and beckoned to
Chetwood. "What are you up to, anyway?" he demanded of the latter. "I
thought you were broke. You told me so."

"I told you my income had stopped--temporarily," Chetwood replied. "So
it had. If you had ever said a word about money troubles I would have
fixed them like a shot, but you never even mentioned 'em. So now I'm
going to buy the ranch in."

"How high will you go?" Mr. McGinity asked. "Hold on, now--wait a
minute. I represent the Northern Airline, which is going to build
through here, and this property is valuable to us. I'm prepared to go
fairly high myself to get it. That means that we are prepared to pay the
owner a good price. Now, instead of crazy bidding, can't we come to an
arrangement?"

"Have you any connection with Braden?" Chetwood asked.

"Hell, no!" Mr. McGinity replied. "Didn't you just see me raise him out?
And I can raise _you_ out, young man, if you won't act sensibly, unless
you have a mighty big roll back of you."

"Oh, no, you can't," Chetwood replied cheerfully. He drew McGinity to
one side. "Because, you see," he explained, "I'm really bidding the
property in for Mackay, though he doesn't know it. So, you see, I never
have to put up real money at all, except enough to satisfy old Braden's
claim, and technically satisfy the conditions of sale. I buy the
property, hand stage money to Mackay, he hands it back to me--and there
you are! The only real money is what Braden gets."

"And suppose Mackay doesn't come through," Mr. McGinity speculated
wisely. "Suppose I forced you up--away up--and Mackay found that as a
result his ranch had brought a top-notch price which he was entitled to
most of; and suppose he stood pat and insisted on receiving it. Where
would you get off at then?"

Chetwood laughed. "Braden might do that. Mackay isn't that kind. We're
friends, and I'm going to marry his sister. Raise away, if you feel like
it."

Mr. McGinity's eyes twinkled. "Not on your life," he said. "The
combination is too many for me." The sheriff impatiently claimed
recognition. "I'm through, Mr. Sheriff. The last bid is good as far as
I'm concerned."

The sheriff looked at Mr. Braden, who shook his head. And thus the
Mackay ranch came into the nominal possession of Chetwood.

Angus, throttling his pride, held out his hand.

"You've got a good ranch," he said. "I'm glad it's you. If you marry
Jean it will be staying in the family, anyway. I'll be moving out as
soon--"

"You'll be doing nothing of the kind," Chetwood told him. "Do you think
I'm such a dashed cad as that? I'm buying the ranch for you, of course.
You can pay me what I'll pay Braden, when you like, and if you never
feel like it nobody will worry."

Angus stared at him dazedly. For the first time in years his eyes were
misty; but his innate pride still held.

"It's good of you," he said. "Oh, it's _damned_ good of you, but--I
can't stand for it."

"Afraid you'll jolly well have to, my boy," Chetwood grinned cheerfully.
"You can't help yourself, you know."

"But I can't allow--"

"Don't I tell you, you'll have to. Don't be such a bally ass, or strike
me pink if I don't punch your beastly head here and now! Can't you take
a little help from a friend who would take it from you? Mrs. Angus, for
heaven's sake make this lunatic listen to reason!"

Faith laughed happily. "He wouldn't let _me_ help him," she said. "Give
him time, Mr. Chetwood."

As Chetwood waited to comply with the necessary formalities Mr. McGinity
touched him on the arm.

"I want to make a proposition to whoever owns that land--you or Mackay,"
he said. "I'd rather make it to you, because I can see you know more
about business than he does. The Airline isn't any philanthropic
institution, of course, but we'll play fair with you and Mackay."

"Thanks very much," said Chetwood, a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, I mean it," Mr. McGinity assured him. "You seem a pretty bright
young fellow. If you haven't got too much money to take a good job, I
can place you in my department."

"But you see," Chetwood returned, "I've already got a job with your
company."

"What?" cried Mr. McGinity. "What kind of a con game is this? What
department are you in?"

"I'm a director. Did you ever hear of Sir Eustace Chetwood?"

Mr. McGinity gasped. "Are you trying to kid me? Sir Eustace Chetwood was
one of our English directors, but he's dead. And he was about eighty
years old."

"Quite right," Chetwood nodded. "He died a few months ago, and by virtue
of the shares in your corporation which he left to me, I was elected to
fill his place. I'm his nephew, you see. As to the title, it's
hereditary, and I can't help it."

"Sir Eustace Chetwood!" gasped Mr. McGinity. "Good Lord!"

"Well, I'm not using either title at present," Chetwood grinned. "Just
keep it dark, like a good fellow. I don't want to be plagued by a lot of
blighters who can't see me at all as a thirty-dollar ranch hand. My real
friends are just beginning to call me 'Bill'--and I like it. I say, Mr.
McGinity, if you should ever call me 'Bill,' I'd call you 'Mac'."

"Is that so, Bill?" said Mr. McGinity, who was a gentlemen of easy
adjustments.

"It are so, Mac!" Chetwood laughed. "See you later about that
proposition. Remember, you are to play fair."




CHAPTER XXXII

CHETWOOD UNMASKED


As Angus drove homeward he was at first unable to adjust himself to
actuality. He had given up all hope of retaining the ranch. The wrench
of loss had been over. But now the ranch was his again, subject to the
debt already existing, to keep if he chose.

But he realized that it would be folly to retain it as a ranch, to
refuse a proposition which McGinity had just made amounting to a
fifty-fifty partnership with the Airline in the project of a townsite.
Again, no matter what his individual preference, he must think of
others. In reality, his own individual interest in the ranch amounted to
but one-third. Sooner or later there must be a division--an adjustment
of shares between Jean, Turkey and himself. In justice to them he could
not refuse an offer which promised more than he could ever hope to make
or receive for the ranch as a ranch.

And so the ranch, as a ranch, was done. Its broad fields and pastures
and broad stretches of timbered levels would be broken up, surveyed into
building lots, pegged out with stakes, gridironed with embryonic
streets. For a while it would lie raw, unsightly, ruined as a ranch,
unmade as a town. And then people would come in. Shacks would spring up,
stores with false fronts, all sorts of makeshifts which accompany
construction days. Later would come permanence, better buildings,
churches, schools, gardens, sidewalks. Where the Ranch had been would
stand the Town. It was Progress, the history of the West since the first
steel road adventured among the ancient buffalo trails. The old order
was changing, but he, though young, was more of the old order than the
new, because he had been bred in the former.

Faith touched his arm lightly.

"Tell me I'm awake. It seems like a dream."

He put his arm around her and she snuggled in the crook of it, leaning
comfortably against his shoulder. He pulled the team to a walk.

"Now say it yourself."

"Say what? How _did_ you know I wanted to say something? But it's
nothing particular. It's just--everything!"

"It's sure a surprise to me. Why, only yesterday I hinted to Chetwood
that it was doubtful if he could support a wife--and to-day he bids in
my whole ranch." He laughed, but with little mirth, for the sense of
obligation lay heavy on him.

"I wonder if Jean knew?"

"I don't think so. Why, she wanted him to homestead--said he'd have to
make good before she'd marry him."

"Jean is so practical!" sighed his wife. "Now I'd never have said
anything like that to _you_. I'm glad that Braden didn't get the ranch.
Odious beast!" Angus chuckled. "Well, he _is_!"

"Easily! I never happened to think of that particular descriptive
phrase, though."

"I don't want to hear _your_ descriptive phrases. He's a horrible man. I
shudder when he looks at me. He--he seems to be thinking evil things
about me--plotting--Oh, I don't know. Did you see his face when he saw
that he would be overbidden? It turned white, and then _green_. Oh, you
may laugh! I _saw_ it."

"It was a jolt for him. He had it working like an oiled lock up to then.
Some day I will play even with him."

"He didn't accomplish his end. He's beneath your notice."

"No man who tried to hand me what he did is beneath my notice," he said
grimly. "Yes, I'll settle with him some day."

"I thought I might see your brother at the sale."

"No, he wouldn't go near it. I'll be glad when I can hand him over his
share to do what he likes with."

"It's odd that I've never seen him. Why don't you make it up with him,
Angus?"

Angus' mouth tightened grimly. "Make it up! Now, I'll tell you
something, Faith, which you must never repeat, even to Jean: I believe
he is in cahoots with Braden."

"Oh, surely not!" she cried, and when he told her the grounds of his
belief she was unconvinced. "There's some mistake, Angus."

"It's not on my part. I'm through with him--except to give him his
share. He shall have that, to the last cent. He shall not say I did not
play fair with him."

"You would play fair with every one," she told him. "I know that."

His arm tightened for an instant by way of acknowledgment. But he found
her words only just. To the best of his ability he had tried to play
fair all his life. On that score he could not reproach himself at all.

They drove up to the ranch, and at the sound of wheels Jean ran out. She
had been waiting, regretting that she had not accompanied them, anxious
to know the worst and have it over.

"Well, dear!" said Faith tantalizingly.

"You know what. Who bought the ranch? Was it Braden?"

"No," Faith replied, "it was a young man named Chetwood."

"Wha-a-t!" cried Jean in tones which left no doubt of her utter
amazement. "Oh, stop joking! This is serious."

"He bought it," Angus assured her.

"But--but he _couldn't_!" Jean exclaimed incredulously. "Angus, you know
he couldn't. Why he's _broke_! He's working for you for _wages_."

"Just what the old sheriff said," Angus laughed. "But it's straight,
Jean. He bid the ranch in for twenty-four thousand."

"But where did he get the money?"

"I don't know. But he had it."

"Then," Jean flashed, "I'll never speak to him again--never! To buy the
ranch, your ranch, our ranch--at a sale! Oh, the miserable,
contemptible--"

"Hi, hold on!" Angus interrupted. "You don't understand. He didn't buy
it for himself; he bought it in for us--to save it. He's a white man,
all right, Jean."

"I don't care what he bought the ranch for!" Jean cried. "And he's _not_
a white man. He's a sneak. He deceived me. He said his remittance had
stopped. He let me make a fool of myself advising him to homestead and
get a place of his own, and work hard, so that--so that--"

"So that you could be married!" Angus chuckled.

"Ye--yes," Jean confessed, and her brother roared. "Oh, you think it
funny, do you? Well, _he_ won't. I never want to see him. I _won't_ see
him."

"But, Jean dear, listen," Faith put in, for she saw that to Jean there
was nothing humorous in the situation. The girl was deeply offended,
bitterly angry.

"I don't want to listen," Jean snapped. "I don't want to be rude, Faith,
but he--he _lied_ to me. He led me to believe that he was poor, that he
hadn't a dollar. He was playing with me, amusing himself, laughing at me
when I was--oh, I can't talk about it!"

"Oh, shucks, old girl!" said Angus. "You're going into the air about
nothing. You ought to be glad he isn't broke."

"Ought I?" Jean retorted. "Well, I'm not. He wasn't straight with me, he
wasn't fair. He talked about a little cottage, and wanted me to marry
him right away, and--and--"

"And share his poverty," Angus grinned. "Weren't you game, sis?"

"Angus!" Faith warned. But Jean's cheeks flamed.

"No, I wasn't," she replied bitterly. "I told him he would have to make
good first, if you want to know, not because I didn't love him, poor as
I thought he was, but because I thought it would make him work in
earnest. Can you understand that, Angus Mackay? Do you think, after
telling him that, I'd marry him now that he has money? I'd rather _die_!
And--and I half believe I want to."

With which tragic ultimatum Miss Jean turned and fled. Angus gaped after
her and at his wife.

"Well, of all darn fool girls--" he exclaimed.

"You don't understand. You made it worse."

"Why, what did I--"

"Never mind now. I'll talk to her after a while, but in her place I'd
feel much the same. I only hope she will get over it."

"Of course she will. Rot! She fooled herself about Chetwood, same as I
did. Go and make her behave sensibly."

"You don't know a blessed thing about girls," his wife told him.

"Well, I'll bet if you let the two of them get together they'll make it
up. She'll go for him red-headed for five minutes, then it'll be over."

But Faith vetoed this simple plan. She saw that Jean's pride had been
deeply hurt. When Chetwood appeared, later, he met the surprise of his
young life. He did not see Jean. Faith took the matter into her own
hands.

"But--but, hang it," he exclaimed when the situation was made clear to
him, "it's all a beastly, rotten misunderstanding. I mean to say it's
all wrong. Jean--why, bless the girl, I never dreamed of offending her."

"But you've done it. Do you mind answering one or two questions?"

"I'll tell you anything," Chetwood replied with fervor.

"Well--they may be impertinent. Have you much money? And is it yours,
or--remittances?"

"'Much money' is rather a relative term. But I have enough to live on,
and it is mine."

"Then what on earth made you work as a ranch hand?"

"Jean did. She had a strong prejudice against remittance men, and she
classed me as one of them. I was an idler, and she rather despised me.
Of course she didn't tell me so, but I could see how the land lay. So I
made up my mind to remove that objection, anyway. The best place to do
it seemed to be where she could see me working, and I really wanted to
know something about ranching. Struck me as a good joke, being paid for
what I was perfectly willing to pay for myself. Then I thought I might
as well live up to the part and really throw myself on my own resources,
which I did. I've been living on my wages. But of course I had to have
some adequate explanation. I couldn't tell Angus I wanted to live on the
ranch to make love to his sister. Now, could I? So I merely let it be
understood that my remittances had stopped. May not have been exactly
cricket, but I can't see that I'm very much to blame. If I could see
Jean--"

"Not now. She refused to marry you till you were in a position to
support a wife. That's the bitter part of it."

"But I _am_ able to support one."

"Yes, but don't you see having refused to marry you until you had made a
little money she won't put herself in the position of doing so now for
fear you or somebody might think the money had something to do with it."

Chetwood took his bewildered head in his hands.

"O, my sainted Aunt Jemima!" he murmured. "In the picturesque language
of the country this sure beats--er--I mean it's a bit too thick for me.
She didn't approve of me because I was an idler and presumably a
remittance man. Very well. I cut off my income and became a hired man.
Then she wouldn't marry me because I was. Now she won't see me or speak
to me because I'm not. Kind lady, having been a girl yourself, will you
please tell me what I am to do about it?"

Faith laughed at his woebegone countenance. "The whole trouble is that
you weren't frank with her. What was play to you--a good joke--was the
most serious thing in life to her. While she was considering and
planning in earnest for the future you were laughing at her. Perhaps a
man can't appreciate it; but a woman finds such things hard to forgive."

"I'll apologize," Chetwood said. "I'll eat crow. Mrs. Angus, like an
angel, do help me with the future Lady Chet--er--I mean--"

"What!" Faith cried.

"Oh, Lord!" Chetwood ejaculated, "there go the beans. Nothing, nothing!
I don't know what I'm saying, really!"

"Don't you dare to deceive me!" Faith admonished sternly. "Lady
Chetwood! What do you mean?"

"But it's not my fault," the luckless young man protested. "I can't help
it. It's hereditary. When the old boy died--"

"What old boy?"

"My uncle, Sir Eustace. I was named after him. And I couldn't help
_that_."

"Do you mean to tell me," Faith accused him severely, "that on top of
all your deceptions you have a title? Oh, Jean will never forgive this!"

"But it's not much of a title," its owner palliated. "It's just a little
old one. Nothing gaudy about it, like these new brewers'. It's
considered quite respectable, really, at home, and nobody objects.
It--it runs in the family, like red hair or--er--insanity."

"Insanity!" Faith gasped. "Good heavens, is there _that_? Oh, poor Jean!
That explains--"

"No, no!" Chetwood protested desperately. "I didn't mean that. Quite the
contrary. Not a trace. Why, dash it all, there isn't even genius!"

Whereat, with a wild shriek, Faith collapsed weakly in her chair and
laughed until she wept. "Oh, oh, oh!" she gasped feebly, wiping her
eyes, "this is lovely--I mean it's awful. Mr. Chetwood--I mean Sir
Eustace--"

"'Bill!'" the object of her mirth amended. "Poor Bill. Poor old Bill!
Dear, kind, pretty lady, have a heart!"

"A heart! If it gets any more shocks like this--But what am I to tell
Jean? Here's a poor country girl and a noble knight--"

"Don't rub it in. You see Sir Eustace was alive when I came over here.
When I heard of his death I said nothing to anybody, because there are a
lot of silly asses who seem to think a title makes some difference in a
man. And then I was afraid some beastly newspaper would print some rot
about my working as a ranch hand."

"Well, I don't know what's to be done about it," Faith admitted; "but I
do know that now isn't the time for you to see Jean. Really, I think the
best thing you can do is to go away for a week or two."




CHAPTER XXXIII

ANOTHER SURPRISE


Outwardly, life on the Mackay ranch settled back to its old groove. Work
went on as usual. Angus entered into an agreement with McGinity which
relieved him from present money worries. But the actual railway
construction would take time, and meanwhile, next season, he could take
off another crop.

Already the summer was done, the days shortening, the evenings growing
cool. Birds were full-grown and strong of wing. Fogs hung in the
mornings, to be dispelled by the sun slanting a little to southward. The
days were clear, warm, windless. In the lake, trees and mountain ranges
were reflected with the accuracy of a mirror. On these shadows, as
perfect upside down as right side up, Faith expended photographic film
prodigally.

Chetwood had returned to the ranch, but Jean had refused to restore the
status quo. She treated him with formal politeness, avoiding him
skilfully, taking care that he should not see her alone. Mrs. Foley, now
in complete charge of the ranch kitchen, commented thereon.

"What's th' racket bechune yez?" she asked bluntly. "Ye act like ye was
feared to be wid th' lad alone. An' a while ago I felt it me duty as a
fellow-woman to cough, or dhrop a broom--"

"Nonsense!" Jean interrupted tartly.

"Well, a dacint lad he is--f'r a sassenach--fair-spoken, wid a smile,
an' a pleasant word f'r th' likes iv me, an' always a josh on th' tip iv
his tongue."

Jean sniffed.

"Havin' buried four min, I know their ways," Mrs. Foley continued. "Whin
a man's eyes rest on a woman wishful, like a hungry dog's on a green
bone, that's thrue love."

"I'm not a bone!" Jean snapped.

"I am not makin' no cracks at th' build iv yez," Mrs. Foley assured her.
"A foine, well-growed shlip iv a gyurl ye are; an' a swate arrumful--"

"Mrs. Foley!" Jean cried, cheeks afire.

"Well, glory be, an' what else is a gyurl's waist an' a man's arrum
for?" Mrs. Foley demanded practically. "Sure, I am no quince-mouthed
owld maid, talkin' wide iv phwat ivery woman--maid, wife, an'
widdy--knows. I misdoubt, f'r all yer high head, ye're in love wid th'
lad. Then why don't ye let love take its coorse?"

"I'm not in love with him," Jean declared. "I don't want to see him. I
wish he'd go away."

"An' if he did ye'd be afther cryin' thim purty brown eyes out."

"I would _not_!" Jean asseverated. "He's nothing to me--less than
nothing."

"Well, well, God knows our hearts," Mrs. Foley commented piously. "Foour
min I've buried, an' I know their ways."

"You might have another husband if you liked," Jean told her by way of
counter-attack.

"Ye mane th' big Swede," Mrs. Foley responded calmly, "Maybe I could.
But I've had no luck keepin' min, an' he might not last either, though
him bein' phwat he is it might not matther. Still an' all, buryin'
husbands is onsettlin' to a woman."

"But Gus is so healthy!" Jean giggled.

"So was me poor b'ys that's gone," Mrs. Foley sighed. "They was that
healthy it hurt 'em. Health makes f'r divilmint, an' divilmint shortens
a man's days. I'm tellin' ye, ut's th' scrawny little divils that ain't
healthy enough to enj'y life that nawthin' shakes loose from ut. But
rip-roarin', full-blooded b'ys, like thim I had, they leaves a woman
lorn."

"Were your husbands _all_ Irish?" Jean asked.

"They wor," Mrs. Foley replied, "if Galway, Wicklow, Clare an' Down
breed Irishmin, God rest thim!"

"Well, Gus is a good worker. He's been with us for years."

"But ye could fire him when ye liked," Mrs. Foley pointed out. "A
husband an' a hired man is cats of diff'rent stripes. But they tell me
this lad of yours has money. Then why is he workin' as a hired man
onless f'r love of ye, tell me that?"

"I can't help his feelings," Jean returned.

"No, but ye might soothe thim, instid iv playin' cat-an'-mouse--"

"I'm not!" Jean cried. "And I wish you wouldn't talk about him any
more."

The net result was that, feeling herself under Mrs. Foley's skeptical
eye, she treated the unfortunate Chetwood more distantly than ever.
Faith observed, but said nothing, waiting for an opportune moment which
was slow in coming.

Since her wedding Faith's ranch had been abandoned. She had removed some
of her personal belongings, but the furniture remained. She was aware,
now, of the worthlessness of the place. The reasons which had impelled
Godfrey French to purchase, whatever they were, were not operative with
his children. If Braden had been behind that offer it was improbable
that it would be renewed by him. The place was dead horse.

Nevertheless, Faith held a fondness for it, principally sentimental.
Occasionally she rode over to see that all was in order. She had an idea
that, if the Mackay ranch was cut up, they might live there, and she had
a wish, of which she had not yet spoken to her husband, to spend a week
or two there alone with him before the winter. And so one day she paid a
visit to her property.

Though the day was warm the interior struck chill. She threw the doors
open and raised the blinds, letting in the air and sun. Then, taking a
book, she moved a rocker to the front veranda, and basked in the sun.
For a time she admired the mountains sharply defined, gulch, shoulder
and summit, in the clear air, but speedily she became lost in her own
thoughts.

A sudden, thudding detonation broke her reverie and brought her upright
in her chair. It rumbled into the hills, caught by the rocks, flung
across gorges and back in a maze of echoes, diminishing and dying in the
far ranges. For a startled instant she wondered what it could be, and
then she knew that it was powder--a blast.

The shot seemed near, not more than a mile distant. It was either on her
land or very near it, in the vicinity of the foot of the round mountain
which projected from the foot of the range. While she puzzled, another
shot came. Yes, undoubtedly that was where it was. But who could be
using powder on her property?

She made up her mind to find out what was going on. She locked the
doors, and mounting her pony took as straight a line as she could in the
direction of the blasts.

