GEORGE FACES DISASTER
A fortnight had passed since the affair at the settlement when Hardie
arrived at the Marston homestead toward supper-time. After the meal
was over, he accompanied his host and Edgar to the little room used for
an office.
"As I've been busy since four this morning, I don't mean to do anything
more," said George, "I suppose you don't smoke?"
"No," Hardie answered. "It's a concession I can make without much
effort to our stricter brethren. I'm inclined to believe they consider
smoking almost as bad as drink. You agree with them about the latter?"
"We try to be consistent," Edgar told him. "You see, I couldn't very
well indulge in an occasional drink when I've undertaken to make those
Sage Butte fellows abstainers. Anyhow, though you're by no means
liberal in your view, you're practical people. As soon as I landed at
Montreal, a pleasant young man, wearing a silver monogram came up to
me, and offered me introductions to people who might find me a job.
Though I didn't want one, I was grateful; and when I told him I wasn't
one of his flock, he said it didn't matter. That kind of thing makes a
good impression."
"How are you getting on at the settlement?"
George interposed.
Hardie sat silent for a few moments, and George saw that his eyes were
anxious and his face looked worn.
"Badly," he said. "I feel I can talk to you freely, and that's really
why I came, though I had another call to make."
"You're having trouble?"
"Plenty of it. I've had another visit from the police, though that's
not a very important matter; and Mrs. Nelson's action has raised a
storm of indignation. It would be useless to move any further against
the Sachem. Even this is not the worst. Our people are split up by
disagreements; I've been taken to task; my staunchest supporters are
falling away."
"They'll rally," said George. "Leave those who haven't the courage to
do so alone; you're better rid of them. I suppose it's apt to make a
difference in your finances."
The clergyman colored.
"That's true, though it's hard to own. It subjects one to a strong
temptation. After all, we're expected to keep our churches full--it's
necessary."
"The road to success," Edgar remarked, "is comparatively easy. Always
proclaim the popular view, but be a little more emphatic and go a
little farther than the rest. Then they'll think you a genius and make
haste to follow your lead."
Hardie looked at him quietly.
"There's another way, Mr. West, and the gate of it is narrow. I think
it seldom leads to worldly fame." He paused and sighed. "It needs
courage to enter, and one often shrinks."
"Well," said Edgar, "I'll confess that I find the popular idea,
whatever it may happen to be, irritating; I like to annoy the people
who hold it by pointing out their foolishness, which is partly why I'm
now farming in western Canada. George, of course, is more altruistic;
though I don't think he ever analyzes his feelings. As soon as he sees
anybody in trouble and getting beaten, he begins to strip. I've a
suspicion that he enjoys a fight!"
"If you would stop talking rot, we'd get on better," George said
curtly, and then turned to his visitor. "I gather that you're afraid
of wrecking your church. It's an awkward situation, but I suppose you
have made up your mind?"
"Yes; I must go on, if I go alone."
The man, as the others recognized, had no intention of being dramatic,
but his quiet announcement had its effect, and there was silence for a
moment or two. Then Edgar, who was impatient of any display of strong
feeling, made an abrupt movement.
"After all," he said cheerfully, "you'll have Mrs. Nelson beside you,
and I'm inclined to think she would enliven any solitude."
Hardie smiled, and the lad continued:
"Now we had, perhaps, better be practical and consider how to get over
the difficulties."
He grew less discursive when they fell in with his suggestion. George
possessed sound sense and some power of leading, and for a while they
were busy elaborating a plan of campaign, in which his advice was
largely deferred to. Then there was an interruption, for Grierson, his
hired man, came in.
"I was hauling hay from the big sloo when I saw the Hereford bull," he
said. "He was by himself and bleeding from the shoulder. Thought I'd
better bring him home, though he walked very lame."
"Ah!" exclaimed George sharply. "I'll come and look at him."
The others followed and on reaching the wire-fenced corral they found
the animal lying down, with its forequarter stained with blood. George
sent for some water, and he soon found the wound, which was very small
and round.
