Breakfast was over at Kelshope ranch and Jimmy occupied a log at the
edge of the clearing. Although his muscles were sore, he felt strangely
fresh and somehow satisfied. At the hotel, as a rule, he had not felt
like that. His leg hurt, but his host had doctored the cut with some
American liniment, and Jimmy was content to rest in the shade and look
about. He thought he saw the whole process of clearing a ranch.
In the background, was virgin forest; pine, spruce and hemlock, locking
their dark branches. Then one noted the _slashing_, where chopped trees
had fallen in tangled rows, and an inner belt of ashes and blackened
stumps. Other stumps, surrounded by fern, checkered the oblong of
cultivated soil, and the dew sparkled on the short oat stubble. The oats
were not grown for milling; the heads were small and Jardine cut the
crop for hay. The garden-lot and house occupied a gentle slope. The
walls were built of logs, notched and crossed at the corners; cedar
shingles, split by hand on the spot, covered the roof. Behind the house,
one saw fruit trees and log barns. Nothing was factory-made, and Jimmy
thought all indicated strenuous labor.
A yard or two off, Jardine rubbed his double-bitted axe with a small
round hone. He wore a gray shirt, overalls and long boots, and his skin
was very brown. He was not a big man, but he looked hard and muscular
and his glance was keen.
"Ye need to get the edge good. It pays to keep her sharp," he said and
tried the blade with his thumb.
"I expect that is so," Jimmy agreed. "Did you, yourself, clear the
ranch?"
"I chopped every tree, burned the slashing, and put up the house and
barns. Noo I'm getting things in trim and run a small bunch of stock."
Jimmy thought it a tremendous undertaking; the logs stacked ready to
burn were two or three feet across the butt.
"How long were you occupied?" he asked.
"Twelve years," said Jardine, rather drily. "When the country doon the
Fraser began to open up I sold my other ranch, bought two or three
building lots in a new town, and started for the bush. I liked this
location and I stopped."
"But can you get your stuff to a market?"
"Cows can walk, but when ye clear a bush ranch ye dinna bother much
about selling truck. Ye sit tight until the Government cuts a wagon
trail, or maybe a railroad's built, and the settlements spring up."
"And then you expect to sell for a good price all the stuff you grow?"
Jardine smiled. "Then I expect to sell the ranch and push on again. The
old-time bushman has no use for game-wardens, city sports,
store-keepers and real-estate boomers----"
He stopped and his look got scornful. Jimmy found out afterwards that
the pioneer hates the business man and Jardine sprang from Scottish
Border stock. Perhaps he had inherited his pride and independence from
salmon-poaching ancestors. What he wanted he labored for; to traffic was
not his plan.
"Weel," he resumed, "I'd better get busy. After dinner I'll drive ye to
the hotel."
He went off, and although Jimmy had expected to lunch at the hotel he
was satisfied to wait. He mused about his host. Jardine was not young,
but he carried himself well and Jimmy had known young men who did not
move like him; then the ranch indicated his talent for labor. Yet
muscular strength was obviously not all one needed; to front and remove
daunting obstacles, one must have pluck and imagination. The job was a
man's job, but, in a sense, the qualities it demanded were primitive,
and Jimmy began to see why the ranch attracted him. His grandfather had
labored in another's mill; the house of Leyland's was founded on
stubborn effort and stern frugality.
Jimmy began to wonder where Jardine fed his cattle, because he saw none
in the clearing, but by and by a distant clash of bells rolled across
the trees. Jimmy had heard the noise before; when he went to sleep and
again at daybreak, a faint, elusive chime had broken the quietness that
brooded over Kelshope ranch. It was the clash of cow-bells, ringing as
the stock pushed through the underbrush. When he heard a sharper note
he got up and, for his leg hurt, went cautiously into the woods.
By and by he stopped in the tall fern. Not far off Margaret, holding out
a bunch of corn, occupied the middle of an opening in which little red
wineberries grew. Her pose was graceful, she did not wear a hat, and the
sun was on her hair. Her neck was very white, and then her skin was
delicate pink that deepened to brown. Her dress was dull blue and the
yellow corn forced up the soft color.
"Oh, Bright; oh, Buck!" she called, and Jimmy thought her voice musical
like the chiming bells.
Where the sunbeams pierced the shade long horns gleamed, the bells rang
louder, and a big brown ox looked out, fixed its quiet eyes on the girl,
and vanished noiselessly. Margaret did not move at all. She was still as
the trees in the background, and Jimmy approved her quietness. He got a
hint of balance, strength and calm.
"Oh, Bright!" she called, and a brawny red-and-white animal pushed out
from the fern, shook its massive head, and advanced to smell the corn.
Jimmy now saw Margaret carried a rope in her other hand, but she let the
ox eat the corn and stroked its white forehead before she threw the rope
round its horns. Although she was very quick, her movements were gentle
and the animal stood still. Then she looked up and smiled.
"You can come out, Mr. Leyland."
"You knew I was in the fern?"
"Sure," said Margaret. "I was born in the woods. All the same, you were
quiet. I reckon you can be quiet. In the bush, that's something."
"You imply that I was quiet, for a tenderfoot?"
