From that day on Paul seemed to become more a member of the household
than simply one of “the bunch.” In the McConnell living-room stood a
really fine piano which the Irishman had taken off the hands of a young
Englishman who had been called home and had in reckless haste sold
everything and gone. Once Paul had been introduced to the instrument it
became the regular custom that after the boys had “fed up and washed up”
an invitation would come down to the bunk house, delivered in person as
a rule by Molly, in something like the following terms, “Ma wants you to
come up and play some music for us, Paul. The rest of you kids can come
up too if you like.” With which invitation the boys would be meekly
content. Thus night after night it was their custom to sit entranced,
all unconscious of the flight of time, under the weird witchery that
flowed from those long, sinewy fingers while Paul wandered at will from
“Ole Dan Tucker,” “Money Musk,” and “Turkey in the Straw” to “The
Moonlight” or a Bach fugue, or, best of all in Molly’s estimation, one
of Paul’s own improvisations. One thing, however, Paul always insisted
upon, and in this he was loyally backed up by “the bunch,” that Molly
must first play one of her pieces, “Silvery Waves,” “Woodland Echoes,”
“Clayton’s Grand March,” or, by special request, “The Maiden’s Prayer.”
Happy evenings these were to them all: to Paul, revelling once more in
the long-lost joy of communing with the great masters of music, and in
renewing memories of his boyhood years; to the boys; and to Pa and Ma
McConnell, keeping time with foot and hand to rollicking reel and jig
which, as nothing else could, brought back with almost painful reality
the good old times in old Ontario or Nova Scotia or in a very humble
cabin on “the dear ould sod beyant the sea”; and to Molly, sitting with
wide blue eyes staring into space, her heart rocked with mingled
emotions whose meaning she could not fathom.
But these nights, as all nights will, passed with the passing summer,
and with the approach of winter new plans had to be made.
One day when the snow began to fly and the cowboys were beginning “to
strike for the bright lights,” there to relieve themselves of their
summer’s pay that burned like molten metal in their pockets, McConnell,
after a long and serious conversation with his shrewd and motherly
spouse, lured his “kid cow-puncher” into his private den, to have “a
little chaw about things.”
“Got any plans for the winter, Paul?” he asked abruptly, after
exhausting such subjects of conversation as were of mutual knowledge to
them.
“Yes,” said Paul, “I’m going to study to be an engineer—going to
Vancouver or some other place where I can get teaching and experience in
an office.”
“Why! you ain’t got no schoolin’. It takes a lot of schoolin’ to be an
engineer, and a lot of money.”
“I know,” said Paul gloomily, “but I know the books, and——”
“‘Know the books’? An’ what d’ ye mean by that?”
“Yes, my—I had three books of my father’s with me up north. I know them
backwards. And I’ve got three hundred dollars about, and that will see
me through this winter. And then I’ll get a start.”
“Say! boy! You never seen a city yet, eh?”
“No,” smiled Paul.
“Don’t know what livin’ in a city means, eh?”
“No, but——”
“Three hundred dollars! An’ your fare to Vancouver to pay, an’ your
clothes to get, an’ you got to go round with the boys—an’—say, don’t do
nothin’ till I talk with Ma.”
“I’m going, Mr. McConnell. I’ll make it go. I must make it go. I must—I
will!”
Never during his seven months’ acquaintance with the young man had
McConnell heard that tone in Paul’s voice or seen that look on his face.
To him Paul had been simply “a nice quiet young feller,” but here was a
man speaking, a man with something of iron in his make-up, with a
flaming passion in his soul.
His report to his “wimmin folk” was quite sufficient to indicate that
his talk with the young man had been somewhat of a revelation to him. He
was humbled to discover that neither of them was in the very least
surprised by what he had to tell them. But then he never had been able
to quite keep up with their mental processes. In the face of some
startling discovery such as the one he had just made he would catch a
look flashing from one to the other, a look of mutual understanding
between themselves and of amused pity for him.
“O’ course he’s a man. And he’ll be a big man too some day,” said Ma
quietly.
“But he’s such a quiet young feller,” protested Pa.
“Quiet?” said Molly, with unexpected vehemence. “Say, Pa, where have you
been keepin’ yourself? You’d oughter seen him tie ‘Squatty’ up in a knot
till he squealed like a pig stuck in a gate. Say! I seen his eyes that
night and I felt like a snake was runnin’ down the spine o’ my back.
