FACING THE FLAME
Courthorne rode away next morning, and some weeks had passed when Maud
Barrington came upon Witham sitting beside his mower in a sloo. He did
not at first see her, for the rattle of the machines in a neighbouring
hollow drowned the muffled beat of hoofs, and the girl, reining her
horse in, looked down on him. The man was sitting very still, which
was unusual with him, a hammer in his hand, gazing straight before
him, as though he could see something beyond the shimmering heat that
danced along the rim of the prairie.
Summer had come, and the grass, which grew scarcely ankle-deep on the
great levels, was once more white and dry; but in the hollows that had
held the melting snow it stood waist-high, scented with peppermint,
harsh and wiry, and Witham had set out with every man he had to
harvest it. Already a line of loaded wagons crawled slowly across the
prairie, and men and horses moved half-seen amid the dust that whirled
about another sloo. Out of it came the trampling of hoofs and the
musical tinkle of steel.
Suddenly Witham looked up, and the care which was stamped upon it fled
from his face when he saw the girl. The dust that lay thick upon his
garments had spared her, and as she sat, patting the restless horse,
with a little smile in her face which showed just touched by the sun
beneath the big white hat, something in her dainty freshness reacted
upon the tired man's fancy. He had long borne the stress and the
burden, and as he watched her a longing to taste for at least a space
the life of leisure and refinement came upon him, as it had done too
often for his tranquility since he came to Silverdale. This woman who
had been born to it could, it seemed to him, lift the man she trusted
beyond the sordid cares of the turmoil to her own high level, and as
he waited for her to speak, a fit of passion shook him. It betrayed
itself only by the sudden hardening of his face.
"It is the first time I have surprised you idle. You were dreaming,"
she said.
Witham smiled a trifle mirthlessly. "I was, but I am afraid the
fulfillment of the dreams is not for me. One is apt to be pulled up
suddenly when he ventures over far."
"We are inquisitive, you know," said Maud Barrington; "can't you tell
me what they were?"
Witham did not know what impulse swayed him, and afterwards blamed
himself for complying; but the girl's interest compelled him, and he
showed her a little of what was in his heart.
"I fancy I saw Silverdale gorging the elevators with the choicest
wheat," he said. "A new bridge flung level across the ravine where the
wagons go down half-loaded to the creek; a dam turning the hollow
into a lake, and big turbines driving our own flouring mill. Then
there were herds of cattle fattening on the strippings of the grain
that wasteful people burn, our products clamoured for, east in the old
country, and west in British Columbia--and for a background,
prosperity and power, even if it was paid for with half the traditions
of Silverdale. Still, you see it may all be due to the effect of the
fierce sunshine on an idle man's fancy."
Maud Barrington regarded him steadily, and the smile died out of her
eyes. "But," she said, slowly "is all that quite beyond realization.
Could you not bring it about?"
Witham saw her quiet confidence and something of her pride. There was
no avarice in this woman, but the slight dilation of the nostrils and
the glow in her eyes told of ambition, and for a moment his soul was
not his own.
"I could," he said; and Maud Barrington, who watched the swift
straightening of his shoulders and lifting of his head, felt that he
spoke no more than the truth. Then with a sudden access of bitterness,
"But I never will."
"Why?" she asked. "Have you grown tired of Silverdale, or has what you
pictured no charm for you?"
Witham leaned, as it were wearily against the wheel of the mower. "I
wonder if you could understand what my life has been. The crushing
poverty that rendered every effort useless from the beginning, the
wounds that come from using imperfect tools, and the numb hopelessness
that follows repeated failure. They are tolerably hard to bear alone,
but it is more difficult to make the best of them when the poorly-fed
body is as worn out as the mind. To stay here would be--paradise--but
a glimpse of it will probably have to suffice. Its gates are well
guarded and without are the dogs, you know."