"It's a curious mark," Hardie commented.
"Yes," said George; "it's a bullet hole."
The surprise of the others was obvious.
"I think it's a hint," George explained. "We'll try to get him on his
feet."
They succeeded, and when the beast had been led into a stall, George
turned to Hardie.
"As you said you wouldn't stay the night, would you mind starting for
the settlement now? The livery stable fellow is said to be clever at
veterinary work; you might send him out, and mail a note I'll give you
to the police."
Hardie professed his willingness to be of service, and on getting into
his buggy said, with some hesitation:
"I'm afraid you're right in your suspicions, and I'm particularly
sorry. In a way, I'm responsible for this."
George smiled, rather grimly.
"One can't go into a fight without getting hurt; and we haven't come to
the end of it yet. This affair won't cost you my support."
The clergyman's eyes sparkled as he held out his hand.
"I never imagined it--you have my sympathy, Mr. Lansing. It would give
me the greatest pleasure to see the cowardly brute who fired that shot
brought to justice."
He drove away, and George went moodily back to the house with Edgar.
"That's a man who has had to choose between his duty and his interest,"
George said; "but just now we have other things to think about. It's a
pity I can't get the bullet out until help arrives."
The livery man turned up on the following day and succeeded in
extracting it; and Flett made his appearance the morning after. He
examined the wounded animal.
"It may have been done by accident; but, if so, it's curious the beast
should have been hit close to a place where it would have killed him,"
he remarked.
"What's your private opinion?" George asked.
The constable smiled.
"As we haven't gone very far yet, I'll reserve it." He took up the
bullet. "Winchester or Marlin; usual caliber; nothing to be made of
that. Now let's go and take a look at the place where the shot was
fired."
They traced back the path of the wounded beast from the spot where
Grierson had found it, by the red splashes that here and there stained
the short grass of the unfenced prairie. At last they stopped where
the ground was broken by a few low sandy ridges sprinkled with small
birches and poplars, and Flett pointed to the mark of hoofs in a strip
of almost bare, light soil.
"This is where he was hit," he said. "You can see how he started off,
going as hard as he could. Next, we've got to find the spot the man
fired from."
It proved difficult. The dry grass revealed nothing, and they vainly
searched several of the neighboring hillocks, where it grew less
thickly. Scorching sunshine beat down on them and a strong breeze blew
the sand about. At length Flett pointed to a few half-obliterated
footprints on the bare summit of a small rise.
"The fellow stopped here with his feet well apart. He'd stand like
that while he put up his gun. Sit down and smoke while I copy these
marks."
He proceeded to do so carefully, having brought some paper from the
homestead.
"Have you any reason for thinking it was a standing shot he took?"
George asked.
"I haven't; I wish I had. Quite a lot depends upon his position."
George nodded.
"So it struck me. We'll look round for some more conclusive signs when
you have finished."
Before this happened. Flora Grant rode up.
"I was going back from Forster's when I noticed you moving about the
hills," she explained. "I made this round to find out what you were
doing."
George told her, and her sympathy was obvious.
"I'm very sorry; but my father warned you," she said. "I'm afraid
you're finding this an expensive campaign."
"I can put up with it, so long as I have my friends' support."
"I think you can count on that," she smiled. "But what is Flett's
theory?"
"If he has one, he's clever at hiding it," Edgar broke in; "but I'm
doubtful. In my opinion, he knows the value of the professional air of
mystery."
"When I see any use in it, I can talk," retorted Flett. "What's your
notion, Mr. Lansing? You don't agree that the fellow shot your beast
from here?"
"No," answered George. "Of course, there are only two explanations of
the thing, and the first is that it was an accident. In that case, the
fellow must have been out after antelope or cranes."
"There's an objection: it's close season; though I wouldn't count too
much on that. You farmers aren't particular when there's nobody
around. Now, it's possible that a man who'd been creeping up on an
antelope would work in behind this rise and take a quick shot,
standing, when he reached the top of it. If so, I guess he'd have his
eyes only on what he was firing at. Suppose he missed, and your beast
happened to be in line with him?"
