THE BRIDGE
There had been rain since harvest, and the ground was soft when Harding
and his comrade stood beside their smoking teams on the slope of the
ravine. Pale sunshine streamed down between the leafless trees,
glistening upon the pools and wet wheel-ruts that marked the winding
trail. The grade was steep and the torn-up surface was badly adapted for
heavy loads. Harding frowned as he glanced at the double span of
foul-coated horses harnessed to a wagon filled with bags of grain. They
were powerful, willing animals, and it jarred on him to overdrive them,
as he had been forced to do. Besides, except for the steep ascent, he
could have taken his load to the elevators with a single team.
"I hate to abuse good horses, but we must get up," he said when he had
recovered breath. "Watch out the wagon doesn't run back when we make a
start."
Devine drove a birch log behind the wheels and then ran to the leaders'
heads and cracked his whip, while Harding called to the pole-team. For a
few moments the battering hoofs churned up the sloppy trail and the
wagon groaned and shook, the horses floundering and slipping without
moving it. Then with a harsh creak the high wheels began to turn and
they slowly struggled up the hill. Harness rattled, chain and clevis
rang, the steam from the toiling animals rose in a thin cloud, and white
smears streaked their coats as they strained at the collar. The men were
red in face and panting hard, but as they fought the grade they broke
into breathless shouts. Harding was sparing of the whip; but this was
not a time to be weakly merciful, when the load might overpower his
teams and, running back, drag them over the edge. Nor dare he stop again
and subject the animals to the cruel effort of restarting. They must get
up somehow before their strength gave out.
Running with hand upon the bridle, and splashing in the pools, he rushed
the horses at the last ascent; and then threw himself down with labored
breath in the grass.
"This won't do," he panted after a few moments. "We'll have to put up
five or six bags less, and you can figure how many extra loads that will
make before we empty the bins. Then, I hate to keep a man and team
standing by here when they could be hauling another load."
"It's one of the things a prairie farmer runs up against," Devine
remarked.
"Just so. When they can't be put right, you have got to make the best of
them; but this grade can be altered."
"It might," Devine agreed with a doubtful air. "Do you think you can
persuade the Colonel to join you?"
"No; but it's my duty to try. When you have helped Frank up, you can
take the extra team and haul in the cordwood. I'll be back from the
railroad about dark to-morrow."
In the meanwhile, Kenwyne, Broadwood, and Lance Mowbray stood among the
trees about three miles farther down the ravine, looking at the trail to
Allenwood, which led along its edge. Near it the ground fell sharply to
the creek, but the slope was regular, and small trees, blazed with the
ax at intervals, marked a smooth descending line. On the opposite side,
a gully offered an approach to the prairie at an easy gradient.
"We must have the bridge here; but it isn't a job we can manage without
assistance," said Kenwyne. "I don't want to be disrespectful, Lance, but
I hope your father enjoyed his lunch."
Lance grinned.
"As a matter of fact, he did; but unfortunately he read the paper
afterwards and the market report seemed to upset him. To make things
worse, I rashly mentioned that it bore out Harding's prognostications.
In consequence, I expect you'll need all the tact you've got."
"I wish Harding had a little more," Broadwood remarked. "I can be meek,
when it's for the good of the settlement, but our friend's too blunt."
"If he's blunt to-day, there'll be trouble," Lance replied with a
chuckle. "I imagine the Colonel's in fighting form. Here he comes!"
It was in an unusually thoughtful mood that Mowbray rode toward them.
The steady fall in the price of wheat was sufficient to cause him
anxiety, but he had further grounds for feeling disturbed. There was an
unsettling influence at work at Allenwood; plans were being mooted which
he thought originated with Harding; and, worse than all, he suspected
that his household was not altogether with him. Gerald certainly showed
unexpected sense in denouncing the innovations; but Mowbray had doubts
about Beatrice, who seemed to be cultivating Miss Harding's
acquaintance; and even his wife now and then took the part of the
offender. Besides, there were, so to speak, portents of change in the
air, and Mowbray felt that he was being driven where he did not mean to
go. He blamed Harding for this, and thought it was time he put a stop to
the fellow's encroachments. For all that, he greeted the waiting men
pleasantly when he dismounted.
