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JOHNSTONE OF THE BORDER
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
ALTON OF SOMASCO
LORIMER OF THE NORTHWEST
THURSTON OF ORCHARD VALLEY
WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE
THE GOLD TRAIL
SYDNEY CARTERET, RANCHER
A PRAIRIE COURTSHIP
VANE OF THE TIMBERLANDS
THE LONG PORTAGE
RANCHING FOR SYLVIA
PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN
THE DUST OF CONFLICT
THE GREATER POWER
MASTERS OF THE WHEATLANDS
DELILAH OF THE SNOWS
BY RIGHT OF PURCHASE
THE CATTLE BARON'S DAUGHTER
THRICE ARMED
FOR JACINTA
THE INTRIGUERS
THE LEAGUE OF THE LEOPARD
FOR THE ALLINSON HONOR
THE SECRET OF THE REEF
HARDING OF ALLENWOOD
THE COAST OF ADVENTURE
[Illustration: "An occasional word or phrase reached her: '. . .
submarine . . . coast of . . . this line marks. . . .'"--Page 220]
JOHNSTONE OF THE BORDER
BY HAROLD BINDLOSS
_Author of_ "PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN,"
"RANCHING FOR SYLVIA," "FOR THE ALLINSON
HONOR," "THE SECRET OF THE REEF," ETC.
_WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY RODERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE "THE BORDERER"
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE SUMMONS 1
II A PAINFUL MEMORY 12
III THE SOLWAY SHORE 19
IV APPLEYARD 29
V SWEETHEART ABBEY 42
VI ON CRIFFELL HILL 53
VII THE GRAY CAR 60
VIII THE "ROWAN'S" LIGHT 71
IX IN THE DARK 81
X THE YOUNG OFFICER 92
XI THE SIGNAL 103
XII A FALSE ALARM 114
XIII THE WRECK 127
XIV A FAIR ALLY 140
XV A BARGAIN 148
XVI TRAILING THE MOTORCYCLE 160
XVII THE MATCHBOX 172
XVIII A CONFERENCE AT SEA 183
XIX A WARNING 195
XX THE WHAMMEL BOAT 205
XXI THE LOST PAPER 216
XXII STAFFER'S MESSENGER 226
XXIII AN EVENING AT APPLEYARD 235
XXIV THE BUOYED CHANNEL 247
XXV A CLUE 259
XXVI TIGHTENING THE MESHES 272
XXVII THE RECKONING DAY 283
XXVIII A WILD RIDE 293
XXIX WHEN THE TIDE TURNED 305
XXX THE NET 317
XXXI UNEXPECTED HAPPINESS 327
JOHNSTONE OF THE BORDER
CHAPTER I
THE SUMMONS
Sable Lake shone like a mirror among the ragged pines, as it ran back
between the rocks, smooth as oil except where a puff of wind streaked
its flashing surface with faint blue wrinkles. Behind it the lonely
woods rolled on, south to Lake Superior and north to Hudson Bay. At
one place a new transcontinental railroad cut its way through the
forest; hammers rang and noisy gravel plows emptied the ballast cars
along the half-graded track; but these sounds of human activity were
quickly lost and in a mile or two only the splash of water and the
elfin sighing in the pine-tops broke the deep silence of the woods.
This belt of tangled forest, where the trees are stunted and the soil
is sterile, offers no attraction to homesteader or lumberman. In
consequence, it has lain desolate since the half-breed _voyageurs_,
who crossed it with canoe and dog-team, abandoned the northwest trail
when the Canadian Pacific locomotives began to pant through the
rock-cuts by Lake Superior.
The solitude itself had drawn Andrew Johnstone into the quiet bush.
The lone trail had a charm for him. He knew the empty spaces of
Canada; for his inaptitude for an idle life had led him on adventurous
journeys through many leagues of its trackless forest. He was of the
type that preferred some degree of hardship to conventional comfort.