Flora smiled.
"It's not convincing, Mr. Flett. Seen from here, the bull would be in
the open, conspicuous against white grass and sand."
"I didn't say the thing was likely. Won't you go on, Mr. Lansing?"
"The other explanation is that the fellow meant to kill or mark the
bull; the place where it was hit points to the former. If that was his
intention, he'd lie down or kneel to get a steadier aim. We had better
look for the spot."
They spent some time before Flett thought he had found it.
"Somebody lay down here, and the bull would be up against a background
of poplar scrub," he said. "I'll measure off the distance and make a
plan."
He counted his paces, and had set to work with his notebook, when Flora
interrupted.
"Wouldn't a sketch be better? Give me a sheet of paper; and has
anybody another pencil?"
George gave her one, and after walking up and down and standing for a
few moments on a low mound, she chose a position and began the sketch.
It was soon finished, but it depicted the scene with distinctness, with
the bull standing in the open a little to one side of the clump of
scrub. George started as he saw that she had roughly indicated the
figure of a man lying upon the little mound with a rifle in his hand.
It struck him that she was right.
"It's a picture," said the constable; "but why did you put that fellow
yonder?"
"Come and see."
They followed her to the mound, and after an inspection of it, Flett
nodded.
"You'd make a mighty smart tracker, Miss Grant. I was against this
mound being the firing place, because, to get to it, the fellow would
have to come out into the open."
"Would that count? It was a bull he was after."
"It was," Flett agreed. "This fixes the thing."
George looked at him meaningly.
"Have you made up your mind about anything else?"
"Oh, yes," said Flett. "It was done with malicious mischief. If a
poor white or an Indian meant to kill a beast for meat, he wouldn't
pick a bull worth a pile of money, at least while there was common beef
stock about."
"Then what do you mean to do?"
Flett smiled.
"Sooner or later, I'm going to put handcuffs on the man who did this
thing. If you'll give me the sketch, Miss Grant, I'll take it along."
Flora handed it to him, and he and Edgar went away shortly afterward,
leaving George with the girl. She sat still, looking down at him when
he had helped her to the saddle.
"I'm afraid you have a good many difficulties to face," she said.
"Yes," assented George. "A dry summer is bad for wheat on my light
soil, and that is why I thought of going in for stock." He paused with
a rueful smile. "It doesn't promise to be a great improvement, if I'm
to have my best beasts shot."
She pointed to the west. The grass about them was still scorched with
fierce sunshine, but leaden cloud-masses, darkly rolled together with a
curious bluish gleam in them, covered part of the sky.
"This time it will rain," she said. "We will be fortunate if we get no
more than that. Try to remember, Mr. Lansing, that bad seasons are not
the rule in western Canada, and one good one wipes out the results of
several lean years."
Then she rode away, and George joined Edgar. He felt that he had been
given a warning. On reaching home, he harnessed a team and drove off
to a sloo to haul in hay, but while he worked he cast anxious glances
at the clouds. They rolled on above him in an endless procession,
opening out to emit a passing blaze of sunshine, and closing in again.
The horses were restless, he could hardly get them to stand; the
grasses stirred and rustled in a curious manner; and even the little
gophers that scurried away from the wagon wheels displayed an unusual
and feverish activity. Yet there was not a drop of rain, and the man
toiled on in savage impatience, wondering whether he must once more
resign himself to see the promised deluge pass away.
It was a question of serious import. A night's heavy rain would
consolidate the soil that blew about with every breeze, revive the
suffering wheat and strengthen its abraded stalks against any further
attack by the driving sand. Indeed, he thought it would place the crop
in security.
