A SIGN FROM FLETT
Summer drew on with swift strides. Crimson flowers flecked the prairie
grass, the wild barley waved its bristling ears along the trails,
saskatoons glowed red in the shadows of each bluff. Day by day
swift-moving clouds cast flitting shadows across the sun-scorched
plain, but though they shed no moisture the wheat stood nearly
waist-high upon the Marston farm. The sand that whirled about it did
the strong stalks no harm.
Earlier in the season there had been drenching thunder showers, and
beyond the grain the flax spread in sheets of delicate blue that broke
off on the verge of the brown-headed timothy. Still farther back lay
the green of alsike and alfalfa, for the band of red and white cattle
that roamed about the bluffs; but while the fodder crop was bountiful
George had decided to supplement it with the natural prairie hay.
There was no pause in his exertions; task followed task in swift
succession. Rising in the sharp cold of the dawn, he toiled
assiduously until the sunset splendors died out in paling green and
crimson on the far rim of the plain.
The early summer was marked by signs of approaching change in Sage
Butte affairs. There were still a few disturbances and Hardie had
troubles to face, but he and his supporters noticed that the
indifference with which they had been regarded was giving place to
sympathy. When Grant first visited the settlement after his
misadventure, he was received with expressions of indignant
commiseration, and he afterward told Flora dryly that he was astonished
at the number of his friends. Mrs. Nelson and a few of the stalwarts
pressed Hardie to make new and more vigorous efforts toward the
expulsion of the offenders, but the clergyman refrained. Things were
going as he wished; it was scarcely wise to expose such a tender thing
as half-formed opinion to a severe test, and the failure that might
follow a premature attempt could hardly be recovered from. It seemed
better to wait until Grant's assailants should be arrested, and the
story of their doings elicited in court, to rouse general indignation,
and he thought this would happen. Flett had disappeared some weeks ago
and nothing had been heard of him, but Hardie believed his chiefs had
sent him out on the robbers' trail. The constable combined sound sense
with dogged pertinacity, and these were serviceable qualities.
It was a hot afternoon when George brought home his last load of wild
sloo hay, walking beside his team, while Flora curbed her reckless
horse a few yards off. She had ridden over with her father, and
finding that George had not returned, had gone on to prevent a hired
man from being sent for him. They had met each other frequently of
late, and George was sensible of an increasing pleasure in the girl's
society; though what Flora felt did not appear. Behind them the
jolting wagon strained beneath its high-piled load that diffused an
odor of peppermint; in front the shadow of a bluff lay cool upon the
sun-scorched prairie.
"I suppose you heard that Baxter lost a steer last week," she said.
"Most likely, it was killed; but, though the police searched the
reservation, there was no trace of the hide. We have had a little
quietness, but I'm not convinced that our troubles won't break out
again. Nobody seems to have heard anything of Flett."
"He's no doubt busy somewhere."
"I'm inclined to believe so, and, in a way, his silence is reassuring.
Flett can work without making a disturbance, and that is in his favor.
But what has become of Mr. West? We haven't seen much of him of late."
"He has fallen into a habit of riding over to the settlement in his
spare time, which isn't plentiful."
"Ah!" exclaimed Flora; "that agrees with some suspicions of mine.
Don't you feel a certain amount of responsibility?"
"I do," George admitted. "Still, he's rather head-strong, and he
hasn't told me why he goes to the Butte; though the girl's father gave
me a hint. I like Taunton--he's perfectly straightforward--and I'd
almost made up my mind to ask your opinion about the matter, but I was
diffident."
"I'll give it to you without reserve--there's no ground for uneasiness
on West's account; he might fall into much worse hands. If Helen
Taunton has any influence over him, it will be wisely used. Besides,
she has been well educated; she spent a few years in Montreal."
"She has a nice face; in fact, she's decidedly pretty."
"And that would cover a multitude of shortcomings?"
"Well," said George, thoughtfully, "mere physical beauty is something
to be thankful for; though I'm not sure that beauty can be, so to
speak, altogether physical. When I said the girl had a nice face, I
meant that its expression suggested a wholesome character."
