The early Canadian supper had been cleared away, and Sewell was sitting
with Grace Coulthurst opposite him by the little stove in the inner room
of the Gold Commissioner's dwelling, as he had done somewhat frequently
of late. The major was apparently occupied with his business in the
adjoining room, for they could hear a rustle of papers, and now and then
the shutting of a book, through the door, which stood partly open. He
closed one a trifle noisily, and the next moment his voice reached them.
"This thing has kept me longer than I expected, but I must get it
finished before I stop. Esmond's sending a trooper off first thing
to-morrow," he said. "Still, I shall not be much longer, and then we'll
get out the chess."
Coulthurst had spoken loudly, and as Sewell and Grace did not raise
their voices it appeared probable that he could not hear what they were
saying. Sewell smiled as he glanced at the girl.
"I am not particularly impatient, or sorry for Major Coulthurst, though
one could fancy that his dislike of official correspondence is quite as
strong as his fondness for chess. He knows exactly what he has to do,
and does it without having to trouble about the results, which in his
case concern the Crown. That naturally simplifies one's outlook."
"The major," said Grace reflectively, "has arrived at an age when one
does not expect too much, and is content with the obvious, which is
certainly an advantage."
"And we, being younger, are different in that respect?"
Grace was a trifle disconcerted, which occasionally happened when Sewell
talked to her, though she looked at him with a little smile in her eyes.
It was, at least, not very clear to her why she found it pleasant to
discuss such questions with him in a confidential voice when she had, to
all intents and purposes, plighted herself to Ingleby. Sewell was always
deferential, but there was something in his attitude which suggested
personal admiration for her, though she was not quite sure that the
vague word "liking" was not a little nearer the mark. How far that
liking went she did not know, but while she had no intention of allowing
it in any way to prejudice her regard for Ingleby, Sewell was, she knew,
of subtler and more complex nature, and the craving for influence was
strong in her. She knew what, under any given circumstances, Ingleby
would probably do, and though this was satisfactory in one respect it
had its disadvantages. She had long been troubled with a fondness for
probing into masculine thoughts and emotions, and it pleased her to find
an opportunity for directing them, which was not often afforded her in
Ingleby's case. His programme was usually cut and dried, and it was, as
a rule, an almost exasperatingly simple one.
"I suppose we are," she said. "When I know what is expected of me, I
usually want to do something else."
Now Sewell was not aware how matters stood between her and his comrade,
but he might have guessed what she was thinking, for his next remark was
curiously apposite.
"I'm not sure that the obvious people are not the most fortunate," he
said, with a little laugh. "They know exactly what they want, which not
infrequently means that what they have to do to get it is equally plain.
It must necessarily save them a good many perplexities. Now take the
case of my very obvious comrade, Ingleby."
"Well?"
"Ingleby wants to make a fortune placer mining."
"Which is, from your point of view, a most reprehensible thing!"
Sewell laughed. "That is not quite the point. Perhaps he means to do
good with it, and it ought to be quite plain that Ingleby has no real
sympathy with Communist notions. In any case, he sets about it in the
simplest fashion by working most of every day and often half the night
as well. The result is that he has acquired what is apparently a
competence and is more or less contented with everything. Any one can
see it in the way he looks at you lately."
Grace smiled, for it was evident that there were directions in which
Sewell's penetration was defective.
"The fortune will probably come later," she said. "And then--"
"Yes," said Sewell, with a little gesture of comprehension. "Since he
has made his mind up, he will, I fancy, manage that, too. Ingleby is
that kind of person. Then, if he does not do so sooner, he will
naturally marry Hetty Leger."
Grace turned to him sharply and then directed his attention to the fact
that the door at the bottom of the stove admitted rather too much
draught. He was a moment or two adjusting it, and when he looked up
again she was smiling indifferently.
"You are sure of that?" she said.
"I think so. Ingleby invariably does the obvious thing, and she is
eminently suited to him. I'm not sure he recognizes it yet; but it will
certainly become evident, and then he will save himself and everybody
trouble by marrying her off-hand."
Grace sat silent for almost a minute. It was perfectly clear that
Sewell did not know what his comrade's aspirations were, even as Ingleby
did not know how far her acquaintance with Sewell went. She was not
altogether displeased that it should be so, though she felt that it
would, after all, make no great change in their relations to each other
had they been aware. She did not desire Sewell as a lover, though it was
pleasant to feel that he valued her approbation and that she had his
confidence.
"There are, of course, advantages in doing the obvious thing," she said,
with a little laugh. "I suppose we are really different from Ingleby in
that respect?"
Sewell looked at her reflectively. "I think you are. One could almost
fancy you wanted so many things that you couldn't quite decide which was
the most important and give up the rest. The difficulty is that we can't
very often have them all, you see."
It seemed to Grace that there was some truth in this. "You," she said,
"speak feelingly--as though it were from sympathy."
