LONELY RANCH AT OWL HOOT
In spite of the recent tragic events the routine of the daily life at
Loon Dyke Farm was very little interfered with. Just for a few weeks
following upon the death of Leslie Grey the organization of Mrs.
Malling's household had been thrown out of gear.
The coming of the police and the general scouring of the country for
the murderers of the Customs officer had entailed a "nine days'
wonder" around the countryside, and had helped to disturb the wonted
peace of the farm. But the search did not last long. Horse-thieves do
not wait long in a district, and the experience of the "riders of the
plains" taught them that it would be useless to pursue where there was
no clue to guide them. The search was abandoned after a while, and the
dastardly murder remained an unsolved mystery.
The shock to Prudence's nervous system had been a terrible one, and a
breakdown, closely bordering upon brain fever, had followed. The
girl's condition had demanded the utmost care, and, in this matter,
Sarah Gurridge had proved herself a loyal friend. Dr. Parash, with
conscientious soundness of judgment, had ordered her removal for a
prolonged sojourn to city life in Toronto; a course which, in spite
of heartbroken appeal on the girl's part, her mother insisted upon
carrying out with Spartan-like resolution.
"Broken hearts," she had said to Sarah, during a confidential chat
upon the subject, "are only kept from mending by them as talks
sympathy. There isn't nothin' like mixing with folks what's got their
own troubles to worrit over. She'll get all that for sure when she
gets to one o' them cities. Cities is full of purgat'ry," she added
profoundly. "I shall send her down to sister Emma, she's one o' them
hustlin' women that'll never let the child rest a minute."
And Sarah had approved feelingly.
So Prudence was safely dispatched eastwards for an indefinite period
before the spring opened. But Hephzibah Malling had yet to realize
that her daughter had suddenly developed from a child, who looked to
her mother's guidance in all the more serious questions of life, into
a woman of strong feelings and opinions. This swift casting off of the
fetters of childhood had been the work of those few passionate moments
at the bedside of her dying lover.
Prudence had submitted to the sentence which her mother, backed by the
doctor's advice, had passed, and she went away. But in complying with
the order she had performed the last act which childhood's use had
prompted. The period of her absence was indefinite. The fiat demanded
no limitation to her stay with "sister" Emma. She could return when
she elected so to do. Bred in the pure air of the prairie, no city
could claim her for long. And so she returned to the farm against all
opposition within two months of leaving it.
The spring brought another change to the farm, a change which was as
welcome to the old farm-wife as the opening of the spring itself.
Hervey returned from Niagara, bringing with him the story of the
failure of his mission. True to herself and the advice of Iredale,
Hephzibah made her proposition to her son, with the result that, with
some show of distaste, he accepted the situation, and with his
three-legged companion took up his abode at the farm.
And so the days lengthened and the summer heat increased; the hay in
the sloughs ripened and filled the air with its refreshing odours; the
black squares of ploughed land were quickly covered with the deepening
carpet of green, succulent grain; the wild currant-bushes flowered,
and the choke-cherries ripened on the laden branches, and the deep
blue vault of the heavens smiled down upon the verdant world.
George Iredale again became a constant and welcome visitor at the
farm, nor in her leisure did Sarah Gurridge seek relaxation in any
other direction.
The morning was well advanced. The air was still and very hot. There
was a peaceful drowsiness about the farm buildings and yard which was
only broken by the occasional squeal of the mouching swine routing
amongst any stray garbage their inquisitive eyes happened to light
upon. The upper half of the barn door stood open, and in the cool
shade of the interior could be seen the outline of dark, well-rounded
forms looming between the heel-posts of the stalls which lined the
side walls. An occasional impatient stamp from the heavily-shod hoofs
told of the capacity for annoyance of the ubiquitous fly or
aggravating mosquito, whilst the steady grinding sound which pervaded
the atmosphere within, and the occasional "gush" of distended nostrils
testified to healthy appetites, and noses buried in mangers well
filled with sweet-smelling "Timothy" hay.