"You seem to have been cultivating your powers of observation," Flora
told him. "But I'm more disposed to consider the matter from Helen's
point of view. As it happens, she's a friend of mine and I've reasons
for believing that your partner's readily susceptible and inclined to
be fickle. Of course, I'm not jealous."
George laughed.
"He's too venturesome now and then, but he has been a little spoiled.
I've an idea that this affair is likely to be permanent. He has shown
a keen interest in the price of land and the finances of farming, which
struck me as having its meaning."
They had now nearly reached the bluff and a horseman in khaki uniform
rode out of it to meet them.
"I've been over to your place," he said to George, when he had
dismounted. "I was sent to show you a photograph and ask if you can
recognize anybody in it?"
He untied a packet and George studied the picture handed him. It
showed the rutted main street of a little western town, with the
sunlight on a row of wooden buildings. In the distance a band of
cattle were being driven forward by two mounted men; nearer at hand a
few wagons stood outside a livery stable; and in the foreground three
or four figures occupied the veranda of a frame hotel. The ease of
their attitudes suggested that they did not know they were being
photographed, and their faces were distinct. George looked
triumphantly excited and unhesitatingly laid a finger on one face.
"This is the man that drove off Mr. Grant's Percheron and stabbed my
horse."
The trooper produced a thin piece of card and a small reading-glass.
"Take another look through this; it came along with the photograph.
Now, would you be willing to swear to him?"
"I'll be glad to do so, if I have the chance. Shall I put a mark
against the fellow?"
"Not on that!" The trooper handed George the card, which proved to be
a carefully drawn key-plan of the photograph, with the figures
outlined. "You can mark this one."
George did as he was told, and then handed the photograph to Flora.
"How did your people get it?" he asked the trooper.
"I can't say; they don't go into explanations."
"But what do you think? Did Flett take the photograph?"
"No, sir; I heard him tell the sergeant he knew nothing about a camera.
He may have got somebody to take it or may have bought the thing."
"Do you know where he is?"
"I only know he got special orders after Mr. Grant was robbed. It's my
idea he was somewhere around when the photograph was taken."
"I wonder where it was taken? In Alberta, perhaps, though I'm inclined
to think it was on the other side of the frontier."
"That is my opinion," said Flora. "There's not a great difference
between us and our neighbors, but the dress of the mounted men and the
style of the stores are somehow American. I'd say Montana, or perhaps
Dakota."
"Montana," said the trooper. "The big bunch of cattle seems to fix it."
"Then you think Flett is over there?" asked George. "I'm interested,
so is Miss Grant, and you needn't be afraid of either of us spreading
what you say."
"It's my notion that Flett has spotted his men, but I guess he's now
watching out near the boundary in Canada. These rustler fellows can't
do all their business on one side; they'll have to cross now and then.
Flett's in touch with some of the American sheriffs, who'll give him
the tip, and the first time the fellows slip over the frontier he'll
get them. That would suit everybody better and save a blamed lot of
formalities."
Flora nodded.
"It strikes me as very likely; and Flett's perhaps the best man you
could have sent. But have you shown the photograph to my father?"
"I did that before I left the homestead. There's nobody in the picture
like the fellow who drove with Mr. Grant, and he tells me he saw nobody
else. Now I must be getting on."
He rode away, and Flora reverted to the topic she and George had been
discussing.
"So you believe Mr. West is thinking of living here altogether! I
suppose he would be able to take a farm of moderate size?"
"It wouldn't be very large; he can't have much money, but his people
would help him to make a start if they were satisfied. That means they
would consult me."
Flora smiled.
"And you feel you would be in a difficult position, if you were asked
whether it would be wise to let him marry a prairie girl? Have you
formed any decision about the matter?"
She spoke in an indifferent tone, but George imagined that she was
interested.
"I can't see why he shouldn't do so."