There were no more shots, but she rode on, and presently came to what
seemed to be a new trail leading upward beside the shoulder of the round
hill aforesaid. Her pony scrambled up the rough going, walled on either
side by brush. Then she emerged upon a bench a few acres in extent,
above which the hill rose steeply. There stood a couple of tents. The
brush had been cut away, and earth and stones stripped from the mountain
side, leaving a new, raw wound. Fragments of gray country rock, split
and driven by the force which had ripped them loose, lay around. By the
face thus exposed half a dozen men were at work. Closer at hand two men
conversed. As she pulled up her pony they saw her.

For a moment they stared at her. She rode forward.

"I--I hope I'm not in the way," she began, feeling the words inadequate.
"I was down at the ranch and heard the blasts. I am Miss--I mean I am
Mrs. Mackay." She was not yet accustomed to the latter designation.

"My name is Garland," said the younger of the two. "This is Mr. Poole."

Mr. Poole murmured unintelligibly. Then both waited. A hammer man began
to strike. The measured clang punctuated the stillness.

"I thought I would ride up and see what was going on," Faith explained.

"We're doing a little development work."

"Oh," Faith said, and hesitated for an instant. "But--but this is my
land."

"Your land!" Garland and Poole were plainly surprised. They exchanged
glances. In them was quick suspicion, unspoken question, speculation.

"Where would your line run?" Garland asked.

But Faith could not tell him. Godfrey French had indicated in general
terms where her boundaries lay, but she had never followed them. She
could only repeat her conviction. Again the men exchanged glances.

"I'm afraid you'll have to see Braden about that," Garland told her.
"This is his property--or he thinks it is. We're working for him."

"But what are you working at? What are you doing?"

"We're opening up a prospect--what's going to be a mine."

"A mine! What kind of a mine?"

"A coal mine," Garland replied, "and a good one, too. I guess this
little mountain is mostly coal. We're just clearing off the face, but
you can see the seam if you like."

Coal! Faith stared at the wound in the hillside. She could see a dark
belt, the "seam" of which Garland had spoken, partially exposed. There,
overlain by soil and worthless rock, screened by tree and brush, was the
stored fertility of some bygone age, the compression of the growth of a
young world, potential heat, light, power.

"This isn't much more than outcrop," Garland was saying, "but it's good
coal. Braden will make a clean-up on this when the railway comes
through--that is if it is his." His eyes met Poole's, and again there
was the unspoken query, the speculation.

"But I'm sure it isn't," said Faith. "That is, I'm almost sure."

"It would be a good thing to be sure about," Garland told her.

"I think my husband will be able to tell you," said Faith.

"No use telling us," Garland replied. "Braden's the man for him to see.
And--well, our instructions are not to allow anybody on the ground."

"No trespassing," Poole corroborated.

"But if this is my property--"

"That's the point--_if_ it is."

"I think it is. And until I know it isn't I have a right to come here,
and so has my husband."

Garland shrugged his shoulders. "I'm only telling you our instructions.
I may as well tell you Braden wouldn't want your husband coming here.
They're not friends, I guess. You'd better tell him to keep away."

"My husband will go where he likes without asking Mr. Braden's
permission."

"We're working for Braden," said Garland, "and what he says goes. We
don't want any trouble with anybody, but we're going to carry out our
instructions."

"I'll tell my husband," Faith returned. "Good-bye."

Garland and Poole watched her out of sight and stared at each other.

"Now what do you think of that?" the former asked.

"Darned if I know. She seemed sure. But Braden ought to know what he's
about."

"He _ought_ to," Garland admitted. "He sold her father whatever land she
has. He owns a whole bunch of it around here." He was silent for a
moment. "I wonder if he's putting something over; I wonder if she _does_
own this, and Braden has framed something on her?"

"Her deed would show what she owns."

"That's so. But if Braden is putting something over and we can get onto
it, we could make him come through. This thing is going to be worth
having a share in."

"How are we going to get onto it?"

"I don't know," Garland admitted, "but you never can tell what will turn
up."

"Suppose young Mackay comes horning in here. He'd come on the prod."

"This bunch can handle him," Garland said with confidence. "That big
Swede that's using the hammer is a bad actor. I'll give him a pointer
about Mackay."




CHAPTER XXXIV

A NEW COMPLICATION


Faith rode homeward at an unwonted pace. She had always regarded that
mountain, supposed to be worthless, as part of her property. Godfrey
French, she now remembered more clearly, had once indicated it as within
her boundaries. Now that it was valuable, it appeared that Braden
claimed it. It might be true, but it was strange.

Her husband met her as she clattered up to the corrals. It was his habit
to lift her from the saddle. For a moment he held her above his head as
if she had been a child, kissed her and set her on her feet gently. His
eyes went to the pony's sweating coat.

"Just finding out that old Doughnuts can travel when he has to?" The
pony owed his name to that far-off episode of their first meeting.

"I was in a hurry. Did I ride him too hard?"

"No, did him good." He loosened the cinches, stripped off saddle and
bridle and dismissed Doughnuts with a friendly slap for a luxurious
roll. "What was the hurry, old girl? Has somebody been breaking into Dry
Lodge?"

"No, no; all right there. But Angus, such a strange thing has happened.
They've found coal in that round mountain!"

"Coal!" he exclaimed.

Swiftly, words tumbling over one another so that much had to be
repeated, she related her experiences. As she spoke, mentioning the
names of Garland, of Poole, and finally of Braden, she saw his face
cloud and darken. The frank, genial lights of love and laughter left his
eyes; they became hard, brooding, watchful.

"Well," she asked, "what do you think? Isn't that my property--_our_
property?"

"I supposed so from what you told me, but I never knew where your lines
ran. How did you know your boundaries?"

"I didn't really know them, I'm afraid. Uncle Godfrey just generally
indicated where they were, from the house. But I know he said that hill
was inside them."

"Your deeds would show; but Judge Riley has sent them away to be
registered. I don't remember the description in them."

"But couldn't we find the corner-posts if the land was surveyed?"

"Perhaps it wasn't surveyed. Surveys are usually up to the purchaser.
Your land is part of a larger block owned by Braden. I think he owns
land on both sides of it. He got it for about fifty cents an acre, and
he got the Tetreau place for next to nothing. The description in the
deed would give a starting point, then so many chains that way and so
many another, and it would work out to the acreage, but no actual survey
may have been made."

In fact the only means of determining the actual boundaries were the
deeds themselves, which were temporarily inaccessible.

"I'll go over the ground to-morrow anyway," Angus said, "and look for a
line. And I'll see what these fellows are doing."

"Oh, I forgot! This Garland told me nobody was to be allowed on the
ground. Those were his instructions."

"They were, were they. It's easy to give instructions. I believe Garland
and Poole had something to do with my ditch. They're just the sort
Braden could hire to do a thing like that. And now they're in charge of
this coal prospect! There's something queer about it. I wonder if that
was why your uncle was trying to buy you out?"

"Why," she exclaimed, startled, "surely you don't think he knew of this
coal! Oh, he couldn't!"

"It looks to me like a reasonable explanation."

"But if it is my land, how can Mr. Braden say it's his?"

"I don't know," Angus replied, "but I do know that Braden will do
anything he thinks he can get away with."

Early the following morning Angus and Rennie rode away. The latter, to
Angus' surprise, was wearing a gun.

"What do you want that for?" Angus asked.

"I don't know," Rennie replied, "but I know if I need her she's going to
be there. This claim-jumpin' is as risky as foolin' with another man's
wife. You never can tell."

"But we're not going to jump them."

"All right. But maybe they'll take a notion to jump us. I don't aim to
be crowded by no dam' rock-gang like Braden 'd hire for a job he thought
there might be trouble about."

They found the boundaries of the old Tetreau holding without difficulty,
and with these for a base began to prospect for others. After a long
search they found what appeared to be an old line which had been cut
through brush, but new growth had almost choked it.

"She was run a long time ago," Rennie decided. "Longer 'n when your
wife's pa bought all this scenery. It looks to me like she might be the
line of the block Braden owns."

"We can take a sight and see where the line hits the mountain," Angus
suggested.

They took a rough sight, with stakes set as nearly as possible in the
center of the old line, and they found that the line, produced, would
strike to the northwest of the round mountain. Therefore if this line
was the northwestern boundary of Faith's land, it would include the coal
deposit claimed by Braden.

"Braden skins his hand mighty close before he puts down a bet," said
Rennie. "If he's openin' up a prospect, he's likely organized to back
her. My tumtum is to wait till you get them deeds back and then have a
survey made, or, anyway, see Riley."

"We can go and have a look at what they're doing, and hear what they
have to say. I like Braden's nerve, giving orders to keep people off.
What the devil does he think this country is? If there wasn't something
crooked about the thing he wouldn't mind who took a look at it. I'm
going to have a look, anyway."

They rode toward the mountain, eventually striking into the trail which
Faith had followed on the preceding day. As they approached they could
hear the sounds of work in progress, and suddenly they came upon a man
planting posts. A roll of wire lay on the ground. The man stepped into
the trail.

"Hold on," he said. "You can't go any further."

"Is that so?" said Rennie. "The trail looks like it went some farther."

"Well, _you_ don't," the other retorted. "Them's orders."

"Whose orders?" Angus asked, crowding forward.

"The boss'--Braden."

"Braden be damned!" said Angus. "Get out of the way. Give me the trail,
you, or I'll ride plum' over you!" As he spoke he touched his horse with
the heel, and the guardian of the trail gave ground, cursing, but
followed them as they rode out on the bench and into the presence of a
group of three--Braden, Garland and Poole.

Angus halted, and without paying the least attention to them, took in
his surroundings. Then he shifted his gaze to the trio, eying them in a
silence which was broken by Mr. Braden.

"What do you want here?" he demanded, in a voice which he endeavored to
make stern.

"To see what you're doing on what I think is my wife's property."

Mr. Braden laughed.

"Your wife's property! Not much. Her land--if you mean what I sold to
her father--lies east of here. This is mine. I bought it from the
government fifteen years ago."

Mr. Braden's tone was loud, assertive. But his eyes, after a moment,
shifted away from Angus' steady stare.

"You're lying!" the latter said.

"Lying, am I?" Braden snarled. "You'd better be careful what you say,
young man. This is my land, and I have the grant. Your wife has her
deeds, hasn't she? Take a look at them before you come here shooting off
your mouth."

Obviously, that was the thing to do.

"Why were you and French trying to buy my wife's property?" Angus
bluffed.

"I don't know anything about French," Mr. Braden asserted, "but I never
tried to buy your wife's property. It has nothing to do with this. I
gave the deeds of what I sold her father, to French, as his agent. I
don't know whether he tried to buy it from her or not, and I don't
care."

Angus felt that he was up against a blank wall. The deeds alone would
settle the question conclusively. But possibly Braden held the erroneous
idea that the deeds had been lost or destroyed. He knew that French had
held them unregistered. He might think that Faith could not produce
evidence of ownership.

"In case you have any doubt about it," Angus said, "I may tell you that
French gave the deeds to my wife before he died."

But Mr. Braden merely grinned. "Well, read them," he said. "And keep off
my property after this."

"You seem fairly anxious about that," Angus retorted. "You're trying to
put something over, Braden, and I give you notice to be careful. I've
had my satisfy of your dirty work."

"And I give you notice to keep off my property," Mr. Braden snarled.
"You get off now, or I'll have my men throw you off!"

Angus laughed, his temper beginning to stir.

"Tell 'em to go to it!" he challenged. "You old crook, you've been
trying to get me ever since I was a kid. You thought you'd get my ranch,
and you came mighty near it. I'll play even with you some day, and with
the bunch you hired last summer to blow my ditch. Do you get that,
Garland, and you, Poole?"

"I don't know what you mean?" Garland returned.

"I never done nothing to you," Mr. Poole declared nervously.

Angus eyed them grimly. "It's lucky for both of you I'm not sure," he
said.

But the dispute had attracted the attention of the workmen. They rested
on their tools, watching, listening curiously. The presence of these
reserves gave Mr. Braden heart.

"Get out of here!" he shouted, his voice shrill with nervous rage. "Get
off my property, and stay off! Talk about your ranch! Yours? Bah! Bought
in by a remittance man that's chasing your sister! Hi, boys! run these
fellows out!"

The men started forward, and Angus recognized the leader as the big
Swede who had once been handled so roughly by Gavin French. But Mr.
Braden's taunt, his reference to Chetwood and Jean, had cut deep.
Suddenly his temper, already smouldering hotly, burst into flame. He
left his saddle with a vaulting spring, and as he touched the ground
leaped for Mr. Braden. His hand shot out and fastened upon his shoulder.

Mr. Braden uttered a cry like the squeal of a rat beneath an owl's
claws. Angus jerked him forward, and drew back his right fist. But
something, perhaps the age or lack of condition of the man, restrained
him. "You old skunk!" he gritted; and releasing the shoulder opened his
right hand and swung it wide, stiff-armed. His palm cracked against Mr.
Braden's cheek and ear with a report like a pistol, knocking him flat.

But the man who had followed them from the trail sprang upon Angus from
behind, trying for the small of the back with his knees. The shock drove
Angus into Garland. The three became a locked mass. Suddenly it
disintegrated. Garland staggered back, his hands to his face. The
guardian of the trail, torn from his hold, was lifted and hurled upon
the earth. Poole, stooping as Angus freed himself, caught up a rock.
Garland, his face covered with blood, was reaching beneath his coat.

"Drop that rock!" Rennie roared. "Nick Garland, h'ist your hands!" Gun
in hand he menaced the oncoming rush of men. "Keep back there!" he
rasped. "Drop them mucksticks! You big Swede with that hammer, I got my
eye on you. Hands up, the bunch! Sky 'em. Now--_freeze_!"

The commotion was suddenly stilled. The little man on the horse
dominated the situation. His gun menaced, controlled.

Mr. Braden quavered shrill denunciation.

"I'll have you arrested!" he threatened, his hand to his injured cheek.
"Assault! Trespass! Threatening with deadly weapons! We'll see what the
law has to say about this!"

"Well, don't overlook this here little statute I got in my hand," Rennie
warned him. "This is one law you can't make work crooked for you."

Garland cursed, shaking his fist. "If you want gun law you'll get it!"
he threatened.

"I will, hey!" Rennie retorted. "I been wise some time to that shoulder
gun you pack under your coat, and I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll get
down off'n this cayuse and put up both hands empty and let you get your
hands on your gun butt. And then I'll bust your arm while you're
drawin'! How'd that suit you, you dam' four-flush?"

But Garland did not see fit to accept the challenge. Rennie eyed him
with contempt. "I guess bushwhackin' 's about your limit," he said; "and
I dunno' 's you pack the nerve for _that_. Come on, Angus, let's go!"

When they were down the trail and riding side by side Rennie shook his
head.

"Now maybe you see how handy a gun can come in. But all that didn't do
no good. Your wife either owns the property or she don't, and the way
Braden talked, he seemed to be mighty sure about it. If I was you I'd go
and see Judge Riley."

Angus did so the next day.

"If you had come in yesterday instead of going off half-cocked," the
judge told him severely, "I could have shown you the deeds. They came
back some days ago. The only thing to do is to get Barnes or somebody to
make a survey and see what its boundaries are."

Angus hunted up Barnes, the local surveyor, and drove him out to Faith's
ranch. The place of beginning named in the deed was with reference to
the eastern corner of the large block owned by Braden. Thence Barnes ran
his line west until according to the wording of the deed he reached the
spot which should be the easterly corner of Faith's property. Planting a
post there he continued to work west. Reaching the spot which according
to the description was the southwest corner, he turned off his angle to
work north. Angus peered through the instrument, noting where the
cross-hairs notched upon the landscape.

"Are you sure this is right?" he asked.

"Of course I'm sure," Barnes replied somewhat tartly. "If you think I
don't know my business you can get somebody else."

"Then," said Angus, "this survey won't take in that round mountain at
all?"

"Not a foot of it," Barnes replied. "The line will run just by its east
base."

And when the survey was completed it was evident that Faith's deeds gave
her no title whatever to the land claimed by Mr. Braden. The deeds were
conclusive; Barnes' survey accurate. Suspicions amounted to nothing.




CHAPTER XXXV

BRADEN MISSES SOME PAPERS


The discovery of coal coming on top of sudden activity in railway survey
filled the hills with prospectors, amateur and otherwise. But no further
discoveries were made. Indeed, Mr. Braden's discovery had been made by
accident, according to his own account of it, which was more or less
along historic lines. He proceeded serenely with development. He spoke
largely of potential output, refusing to consider tentative proposals.
Later he might organize a company and offer shares to the public, but
just then he preferred to keep the entire ownership himself. He became a
personage of more local importance than ever, deferred to, his opinions
quoted. In this notoriety he basked as in the sun. Almost daily he
visited his prospect.

He was driving back to town one evening when he met Gerald French. Mr.
Braden, who for reasons of his own had rather avoided these young men
since their father's death, nodded pleasantly and would have passed on,
but Gerald stopped and held up his hand.

"I'd like to have a little talk with you," he said.

"Can you come in to-morrow? I'm rather in a hurry. To-night I have to
preside at a meeting."

"What I have to say won't take long," young French told him. "I want to
come to a definite understanding with you about this coal property."

Mr. Braden, for reasons of his own, experienced a decidedly nervous
feeling. "Huh!" he said. "An understanding! What do you mean?"

"You know damned well what I mean," Gerald replied. "You and my father
were in this thing together. He had an interest--or was to have one. We
expect to have the same interest. Is that clear enough for you?"

It could not be much clearer, but nevertheless Mr. Braden if not
bewildered gave an excellent imitation of that state of mind.

"Your father's interest in my coal property!" he exclaimed. "There is
some mistake. Your father had no interest."

"Oh, yes, he had," Gerald maintained.

"But I tell you you are mistaken," Mr. Braden protested. "I give you my
absolute assurance that he had no interest whatever."

"Your assurance--hell!" Gerald sneered. "What do you take me for,
anyway? Do you think I'm not wise to you?"

"If you have any evidence of your father's interest, produce it," Mr.
Braden returned.

"So that's the ground you take, is it?" said Gerald. "Well, I guess you
know I haven't any evidence that would hold. But all the same the two of
you were partners in this deal. I know it, whether I can prove it or
not. And what we want is to be let in on this on a fifty-fifty basis
with you."

"You do, hey?" Mr. Braden replied sharply. "Well, you won't be. Your
father had no interest at all. As it is, he owes me money, which--"

"Forget it!" Gerald interrupted. "He steered a lot of business your way,
and I'll bet you broke better than even. As for the coal, I saw a sample
of it on his desk months ago. _You_ weren't giving out samples. Then he
was trying to buy the Winton property. Buy it? He couldn't have bought
anything the way he was fixed at the time, and you know it. You were
going to put up for it, and you know that, too."

"What has that to do with the coal?"

"It had something to do with it. I'm telling you that we want a slice,
and we're going to have it--somehow."

"If you think I'm going to give away property to people who have no
right to it, you're much mistaken," Mr. Braden stated emphatically. "If
you can bring any evidence--"

"I told you I couldn't, because I think you know that already. And you
probably know we are broke. Being broke, we're not going to be
particular about how we get money."

"Are you threatening me?" Mr. Braden asked somewhat nervously.

"Call it what you like. You're pretty smooth, Braden, but you're also a
hog; and you're a fool to hold out on us. You'll lose by it. Do you
think I don't know where the money came from for a lot of things--for
blowing Mackay's ditch for instance? Do you suppose I thought Garland
was putting up himself?"

"Are you trying to blackmail me?" Mr. Braden demanded.

"No," Gerald replied. "I'm giving you a chance now to come through."

"You won't get any money from me," Mr. Braden declared. "I financed your
father from time to time for reasons of--er--friendship, but I'm not
going to do the like for you young men. If you want money, earn it like
other people."

"That's your last word, is it?"

"Absolutely my last."

"All right," said Gerald. "Now go ahead, Braden, and be careful you
don't bump into something hard."

Mr. Braden drove on. At first Gerald's words gave him considerable
uneasiness, but as he thought them over he came to the comfortable
conclusion that they were principally bluff. Gerald had admitted that he
had no evidence of his father's interest. Also they were broke, as Mr.
Braden knew very well. All they had was the ranch, which was mortgaged
to the hilt, and the mortgage was far in arrears. Likely they would get
out of the country, scatter and go to the devil individually.

He had seen no more of Angus Mackay, though he knew that the latter had
had a survey made. There could be no collusion between Mackay and the
French boys, to embarrass him. The latter were all more or less hostile
to Mackay, and especially Blake.

So Mr. Braden drove home, had supper, presided at his meeting and sought
his own apartments. There, having lighted his lamp, he opened his little
safe and, taking out a bundle of papers, returned with them to the
light. By rights, the papers which he had abstracted from the safe of
Godfrey French should have been on top of the bundle; but they were not.
He stripped off the rubber band which bound the bundle, and ran through
it rapidly. He could not find what he sought.

Mr. Braden sat up straight, his eyes widening in an expression which
bore a strong family resemblance to fear. Once more, with fingers which
shook a little, he went through the papers. Nothing! And yet he had a
distinct recollection of snapping that rubber band around them.

Catching up the lamp he set it beside the safe and went through its
contents. His movements became more hurried, more nervous as his search
progressed. But at the end of it, when he had gone through the contents
of the safe half a dozen times, it was absolutely certain that his
search was in vain. He rose to his feet, but sat down because something
seemed to have happened to the stiffening of his knees.

"My God!" he said aloud, "they're gone!"

It appeared to be a shocking discovery. He had found the safe locked,
but somebody must have had access thereto. He felt for the key which
hung behind the safe, and found it. Nobody, to his knowledge, knew of
that hiding place; but somebody must have known of it. Naturally, he
thought of Gerald French. But if French had gone through his safe, he
would have dropped some hint of it during their interview.

A new thought struck him. Was anything else missing? Engrossed in the
search for those particular papers he had not thought of that. He had no
schedule of the safe's contents, but he had an excellent memory. Once
more he went through the papers on the floor, and at last he
straightened up from his task with a full-sized oath.