The kitchen doorway was suddenly filled with the ample proportions of
Hephzibah Malling. She moved out into the open. She was carrying a
large pail filled with potato-parings and other fragments of culinary
residuum. A large white sun-bonnet protected her grey head and shaded
her now flaming face from the sun, and her dress, a neat study in
grey, was enveloped in a huge apron.
She moved out to a position well clear of the buildings and began to
call out in a tone of persuasive encouragement--
"Tig--tig--tig! Tig--tig--tig!"
She repeated her summons several times, then moved on slowly,
continuing to call at intervals.
The swine gathered with a hungry rush at her heels, and their chorus
of acclamation drowned her familiar cry. Passing down the length of
the barn she reached a cluster of thatched mud hovels. Here she opened
the crazy gate to admit her clamorous flock, and then deposited the
contents of her pail in the trough provided for that purpose. The pigs
fell-to with characteristic avidity, complaining vociferously the
while as only pigs will.
She stood for a few moments looking down at her noisy charges with
calculating eyes. It was a fine muster of young porkers, and the old
lady was estimating their bacon-yielding capacity.
Suddenly her reflections were interrupted by the sound of footsteps,
and turning, she saw Hervey crossing the yard in the direction of the
creamery. She saw him disappear down the steps which led to the door,
for the place was in the nature of a dugout She sighed heavily and
moved away from her porkers, and slowly she made her way to the
wash-house. The sight of this man had banished all her feelings of
satisfaction. Her son was a constant trouble to her; a source of grave
worry and anxiety. Her hopes of him had been anything but fulfilled.
In the meantime Hervey had propped himself against the doorway of the
creamery and was talking to his sister within. The building, like all
dugouts, was long and low; its roof was heavily thatched to protect
the interior from the effects of the sun's rays. Prudence was moving
slowly along the two wide counters which lined the walls from one end
to the other. Each counter was covered with a number of huge
milk-pans, from which the girl was carefully skimming the thick,
yellow cream. She worked methodically; and the rich fat dropped with a
heavy "plonk" into the small pail she carried, in a manner which
testified to the quality of the cream.
She looked a little paler than usual; the healthy bloom had almost
entirely disappeared from her cheeks, and dark shadows surrounded her
brown eyes. But this was the only sign she displayed of the tragedy
which had come into her young life. The trim figure was unimpaired,
and her wealth of dark hair was as carefully adjusted as usual. Hervey
watched his sister's movements as she passed from pan to pan.
"Iredale wants me to ride over to Owl Hoot to-day," he said slowly.
"We're going to have an afternoon's 'chicken shoot.' He says the
prairie-chicken round his place are as thick as mosquitoes. He's a
lucky beggar. He seems to have the best of everything. I've scoured
our farm all over and there's not so much as a solitary grey owl to
get a pot at. I hate the place."
Prudence ceased working and faced him. She scornfully looked him up
and down. At that moment she looked very picturesque with her black
skirt turned up from the bottom and pinned about her waist, displaying
an expanse of light-blue petticoat. Her blouse was a simple thing in
spotless white cotton, with a black ribbon tied about her neck.
"I think you are very ungrateful, Hervey," she said quietly. "I've
only been home for a few months, and not a day has passed but what
I've heard you grumble about something in connection with your home.
If it isn't the dulness it's the work; if it isn't the work it's your
position of dependence, or the distance from town, or the people
around us. Now you grumble because of the shooting. What do you want?
We've got a section and a half, nearly a thousand acres, under wheat;
we've got everything that money can buy in the way of improvements in
machinery; we've got a home that might fill many a town-bred man with
envy, and a mother who denies us nothing; and yet you aren't
satisfied. What _do_ you want? If things aren't what you like, for
goodness' sake go back to the wilds again, where, according to your
own account, you were happy. Your incessant grumbling makes me
sick."
