FESTING USES FORCE
A week or so after the supper party Festing started for the settlement
with some pieces of a binder in his wagon. He had bought the machine
second-hand, and meant to replace certain worn parts before harvest
began, although he doubted if this was worth while. The drought was
ripening the grain prematurely and some of it was spoiled, but he must
try to save as much as possible. Reaching the edge of the wheat, he
stopped the team irresolutely, half tempted to turn back, because it
seemed unlikely that the old binder need be used.
The wind had fallen; the mosquitoes were about and bit his face and
neck. Everything was strangely quiet, it was very hot, and masses of
leaden cloud darkened the horizon. Festing, however, had given up hoping
for rain, which would not make much difference if it came now.
The front of the wide belt of grain was ragged and bitten into hollows
by the driving sand. The torn stalks drooped and slanted away from the
wind, while others that had fallen lay about their roots. Farther in,
the damage was less, but the ears were half-filled and shriveled. The
field was parti-colored, for the dull, dark green had changed to a
dingy, sapless hue, and the riper patches had a sickly yellow tinge
instead of a coppery gleam.
Festing's face hardened. If he thrashed out half the number of bushels
he had expected, he would be lucky. He had staked all he had on the
chances of the weather and had lost. It was his first failure and came
as a rude shock to his self-confidence. He felt shaken and disgusted
with himself, for it looked as if he had been a rash fool. Still, if
rain came now, he might save enough to obviate the necessity of using
Helen's money. She would give him all he asked for, but this was a
matter about which he felt strongly, and she knew his point of view.
Driving on, he met the mail-carrier, who gave him a letter. It was from
Kerr, his former chief on the railroad, who had been moved to a new
section on the Pacific Slope. He told Festing about certain difficulties
they had encountered, and the latter felt a curious interest. Indeed, he
looked back with a touch of regret to the strenuous days he had spent at
the construction camps. The work was hard, but one was provided with the
material required and efficient tools. Then there was freedom from the
responsibility he felt now; one did one's best and the company took the
risk.
Festing's interest deepened when, at the end of the letter, Kerr told
him about a contract for which nobody seemed anxious to tender. It was
a difficult undertaking, but Kerr thought a bold, resourceful man could
carry it out with profit. He did not know if it would appeal to Festing,
although prairie farmers sometimes went to work with their teams on a
new track when their harvest was poor. Kerr ended with the hope that
this was not the case with Festing.
The latter sat still for a few minutes with his brows knit and then
started his team. It was too late to think of railroad contracts; he had
chosen his line and must stick to it, but his look was irresolute as he
drove on.
Some time after Festing reached the settlement, Wilkinson and three or
four others sat, smoking, in the poolroom. This supplied a useful hint
about their character, because supper would not be ready for an hour or
two, and industrious people were busily occupied. The room was hot,
the floor and green tables were sprinkled with poisoned flies, and
the wooden chairs were uncomfortably hard, but it was cooler than the
sidewalk, and the men lounged with their feet on the empty stove.
“Does anybody feel like another game?” one asked.
“No,” said the man he looked at. “I've lost three dollars, and that's
all I can spare. Can't spare it, for that matter, but it's gone. I'm
going broke if this weather lasts.
“That's nothing,” remarked another. “Some of us have been broke since we
came here; you get used to it. There'll be other folks in a tight place
if the rain doesn't come; but it won't make much difference to you,
Wilkinson. I guess the storekeepers have you fixed now.”
Wilkinson frowned. He knew the remark was prompted by malice because he
had won the money his companion had lost. The fellow, however, had
not exaggerated. His creditors had recently stopped supplies and
made demands with which he was unable to comply, and since they were
obviously consulting each other, it looked as if he would be sold up and
forced to leave the neighborhood. Somebody had put them on his track and
he suspected Mrs. Charnock. He meant to punish her if he could.
“I've certainly got to sell off a bunch of young horses sooner than
I meant; I expect you've seen the notices,” he said, and added with a
sneer: “They'd have made a much better price if I could have kept them
until the spring, and now's your chance if you have any dollars to
invest. It's a sure snap for anybody who'll help me hold them over.”
One of the men laughed ironically and another asked: “Why don't you try
Charnock? He used to be a partner of yours, and he's more money than the
rest of us.”
Wilkinson saw his opportunity. His companions were loafing gossips, and
those who were married would tell their wives. In a very short time the
rumor he meant to start would travel about the neighborhood, and there
was enough truth in it to make it dangerous and hard to deny.
“Charnock's deadbeat. He's as poor as you.”
“His wife has plenty dollars, anyhow.”
“That's so, but she's not going to give him any more,” Wilkinson
rejoined. “He married Sadie for her money, and now he hasn't sense
enough to stick to her.”
