THE TIGHTENING OF THE NET
It was a hot morning of early summer when I rode up the low rise to my
house at Gaspard's Trail. A few willows straggled behind one side of it,
but otherwise it rose unsheltered from the wind-swept plain, which,
after a transitory flush of greenness, had grown dusty white again. I
had been in the saddle since sunrise, when the dewy freshness had
infused cheerfulness and vigor into my blood, but now it was with a
feeling of dejection I reined in my horse and sat still, looking about
me.
The air was as clear as crystal, so that the birches far off on the
western horizon cut sharply against the blue. All around the rest of the
circle ran an almost unbroken sweep of white and gray, streaked in one
place by the dust of alkali rolling up from a strip of bitter water,
which flashed like polished steel. Long plow-furrows stretched across
the foreground, but even these had been baked by pitiless sunshine to
the same monotony of color, and it was well I had not sown the whole of
them, for sparse, sickly blades rose in the wake of the harrows where
tall wheat should have been. Behind these stood the square log dwelling
and straggling outbuildings of logs and sod, all of a depressing
ugliness, while two shapeless yellow mounds, blazing under the sunshine,
represented the strawpile granaries. There was no touch of verdure in
all the picture, for it had been a dry season, which boded ill for me.
Presently a horse and a rider, whose uniform was whitened by the fibrous
dust, swung out of a shallow ravine--or _coulee_, as we called them--and
Trooper Cotton cantered towards me. "Hotter than ever, and I suppose
that accounts for your downcast appearance," he said. "I've never seen
weather like it. Even the gophers are dead."
"It grows sickening; but you are wrong in one respect," I answered
ruefully. "All the gophers in the country have collected around my grain
and wells. As they fall in after every hearty meal of wheat, we have
been drinking them. You are just in time for breakfast, and I'll be glad
of your company. One overlooks a good deal when things are going well,
but the sordid monotony of these surroundings palls on one now and
then."
"You are not the only man who feels it," said the trooper, while a
temporary shadow crossed his face. "You have been to Bonaventure too
often, Ormesby. Of course, it's delightful to get into touch with things
one has almost forgotten, but I don't know that it's wise for a poor
man, which is, perhaps, why I allowed Haldane to take me in last night.
You, however, hardly come into the same category."
"I shall soon, unless there's a change in the weather," I answered with
a frown. "But come in, and tell me what Haldane--or his daughters--said
to you."
"I didn't see much of Miss Haldane," said Cotton, as we rode on
together. "Of course, she's the embodiment of all a woman of that kind
should be; but I can't help feeling it's a hospitable duty when she
talks to me. You see I've forgotten most of the little I used to know,
and she is, with all respect, uncomfortably superior to an average
individual."
I was not pleased with Trooper Cotton, but did not tell him so.
"Presumably you find Miss Lucille understands you better?" I answered,
with a trace of ill-humor.
The lad looked straight at me. "I'm not responsible for the weather,
Ormesby," he said, a trifle stiffly. "Still, since you have put it so,
it's my opinion that Miss Lucille Haldane would understand anybody. She
has the gift of making you feel it also. To change the subject, however,
I was over warning Bryan about his fireguard furrows, and yours hardly
seem in accordance with the order."
I laughed, and said nothing further until a man in a big straw hat
appeared in the doorway. "Who's that?" asked Cotton, drawing his bridle.
"Foster Lane," I answered. "He came over yesterday."
"Ah!" said the trooper, pulling out his watch. "On reflection, perhaps I
had better not come in. I am due at the Cree reserve by ten, and, as my
horse is a little lame, I don't want to press him. This time you will
excuse me."
His excuse was certainly lame, as I could see little the matter with the
horse; and, being short of temper that morning, I answered sharply: "I
won't press you; but is it a coincidence that you remember this only
when you recognize Lane?"
Trooper Cotton, who was frank by nature and a poor diplomatist, looked
uneasy. "I don't want to offend you, Ormesby, but one must draw the line
somewhere, and I will not sit down with that man," he said. "I know he's
your guest, but you would not let me back out gracefully, and, if it's
not impertinent, I'll add that I'm sorry he is."
"I congratulate you on being able to draw lines, but just now I myself
cannot afford to be particular," I answered dryly; and when, with a
feeble apology, Cotton rode away, it cost me an effort to greet the
other man civilly.