"Nick Garland!" he muttered. "That envelope is gone, too!"

Now, some years before, Garland had secured money from Mr. Braden on a
promissory note, apparently endorsed by a well-to-do but somewhat
illiterate rancher. When the note matured Garland was unable to meet it,
and Mr. Braden intimated that he would have recourse to the liability of
the endorser. Whereupon Garland, in a panic, had admitted that he
himself had reproduced the rancher's painful scrawl. Mr. Braden secured
his signature to a statement to that effect, and filed it away with the
note. Eventually Garland paid or worked out the face of the note, but
Mr. Braden kept it and the confession as well; Garland for obvious
reasons being unable to insist upon their delivery. Now the envelope
containing that old note and the signed statement had disappeared. The
inference, to Mr. Braden, required no elaborate reasoning.




CHAPTER XXXVI

TURKEY PLAYS A HAND


Mr. Braden's reasoning which fixed the responsibility on Garland, was
perfectly logical; but his conclusion was entirely wrong. The missing
documents were in the possession, not of Garland, but of Turkey Mackay.
Turkey, on the night when he had seen Mr. Braden take certain papers
from French's safe, had gone to that ranch to see young Larry about a
horse. What he had seen, which included the fatal seizure of Godfrey
French, had put his errand entirely out of his head. The papers which
Braden had taken, he reasoned, must be important. The French boys would
sure raise blazes if they knew of it. Hence, he had followed Braden
home, debating the feasibility of holding him up and taking the papers
by force, but had decided against it. Reaching town he had scurried
around to the rear of Mr. Braden's apartments, and when the light went
on had chinned himself up to the window and seen him place papers, which
must be those in question, in the little safe; and he had also observed
where Mr. Braden had secured the key.

Thereafter he merely awaited a favorable opportunity to investigate the
safe. There must be private papers in it which Braden would be sorry to
lose. A skunk like that would have a lot of stuff he wouldn't want
people to know about. Therefore, Turkey constructed a short ladder
which, under cover of night, he concealed beneath a pile of old lumber
in the rear of Mr. Braden's office. He found his opportunity in the
night of the meeting at which Mr. Braden presided. It was a public
meeting, and Turkey, looking in at the door of the hall, noted Mr.
Braden on the platform. It was exactly what he had been looking for. The
night was cloudy, dark, with a spatter of rain. Turkey made tracks for
his shack, and securing a short bit of steel which bore a strong family
resemblance to a jimmy, and a flashlight, hastened to the rear of Mr.
Braden's building, erected his ladder, forced the window, found the key
without difficulty and opened the safe.

At first he found the safe's contents disappointing. The old accounts
and letters which he scanned hastily, seemed innocent, and what books
there were contained no record of crime. The first item of interest was
an envelope endorsed with Garland's name. This Turkey opened and read
the contents. Grinning to himself he put them in his pocket. Anyway, he
now had something on Garland. Searching further, he found what seemed to
be a conveyance in duplicate from Braden to Sewell Winton. Turkey
frowned, puzzled. Sewell Winton? That was the name of Angus' wife's
father. Then those deeds should be in her possession. What was Braden
doing with them?

Suddenly Turkey thought of the night he had seen Braden and French
together in that very room, poring over documents which French had taken
away. French was Angus' wife's uncle, and had bought the property she
had lived on for her father, Turkey had heard. Now French had taken
documents away; and Braden had stolen two documents from French's safe.
Here were two documents which, though he could not identify them, were
connected more or less with both men. Unless he could find others
bearing directly on French, these must be the ones.

Having reached this conclusion with the simple logic of a savage working
out a trail, Turkey placed the deeds in his pocket and continued his
search; but he found nothing more connected with French, nor were there
any other papers which looked suspicious. And so Turkey reluctantly
closed the safe, replaced the key where he had found it, reflecting that
it might come in handy again, and departed as he had come.

When he reached his shack he got into his bunk as being a position
favorable to profound thought, but went to sleep before he thought of
anything. In the morning breakfast absorbed his mental faculties until
it was consumed. Then he lit a smoke and read all the papers through.

Those connected with Garland were obvious enough, self-explanatory, but
he did not know just what to do with them. If he made them public he
would have to account for his possession of them. That would not do. He
would keep them for a while and see what turned up.

But the deeds were a different matter. They represented ownership, and
so should be in the hands of his sister-in-law whom he had never seen.
Why hadn't Braden or French given her these deeds? Why had Braden swiped
them from French? The girl had been living on the land, so that she knew
it belonged to her. Maybe, now that French was dead, that old skunk
Braden was going to pretend that he never sold her father the place at
all. But from what he, Turkey, knew of the old Tetreau lay-out, it
wasn't worth going to much trouble about.

Suddenly Turkey whistled softly and swore to himself. He must be a
bonehead! Braden wanted to get hold of that land because it was near his
coal. Sure! That was it. The darn, old crook, trying to hold out on a
girl after he'd made a strike like that on his own land! Why, the
blanked, double-dashed old hog! Angus' wife must have the deeds at once,
or Braden might put something over on her. It wouldn't do to trust the
mail or any one else. He hated to go to the ranch, but he must give them
to her himself.

Turkey thereupon saddled his blue mare and clattered away. The mare was
in high spirits, the morning cool, and youth and good health surged in
Turkey's veins. As he rode he sang classics of the old frontier which
for excellent reasons have never been embalmed in type. Within a couple
of miles of his destination the road dipped down to a wooden flat,
crossed a creek and mounted a steep grade. Turkey, walking the blue
mare, was half way up when a horse and rider appeared at the top. To his
amazement they bore down on him at a run, and to his greater amazement
the rider was a girl. For anybody to run a horse down that grade was to
tempt Providence. But in a moment he realized that the horse was running
away.

The girl had given up trying to hold him, and was letting him run. The
animal, a powerful bay, had the bit, and his eyes showed white. His
rider was sitting still, holding the horn with one hand, trying to
adjust her body to the thumping jar of the downhill run. She was staying
with it gamely, and though her face was white her mouth was set. She was
a complete stranger to Turkey.

The latter was not foolish enough to endeavor to stop a runaway head on,
on a grade. He wheeled his mare in to the bank, giving right-of-way.

"Stay with it!" he yelled. "I'll get you at the bottom!" And as the big
bay thundered past he regained the road and sent the mare down after
the runaway at a pace which even he considered risky.

He reached the bottom some fifty yards behind the bay, and for the first
time called on the real speed of the mare. She overhauled rapidly, but
as he drew nearly level and reached for the rein, the bay swerved,
abandoned the road and took to the brush. But the blue mare was
accustomed to hard riding after wild, long-legged steers up and down
brush-covered coulees. She stuck to the bay, through an undergrowth that
slashed and whipped, and once more brought Turkey level. This time he
got a hold, and dragged the bay to a halt.

"Th--thank you!" the girl murmured, and swayed a little, catching the
horn with both hands. "I--I think I'll get down, for a minute."

"Sure!" Turkey agreed, but as he saw how she slid from the saddle he
leaped down and caught her.

"I'll be all right in a minute. I must have been frightened. It's so
silly of me."

She sat down on the grass, and Turkey tied the bay to a sapling. This
done he regarded the girl furtively, deciding that though not exactly
pretty, she was mighty easy to look at. Blue eyes, fair hair, nice skin,
tall and well-built. He hoped she wouldn't faint. That would be--well,
it would be embarrassing. He wouldn't know what the--that is he would be
helpless.

"I'm not going to faint," she said as if in answer to his thought. "I'm
just shaken up."

Turkey nodded. A run down hill jolts even a hardened puncher at times.
Girls were complicated machines--soft, too. Shaking up wasn't good for
'em. But in a moment the color began to come back to her cheeks.

"There," she said, "I feel better. I want to thank you really, now."

"That's all right," said Turkey. "I couldn't stop him on the grade; he'd
have gone over, likely. What started him?"

"A piece of newspaper blew off the sides of the road under his feet. I
couldn't hold him at all."

Turkey feebly expressed his opinion of people who dropped paper beside a
road, the feebleness being due to the sex of his unknown companion.

The girl regarded him closely.

"You remind me of somebody," she said, "but I don't think I've ever seen
you before."

"My name is Mackay," Turkey vouchsafed, and waited for a similar
confidence which did not come.

"Mackay!" the girl exclaimed. Her eyes were veiled for a moment. When
she again looked him in the face their expression had altered.

"Are you the Mr. Mackay who has a ranch somewhere near here?"

"That's my brother, Angus," Turkey replied.

"What a really Scotch name! Yours should be Donald, or Duncan, or
Murdoch?"

"Worse than that," Turkey grinned. "Torquil. But most people call me
'Turkey.'"

"May I call you 'Turkey'?"

"If--if you like," Turkey stammered.

"Well, I do like. And I like _you_, Turkey."

"Huh!" said Turkey.

"Really and truly I do. Don't you like me?"

"I don't know you," the startled Turkey responded defensively.

"Oh, Turkey! what a speech! But wouldn't you like to know me better?"

Gosh! was this darn girl trying to be fresh, to flirt with him.

"I--I hadn't thought about it," he stammered.

"Oh, worse and worse! I want you to like me, and I want you to come and
see me. I'm going to live here--in this district--for a while."

Turkey cast a longing eye at the blue mare. He would feel much safer in
the saddle.

"Will you pay me a visit, Turkey--a nice, long visit. I'll make you
comfy, really I will. I'd love to."

This was a holy fright.

"I'm mighty busy just now," he replied.

"You mean you won't. That's not nice."

"Well, maybe I'll drop around some time," Turkey relented.

"I'll look forward to it. And you know, Turkey dear"--Turkey jumped--"in
the brave days of old when brave knights rescued ladies they were
sometimes rewarded. Would you mind very much if I kissed you?"

Turkey backed hastily toward the faithful blue mare. This girl was
crazy, and that was all there was to it. She shouldn't be out alone. A
crazy girl, plum' bugs on men! A devil of a note! And it was his luck to
get into a jackpot like that!

"You--you'd better not," he said desperately. "It wouldn't be right,
anyway. I--I got consumption."

This amazing female laughed.

"Please let me kiss you, Turkey!"

"Not by a--I mean, no chance!" Turkey replied emphatically. "If you feel
able to ride I'll go along with you to wherever you're going."

The girl rose obediently. But as Turkey turned to the horses two strong,
rounded arms clasped him and warm lips pressed a kiss upon his cheek.
Disengaged, he staggered back.

"It wasn't so bad, was it?" the girl laughed. "You won't be so shy next
time." She drew a fringed buckskin glove from her left hand, and to
Turkey's utter horror he beheld the dull gleam of gold upon the third
finger.

A wedding ring! Oh Lord! Somebody's crazy wife. Suppose the husband
showed up and found a kissing match going on!

"Turkey dear," said the crazy wife, "you haven't asked me who I am."

"Well, who are you?" said Turkey. Likely she would claim to be Joan of
Arc or Pocahontas, and she would be calling him old Cap. Smith next.

"I am Faith Mackay, Angus' wife!"

"What!" Turkey gasped.

Faith laughed, her eyes dancing.

"I know you'll forgive me, Turkey. But you were so funny, and so
be-yewtifully shy! You wouldn't come to our wedding, and I never saw
you, and so I couldn't resist having a little fun with you."

Turkey grinned shamefacedly. "I thought you were crazy," he admitted.

"Yes, I thought you did. But I'm not--even if I did want to kiss you."

"You can do it again if you like," Turkey suggested with sudden
enthusiasm.

"Perhaps I shall when you come to pay me that long visit."

Turkey frowned. "I guess you don't know how things are. Angus--"

"Now, Turkey, listen to me: The whole trouble with you Mackays is that
you are too stiff-necked to get together and talk over your differences
frankly. Angus has his faults, but his good qualities outweigh them.
He's a _man_, Turkey, and I'm proud of him."

"Oh, he's a man, all right," Turkey admitted frankly. "I never said he
wasn't. He's a darn good man; but all the same he's a darn hard man for
me to get along with. But it's funny. I was going to the ranch to-day to
see _you_."

"That was nice of you."

"I didn't mean it that way. I wanted to give you the deeds to your
land."

"My deeds? But I have them."

"Are you sure?" Turkey exclaimed.

"Of course I'm sure. My uncle gave them to me before he died."

Turkey was crestfallen. She ought to know. Then what the dickens was the
junk he had in his pocket? He produced the deeds and handed them to her.

"Well, all I know is that these look like deeds to your father. I
thought you ought to have 'em, so I brought 'em along."

She regarded the papers with a puzzled frown.

"Why they seem just the same as the others. Why should there be two sets
of deeds?"

"Search me," Turkey admitted. "They're the same, are they?"

"I think so. I mean they _look_ the same, signatures and all." She read
the description of the property. "A thousand acres. Yes, that's the
same. Oh, wait! 'Beginning at a point ... and thence westerly--'" Her
forehead wrinkled in an effort of recollection. "Why, Turkey, they
_aren't_! I mean it's the same number of acres, but this puts my east
corner further west. I'm almost sure--Oh!"

"What's the matter?" Turkey asked, for she was staring wide-eyed.

"Oh, don't you see--but of course you wouldn't because you don't
know--but if these deeds are real--I mean if they are the real deeds--I
own the land which Mr. Braden claims--the coal land!"

The comment which burst from the lips of the startled Turkey went
unreproved.

"Where did you get these?" Faith demanded.

Turkey told her the truth. When he had concluded Faith sat silent,
thinking.

"Well," she said at last, "there are several things I don't understand.
But one thing is clear enough: You must come back to the ranch, and you
and Angus must be friends again. I'm going to insist on that. No more
misunderstandings. We all owe you a great deal, Turkey. And I'm going to
kiss you again."




CHAPTER XXXVII

DUPLICATE DEEDS


Angus entering the ranch house from the rear, was amazed to see Turkey
with his wife and Jean. But when he learned of the runaway he took his
brother's hand in a hard grip.

"Go easy!" Turkey objected, rescuing his crushed digits. "You've got no
business letting her ride that cayuse. He's a new one on me."

"It wasn't Doughnuts," Faith exclaimed. "It was that new bay, but I
won't do it again. But it was worth it to meet Turkey and bring him
home. Now you boys have got to make up. Turkey, tell him what you told
me."

Turkey told that and more. He told of the conversation he had overheard
between Garland and Poole.

"Why, I blamed you for that ditch business," Angus said.

"I know you did--now; but I didn't know it that night when you came to
my shack."

Turkey proceeded. He told of seeing Braden take the documents from
French's safe, and of how he had obtained them.

Angus scanned the deeds which Faith handed him, and going to a desk in
the corner found those which French had given Faith. He spread them on
the table and the four bent above them. Faith caught her breath sharply.

"The description of the land _is_ different!" she cried.

"Yes, it throws your land further west--all of it. According to this
your west line would be about where we thought it was--where French
originally told you it ran."

"Then--?"

"Then if these are the original deeds, you own the coal prospect that
Braden is developing."

"If they are the originals the others must be forgeries."

"Yes. It's plain enough. The originals were made by Braden and witnessed
by French. Somehow they found this coal and then they tried to buy you
out. When you wouldn't sell but demanded your deeds, they prepared new
ones, moving your block east and leaving out the coal lands. That was
easy, because Braden owned land on either side of yours. All they had to
do was to sign the new deeds themselves. Where they slipped up was in
not destroying the originals. I don't understand that, unless French
thought their possession would give him a hold on Braden if he didn't
play fair with the coal. Braden should have destroyed them when he stole
them from French."

"But what are we going to do about it?"

"I had better see Judge Riley."

"What's the matter with you and me and maybe Dave going up there and
standing up the bunch and running them off?" Turkey suggested. "I'd like
to hold a gun on Garland. I'm going to get him. That was a dirty
trick--"

"We'll get him. But Braden's the man I'm after. I'll give him a taste of
the law he's so fond of."

"I'm thinking of Kathleen," Faith interposed. "If Braden was a forger,
so was her father."

"But you can't let that deprive you of a hill full of coal."

"No, I didn't mean that. But if there is any way in which it can be kept
quiet please take it."

"That will depend on Braden," Angus replied. "Anyway, I'll see Judge
Riley the first thing to-morrow."

In the morning they entered Judge Riley's office before the judge had
lighted his first pipe. He listened to Turkey's story, puffing hard,
occasionally rumpling his gray mane.

"I knew it," he said. "I knew that some time Braden would put his foot
outside the law. Your potential law-breaker merely waits for an
opportunity which he thinks is safe. Braden thought he was safe enough,
and he is a pretty cautious individual. It is one thing to be morally
sure that he committed forgery and another to prove it. Now, let's see
what evidence we have to go on."

He spread out both sets of documents on his desk and studied them
intently.

"Both," he observed after an interval, "are in my opinion actually
signed by Braden and French--one as grantor and the other as witness. I
know their signatures very well. The notarial certificate of execution
is not material, because it is separate, and could easily have been
detached from the originals and attached to the others."

"Your theory is that the deeds delivered by French to your wife were
prepared recently. Let us see if we can find anything in the deeds
themselves to corroborate that. They are on identical legal forms, and
seem to have been written on the same machine, for the same letters show
poor alignment, and the face of one, the small 'c' appears to have been
injured. Let me see: I have some old letters of Braden's."

Rising he took down an old letter file and searched through it, finally
removing a letter.

"This, like these deeds, is dated some seven years ago, and was written
in Braden's office. It exhibits the same peculiarities of type."

"Well, wouldn't that show that both deeds were drawn seven years ago?"
Angus deduced in disappointment, for so far the judge's words were not
encouraging.

"Not as bad as that. It would show merely that both were prepared on a
machine owned by Braden seven years ago. Here are other letters from
him, written on another and presumably more modern machine. He may have
the old one yet. It merely points to careful preparation--painstaking
forgery. But Turkey, here, cannot testify positively that Braden was
carrying a machine in the case that night, nor did he see him write
anything on a machine. He cannot identify the machine that he did see."

"No," Turkey admitted.

"So that even if we found the old machine in Braden's possession, it
would prove nothing," the judge went on. "Nor can you positively
identify the documents you saw Braden abstract from French's safe?"

"No."

The judge rumpled his mane and reflected.

"The writing is slightly fainter in the deeds which we are trying to
prove are the more recent. That might go to show either that they were
written long ago, or recently with a dry or worn ribbon such as might
well be in an old, discarded machine. But there is not enough difference
to get us anywhere on that line. We can't depend on the testimony of
Braden's stenographer, for it is too long ago. She would probably
identify both as having been written on or about the dates which they
bear, merely by the peculiarities of type of the machine she used then.
Her evidence would probably be against us."

"But take the whole thing," Angus urged. "Take French's attempt to buy
my wife out."

"Unfortunately, you have no evidence to connect Braden with that. He
would deny all connection under oath, as he did to you. When you set out
to prove a case out of the mouth of a hostile witness, you are embarking
on a very doubtful enterprise. The fact is, Braden himself is the only
witness, and there is nothing so far to contradict the evidence he will
undoubtedly give if called."

"But how can he account for the existence of two sets of deeds?"

"I don't know," the judge replied, "but he will account for them. Don't
underestimate him. He's a cunning fox. Suppose I put myself in his
place. Assume that the documents delivered to your wife by French are
forgeries. The originals I should have destroyed, but did not. They are
stolen from my safe. I do not know who has them. I may suspect Garland,
because of the disappearance of the other paper, but I am not sure. In
any event I must provide against the possibility that they may be used
against me. Now what story will hold water? What would be plausible?"

He drummed his spatulate fingers on his desk, his eyes half closed.

"My effort," he resumed after a moment's silence, "has been to duplicate
the originals in every detail, to make it appear that the second were
prepared some seven years ago. Then my explanation must be one which
will naturally account for the preparation of two sets of deeds on or
about the same date. And that can only be because there was some mistake
in the first which rendered the preparation of the second necessary.
Now, what is the most natural mistake, the most everyday, common
mistake?"

He paused again.

"Misdescription!" he announced, "a misdescription of the property, a
clerical error in that. And it's so profoundly simple! The instrument
signed and witnessed carelessly, without comparison; then the discovery
that the land was wrongly described, followed by the preparation of a
second conveyance, and neglect to destroy the first, which of course is
void both by error and lack of delivery. There you are! That's Braden's
defense. And the devil of it is, that without evidence to contradict it
it's perfectly good."

"Do you mean he gets away with it?" Turkey exclaimed.

"On the face of it he does," the judge replied, "but sometimes faces
alter. No man can construct evidence without a weak spot somewhere.
Leave these papers with me. I'll think the whole thing over again."

When his clients had gone he refilled his pipe and put his feet on his
desk. He sat for an hour, motionless, his cold pipe between his teeth.
Then once more he scrutinized the deeds carefully, looking at the faulty
type. At last he held them to the light and peered at them. Then he
brought his gnarled old fist down.

"By George!" he muttered, "it's a slim chance, and unprofessional as the
devil, but it's about the only one I see. As matters stand, it would be
folly to launch an action. 'Conscience makes cowards.' That's truer than
most proverbs, and Braden's a rank coward at heart. I'll give him a few
days to get really nervous, and then I'll try it. It may work--yes, it
_may_ work."




CHAPTER XXXVIII

GARLAND PLAYS A HAND


As Mr. Braden was quite sure that Garland had abstracted the deeds he
expected to receive a proposition from him. When this did not come he
was puzzled. What was Garland waiting for? Was it possible that he was
dickering with Mackay?

The result of this uncomfortable suspicion was that he began to sound
Garland, speaking carelessly of Faith's claim to the property,
ridiculing it. Garland, being by no means a fool, began to wonder why
Braden recurred to the subject, and began to lead him on.

"What made her think she owned the thing?" he asked. "If her deeds are
all right they ought to show her what's hers."

This confirmed Braden's suspicions.

"You heard Mackay say French gave them to her before he died."

"Yes, I heard that," said Garland. But if Braden kept insisting on those
deeds there must be something crooked about them. If they had been made
years ago, why hadn't they been handed over? And why was Braden talking
to him? The only answer was that he must be supposed to know something
which he did not. However, being a fair poker player he remembered that
the bluff of a pat hand has been known to win. He shot at a big venture:
"As long as she doesn't know any more than those deeds tell her, I guess
she won't make you any trouble," he said.