"Why, yes," Margaret agreed, smiling. "As a rule, a man from the cities
can't keep still. He must talk and move about. You didn't feel you ought
to come and help?"
Jimmy wondered whether she knew he had wanted to study her, but thought
she did not. Anyhow, he was satisfied she, so to speak, had not posed
for him.
"Not at all," he said. "I saw you knew your job, and I reflected that
the ox did not know me. But shall I hold him until you catch the other?"
"Buck will follow his mate," Margaret replied, and when they started a
cow-bell clashed and Buck stole out of the shade.
Jimmy thought stole the proper word. He had expected to hear branches
crack and underbrush rustle, but the powerful oxen moved almost silently
through the wood.
"Now I see why you give them bells," he remarked. "But doesn't the
jangling bother the animals?"
"They like the bells. At night I think they toss their heads to hear the
chime. Then they know the bells are useful. Sometimes when all is quiet
the cattle scatter, but when the timber wolves are about or a cinnamon
bear comes down the rocks the herd rolls up. Bush cattle are clever. Now
Bright feels the rope, he's resigned to go to work."
"You know the woods. Have you always lived at a ranch?"
"For a time I was at Toronto," Margaret replied. "When I was needed at
Kelshope, I came back."
Jimmy felt she baffled him. Margaret had not stated her occupation at
Toronto, but he had remarked that her English was better than the
English one used at the cotton mills. After all, he was not entitled to
satisfy his curiosity.
"One can understand Mr. Jardine's needing you," he said. "I expect a
bush rancher is forced to hustle."
"A bush rancher must hustle all the time," Margaret agreed. "Still, work
one likes goes easily. Have you tried?"
"I have tried work I did not like and admit I've had enough," Jimmy
said, and laughed. "When I started for Canada, my notion was I'd be
content to play about."
Margaret nodded. "We know your sort. You are not, like our tourists,
merchants and manufacturers. You have no use for business. All you think
about is sport, and your sport's extravagant. You stop at our big
hotels, and when you go off to hunt and fish you hire a gang of packers
to carry your camp truck."
"I doubt if I really am that sort," Jimmy rejoined. "After all, my
people are pretty keen business men, and I begin to see that to
cultivate the habits of the other lot is harder than I thought. In
fact, I rather think I'd like to own a ranch."
"For a game?" said Margaret and laughed, a frank laugh. "You must cut it
out, Mr. Leyland. One can't play at ranching, and you don't know all the
bushman is up against."
"It's possible," Jimmy admitted. "Well, I expect I am a loafer, but I
did not altogether joke about the ranch. The strange thing is, after a
time loafing gets monotonous."
Margaret stopped him. "I must get busy and you ought not to walk about.
Sit down in the shade and I'll give you the _Colonist_."
Jimmy sat down, but declared he did not want the newspaper. He thought
he would study ranching, particularly Margaret's part of the job. She
put a heavy wooden yoke on the oxen's necks, fastened a rope to the
hook, and drove the animals to a belt of burned slashing where big
charred logs lay about. Jardine hitched the rope to a log and the team
hauled it slowly to a pile. Jimmy wondered how two people would get the
heavy trunk on top, but when Margaret led the oxen round the pile and
urged them ahead, the log went up in a loop of the rope. For all that,
Jardine was forced to use a handspike and Jimmy saw that to build a
log-pile demanded strength and skill.
Resting in the shade, he felt the picture's quiet charm. The oxen's
movements were slow and rhythmical; Jardine's muscular figure, bent, got
tense, and relaxed; the girl, finely posed, guided the plodding
animals. Behind were stiff, dark branches and rows of straight red
trunks. A woodpecker tapped a hollow tree, and in the distance cow-bells
chimed. The dominant note was effort, but the effort was smooth and
measured. One felt that all went as it ought to go, and Jimmy thought
about the big shining flywheel that spun with a steady throb at the
Leyland cotton mill. Then his head began to nod and his eyes shut, and
when he looked up Margaret called him to dinner.
After dinner Jardine got out his Clover-leaf wagon and drove Jimmy to
the hotel. When they arrived Jimmy took him to his room on the first
floor, and meeting Stannard on the stairs, was rather moved to note his
relief. Stannard declared that he and some others had searched the woods
since daybreak and were about to start for the ranch. By and by Deering
joined them and made an iced drink. Jardine, with tranquil enjoyment,
drained his long glass, and lighting a cigar, began to talk about
hunting in the bush. His clothes were old and his hat was battered, but
his calm was marked and Jimmy thought he studied the others with quiet
curiosity. After a time they went off, and Jardine gave Jimmy a
thoughtful smile.
"Your friends are polite and Mr. Deering can mix a drink better than a
bar-keep."
"Is that all?" Jimmy inquired.
Jardine's eyes twinkled. "Weel, if I was wanting somebody to see me out,
maybe I'd trust the big fellow."
Jimmy thought his remark strange. Stannard was a cultivated gentleman
and Deering was frankly a gambler. Yet Jimmy had grounds to imagine the
old rancher was not a fool. He was puzzled and rather annoyed, but
Jardine said he must not stay and Jimmy let him go.
V