Something in Maud Barrington thrilled in answer to the faint
hoarseness in Witham's voice, and she did not resent it. She was a
woman with all her sex's instinctive response to passion and emotion,
though as yet the primitive impulses that stir the hearts of men had
been covered, if not wholly hidden, from her by the thin veneer of
civilization. Now, at least, she felt in touch with them, and for a
moment she looked at the man with a daring that matched his own
shining in her eyes.
"And you fear the angel with the sword?" she said. "There is nothing
so terrible at Silverdale."
"No," said Witham, "I think it is the load I have to carry I fear the
most."
For the moment Maud Barrington had flung off the bonds of
conventionality. "Lance," she said, "you have proved your right to
stay at Silverdale, and would not what you are doing now cover a great
deal in the past?"
Witham smiled wryly. "It is the present that is difficult," he said.
"Can a man be pardoned and retain the offence?"
He saw the faint bewilderment in the girl's face give place to the
resentment of frankness unreturned, and with a little shake of his
shoulders shrank into himself. Maud Barrington, who understood it,
once more put on the becoming reticence of Silverdale.
"We are getting beyond our depth, and it is very hot," she said. "You
have all this hay to cut!"
Witham laughed as he bent over the mower's knife. "Yes," he said, "it
is really more in my line, and I have kept you in the sun too long."
In another few moments Maud Barrington was riding across the prairie,
but when the rattle of the machine rose from the sloo behind her she
laughed curiously.
"The man knew his place, but you came perilously near making a fool of
yourself this morning, my dear," she said.
It was a week or two later, and very hot when, with others of his
neighbours, Witham sat in the big hall at Silverdale Grange. The
windows were open wide, and the smell of hot dust came in from the
white waste which rolled away beneath the stars. There was also
another odour in the little puffs of wind that flickered in, and far
off where the arch of indigo dropped to the dusky earth wavy lines of
crimson moved along the horizon. It was then the season when fires
that are lighted by means which no man knows creep up and down the
waste of grass, until they put on speed and roll in a surf of flame
before a sudden breeze. Still, nobody was anxious about them, for the
guarding furrows that would oppose a space of dusty soil to the march
of the flame had been ploughed round every homestead at Silverdale.
Maud Barrington was at the piano, and her voice was good; while
Witham, who had known what it is to toil from red dawn to sunset
without hope of more than daily food, found the simple song she had
chosen chime with his mood: "All day long the reapers."
A faint staccato drumming that rose from the silent prairie throbbed
through the final chords of it, and when the music ceased, swelled
into the gallop of a horse. It seemed in some curious fashion
portentous, and when there was a rattle and jingle outside other eyes
than Witham's were turned towards the door. It swung open presently,
and Dane came in. There was quiet elation and some diffidence in his
bronzed face as he turned to Colonel Barrington.
"I could not get away earlier from the settlement, sir, but I have
great news," he said. "They have awoke to the fact that stocks are
getting low in the old country. Wheat moved up at Winnipeg, and there
was almost a rush to buy yesterday."
There was a sudden silence, for among those present were men who
remembered the acres of good soil they had not ploughed, but a little
grim smile crept into their leader's face.
"It is," he said quietly, "too late for most of us. Still, we will not
grudge you your good fortune, Dane. You and a few of the others owe it
to Courthorne."
Every eye was on the speaker, for it had become known among his
neighbours that he had sold for a fall; but Barrington could lose
gracefully. Then both his niece and Dane looked at Witham with a
question in their eyes.
"Yes," he said very quietly, "it is the turning of the tide."
He crossed over to Barrington, who smiled at him dryly as he said, "It
is a trifle soon to admit that I was wrong."
Witham made a gesture of almost impatient deprecation. "I was
wondering how far I might presume, sir. You have forward wheat to
deliver?"
"I have," said Barrington; "unfortunately, a good deal. You believe
the advance will continue?"
"Yes," said Witham simply. "Still it is but the beginning, and there
will be a reflux before the stream sets in. Wait a little, sir, and
then telegraph your broker to cover all your contracts when the price
drops again."
"I fancy it would be wiser to cut my losses now," said Barrington
dryly.