He came home for supper, jaded, dusty, and morose, and found that he
could scarcely eat when he sat down to the meal. He could not rest
when it was over, though he was aching from heavy toil; nor could he
fix his attention on any new task; and when dusk was getting near he
strolled up and down before the homestead with Edgar. There was a
change in the looks of the buildings--all that could be done had been
effected--but there was also a change in the man. He was leaner, his
face was getting thin, and he looked worn; but he maintained a forced
tranquillity.
The sky was barred with cloud now; the great breadth of grain had faded
to a leaden hue, the prairie to shadowy gray. The wind had dropped,
the air was tense and still; a strange, impressive silence brooded over
everything.
Presently Edgar looked up at the clouds.
"They must break at last," he said. "One can't help thinking of what
they hold--endless carloads of grain, wads of dollar bills for the
storekeepers, prosperity for three big provinces. It's much the same
weather right along to the Rockies."
"I wasn't considering the three provinces," said George.
"No," retorted Edgar. "Your attention was confined to the improvement
the rain would make in Sylvia Marston's affairs. You're looking
forward to sending her a big check after harvest."
"So far, it has looked more like facing a big deficit."
"You mean your facing it."
George frowned.
"Sylvia has nothing except this land."
"It strikes me she's pretty fortunate, in one way. You find the
working capital and bear the loss, if there is one. I wonder what
arrangements you made about dividing a surplus."
"That," said George, "is a thing I've no intention of discussing with
anybody but my co-trustee."
Edgar smiled; he had hardly expected to elicit much information upon
the point, having failed to do so once or twice already.
"Well," he said, "I believe we'll see the rain before an hour has
passed."
Soon after he had spoken, a flash leaped from overhead and the prairie
was flooded with dazzling radiance. It was followed by a roll of
thunder, and a roar as the rain came down. For a few moments the dust
whirled up and there was a strong smell of earth; then the air was
filled with falling water. George stood still in the deluge,
rejoicing, while the great drops lashed his upturned face, until Edgar
laughingly pushed him toward the house.
"As I'm wet through, I think I'll go to bed. At last, you can rest
content."
George, following his example, lay down with a deep sense of
thankfulness. His cares had gone, the flood that roared against the
board walls had banished them. Now that relief had come, he felt
strangely weary, and in a few minutes he was sound asleep. He did not
hear the thunder, which broke out again, nor feel the house shake in
the rush of icy wind that suddenly followed; the ominous rattle on roof
and walls, different from and sharper than the lashing of the rain,
began and died away unnoticed by him. He was wrapped in the deep,
healing slumber that follows the slackening of severe mental and bodily
strain; he knew nothing of the banks of ragged ice-lumps that lay
melting to lee of the building.
It was very cold the next morning, though the sun was rising above the
edge of the scourged plain, when Edgar, partly dressed and wearing wet
boots and leggings, came into the room and looked down at George
compassionately.
The brown face struck him as looking worn; George had flung off part of
the coverings, and there was something that suggested limp relaxation
in his attitude; but Edgar knew that his comrade must bear his load
again.
"George," he said, touching him, "you had better get up."
The man stirred, and looking at him became at once intent as he saw his
face.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Something else gone wrong?"
Edgar nodded.
"I'm sorry," he answered simply. "Put on your things and come out.
You had better get it over with."
In three or four minutes George left the house. Holding himself
steadily in hand, he walked through the drenched grass toward the
wheat. On reaching it, he set his lips tight and stood very still.
The great field of grain had gone; short, severed stalks, half-buried
in a mass of rent and torn-up blades, covered the wide stretch of soil
where the wheat had been. The crop had been utterly wiped out by the
merciless hail. Edgar did not venture to speak; any sympathy he could
express would have looked like mockery; and for a while there was
strained silence. Then George showed of what tough fiber he was made.
"Well," he said, "it has to be faced. After this, we'll try another
plan; more stock, for one thing." He paused and then resumed: "Tell
Grierson to hurry breakfast. I must drive in to the Butte; there's a
good deal to be done."
Edgar moved away, feeling relieved. George, instead of despairing, was
considering new measures. He was far from beaten yet.