There was no doubt at all in Mr. Braden's mind now about Garland.

"Look here," he said, "are you going to make trouble for me--I mean are
you going to try to?"

Garland was amazed at the result of his random shot, but had no
objection to picking up the birds thus fallen at his feet.

"Not if you do the fair thing," he replied.

"What do you call fair?" Mr. Braden demanded.

Garland was in deep water. Braden wanted him to put a price on silence.
Well, he had no idea of the price Braden would be prepared to pay.

"Fifty-fifty," he replied at a venture.

"Fifty-fifty!" Mr. Braden echoed. "Why, you hold-up, you sneaking
safe-robber, I'll see you damned first. Those deeds you stole aren't
worth the paper they're written on."

Here was real news for Garland. Deeds had been stolen from Braden's
safe. If they were the real deeds of the property and French and Braden
had delivered bogus ones to that girl, then Braden was in a devil of a
mess. And Braden thought _he_ had them.

"I'll take a chance on that," he replied.

But Mr. Braden, since the loss of the deeds, had been busy mentally
constructing a bomb-proof defense, and this had taken very nearly the
form anticipated by Judge Riley.

"Then you won't get a nickel out of it," he told Garland. "They might
make a certain amount of trouble, but that's all. I'm not going to be
held up. You think because you stole that old note and statement of
yours when you took the deeds that I've no strings on you? Well, you try
anything and see."

Garland in his surprise nearly exposed his hand. Here was a rotten
complication, which gave him a very live interest in the affair. While
evidence of his old transgression was in Braden's hands he had been sure
it would not be used. But now somebody else had it. Who would have an
interest in taking it, as well as deeds affecting the coal lands?
Obviously Mackay, who would like nothing better than to get something on
him.

The position, then, in Garland's mind was that Angus Mackay had evidence
which proved his wife's title to the coal lands. But Braden thought that
he, Garland, had it. Mackay, also, had evidence of his, Garland's old
forgery. He must get that back. As to Braden's misapprehension he must
turn that to his own advantage. Braden, in his opinion, was simply
bluffing as to the nonimportance of the deeds. If he could get hold of
them he could hold Braden up. Also he would knock Mackay out of a very
promising property. But he must lose no time. It was a wonder Mackay had
not taken some action already.

"Keep your shirt on," he advised Braden. "Don't try to bluff me. You
know if Mackay got hold of those papers it would raise the devil with
you. They show who really owns the property."

"They are a mistake," Mr. Braden returned. "I mean they were drawn by
mistake. French gave the girl her deeds."

Garland grinned. "Suppose he had given her the others, where would you
be?"

"Suppose nothing of the sort!" Mr. Braden snapped. "I tell you they're
no good. You might as well give them back to me."

"What do you want them for--if they're no good?" Garland grinned.

"I'll give you a hundred dollars for them."

Garland merely laughed, and though Mr. Braden increased his offer to
five hundred it was not accepted. He was reluctant to go higher, first,
because it would show Garland that he considered the deeds worth real
money; and second, because Garland did not seem anxious to press his
blackmail. The latter circumstance puzzled Mr. Braden. What was Garland
up to, anyway? He did not threaten to deal with Mackay, after that
single reference to him. Mr. Braden knew that he hated Angus, and
preferably would not deal with him. And so it was his own play to wait
and let the next suggestion come from Garland. There, temporarily, the
matter rested, because neither was in a position to press it to a
finish.

But Mr. Braden, though he had what so far as he could see was a
perfectly good legal defense, experienced certain inward qualms. There
was always the possibility that something might go wrong with a defense,
if it came to that. That old Riley, for instance, who looked like a
scarred Airedale, would enjoy baiting him. He might find some flaw, some
kink of law, which might be embarrassing. Mr. Braden knew that his nerve
was not of the sort to stand a grueling by skilled counsel, especially
if he slipped once or twice. His would be almost the sole evidence.
There was comfort in that, but there was also responsibility.

Looking into the future Mr. Braden foresaw the possibility of a
situation in which the possession of actual cash would be very
convenient if not necessary. He might have to pay Garland a lump sum.
Or, if he refused to do so and Garland made a deal with Mackay, he might
have to stand a trial. It might be a mere civil action to establish the
validity of the missing deeds; of it might be a charge of forgery. In
any event it would give him most undesirable publicity. His affairs were
very badly involved, and it would then be very hard to raise money. If
all went well, the coal would pull him out of the financial hole he was
in, and put him on his feet again. But meantime it would be prudent to
get together as much cash as he could. And so, very quietly, he set
about accumulating as much currency as possible, and as he obtained it
he placed it in his office safe, having now no confidence in his private
one. He regarded it as accident insurance.

Meanwhile, Garland was making arrangements of his own. The job of
obtaining anything from Angus Mackay was not going to be easy, and
reluctantly he made up his mind that it was too big to be tackled
single-handed. Assistance meant sharing the profits, but unfortunately
it seemed to be a case. He thought of Poole, and would have preferred
him, but Mr. Poole packed no sand whatever. Finally he decided on Blake
French. Not that Blake had any too much courage, but he hated Mackay,
and having rapped him on the head once, he might be counted on to do it
again if necessary. Poole might be used for a scout, without telling him
a great deal.

Blake French fell in with Garland's proposals with alacrity. He had had
trouble with his brothers since his father's death, culminating in a
short but vicious battle with Larry, in which the latter had got the
best of it. He suspected his brothers of having funds which they refused
to share with him. He himself was flat broke, without money to pay for
his numerous drinks. His brothers treated him as an outsider. He was
sure they were holding out on him. If he could get a share in that coal
proposition he would have the laugh on them; also it would be a chance
to get square with Mackay. And so he and Garland began to lay plans
looking to the acquisition of the missing deeds. The matter seemed
simplified for them by the circumstance that Angus Mackay and his bride
were now living, temporarily at least, in her cottage on the dry ranch.
This strengthened the hypothesis that Mackay had the deeds and was
living close to the coal prospect in order to keep an eye on it.




CHAPTER XXXIX

THE TURNING OF THE SCREW


If Mr. Braden had been puzzled by Garland's conduct in the first
instance, he became more so. Garland made him no proposition. The
thought that the latter might be dickering with the French boys crossed
Mr. Braden's mind, but was open to the objection that he would have to
share blackmail with them. On the whole, Mr. Braden concluded that he
had bluffed Garland. After a while the latter would part with the
document cheaply.

Hence, when he received a visit from Judge Riley one day about the close
of business hours, he was very little perturbed. Mackay perhaps had
taken legal advice on his supposed right, or the judge might have come
on other business. But the lawyer's first words cleared up that point.

"I am here," he said, "on behalf of my client, Mrs. Mackay. You are
aware that she claims ownership of the land on which coal has been
found?"

"Her claim is nonsense," Mr. Braden asserted stoutly.

"That's just what I am trying to clear up. As a result of what French
told her she always supposed she owned the land."

"I'm not responsible for what French told her. I'm getting tired of this
absurd claim of hers. Her land is described in her deeds. That's her
evidence of title. You ought to know that."

"Yes, I know that," the judge admitted mildly. "As it happens, she is
now able to produce a deed from you to her father conveying the land in
question."

It was so entirely unexpected that Mr. Braden's heart decidedly
misbehaved. How in the name of all bad luck had this happened? Had
Garland, after all, made a dicker with Mackay? Had Mackay got those
infernal deeds? Or had he merely a suspicion, which Riley was trying to
confirm by a fishing trip for a damaging admission?

"Nonsense!" he said.

"Oh, no," the judge replied cheerfully. "To be quite frank with you, our
position is this: French, shortly before his death, delivered to his
niece a conveyance in duplicate from you to her father purporting to
convey certain lands therein described. This land lies immediately east
of the coal lands, but does not include them. We claim that this latter
conveyance is the true and original one."

"Where did you get it?" Mr. Braden demanded.

"Suppose French, feeling his end approaching, gave it to his niece?"

"He--" Mr. Braden began and checked himself suddenly. Riley was laying
verbal traps for him. He must be careful. "If you have this conveyance,
let me see it."

"You will see it at the proper time."

"You mean that you haven't got it," Mr. Braden charged.

The judge smiled. "You think I am trying to trap you into an admission.
Nothing of the sort. I said we could produce the documents. The only
difference between them and the others is the description of the
property. Same date, same witness. It's useless to deny the existence of
documents which I myself have seen."

There was no doubt that the judge was telling the truth. So Garland had
sold out to Mackay. Mr. Braden's front trenches were carried, but he
believed his second line to be impregnable.

"I'm not denying its existence. I know all about the thing, including
the fact that it was stolen from me."

"The main thing is that it exists."

"It exists, but it is worthless."

"My clients consider it rather valuable."

"I suppose they paid for it, but they've been stung. When I sold that
land to Winton, a clerk in my office prepared the deeds and got the
description wrong. When I discovered the error I had new deeds prepared
and executed, and they are what I suppose French gave to Winton's
daughter. I supposed he had given them to Winton long ago. So there you
are! You've found a mare's nest, and that's all there is to it."

Judge Riley chuckled internally, though his face was grave. Braden was
doing the obvious.

"Don't you compare conveyances before execution in your office?"

"Of course I do. But in this case the error was in the description which
the clerk prepared and gave to the stenographer to copy. She copied it,
and it was compared with what had been given her."

"Then who discovered the error?"

"I did. It struck me that the description was not correct."

"After you had signed it and French had witnessed it?"

"Y--yes." There was hesitation in his voice.

"Don't you read things over before you sign and have your signature
witnessed? Why didn't it strike you then?"

"You aren't cross-examining me!" Mr. Braden asserted.

"Not at all. I am just trying to understand a situation which is rather
extraordinary. Then, as I understand it, you had a new conveyance
prepared, and delivered it to French, and that's all you know about it?"

"That's all," Mr. Braden confirmed.

"Why didn't you destroy the other one?"

"I suppose I overlooked it. The papers got among others."

"And into your private safe."

"Yes. And they were stolen from it."

"But then you say they're worthless. You say that the two sets of papers
were drawn on the same day? The second wasn't prepared subsequently and
dated back?"

Mr. Braden hesitated, trying to read the purpose behind the question. He
was again beginning to distrust Riley, who undoubtedly resembled an
Airedale.

"I'm almost sure it was the same day. It may have been the next."

"But at all events within, say, forty-eight hours?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps your stenographer might remember? Or your clerk?"

"That clerk is dead," said Mr. Braden without noticeable regret. "My
stenographer might or might not remember. But she could identify the
papers as being written about the same time on the same machine."

"How?"

"Because I had only one machine in my office at that time, and that had
certain peculiarities of type. I scrapped it soon after that, and got a
new one. If you'll compare the deeds, you'll see they must have been
written on the same machine."

"A very fair point," the judge admitted blandly. "You have an excellent
memory for details. But even if you establish that they were written on
the same machine, it would not prove that they were written on the same
day. For that you would have to depend on your evidence and that of your
stenographer."

"I don't have to prove when they were written," Mr. Braden stated. "The
date of an instrument is _prima facie_ evidence. I know a little law
myself, Riley."

"A little law is a very dangerous thing to know," the judge commented.

"And I'm not going to be cross-examined by you," Mr. Braden declared.
"If you contend that those deeds were made at different times it's up to
you to prove it. Can you do that, hey?"

"Yes," the judge replied. "Absolutely!"

Mr. Braden almost jumped, and his heart again misbehaved.

"H--how?" he asked in a voice which shook slightly.

"In this way," the judge replied: "The conveyance delivered by French to
his niece and dated some seven years ago, is on paper bearing the
watermark of a firm which did not exist, much less manufacture a single
sheet of paper, until two years ago!"

It was a terrible blow, direct, unexpected, smashing through Mr.
Braden's elaborate system of defense. It produced the shattering,
shocking effect of high explosive. For a moment he was speechless. He
rallied feebly.

"It's--it's a lie!" he stammered. "They were written on the same legal
forms, printed by the same firm."

"On the same legal forms," the judge conceded. "But law stationers as a
rule don't manufacture their own paper." His face became grim, his voice
rose, and he drove his accusation home as in the old days of his
greater prosperity he had broken other carefully prepared testimony.

"That one detail, Braden, overlooked by you and French, destroys
entirely the plausible story you have invented. I am prepared to prove,
and prove to the hilt, that the deeds delivered by French to my client
are forgeries, prepared by you both to defraud a young woman of land
which, instead of being worthless as you supposed it to be when you sold
it to her father in fraudulent collusion with French, you suddenly
discovered to have a high potential value. I say I am prepared to prove
this, including the writing of the forged instruments on the same
machine. I am prepared to prove, too, how the original deeds passed from
French's possession to yours. You are in danger of standing in the dock
facing a charge which carries a very heavy penalty. You must decide here
and now, whether or not you will face that charge, and the damning
evidence which I am prepared to bring against you."

Mr. Braden quailed before the stern voice and menacing finger of the old
lawyer. He was not of the stuff to fight up hill, to play out a losing
game to the last chip. What was the use? The judge had the goods on him.
He sagged in his chair, all fight gone, his face white, his heart
choking him.

"Don'--don't prosecute me, Riley!" he pleaded in a shaking voice. "I'll
do anything you say. What do you want?"




CHAPTER XL

SIGNS AND OMENS


The reason of the temporary residence of Angus and his wife at her
cottage lay principally in her whim. Angus laughed at it, but yielded,
and found it rather pleasant to be alone with his wife. From force of
habit he found a number of jobs which needed doing, things which should
be put in order before the winter; but Faith insisted that it was to be
a holiday. And so by day they rode leisurely along the base of the
hills, rested at noon beside clear springs, ate with healthy appetites,
and in the evenings returned to the cottage. Then there would be the
cheery open fire against the chill of the fall night, and by its
flickering light the banjo would talk and whimper, and chuckle, until
Faith, laying it aside, would snuggle against her husband, watching the
red heart of the fire, giving free rein to fancy.

So, she thought and said, men and women had sat in the dim, forgotten
nights of the world, when the Red Flower first bloomed on the rude
hearts of cave and forest and beside the lone beaches of dead seas.
Angus laughed at her fancies, but in his own heart the spell of gut and
string and fire stirred something, too; and when the winds soughed
around the cottage and strained through the tree-tops he found himself
listening subconsciously for he knew not what.

"You are a dreamer, too," Faith accused him.

"I will be in about ten minutes."

"You might as well 'fess up. I wonder if you and I ever sat before a
fire in a cave, together?"

"I don't remember it, myself."

"Oh, you may laugh, but it seems real to me--to-night. The wind in the
trees is like the hiss and roar of squall-swept seas. I can hear other
things, too--the soft padding of feet, and heavy, grunting, snuffling
breaths. That is the tiger or the great cave bear. But they can't get
in, because you have rolled the stone against the mouth of our cave."

"Suppose I forgot it?"

"Then to pay for your carelessness, you would have to fight old Sabre
Tooth. You would fight to the death for me, wouldn't you?"

"And for myself."

"Be gallant, please."

"Cave men weren't gallant. They walloped ladies with clubs and abducted
them."

"Happy thought. You have abducted me. No, not that, either, because I
was never anybody's but yours. But there is a very great warrior who is
trying to take me from you."

"The old warrior sure has some nerve. What am I doing about that time?"

"You fight," she told him, her eyes on the heart of the fire, "while I
stand by praying to the unknown God that you may kill him. And you do
kill him. And then you set your foot on his body and shake your war club
on high and shout a great wild song to the stars. Oh, I can see you now!
There is blood on your face, and the club is dripping with it, and I can
hear the fierce song!"

"I'll bet the singing is fierce, too," Angus commented. But to his
surprise she was trembling in his arms, every nerve aquiver. "What the
dickens! Old girl, you're shaking! There now, that's plenty of that
nonsense. It isn't good for sleeping."

For a moment she clung to him. "I'm awfully silly. But somehow it
seemed real--to-night. I wonder if it ever did happen?"

"Of course not."

"Well, it's funny. I was just making it up. And then suddenly I felt
that instead of making it up I was _recollecting_."

As she paused, Angus' ear caught a faint sound from without. To him it
resembled the faint creak of a board beneath a stealthy footstep. For an
instant his body tensed.

"What's the matter?" Faith asked. "Have you nerves, too?"

"Not that I know of. Turn in now and get a good rest, and don't dream of
things."

But when she had gone to her room he yawned, stretched himself, wound
the clock and passed into the hall leading to the kitchen. There hung
his belt with holster and gun. He took the gun, went swiftly through the
kitchen and outside. He circled the house, but neither saw nor heard
anything, and so he went in again. But when he turned in, having
extinguished the light, he laid the gun on the floor beside the bed, and
in the morning smuggled it out without Faith's knowledge. Before she had
risen he examined the ground around the house, but found no footprints
other than their own. And so he came to the conclusion that whatever he
had heard had not been a footstep.

He pottered around all morning, and in the afternoon decided to ride in
to town and see Judge Riley. The latter might have some news.

"Well, I won't go," Faith decided. "I have bread to bake, and it's too
far, anyway. I'll have supper ready when you get back."

But when Angus reached the judge's office it was closed. In the post
office he found a note from him, consisting of four words: "Want to see
you," and upon inquiry he learned that the lawyer had driven out with
Dr. Wilkes to see a rancher named McLatchie who being taken suddenly ill
had sent for legal as well as medical assistance. Angus decided to wait.
As he strolled down the street he met Rennie emerging from Dr. Wilkes'
office.

"Hello," he said. "What's the matter with _you_?"

"Nothing with me," Rennie returned. "I was just doin' an errand. But
they tell me the doc's out."

"What is it?" Angus asked, for Rennie's face was troubled.

"You ain't heard? Well, Mary, that granddaughter of old Paul Sam, has
been missin' some days, and to-day they find her--drowned."

"Good Lord!" Angus exclaimed. "How did it happen?" Rennie's face
darkened.

"I dunno. They say she drowned herself. They say some white man is mixed
up in it. She was a notch or two above the ordinary klootch, and so--oh,
well, it's just the same old rotten mess!"

"Poor girl!" Angus said after a moment of silence. "This will be hard on
old Paul Sam. Do the Indians know this white man?"

"I dunno. I heard--mind you I dunno what there is in it--that Blake
French is the man. He's dirty enough. But I dunno's the Injuns know it.
I seen old Paul Sam. He wasn't talkin'. Just sittin' starin' straight
ahead. And the klootch lyin' on her bed alongside him where they'd put
her down. Ugh! Some of 'em wanted to send the doc out. He makes reports
of deaths and such to the government, and then he's coroner. So I
come."

The event touched Angus deeply. He had known the dead girl all his life.
She was, as Rennie said, a notch or two above the ordinary klootch. Paul
Sam, too, was a good Indian, a friend of his and of his father's, so far
as the white man who knows the Indian admits him to friendship. It would
be a heavy blow for the old man. But unless some of the young bucks took
the law into their own hands it was unlikely that the man responsible
for the tragedy--Blake French or another--would suffer at all.

It was long after dark when the judge drove in, and Angus waiting at the
livery stable, greeted him.

"How's McLatchie?" he asked. The judge, with emphasis, consigned
McLatchie to torment.

"A bellyache!" he exclaimed, "and he thought he was going to die. I
wanted Wilkes to cut him open, just as a lesson. And will you believe
me, the damned Scotch--I beg your pardon, Angus, I mean the damned
lowlander--when the fear of God produced by the fear of death left his
rotten heart with the pain from his equally rotten stomach, refused to
make his will. I made him do it, though--and pay for it. Well, you got
my note. Come up to the office, where we can talk."

But when he had lit a couple of lamps which illuminated his office and
turned to his desk he stopped short.

"Somebody's been in here," he said. "Things are not as I left them." He
drew out the drawers of his desk. "Aha!" he exclaimed, for the papers
they held had evidently been taken out and jammed back in disorder. "Now
what misguided idiot thought a law office worth robbing? I wonder,
now--By the Lord! but I believe that's it!"

"What?"

"Why somebody's been after _your_ documents," the judge replied. "O-ho,
Braden, me buck! You must think I'm a fool!"

"You mean you think Braden was trying to get back the original deeds?"

"And something else. It's a poor tribute he pays to my intelligence,
thinking I'd leave such papers lying at the mercy of a flimsy door lock.
People think I am careless, old-fashioned, because they can't see a safe
in my office. Well, anybody can blow a safe--if the safe can be found. I
had one blown once, and it was nearly the ruin of me. But look here!" A
section of wainscoting swung out under his hand, revealing the face of a
steel safe. "No local man had anything to do with installing this," the
judge said; "and back of it is a false wall to my inner room." He spun
the combination and threw the door open. Taking out a thick envelope he
drew from it a single sheet of paper which he handed to Angus.

Angus read in amazement. It was a brief statement signed by Braden
acknowledging forgery by French and himself, and an acknowledgment of
the authenticity of the original deeds.

"How on earth did you get this?" he asked.

The judge told him.

"Well, that was mighty clever of you," Angus said in admiration. "I'd
never have thought of that."

"Braden didn't either," the judge said drily. "And what's more he never
thought that my statement about the watermark might be worth verifying."

"Do you mean you bluffed him?" Angus exclaimed.

"It was the only way," the judge nodded. "His story, stuck to through
thick and thin, would have prevailed because we had no evidence to
contradict it. But being guilty, it never occurred to him to demand an
inspection of the papers. It may have occurred to him now. He may have
searched my office in my absence, hoping to get back his confession as
well as the deeds. But most of us realize our mistakes too late."

"Judge" Angus said solemnly, "you are a wonder."

"When I was your age I would have agreed with that," the judge grinned.
"But I am merely an old dog with some experience of foxes. This settles
Braden's hash. He will leave town--and possibly leave some creditors."

"I thought he had plenty of money."

"He has lost a good deal lately in speculation--lost it or tied it up. I
imagine he will get together what cash he can and leave. His debts are
none of my business. I will now have these deeds registered, and you
will have no more trouble about title."

"When you send me your bill, put in the watermark."

"My bill will have a sufficiently high watermark to suit you," the judge
chuckled. "And now, young man, I'm too old to be modest. Naturally you
will incorporate, sooner or later, to work this property to advantage. I
want to incorporate you, and I want such of the company's legal work as
I am competent to handle."