Then Witham did a somewhat daring thing, for he raised his voice a
trifle, in a fashion that seemed to invite the attention of the rest
of the company.
"The more certain the advance seems to be, the fiercer will be the
bears' last attack," he said. "They have to get from under, and will
take heavy chances to force prices back. As yet, they may contrive to
check or turn the stream, and then every wise man who has sold down
will try to cover, but no one can tell how far it may carry us, once
it sets strongly in."
The men understood, as did Colonel Barrington, that they were being
warned, above their leader's head; and his niece, while resenting the
slight, admitted the courage of the man. Barrington's face was
sardonic, and a less resolute man would have winced under the
implication as he said:
"This is, no doubt, intuition. I fancy you told us you had no dealings
on the markets at Winnipeg."
Witham looked steadily at the speaker, and the girl noticed with a
curious approval that he smiled.
"Perhaps it is, but I believe events will prove me right. In any case,
what I had the honour of telling you and Miss Barrington was the
fact," he said.
Nobody spoke, and the girl was wondering by what means the strain,
which, though few heard what Barrington said, all seemed to feel,
could be relieved, when out of the darkness came a second beat of
hoofs, and by and by a man swaying on the driving-seat of a jolting
wagon swept into the light from the windows. Then there were voices
outside, and a breathless lad came in.
"A big grass fire coming right down on Courthorne's farm!" he said.
"It was tolerably close when I got away."
In an instant there was commotion, and every man in Silverdale Grange
was on his feet. For the most part they took life lightly, and looked
upon their farming as an attempt to combine the making of dollars with
gentlemanly relaxation; but there were no laggards among them when
there was perilous work to be done, and they went out to meet the fire
joyously. Inside five minutes scarcely a horse remained in the
stables, and the men were flying at a gallop across the dusky prairie,
laughing at the risk of a stumble in a deadly badger hole. Yet in the
haste of saddling, they found time to arrange a twenty-dollar
sweepstake and the allowance for weight.
Up the long rise and down the back of it they swept, stirrup as yet by
stirrup and neck by neck, while the roar of the hoofs reft the silence
of the prairie like the roll of musketry. Behind came the wagons,
lurching up the slope, and the blood surged to the brave young faces
as the night wind smote them and fanned into brightness the crimson
smear on the horizon. They were English lads, and healthy Englishmen,
of the stock that had furnished their nation's fighting line, and not
infrequently counted no sacrifice too great that brought their colours
home first on the racing turf. Still, careless to the verge of
irresponsibility as they were in most affairs that did not touch their
pride, the man who rode with red spurs and Dane next behind him, a
clear length before the first of them, asked no better allies in what
was to be done.
Then the line drew out as the pace began to tell, though the rearmost
rode grimly, knowing the risks the leaders ran, and that the chance of
being first to meet the fire might yet fall to them. There was not one
among them who would not have killed his best horse for that honour,
and for further incentive the Colonel's niece, in streaming habit,
flitted in front of them. She had come up from behind them, and passed
them on a rise, for Barrington disdained to breed horses for dollars
alone, and there was blood well known on the English turf in the beast
she rode.
By-and-by a straggling birch bluff rose blackly across their way, but
nobody swung wide. Swaying low while the branches smote them, they
went through, the twigs crackling under foot, and here and there the
red drops trickling down a flushed, scarred face, for the slanting
rent of a birch bough cuts like a knife. Dim trees whirled by them,
undergrowth went down, and they were out on the dusty grass again,
while hurled straight, like field guns wanted at the front, the
bouncing wagons went through behind. Then the fire rose higher in
front of them, and when they topped the last rise the pace grew faster
still. The slope they thundered down was undermined by gophers and
seamed by badger-holes, but they took their chances gleefully, sparing
no effort of hand and heel, for the sum of twenty dollars and the
credit of being first man in. Then the smoke rolled up to them, and
when eager hands drew bridle at last a youthful voice rose
breathlessly out of it:
"Stapleton a good first, but he'll go back on weight. It used to be
black and orange when he was at home."