His one ambition had been to be a soldier; it was the career which
from early boyhood he had chosen. He had entered Woolwich as a prize
cadet, and had left it with honors; but a few weeks later he had met
with an accident on a mountain crag, and his military career was
suddenly closed. The surgeons did what they could; but it soon was
obvious that Andrew never again would be able to take his place in the
British Army. He was not crippled; he could still walk well; but he
limped slightly and his injured knee gave him trouble sometimes.
He sat alone now, on a rock that jutted out into the lake. The thick
branches of a spruce sagged above him and furnished a welcome shadow,
for it was a close, hot day. A few feet behind him a gray trout lay in
the frying-pan beside a log hearth; and beyond that stood a small
weather-beaten tent, with flecks of bright sunlight filtering through
the trees and spreading over it in fantastic shapes.
Andrew lighted his pipe and looked about him in languid content. The
pines that came down to the lake's edge were small and ragged; some
had been blackened by fire and some leaned drunkenly, but their
resinous sweetness hung about the camp. In the shadow, the reflection
of worn rock and rigid branch floated on the crystal water; but the
reflections quivered, and there was a soft splash upon the pebbles
near Andrew's feet. He heard it with reminiscent satisfaction and a
touch of longing. It reminded him of the swirl of the salt tide along
the Solway shore; and his thoughts went back to the Old Country he had
left two years before.
He wondered what Elsie and Dick were doing at home at the old house in
Annandale. He called Appleyard home because he loved it, better
perhaps than Dick did, although the place did not belong to him. When
he was left an orphan, Dick's father had brought him up with stern
kindness, and he had afterward spent a month or two at Appleyard
whenever it was possible. Indeed, in the old man's last illness he had
promised that, so far as things permitted, he would look after his
somewhat flighty cousin. Andrew remembered with a twinge that he had
not done much to keep his promise; but, after all, there seemed no
reason to believe that Dick needed him.
Then he thought of little Elsie, as he had called her, though she must
be grown up now. He was much the elder, but they had always been good
friends. No doubt they would try to marry her to Dick. Andrew was fond
of Dick, but he did not think him good enough for Elsie.
For nearly an hour he sat on the rock, lounging back against an
outcropping boulder, thinking of Appleyard and little Elsie. Then his
thoughts were interrupted by a sound near the tent--some animal
scampering past--and he stood up and looked out across the lake. His
pose, easy and virile, showed a wiry figure of medium height; and the
strong sunshine touched his brown face. It was not a face that
attracted attention, but the eyes were gravely good-humored and the
mouth was firm.
Andrew was watching for the gleam of a varnished hull. Whitney, his
American partner, had gone to the railroad for provisions three days
previously and should have returned. The canoe he had taken had been
built in Toronto, especially for them. Andrew would have been
satisfied with an Indian birch-bark; but Whitney not only was a keen
sport but he had enough money to afford the best of everything.
At last something twinkled far up the lake, and Andrew's keen eyes
distinguished a small dark speck amidst the play of light. He knew
that it was Whitney; for only a canoe from which the varnish had not
worn off would so catch the sunshine. When the craft had grown into
shape, Andrew sat down again and watched her draw nearer with quiet
approval. He liked to see things done well and there was a rhythmic
precision in Whitney's movements that suggested well-directed power.
The paddle flashed at exact intervals, the lithe form behind it bent
with a graceful swing, and a curl of foam broke away from the gliding
hull. Modern as she was, the canoe did not jar upon the primitive
austerity of the wilds. Andrew felt this, though he could not have put
it into words, for there was something innately primitive in him.
He sprang from a rugged stock, for he was a descendant of the
Annandale Johnstones, whose crest was significantly the flying spur.
Appleyard stood on the edge of the bleak moorlands that drop down to
the western marshes of the Scottish border, and he knew every lonely
rise and boggy flat that his mosstrooper ancestors had ridden on
moonless nights. It is possible that in his youthful rambles across
the high, wind-swept waste, he had acquired something that linked him
to the past. In later times, his people had made some mark as soldiers
and explorers, but for the past two generations the head of the house
had been a quiet country laird.