"A new departure, sister, eh?" Hervey retorted, smiling unpleasantly.
"I always thought it was everybody's privilege to grumble a bit.
Still, I don't think it's for you to start lecturing me if even it
isn't. Mother's treated me pretty well--in a way. But don't forget
she's only hired me the same as she's hired Andy, or any of the rest
of the hands. Why, I haven't even the same position as you have. I am
paid so many dollars a month, for which I have to do certain work. Let
me tell you this, my girl: if I had stayed on this farm until father
died my position would have been very different. It would all have
been mine now."
"Well, since you didn't do so, the farm is mother's." Prudence's pale
cheeks had become flushed with anger. "And I think, all things
considered, she has treated you particularly well."
And she turned back to her work.
The girl was very angry, and justifiably so. Hervey was lazy. The work
which was his was rarely done unless it happened to fall in with his
plans for the moment. He was thoroughly bearish to both his mother and
herself, and he had already overdrawn the allowance the former had
made him. All this had become very evident to the girl since her
return to the farm, and it cut her to the quick that the peace of her
home should have been so rudely broken. Even Prudence's personal
troubles were quite secondary to the steady grind of Hervey's
ill-manners.
Curiously enough, after the first passing of the shock of Grey's
death she found herself less stricken than she would have deemed it
possible. There could be no doubt that she had loved the man in her
girlish, adoring fashion.
She had thought that never again could she return to the place which
had such dread memories for her. Thoughts of the long summer days, and
the dreary, interminable winter, when the distractions of labour are
denied the farmer, had been revolting to her. To live within a few
miles of where that dreadful tragedy had occurred; to live amongst the
surroundings which must ever be reminding her of her dead lover; these
things had made her shrink from the thought of the time when she would
again turn westward to her home.
But when she had once more taken her place in the daily life at the
farm, it was, at first with a certain feeling of self-disgust, and
later with thankfulness, that she learned that she could face her old
life with perfect equanimity. The childish passion for her dead lover
had died; the shock which had suddenly brought about her own
translation from girlhood to womanhood had also dispelled the
illusions of her girlish first love.
She confided nothing to anybody, but just went about her daily round
of labours in a quiet, pensive way, striving by every means to lighten
her mother's burden and to help her brother to the path which their
father before them had so diligently trodden.
Her patience had now given way under the wearing tide of Hervey's
dissatisfaction, and it seemed as though a rupture between them were
imminent.
"Oh, well enough, if you consider bare duty," Hervey retorted after a
deliberate pause.
"Bare duty, indeed!" Prudence's two brown eyes flashed round on him in
an instant. "You are the sort of man who should speak of duty, Hervey.
You just ought to be ashamed of yourself. Your mother's debt of duty
towards you was fulfilled on the day you left the farm years ago. She
provided you with liberal capital to start you in life. Now you have
come back, and she welcomes you with open arms--we both do--glad that
you should be with us again. And what return have you made to her for
her goodness? I'll tell you; you have brought her nothing but days of
unhappiness with your lazy, grumbling ways. If you are going to
continue like this, for goodness' sake go away again. She has enough
on her shoulders without being worried by you."
The man looked for a moment as though he were going to give
expression to some very nasty talk. Prudence had returned to her
pans and so lost the evil glance of his expressive eyes. Then his
look changed to a mocking smile, and when he spoke his words were
decidedly conciliating.
"I'm afraid I've done something to offend you, Prue. But you shouldn't
use hard words like that I know I'm not much of a farmer, and I am
always a bit irritable when I am not my own master. But don't let's
quarrel. I wanted to talk to you about George Iredale. He seems a
jolly decent fellow--much too good to be kicking his heels about in
such a district as Owl Hoot. He's extremely wealthy, isn't he?"
The girl felt angry still, but Hervey's tone slightly mollified her.
She answered shortly enough, and the skimming of the milk was not done
with the adeptness which she usually displayed.