There was a ripple of hoarse laughter, a gasping cheer, and then
silence, for now their play was over, and it was with the grim
quietness, which is not unusual with their kind, the men of Silverdale
turned towards the fire. It rolled towards the homestead, a waving
crimson wall, not fast, but with remorseless persistency, out of the
dusky prairie, and already the horses were plunging in the smoke of
it. That, however, did not greatly concern the men, for the bare fire
furrows stretched between themselves and it; but there was also
another blaze inside the defences, and, unless it was checked, nothing
could save house and barns and granaries, rows of costly binders, and
stock of prairie hay. They looked for a leader, and found one ready,
for Witham's voice came up through the crackle of the fire:
"Some of you lead the saddle-horses back to the willows and picket
them. The rest to the stables and bring out the working beasts. The
ploughs are by the corral, and the first team that comes up is to be
harnessed to each in turn. Then start in, and turn over a fall-depth
furrow a furlong from the fire."
There was no confusion, and already the hired men were busy with two
great machines until Witham displaced two of them.
"How that fire passed the guards I don't know, but there will be time
to find out later," he said to Dane. "Follow with the big breaker--it
wants a strong man to keep that share in--as close as you can."
Then they were off, a man at the heads of the leading horses harnessed
to the great machines, and Witham sitting very intent in the
driving-seat of one, while the tough sod crackled under the rending
shares. Both the man and the reins were needed when the smoke rolled
down on them, but it was for a moment torn aside again, and there
roared up towards the blurred arch of indigo a great rush of flame.
The heat of it smote into prickliness the uncovered skin, and in spite
of all that Witham could do, the beasts recoiled upon the machine
behind them. Then they swung round wrenching the shares from the
triplex furrow, and for a few wild minutes man and terrified beast
fought for the mastery. Breathless, half-strangled objurgations, the
clatter of trace and swivel, and the thud of hoofs, rose muffled
through the roar of the fire, for while swaying, plunging, panting,
they fought with fist and hoof, it was rolling on, and now the heat
was almost insupportable. The victory, however, was to the men, and
when the great machine went on again, Maud Barrington, who with the
wife of one of her neighbours had watched the struggle, stood
wide-eyed, half-afraid, and yet thrilled in every fibre.
"It was splendid!" she said. "They can't be beaten."
Her companion seemed to shiver a little. "Yes," she said, "perhaps it
was, but I wish it was over. It would appeal to you differently, my
dear, if you had a husband at one of those horse's heads."
For a moment Maud Barrington wondered whether it would, and then, when
a red flame flickered out towards the team, felt a little chill of
dread. In another second the smoke whirled about them, and she moved
backward choking with her companion. The teams, however, went on, and,
though the men who led them afterwards wondered how they kept their
grip on the horses' heads, came out frantic with fear on the farther
side. Then it was that while the machines swung round and other men
ran to help, Witham, springing from the driving-seat, found Dane
amidst the swaying, plunging medley of beasts and men.
"If you can't find hook or clevis, cut the trace," he said. "It can't
burn the plough, and the devils are out of hand now. The fire will
jump these furrows, and we've got to try again."
In another minute four maddened beasts were careering across the
prairie with portions of their trappings banging about them, while one
man who was badly kicked sat down grey in face and gasping, and the
fire rolled up to the ridge of loam, checked, and then sprang across
it here and there.
"I'll take one of those lad's places," said Dane: "That fellow can't
hold the breaker straight, Courthorne."
It was a minute or two later when he flung a breathless lad away from
his plough, and the latter turned upon him hoarse with indignation.
"I raced Stapleton for it. Loose your hold, confound you. It's mine,"
he said.
Dane turned and laughed at him as he signed to one of the Ontario
hired men to take the near horse's head.
"You're a plucky lad, and you've done what you could," he said.
"Still, if you get in the way of a grown man now, I'll break your head
for you."
He was off in another moment, crossed Witham, who had found fresh
beasts, in his furrow, and had turned and doubled it before the fire
that had passed the other barrier came close upon them. Once more the
smoke grew blinding, and one of Dane's beasts went down.
