"Excuse _me_," said Wade, who had anticipated his entrance by many
preliminary noises, "excuse me, my dear young friends, and,
incidentally, accept my sincerest congratulations, felicitations,
and--er--jubilations. Kindly listen to the following observations.
Ahem! Far be it from me to horn in where I am as welcome as a wet dog.
Nothing is farther from my desire than to short circuit two hearts----"
"Come right in, old man," said Casey. "What's the trouble?"
"I want my dinner," said Wade plaintively. "I Paul Revered on a
shoestring. I Sheridaned without a commissariat. I brought the good
news to Ghent on an empty tummy. Is thy servant a dog, that he should
eat with a Chinaman? And I'd do that willingly; but, Casey, you know as
well as I do that the only thing fit to drink Clyde's health in is in
this room, and I warn you that if there is much more delay in doing so
nothing which may occur hereafter will be either lucky or legal. While
it is possibly true that a dinner of herbs where love is has a
porterhouse, rare, and hashed brown spuds backed clean off the board, I
submit, not being in love myself----"
"What's that?" cried Kitty Wade from the door.
"Why, it's a shame!" said Clyde. "He must be starving. It's all Casey's
fault, too."
"Wouldn't he break away?" asked Wade. "I remember----?"
"Harrison!" cried Kitty, warningly.
"Well, then, do I eat?" he demanded.
"Yes. Anything to keep you quiet. I'll get your dinner myself."
Half an hour later Wade pushed back his chair with a sigh of
satisfaction, lit a cigar, and joined the others.
"I feel better," he announced. "A child could play with me in
comparative safety. Now let me tell you what else I discovered. In the
first place, Cross is dead. I was talking to Shiller. He says that Tom
wasn't to blame--corroborates his story, in fact, in every material
particular. So Tom's all right on that score. My advice to him would be
to come in and have his trial over."
"That isn't what's bothering him so much. It's these friends of
Cross's. I don't blame him. Some sheriffs are mighty weak-kneed about
such things."
"Well, I'm told that officers will be after him. Now as to your
brother, Miss McCrae: Glass and Pugh are starting out to find him as
soon as they get an outfit. Likely they've got started now."
"But they don't know where he is. That Glass--I should think he'd get
lost if he left a trail."
"Pugh is different. They may get another man or two."
"I hope they don't find him," said Sheila gravely.
"So do I," Wade concurred. "I don't suppose a prosecution would be
pushed now; but he resisted an officer, and anyway I wouldn't like to
see him under arrest."
"You don't understand. Sandy wouldn't submit quietly."
"You think he'd try to bluff them again?"
"He isn't a bluff," said Casey. "The kid is serious-minded. That's the
trouble. However, I've sent Tom word about Dade. Sandy may be with him;
and Tom is cool. When Simon comes in we'll know more, and send him out
again if he knows where the boy is."
Sheila declared that she must be going home. She refused Casey's offer
to drive her over. She wanted to take the edge off Beaver Boy. His
actions rankled in her mind. He needed a lesson, and she was going to
give him one. And she refused absolutely to allow Casey to ride with
her.
He had her horse saddled, and was giving a final pull at the latigos
when she came out in her riding clothes.
"Cinch him up tight," she commanded. "Take a good pull at it; he's
getting too foxy."
Beaver Boy grunted as Casey put his strength on the strap and the broad
cinch bit into his glossy skin.
"And that's loose a-plenty," said his mistress. "He blows himself up
like a turkey gobbler. I need a block and tackle to cinch him right."
She shaded her eyes with her hand. "Somebody coming. I'll wait and see
who it is."
Much to their surprise, it was none other than Farwell. He rode
briskly, head up, shoulders back, with the air of a man whose mind is
made up. But he refused to get off his horse, asking Sheila's
permission to ride with her.