"Rich? Yes, he's one of the richest men in Manitoba. Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. He seems very interested in--us. He's always over
here. And he never by any chance loses an opportunity of ingratiating
himself with mother. I wonder what his object is?"
Prudence bent over her work to hide the tell-tale flush which had
spread over her face, and the skimming was once more done with the
utmost care.
"Mother is very fond of Mr. Iredale," she replied slowly. "He is a
good man, and a good friend. We, as you know, are his nearest
neighbours. Are you going over there to-day?"
"I think so. Why?"
"Oh--it doesn't matter--I was going to ask you to ride over to
Lakeville to ask Alice Gordon to come here during the harvesting.
She's staying with the Covills. But it doesn't matter in the least, I
can send one of the boys."
"Yes, better send one of the boys. I'm going over to Lonely Ranch. I
shall cultivate Iredale; he's the only man I care about round here."
Prudence had nearly completed her operations and was salting the cream
in the pail.
"Say, sis, did it ever strike you that Iredale's dead sweet on you?"
Hervey went on coarsely.
The girl suddenly turned and looked her brother squarely in the face.
Her brow was again flushed, but now with anger.
"You'll lose the best of your shooting if you don't hurry. You've got
ten miles to ride. And--I am going to lock up."
Her brother didn't offer to move.
"Why do you do all this work?" he went on calmly. "Why don't you send
all the milk to the Government creamery? It'll save labour, and you
get market price for the produce."
"Because Government creameries are for those who can't afford to send
their stuff to market, or make their cheese on their farms."
"Ah, that's the worst of being large farmers, it entails so much work.
By Jove! Iredale doesn't work like we 'moss-backs' have to, and he's
made a fortune. I guess if there were a Mrs. George Iredale she'd have
a bully time. No cheese- or butter-making, eh, sis?" And, with a grin,
Hervey turned on his heel, and, passing up the steps, walked away
towards the barn.
Prudence waited until her brother had disappeared within the stables;
then she locked up. As she turned from the door she heard her mother's
voice calling.
"Girl--girl, where are you?"
"Here I am, mother dear, at the creamery."
Mrs. Malling trundled round the corner of the house.
"Prudence, there's young Peter Furrer come over, and I haven't time to
stop and gossip with him. Like as not he don't want to talk to a body
like me, anyway. Just drop that skirt o' yours, girl, and go and see
him. A nice time o' day to come a-courtin'. He'll be a-follerin' you
to the grain fields when we're harvesting."
Prudence smiled.
"Never mind, mother. He's come at an opportune moment. I want a
messenger to go over to Lakeville. He'll do. I'm sending word to Alice
Gordon. I want her to come here for the harvesting. Alice must get
very sick of living at Ainsley, in spite of the fact of her beau
living there. I've a good mind to tell her to bring him out here.
Shan't be long, dear; I'll join you directly. Where are you? In the
wash-house?"
The girl ran off, letting her skirt fall as she went The mother passed
on to the wash-house, muttering to herself as she went.
"La, if he were only like her. But there, the Lord ordains, and them
as brings their offspring into the world must abide the racket. But it
goes hard with a man about the house who idles. Mussy-a-me, he ain't
like his poor father. And I'm not goin' to give him no extra dollars
to fling around in Winnipeg. He's too fond of loose company."
The old lady continued to mutter audibly until she reached the
wash-house door, where she disappeared just as the object of her
thoughts led his horse out of the barn, jumped on its back, and rode
away.
It was noon when Hervey reached Owl Hoot. He had been there several
times lately, sometimes at George Iredale's invitation, but generally
at his own. He had his own particular reasons for cultivating the
owner of Lonely Ranch, and those reasons he kept carefully to himself.
This unworthy son had only been at Loon Dyke Farm for little more than
four months, and during that brief period he had plainly shown what
manner of man he was.