Quiet? So’s forked lightning.”
“Well, I never knowed,” said the abashed McConnell humbly, and again
with chastened spirit he detected that glance of superior knowledge and
pity flash from mother to daughter.
“It’s a pity he’s got to go to Vancouver,” said Ma. There was an eager
light in Molly’s eyes as she glanced at her mother. “Why don’t you offer
him a job, Pa? You need a smart man for foreman and time-keeper for them
tie camps of yours next winter. Goodness knows you lose money enough for
want of a bookkeeper.”
“He’s awful smart with books and things,” said Molly.
At the tremor in her voice Pa McConnell gave her a sharp look. Where
Molly was concerned he was keenly alive.
“He’s a nice enough young feller, but too young for a foreman. Might do
for time-keeper and store boss and that sort of thing,” said McConnell,
evidently turning the problem over in his mind. He did need just such a
man. He would save his wages because he would be both careful and
honest. And if he turned out well and made good—well—who knows? There
were possibilities in just such a young fellow. His contracting business
was developing beyond his personal supervision. He needed a partner. The
father looked at his daughter. He was startled at the eager, almost
breathless, anxiety in her face.
“Make him an offer,” suggested Ma. “You won’t be doing much for six
weeks or so. But he can stay round here and keep things goin’. And I was
just thinkin’”—she hesitated ever so little—“he might learn Molly on the
piano some.” The careless indifference in Ma’s tone was slightly
overdone, and she steadily refused to look at either of her listeners.
McConnell was busy lighting his pipe, which was giving him trouble.
Through the smoke he stole a casual glance at Molly while he diligently
puffed away. It gave him a queer twinge of pain and pity to see her face
flame to the colour of her hair and then gradually grow white, as the
girl looked steadily into the glowing face of the kitchen stove. For the
white face was not that of his little girl but of a girl suddenly become
a woman.
“Guess he won’t have much time for music lessons,” he said, covering his
pain with a harsh laugh, “but I might do worse. He’s mighty keen after
the dough. I might try him with sixty dollars and all found.”
“Now, Pa,” said his spouse sharply, “there ain’t no sense in talkin’
them figgers. He _is_ keen on the money, but you know he’s got to keep
them kids up at the school. He told Molly about them. And you ain’t
goin’ to get him for no sixty dollars. Nor for twice that. My land! Tim,
you’re not hiring a cowboy! You’re hiring a foreman and
perhaps—well—offer him one hundred fifty an’ no less, or he won’t look
at you.”
Twenty years’ experience of Ma’s shrewd estimation of values had taught
McConnell the wisdom of pondering her advice, but in spite of this he
could not restrain an exclamation of horror.
“One hundred and fifty! Holy mother o’ Moses, Ma! Have ye fled y’re
sinses? One hundred and fifty!”
“Yes, one hundred and fifty. If you don’t make it two hundred. An’ I
want to tell yez, McConnell,” said Ma, in her excitement reverting to
the rich brogue of her childhood days, “that unless ye have the sinse to
handle a big thing in a big way ye’ll make a fool av y’rsilf and niver
git a hair av him. An’ so ye won’t.”
Pa gazed at his wife in a maze of troubled wonder. What was the meaning
of this outburst? Not once in a year did Ma allow her emotions to reach
full tide as now. He was greatly disturbed himself. Here was something
beyond him which called for careful handling. Pa McConnell temporised.
“Tut! tut! thin, old woman. Wasn’t I just foolin’ wid ye? What’s the
hurry skurry about anyway? If we want him we’ll get him, an’ that’s no
lie. Molly darlin’, pass me a spill. Divil a draw can I get out of this
pipe o’ mine, at all, at all.”
And Ma recognised that for the present the discussion was at an end.
But Paul was making his plans for departure. He had written two letters,
Molly knew, for she had posted them. He had been down to the fort to see
the sergeant, and Molly resolved that she would jog the elbow of fate.
“My! I wish I could play,” she said to Paul as he was allowing his
fingers to carry his fancy whither it would.
“But you can, Molly,” said Paul, his generosity straining his
conscience.
“Huh! ‘Silvery Waves,’ ‘Clayton’s Grand’ and ‘The Maiden’s Prayer!’” The
infinite and bitter contempt in Molly’s voice startled Paul.