"That's all of it."

"I meant that," the judge admitted. "And if I were permitted to buy a
block of stock on as good terms as anybody I would take it."

"That goes, of course," Angus agreed, "and it doesn't by any means
cancel our obligation to you. And now I must be drifting. My wife is
alone, and I was to have been back by supper."

"You'll have a dark ride."

"My horse has good feet. Good night, judge, and thank you again."

The wind struck Angus hard as he left the office. It was blowing great
guns, and as the judge had said, it was very dark. When he left the
lights behind it was better as his eyes became accustomed to the
darkness. But ragged clouds hung low, and the mountains usually visible
against even the sky of night could not be seen. The wind was roaring
through the tops of the firs with a sound of running waves. But the road
was good, and when Chief of his own notion struck into a long,
trail-devouring lope, he did not check him.

He was suddenly anxious to get back to Faith. He wished to tell her the
good news, but that did not account for the uneasy feeling that
possessed him, tugging at his ordinarily steady nerves. There seemed to
be no reason for it; yet it persisted and even increased. He realized
with disgust that he was nervous. Something seemed to impend. The roar
of the wind was sinister, minatory. The darkness seemed to hover above
like a bird of prey, ready to strike. He swore angrily at himself for
such fancies.

"I've got the nerves of a squirrel to-night," he muttered. "I'll be
seeing things next. Go on, Chief, old boy! Leak out of here!"

With the touch of his feel the big chestnut settled to the business of
covering ground. The wind increased, and with it came rain, huge drops
driving like buckshot, stinging as they hit. Somewhere off the road a
tree snapped and crashed down.

"Timber!" Angus shouted to the darkness, for the storm and the pace were
getting into his blood, and with their entry his nervousness was
replaced by a feeling of exhilaration. Then the chestnut rose in a clean
sailing jump, and Angus realized that he had cleared a fallen tree. But
he did not slacken speed.

They were off the main road now, on the less used trail, and the ranch
was little over a mile distant. Angus could picture Faith waiting,
wondering what had detained him, perhaps a little anxious because of the
storm. She would laugh when he told her that he had suffered from
nerves. She--

Chief snorted, leaped, and something caught Angus across the chest. For
a moment it yielded, tautened and snapped back, tearing his tight grip
loose. At the pace he was riding it plucked him from the saddle as a
hawk lifts a chick from the brood, flinging him backward to the earth.
He struck it heavily on his shoulders and the back of his head. He had a
dim impression of somebody or something leaping on him, of a blow, and
then darkness shut down absolutely.




CHAPTER XLI

TERROR


Toward five o'clock, her bread being baked, Faith put in the oven a pan
containing two young mallards and a blue grouse, all overlaid with
strips of bacon. She made her vegetables ready and set the table. Now
and then she glanced from the window expectantly, but saw nothing of
Angus. When dusk came she lighted the lamps.

Finally she ate her own supper alone, slightly annoyed. Angus had
promised to be back in time. Something must have detained him. She put
his meal in the warming oven, sat down and tried to read. But somehow
the book failed to interest. She had recourse to the banjo, but that
little sister of the lonesome failed of charm. The wind rose until it
was blowing a gale. Once she went to the door and looked out. The
darkness seemed intense.

Ten o'clock came. What on earth was keeping Angus? She began to worry,
which she told herself was absurd. Resolutely she sat down and picked up
a book. She would not allow herself to be stampeded by nerves. She made
up her mind to sit on that couch before the fire until her husband
returned.

She found it hard to keep this resolution. She craved movement. She
wanted a drink, an apple, a different book--anything, to get up and move
around. But she resisted these assaults on her will.

Her thoughts reverted to the foolery of the preceding night. She had
pretended to be a cave woman with her man. Now she was alone. What
happened to those ancient women whose men went out never to return? How
long did they feed the fire o' nights, and listen alone to the noises of
the dark? The fancy proved more attractive than the book. She leaned
back comfortably, enjoying the play of her imagination, constructing the
life story of an unknown sister in the dawn of the world and presently,
in proof that there was nothing seriously wrong with her nerves, she
fell asleep before the fire.

She woke with a start. There were footsteps in the house. Angus, then,
had come back. She smiled, contented. She would scold him--in fun. But
as she listened the footsteps seemed to differ from his firm, light
tread. The handle of the door turned and a man who was not Angus stood
framed in the opening--a man who wore a handkerchief across his face,
whose eyes, invisible beneath the shadow of a broad hatbrim, peered at
her through holes cut in the fabric.

Though a horrible, sinking feeling of nervousness assailed her, she did
not cry out. She regarded the intruder in silence. As he came into the
room she stared at him--at his leather chaps, at the gun in its holster,
at his hands, taking in every little detail. He spoke.

"Don't be scared," he said in deep tones which she judged were
unnatural. "You won't be hurt."

"I'm not afraid," she replied, and was surprised to find her voice quite
steady. "What do you want?"

"I want those deeds."

He could mean only the deeds Turkey had given her. Then he must be an
emissary of Braden. Obviously it was not Braden himself. But how could
he know who had the deeds?

"Now, listen," the masked man added as she did not reply: "I know you
have them. I know they are here in this house. You'll save trouble by
handing them over."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," Faith told him; "and you had better go
before my husband comes home."

The masked man laughed. "Your husband won't be home for a while. If you
won't give them to me I'll find them myself."

"Very well," Faith replied. "But don't break anything, please."

"You've got nerve, all right," the man conceded. As he spoke another man
similarly masked entered, standing by the door. The first turned to him
and they held a whispered conversation. "Well, we'll look for 'em," the
first man announced. "If you're sensible you'll just sit quiet."

Faith sat quietly while they took a leisurely survey of the room. Her
writing desk in the corner was their first objective point. Suddenly it
came to her that their manner of procedure was too leisurely. They did
not fear interruption. She remembered the first man's words when she had
spoken of her husband. Was his continued absence in some way due to
them? She felt a sickening apprehension, a feeling of desertion, of
helplessness.

She began to study the intruders, to find if she could note something by
which to identify them. There was nothing recognizable about the first.
The second was a big man. His face was quite invisible. A riding slicker
concealed most of his figure. She had not heard his voice. And yet she
found something elusively familiar in his presence.

From her bedroom she heard the sounds of drawers pulled out and closed
and the slam of a trunk lid. She would have been amused at the
hopelessness of their search but for her growing anxiety for her
husband. Even if he did come, they were armed and he was not. The search
progressed from one room to another, and as it did so it became more
impatient. At last they gave it up, and the first man advanced to her.

"You have those papers pretty well cached," he admitted. "Where are
they?"

"I thought you were going to find them."

"You can cut that out. Now you're going to tell us where they are."

"Am I?"

"That's what I said. Now see here; I'm going to give it to you straight:
Your husband isn't going to come home till we turn him loose. He told us
you had those deeds. When you give 'em up you'll see him, and not
before."

"My husband never told you anything of the sort," Faith said. "You're
merely bluffing."

"Bluffing or not, we're going to get what we came for. You're alone.
There isn't a living soul in miles. We don't want to hurt you or your
husband, but if you've got any sense you'll give up, and save trouble
for everybody."

"What you want isn't here," Faith told him.

"Where are those deeds? Who has them?"

"I won't tell you."

"We know they are here. Riley hasn't got them, because we've gone
through his office. And your husband hasn't got them, because we've gone
through _him_. So you have them. You can't bluff us. No more nonsense,
now!" He caught her wrist with one hand, while with the other he thrust
the muzzle of his gun in her face. "Hand them over," he snarled
ferociously, "or say your prayers!"

But in spite of the fact that the ring of steel almost touched her
forehead Faith was not convinced. It was melodrama, tawdry, poor. The
man was a poor actor. She laughed in his face.

"Take care!" she said, "you are hurting my wrist."

For a moment the muzzle touched her forehead and the grip tightened.
Then he flung her wrist aside.

"What the hell can you do with a woman, anyway?" he demanded in disgust.
But his companion sprang forward. "You let her bluff you," he growled
hoarsely, "but she won't bluff me!" He caught Faith by the throat.
"Where are they?" he demanded. "Talk quick, or I'll choke you!" His
fingers compressed her throat till she gasped. The strong taint of
alcohol met her nostrils.

"No, damn it!" the first man cried, in protest; but his companion cursed
him, swinging Faith between them.

"You keep out of this!" he cried savagely. "I'll make her talk inside a
minute!" And his grip shut down.

This time there was no bluff. Faith realized the primitive savagery of
the hands that were laid on her. With the knowledge she fought wildly,
like a cornered animal. For a moment the other man was forgotten. Anger
and fear lent her strength. She caught at the handkerchief which hid her
assailant's face, and as he loosed one hand to catch her wrist, she
broke away, tearing the cloth with her. She reeled back, gasping,
disheveled, her dress torn at the throat, her hair bursting from
confining pins falling on her shoulders.

"Blake!" she cried hoarsely. "Blake French!"

Stripped of his disguise, Blake French faced her, lowering,
ferocious--but suddenly afraid.

"I wasn't going to hurt you," he said.

Her hands went to her throat.

"To hurt me? You liar! You utter brute! Is that what you will tell my
husband?"

Blake's face contorted. He took a step forward.

"You'll tell him, will you?"

"Of course I will!" Faith cried.

Blake French knew that her recognition was disastrous. The whole plan,
including the blackmail of Braden, had depended upon recovering the
deeds without recognition. But now the matter of the deeds faded into
nothingness. His innate brutality had swept him away, carried him too
far. Apart from the law he knew the penalty that Angus Mackay would
exact from the man who laid hands on his wife. But Angus was lying
roped, helpless, a mile away. He was afraid, desperate. There must be
silence; at all costs, silence.

He advanced. Faith sprang back, putting the table between them. But
Garland suddenly interposed. Like Blake, he saw the collapse of their
plans, but he accepted the failure.

"No more of that!" he said. "Let her alone!"

Blake turned on him in fury.

"You damned fool!" he snarled. "We've got to fix her, and Mackay, too,
now!"

"You're crazy!" Garland cried. "Do you want to hang?"

"And do you want Mackay to kill you?" Blake retorted. He sprang forward,
caught the table and thrust it aside. But Garland caught his arm.

"Let her alone, I tell you!" he repeated. "Come on; it's all off. Let's
get out of here!"

Blake with a swift jerk ripped the concealing handkerchief from
Garland's face. "Let her take a look at you, too!" he cried and flinging
him aside drew his gun and turned on Faith.

Faith, facing him helpless, found herself looking into the eyes of
Murder. It was useless to run. She stood and waited, white to the lips,
but looking him in the face. The gun rose. Garland, recovering, sprang
at Blake. But at that instant the door went wide with the crash of a
shattered catch, and into the room bounded Angus Mackay.

He was hatless, wet, plastered with mud. His eyes blazed in his swarthy
face. At a glance they took in the disorder, the overturned table; Faith
standing at bay, Blake French with drawn gun, Garland suddenly arrested
in his spring. Then in grim, deadly silence he launched himself at
Blake.

Faith saw the gun shift and swing. Its report in the confines of the
room was shattering. Garland struck Blake's arm as the weapon blazed a
second time; but Angus staggered and pitched forward at Blake's feet.

Forgetful of all else Faith sprang forward and knelt beside him, lifting
his head. Blood oozed horribly from his dark hair. She turned her face,
white, anguished, to his slayer. Above her, Garland in panic cursed
Blake.

"Now you've done it!" he said between oaths. "You've killed him."

"She--she'll tell!" Blake chattered with quivering lips. "We've got
to--" He raised his gun with twitching hand. Garland caught it. He
thrust his own weapon in Blake's face.

"If you try that I'll blow your head off!" he declared. With a quick
wrench he twisted the weapon from Blake, and menacing him with his gun
shoved him toward the door. "We've got to make a get-away. Get the
horses, quick!" At the door he hesitated. Returning he knelt beside
Faith.

"Let me see a minute," he said. Her senses were too dulled to shrink
from him. Suddenly he drew a quick breath, almost a gasp of relief. "He
isn't dead."

"Not dead?" Faith cried.

"Not by a long ways. Just creased along the scalp. I guess I hit the gun
just in time, and I'm mighty near as glad as you are. He'll be all
right. I just want to say, before I pull out, that I never meant to do
more than scare you. Maybe you think I'm lying, and I don't blame you.
But I'm not."

"I believe you," Faith said. In her sudden relief lesser things did not
matter. "I don't know what to do. Stay and help me, please."

"I guess you don't understand," he returned, shaking his head. "This
would mean about twenty years apiece for me and Blake if we're caught.
And then"--he nodded at Angus--"when he comes around there won't be room
enough in this country for him and us."

"But I'll tell him you helped me--how you struck Blake's arm--and
afterward!"

"You're one white girl," Garland said with emphasis, "but I'm in too
deep. You can tell him if you like, and you can tell him I'm pulling
out. I never meant to do more than bluff you. Good-by."

He was gone. Faith got water, towels, and bathed Angus' head. Touching
the wound with tender fingers she found that as Garland had said it was
apparently in the scalp merely. Presently Angus sighed, stirred,
muttered and opened his eyes.

"Hello!" he said, and as recollection came to him he sat up suddenly,
staring around. "Where are they?" he demanded.

"They are gone, dear. It's all right. Don't try to get up."

But he shook his head impatiently and rose to his feet.

"What happened? Blake French and Garland! What were they doing? What's
the matter with your hair? Your dress is torn." A tremendous expletive
burst from him. "What are those marks on your throat?"

Her hand fluttered upward involuntarily. "Nothing. Never mind now.
Please----"

"They laid hands on you!" he cried. "On _you_! And I wasn't here! Tell
me. No, no, I'm all right. Tell me!"

She told him, seeing his face set and grow rigid. He groaned.

"They stretched a rope between two trees, and I rode into it. The fall
almost knocked me out, and they finished the job. They roped me up. It
took me a long time to get loose." He held out his wrists, stripped of
skin to the raw flesh. "I was afraid of some devil's work, but----" He
broke off, shaking his head, and put his hand to his left side. When he
removed it his finger tips were stained.

"Oh, you are hurt--twice!" Faith cried.

"I don't think this is much." He stripped himself to the waist. The
lamplight revealed a red furrow lying along his ribs, but though it bled
freely the skin was little more than broken. To Faith's pleading to lie
down he shook his head. On his instructions she brought an old sheet
which he ripped into a long bandage. "That was Blake's first shot," he
said as he replaced his garments. "He'll have to do better shooting than
that--next time."

"Next time?" she exclaimed.

He did not reply, but going into the hall came back with a rifle in one
hand and his gun belt in the other.

"Old girl, please rustle me some grub--cold meat and bread--and put it
in an old sugar sack."

"But Angus, what are you going to do?"

"To do? I am going after Blake French and Garland, of course."

"But you are hurt. You are not fit--"

"I am not hurt at all--to speak of. I have a long account to settle with
Blake French and Garland--yes, and with the whole bunch of those
Frenches and Braden as well--and now I am going to clean it up."

"But if I forgive--"

"Forgive!" he interrupted bitterly. "It doesn't matter to me what you
forgive. You are a woman. But I am a man and you are my wife, and I can
see the marks of Blake French's fingers on your flesh. As surely as God
lives I will kill him, or he will kill me. About Garland I don't
know--yet."

His will was set, hardened; his mood black, deadly. Immediately he set
about his simple preparations. He knew that Blake and Garland would not
wait his coming. In all probability they would break for the hills,
where he must be prepared to follow them. He had found Chief, who had
come home of his own accord, waiting by the gate. A pack pony would
hamper his movements. He shoved his food in a sack, rolled a single
blanket in a tarp, got out a heavy sweater and changed his boots for
shoe-packs. Then he held out his arms to Faith. She clung to him.

"Don't go!" she pleaded. "If anything should happen--now--"

"I must go," he said. "If I didn't I should be less than a man. Nothing
will happen--to me. To-morrow--or it's to-day now, I guess--go to the
ranch and stay there till I get back."

He kissed her gently and put her from him. She followed him to the door
and saw him mount. He waved his hand and vanished in the blackness of
the night.

Faith returned to the living-room and sank into a chair. She was shaken,
bone-tired, sick at heart. A lifetime seemed to have passed since she
and Angus had sat there the night before, indulging in make-believe
playing at tragedy. Now tragedy had invaded their lives. It was like an
evil dream.

How long she sat there she never knew. Nor did she know how she became
aware that she was not alone. She turned her head to see a figure
standing behind her. Her shaken nerves forced a cry from her lips.

It was the old Indian, Paul Sam. There was a rifle under his arm, and
around his middle was a belt from which in a beaded scabbard hung a
long, broad-bladed knife. He was hatless, and his long, gray hair hung
in two braids in front of his shoulders.

"All right," he said. "You not be scared. Where him Angus?"

"He isn't here."

The old Indian's eyes roved around the room, resting on the signs of
disorder. "Iktah mamook?" he queried.

"I don't understand."

"What you mamook? What you do?" He threw up his head, his nostrils
twitching like a dog's. "Smell um smoke," he said. "Somebody shoot. You
see um Blake French?"

"He was here, but he has gone," Faith told him.

The old Indian's dark eyes peered at her, noting her agitation. "Me ol'
man," he said. "Angus, him my tillikum. You him klootchman, him wife,
all same my tillikum. Goo'-by."

Faith, left alone, knew she could not sleep. She dreaded the darkness,
the lying waiting for slumber which would not come. She decided to stay
before the fire till daylight. Then she would go to the Mackay ranch.

The wind had ceased, and in the comparative stillness she heard a low,
distant drumming which she recognized as the sound of horses' hoofs.
They approached, halted, and she started up in apprehension. What would
happen next? Was everybody abroad that night? Footsteps tramped on the
veranda; somebody knocked.

"Who is there?" she demanded.

"Me--Turkey."

She opened the door. There stood Turkey. Shadowy in the background was
Rennie with the horses. She saw that Turkey was armed.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "You look sick. Where's Angus?"

She told him, finding relief in the confidence. Turkey might bring Angus
back, or see that no harm befell him. As he listened a hard light came
into Turkey's eyes.

"If Angus don't get Blake and Nick Garland, I will," he declared. "But I
didn't know they were here. I thought they were with the bunch that did
up Braden."

"Did up Braden?"

Turkey nodded. "The French boys--I thought sure Blake was in it, but I
guess he couldn't have been--blew open Braden's safe and got away with
the whole works. Braden was shot. Dave and I are part of a posse raised
to round them up, and I wanted Angus. Braden, before he died, said that
Gavin French is the man that shot father."




CHAPTER XLII

OUTLAWS!


Mr. Braden, some twenty-four hours after his interview with Judge Riley,
made the shocking discovery that in all probability he had laid down a
pat hand before a bluff. But though the discovery brought him to the
verge of an apoplectic fit, it came too late. He had signed a statement
covering the facts. Under the circumstances it did not matter who had
the deeds. If Garland, then his scheme of blackmail would fall down. Mr.
Braden found ample to occupy him in the crisis which the loss of the
coal property made in his affairs.

The fact was that he was very hard up. The supposed ownership of a
promising coal mine had bolstered up his shaky credit. But as soon as it
was known that this was no longer his, one or two creditors would come
down on him and start an avalanche. And then, though Riley had promised
not to prosecute, it was inevitable that some suspicion of crookedness
would attach to him. Under the circumstances he was forced to the
conclusion that he had played out his string. He had been wise to secure
cash. He could raise a few thousand more, and as soon as he did so he
would pull out. At once he began to convert his few remaining assets,
and as he turned them into cash he put it in his office safe, in a
private compartment. The total formed a nice nest egg for the future.
His creditors in the course of time might get judgment and be hanged to
them, but the cash would be where it could not be tied up by
injunctions.

Nevertheless, the strain told on his nerves. For some time he had slept
badly, and now he slept scarcely at all. Whisky, which formerly had had
a soporific effect, now failed, though he doubled the quantity.

And so, as Angus rode home through the darkness, Mr. Braden lay awake.
His mind, after the habit of the insomniac, searched for, dug up and
turned over the most unpleasant things within his recollection, driving
sleep farther and farther away. It dwelt upon mistakes, failures,
humiliations of years before. The wind roared and rain splashed upon the
windows; and Mr. Braden, cursed by a thousand plaguing little devils of
memory, cursed the night and the darkness and longed for day.

At last he dozed, but was awakened by a muffled, jarring reverberation
which shook his bed slightly. It was much like localized thunder. He lay
listening, and his ear caught a sound below.

Somebody was in his office. In an instant he was out of bed. He
reflected that the boss of a local logging camp who had a payroll to
meet the next day, had deposited a considerable amount of cash in his
safe. No doubt that was what the robbers were after. But they would not
overlook his own cash, too. He could not obtain help until too late. He
must stop them single-handed, if at all.

His knees shaking slightly, Mr. Braden padded softly across the room to
a wardrobe from which he took an old hammer ten-gauge shotgun, found a
box of antique shells, and filled the chambers. Then he stole cautiously
down stairs.

The door of his office was closed. He turned the knob and gently opened
the door a crack. In the darkness the rays of a flashlight flickered on
his open safe. Figures were vaguely outlined. He could not tell how
many there were. Obviously, the thing to do was to cover them with the
shotgun, but light was necessary, for otherwise they might attack him in
the dark. His office was wired, and just beside the door was a switch.
He put the gun to his shoulder, holding it with one hand while he felt
for the switch. He found it, turned it, and the office sprang into
light.

Three men were beside the safe. One held a flash light, another the
mouth of a gunny sack to which the third was transferring the safe's
contents.

"Hands up!" Mr. Braden commanded in a voice which shook badly.

The three men sprang erect. Mr. Braden recognized Gavin, Gerald and
Larry French. They had made no attempt to conceal their faces. They
blinked, frowning in the sudden light.

"You infernal scoundrels!" cried Mr. Braden. "Put up your hands! Put
them up I tell you. If you make a move I'll shoot."

Mr. Braden's mistake was in reiteration. Etiquette and common sense
alike demand that instant obedience to a gun be enforced by the gun
itself. In this case the muzzle of the gun wavered and wobbled badly.