As breakfast was ready, he took his place at the table, and glanced at
me whimsically. Foster Lane was neither very prepossessing nor
distinctly the reverse in appearance. He was stout, and somewhat flabby
in face, with straw-colored hair and a thick-lipped mouth; but while his
little eyes had a humorous twinkle, there was a suggestion of force as
well as cunning about him. He was of middle age, and besides
representing a so-styled "development company" was, by profession, land
agent, farmers' financier, and mortgage jobber, and, as naturally
follows, a usurer.
"Say, I'm not deaf yet, Ormesby," he commenced, with coarse good-humor.
"Particular kind of trooper that one, isn't he? Is he another broken-up
British baronet's youngest son, or--because they only raise his kind in
the old country--what has the fellow done?"
"He's a friend of mine," I answered. "I never inquired of him. Still,
I'm sorry you overheard him."
"That's all right," was the answer. "My hide is a pretty thick one; and
one needs such a protection in my business. Give a dog a bad name and
you may as well hang him, Rancher Ormesby, although I flatter myself I'm
a necessity in a new country. How many struggling ranchers would go
under in a dry season but for my assistance; and how many fertile acres
now growing the finest wheat would lie waste but for me? Yet, when I ask
enough to live on, in return, every loafer without energy or foresight
abuses me. It's a very ungrateful world, Ormesby."
Lane chuckled as he wiped his greasy forehead, and paused before he
continued: "I've been thinking all night about carrying over the loan
you mentioned, and though money's scarce just now, this is my
suggestion. I'll let you have three-fourths of its present appraised
value on Crane Valley, and you can then clear Gaspard's Trail, and
handle a working balance. I'd sooner do that than carry over--see?"
I set down my coffee cup because I did not see. I had expected he would
have exacted increased interest on the loan due for repayment, and
interest in Western Canada is always very high; but it seemed curious
that he should wish to change one mortgage for another. It also struck
me that if, in case I failed to make repayment, Crane Valley would be
valuable to him, it should be worth at least as much to me.
"That would not suit me," I said.
"No?" and Lane spoke slowly, rather as one asking a question than with a
hint of menace. "Feel more like letting me foreclose on you?"
"You could not do that, because I should pay you off," I said. "I could
do it, though there's no use denying that it would cripple me just now.
As of course you know, whatever I could realize on at present, when
everybody is short of money and trade at a standstill, should bring
twice as much next season. That is why I wish the loan to run on."
"Well!" And Lane helped himself before he answered. "In that case, I'll
have to tax you an extra ten per cent. It seems high, but no bank would
look at encumbered property or a half-developed place like Crane Valley.
Take it, or leave it, at six months' date. That would give you time to
sell your fat stock and realize on your harvest."
I fancied there was a covert sneer in the last words, because I had
faint hope of any harvest, and answered accordingly. "It seems
extortionate, but even so, should pay me better than sacrificing now."
"Money's scarce," said Lane suavely. "I'm going on to Lawrence's, and
will send you in the papers. Lend me as good a horse as you have for a
day or two."
I did not like the man's tone, and the request was too much like an
order; but I made no further comment; though a load seemed lifted from
me when he rode away, and I started with my foreman to haul home prairie
hay. It was fiercely hot, and thick dust rolled about our light wagon,
while each low rise, cut off as it were from the bare levels, floated
against the horizon. The glare tired one's vision, and, half-closing my
aching eyes, I sank into a reverie. For eight long years I had toiled
late and early, taxing the strength of mind and body to the utmost. I
had also prospered, and lured on by a dream, first dreamed in England, I
grew more ambitious, breaking new land and extending my herds with
borrowed capital. That had also paid me until a bad season came, and
when both grain and cattle failed, Lane became a menace to my
prosperity. It was a bare life I and my foreman lived, for every dollar
hardly won was entrusted in some shape to the kindly earth again, and no
cent wasted on comforts, much less luxuries; but I had seldom time to
miss either of them, and it was not until Haldane brought his daughters
to Bonaventure that I saw what a man with means and leisure might make
of his life. Then came the reaction, and there were days when I grew
sick of the drudgery and heavy physical strain; but still, spurred on
alternately by hope and fear, I relaxed no effort.
Now, artificial grasses are seldom sown on the prairie where usually the
natural product grows only a few inches high, and as building logs are
scarce, implements are often kept just where they last were used. It was
therefore necessary to seek hay worth cutting in a dried-out slough, or
swamp, and next to find the mower, which might lie anywhere within a
radius of four miles or so. We came upon them both together, the mower
lying on its side, red with rust, amid a stretch of waist-high grass.
The latter was harsh and wiry, heavy-scented with wild peppermint, and
made ready for us by the sun.