"Well," said Sewell, with a curious little smile, "perhaps I do. In
fact, I'm not sure I'm not diagnosing my own case. A little while ago I
had a purpose and believed in it, though the belief naturally cost me a
good deal."
"The creation of a new Utopia out of the wreck of the present social
fabric?" asked Grace, a trifle maliciously.
"Something of the kind, though I did not expect to do it all myself.
While I was sure the thing was feasible, the fact that I was, or so I
felt, taking a little share in bringing it about was sufficient for me.
Now, however, I am not quite so sure on any point as I used to be, which
is why I often envy Ingleby."
Grace felt a little thrill of satisfaction. He had, of course, spoken
vaguely; but she wondered how far she was responsible for the change in
the opinions which he had held until a little while ago. She knew that
he had borne a good deal because of them, for Ingleby had told her so.
"Then there may be a little good in a few of our institutions as they
stand?" she said.
"Of course!" answered Sewell, who smiled again. "Most of them are,
however, capable of improvement. I am quite as sure of that as ever. The
question is, whether anybody would gain much if it were effected too
rudely."
Grace was not greatly interested in the point. She preferred a more
personal topic, but she saw an opportunity for trying how far her
influence went. It had been a trifle painful to find that Ingleby had
not yielded to it when she had desired him to spend the winter in
Vancouver and leave somebody else to hold Tomlinson's claim. Sewell was,
she recognized, a cleverer man than he, and it would be consoling if he
showed himself more amenable.
"I think not--at least, so far as anybody in the Green River country is
concerned," she said. "It seems to me that its tranquillity depends a
good deal on you."
"On me?"
Grace smiled. "Of course! You know it as well as I do. Wouldn't it be
better for your friends to put up with a few little grievances rather
than run the risk of bringing a worse thing upon themselves?"
"Would we do that?"
"I think so. The major is a lenient commissioner; and the law would be
too strong for you."
Sewell laughed. "That," he said, "would have to be proved, and I am not
sure it is a good reason you are offering me."
Grace nodded. "No," she said, "perhaps it isn't. You rather like
opposition, don't you? Still, I think one could leave it to your good
sense, while I would especially like to see all quiet this winter in the
Green River valley. That, however, could, of course, scarcely be thought
a reason at all."
Sewell made no disclaimer, but he looked at her with a curious
intensity.
"Events," he said slowly, "may be too strong for me, and when I am sure
they are right, I cannot go counter to my opinions."
"Of course!" and the girl leaned forward a little nearer him, resting
one hand on the arm of her chair. "That is more than I would ever ask of
you. Still, perhaps you could----"
Sewell looked at her gravely, and laid his hand upon the one that rested
on the chair.
"I will," he said quietly, "with that one reservation, do whatever
appears most likely to preserve tranquillity."
Grace did not shake his grasp off, as she should have done. Indeed, a
little thrill of triumph ran through her as she realized the
significance of what had happened. The man who held her hand fast had
borne imprisonment for his beliefs, and had also braved hostile mobs,
hired bravos, and detachments of U.S. cavalry, and now she had made him
captive with a smile. It was, from one point of view, a notable
achievement, and it did not dawn on her that if regarded from another
point what she had done might wear a different aspect. Just then a book
in the other room was closed with a bang, and Grace drew her hand away
as Coulthurst came in.
"Sorry to leave you alone so long, but we can get the chessmen out at
last," he said.
Sewell set out the pieces, and Grace, who flashed a little smile at him,
which implied that there was now a confidence between them, took up a
book. As it happened, neither of them knew that Prospector Tomlinson was
plodding down the trail that led south through leagues of forest and
snow-blocked defiles towards the settlements just then, though the fact
had its results for both of them.
A half-moon hung low above the white shoulder of a hill, and here and
there a shaft of silvery light shone down upon the snowy trail which
wound in and out through the gloom of the firs. Tomlinson was one of the
simple-minded persons who content themselves with doing the obvious
thing, and, as it was quite plain to him that he could not stay at the
bakery without probability of being discovered and getting his hosts
into trouble, he had, in spite of Hetty's protests, persisted in setting
out for the settlements, though he was still scarcely capable of the
journey and it had been pointed out that there was a likelihood of his
falling in with the police troopers. The latter fact did not, however,
so far as Tomlinson could see, affect the question. The one thing that
was clear to him was that he could not permit Hetty and Tom Leger to
involve themselves in difficulties.
He carried two rolled-up blankets and a good many pounds of provisions,
as well as a Marlin rifle, for it was a very long way to the
settlements, and the snow was deep in the passes. He also walked slowly
and with an effort, for the strength he had exhausted had scarcely come
back to him yet, while the dusty snow balled beneath his worn-out boots.