"Put that gas-pipe down!" Gavin said contemptuously.

"Put up your hands!" Mr. Braden repeated. "I'll shoot, I tell you. I
will! I--"

Quite by accident, in response to unintentional pressure of an unsteady
finger, the ten-gauge roared and the shot charge, almost solid at that
short range, passing between Gavin and Gerald struck and spattered
against the steel wall of the safe. Instantly, Gerald jerked a
six-shooter from its holster and fired and fired twice.

Mr. Braden's face assumed an expression of dumb wonder. The shotgun
sagged, exploded again, and the charge ripped the floor. He sank
downward, pitched forward, and lay still.

"Hell's fire!" cried Gavin. "What did you do that for?"

"What for?" Gerald returned. "Because I don't want to be shot, myself."

"He didn't mean to shoot. He wouldn't have shot again."

"Then he was damned careless," Gerald replied. "One barrel of a shotgun
is plenty for me. It was coming to him."

But in a rolling explosion of oaths Gavin cursed his brother for a fool.
He had spilt the beans. There would be a devil of a row. They would have
to make a get-away.

"What for--if he can't talk?" Gerald asked.

But at that moment Larry uttered an exclamation. He pointed to a window.
Against the pane below the drawn blind was a face white in the reflected
light. Almost instantly it vanished. Outside they heard running feet.

"How about a get-away now?" Gavin demanded. "He's gone to get help. I
know him. He's a clerk in Park's law office."

"I guess that settles it," Gerald concurred coolly. Swiftly he scooped
the remaining currency into the sack. "Well," he added, "we've got
something to make a get-away on."

"Come on, come on," young Larry urged.

"Keep cool," said Gerald.

"If you'd kept cool," the younger man retorted, "we could have bluffed
Braden."

But none of them voiced a regret for Braden himself. His death, if he
was dead, was to be deplored merely as it might affect them. Gavin
turned the huddled figure over and swore afresh.

"You're too smooth with a gun, Jerry. He isn't dead yet, but I guess
he's got his. Now we have to beat it."

They emerged on the streets and ran for their horses, tethered on the
outskirts of town, mounted and pounded off on the trail toward the
ranch. They rode fast, but without forcing their horses, for later they
would need all that was in the animals.

The ranch was dark as they rode up to it. They loosened cinches, removed
bridles and gave the horses feed. Entering the house they began to throw
an outfit together.

Gavin, mounting the stairs, knocked at his sister's door.

"I want to talk to you, Kit."

"In the morning."

"No, now."

"Come in, then."

She sat up in bed as he struck a match and lit the lamp. As he turned to
her the big man's cold, blue eyes softened a shade in expression. He sat
on the side of the bed and put his arm around her.

"Kittens, old girl, I've only got minutes. Jerry, Larry and I have got
to pull out." He told her why, bluntly, feeling her body tense and
stiffen. "So that was how it was," he concluded. "And now here's what
we're going to do: We're going to break north through the hills and work
up into the Cache River Valley. Then we'll go east or west, whichever
looks best. We may split up, or not. Here's some money--no, no, this is
all right. Braden never saw this. It's mine. Don't give any of it to
Blake. And here's what you do: This place is sunk with a mortgage, so
sell your own horses and quit it. Let the tail go with the hide. Get out
of here, and wherever you go subscribe for the _Pacific Spokesman_. Read
the 'lost' column every day, and when you see an ad. for a lost horse
with our brand, answer it. I'll be doing that advertising. I guess
that's all. I'm sorry, Kit, but it's the best I can do for you now."

"Yes, it's the best," she admitted. "Don't worry about me. I was going
to leave here anyway. I'm going to do something, I don't know just what.
But ever since father died I've known I couldn't go on as we've been
going. You've made an awful mess of things--you boys. I've seen you
going down hill--from bad to worse--losing your self-respect and that of
others, falling lower and lower, till it has come to--this.

"And I've gone downhill myself. I've lived on money, knowing how it was
obtained, and saying nothing. I'm not preaching. I'm not finding fault.
But I'm through. And I'm through with you boys unless you change. Of the
whole lot, you're the only one I care anything about. I don't know if
you care anything about me, but if you do you're the only one who does.
You've always been fair and decent to me, anyway, I--I'd loved you--if
you'd let me."

"Damn it, Kit," her brother replied, "why didn't you say something like
that before? I've been fond of you ever since you were a baby, but you
never let me see you thought anything more of me than the other
boys--and that was mighty little. Well--what you say is true. I'm a
rotten bad lot, but all the same I'm just about as sick of the show as
you are. And I'll tell you this much: If I can get clear now I'll make a
fresh start--I've been thinking of the Argentine--and if you'll go with
me, I'd like it."

"I'll go," she promised. "But suppose you don't get clear?"

The big man shrugged his shoulders. "Then I lose out. I'm not going to
rot in the pen. You can say a little prayer if you feel like it."

She stared at him, somber-eyed. "I suppose that's the best way, after
all."

"The only way. And now I must rustle an outfit."

"I'll be down in a minute," she said.

She came down to the apparent confusion of their preparations. Each had
drawn on his personal outfit. Gerald and Larry nodded to her. She said
little, made no reproaches, helping them silently, swiftly. Suddenly
Larry paused, throwing up his head, lifting his hand. Upon the sudden
silence burst the sound of swift hoofs. The brothers looked at each
other.

"Go upstairs, Kit," said Gavin, "and stay there."

But in a moment it was evident that there was but one horse. The door
was tried, shaken. A furious oath came from outside.

"It's just Blake," said Larry, and unfastened the door.

Blake stared at his brothers, at their weapons, at the outfit piled in
the room.

"What's this?" he asked.

"You may as well know," said Gerald and told him. "And you keep your
mouth shut," he concluded.

Blake laughed with a certain relief. "I've got to make a get-away
myself. I'm going with you. I shot up Angus Mackay."

"You shot Angus!" Kathleen cried. Her face went white, and she clutched
the back of a chair. "Do you mean that he is dead?"

"No," Blake replied. He had learned that much from Garland, who had
decided that it would be safer for him to part company and had done so.
"He'll get over it, I guess."

"What started it?" Larry asked.

"He came for me and I downed him," Blake replied sullenly. "Never mind
what started it."

"You're lying!" Kathleen told him fiercely. "I know you, Blake. You'd
never have faced him if he had had a gun. You shot him in the back, or
unarmed."

But Gavin interposed.

"If you're coming with us, get a move on. Rustle your own outfit."

They gave Blake scant time. Immediately Larry began to pack two ponies.
If necessary these could be abandoned, but meanwhile they would save the
saddle horses. In a few minutes they were packed. All but Gavin mounted.
In the hall he took Kathleen in his great arms and kissed her.

"Good-by, Kit. No telling how this will come out. Remember what I told
you."

"I'll remember," she said. "Good-by, Gan--and good luck."

He released her and swung into the saddle. In a moment they had vanished
in the darkness, heading north for the pass which led into the
wilderness of the hills--outlaws.




CHAPTER XLIII

TAKING THE TRAIL


Kathleen returned to her room and dressed herself fully. It was only a
matter of time until pursuit would be organized, would arrive, and she
would be questioned. She would tell nothing. Her brothers should have
their fighting chance.

Already her mind, recovering from the shock of the unexpected, was busy
with the future. A sister of outlaws! Well, she would go away, adopt
some other name, and wait till she heard from Gavin.

With a swift pang of pain she thought of Angus Mackay. How badly was he
hurt? With daylight she would see, she would offer to do what she could.
Of course Faith and Jean would shrink from Blake's sister. She could not
help that. She would take her medicine. There would be much bitter
medicine to take.

She went downstairs and began to put away things that her brothers had
at first selected and then discarded. It would not be long, now, till
something happened. She picked up a coat of Larry's, turned with it in
her hand, and saw Angus Mackay.

She had heard no sound. Yet he stood in the doorway. His head was
bandaged. A six-shooter in his hand advertised his purpose.

"Angus!" she cried. He raised his hand in a warning gesture.

"Don't make a noise! I didn't expect to see you. I'm sorry. I'll go
away."

"You are looking for Blake!"

He nodded silently.

"He isn't here, Angus. He has gone. I want to know what happened."

"It will not be pleasant for you to hear."

"I must know."

As he told her, her face grew white with anger.

"I knew he was a brute--a cur!" she said. "But this is too much."

"Yes, it is too much," he agreed gravely. "I am sorry, because he is
your brother, but it has come to a finish between Blake and me."

"I understand," she said with equal gravity. "I do not feel that he is
my brother. But they have all gone together, and I may as well tell you
why."

He listened, frowning. He did not care about Braden, to whom he
attributed the attempt of Blake and Garland to recover Faith's deeds.
But if Blake had gone with the other boys it meant that they would all
stand together. It was feud, then, at last, unavoidable. But his purpose
was unchanged.

"They don't know," Kathleen said, "that Blake laid hands on Faith. If
they had known, they would not help him. They are bad enough but at
least they are men."

He nodded silently. There was no doubt of that. Kathleen raised her
head, listening. He became aware of a distant sound.

"That is--the law," she said. "Perhaps you would rather not be seen
here--with me."

"I am glad to be here. I will see them. You shouldn't be alone. If you
will go to Faith in the morning, and say that I asked you to stay with
her--"

"No, no!" she cried. "It is kind of you. You are a good man, Angus. But
I can't do that."

"You would be welcome."

"Still I cannot do it."

But the hoof-beats swelled in volume and clattered to a halt in front of
the house. Angus went to the front door and opened it. He found himself
confronted by a long, lean, grizzled gentleman who held a gun of
orthodox proportions in readiness for action. But as he recognized Angus
he lowered it with a grunt of surprise.

"Didn't expect to see _you_! Any of the French boys in the house?"

"They've pulled out. Their sister is alone."

The grizzled gentleman grunted again. His name was Bush, and he was the
sheriff's deputy. As the sheriff was old and carried much weight for
age, the rough jobs fell to Jake Bush, who did them well. He possessed
much experience, a craw full of sand, and a thorough understanding of a
gun. Behind him, with horses, Angus saw men he knew--Bustede, Drury,
Fanning, McClintock--all men of the hills and of their hands.

"Yeh, I figgered them boys would pull out ahead of me," Bush admitted
placidly. "And of course they'll p'int out north for the hills, where
they ain't no wires. They know the country darn well, too. So I called
in at your ranch and rousted out Dave. He's a wise old ram in them
hills. Your brother wanted to come, and he bein' a useful kid I swore
him in, too. I wanted you, but when I found out where you was I sent
Dave and the kid after you, and come right along here. But I had a hunch
it'd be too late. Still, it's a s'prise to see you."

"And you want to know why I'm here?"

"Well--yes. It might have some bearin' on the case."

Angus told him why, and Bush's eyebrows drew together.

"Now I'm free to say that for a low-down skunk this here Blake French
is some pumpkins. I sure thought he was with his brothers, but this
gives him a alibi, I s'pose. And I s'pose, also, you're out to git him.
Is that right?"

"That's right."

"I don't say he don't need killin'," said the deputy. "But the darn
law--nowadays--sorter discourages these here private executions. And I'm
an officer of the law."

"You and the law, Jake," Angus said deliberately, "can both go to hell!"

"Now don't be so darn hair-trigger!" the deputy protested. "Here's the
proposition: You've give me information which justifies me in arrestin'
him for murderous assault on your wife, and shootin' you with intent to
kill. His brothers is wanted for robbery and murder, and they're all
stringin' their chips together. I figger they'll resist arrest, and I
don't believe in allowin' my officers to be shot up. So if you was sworn
in, and was to kill Blake resistin' arrest, it would be all reg'lar.
Savvy?"

"But suppose he doesn't resist arrest?"

"Never cross a bridge till you come to it," said Bush wisely. "You got
to come along with us to find him, anyhow. So I'll swear you in and
we'll hope for the best."

Bush's questioning of Kathleen was perfunctory. He grinned at her
refusal to give information. "I wouldn't think much of you if you did,"
he admitted, and went on a tour of investigation, from which he drew
some very accurate deductions.

Turkey and Rennie arrived, and for the first time Angus heard of
Braden's dying declaration that Gavin French was responsible for the
killing of Adam Mackay. But beyond the bare statement there were no
details. Braden's end had come before he had been able to amplify it.

"Do you suppose it's so?" Turkey queried. "Or was he just trying to hang
something on Gavin?"

Angus did not know. There were times, in the years, when he had been
puzzled by Gavin's peculiar regard for him. There had always been
something in the big man's eyes which he could not read, something
veiled, inscrutable. He alone of the brothers had been reluctant to take
up their father's quarrel with Angus. This might be the reason.

"If he killed father," said Turkey grimly, "he's got it coming to him.
You take Blake, and I'll take him."

"There is nothing to go on but what Braden said," Angus pointed out. But
he thought of his father's dying words. His father had not wished to lay
a feud upon him. It fitted.

At dawn, acting on Bush's theory, they headed north for the pass. When
they struck it there were fresh footprints, many of them, heading into
the hills.

"That's them," said Bush. "Hey, Dave?"

"Sure," said Rennie. "It ain't Injuns. These horses is shod."

A mountain pass is not a road. It merely represents the only practicable
way of winning through the jumbled world of hills. Railway construction
in the mountains follows the pass, but persons who admire scenery from
vestibuled coaches know nothing of the old pass of the pack-trail, the
binding brush, the fallen timber, the slides, the swift creeks, the
gulches, the precipices to which the trail must cling.

The trail itself--the original trail--is invariably the line of least
resistance. It proceeds on the theory that it is easier to go around
than through or over. If traveling on the other side of a creek is
easier it crosses. When conditions are reversed, it comes back. It
wanders with apparent aimlessness, but eventually gets there, at the
cost of time, but without much work. To natural obstacles the wild
animals and the equally wild men who first trod the passes opposed
patience and time, of which they had great store. Later the pioneer
brought the ax. He slashed out the brush, so that he and his might get
by without trouble; but he followed the windings of the trail.

The pass upon which the pursuit entered was a good trail. It led
gradually and almost imperceptibly upward, following the general course
of a creek. The hills sloped back on either hand. Into them led wide
draws, timbered, little valleys in themselves. But this pass was merely
a vestibule. It reached the summit of the first range of hills, and
there was a way down the other side. The trail had been cut out. But
beyond were hundreds of square miles of mountains in which what few
trails there were had never known an ax.

In the afternoon they reached the summit of the first divide. It was
comparatively low, and timbered. There was a lake, scarcely more than a
pond. There the fugitives had halted.

Rennie and Bush nosed among the signs like old hounds, not looking for
anything in particular, but because they could not help it.

"I sh'd say they got two pack ponies," Bush decided. "There's the four
French boys, and maybe Garland."

"Garland ain't with 'em," Rennie returned with conviction. "He's too
darn wise. He knows Angus would go after Blake, or if he didn't me or
Turkey would. So he'd quit Blake right away and pull out by himself.
I'd bet money on it."

"Not with me," Bush grinned. "I guess you're right."

They were standing by the little lake, and Rennie pointed to a moccasin
track that lay in the soft ground. The foot that made it was shapely,
rather small, and straight along the inner line. The toes were spread
widely, naturally.

"That's funny," said Rennie.

"Why?" Bush asked. "It's some Injun. He jumped from there onto that log.
I s'pose he wanted water without wettin' his feet."

"What's an Injun doin' here?"

"What's an Injun doin' any place?" Bush countered with the scorn of the
old-timer. "S'pose you loosen up some. You know as much about Injuns as
I do."

"Well, we ain't met this Injun," said Rennie, "so he's travelin' the
same way we are. Maybe he's just one of a bunch that's in here huntin'.
But I was tellin' you about how old Paul Sam come to Angus' wife's place
last night. He was lookin' for Blake. 'Course you heard what was said
about Blake and his granddaughter. I just wondered."

Bush removed his hat and scratched his head.

"By gosh, I wonder!" he observed. "He's mighty old, but it might be. He
ain't no fish-eatin' flat-face Siwash. He's a horse Injun--one of the
old stock. But he is darn old."

"He thought a heap of the girl," said Rennie. "He sent her to school. He
was goin' to make her all same white girl."

"Uh-huh!" Bush growled. "A lot of darn fools think they can do tricks
like that. But she's a job for the Almighty. Well, if this is the old
buck, he couldn't go on a better last war-trail, and I wish him a heap
of luck. Now let's get goin'."

Night found them at the foot of the range they had crossed. They were
now in the valley of the Klimminchuck, a fast stream of the proportions
of a river, fed by tributary creeks. Across it rose mountains, range on
range, nameless, cut by valleys, pockets, basins and creeks. Their area
resembled a tumbled sea. It was a mountain wilderness, little known,
unmapped, much as it came from the hands of the Creator.

And yet in this wilderness there were trails. Up tributary creeks
hunters had made them for short distances, but they soon petered out.
Beyond, into the heart of the hills, were other faintly marked routes,
scarcely trails but ways of traverse, by which at various and widely
separated times man had penetrated into these solitudes and even crossed
them entirely.

All the men knew something of this mountain area, but Rennie's knowledge
was the most extensive. His was the restlessness, the desire to see
something of what lay beyond, of the pioneer. He had made long
incursions, alone. Bush leaned on this knowledge. Around the fire that
night, pipes alight, they held council.

"They've turned up river," said Bush. "If they keep on for the head
waters they get into mighty bad country, hey, Dave?"

"Mighty bad," Rennie agreed. "They couldn't get no place."

"And they ain't outfitted to winter. Do they know she's bad up there?"

"Sure they know. Anyhow, Gavin does. My tumtum is they'll ford above
here and try for a clean get-away, maybe up Copper Creek, right across
the mountains."

"Can they make it?"

"They might. Depends on what they know of the country, and what luck
they have."

"With horses?"

"Well, they might."

"How far have you ever gone yourself?"

"I been up to where the Copper heads and over the divide and on a
piece."

"Good travelin'?"

"No, darn mean."

"Trail?"

"Only a liar would call it a trail. Still, you can get along if you're
careful."

"Could they have gone farther?"

"Sure."

"Did you ever hear of anybody gettin' plum' through, say to Cache River,
that way?"

"I've heard of it--yes. Old Pete Jodoin claimed he made her. And one
time I run onto an old Stoney buck and he told me how, long ago, his
people used to come down huntin' onto this here Klimmin, but they don't
do it no more."

"Pete Jodoin was an old liar," said Bush, "and so's any Stoney, on
gen'ral principles. But it's funny the places you can go if you know
how. Think these French boys would know enough to make a trip like
that?"

"Gavin knows a lot about these hills," Rennie replied. "He's hunted in
'em a lot by himself. He can pack near as much as a pony, and it's darn
hard to say where he went and didn't go."

"Well," said Bush, "I only hope we don't lose their trail."

So far the trail had been plain, the hoof marks on it visible. But on
bad ground this would not be the case. There would be no trail, in the
sense of a path, and the trail in the sense of hoof-marks might
disappear entirely. Therefore it was important to ascertain if they
could the line of flight, so that if signs temporarily ceased there
might be a possibility of finding them again further on.

But in the morning the trail of the fugitives led straight to the ford,
crossed it and held up the farther side. They came to the mouth of
Copper Creek, a delta with much gravel wash, but the trail of the
fugitives, in place of turning the Copper, led straight on up the valley
trail. A couple of miles on, just after crossing a patch of rocky
ground, Turkey who was in the lead pulled up and dismounted.

"What's the matter, kid?" Bush asked.

"Matter!" Turkey exclaimed. "Why there isn't a shod horse in this bunch
of tracks we're following."

Investigation showed that Turkey was right. They had been riding on the
tracks of unshod horses, presumably of an Indian hunting party. And as
they had trampled on these with their own shod horses it was going to be
hard to ascertain just how far they had gone on this false trail. But
Rennie had his own idea of a short cut.

"They made the side jump somewheres on these here rocks," he said. "They
figgered we'd go hellin' along on the tracks of them barefoots. Now this
bad ground is the end of that there shoulder you see, and she runs back
and dips down on the other side to the Copper."

"Sounds reas'nable," Bush admitted, "Then we go back to the Copper."

The two were standing together apart from the others.

"Look over there," said Rennie, "and line up this rock with that lone
cottonwood. What do you see?"

Bush looked along the line indicated. "By gosh," he ejaculated, "that
cottonwood's _blazed_!"

"Blazed both sides," Rennie informed him. "I been there. And further on
there's another tree blazed. Fresh."

"Lord--ee!" said Bush. "Them French boys wouldn't do that. You think
it's the old buck?"

Rennie nodded. "He's wiser 'n we are; also closer to 'em. He's playin' a
lone hand, so he has to wait his chance at Blake. He figgers Angus will
be after Blake, and as he may run into bad luck himself he wants to make
sure somebody lands him. He don't know why the other boys are there, but
he knows there must be some good reason, because they're in a hurry and
tryin' to hide their trail. So on gen'ral principles he blazes that
cottonwood where he strikes their tracks where they've turned off, and
keeps goin'."

"Uh-huh!" Bush agreed. "I guess we better not tell them Mackay boys
about the Injun. They'd be for crowdin' things, and likely mess 'em up.
They don't want nobody to get ahead of 'em. I wish I hadn't told 'em
what old Braden said. But it seemed right they should know."

"So it is right," said Rennie. "Adam Mackay hadn't no gun. She was
murder. Only thing, I don't savvy it bein' Gavin French. Givin' the
devil his due, he's all _man_. And Braden was such a darn liar. Well,
there's many a card lost in the shuffle turns up in the deal."




CHAPTER XLIV

THE RED AVENGER


Many miles beyond the head waters of Copper Creek four men rode along
the crest of a sparsely timbered summit. Their horses were weary,
gaunted with scant, frost-burnt feed. The riders were unkempt, unshaven,
their eyes reddened by much staring into distances and the ceaseless
pour of the mountain winds. The wind was now blowing strongly. It was
very cold, and they bent against it, their hats pulled low, their
collars high. Along the summit on which they rode and even along its
flanks lay thin snow, the first of the coming winter. But above, on the
higher ranges, it lay thickly white on the peaks and in the great
gulches, promise of the twenty or thirty or forty feet of it which would
fall before Spring, as it had fallen on that high roof of the world for
ages.