"Think a little. West has been what you call well brought up, he's
fastidious, and I haven't found English people free from social
prejudices. Could you, as his friend, contemplate his marrying the
daughter of a storekeeper in a rather primitive western town? Taunton,
of course, is not a polished man."
"I don't think that counts; he's a very good type in spite of it. The
girl's pretty, she has excellent manners, and she strikes me as having
sense--and in some respects Edgar has very little. I'll admit that at
one time I might not have approved of the idea, but I believe I've got
rid of one or two foolish opinions that I brought out with me. If Miss
Taunton is what she appears to be, he's lucky in getting her. Don't
you think so?"
He had spoken with a little warmth, though, as Flora knew, he was
seldom emphatic; and a rather curious expression crept into her face.
He did not quite understand it, but he thought she was pleased for some
reason or other!
"Oh," she said lightly, "I have told you my opinion."
Nothing further was said about the subject, but George walked beside
his team in a state of calm content. His companion was unusually
gracious; she made a picture that was pleasant to watch as she sat,
finely poised, on the big horse, with the strong sunlight on her face.
Her voice was attractive, too; it reached him, clear and musical,
through the thud of hoofs and the creak of slowly-turning wheels, for
he made no attempt to hurry his team.
When they reached the homestead, the conversation centered on the
constable's visit; and when the Grants left, Edgar stood outside with
George, watching the slender mounted figure grow smaller beside the
jolting buggy.
"George," he said, "I've met very few girls who could compare with
Flora Grant, taking her all round."
"That's correct," George told him. "As a matter of fact, I'm doubtful
whether you have met any who would bear the comparison. It was the
sillier ones who made a fuss over you."
"I know of one," Edgar resumed. "As it happens, she's in Canada."
"I'd a suspicion of something of the kind," George said dryly.
Edgar made no answer, but presently he changed the subject.
"What's the least one could take up a farm here with, and have a fair
chance of success?"
"One understands it has been done with practically nothing on preempted
land, though I'm rather dubious. In your case, I'd fix five thousand
dollars as the minimum; more would be decidedly better."
"Yes," said Edgar thoughtfully; "that's about my idea; and I suppose it
could be raised, though my share of what was left us has nearly all
been spent in cramming me with knowledge I've no great use for.
Stephen, however, has done pretty well, and I think he always realized
that it would be his privilege to give me a lift; I've no doubt he'll
write to you as soon as I mention the matter, and your answer will have
its effect." He looked at George with anxious eyes. "I venture to
think you'll strain a point to say what you can in my favor?"
"In the first place, I'll ride over to the Butte and have supper with
Taunton, as soon as I can find the time."
"Thanks," responded Edgar gratefully; "you won't have any doubts after
that." Then he broke into laughter. "You'll excuse me, but it's
really funny, George."
"I don't see the joke," George said shortly.
Edgar tried to look serious, and failed.
"I can imagine your trying to weigh up Helen; starting a subtle
conversation to elucidate her character, and showing what you were
after and your profound ignorance with every word; though you mustn't
suppose I'd be afraid of submitting her to the severest test. Why, you
wouldn't even know when a girl was in love with you, unless she told
you so. Perhaps it's some excuse that your mind's fixed on one woman
to the exclusion of all the rest, though one could imagine that, as you
think of her, she's as unreal and as far removed from anything made of
flesh and blood as a saint in a picture. After all, I dare say it's a
very proper feeling."
George left him, half amused and half disturbed. He did not resent
Edgar's freedom of speech, but the latter had a way of mixing hints
that were not altogether foolish with his badinage, and his comrade was
inclined to wonder what he had meant by one suggestive remark. It
troubled him as he strolled along the edge of the tall green wheat, but
he comforted himself with the thought that, after all, Edgar's
conversation was often unworthy of serious consideration.
A week later George rode over to the store at the settlement, feeling a
little diffident, because he had undertaken the visit only from a sense
of duty. He was cordially received, and was presently taken in to
supper, which was served in a pretty room and presided over by a very
attractive girl. She had a pleasant voice and a quiet face; though he
thought she must have guessed his errand, she treated him with a
composure that set him at his ease. Indeed, she was by no means the
kind of girl he had expected Edgar to choose; but this was in her
favor. George could find no fault in her.