Whitney drew near and in a few minutes ran the canoe upon the shingle
and stood smiling at Andrew when he had pulled her up. He was young
and athletic, with brown hair and eyes, brown skin, a rather thin
face, and an alert, half-humorous air. His clothes had been specially
designed for hunting trips by a fashionable New York tailor, but they
now looked much the worse for use in the wilds.
"I've got the grub and brought our mail," he said, throwing Andrew a
packet. "Here's your lot; you can wade through it while I fix supper."
"I'd have had things ready," Andrew replied; "but I was stuck for
flour and pork. You've covered some ground to-day."
"Some," laughed Whitney. "It was pretty fierce clambering over the
portages with the canoe on my head, but I made much better time than I
could have done when I struck the woods two months ago. Looks as if
the harder you have to work, the stronger you get. Nature's way of
fixing things. But I'm not tired; so I'll fix supper while you read
your news."
Andrew opened a letter in a girlish hand, and while he read it,
lingering over the words, his thoughts went back with longing to
Appleyard on the Solway shore. He pictured the low house, built of
Scottish granite and beaten by the winds; the red moorland rolling
north in waves; and the flash of wet sands in the distance edged with
white surf by the savage tides. It was an artless letter, treating of
loved, homely things, but it showed sweetness of temperament and,
Andrew thought, half-concealed uneasiness. The reason for this became
obvious when he read the postscript:
"I am anxious about Dick. He is not very strong, you
know, and I wish that you were here."
Andrew felt troubled, for he knew that Elsie never made the worst of
things. Dick was weak of will as well as of body, and his dissipation
had a marked effect on him. There was nothing vicious in the lad, but
he lacked stability, and it looked as if Elsie could not counteract
the rather demoralizing influences to which Andrew imagined the boy
was subjected.
He opened a Montreal newspaper and then soon forgot Appleyard. It was
some time since any news from England had reached him, and the
cablegrams predicted coming war. He read on until Whitney took the
trout and a can of coffee off the fire, and called him to supper.
Andrew ate as usual, because he was hungry, but he said very little
and wore a preoccupied air.
Whitney waited until the meal was finished; then he turned to his
comrade as he lighted his pipe.
"There's something worrying you," he said bluntly. "Out with it!"
"I was wondering whether you'd mind my not going north with you on the
hunting trip this fall."
"I certainly _would_ mind. All the same, I'll let you off if there's a
reason."
Andrew folded the letter so that the last page came on top and handed
it to him with the newspaper. Whitney carefully read the first column
in the paper before he looked up. He wanted to understand the
situation, and Andrew was not good at explaining.
"I don't quite get the drift of things," he said. "First of all, who's
Elsie Woodhouse?"
"In a way, she's like Dick's sister; they were brought up together and
Elsie always tried to take care of him--though she's really no
relation. Dick is my cousin."
Whitney nodded and tried to be patient.
"Do you want to go home because she's anxious about the fellow?" he
asked.
"It's rather complicated," Andrew answered with some hesitation. "You
see, Dick's father raised me, and I always thought, in his way, he was
fond of me."
Whitney found the workings of his companion's mind more interesting
than the particulars about his relatives. Andrew was sometimes slow,
but one could rely on his doing the right thing in the end.
"And Elsie?" Whitney suggested. "Did he raise her too?"
"Oh, no. When he died, Dick's mother soon married again, a man called
Staffer; clever fellow, but I never quite trusted him. Then she died,
and Staffer was left in charge of Appleyard until Dick came of age. He
brought his sister there, Mrs. Woodhouse, a widow; and Elsie's her
daughter. Dick and Elsie were both quite young then, but from the
beginning Elsie made it her business to take care of Dick."
"You like her," said Whitney, noticing a certain tenderness in his
companion's voice.
"Yes," said Andrew slowly; "I never liked anybody quite as much. But
that's all there is to it. She's much younger than I am, and she'll
probably marry Dick."