"I'm out of action now," he said. "Try back. That team will never face
it, Courthorne."
Witham's face showed very grim under the tossing flame. "They've got
to. I'm going through," he said. "If the others are to stop it behind
there, they must have time."
Then he and the husband of the woman who had spoken to Maud Barrington
passed on with the frantic team into the smoke that was streaked with
flame.
"Good Lord!" said Dane, and added more as, sitting on the horse's
head, he turned his tingling face from the fire.
It was some minutes before he and the hired man who came up loosed the
fallen horse, and led it and its fellow back towards the last defences
the rest had been raising, while the first furrows checked but did not
stay the conflagration. There he presently came upon the man who had
been with Witham.
"I don't know where Courthorne is," he said. "The beasts bolted with
us just after we'd gone through the worst of it, and I fancy they took
the plough along. Anyway, I didn't see what became of them, and don't
fancy anybody would have worried much about them after being trampled
on by a horse in the lumbar region."
Dane saw that the man was limping and white in face, and asked no more
questions. It was evident to him that Courthorne would be where he was
most needed, and he did what he could with those who were adding
furrow to furrow across the path of the fire. It rolled up to them
roaring, stopped, flung a shower of burning filaments before it, sank
and swept aloft again, while the sparks rained down upon the grass
before the draught it made.
Blackened men with smouldering clothes were, however, ready, and they
fought each incipient blaze with soaked grain bags, and shovels, some
of them also, careless of blistered arms, with their own wet jackets.
As fast as each fire was trampled out another sprang into life, but
the parent blaze that fed them sank and died, and at last there was a
hoarse cheer. They had won, and the fire they had beaten passed on
divided across the prairie, leaving the homestead unscathed between.
Then they turned to look for their leader, and did not find him until
a lad came up to Dane.
"Courthorne's back by the second furrows, and I fancy he's badly
hurt," he said. "He didn't appear to know me, and his head seems all
kicked in."
It was not apparent how the news went round, but in a few more minutes
Dane was kneeling beside a limp, blackened object stretched amidst the
grass, and while his comrades clustered behind her, Maud Barrington
bent over him. Her voice was breathless as she asked, "You don't
believe him dead?"
Somebody had brought a lantern, and Dane felt inclined to gasp when he
saw the girl's white face, but what she felt was not his business
then.
"He's of a kind that is very hard to kill. Hold that lantern so I can
see him," he said.
The rest waited silent, glad that there was somebody to take a lead,
and in a few moments Dane looked round again.
"Ride in to the settlement, Stapleton, and bring that doctor fellow
out if you bring him by the neck. Stop just a moment. You don't know
where you're to bring him to."
"Here, of course," said the lad, breaking into a run.
"Wait," and Dane's voice stopped him. "Now, I don't fancy that would
do. It seems to me that this is a case in which a woman to look after
him would be necessary."
Then, before any of the married men or their wives who had followed
them could make an offer, Maud Barrington touched his shoulder.
"He is coming to the Grange," she said.
Dane nodded, signed to Stapleton, then spoke quickly to the men about
him and turned to Maud Barrington.
"Ride on at a gallop and get everything ready. I'll see he comes to no
harm," he said.
The girl felt curiously grateful as she rode out with her companion,
and Dane who laid Witham carefully in a wagon, drew two of the other
men aside when it rolled away towards the Grange.
"There is something to be looked into. Did you notice anything unusual
about the affair?" he said. "Since you asked me, I did," said one of
the men. "I, however, scarcely cared to mention it until I had time
for reflection, but while I fancy the regulation guards would have
checked the fire on the boundaries without our help, I don't see how
one started in the hollow inside them."
"Exactly," said Dane very dryly. "Well, we have got to discover it,
and the more quickly we do it the better. I fancy, however, that the
question who started it is what we have to consider."
The men looked at one another, and the third of them nodded.
"I fancy it comes to that--though it is horribly unpleasant to admit
it," he said.