Shortly after the meal was finished his host was called away, and the
girl looked up at George with a flush of color creeping, most
becomingly, into her face.
"Edgar told me I needn't be afraid of you," she said.
George smiled.
"I can understand his confidence, though it had a better foundation
than my good-nature. I wonder whether I might venture to say that he
has shown remarkably good sense?"
"I'm glad you don't think he has been very foolish," replied the girl,
and it was obvious to George that she understood the situation.
He made her a little grave bow.
"What I've said, I'm ready to stick to. I'm a friend of Edgar's, and
that carried an obligation."
"Yes," she assented, "but it was because you are a friend of his and,
in a way, represent his people in England, that I was a little uneasy."
Her speech implied a good deal and George admired her candor.
"Well," he said, "so far as I am concerned, you must never feel
anything of the kind again. But I think you should have known it was
quite unnecessary."
She gave him a grateful glance and soon afterward her father came in.
"Guess we'll take a smoke in the back office," he said to George.
George followed him, and thought he understood why he was led into the
little untidy room strewn with packets of goods, though his host had a
fine commodious house. Taunton would not attempt to dissociate himself
from his profession; he meant to be taken for what he was, but he knew
his value. He was a gaunt, elderly man: as far as his general
appearance went, a typical inhabitant of a remote and half-developed
western town, though there was a hint of authority in his face. Giving
George an excellent cigar, he pointed to a chair.
"Now," he began, "we must have a talk. When your partner first came
hanging round my store, buying things he didn't want, I was kind of
short with him. Helen helps me now and then with the books, and he
seemed to know when she came in."
"I noticed he came home in a rather bad temper once or twice," George
said with a laugh. "I used to wonder, when he produced sardine cans at
supper, but after a while I began to understand."
"Well," continued Taunton, "I didn't intend to have any blamed Percy
trying to turn my girl's head, until I knew what he meant. I'd nobody
to talk it over with--I lost her mother long ago--so I kind of froze
him out, until one day he came dawdling in and asked if he might take
Helen to Jim Haxton's dance.
"'Does she know you have come to me about it?' I said.
"'Can't say,' he told me coolly, with a cigarette hanging out of his
mouth. 'I haven't mentioned the matter yet; I thought I'd ask you
first.'
"'S'pose I object?' I said.
"'Then,' he allowed quite tranquil, 'the thing will have to be
considered. There's not the slightest reason why you should object.'
"I'd a notion I could agree with him--I liked the way he talked--and I
told him Helen could go, but the next time he called he was to walk
right into the office instead of hanging round the counter. I asked
him what he'd done with all the canned truck he'd bought, and he said
he was inclined to think his partner had eaten most of it. Since then
he's been over pretty often, and I figured it was time I gave you a
hint."
"Thanks," responded George. "He was, in a way, placed in my hands, but
I've no real control over him."
"That's so; he's of age. What I felt was this--I've nothing against
West, but my girl's good enough for anybody, and I can't have his
people in England looking down on her and making trouble. If they're
not satisfied, they had better call him back right now. There's to be
no high-toned condescension in this matter."
"I don't think you need be afraid of that," said George. "It would be
altogether uncalled for. It's very likely that I shall be consulted,
and I'll have pleasure in telling his people that I consider him a
lucky man."
"There's another point--has West any means?"
"I believe about five thousand dollars could be raised to put him on a
farm."
Taunton nodded.
"It's not very much, but I don't know that I'm sorry. I'll see they're
fixed right; whatever West gets I'll beat. My girl shan't be indebted
to her husband's folks. But there's not a word to be said about this
yet. West must wait another year before we decide on anything."
George thought the storekeeper's attitude could not be found fault
with, and when he drove home through the soft dusk of the summer night,
he was glad to feel that there was no need for anxiety about the choice
Edgar had made.