"If she's like his sister and has been looking after him, she more
probably won't. I'm getting Dick fixed as a bit of a maverick. He and
his stepfather don't get on."
"On the contrary, they get on very well; that's the trouble."
"How?"
Andrew hesitated.
"Well, you see, Staffer does most things well; he's excellent company
and a witty talker, the kind of man a lad would try to copy."
"Makes the pace pretty hot, eh? One of your smart set?"
"He's extravagant, but he never gets into debt. He'll play cards on
champagne half the night, and get up next morning as steady as a rock
and bring down a cork-screwing snipe with the first barrel. I've
seldom seen a better man on a horse."
"Think I've got him placed. Your cousin will want nerve and judgment
to play up to him. But we'll take the newspaper now. Why do you want
to go back? You won't fight."
"I can't," Andrew replied with some color in his face. "It's my
misfortune; after I fell on the Pillar Rock."
Whitney gave him a sympathetic nod.
"You take me wrong; I mean your countrymen. It's been stated in your
parliament that they have no obligation to fight for France."
Andrew filled his pipe before he answered.
"They won't see her smashed," he said quietly.
"I'm not sure of it, after reading the English newspapers."
"You don't know us yet," Andrew replied.
Whitney smiled, for he knew that his comrade would carry out an
obligation to the farthest limit; but he said nothing, and for the
next few minutes Andrew thoughtfully looked about.
The sun was getting low, and dark shadows stretched across the glassy
lake, but in the distance a small gray dot moved amidst a ring of
widening ripples. A loon was fishing. Presently a wild, unearthly cry
rang through the stillness as the bird called its mate; and after that
everything was very quiet except for a soft splash of falling water a
long way off. The dew was settling on the brush about the camp, and
the cooling air was heavy with the fragrance of the pines. It all
appealed to Andrew; the lonely woods had a strange charm for him.
"I'm lame and not much use, but it doesn't seem quite the thing to
stay here enjoying myself, just now," he said. "Perhaps something I
could do might turn up when I got home."
"But you haven't a home! You lived in a boat for some years, didn't
you?"
"I thought of living in one again. It's cheap and gives you liberty;
you can move about where you like. Then there's good wildfowl shooting
in the bays, along our coast. That would keep me occupied--if I could
find nothing else."
"Pretty lonely though, isn't it?"
"Sometimes. When you're wind-bound in a desolate gut among the sands,
the winter nights seem long. Then, if you have to clear out in a
hurry, with a sudden breeze sending the sea inshore and there's the
anchor and kedge to get, you feel you'd like an extra hand."
"Then why don't you ship one?"
"It's hard to find the right man. Living on board a small cruiser
hasn't much attraction, unless you're used to it."
Whitney chuckled.
"That's easily understood. I think you need a partner. How'd I do?"
Andrew gave him an eager look, and then answered discouragingly:
"It's rough work; you're often wet through and can't dry your clothes;
and sometimes there's not much to eat. You can't cook on a miniature
stove when she's rolling hard. Then there's no head-room and you get
cramped because you can't stand up straight."
"Well," Whitney declared smilingly, "it can't be much rougher than
clambering over rock ledges and smashing through the brush with a
canoe on your head. So, my friend, if you have no marked objection,
I'm coming along. For one thing, an English friend of ours who lived
in New York has a shooting lodge in the Galloway district and my
mother and sister are over there. I can plant myself on them, if I get
tired of you."
Andrew said nothing and Whitney thought him reluctant to take
advantage of his rash offer.
"It's settled, old man," Whitney went on lightly. "We'll pull out at
sun-up and get on to the Canadian Pacific at Whitefish Creek. I'll try
to catch a trout now, and then we'll go to sleep."
He launched the canoe, and when he paddled out across the darkening
lake, Andrew sat by the sinking fire, feeling quietly satisfied. He
did not know what he might find to do when he reached Scotland, but he
would have a partner in whom he had confidence.