"The days are getting colder, but it's a bracing afternoon," he said.
"Now, perhaps we'd better walk over the line of the proposed trail."
They took him along the side of the ravine, and Kenwyne, stopping now
and then, drew his attention to a plan he carried.
"We'll need about forty feet of log underpinning at this point, and
you'll see that it's provided for," he said. "On the next section
there's a good deal of soil to move; I have an estimate of the number of
wagon loads." Farther on he stopped again. "From here to the bridge it
will come to only a ton for every three or four yards."
Mowbray studied the plan and some sheets of figures.
"You seem to have thought the matter out very carefully," he commented.
"It needed close attention," said Broadwood.
Mowbray looked at the men keenly.
"There's a comprehensiveness about these plans and calculations that I
did not expect from you," he said dryly. "To tell the truth, I'm
somewhat surprised by them."
They did not answer this, and Kenwyne frowned in warning as he saw
Lance's amused expression.
"The trail would be useful, sir," Broadwood urged.
"I think so. Do you feel competent to make it? The scheme is bolder than
anything of the kind we have undertaken."
"We couldn't attempt it alone. Our idea is to ask for a general levy."
Mowbray nodded, for when they improved the roads at Allenwood the
settlers were called upon to supply labor or money according to the size
of their farms.
"By making an effort we might get the trail cut and the bridge built
before the frost stops us," Kenwyne said. "We couldn't finish the
grading, but the snow would give us a pretty good surface for hauling
our wheat over. The new crossing would save us nearly three miles on the
journey to the railroad, and we ought to get a good load up the easier
incline without doubling the teams."
Mowbray's suspicions grew.
"We have not found the longer distance an insurmountable disadvantage so
far. Why should it trouble you so much now?"
"Some of us have bigger crops this year," Broadwood said.
"Do you think this justifies your taxing your neighbors?"
"No," Broadwood answered incautiously. "We expect they'll follow our
example, and have as much grain as we have next season."
"I see!" Mowbray frowned. "You are working for a change. The system we
have followed so far doesn't satisfy you."
"But you cannot imagine, sir, that there's any danger to the settlement
in our growing better crops."
"Of course not. It's the taint of commercialism I object to. However,
let me look at those estimates again."
They had now nearly reached the top of the hill on the opposite side and
Mowbray, sitting down on a birch log, opened the papers. The others
looked at one another dubiously as they heard a beat of hoofs and a
rattle of wheels.
"I notice no allowance for unexpected difficulties, which are bound to
crop up," Mowbray presently remarked. "The work will, as usually
happens, prove harder than it looks. I do not see how you can finish it
before the frost comes."
"We expect to get it done, sir," Kenwyne replied. "In fact, we ventured
to ask Mr. Harding, who has helped us to work the scheme out, to meet
you here. He will be able to give you any information."
"Ah!"
Looking up, Mowbray saw Harding coming down the trail, and the loaded
wagon and the fine Clydesdale horses standing among the trees. The sight
angered him. Harding had not been ruined by his rash experiment, as
Mowbray had honestly believed would happen. On the contrary, he had
prospered, and Mowbray suspected him of a wish to flaunt his success in
the faces of his less fortunate neighbors. It was in a very
uncompromising mood that he waited for him to speak.
"If I can get the help I want from Allenwood, I'll engage to cut this
trail on the terms of the estimates," Harding said. "If extra labor is
required, I'll provide it. You can see the advantages, Colonel Mowbray:
three miles saved on the journey to the elevators, besides doing away
with the need for using an extra team on the grade. You'll save a dollar
or two a load; on a big crop the difference will be striking. The trail
will pay for itself in one season."
"I notice that you confine yourself to the monetary point of view," said
Mowbray.
"I think not. There are other advantages, but I won't speak of them now;
I'd be glad to explain anything about the work."