It was obvious that he had secured the others' attention, for they
waited eagerly, with their eyes fixed on him. The room was quiet, but a
rig came up the street and the rattle of wheels and harness drowned
the sound of steps outside. Nobody noticed that the door, which was not
quite shut, opened wider.
“What do you mean by that?” one asked.
“Bob's running after Mrs. Festing. Old sweetheart of his in England,
though he turned her down to marry Sadie. Now she's got hold of him
again--tired of Festing or has a pick on Mrs. Charnock, perhaps. Anyhow,
Bob's round the Festing place all the time, and I don't know that I
blame him much. Mrs. Festing's a looker and Sadie's a difficult woman to
live with.”
“But what has Festing got to say?”
Wilkinson laughed. “Festing's a bit of a sucker and doesn't know. He's
scared about the big crop he has sown and thinks of nothing but the
weather and his farm, while Bob goes over when he's off at work. But I
guess there's trouble coming soon.”
“It's coming now,” said somebody, and Wilkinson's jaw fell slack, and he
sat with his mouth open as Festing strode into the room.
The latter had come to look for a smith, and hearing Wilkinson's voice
as he went up the steps, waited for a moment or two. He was too late, in
one sense, because the harm had been done, but he could not steal away.
Although the course he meant to take was not very logical, judgment
would be given against him if he did nothing. His sunburned face was
rather white and he stood very stiff, with muscles braced, looking down
at Wilkinson.
“Get up, you slanderous brute, and tell them it's a lie,” he said.
“I'll be shot if I will!” said Wilkinson, who got on his feet
reluctantly. “You know it's true.”
Then he flung up his arm, a second too late, for Festing struck him a
smashing blow and he staggered, with the blood running down his face.
He recovered in a moment, and seizing a billiard cue brought the thick
end down on Festing's head. Festing swayed, half-dazed, but grasped
the cue, and they struggled for its possession, until it broke in the
middle, and Wilkinson flung his end in the other's face. After this,
for a minute or two, the fight was close and confused, and both made the
most of any advantage that offered.
In Western Canada, personal combat is not hampered by rules. The main
thing is to disable one's antagonist as quickly as possible, and Festing
knew that Wilkinson would not be scrupulous. He must not be beaten,
particularly since his defeat would, to some extent, confirm the
slander.
He grappled with Wilkinson as a precaution, because another cue stood
near, and with a tense effort threw him against the empty stove. The
shock was heavy enough to bring the stove-pipe down, and a cloud of soot
fell upon the struggling men, while the pipe rolled noisily across the
floor. Wilkinson, however, stuck to him, and they reeled up and down
between the wall and table, getting an arm loose now and then to strike
a blow, and scattering the chairs. Nobody interfered or cleared the
ground, and by and by Wilkinson caught his foot and fell down, bringing
Festing with him. After this, they fought upon the floor, rolling over
among the chairs, until their grip got slack. Both got up, breathing
hard, and Festing gasped:
“Tell them you're a liar. It's the last chance you'll get!”
Wilkinson did not answer, but struck him before he could guard, and
the fight went on again amidst a cloud of dust that rose from the dirty
boards. Then it ended suddenly, for Festing got his left arm free as he
forced his antagonist towards the open door. He struck with savage fury,
and Wilkinson, reeling backwards across the narrow veranda, plunged
down the stairs and fell into the street. He did not get up, and Festing
leaned against the wall and wiped his bleeding face.
“Pick up the hog and take him to the hotel,” he said, and tried to fill
his pipe with shaking hands while the rest went out.
Other people joined them in the street, and Festing, stealing away as a
crowd began to gather, went to the implement store, where he washed his
face and brushed his damaged clothes. There was a cut on his forehead
and his jacket was badly torn, while some of the soot that had fallen
upon it would not come off. After a rest and a smoke, however, he did
not feel much worse, and the dealer, going to the hotel, brought back
news that Wilkinson had driven home.
“I guess you have done all you could and can let the fellow go,” he
said. “My notion is he won't be in the neighborhood long.”
An hour later, Festing drove out of the settlement, with a strip of
sticking plaster on his forehead and his jacket clumsily mended. The sky
was now a curious leaden color, and the wild barley shone a livid white
against the dark riband of the trail; the air was very hot and there
was not a breath of wind. Festing noted that the horses were nervous and
trotted fast, although they had made a long journey. Now and then they
threw up their heads and snorted, and swerved violently when a gopher
ran across the trail or a prairie-hen got up. The flies seemed to have
gone, but the mosquitoes were out in clouds, and the hand with which
he slapped his face and neck was soon smeared with small red stains. He
could not hold the whip; but it was not needed, because the team rather
required to be checked than urged.
