THE ULTIMATUM
The frost soon broke up, and it was raining heavily one afternoon, when
the boys were at work in an excavation they had driven under a big fir
stump shortly after their shooting trip. Frank, very wet and dirty, lay
propped up on one elbow with his head and shoulders inside the hole,
chopping awkwardly at a root. His legs and feet were in a pool of water
outside and there was very little room to swing the ax, while at every
blow the saturated soil fell down on him. Grubbing out a stump in wet
weather is a singularly disagreeable task.
Harry crouched close beside him where he was partly sheltered from the
rain by the network of roots which rose above his head. The boys had
spent most of the day cutting through those which ran along the surface
of the ground and digging to get at the rest, until they had been forced
to drive a tunnel to reach one or two which went vertically down, for it
was an unusually large stump. At last when his ax shoved through the
obstacle Frank paused for breath, and, as it was getting dark in the
excavation, Harry lighted a piece of candle. The light fell upon a
massive shaft of wet wood which sank into the ground.
"Nobody fixed as we are could chop through that," he grumbled. "It's the
big taproot, and it would take most of another day's shoveling to make
room to get at it with the crosscut. It looks as if we'd have to put
some giant powder in. Where's that auger?"
Frank reached out for the boring tool, which resembled a huge
corkscrew, only that instead of a handle it had a hole at its upper end
for the insertion of a short lever.
"I'll bore while you get things ready, if you like," he suggested. "Do
you often use dynamite?"
"We never fire a shot when we can help it, though there are ranchers who
get through a lot of the stuff. Giant powder's expensive, and, though
labor's expensive, too, you have to figure whether a shot's going to
pay. It's worth while if it will save you grubbing most of the day.
Slant the hole you bore a little upward while I go along for the
magazine."
Harry crawled out of the excavation, and Frank slipped a crossbar
through the hole in the auger, driving the point of the latter into the
wood. It went in easily, but the work grew harder as he twisted it round
and round, kneeling with his shoulders against the roots, while the
candle flickered and big drops of water trickled down on him. The
position was a cramping one, and his wet hands slipped upon the
crossbar, but he had become accustomed to doing unpleasant things, and
it was evident that one could not clear a ranch without grubbing stumps.
By and by Harry came back, and telling him to hold the light carefully,
produced what looked rather like a yellow candle, and a piece of black
cord with a copper cap nipped down on the end of it.
"That's the detonator," he said, pointing to the cap. "You saw one or
two of them at Webster's ranch."
"I didn't feel inclined to stop and examine them then," Frank answered
with a laugh.
"They're very like the caps used for guns, only, as you see, they're
bigger, and it's wise to be careful how you pinch one down on the fuse.
The stuff they fill the end with is mighty powerful. So's giant powder,
but it's peculiar because it will only burn unless you fire it with
something that makes a bang. At least, that's what it does in a general
way. The trouble is you can never be quite sure of it."
He worked the soft yellow substance over the detonator, after which he
thrust it gently into the auger hole and pressed a handful of soil down
on it. Frank was thankful when he had finished, for having heard of the
tremendous powers of the giant powder he did not care to be shut up with
it among that network of roots. Then Harry, straightening the strip of
black fuse which projected from the hole, took a quick glance about him.
"We'll make sure we can get out before we light it," he remarked, taking
the candle and holding it to the fuse. "You don't want to stay around
once the fuse is burning. Crawl back and hold those roots up out of my
way."
The candle was by this time sputtering and sparkling, and Frank swung
himself up out of the hole and set off madly across the clearing,
shouting to Mr. Oliver and Jake, who were at work not far away. His
companion, following close behind, stopped him presently.
"Hold on!" he shouted with a laugh. "You needn't run right down to the
cove. Giant powder's kind of local in its action, and that charge isn't
going to turn the whole clearing upside down."
They waited behind a neighboring stump, and a few minutes later Frank,
who had felt himself thrilled with expectation, was grievously
disappointed. He had looked for a spectacular result, but there was only
a dull, heavy thud, a sound of rending and splitting, and a wisp of
vapor out of which a little soil flew up.
"Now," said Harry, "we'll go along and have a look, but we'll work
around the stump and come at it down the wind."
"Why?" Frank asked.
His companion snickered. "Only that it would probably knock you over,
I'd let you go and see. It's wise to keep clear of the gases after
firing giant powder. They haven't the same effect on everybody, but
most men who get a whiff of them want to lie down for the rest of the
day."