“Hello, Molly! Where did you get that?” he asked.
“From you,” said Molly sullenly. “I’ve heard you play.”
“Well, Molly, you are surely coming on. You have learned something you
will never forget.”
“Say, Paul, I wish—I wish—you would learn—teach me to play! Say! Pa’s
goin’ to offer you a job as his foreman. Won’t you take it—an’—an’—learn
me to play?”
There was no egotism in Paul. He had no knowledge of the moods and ways
of girls. But his instincts were true and his intuitions keen. Something
in the girl’s voice and in her big blue eyes made him horribly uneasy.
He was conscious of a quick desire to save her from humiliation.
“This is music, Molly, and simple, too. Listen!” He played with
exquisite finish a Sonatina of Mozart, one of his childhood’s lessons.
“You could learn that easily. See! there’s the motif of the thing, the
main tune, I mean. I’ll write it down for you and teach you.” Without
giving her a chance to renew her request, he went on from one simple
thing to another of the great masters, till the entrance of her mother
gave him a chance to escape.
But Molly was not deceived. “He won’t stay, Ma,” she said, her lips
trembling.
“What? Who?” inquired her mother sharply, with a quick glance at the
girl’s face. “Here, Molly, them milk cans is to wash and your Pa will be
round here in ten minutes raisin’ Cain—an’——”
“He’s goin’, Ma,” persisted Molly, her lips quivering.
“I don’t believe he’s goin’. Pa hasn’t said nothin’ to him yet. You get
on with your work or you’ll ketch it. Your Pa is goin’ to talk to him
today. Come! git a hustle on!” The edge on Ma’s tongue sent Molly about
her work, but only served to confirm the girl in her opinion. She knew
her mother. Wearily she went to the milk cans.
Ma found an opportunity for a brief but pointed word with her husband
before he set off on his trip with the milk for the Fort.
“Offer him big money, Pa. Don’t be mean. It’s not him I’m thinkin’ av,”
she said, helping her husband to load the milk cans.
“Now what the divil are ye afther, Ma?” inquired McConnell, gazing
open-mouthed at his spouse. When the brogue came rich to his wife’s
tongue he knew that things were stirring in her heart.
“Man dear, have ye no eyes at all, at all?” she asked impatiently, with
a glance at her daughter, who was chaffing with Paul at the head of the
team. McConnell’s eyes followed her glance.
“Saints and angels! Is that it?” he said under his breath.
“An’ for the luve av Hiven, Pa, remimber it’s not a foreman y’re
buyin’.”
“Bedad, Ma, it’s mesilf that can see through a stone wall with a hole in
it,” he said with a wink. “Quiet your heart, little woman. The thing
will be done.”
But before the milk cans were safely delivered at the fort Tim McConnell
was not at all so sure that the thing would be done. Indeed, so troubled
in his mind was he and so uncertain that he took his friend the sergeant
into his confidence.
“I went the limit, Sergeant, so I did,” he said, “for I knowed that if I
didn’t Ma would—would—Ma would be terrible disappointed. Offered him two
hundred and fifty dollars a month and found, and what’s more I told him
there was more than money in it.”
“You did, eh?” said the sergeant. “And what did you say was in it?”
“Well now, Sergeant dear,” said McConnell, dropping into his Doric, “you
wouldn’t have me throwin’ things at his head. But I said to him, sez I,
‘If things goes well it’s not a foreman ye’ll be, my boy, an’ when that
comes it’ll not be a question of money betune you an’ I,’ sez I, so I
did.”
“You did, eh?” replied the sergeant. “And what did he say then,
McConnell?”
“He didn’t say nawthin’. But from the look of him——” McConnell stopped
abruptly. “Sergeant, he said he must talk to you. An’ if ye can do
anything—man dear, I just can’t go home to the women wid the news. That
little—they’d take it bad.”
“I’ll do what I can, McConnell, but he’s got something on his mind,
drawing him on.”
The sergeant had a shrewd suspicion of what it was that made it
impossible for Paul to remain at the Three-Bar-Cross Ranch. He also knew
that no hint of this would he ever get from the young man himself. This,
however, gave him but the slightest concern.
“She’ll get over the thing,” he said to himself as he watched McConnell
drive off down the trail. “They all must have a go at it, the little
dears. But there is something eating into that boy’s soul. I only hope
he will give me a chance to help him out.”