Mowbray's face hardened. The intruding fellow had insolently declined to
talk over any but the material benefits to be expected. It looked as if
he attached no importance to his opinions; and in one respect Mowbray
was not mistaken. Harding had ideas of progress, mutual help, and good
fellowship with which he did not expect the Colonel to sympathize.
"I do not propose to ask any questions," Mowbray said, getting up and
giving Kenwyne the plans. "I needn't keep you; this work will not be
undertaken with my sanction."
"But it can't be undertaken without it!" Broadwood protested.
"I agree with you. On such matters as a general levy I have power of
veto, and I must warn you that it will be used."
Harding turned away, somewhat red in face, and went back up the trail.
He recovered his good humor, however, when he started his horses and
walked beside them across the withered grass. The prairie was bright
with sunshine, and the wide outlook was cheering. Faint wavy lines of
trees and glistening ponds checkered the great plain; there was not a
house or trail of smoke on it. It was all raw material, ready for him
and others to make good use of.
Presently a buggy appeared over a rise, and Harding felt a thrill of
pleasure as he recognized the team and the driver. When Beatrice reached
him she checked the horses.
"You're going to the elevators with your grain?" she said. "How is it
you came by the Long Bluff?"
"I went round by Willow Gulch in the ravine."
"Then you went to meet Kenwyne and Broadwood where the new trail is to
cross? I've heard something about the matter."
"I did. And I'm afraid I offended Colonel Mowbray."
"So he has stopped the undertaking! I expected it."
"No," said Harding, with a half-humorous air. "The trail will be made,
though I won't be able to begin this season."
Beatrice looked thoughtful.
"I'm sorry about this," she said; "it may cause more trouble. Why can't
you leave us alone?"
"I'm afraid I am meddlesome. But it's hard to leave things alone when
you know they ought to be done."
"That sounds egotistical. Are you never mistaken?"
"Often, but it's generally when I get to planning what I'd like to do."
"I don't quite understand."
"It would certainly be egotistical if I bored you with my crude ideas,"
he answered, smiling.
"Never mind that. I want to know."
"Well," he said, "sometimes you look about to see how you can alter
matters and what plans you can make; but when they're made they won't
always work. It's different when you don't have to look."
Beatrice had a dim perception of what he meant, but she would let him
explain. His point of view interested her; though she knew that she ran
some risk in leading him into confidential talk.
"I don't think you have made it very clear yet."
"I meant that there are times when you see your work ready laid out.
It's there; you didn't plan it--you simply can't mistake it. Then if you
go straight ahead and do the best you can, you can't go wrong."
"But when you don't feel sure? When you haven't the conviction that it
is your task?"
"Then," he said quietly, "I think it's better to sit tight and wait.
When the time to act comes, you certainly will know."
Beatrice pondered this, because it seemed to apply with some force to
herself. He had once urged her to take a daring course, to assert her
freedom at the cost of sacrificing much that she valued. Though she had
courage, she had shrunk from the venture, because she had not the firm
conviction that it was justified. She felt drawn to Harding; indeed, she
had met no other man whom she liked so well; but there was much against
him, and nothing but deep, unquestioning love would warrant her
marrying him. That she felt such love she would not admit. It was better
to take the advice he had given her and wait. This was the easier for
her to do because she believed that he had no suspicion of her real
feeling for him.
"After all," she said, smiling, "your responsibility ends with yourself.
I don't see why you should interfere with other people. You can farm
your land as you think fit, without trying to make us copy you."
"That sounds all right; but when you come to think of it, you'll see
that neither of us can stand alone."
"We got along pretty well before you came."
"I don't doubt it. The trouble is that what was best a few years ago
isn't best now. I wish I could make your father realize that."
"Does it follow that he's mistaken because he doesn't agree with you?"
Harding laughed.
"If I were singular in my way of thinking, I'd be more modest, but all
over the country farmers are getting ready for the change. There's a big
expansion in the air, and your people can't stand out against it."
"Then I suppose we'll be crushed, and we'll deserve our fate." Beatrice
smiled at him as she started the horses. "But at least it will not be
from lack of advice!"