"I wanted to tell you," he said, "that you'll have water for the summer
anyway. I've just had a wire from headquarters to shut down, and to
turn the normal flow of the river back into its old channel." He smiled
grimly. "They didn't know that the elements had attended to that.
Thought you'd like to know. Might save you worry. Don't know the
company's reason, and it's none of my business. I'm paying off the
whole outfit to-night, including the men we were speaking of. To-morrow
I'll pull out myself. Glad to do it."
"Sorry to have you go," said Casey.
"You say it all right, but I know better," said Farwell bluntly. "I
don't want to keep Miss McCrae waiting. Will you shake hands?"
Casey put out his hand. It was caught, thumb crotch to thumb crotch, in
a grip of steel. He laughed as he threw every ounce of strength into
his own fingers.
"Good man," said Farwell. "I like a man with a handgrip, and you've got
it. Any time you're ready, Miss McCrae?"
Sheila went up as lightly as a boy. Beaver Boy was off as she touched
the saddle. Farwell followed. They melted into the distance, galloping
side by side, the dust, in spite of the night's rain, puffing up from
the flying hoofs.
At the end of a mile Beaver Boy's exuberance had not subsided. He
thrashed out with his heels, and gave a tentative pitch. Farwell, who
had been riding slightly behind, ranged up alongside.
"I should think you'd get a quiet horse," he said.
"I'll make this one quiet!" snapped Sheila, for she was still sore, and
the hard pace had told on her temper through her bruises. "He's
actually beginning to think he can do as he likes with _me_." Beaver
Boy shied to show his independence, and she slashed him mercilessly
with the quirt, setting her teeth as he plunged. "You would, would you,
you brute? I'll show you!"
Farwell, riding in, grabbed for the headstall.
"Get away!" she flamed. "I'll fight this out with him now."
The question of supremacy took five minutes to settle. At the end of
that time Beaver Boy relapsed ignominiously into servitude, smarting
from the quirt and dripping sweat. Sheila put all her strength into a
final cut. The big bay took it meekly with what was almost a sigh and a
trembling quiver.
Farwell had watched the struggle with anxiety. "You won't have any more
trouble with him for a while. He's afraid of you now."
"He'd better be. He's been obstinate for months, getting worse all the
time. He had some notion in his head that he was merely _allowing_ me
to ride him. He did what he liked for a while last night when I was
shaken up, and he had to have his lesson. No use letting any one else
give it to him. He had to be shown that _I_ was able to do it."
"That's so," said Farwell, "that's sense. The idea of you going out in
the storm last night on that brute. No other girl would have done it.
It was fine, but it was foolish."
"Nonsense! I'm not afraid of rain or a horse. Could I do anything else?
It was up to me."
"Maybe. Well, you heard what I told Dunne about the water. That ought
to be satisfactory to all you people."
"Naturally I'm glad."
"I'm going away," he continued. "Also, I'm chucking up my job. I'm
sorry I ever took it. It was sheer waste of time. I'm going to work for
myself now. I hoped I would catch you at Dunne's place. I wanted to say
good-bye."
"I am sorry you are going."
"That's what Dunne said--and he didn't mean it. Do you?"
"I usually mean what I say."
"Well, I didn't know. I wouldn't blame you if you were glad. I behaved
like a--well, like a blackguard once."
"We needn't talk about that," said Sheila quietly. "That's over; I
don't think of it."
"But I do. I'm rough, but I'm not that kind--usually. You let me down
easy. If I could undo it I would; but I can't."
"No, it can't be undone. Why talk about it?"
"Because I keep thinking about it. I've kept away, as you wanted me
to--and because I was ashamed of myself. Honestly, I've tried to do the
best I could for your people--for your father. I tried my best to be a
friend. And the end of it was that I started gossip, and you told me to
keep away. That was pretty hard lines. It made me angry. And then I was
jealous of Dunne."
"He is going to marry Miss Burnaby."