There were, however, preliminary difficulties, and I had worked myself
into a state of exasperation before the rusty machine could be induced
to run. After a vigorous hammering and the reckless use of oil the pair
of horses were at last just able to haul it, groaning vehemently,
through the dried-up swamp. I was stripped almost to the skin by this
time, the dust that rose in clouds turned to mire upon my dripping
cheeks and about my eyes, while bloodthirsty winged creatures hovered
round my head.
"This," said Foreman Thorn, as he wiped the red specks from his face and
hands, "is going to be a great country. We can raise the finest insects
on the wide earth already. The last time I was down to Traverse a man
came along from somewhere with a gospel tent, and from what he said
there wasn't much chance for anyone to raise cattle. He'd socked it to
us tolerable for half-an-hour at least, when Tompson's Charlie gets up
and asks him: 'Did you ever break half-thawn sod with oxen?' 'No, my
man; but this interruption is unseemly,' says he. 'It's not a
conundrum,' says Charlie. 'Did you ever sleep in a mosquito muskeg or
cut hay in a dried-out slough?' and the preacher seeing we all wanted an
answer, shakes his head. 'Then you start in and try, and find out that
there are times when a man must talk or bust, before you worry us,' says
Charlie. But who's coming along now?"
I had been too busy to pay much attention to the narrative or to notice
a rattle of wheels, and I looked up only when a wagon was drawn up
beside the slough. A smooth-shaven man, with something familiar about
his face, sat on the driving-seat smiling down at me.
"Good-morning, Rancher Ormesby. Wanting any little pictures of yourself
to send home to friends in the old country?" he said, pointing to what
looked like the lens of a camera projecting through the canvas behind
him. "I'll take you for half-a-dollar, as you are, if you'll give me the
right to sell enlargements as a prairie study."
The accent was hardly what one might have expected from one of the
traveling adventurers who at intervals wandered across the country, and
I looked at the speaker with a puzzled air. "I have no time to spare for
fooling, and don't generally parade half-naked before either the public
or my civilized friends," I said.
"Some people look best that way," answered the other, regarding me
critically; whereupon Thorn turned round and grinned. "The team and tall
grass would make an effective background. Stand by inside there, Edmond.
It's really not a bad model of a bare throat and torso, and as I don't
know that your face is the best of you, the profile with a shadow on it
would do--just so! Say, I wonder did you know those old canvas overalls
drawn in by the leggings are picturesque and become you? There--I'm much
obliged to you."
A faint click roused me from the state of motionless astonishment his
sheer impudence produced, and when I strode forward Thorn's grin of
amusement changed to one of expectancy. "You don't want any
hair-restorer, apparently, though I've some of the best in the Dominion
at a dollar the bottle; but I could give you a salve for the
complexion," continued the traveler, and I stopped suddenly when about
to demand the destruction of the negative or demolish his camera.
"Good heavens, Boone! Is it you; and what is the meaning of this
mummery?" I asked, staring at him more amazed than ever.
"Just now I'm called Adams, if you please," said the other, holding out
his hand. "I hadn't an opportunity for thanking you for your forbearance
when we met at Bonaventure, but I shall not readily forget it. This is
not exactly mummery. It provides me with a living, and suits my purpose.
I could not resist the temptation of trying to discover whether you
recognized me, or whether I was playing my part artistically."
"Are you not taking a big risk, and why don't you exploit a safer
district?" I asked; and the man smiled as he answered: "I don't think
there's a settler around here who would betray me even if he guessed my
identity, and the troopers never got a good look at me. I live two or
three hundred miles east, you see, and the loss of a beard and mustache
alters any man's appearance considerably. I also have a little business
down this way. Have you seen anything of Foster Lane during the last
week or two?"
"Yes," I said. "He has just ridden over from my place to Lawrence's, in
Crane Valley."
"You have land there, too," said Boone, as though aware of it already;
and when I nodded, added: "Then if you are wise you will see that devil
does not get his claws on it. I presume you are not above taking a hint
from me?"
I looked straight at him. "I know very little of you except that there
is a warrant out for your arrest, and I am not addicted to taking advice
from strangers."
Boone returned my gaze steadily without resentment, and I had time to
take note of him. He was a tall, spare, sinewy man, deeply bronzed like
most of us; but now that he had, as it were, cast off all pertaining to
the traveling pedlar, there was an indefinite something in his speech
and manner which could hardly have been acquired on the prairie. He did
not look much over thirty, but his forehead was seamed, and from other
signs one might have fancied he was a man with a painful history. Then
he flicked the dust off his jean garments with the whip, and laughed a
little.