On the second day on the Copper the fugitives had discovered that they
had not shaken off pursuit. It clung to them doggedly, tenaciously. Once
through binoculars they had seen their pursuers across the width of a
mountain valley. Little figures, seven of them, had ridden across the
field of the lens focused on a barren patch of hillside. They could make
a very fair guess at the identity of some of the men. With the discovery
they had made extra speed.

Then they had got off the trail, which was ancient, faint, overgrown.
Left to himself Gavin, who was the pilot, would likely have steered a
correct course, for he had much of that intuition which for lack of a
better term may be called sense of direction, and an eye for the
general configuration of country. But he was in a hurry and his brothers
obtruded advice. And so Gavin went astray. Half a day's travel converted
suspicion of this to certainty. The only thing to do was to angle
forward in the general direction in which the old trail might be
supposed to lie.

It is one thing to travel following the line of least resistance; but it
is quite another to hold for any definite objective point. Immediately,
obstacles interposed. All of a sudden, as it seemed, things went wrong.
Their way was barred by swift creeks, rocks, tangled wind-falls piled
high. These had to be circumnavigated. One pack pony was drowned in a
sudden dip of what looked like a fordable stream. The other slipped,
sprained his shoulder and could not travel. They shot him, and took his
load between them. At last they regained what was presumably the old
trail. The one redeeming feature was that in their wanderings, they
might have shaken off pursuit. But the next morning, looking back,
behind and below them but on their line of travel, they saw smoke. The
pursuit had even gained.

Now the old trail grew better, clearer, so that they did not have to
worry about that; but they did worry about the way their pursuers hung
on. Of what profit was it to traverse this sea of mountains and emerge
with these hunters at their heels? As they rode, bending against the
keen wind that swept the great ridge, this problem lay in the mind of
each.

But Blake viewed it from an angle of his own. He had thrown in his lot
with his brothers in panic, relying on them, feeling the safety of
numbers. But the pursuit that dogged was primarily of them and not of
him. Then he had made a mistake in joining them. Garland was a wise bird
in striking off by himself. That was what he should have done. He should
have known it would be assumed that he had gone with his brothers. He
had been a fool.

And there was another consideration. He knew very well that the boys did
not intend to be taken. If he stayed with them he would have to fight.
Angus or Turkey, or even Rennie would shoot him on sight, and in all
probability one or more of them was with the bunch behind. Obviously the
thing to do was to quit his brothers and let them draw the pursuit. But
the devil of it was he had no money. They, however, had what they had
taken from Braden. He did not know how much, but it must be a lot. They
ought to share up with him. He considered that he had a grievance
against them.

Toward evening they came to the end of the ridge and began a long
descent into a high valley. They struck timber and shelter from the
wind, and water. There they camped. But though feed was short and
frost-burnt, they dared not let their horses range, keeping them on
ropes.

Supper over they sat close to the fire, smoking, following their own
thoughts. Gerald regarded the blaze through half-closed eyes; Gavin,
motionless his chin in his hand stared straight ahead; but young Larry,
on one elbow, frowning, impatient, jerked cones and bits of stick at the
fire with vicious flips of the wrist. Finally he sat upright.

"Oh, what the _hell_!" he said, in tones of nervous irritation.

Gerald's half-veiled eyes shifted to him; Gavin turned his head.

"Well?" the latter asked.

"What's the use of this?" the young man demanded. "How long are we going
to be chased all over these hills? I wouldn't kick if we were making a
get-away--but we aren't. This bunch is right on our heels. What good
does it do us to keep going? Not a damned bit! Wherever we come out
they'll be right on top of us."

"The kid's right," Gerald observed.

"Well?" said Gavin again.

"Why not let it come to a show-down now?" Larry asked. "Let's make a
stand. There's only seven of them, near as we can tell." He laughed
recklessly. "Whoever loses out stays in these damned hills for keeps."

"Larry's right," said Gerald again.

"He may be," Gavin admitted. "Make a stand, hey?" He stretched his great
arms slowly. "Four of us, seven of them. Well, I'm game, if you are.
They're apt to have some pretty good men. Some of us are due to stay in
these hills, as Larry says."

"Sure," Gerald agreed. "But the hills are better than the pen. We're all
in the same boat."

"I don't know about that," Blake put in.

"Since you mention it," said Gerald, "maybe we're not. If young Turkey
or Rennie is with that bunch they're out to get you." Blake shifted
uneasily, and Gerald sneered. "I'll bet a hundred they _do_ get you,
too."

"You want the big end," said young Larry.

"You talk about being in the same boat," said Blake. "Well, I didn't
shoot Braden, nor get any of his money. You held out on me. You thought
you could get it yourselves. You wouldn't let me in on it."

"Well?"

"Well, why the devil should I help you stand off that bunch, then?
They're after you, not me."

"Has anybody asked you to?" Gerald retorted. "And nobody asked you to
come with us, if it comes to that."

"You had the fear of God in your heart and you begged to come," Larry
told him. "You say you shot up Mackay, but you wouldn't tell why. And
now, when things are getting hot, you want to quit and sneak off by
yourself. I know what you're thinking. Quit and be damned, then! You
never were any good. You never had the sand of a white rabbit."

Blake blustered, cursing his younger brother. The latter leaped to his
feet. But Gavin interposed.

"Sit down, Larry. Blake, do you want to quit us? If you do, say so.
There are no strings on you."

"If I did want to, I couldn't," Blake growled. "You know blame' well I
haven't got any money."

Gavin eyed him in silence for a moment.

"I'll fix the money part," he said. Reaching into his warbag he drew
forth a package of bills. He split it in half without counting, tossing
one half to Blake as he would have tossed a bone to a dog. "There you
are! Anything else?"

"Well, I don't want--" Blake began, but Gavin cut him short.

"You needn't lie. I've seen this in the back of your mind for days.
You'll go now, whether you want to or not! Our trails fork in the
morning, and you play your own hand. But if you try to save your hide by
helping that bunch back there, I'll kill you. And that's cold!"

Blake could not meet the cold blue eyes that bored into his.

"You held out on me in the first place," he said. "This is your show,
not mine."

"You--" Larry began.

"Shut up!" said Gavin. "Let him alone. Take what grub you want in the
morning, Blake, and go your own way. And now I'm going to sleep."

He rolled his blanket around him and lay down. Gerald and Larry followed
his example. Blake, to show his indifference, set by the fire for a
time, smoking sullenly; but soon he too turned in.

It was dark when he awoke, but Gavin was already cooking breakfast,
Larry and Gerald rolling blankets. He shared the meal, but nobody spoke
to him. Larry brought in three horses, but Blake had to go for his own.
Fresh snow, fallen in the night, lay on the ground, but it was merely a
skift which would go with the sun.

The east was rose and gold when they mounted. High to the westward the
sun, as yet invisible, struck the eastern face of a great snow-wrapped
peak, playing on it dazzlingly. The cold of the high altitudes nipped;
the breath of the gaunt horses hung in steam.

At the head of the little cavalcade Gavin led the way down a sloping
shoulder into the valley. Blake followed, uncertain what to do. When the
valley opened Gavin pulled up.

"Here's where we break, Blake."

"All right," he replied sullenly. "Go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

"I said we broke here."

"I've got to get out of these mountains, haven't I? This is the only
way."

"You wanted to quit us," said Gavin, "and now you have to."

"All right," Blake replied. "I'll quit you, if you want it that way."

Without a word of farewell his brothers rode on. Blake watched them go.
Their wordless contempt had stung him, and he hated them. He hoped
sincerely that they would be caught.

His own immediate plans were simple. He would ride a few miles off the
trail till Bush and his posse went by. Then he would make up his mind
just what to do. He might take the back trail when they had gone on. He
would see.

He took care to leave the trail on rocky ground. The thin snow which
still lay was unfortunate, but did not greatly matter once he was off
the trail. In an hour or two it would be gone. He rode for a mile, which
for his purpose was as good as five or ten, and dismounting let his
horse feed. He found a place where the sun struck warmly, filled his
pipe and lay down, his back against a rock.

He counted the money which Gavin had thrown him. It amounted to more
than two thousand dollars. That would help some. He was better off than
if he had stayed with his brothers. Lord, yes! He was safe as a church.

His eyes half-closed, he enjoyed his pipe, thinking things over. He made
a mess of that Mackay business. When you came right down to it, he
should not have laid hands on Faith. But he would have had the deeds out
of her if Garland had not weakened. But for Garland there would have
been no necessity for this get-away. Garland had got him into the thing.
Damn Garland! And damn women! They were all fools. Take that klootch.
How the devil could she expect a white man to marry her? She wasn't bad
for a klootch, but as a wife--good night!

The pipe had lost its flavor. Blake tapped it out, rose, and started
back with an involuntary cry. Just back of the rock against which he
had been leaning stood Paul Sam.

The old Indian raised his rifle.

"S'pose you move," he said, "you go mimaloos." Blake froze into
immobility. "You go mimaloos, anyway," the old man added; "but first me
talk to you."

A great fear laid hold upon Blake. The old Indian's features were
impassive, but his eyes were bleak and hard. He lowered the rifle to the
level of his waist, but its muzzle still dominated. Blake's rifle leaned
against the rock, out of reach. His six-shooter was in his belt, but he
knew better than to try for it. He stood motionless, staring at the
seamed features of the Indian.

"Me talk to you," Paul Sam repeated in soft, clucking gutterals. "Ole
man, me; young man, you. You white man; me Injun. Very ole man, me. All
the men that were young with me go mimaloos many years ago. My wife she
go mimaloos. My son and his wife they go mimaloos. Only one of my blood
is left, my son's daughter--Mary!"

He paused for a moment.

"There is no one else of my blood. Me raise hiyu kuitan, hiyu moos-moos,
all for her when me die. One time this country all Injun. Pretty soon no
more Injun. All white. Injun way no good now. All white man's way. So me
send her to school to learn the white man's way.

"She come back to my house. When me look at her me think of many things,
of many people who go mimaloos many years ago. It is good for an ole man
to have the young of his blood in his house, for in them his youth
lives.

"There comes a time when this girl who is the last of my blood, is sad.
No more laugh; no more sing. Me not know why. Me ole man. Mebbe-so me
blind ole fool. Me never think of--that! When she is dead--then me hear
of _you_!"

The Indian paused. Blake spoke, moistening dry lips.

"I hadn't anything to do with Mary."

"You lie!" the old man returned. "You bring shame on her and on me. So
me kill you."

There was no passion in his voice; but there was finality, judgment
inexorable. It was the logical conclusion, worked out, demonstrated
according to his rules.

Blake's face blanched. In fancy, as he stared at it, he could see the
red stab of flame leap and feel the shock of lead. Was there no way of
escape? He glanced around. There was nothing save the mountain
wilderness, the serene heights of the peaks, the blue autumn sky, a
soaring golden eagle. His eyes came back to the rifle muzzle. His mouth
opened, but words would not come.

"Mebbe-so you like pray?" Paul Sam suggested calmly. Blake found his
voice.

"I have money," he said. "Look! lots of money. Take it. For God's sake,
don't kill me. I didn't mean--I didn't know--"

For the first time a glint of bitter anger leaped into the old man's
eyes.

"Money!" he said. "You think I take money for a dead woman of my blood
and for my shame. Now me kill you all same wolf!"

The rifle rose, steadied, pointed at Blake's heart. The old finger
crooked on the trigger. The hammer fell with a click. For some
reason--worn firing pin, weak spring, or defective cartridge--the weapon
failed to explode.

Paul Sam's hand jerked down with the lever to throw another shell into
place. But Blake in that instant of reprieve took his chance. With a
leap he hurled himself forward and caught the barrel, throwing it aside,
feeling the flame of the explosion heat the metal beneath his fingers.
The report smashed out in the stillness of the valley, racketing and
rolling against the hills.

Blake wrenched the rifle from the old man's hands and threw it far. His
fear was gone, his face contorted with passion. He reached for his
revolver. As he did so Paul Sam drew a nine-inch knife from its beaded
scabbard and struck as a snake strikes.

With a screaming oath Blake shoved the muzzle of the six-shooter against
him and pulled the trigger. The blunt report was muffled by the body.
But again the knife, now red to the hilt, rose and fell, and again the
gun barked like a kenneled dog. And then Blake reeled backward, his eyes
wide, the gun escaping from his hand, and fell on his back horribly
asprawl. With him fell Paul Sam. But the old Indian's fingers were
locked around the haft of the knife, and the haft stood out of Blake's
breast. And so they lay together as the rolling echoes died and the
stillness of the great hills came again.




CHAPTER XLV

THE GREAT SHOW-DOWN


Down the slope from the wind-swept summit into the valley rode the posse
of Jake Bush. Their horses, too, were gaunted with scant feed and hard
work. Like the men who had preceded them these were unkempt, strained of
eye. Rennie rode in the lead, his eyes on the trail. The eyes of the
others prodded and tested the valley into which they were descending.

By various signs they knew they were closing the gap which separated
them from their quarry. When they reached the abandoned camp they
dismounted and Rennie and Bush tested the ashes.

"Warm where they ain't wet," said Bush. "This is the earliest we've ever
struck their camp yet. They made slow time yesterday. Can't be many
hours ahead."

"Looks to me like their horses is playin' out," Rennie agreed. "Well,
let's get goin'."

They rode on down the valley. The trail was plain, and the tracks of
horses in the vanishing light snow. They strung along at a steady jog.

From the left, clean and sharp came the vibrant crash of a rifle shot.
Instantly the hills took it up, flinging it in echoes back and forth.
But with the echoes came other shots, not clear but blunt, muffled,
multiplying the riot of sound. They jerked their horses to a standstill.

"Not more 'n a mile away," said Rennie. "Them boys is further ahead. It
can't be them."

"We'll darn soon see," said Bush.

They turned in the direction of the shots, spreading out riding slowly.
And presently they came upon a pony standing with dropped reins.

"Why," Turkey exclaimed, "it's Paul Sam's! I'd know that cayuse
anywhere."

There was no mistaking the calico pony. Angus, too recognized it. If
Paul Sam were there it could be but for one purpose.

"Ride slow," Bush advised. "We don't want to overlook anything."

But in less than five hundred yards they came upon tragedy. Paul Sam and
Blake lay as they had fallen. In the background a gaunt horse raised his
head for a moment from his browsing.

They dismounted, ringing the prostrate figures around. Bush removed his
hat, not out of respect for the dead, but to scratch his head.

"Gosh!" he observed inadequately. Rennie loosened the old fingers from
the knife haft and made a swift examination. He picked up a rifle
cartridge, unexploded, with the cap faintly dinted.

"Missed fire!" he said. "Then Blake took the gun away from him and went
for his six-shooter and the old man went for his knife. Lord!"

Angus said nothing. He felt he had been defrauded, hardly used. By day
and by night one vision had haunted him--Faith's soft throat, bruised
and discolored. Just so he had made up his mind to kill Blake, with his
hands, repaying him measure for measure. His disappointment was bitter.

"The old man beat you to it," said Rennie, "but I guess he had the right
to, if he could."

Angus nodded. It was true enough. But Turkey was picking up the
scattered money which Blake had let fall. It opened a field for
speculation. No doubt this was some of Braden's money, and the brothers
had divided with Blake. But why had Blake quit them? Bush made a shrewd
guess.

"Blake wasn't no game bird," he said. "He'd quit any time rather than go
to a show-down. Mabbe that was what he was tryin' to do."

"And bumped into one," said Rennie. "But I wonder! We're gettin' close,
and it ain't so far to the Cache now. It wouldn't do 'em no good to get
there with us right behind. They might make a stand and take a chance."

"Or bushwhack us," the deputy suggested. "Us ridin' along single file in
some bad place and them shootin' from cover--hell! we'd be down and
kickin' before we could draw a gun."

"That's so," Rennie replied thoughtfully. "We'd better go careful. Well,
I s'pose we better try to bury these dead folks while we're here."

"The Injun, anyway," said Bush. "Give him the best of it."

They did the best they could, and built above with stones. Then they
went back and took up the pursuit, holding on till darkness hid the
trail. By daylight they were away, and even earlier than before they
came upon the deserted camp.

And now the old trail began to ascend. It led into a country wild and
rugged, the jagged vertebrae of a mountain range seamed and scarred with
gulch and canon. It was very bad for horses and very hard work for
everybody. But signs showed that they were very near their quarry.

"We're darn near on top of 'em," said Rennie, and thereafter he rode
with gun in hand.

But it was late in the afternoon when they got their first glimpse of
the fugitives, who were rounding a bare shoulder ahead and above them.
Two were riding and one was leading his horse. They themselves were not
seen for a growth of brush at that point of the trail intervened. They
looked to Bush for instructions.

"There ain't much sun left and they'll be goin' into camp soon," the
deputy said. "We'll leave the horses here with one man, and the rest of
us go ahead. While they're makin' camp we'll stand 'em up. What say,
Dave?"

"Who stays with the horses?"

"Turkey," Bush decided. "He's the youngest."

"I'm damned if I do," Turkey rebelled. "Stay yourself. You're the
oldest."

Bush grinned. "Can't, sonny, though I'd love to." He drew a dilapidated
pack of cards from his pocket and spread them fanwise. "Draw one. Low
stays. Deuce is low."

Drury drew low, cursed his luck. McClintock on one knee lacing a
shoepack grinned at him.

"I wisht you'd sponge off my cayuse's back, Joe. He's gettin' sore.
While you're about it, with nothin' else to do, you might go over the
whole lot."

Drury's retort put his first outburst in the shade. Laughter stirred him
to fresh efforts.

"Now, boys!" said Bush.

He took the lead, Rennie behind him, then Angus.

Angus was glad to be out of the saddle, and glad, too, that the end of
the chase was at hand. With the death of Blake much of his interest in
it had vanished. There was still Gavin, who if Braden's dying
declaration was to be believed had killed his father. But strangely
enough he felt little or no enmity toward him. He thought he should
feel more. Turkey, behind him, spoke.

"I guess this is the finish of that bunch. If they start anything, we
want to get Gavin--if he killed father."

Angus was silent for a moment. There was the possibility that it would
not be a one-sided affair. He was not troubled for himself, but Turkey
was rash.

"Don't take any chances, kid, if there is trouble."

"Not a chance," Turkey replied cheerfully. "Anybody that beats me to the
trigger will have to go some."

"That wasn't what I meant. Look after yourself. Don't get hurt."

"Are you trying to tell me to play it safe?" Turkey demanded with
virtuous indignation. "Why I ought to report you to Bush. Look after
yourself. You're married. Play it safe! Huh! You bet I will--with a fast
gun."

But the sun was going down. Unless the fugitives suspected something
they would soon be making camp. Now and then Bush stopped to listen.
None now spoke above a whisper. It was like the last hundred yards of a
long, hard stalk of big game. In this case the game was big enough, and
dangerous. Mistakes could not be afforded.

Bush stopped suddenly. Distinct in the stillness came the quick
"lick-lock" of an ax. The deputy nodded.

They came upon the camp. It was on a little flat at the mouth of a wild
draw, a little glade fringed with brush, through which ran a trickle of
a spring creek. At one side the horses, unsaddled, grazed. Gavin, at the
other side, was dragging in a dry pole for firewood. Gerald knelt beside
a freshly kindled fire. Larry was getting food from a sack.

It was Larry who saw them almost at the instant they saw him. He cried a
warning. Gerald rose swiftly. Gavin dropped his pole. Bush stepped
forward and held up his hand.

"I want you boys," he said.

"You can't have us," Gerald replied. "That's cold, Bush."

"Don't be foolish," Bush advised. "I want you, and I'm going to get you.
And that's cold, too."

"Then fly at it!" Gerald cried, and with the words jerked his gun and
fired.

Bush staggered, twisted and went down; but he drew his gun as he did so
and began to shoot from the ground. The lonely mountain camp became an
inferno of shattering, rolling sound.

Angus felt his hat lift as in a sudden squall. At the same moment Turkey
spun half around and against him, destroying his aim.

"I'm all right!" the youngster gasped, and in proof of his assertion
fired.

Bustede, his right arm hanging, had dropped his rifle and was struggling
to draw his six-shooter with his left hand. McClintock, on one knee, was
working the lever of his rifle like a saw. Rennie, a gun in either hand,
unhooked them in a rattling roar.

Suddenly Gerald pitched forward on his face. Larry doubled up and went
down. But Gavin was apparently unhurt. He saw his brothers fall. For an
instant he stood looking at them. Then he turned and bounded for the
sheltering brush. With the rush of a bull moose he crashed into it while
a sleet of lead cut twigs around him, and disappeared.

"Git him!" Bush croaked from the ground. "Git him, somebody. Oh, sink my
soul for all rotten shootin'! Six guns-and he makes the timber! Agh-r!"

Angus stooped for an instant over Turkey. The youngster, very white of
face, was sitting on the ground; but he was outcursing Bush.

"Are you hurt much? Where?"

"Not much. My shoulder. Get him, damn him! Get him for father!"

Angus found Rennie running beside him. It was impossible to trail the
fugitive. All they could do was to keep on up the draw and trust to
luck. But the pace and the rough ground soon told on Rennie.

"I can't travel no more," he gasped. "Too old. You go ahead."

"Go back and help the boys," Angus said. "There's a moon to-night and I
may not be back. If I don't find him I'll come in in the morning."

"Be darn sure you do come in. Don't take no chances."

Angus ran on up the draw. Now that he was alone he began to put forth
his strength and speed while the light should last. He was sure that
Gavin would make for the higher ground. He would cross the summit of
that range, and go ahead for the Cache. Though he had neither food nor
outfit he had his six-shooter and presumably ammunition and matches.
Angus knew that he himself would suffer little more than inconvenience
if he were in Gavin's place.

The draw narrowed, and steep hills closed in on either hand. He turned
to the right and began to climb. Darkness overtook him and he stopped.
The cold chilled his sweating body with the cessation of motion, but
Gavin was as badly off. When the moon rose he went on again, but it was
slow work. Objects were distorted. Shadows lay where he would have had
light. Once he slipped and fell, slithering twenty feet and barely
saving himself from an almost perpendicular drop of a hundred. He
crawled back with difficulty, but his rifle was gone. He had heard it
clang far below him. However, he had his belt gun, and so was on a par
with Gavin.