They approached the stump cautiously on its windward side, but there was
not much to see. It appeared to have been split and was slightly raised,
but it had certainly not been blown to fragments, as Frank had expected.
"Do you think the shot has cut the root?" he asked.
"No," said Harry with a smile, "you couldn't call it cutting. It has
melted it, swallowed it, blotted it right out. You'll find very little
of that root to-morrow, and there won't be any pieces lying round
either."
He broke off and grabbed Frank's arm as the latter moved toward the
other side of the stump.
"Come back!" he warned. "The gas is hanging about yet."
Frank noticed a rather unpleasant smell, and was conscious of a pain in
his head, but it passed off as they crossed the clearing together. As it
was getting too dark to work, Mr. Oliver and Jake joined them before
they reached the house. They changed their clothes when they went in,
and after toiling in the rain all day Frank was glad to sit down dressed
in dry things at the well-spread table. The room was very cozy with its
bright lamp and snapping stove, and the doleful wail of the wind and the
thrashing of the rain outside emphasized its cheerfulness. He felt
languidly content with himself and the simple, strenuous life he led.
For the most part, though they had occasional adventures, it was an
uneventful one, and some time had passed since they had heard anything
of the dope runners. He wondered what had become of them, or if they had
found smuggling unprofitable and had given it up.
Supper was about half finished when there was a knock at the door and
the dog rose with a growl. Harry seized the animal's collar just as a
man appeared in the entrance. His clothes were black with water and a
trickle of it ran from the brim of the soft hat he held in one hand. He
was a young man and the paleness of his face suggested that he was from
the cities.
"Is it far to Carthew Creek?" he inquired.
"Eight or nine miles," Mr. Oliver replied. "The trail's very bad and
you'll have some trouble in keeping it on a night like this. Have you
any reason for going straight through?"
"I believe a steamboat calls to-morrow and I thought of going back with
her. I've had about enough of these bush trails."
"Then we'll put you up," said Mr. Oliver obligingly. "You can get on
again first thing in the morning. You're wet enough now, aren't you?"
The stranger admitted that he was, but seemed to hesitate.
"I don't want to trouble Miss Oliver," he said. "Still, as it happens,
I've a message for you."
Mr. Oliver said that he would give him some dry clothes, and the two
withdrew to get them. They came back a few minutes later and sat down at
the table. The stranger made an excellent meal, and Mr. Oliver waited
until he had finished before he asked a question:
"Have you walked in?"
"From the settlement," the other answered. "As I expected to get back by
the steamboat, I left my hired horse with Porteous at the store."
"Porteous doesn't keep the store."
"The other fellow got hurt chopping a week or so ago. A log or a big
branch fell on him, and they sent him off to Seattle. Porteous is
running the business until he gets better."
Frank fancied that Mr. Oliver was displeased at this, but there was no
change in his manner toward his visitor.
"Is he running the post office, too?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. I had to tell him something about a letter."
"You mentioned that you had some business with me. I suppose you're
looking up orders for fruit trees?"
The stranger smiled. "I'm a store clerk by profession. Out of a job at
present. Name's T. Graham Watkins. Now you know me."
He turned to Miss Oliver with a bow, but she made no comment, and he
glanced toward the boys.
"We've got to have a talk," he added, addressing Mr. Oliver. "I'm not
sure you'd want these young men or your sister to hear."
"You can tell it here," said Mr. Oliver dryly. "I can make a guess at
your business, and if I'm right I've no objections to the others staying
where they are."
"Then it's just this. The folks I represent aren't pleased with you.
They've a notion that you've been bucking against them for the last few
months and trying to find out things they'd rather keep dark."
"I presume you're referring to the dope runners. Why didn't they come
themselves?"
"That's easily answered," said Mr. Watkins. "I understand you haven't
seen one of them yet, and they don't want to give you an opportunity of
doing so."
Harry grinned at Frank across the table unnoticed by the speaker.
"In my case it doesn't matter," the latter added. "I've merely called to
give you a message."
"Aren't you rather hanging fire with it?" Mr. Oliver asked.
"I feel kind of diffident. I don't want to say anything that might alarm
your sister."
Miss Oliver smiled. "You needn't hesitate. My brother generally takes me
into his confidence, and I don't think either of us is very easily
startled."
"Won't you send the boys away, anyhow?"
"No," said Mr. Oliver quietly, "I think I mentioned that I'd rather let
them stay."