The sergeant would get his chance that evening, for Paul was to spend
the night at the sergeant’s quarters, but he knew well there were
certain reserves beyond which men, some men at least, could not pass
with each other. If Paul chose to confide in him, well and good, but he
wasn’t a chap whose affairs you could pry into.
But Paul was quite open with the sergeant. He was in need of advice. His
life had been so remote from the world and its affairs, and now he was
face to face with big problems and he knew that in the sergeant he had
found a friend. He was glad when the sergeant said to him after dinner,
“And what about you, Paul?”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I’d like to ask you some things.”
“Fire ahead, old boy. You know you can ask anything you like.”
“First about that—about Sleeman. How do I stand with him. My father’s
wife burnt his house down. Don’t I owe him for that?”
“Not in law you don’t. The brute deserved it.”
“Man to man, Sergeant, as my father’s son, what should I do? What would
a man, a man of his class do?”
“Man to man, Paul, your father would consider it a debt.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Now, another thing. Do you happen to know anything
about my father’s affairs, with Sleeman, I mean? I know that your police
go into things pretty thoroughly. I have been thinking a lot.”
“You have, Paul. Well, we found out some things, not all we would like
but enough to make it worth while for you to go a little deeper, a good
deal deeper. Colonel Pelham knows a good deal. He unfortunately is in
England just now with his family.”
“Oh!” Dismay and disappointment were in the exclamation. “Then I shall
see Sleeman.” There was a long silence while the men smoked. They were
both looking down the trail that Paul was proposing to follow. Then the
sergeant spoke.
“Paul, you will have to be careful just at this point. No, wait till I
finish. Let me show you what I see from my point of view, as a member of
the force, I mean. If men could get things from that point of view they
wouldn’t so often make a mess of their lives. You are going to see
Sleeman. You must see him. I wish I could be with you, but that won’t do
either. But now listen!” The sergeant leaned over to Paul, put his hand
on his knee and said with slow emphasis, “You must not do anything to
him that you would not do if I were there.”
The boy’s face became very grave and quiet.
“There will be Another there.”
“Another? Who?” asked the sergeant.
“God,” said Paul simply. “I’ve always felt like that.”
The sergeant was a man not easily dashed, but this time he was plainly
dumbfounded.
“What I mean is He won’t let me kill him, as I wanted to do once,”
continued Paul. “You see, I have thought a lot about this.” A sudden
passion shook his voice. “Sergeant, these six years I’ve thought of
nothing else. I thought she had killed him. I was sorry it was not I.
Then you told me he was alive and I was glad—oh, wild! But as you know,
I promised her—and besides I have been thinking it all over again this
summer—every day, every night.” His voice was now quiet, almost cold. “I
know now I won’t kill him. I won’t be allowed. I may hurt him, may have
to, but I won’t do anything—I mean, that I shouldn’t do, that you
wouldn’t have me do. No, I won’t, I won’t be allowed.”
The sergeant swore softly and said, “Say, boy, I didn’t think you were
that sort.”
“What sort?”
“Why, religious, you know.”
“I am not religious. But ever since I was a little chap I have always
felt somehow that God is near me. Don’t you think so, Sergeant?”
The sergeant, who was one of the most regular and faithful attendants at
Church Parade and most devout in his religious exercises, found himself
hard put to it by the sudden demand for a confession of his faith.
“Eh? What? Why, of course—why, dash it all, boy, I’m not a blasted
atheist.”
“I beg your pardon, Sergeant. I knew, of course. But what I mean is, you
needn’t worry about me when I see Sleeman. He ought to be killed, but I
have got over the notion that it is my particular job to kill him.”
“Righto!” said the sergeant heartily. “And the same, you never know.
Sleeman is a proper brute. He has injured you terribly, cheated your
father too if I’m not mistaken. You never know what he may say or do.
Might insult you, say something about your—your people, you know.”
“I have thought of that. But I must see him. I must get a statement of
his dealings with my father, you see.”
“Will you get that?”
“Oh, yes,” said Paul with quiet assurance.
“How?”
“Oh, I know how. You see, I have made Indians talk before now.”
Something in the boy’s tone made the sergeant’s flesh creep.
“Gad! boy, remember you are not among savages any longer!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, but he must tell me, you see,” said Paul in a matter-of-fact tone.