The bush was very still, for only a low murmur came up across the pines
from the rapids, which were free of ice. The trees rose above him, solid
spires of blackness cut sharp against the white hillside beyond them,
and Tomlinson was glad of their shadow, because the corporal and one of
the troopers had gone down the trail that afternoon, and, uncertain
whether they had come back, he had no wish to meet them. It is scarcely
likely that he would have done so, for he had an excellent sense of
hearing and was making very little noise, had not a trooper stopped to
do something to his newly-issued winter coat, which did not fit him
comfortably. He spent some little time over it, as it was necessary to
take his big mittens off, and the corporal improved the occasion by
sitting down on a fallen tree to light his pipe. They were both a little
outside the trail and in black shadow.
Tomlinson, in the meanwhile, came to an open space some two or three
score yards across. There were black firs all about it, but the snow
among them seemed deeper, and, as he could hear nothing but the murmur
of the river, he made haste to cross it. It appeared advisable that
nobody should see him. He had almost reached the gloom of the firs again
when he heard a little, scraping sound not unlike that the rubbing of a
sulphur match would make, and he stood still listening until a faint
blue radiance appeared amidst the trees, and then he moved towards the
nearest undergrowth with long and almost noiseless strides. In another
moment he stopped abruptly, and a man in uniform, who came out from the
dark gap of the trail, also stopped and appeared to gaze at him. He
carried a carbine. The men were close together, and the moon, which had
just cleared the dark fir-tops, shone down on both of them. The miner's
face, as the policeman saw, was drawn and grim.
"Tomlinson!" he gasped and then appeared to shake his astonishment from
him. "Stop right where you are!"
Tomlinson said nothing but, springing forward, hurled himself into the
undergrowth, which opened with a crash and then closed behind him, while
the trooper, who glanced over his shoulder as if to see where the
corporal was, wasted another moment. Then he, too, sped across the
little gap in the forest, floundering through loose snow; and fell into
a barberry bush, which held him fast. So far, fortune had favoured
Tomlinson; but as he flitted through the bush looking for a little
bye-trail which he knew was near, the corporal appeared suddenly from
behind a tree and threw his carbine up.
"Hold on!" he said. "I've something to say to you."
A stray gleam of moonlight that shone down just there flung a patch of
brightness athwart the snow, and Tomlinson could see the white face
pressed down upon the carbine-stock, but he did not pull up. Instead, he
leapt into the shadow, and in another second there was a pale flash, and
a sharp detonation rang among the trunks. Then he whipped behind a
tree, and, seeing two men close behind him now, flung up his rifle. In
his country a man who is shot at usually considers himself warranted in
retaliating, and Tomlinson was accustomed to the rifle. In fact, he
handled it much as an English sportsman does a gun, by the balance of
it, and with an instinctive sense of direction which did not necessitate
the aligning of the sights. The result of this was that as the butt came
home to his shoulder the trooper dropped his carbine with a cry, and
Tomlinson sprang away once more through the smoke. He might have got
away altogether, but the corporal could shoot as well as he could, and a
few seconds later the fugitive felt a stinging pain in one shoulder.
He staggered but recovered himself again, and running a few yards
farther dropped into a thicket, and wriggled under it on his hands and
knees. Then, while an unpleasant faintness crept over him, he felt for
the long knife which the prospector uses for cutting up an occasional
deer. It did not appear advisable to snap another cartridge into the
rifle-breech just then, and the knife would prove equally serviceable if
his pursuers crawled into the thicket after him. Prospector Tomlinson
was, like most of the men who sojourn in that wilderness, a little
primitive in his notions, and the troopers had fired on him.
One of them made a good deal of noise floundering through a belt of
undergrowth just then, and only stopped when the corporal called to him.
"Where's that blame branch-trail?" he asked.
"It's right here," said the trooper. "I guess our man's lit out along
it."
Time was of some consequence, and the corporal did not deem it advisable
to stop and consider. A man floundering through the undergrowth would,
he reasoned, be heard a long way off, while a bushman could proceed with
very little noise along a beaten track. Thus, as he could hear nothing,
it appeared very probable that Tomlinson had taken the latter. He and
the trooper pushed on along it for awhile, but there was no sign of the
prospector, and they came back moodily to where they had last seen him,
and proceeded to search every thicket in the vicinity. They spent at
least an hour over it, but there was still no appearance of Tomlinson,
and at last the corporal sat down disgustedly upon the fallen fir.
"I feel 'most certain I plugged him once," he said. "What d'you let go
your carbine for?"
The trooper held the weapon up in the moonlight and glanced at the grey
smear down the barrel. Then he held up his left hand, which was stained
with red.
"I'm not quite sure if the top of one of my fingers is on or not," he
said. "Anyway, my mitten's full of blood."
The corporal nodded curtly. "I guess it will grow again," he said.
"Well, it seems to me nobody could do anything more to-night. We'll pick
his trail up soon as it's daylight." Then they shook the powdery snow
from them and plodded on towards the outpost.