"I am an Englishman, Rancher Ormesby, and, needless to say, so are you.
We are not a superfluously civil people, and certain national
characteristics betray you. I fancy we shall be better acquainted, and,
that being so, feel prompted to tell you a story which, after what
passed at Bonaventure, you perhaps have a right to know. You will stop a
while for lunch, anyway, and if you have no objections I will take mine
along with you."
I could see no reasonable objection to this, and presently we sat
together under the wagon for the sake of coolness, while, when the mower
ceased its rattle, the dust once more settled down upon the slough. It
was almost too hot to eat; there was no breath of wind, and the glare of
the sun-scorched prairie grew blinding.
"I should not wonder if you took most kindly to indirect advice, and
there is a moral to this story," said Boone, when I lit my pipe. "Some
years ago a disappointed man, who knew a little about land and horses,
came out from the old country to farm on the prairie, bringing with him
a woman used hitherto to the smoother side of life. He saw it was a good
land and took hold with energy, believing the luck had turned at last,
while the woman helped him gallantly. For a time all went well with
them, but the loneliness and hardship proved too much for the woman,
whose strength was of the spirit and not of the body, and she commenced
to droop and pine. She made no complaint, but her eyes lost their
brightness, and she grew worn and thin, while the man grew troubled. She
had already given up very much for him. He saw his neighbors prospering
on borrowed capital, and, for the times were good, determined to risk
sowing a double acreage. That meant comfort instead of privation if all
went well, and, toiling late and early, he sowed hope for a brighter
future along with the grain. So far it is not an uncommon story."
I nodded, when the speaker, pausing, stared somberly towards the
horizon, for since that English visit I also had staked all I hoped for
in the future on the chances of the seasons.
"The luck went against him," the narrator continued. "Harvest frost,
drought, and summer hail followed in succession, and when the borrowed
money melted the man who held the mortgage foreclosed. He was within his
rights in this, but he went further, for while there were men in that
district who would, out of kindliness or as a speculation, have bought
up the settler's possessions at fair prices, the usurer had his grasp
also on them, and when a hint was sent them they did nothing. Therefore
the auction was a fraud and robbery, and all was bought up by a
confederate for much less than its value. There was enough to pay the
loan off--although the interest had almost done so already--but not
enough to meet the iniquitous additions; and the farmer went out ruined
on to Government land with a few head of stock a richer man he had once
done a service to gave him; but the woman sickened in the sod hovel he
built. There was no doctor within a hundred miles, and the farmer had
scarcely a dollar to buy her necessaries. Even then the usurer had not
done with him. He entered proceedings to claim the few head of cattle
for balance of the twice-paid debt. The farmer could not defend himself;
somebody took money for willful perjury to evade a clause of the
homestead exemptions, and the usurer got his order. The woman lay very
ill when he came with a band of desperadoes to seize the cattle. They
threatened violence; a fracas followed, and the farmer's hands were, for
once, unsteady on the rifle he did not mean to use, for when a drunken
cowboy would have ransacked his dwelling the trigger yielded
prematurely, and the usurer was carried off with a bullet through his
leg. The woman died, and was buried on a lonely rise of the prairie; and
the man rode out with hatred in his heart and a price upon his head. You
should know the rest of the story--but the sequel is to follow. It was
not without an effort or a motive I told it you."
I stretched out my hand impulsively towards the speaker. "It is
appreciated. I need not ask one name, but the other----"
"Is Foster Lane; and in due time he shall pay in full for all."
Boone's voice, which had grown a trifle husky, sank with the last words
to a deeper tone, and the sinewy right hand he raised for a moment fell
heavily, tight-clenched, upon his knee. He said nothing further for a
while, but I felt that if ever the day of reckoning came one might be
sorry for Foster Lane.
Presently he shrugged his shoulders and rose abruptly. "I have a case of
pomade to sell the Swedes over yonder, and if my luck is good, some
photographs to take," he said, resuming his former manner. "I presume
you wouldn't care to decorate your house with tin-framed oleographs of
German manufacture. I have a selection, all of the usual ugliness.
Whatever happens, one must eat, you know. Well, Lane's gone into Crane
Valley, and it happens I'm going that way, too. This, I hope, is the
beginning of an acquaintance, Ormesby."
He sold Thorn a bottle of some infallible elixir before he climbed into
his tented wagon, and left me troubled as he jolted away across the
prairie. One thing, however, I was resolved upon, and that was to pay
off Foster Lane at the earliest opportunity. By parting with my best
stock at a heavy sacrifice it seemed just possible to accomplish it.