“He ought to tell me. And so I will make him. I think he will tell me.”
“Good Lord! I believe he will,” said the sergeant. “But for Heaven’s
sake go easy.”
But Paul refused to make any disclosures as to his methods. The sergeant
hastily changed the subject.
“Then what, after Sleeman?”
“Going to study in Vancouver. I will have three hundred dollars. I can
get some work to do, can’t I? McConnell thinks I can’t do it. He wants
me to stay with him. They have been awfully good to me, but I can’t
stay. I must get away. I’m going to be an engineer and do big
things—build railways and bridges, like Daddy, you know.” He paused,
looking doubtfully at his friend. But the sergeant only nodded
encouragingly.
“Sure! fine thing!” he exclaimed as Paul waited.
At his words the young man caught fire. He had expected criticisms,
objections. The sergeant’s approval released the dreams of years. All
the hopes, desires, ambitions, that for the past six years he had
cherished, buried and revived again, he now poured forth into the
sergeant’s sympathetic ear.
“You’ll do, my boy! You will make it go! By Jove, you will!” cried his
friend, when Paul, somewhat shamefacedly and apologetically ceased his
outpourings. “And remember, whenever you strike a stiff grade you have
one man to back you with all he has.”
The sergeant had not forgotten his promise to McConnell, but as he
thought of it he knew at once how impossible it was of fulfilment. The
boy saw his way clearly. Nothing that McConnell could offer could avail
to turn him from that way. What lay in it of peril or of pain, who could
say, but press the path he would at all costs and at all hazards.
Thus it came that on a morning in that most glorious season of the
Canadian year, the Indian summer, Paul set forth on his great adventure.
It had been decided in family conclave that he would make the journey
more cheaply, an important consideration for him, by horseback than by
train, and more especially that the warm-hearted Irishman had insisted
that he should take with him the cow-pony on which he had ridden the
range for the past six months.
“It would be a shame to part yez,” he declared, “an’ next summer, please
God, you can ride him back where there’ll be a job waitin’ ye, so there
will.”
Long and vigorously Paul protested, but in vain.
“Tush!” said Ma McConnell to Paul in an aside, brushing away his
protests. “Why not let the poor man pleasure himself in givin’ the beast
till ye? An’ what’s a pony or less to McConnell?”
So provisioned and furnished till his dunnage bag and saddle bags were
like to burst with their gifts, Paul stood ready to take his departure.
They all made light of the leaving. In a few months he would be back
again, and besides, as Ma McConnell declared, what was to hinder them
taking a bit of a jaunt to the city themselves during the winter?
Indeed, they had long planned such a trip, and as for Molly, Pa was just
sayin’ how she ought to get a chance at her schoolin’ and her music for
a bit. So he might be on the lookout for them any day.
“Molly, where are ye thin? Och, the poor child! Ye’ll jist excuse her.
It’s broken hearted she is at the leavin’.”
“Say good-bye to her for me,” said Paul. “And good-bye, Mrs. McConnell.
You have been awfully good to me. I shall never forget you.”
“Hoosh! ye boy!” commanded Ma. “Will ye be afther breakin’ the heart of
me? Be off wid ye.” But she held him tight in her arms, refusing to let
him go for some moments, kissing him on both cheeks and praying the
saints to keep him, while Pa jeered at her.
“Howly Mary! Will ye consider that now! Right forninst the eyes of me!
Did ye iver behold the likes o’ that now? Well thin, me bye, good-bye
till ye. An’ if ye iver find yourself in a tight place call on Tim
McConnell an’ he’ll be at y’re back till y’re breast bone shows
through.”
At the turn of the trail Paul swung round his broncho and waved again
his farewell.
“Good-bye, all!” he cried. “And be sure to say good-bye to Molly.”
A mile from the ranch door the trail dipped down into a coulee and wound
through a thick bluff of mingling poplar and birch. With head fallen on
his breast and with his sight dim with unshed tears, Paul allowed his
pony to slowly take his way through the golden maze of trees. He was
leaving behind him the spot in all the big world that he could most
truly call home. He did not see behind a thicket of spruce a girl lying
prone, peering through the branches with burning eyes till the last
sight of him had vanished and there remaining long after the sound of
his horse’s hoofs had died away, her white face pressed hard upon the
soft brown moss.