"Well," said the other, "this is the position. The gentlemen you
mentioned can land their stuff near here and get it away through the
bush easily; that is, if you'll lie by and take no hand against them.
There are other routes, but they're longer and more difficult, and my
friends would rather stick to this one if it's possible. The question is
how can they make it worth your while to shut your eyes and leave them
alone?"
Harry suddenly straightened himself and Frank noticed the quick flush of
anger in his face, but Miss Oliver was smiling and the rancher's voice
was as tranquil as usual.
"The answer's very simple," he said. "It can't be done."
Mr. Watkins appeared astonished.
"I want you to consider your position," he repeated.
"I may tell you that I considered it carefully some months ago, but
there's a point I'd like to mention. Has it struck you that I might
promise to fall in with your friends' views and all the same give them
away?"
"It was talked about," Mr. Watkins answered. "We decided it wouldn't be
in keeping with what we knew about your character, and you'd certainly
be sorry you had done it afterward."
"Now we're coming to the second and more important half of the message,"
said Mr. Oliver.
"You're right," was the answer. "I'm to understand that when you say you
won't meet my friends' views it's your last word?"
"Yes," said Mr. Oliver firmly.
"Then my message is a plain one. Let up, or look out. I want you to fix
your attention on the last part of it. You have quite a nice place here,
a high-class barn and homestead, and a good hay crop, and there's nobody
living within some miles of you except Webster."
"Precisely!" said Mr. Oliver. "They cost me a good deal of very hard
work and I shall try to keep them. Now I suppose you've said your
piece?"
Mr. Watkins raised his hand as if to beg his forbearance.
"You've heard it all. I only want to add that I'm quite willing to start
right now for Carthew if you wish it."
Mr. Oliver laughed naturally and easily.
"No," he said, "you're my guest for the night. After this we'll change
the subject and talk about something else." He looked around. "Harry,
will you bring the cigar box out?"
Mr. Watkins did not appear to be a brilliant conversationalist, but he
discussed politics and railroad extension with his host, and Frank found
himself wondering at and admiring the rancher's attitude. He had shown
no sign of anger and had never failed in courtesy. Threats had
apparently no effect on him, and he had received them with a quiet
amusement which appealed in particular to the boy's fancy. It seemed
ever so much finer than blustering indignation, but he thought that
there would be a striking change in Mr. Oliver's manner if he were ever
driven to action.
Mr. Watkins took his departure after breakfast next morning, after which
Mr. Oliver wrote two letters before he called the boys.
"I want you to take the sloop and go up to the settlement," he said.
"You will mail this letter there. It's to Barclay, though it isn't
directly addressed to him."
Harry looked thoughtful.
"Of course," he said hesitatingly, "I'll do that if you wish it, but
Porteous is a mean white, isn't he? Mightn't he open the thing?"
"It's possible," Mr. Oliver answered with a smile. "As it happens, I've
no great objections to his reading it, and I'm mailing it with him as an
experiment. Don't put it into the box, but hand it to him. When you
have done that sail back along the beach and then head right across to
Bannington's, where you'll mail this other letter. As you can't be back
to-night, you had better take some provisions with you. Start as soon as
you can."
The boys were off in half an hour, for the rain had stopped and there
was a clear sky and a moderate breeze. As they sailed out of the cove
Harry from his place at the helm glanced at his companion with a
chuckle.
"When you come to understand him, dad's unique," he said. "Porteous will
open that letter. He's mean enough for anything, and it's been my
opinion all along that he's in with the gang."
"But won't it give your father's plans away if he reads it?"
"Not much!" said Harry. "Haven't you got hold yet? The letter's about
hunting, and there's most likely an order in it for Winchester shells or
something else that will put Porteous off the track. He's probably not
an expert at opening envelopes, and it won't take Barclay long to tell
whether anybody has been tampering with the letter. The other one will
go through without being interfered with. They're white at
Bannington's."
"That won't get over much of the difficulty, after all," Frank objected.
"Won't your father's answer bring Watkins's friends down upon the
ranch?"
"It's possible," said Harry. "I've a notion that when they come dad will
be ready for them, and I fancy Barclay's nearly through with his
trailing."
"You expect he'll make a new move then?"
Harry laughed. "Sure!" he said. "That little, fat man will get
everything fixed up without making the least fuss. Then he'll bring his
hand down once for all and smash the whole dope-running gang. I don't
mind allowing that I was quite wrong about him at the beginning."
They said nothing more upon the subject, and they safely reached the
cove next day after a long, cold sail.