Even the doting affection of his mother had not blinded that simple
soul to his shortcomings. Each month since his coming he had steadily
overdrawn his allowance to no inconsiderable extent. His frequent
visits to Winnipeg had always ended in his return home with pockets
empty, and an accumulation of debts, of which he said nothing, left
behind him. Then came the inevitable request for money, generally
backed up by some plausible excuse, and Hephzibah's cheque-book was
always forthcoming on these occasions. But though, hitherto, she had
not failed him, he saw by her manner that the time was not far distant
when her sweet old face would become curiously set, and the comely
mouth would shut tight, and the cheque-book would remain locked in her
wardrobe, while he poured his flimsy excuses on stone-deaf ears.
He understood his mother. She would do much, perhaps far too much for
her children, but she would not allow herself to be preyed upon; she
was too keen a business woman for that. Besides, his accumulation of
debts was now so great that all he was able to bleed her for would be
but a drop in the ocean. In Winnipeg he posed as the owner of Loon
Dyke Farm, and as such his credit was extensive. But now there were
clamourings for settlements, and Hervey knew that gaming debts and
hotel bills must be met in due course. Tradesmen can wait, they have
redress from owners of property, but the others have no such means of
repaying themselves, therefore they must be paid if he wished to
remain in the district. Now he meant to raise what he required from
Iredale. He had recognized the fact that Iredale was in love with
Prudence, nor was he slow to appreciate the possibilities which this
matter suggested as a money-raising means. Yes, Hervey intended that
Iredale should pay for the privilege of enjoying his sister's society.
Money he must have, and that at once.
It was a wild, desolate region which he rode through on his way to
Lonely Ranch. No one, finding themselves suddenly dropped into the
midst of those wood-covered crags and clean-cut ravines, the
boulder-strewn, grassless land, would have dreamed that they were
within half-a-dozen miles of the fertile prairie-lands of Canada. It
was like a slum hidden away in the heart of a fashionable city. The
country round the mysterious Lake of the Woods is something utterly
apart from the rest of the Canadian world, and partakes much of the
nature of the Badlands of Dakota. It is tucked away in the extreme
south-eastern corner of Manitoba, and the international boundary runs
right through the heart of it.
Lonely Ranch was situated in an abrupt hollow, and was entirely lost
to view in a mammoth growth of pinewoods. Years ago a settlement had
existed in this region, but what the nature of that settlement it
was now impossible to tell. Local tradition held that, at some
far-distant period, the place had been occupied by a camp of
half-breed "bad-men" who worked their evil trade upon the south
side of the American border, and sought security in the shelter of
this perfect hiding-place. Be that as it may, it was now the abode
of George Iredale, rancher. He had built for himself a splendid house
of hewn logs, and his outbuildings--many of them the restored
houses of the early settlers--and corrals formed a ranch of very
large dimensions.
And it was all hidden away in black woods which defied the keenest
observation of the passer-by. And the hollow was approached by a
circuitous road which entered the cutting at its northern end. Any
other mode of ingress was impossible for any beast of burden.
As Hervey entered the valley and became lost to view in the sombre
woods, he was greeted by the woeful cry of a screech-owl. So sudden
and unexpected was the ear-piercing cry that both horse and rider
started. The horse threw up its head and snorted, and stood for an
instant trembling with apprehension. Hervey looked about him keenly.
He could see nothing but the crowd of leafless tree-trunks, and a bed
of dry pine-cones which covered the surrounding earth. The owl was
probably hidden in the hollow of some dead tree, for there were many
about. He pressed his horse forward. The animal moved cautiously,
dancing along in its nervous apprehension.
Presently another cry split the air. Again some owl had protested at
his intrusion.
So suddenly did the cry come that Hervey felt a slight superstitious
quiver pass down his back, but he rode on. He had nearly a mile of the
valley to travel before he came to the house, and, during the journey,
seven times came the hideous screech of the owls. Now he began to
understand why this place was called "Owl Hoot."