"Lucky devil!" growled Farwell dejectedly. "Things run smooth for
_him_. I'll bet he doesn't think half as much of her as I do of you."
Sheila smiled for the first time. "You wouldn't tell her that."
"I'd tell it to anybody. It's a fact. Why, look here: I'm a practical
man; I've no more imagination than a stump. And yet I've lain awake
nights pretending to myself that you had let me kiss you willingly.
How's that?"
Sheila laughed softly. "That's certainly going some, Mr. Farwell!"
"Well, it's what I do, anyway. It's about all the consolation I've
got."
"Is it? Couldn't you get something better than that?"
"I could if you'd give me half a chance," he declared. "You turned me
down hard and cold. There's a fine show for consolation, isn't there?"
"Perhaps some other girl----?" she suggested demurely.
"No!" Farwell rapped out bluntly. "I don't want any other girl. I don't
like other girls. They make me tired. I'd rather work than fuss with
them. It's easier. If I can't have you I don't want anybody."
Sheila laughed again. The colour was high in her cheeks, and a strange
light was shining in her clear eyes. She shot a glance at him, half
amused, half serious.
"And if you had me you'd be tired of me in no time. I'm just plain
girl."
"Plain girl nothing! You're the prettiest----"
"I'm not; I'm not even average."
"And the best and the most sensible and the pluckiest one I ever saw,"
he pursued, unheeding. "Don't tell me; I know. I've seen whole rafts of
women. Dolls! Flirts! Gigglers! Fainters! Talking slush and thinking
slop! Soft, too, like dough. Eating filthy coloured and flavoured
glucose by the pound. Yah! Not a sane idea, or a sound digestion, or a
healthy body in the bunch. And as for dress, the average woman piles a
lot of truck on her like a _klootch_ at a potlatch, and cinches
herself up in a----"
"Hush!" said Sheila.
"Huh!" said Farwell. "Why shouldn't I call things by their names? I
never could see----"
"You aren't supposed to see. That's plenty. I won't be lectured on the
follies of my sex."
"You're different from the others," said Farwell. "That's just it.
You've got ideas apart from dress and gossip, the same as a man has.
You're in good hard condition physically. You don't giggle, and titter,
and make eyes, and expect a man to talk like a da--er--ah--that is, you
don't expect a lot of silly compliments. I've never seen anybody like
you. Talk of another girl! Bah! I couldn't stand one in the same house.
It's you or no one."
"I don't think I'd wear well, Mr. Farwell. You'd get tired of me."
"No, I wouldn't; no, I wouldn't. I know what I'm talking about. I tell
you, I love you, Sheila. Do you think it's easy to say good-bye and
leave you? It's the hardest job I ever had. It's--it's--oh, it's hell,
that's what it is. I used to love work just for the work's sake. But
now, to think of grubbing away year after year, to get money that I
can't use, that I don't want--that can't get me what I want! Oh, Lord!
the hopeless years ahead! What's the good of them? What's the use? I
wish I'd never seen this place--or you."
His deep voice rose, and fell, and rumbled uncertainly, shaken by
feeling. He slouched dejectedly in his saddle, looking straight ahead
as if his eyes beheld the emptiness of the years to come.
"Then why do you say good-bye?" said Sheila.
Farwell started, half turning in the saddle. "Why? Because it's best.
What's the use of hanging around? I have to take my medicine, don't I?
I can take it easier away from here."
"I'm not so sure," she said hesitatingly, "that there will be any
medicine to take."
Farwell's eyes opened wide as he stared at her.
"What do you mean by that? Don't fool with me, Sheila, for Heaven's
sake. It's too serious a matter."
"Yes, it's serious," she agreed. She faced him frankly, the rich blood
mounting beneath the tan of her cheeks. "What's the use of beating
around the bush? When you kissed me I hated you. I struck you. But when
Sandy came--and afterward--you seemed a good deal of a man. And so--I
don't know--but it need not be good-bye for good."