His objective was what seemed to be a notch in the summit. It was what
he would make for were he in Gavin's place. He toiled upward
methodically, without hurry now, for there might be a long trail ahead.
If Gavin could go to the Cache so could he. The timber began to thin
out, to stunt. Trees were dwarfed, twisted by the mountain winds, mere
miniatures. Presently they ceased altogether. He was above timberline.

There the thin snow partially covered the ground, increasing the
difficulty of travel. But its actinic qualities gave more light. It was
past midnight, and the moon was well up. He had been traveling for more
than seven hours.

For a moment he paused to rest, his lungs feeding greedily on the thin,
cold air, and surveyed the scene below. It was a black fur of tree-tops,
rolling, undulating, cleft with lines of greater darkness indicating
greater depths. He could look over the tops of lesser mountains. Above
were the peaks of the range, whitened spires against the sky.

In those far heights of the mountain wilderness one seemed to touch the
rim of space itself. The moon, the night, the height produced an effect
of unspeakable vastness. It seemed to press in, to enfold the tiny atom
crawling upon and clinging to the surface of the earth. There finite and
infinite made contact. It was like the world's end, the _Ultima Thule_
of ancient man.

Some such thoughts, vague, scarcely formed, passed through his mind.
The ranch, ploughed land, houses, seemed to belong to another world.

Once more he began to climb, and now that he was close to the summit the
going was easier. Suddenly he stopped. There, clear in the moonlight,
was the track of a moccasin-clad foot.

There was no doubt that it was Gavin's. Knowing his own pace Angus knew
that the big man could not be far ahead. No doubt he would keep going,
over the summit and down the other side, for timber. Once in the timber,
with a fire, he would rest. His trail across would be covered by the
first wind. He would not suspect that any one would or could follow him
by night.

Angus followed the trail easily by the bright moonlight, noting grimly
that the length of the stride was almost identical with his own. The
prints were clean, showing that the feet had been cleanly lifted and set
down, token of energy unimpaired.

When he reached the summit he took a careful survey. It was a desolate
plateau, swept and scoured by the winds and rains and snow of unnumbered
centuries. On it nothing grew. Here and there bowlders loomed blackly.
But nothing moved. Apparently, it was as bare of life as the dead
mountains of the moon. The trail led straight on.

Satisfied of this, Angus followed the trail at speed. Now and then it
turned out to avoid a bowlder, but otherwise it went straight ahead, as
though no doubt of direction existed in its maker's mind. Presently it
swung around a huge rock and then turned north. Angus glanced casually
at the bowlder and passed by; but he had taken no more than three
strides in the new direction when a voice behind him commanded:

"Stop! Put up your hands!"




CHAPTER XLVI

STRONG MEN


The tone forbade disobedience or delay. Angus turned to face a gun in
the hands of Gavin French. The latter peered at him for a moment and
laughed shortly.

"I thought it was you," he said. "Nobody else could have made as good
time. You're a good guesser, too. Well--unbuckle your belt with your
left hand and let it drop. Keep your right hand up. That's it. Now step
away from it."

Having no option Angus obeyed, cursing himself internally for being
fooled by the old trick of doubling back. Gavin lowered his gun.

"You can take 'em down," he said. "Now what's the next play?"

"That's up to you," Angus told him.

"Does look like it," the big man admitted. "But you know damned well I
can't shoot you in cold blood. If I roped you up here and left you, you
might not be found. I can't take you with me. So it's partly up to you.
This is hell's own rotten mess from start to finish. I knew it would be,
from the time Jerry lost his head and plugged Braden. I suppose he's
dead?"

"Yes."

"And Jerry and Larry, too?"

"I think so. I didn't wait to make sure."

"Sure to be," Gavin said calmly. "Jerry came ahead on his face and Larry
wilted in a bunch. They got it, all right. I had a fool's luck. Any of
your bunch get it hard?"

"I don't think so. We were lucky."

"You sure were. We were going to hold you up to-morrow, if we found a
good place, but you got the jump on us. You were closer than we thought.
So it seems I'm the only one left, bar Blake, and I don't count him. He
quit us yesterday to save his skin. Maybe he was wise, at that."

"Blake is dead."

The big man exclaimed in astonishment. "Dead! How?"

Angus told him. Also he told why he himself had hunted Blake. Gavin
French uttered a deep malediction.

"If I had known this," he said, "he would never have come with us. I
think I would have handled him myself. But I don't suppose you believe
that."

"Yes," Angus returned. "You are a man, and he never was."

Gavin French eyed him for a moment. "I guess you're right--about him,
anyway," he said. "He got what was coming to him. Well, that leaves
me--and Kathleen." He shook his head moodily. "I tell you straight,
Mackay, that I'm not going to be taken. I've stood you up, but I don't
know what I'm going to do with you. If you'll give me your word to go
back to your bunch and give me that much start, you may pick up your gun
and go."

"Will you answer me one question straight?" Angus asked.

"Anything you like," the big man promised. "It won't make much
difference now."

"Gavin French, did you kill my father?"

The big man started violently. "Did I--What makes you ask that?"

"You promised me a straight answer. But Braden said so--before he died."

Gavin French did not reply immediately. "Braden was a rotten liar all
his life," he said at last. "But I promised you a straight answer, and I
keep my word. Yes, I killed your father--at least, I suppose that's what
it comes to."

Angus drew a long breath. Its hissing intake was clear in the silence.

"You suppose!" he said. "My father was not armed. Do you think I will
let you go, gun or no gun. One of us stays on this summit, Gavin
French!"

"In your place I would say just that," Gavin admitted. "But I am going
to tell you how it happened; and then I am going to let you take up your
gun and do what you like. And just remember that if I wanted to lie I
would have done it in the first place."

He paused a moment frowning at Angus.

"The day your father was shot," he began, "I was on the range looking
for horses, and I had my rifle. In the afternoon I was riding up the
long coulee by Cat Creek when I heard a shot ahead, and in a few minutes
I came upon a steer staggering along. Then he rolled over and lay
kicking. I got off my horse and saw your brand on him, and that he had
been shot. Just then your father came tearing up the coulee. He saw me
beside the dead steer, my rifle in my hand, and naturally he thought I
had done the killing. He had no earthly use for me, and besides that he
and I had some trouble a week before over a two-year-old. So when he
rode up I knew there was going to be more trouble, and I was dead right.

"He didn't give me much chance to explain, and he didn't get off his
horse. He damned me for a liar and a rustler, and suddenly he reached
down and grabbed the barrel of my rifle with both hands. I've often
wished I had let him take it, but by that time he was so damned mad that
I wasn't going to let him have a gun, and I was pretty hot myself. So I
hung onto it and tried to twist it out of his hands. Then his horse
started to back. I was dragged along, holding to the gun, and my hold
slipped. I swear I don't know how it happened, unless my slipping hand
lifted the hammer, but anyway the rifle went off.

"He let go then, and his horse bolted. I didn't know he was badly hurt,
because he was riding all right. In fact I wasn't sure he was hit at
all. That was the last I saw of him. My own horse was frightened by the
shot and it took me some time to catch him. I rode two or three miles
looking for your father, but I was afraid that would lead to more
trouble, because I thought the first thing he would do would be to
organize himself with a gun. So I went home and kept my mouth shut. The
next day I heard he was dead. That's all. And there's your gun. If you
feel like playing even, go to it."

But Angus as he listened knew that Gavin French was telling the exact
truth. He could visualize the tragedy of that bygone day of his boyhood.
His father's actions, as related by Gavin, were in exact keeping with
his character. But in the end, though convinced that Gavin had fired
with intent to kill, he had died in grim silence rather than leave to
his son a heritage of hate and revenge.

"I believe it happened as you say it did," he said. "There is nothing to
play even for."

The big man sighed deeply. "It's not every man who would believe it," he
said; "but it's true. I know I should have come forward and told how it
was, then, but I had only my own word. If your father had told anybody
about the two-year-old and the words we had had, it would have been bad.
So I just kept quiet."

"How did Braden know?"

"From Tenas Pete. I believe that Siwash shot the steer himself and saw
what happened. Braden told me the Indian had told him the whole thing.
That was a year after, and Pete had broken his neck with a bad cayuse.
Braden tried to hold it over me till I put the fear of God in his heart
one night when we were alone. I wouldn't do his dirty work, and I didn't
know till too late what Blake and Jerry had done. I mean about your
ditch. Larry wasn't in that. I couldn't give my brothers away, could I?
Oh, it's a rotten mess from start to finish!"

He stared gloomily across the moonlit spaces, frowning heavily.

"So there's the whole thing," he said. "I've felt like telling you
before, but what was the use? From first to last my family has done you
dirt. Well, I'm the only man left, and I'll pay for the crowd. I'll be
the goat. Short of surrendering, which I won't do, I'll give you any
satisfaction you like. If you want it with a gun, all right. But we're
two big, skookum men. I don't know which of us is the better, though I
think I am. If you can best me to-night, in a fair fight without
weapons, I'll go back with you; and if I best you you go back alone.
What do you say?"

Angus knew that Gavin meant it. The proposal was primitive in conception
and simplicity. Perhaps because of that it appealed to him strongly.

"There are not many men who would make that offer," he said.

"I would not make it to any other man," Gavin replied. "Does it go?"

"No."

The big man threw out his hands in a gesture of impatience.

"Then what the devil does?" he demanded. "Why not? You're no more afraid
of me than I am of you. What do you want?"

"Nothing," Angus said. "Now that I know how my father died, I have
nothing against you. Braden I care nothing about. So I am going back the
way I came. But I am glad you do not think me a coward."

Gavin French drew a deep breath and his cold blue eyes for a moment held
a curiously soft expression.

"Mackay," he said, "it probably sounds queer, but I have always liked
you. And I liked you better after that little fuss we had on Christmas
night, for then I knew you were strong as I am strong, and I hoped some
day, for the pure fun of it, we might see which of us was the better
man. A coward? Lord, no! I know why you are doing this. I'll bet you saw
Kathleen."

"Yes," Angus admitted, "I saw her. She told me. But that's not--"

"You needn't lie about it," Gavin said gruffly. "That sort of thing is
about all you would lie about. She's a good girl. I--I'm fond of her."
He hesitated over the admission. "We were a queer bunch--our family.
Stand-off. No slush. Afraid to show that we were fond of each other.
That was the way with Kit and me. If I can make this, it will be
different in the future. I'm not pulling any repentance stuff, you
savvy. What's done is done, and it can't be helped. Well, it's time I
was moving."

"How are you fixed for matches and smoking?"

"None too well--if you can spare either."

Angus handed over what he had in his pockets. "I wish you luck," he
said. "I hope you make it--clean."

"I'll make it," Gavin replied calmly, "if it's my luck, and if it isn't
I won't. It won't make any difference to anybody but Kit. If it wasn't
for her I wouldn't care--either way."

"Don't worry about her. We will see that she wants for nothing. Her home
will be with us if she will make it there, till you are ready for her."

"That's white of you," Gavin said with something very like emotion in
his voice; "but she'd better do as we had arranged. Tell her I'll make
it sure. And tell Faith--if you don't mind--that I said her husband was
a good man--oh, a damned good man!--every way." He was silent for a
moment. "Shake?" he said and held out his hand.

Their grips met hard.

"Well, so long," said Gavin.

"So long," said Angus.

The big man nodded and turned north. Angus turned south. In a hundred
paces he looked back. Gavin, already indistinct in the deceptive
moonlight was standing at the top of a slight rise doing likewise. He
waved his hand, turned, and the rise hid him from view. Though Angus
watched for some moments he did not reappear. He had crossed the divide.

Then Angus, too, turned again, and realizing for the first time that the
night cold of the height had chilled him to the bone struck a brisk pace
down the southern slope; while behind him a rising wind broomed the dry
snow of the desolate summit, effacing all trace of the trespassing feet
of men.




CHAPTER XLVII

PEACE


Angus was riding up to the French ranch. He had just parted from his
companions. Their homeward progress had been slow because of the wounded
men. Turkey and Rennie had gone on toward the home ranch, and Bush and
the other toward town. But he had turned off the trail to see Kathleen.
He hated his errand, but it was better that he should tell her than
leave it to a stranger. He would be glad to get it over and go home--to
Faith.

As he approached the house he saw her. Apparently she had seen him
coming, for she came down to greet him. He dismounted stiffly. He felt
her eyes searching his face.

"Well?" she queried. He shook his head.

"I am sorry, Kathleen. It is bad news."

"I expected it," she said quietly. "Tell me about it--all!"

He told her the main facts, omitting details. When he had concluded she
sat motionless, her eyes on the glory of the evening sky above the
western ranges.

"I am sorry," he said again.

"I understand," she said. "You are sorry that it had to be. I knew what
might happen if the boys were overtaken. It was inevitable. Well, they
made their choice and took their chance, and it went against them. I
think Gavin will tell me more than you have told me--some day. Well,
this is the end of a good many things. I was merely waiting for word.
To-morrow I am going away."

"There is no need. If you would stay with us--"

"I am just as grateful, but it is best not."

"It may be," he admitted. "Is there anything I can do?"

"If you would take Finn? He's too lively for Faith, but he's a good
horse. I hate to sell him to a stranger."

"I will buy him."

"You will not buy him. Are you too proud to do me that kindness?"

"No. I will take him and give him a good home all his life."

"Thank you."

"For taking the gift of a good horse?"

"You know better. Finn and I were friends. He--he may miss me a little."
For the first time her voice was not quite steady. "To feel that way
about a horse!" she said scornfully. "Well, it's something to be
missed--even by a horse."

"I shall miss you," Angus told her. Her eyes rested on him gravely for a
long moment.

"I know what you mean," she said. "You liked me because I was a frank
sort of individual. You may think of me now and then, when there is
nothing else on your mind. But as for missing me--pshaw! Nobody will
miss me. I had no friends."

It was brutally true. Kathleen French, highly organized, sensitive,
proud, had repelled friendships. She had hidden real loneliness under a
cloak of indifference. Apparently sufficient unto herself, others had
taken her at her own apparent valuation. Her voice was tinged with
bitterness. Angus realized vaguely a part of the truth.

"I don't think anybody thought you wanted friends."

"Everybody wants friends," she returned. "Often the people who want
them most have not the knack of making them. But I am not complaining. I
have always been able to take my medicine without making a very bad
face."

"You are a clean, straight, game girl," he said. "One of these days you
will marry, and your husband will be a lucky man."

She smiled for the first time, but her mouth twitched slightly.

"I am game enough," she said. "I suppose that goes with the breed--like
other things. Oh, yes, I am game enough to run true under punishment.
But as for marrying--I don't think so. I was in love once--or thought I
was."

"I didn't know about that," Angus said in surprise. "I'm sorry I said
anything."

"No, of course you didn't know. Nobody did--not even the man in the
case. He married another girl."

"He lost a mighty fine wife," Angus said.

"That's nice of you. But heaven knows what sort of wife I'd have made.
The girl he married will suit him better. And now I mustn't keep you,
Angus. Faith will be waiting. I won't see either of you again. She
hasn't much cause to love me or mine, but she has never shown it by word
or look. She is real, Angus, and I hope you will be very happy, both of
you, all through life. Some day--oh, a long time hence, when the things
that are so real and hard now have been dimmed and softened by the
years--I may see you both again. Till then--good-by."

Angus took her strong, firm hand in his, and looked into her somber
eyes.

"Good-by," he said, "and thank you for your good wishes. Good luck to
you and to Gavin. Tell him that. And remember that anything I can do at
any time for either you or him will be done cheerfully."

"I will remember," she said. "I wish you and Gavin had known each other
better. You would have been friends. You are both real men."

She knew nothing of Gavin's connection with his father's death, for that
was one of several things he had not told her. Another was that he had
lied to Bush. He had said that he had found no trace of Gavin. Kathleen
stood beside him as he mounted, and when, having ridden a few hundred
yards, he turned in the saddle and glanced back she was still standing
where he had left her, motionless.

But as the French ranch vanished from view Angus drew a long breath. It
was more than the relief from the performance of an unpleasant duty. A
chapter seemed to have closed, the old order of things ended, a new one
begun.

Already the shadows were falling, the hills purple black against the
west. Well, he would be home as fast as a good horse could carry him.
Turkey would have told Faith, and she would be waiting for him. He shook
the big, gaunted chestnut into a fast lope.

But at a sharp bend he met Faith, almost riding her down.

"Why, old girl!" he cried, while Chief's hoofs slid and grooved the
trail and the reliable Doughnut side-stepped expertly. "This is fine!"

"I couldn't wait," she said. "I have been waiting too long already. So
when Turkey came home I came to meet you."

"We had to travel slowly. And somebody had to tell Kathleen. I thought
it was better that I should."

"I am very sorry for her."

"So am I. But tell me about yourself. How does it feel to be a grass
widow?"

"I'm not going to tell you. I've been worried. I suppose I've been
silly. But Jean will tell you all about that. She was aways telling me
not to worry, cheering me up."

"Has she made it up with Chetwood yet?"

"Well, my goodness!" Faith exclaimed.

"Why, they're not married, are they?"

"No. Why, it went clean out of my mind, but this afternoon when I saw
Turkey coming, I ran down to meet him and came around the corner of the
wagon shed, and there the two of them were. And they looked as if they
had been--well, you know."

"Kissing each other?"

"Yes, it looked like that."

But the ranch came in sight, its broad, fertile acres dim in the fading
light. The smell of the fresh earth of fall plowing struck the nostrils,
and a tang of wood smoke from new clearing. From the corrals came the
voices of cattle. A colt whinnied in youthful falsetto for his dam. All
sounds carried far in the hush of evening.

"Seems odd to think this will be broken up," Angus said. "Houses and
streets on the good land; maybe a church on that knoll, a school over
yonder. I ought to be glad, because it means money. But I'm not."

"I know," his wife nodded wisely. "I've been a wanderer and a city
dweller most of my life, but I can understand how the one spot on all
the earth may claim a man. And you'll always want a ranch, and stock,
and wide spaces, no matter how much money you have. Oh, yes, boy, I
know."

"I guess you are right," he admitted. "I grew up that way. Well,
there's plenty of time to think it over. I can take another crop off
this." He lifted his head and sniffed the air. "Old girl," he said, "I
believe I smell grub--real grub--cooking. And I haven't had a real meal
for three days. We were sort of shy coming out, you know."

"My heavens!" Faith cried, "Turkey said the same thing. When I left he
was telling Mrs. Foley he would marry her for a pie. Let's hurry."

Some hours later Angus, shaven and fed, sat with Faith enjoying rest and
tobacco. It was good to lie back in a chair, to relax, to be in a house
again protected from the wind and cold, to look forward to a comfortable
bed in place of one blanket and such browse as could be scraped into a
heap as a dog scrapes leaves and rubbish to lie on. Though he could
sleep anywhere, by virtue of youth and a hard body, he appreciated
comfort.

Earlier in the evening Jean, Chetwood and Turkey had borne them company.
But the two former had gone, followed by caustic comment from the
latter. And soon after that young gentleman had announced that Angus and
Faith were a darn sight worse, and that he was going to bed.

Left alone, Faith spoke the thing which was in her mind.

"I am glad," she said, "that it was not you who killed Blake."

"I intended to kill him," he replied, "and I would if it had been my
luck to come up with him. But I think I am glad, now, that I didn't,
though he deserved it. Anyway Paul Sam had the better right."

"The poor old Indian!" Faith said softly.

"Oh, I don't know. If he could talk about it he would say that he
couldn't die better. And then he was a very old man."

"But life may be sweet to the old."

"Yes. But when a man is alone, when all of his blood and the friends of
his youth and manhood are gone, there can't be much to live for. I would
wish to die before that time comes to me."

"Don't talk of dying." She shivered a little. But the chord of
melancholy in his being had been struck and vibrated.

"Why not? Talking will not bring death nearer, nor stave it off.
'_Crioch onarach!_' You have no Gaelic, but it means a good finish--an
honorable end to life. And that is the main thing. What does it matter
when you die, if you die well? I would not live my last years like a
toothless, stiff, old dog, dragging his legs around the house with the
sun. I would rather go out with the taste of life sweet in my mouth."

"We have many years before us, you and I," she said. "I think they will
be happy years, boy."

"They will be largely what we make them. I remember my father's words
when it was near the end with him; and _he_ was a hard man. The things
worth least in life, he said, were hate and revenge; and the things
worth most in life and more in death were love, and work well done, and
a heart clean of bitterness. I did not think so then. But now I am
beginning to think he was right."

"Yes, he was right," she said.

Fell a long silence. At last Faith took the banjo on her knee, and
smiling at her husband began to pick the strings gently. She played at
random, snatches of melody, broken, indistinct; old airs, odd,
half-forgotten. Now and then she sang very softly.

Angus listened in utter content. He seemed to have reached a harbor, a
sheltered haven. Toil, struggle, stress seemed far off, faint memories.
The spell of the home was upon him in full. Little things--familiar
furnishings, the backs of books, pictures--seemed like the smiling faces
of old friends. It was, he recognized, the force of contrast with his
recent experiences; but it was very pleasant. Softly the banjo talked;
and with the haunting murmur of gut and parchment came Faith's voice,
low but clear, singing to herself rather than to him.

    "'Hame, laddie, hame, an' it's hame ye'll come to me,
    Hame to yer hame in yer ain countree;
    Whaur th' ash, an' th' oak an' th' bonnie hazel tree
    They be all a-growin' green in yer ain countree.'"

For a moment the singing ceased, while the banjo whimpered uncertainly
as if seeking a new tune. But it steadied to the same air.

    "'If the bairn be a girl she shall wear a gowden ring;
    And if it be a boy he shall fight for his king--'"

Something in her voice, a soft, crooning note, caused Angus to stare at
the singer. Up from the throat to brow a great wave of color swept. But
her voice did not falter:

    "'With his tarpaulin hat and his coat of navy blue
    He shall pace the quarter-deck as his daddy used to do!'"


THE END.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Land of Strong Men, by Arthur M. Chisholm