It was with a feeling of relief that he at length saw the ranch
through the trees, and he greeted Iredale, who was standing in his
doorway when he dismounted, with genuine pleasure.
"Well," he said, after shaking his host by the hand, "another mile of
this d----d valley and I should have turned tail and fled back to the
open. Why, you must have a regular colony of owls in the place. Man, I
never heard such weird cries in my life. How is it that I haven't
heard them before when I came here?"
Iredale took his visitor's horse. He was dressed in moleskin.
Underneath his loose, dun-coloured vest he wore a soft shirt, and in
place of a linen collar he had a red bandana tied about his neck. His
headgear was a Stetson hat. In this garb he looked much more burly and
powerful than in the tweeds he usually wore when visiting at the farm.
His strong, patient face was lit by a quiet smile. He was a man whose
eyes, and the expression of his features, never betrayed his thoughts.
A keen observer would have noticed this at once, but to such people as
he encountered he merely appeared a kindly man who was not much given
to talking.
"Colony of owls, eh?" he said, leading the horse in the direction of
the barn. "Those cries you have heard are what this cheerful place
takes its name from. It only needs one cry to set the whole valley
ringing with them. Had not the first creature seen you approach you
might have reached your destination without hearing one disturbing
sound. As a rule, in the daytime, they are not heard, but at night no
one can enter these woods without the echoes being aroused. When they
begin to shriek there is no sleep for any one in my house."
"So I should say. Well, never mind them now, we have other matters on
hand. What coverts are we going to shoot over first?"
Hervey had followed his host to the stable. A strange-looking little
creature came from the obscurity within. He was an undersized man with
a small face, which seemed somehow to have shrivelled up like a dead
leaf. He had a pair of the smallest eyes Hervey had ever seen, and not
a vestige of hair on his face. His head was covered with a crown of
bristly grey hair that seemed to grow in patches, and his feet were
both turned in one direction--to the right.
"Take this plug and give him a rub down, Chintz," said Iredale. "When
he's cool, water and feed him. Mr. Malling won't need him until about
eight o'clock."
Then he turned towards the house.
"He don't waste words," observed Hervey, indicating the man, who had
silently disappeared into the stable, taking the horse with him.
"No; he's dumb," replied Iredale. "He's my head boy."
"Boy?"
"Yes. Sixty-two."
The two men passed into Iredale's sitting-room. It was plainly but
comfortably furnished in a typical bachelor manner. There were more
signs of the owner's sporting propensities in the room than anything
else, the walls being arranged with gun-racks, fishing-tackle, and
trophies of the chase.
"We'll draw the bush on the other side of the Front Hill, otherwise
known as the 'Haunted Hill,'" said Iredale, pointing to a gun-rack.
"Select your weapon. I should take a mixed bore--ten and twelve. We
may need both. There are some geese in a swamp over that way. The
cartridges are in the bookcase; help yourself to a good supply, and
one of those haversacks."
Hervey did as his host suggested.
"Why 'Haunted Hill'?" he asked curiously.
Iredale shrugged.
"By reason of a little graveyard on the side of it. Evidently where
the early settlers buried their dead. It is a local name given, I
suppose, by the prairie folk of your neighbourhood. Come on."
The two men set out. Nor did they return until six o'clock. Their
shoot was productive of a splendid bag--prairie chicken and geese.
Both men were excellent shots. Iredale was perhaps the better of the
two, at least his bag numbered two brace more than that of his
companion; but then, as Hervey told himself, he was using a strange
gun, whilst Iredale was using the weapon he most favoured. Supper was
prepared by the time they returned to the house. Iredale, healthily
hungry and calmly contented, sat down to the meal; Hervey, famished by
his unusual exercise, joined him in the loudest of good spirits.