When the trail permitted he let them go, and swung, lost in gloomy
thoughts, with the jolting of the rig. The damaging part of Wilkinson's
statement was false, but since part was true the tale would spread and
some would believe the worst. It was impossible to doubt Helen, but he
was angry with her. She had let her ridiculous notion of reforming Bob
carry her away. Festing did not think Bob could be reformed, but it
was Sadie's business, not Helen's. Besides, he had objected to her
encouraging the fellow to hang about the homestead, and she had
disregarded his warnings. Now, the thing must be stopped, and it would
be horribly disagreeable to tell her why. She had been obstinate and
rash, but after all she meant well and would be badly hurt. He began to
feel sorry for her, and his angry thought's centered on Charnock.
It was, of course, ridiculous to imagine that Bob was seriously trying
to make love to Helen; he knew her character too well. All the same, the
fellow might amuse himself by mild indulgence in romantic sentiment. He
was a fool and a slacker, and had now humiliated Helen for the second
time. The longer Festing thought about it, the angrier he got, and when
he roused himself as the horses plunged down the side of a ravine he was
surprised to note how far he had gone. He had just time to tighten the
reins and guide the team across the open log bridge at the bottom, and
as they plodded up the other side saw that he had better get home as
soon as possible.
The drooping leaves of the birches in the hollow flittered ominously,
and when he reached the summit a bluff that stood out from the plain two
or three miles off suddenly vanished. It looked as if a curtain had been
drawn across the grass. The horses set off at a fast trot, and the rig
jolted furiously among the ruts. It would not be dark for an hour, but
the gray obscurity that had hidden the bluff was getting near. At its
edge and about a mile off a pond shone with a strange sickly gleam.
Then a dazzling flash fell from the cloud bank overhead and touched the
grass. A stunning crash of thunder rolled across the sky, and the team
plunged into a frantic gallop. Festing braced himself in a vain attempt
to hold them, for the trail was half covered with tall grass and broken
by badger holes. He was soon breathless and dazzled, for the lightning
fell in forked streaks that ran along the plain, and the trail blazed in
front of the horses' feet. Thunder is common in Canada, but it is on the
high central plains that the storms attain their greatest violence.
The team plunged on, and Festing, jolting to and fro, durst not lift his
eyes from the trail. The storm would probably not last long and might do
some good if it were followed by moderate rain. But he was not sure that
moderate rain would fall. By and by a few large drops beat upon his hat,
there was a roar in the distance, and a cool draught touched his face.
It died away, but the next puff was icy cold, and the roar got louder.
He looked up, for he knew what was coming, but there was not a bluff in
sight that would shield him from the wind.
Turning down his hat-brim against the increasing rain, he let the horses
go. He need not try to hold them; the storm would stop them soon. It
broke upon him with a scream and a shower of sand and withered grass. He
staggered as if he had got a blow, and then leaned forward to resist
the pressure. The horses swerved, and he had trouble to keep them on the
trail, but their speed slackened and they fell into a labored trot. For
a few minutes they struggled against the gale, and then the roar Festing
had heard behind the scream drowned the rumbling thunder. He threw up
his arm to guard his face as the terrible hail of the plains drove down
the blast.
It fell in oblique lines of ragged lumps of ice, hammering upon the
wagon and bringing the horses to a stop. They began to plunge, turning
half round, while one pressed against the other, in an effort to escape
the savage buffeting. Festing let them have their way at the risk of
upsetting the rig, and presently they stopped with their backs to the
wind. He let the reins fall, and the hail beat upon his bowed head and
shoulders like a shower of stones. The horses stood limp and trembling,
as powerless as himself.
Their punishment did not last long. The hail got thinner and the lumps
smaller; the roar diminished and Festing heard it recede across the
plain. The wind was still savage, but it was falling, and the thunder
sounded farther off. There was a savage downpour of drenching rain, and
when this moderated he pulled himself together, and turning the horses,
resumed his journey. He was wet to the skin, his shoulders were sore,
and his face and hands were bruised and cut. Pieces of ice, some as
large as hazelnuts, lay about the wagon, and the wild barley lay flat
beside the trail. Not a blade of grass stood upright as far as he could
see, and the ruts in which the wheels churned were full of melting hail
and water.
It was getting dark when his homestead rose out of the plain; a shadowy
group of buildings, marked by two or three twinkling lights. He was wet
and cold, but he stopped by the wheat and nerved himself to see what
had happened to the crop. He had not had much hope, but for all that
got something of a shock. There was no standing grain; the great field
looked as if it had been mown. Bruised stalks and torn blades lay flat
in a tattered, tangled mass, splashed with sticky mud. The rain that
might have saved him had come too late and was finishing the ruin the
sand and hail had made.
Then the downpour thickened and the light died out, and he drove to the
house. He could see in the morning if any remnant of the crop could be
cut, but there would not be enough to make much difference. Hope had
gone, and his face was stern when he called the hired man and got down
stiffly from the dripping rig.