Towards the close of the meal, when the whisky-and-water Hervey
had liberally primed himself with had had due effect, he broached
the subject that was ever uppermost in his thoughts. He began
expansively--
"You know, George,"--he had already adopted the familiarity, and
Iredale had not troubled to show disapproval, probably he remembered
the relationship between this man and Prudence,--"I'm sick of
farming. It's too monotonous. Not only that; so long as mother lives I
am little better than a hired man. Of course she's very good," he went
on, as he noted a sudden lowering of his companion's eyelids; "does no
end for me, and all that sort of thing; but my salary goes nowhere
with a man who has--well--who has hitherto had considerable resources.
It's no easy thing under the circumstances to keep my expenses down.
It seems such nonsense, when one comes to think of it, that I, who
will eventually own the farm, subject, of course, to some provision
for Prue, have to put up with a trifling allowance doled out to me
every month; it's really monstrous. Who ever heard of a fellow living
on one hundred dollars a month! That's what I'm getting. Why, I owe
more than five months' wages at the Northern Union Hotel in Winnipeg.
It can't be done; that's all about it."
Iredale looked over at the dark face opposite him. Nor could he help
drawing a comparison between the man and the two ladies who owned him,
one as brother, the other as son. How utterly unlike them he was in
every way. There was not the smallest resemblance in mind, face, or
figure. His thoughts reverted to Silas Malling, and here they paused.
Here was the resemblance of outward form; and he wondered what
unfathomed depths had lain in the nature of the old farmer which could
have communicated themselves in such developed form to the son. It was
inconceivable that this indolent, selfish spendthrift could have
inherited his nature from Silas Malling. No; he felt sure that some
former ancestor must have been responsible for it. He understood the
drift of Hervey's words in a twinkling. He had experienced this sort
of thing before from other men. Now he did not discourage it.
"A hundred a month on the prairie should be a princely--er--wage," he
said in his grave way. "Of course it might be different in a city."
"It is," said Hervey decidedly. "I don't know, I'm sure," he went on,
after a moment's pause. "I suppose I must weather through somehow."
He looked across at Iredale in such a definitely meaning way that the
latter had no hesitation in speaking plainly. He knew it was money,
and this was Prudence's brother.
"Got into a--mess?" he suggested encouragingly.
Hervey felt that he had an easy victim, but he smoked pensively for a
moment before he spoke, keeping his great eyes turned well down upon
the table-cover.
"Um--I lost a lot of money at poker the last time I was in the city. I
was in an awful streak of bad luck; could do nothing right. Generally
it's the other way about. Now they're pressing me to redeem the
I.O.U.s. When they owe me I notice they're not so eager about it."
"That's bad; I'm sorry to hear it." Iredale's eyes were smiling,
whilst in their depths there was the faintest suspicion of irony. He
was in no way imposed upon by the breadth of the fabrication. It was
the old story. He, too, lit his pipe and leant back in his chair. "I
hope the amount is not too overwhelming. If I can--er--be----"
Hervey interrupted him eagerly. He brought his hand down heavily upon
the table.
"By Jove! you are a good sort, George. If you could--just a loan, of
course--you see I can offer you security on my certain inheritance of
the farm----"
But Iredale had no wish to hear anything about his future possibilities
of inheritance. He interrupted him sharply, and his tone was unusually
icy.
"Tut--tut, man. Never mind about that. In spite of your need of money,
I hope it will be many a year before your mother leaves our farming
world."
"I trust so," murmured Hervey, without enthusiasm.
"How much will appease your creditors?"
Iredale spoke with such indifference about the amount that Hervey
promptly decided to double the sum he originally intended to ask for.
"Five thousand dollars," he said, with some show of diffidence, but
with eyes that gazed hungrily towards this man who treated the loaning
of a large amount in such a careless manner.
Iredale offered no comment. He merely rose from his seat, and opening
a drawer in his bookcase, produced a cheque-book and a pen and ink. He
made out a cheque for the amount named, and passed it across the
table. His only remark was--
"Your luck may change. Pay me when you like. No, don't bother about a
receipt."
Hervey seized upon the piece of paper. He was almost too staggered to
tender his thanks. Iredale in his quiet way was watching, nor was any
movement on his companion's part lost to his observant eyes. He had
"sized" this man up, from the soles of his boots to the crown of his
head, and his contempt for him was profound. But he gave no sign. His
cordiality was apparently perfect. The five thousand dollars were
nothing to him, and he felt that the giving of that cheque might save
those at Loon Dyke Farm from a world of anxiety and trouble. Somehow
behind that impassive face he may have had some thoughts of the coming
of a future time when he would be able to deal with this man's mode of
life with that firmness which only relationship could entitle him
to--when he could personally relieve Hephzibah of the responsibility
and wearing anxiety of her worthless son's doings. In the meantime,
like the seafaring man, he would just "stand by."
"I can't thank you enough, George," said Hervey at last. "You have got
me out of an awkward situation. If I can do you a good turn, I will."
Iredale detected a meaning emphasis in the last remark which he
resented. "Some day," the man went on; "but there--I will say no
more."
"No, I shouldn't say anything. These things happen in the course of a
lifetime, and one mustn't say too much about them." The two men then
smoked on in silence.
Presently Hervey rose to go. It was nearly eight o'clock.
"Well," said Iredale, as he prepared to bid his guest good-bye, "we
have had a good afternoon's sport. Now you know my coverts you must
come over again. Come whenever you like. If I am unable to go with
you, you are welcome to shoot over the land by yourself. There are
some grand antelope about the place."
"Thanks. I shall certainly come again. And--well, when are you coming
over to us again? I can't offer you any shooting."
"Don't trouble," smiled Iredale.
Hervey saw the "boy" Chintz leading his horse round.
"You might tell your mother," the rancher went on, "that I'll come
to-morrow to read over that fencing contract she spoke about for
her."
Hervey leered round upon him.
"Will it do if I tell Prue instead?"
"Certainly not." Iredale's face was quite expressionless at that
moment. "You will please do as I ask."
Hervey gulped down his chagrin; but his eyes were alight with the
anger from which his lips refrained. He mounted his horse.
"Well, good-bye, George," he said, with a great display of cordiality.
"I hope those owls of yours will permit me to ride in peace."
"I have no doubt they will," replied Iredale, with an inscrutable
smile. "Good-bye."
Hervey rode away. The man he had left remained standing at his front
door. The horseman half turned in his saddle as the bush closed about
him.
"Curse the man for his d----d superiority," he muttered. "I suppose he
thinks I am blind. Well, Mr. Iredale, we've made a pleasant start from
my point of view. If you intend to marry Prudence you'll have to pay
the piper. Guess I'm that piper. It's money I want, and it's money
you'll have to pay."
The mysterious owner of Lonely Ranch was thinking deeply as he watched
his guest depart.
"I believe he's the greatest scoundrel I have ever come across," he
said to himself. "Money? Why, he'd sell his soul for it, or I'm no
judge of men of his kidney, and, worse luck, I know his sort well
enough. I wonder what made me do it? Not friendship. Prudence? No, not
exactly. And yet--I don't know. I think I'd sooner have him on my side
than against me." Then he turned his eyes towards the corrals and
outbuildings which were dotted about amongst the trees, and finally
they settled upon a little clearing on the side of Front Hill. It was
a graveyard of the early settlers. "Yes, I must break away from it
all--and as soon as possible. I have said so for many a year, but the
fascination of it has held me. If I hope to ever marry Prudence I must
give it up. I must not--dare not let her discover the truth. The
child's goodness drives me to desperation. Yes--it shall all go."
His gaze wandered in the direction Hervey had taken, and a troubled
look came into his calm eyes. A moment later he turned suddenly with a
shiver and passed into the house. Somehow his thoughts were very
gloomy.