ON THE RED PINE TRAIL
On the Red Pine trail two men were driving in a buckboard drawn by a
pair of half-broken pinto bronchos. The outfit was a rather ramshackle
affair, and the driver was like his outfit. Stewart Duff was a rancher,
once a “remittance man,” but since his marriage three years ago he had
learned self-reliance and was disciplining himself in self-restraint.
A big, lean man he was, his thick shoulders and large, hairy muscular
hands suggesting great physical strength, his swarthy face, heavy
features, coarse black hair, keen dark eyes, deepset under shaggy
brows, suggesting force of character with a possibility of brutality in
passion. Yet when he smiled his heavy face was not unkindly, indeed the
smile gave it a kind of rugged attractiveness. He was past his first
youth, and on his face were the marks of the stormy way by which he had
come.
He drove his jibing bronchos with steady hands. No light touch was his
upon the reins, and the bronchos' wild plunging met with a check
from those muscular hands of such iron rigidity as to fling them back
helpless and amazed upon their hocks.
His companion was his opposite in physical appearance, and in those
features and lines that so unmistakably reveal the nature and character
within. Short and stout, inclined indeed to fat, to his great distress,
his thick-set figure indicated strength without agility, solidity
without resilience. He had a pleasant, open face, with a kindly,
twinkling blue eye that goes with a merry heart, with a genial, sunny
soul. But there was in the blue eye and in the open face, for all the
twinkles and the smiles, a certain alert shrewdness that proclaimed the
keen man of business, and in the clean cut lips lay the suggestion of
resolute strength. A likable man he was, with an infinite capacity
for humour, but with a bedrock of unyielding determination in him that
always surprised those who judged him lightly.
The men were friends, and had been comrades more or less during those
pioneer days that followed their arrival in the country from Scotland
some dozen years ago. Often they had fallen out with each other, for
Duff was stormy of temper and had a habit of letting himself swing out
upon its gusts of passion, reckless of consequences; but he was ever the
one to offer amends and to seek renewal of good relations. He had few
friends, and so he clung the more closely to those he had. At such times
the other would wait in cool, good-tempered but determined aloofness for
his friend's return.
“You can chew your cud till you're cool again,” he would say when the
outbreak would arise. But invariably their differences were composed and
their friendship remained unbroken.
The men sat in the buckboard, leaning forward with hunched shoulders,
swaying easily to the pitching of the vehicle as it rattled along the
trail which, especially where it passed over the round topped ridges,
was thickly strewn with stones. Before them, now on the trail and now
ranging wide over the prairie, ran a beautiful black and white English
setter.
“Great dog that, Sandy,” said Duff. “I could have had a dozen birds this
afternoon. A wonderful nose, and steady as a rock.”
“A good dog, Stewart,” assented Sandy, but with slight interest.
“There ain't another like him in this western country,” said the owner
of the dog with emphasis.
“Oh, I don't know about that. There are some very good dogs around here,
Stewart,” replied Sandy lightly.
“But I know. And that's why I'm saying there ain't his like in this
western country, and that's as true as your name is Sandy Bayne.”
“Well, my name is Sandy Bayne, all right, but how did he come out at the
Calgary trials?”
“Aw, those damned gawks! They don't know a good dog from a he-goat! They
don't know what a dog is for, or how to use him.”
“Oh, now, Stewart,” said Sandy, “I guess Willocks knows a dog when he
sees one.”
“Willocks!” said his friend with scorn. “There's where you're wrong. Do
you know why he cut Slipper out of the Blue Ribbon? Because he wouldn't
range a mile away. Darned old fool! What's the good of a point a mile
away! Keeps you running over the whole creation, makes you lose time,
tires yourself and tires your dog; and more than that, in nine cases out
of ten you lose your bird. Give me a close ranger. He cleans up as he
goes, keeps your game right at your hand, and gets you all the sport
there is.”
“Who beat you, Stewart, in the trials?”
“That bitch of Snider's.”
“Man! Stewart, that's a beautiful bitch! I know her well. She's a
beautiful bitch!” Sandy began to show enthusiasm.
“Oh, there you go! That's just what those fool judges said. 'Beautiful
dog! Beautiful dog!' Suppose she is! Looks ain't everything. They're
something, but the question is, does she get the birds? Now, Slipper
there got three birds to her one. Got 'em within range, too.”
“Ah, but Stewart, yon's a good bitch,” said Sandy.
“Look here!” cried his friend, “I have bred more dogs in the old country
than those men ever saw in their lives.”
“That may be, Stewart, but yon's a good bitch,” persisted Sandy.
For a mile more they discussed the merits of Slipper and of his rivals,
Sandy with his semi-humorous chaff extracting quiet amusement from his
friend's wrath, and the latter, though suspecting that he was being
drawn, unable to restrain his passionate championship of his dog.
At length Sandy, wearying of the discussion, caught sight of a figure
far before them on the trail.
“Who is that walking along there?” he enquired.
Together they ran over the names of all who in this horse country were
unfortunate enough to be doomed to a pedestrian form of locomotion.
“Guess it's the preacher,” said Duff finally, whose eyes were like a
hawk's.
“He's been out at my place Sunday afternoon,” said Sandy, “but I haven't
met him myself. What sort is he?”
“Don't ask me. I sometimes go with the madame to church, but generally I
fall asleep. He's no alarm clock.”
“Then you can't tell what sort of a preacher he is,” said Sandy with a
twinkle in his eye. “You can't hear much when you are asleep.”
“I hear enough to know that he's no good as a preacher. I hear they're
going to fire him.”
“I tell you what it is, Stewart,” said Sandy, “I don't believe you would
know a good sermon if you heard one.”
“What's that you say? I've heard the best preachers in the country that
breeds preachers, in the country where preachers grow like the berries
on the bramble bushes. I know preaching, and I like good preaching,
too.”
“Oh, come off, Stewart! You may be a good judge of dogs, but I'm blowed
if I am going to take you as a judge of preachers.”
“The same qualities in all of them, dogs, horses, preachers,” insisted
Duff.
“How do you make that out?”
“Well, take a horse. He must be a good-looker. This preacher is a
good-looker, all right, but looks ain't everything. Must be quick at the
start, must have good action, good style, staying power, and good at
the finish. Most preachers never know when to finish, and that's the way
with this man.”
“Are you going to take him up?” inquired Sandy, for they were now close
upon the man walking before them.
“Oh, I guess not,” replied Duff. “I haven't much use for him.”
“Say, what's the matter with him? He looks rather puffed out,” said
Sandy. “Better take him up.”
“All right,” replied Duff, pulling up his bronchos. “Good day. Will you
have a ride? Mr. Barry Dunbar, my friend Mr. Bayne.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Bayne,” said Barry, who was pale and panting
hard. “Thanks for the lift. The truth--is--I'm rather--done up. A touch
of asthma--the first--in five years. An old trouble of mine.”
“Get up here,” said Sandy. “There's room for three in the seat.”
“No--thank you,--I should--crowd you,--all right behind here. Beastly
business--this asthma. Worse when--the pollen--from the plants--is
floating--about--so they say. I don't know--nobody does--I fancy.” They
drove on, bumping over the stones, Barry gradually getting back his
wind. The talk of the men in the front seat had fallen again on dogs,
Stewart maintaining with ever increasing vehemence his expert knowledge
of dogs, of hunting dogs, and very especially of setter hunting dogs;
his friend, while granting his knowledge of dogs in general, questioning
the unprejudiced nature of his judgment as far as Slipper was concerned.
As Duff's declarations grew in violence they became more and more
elaborately decorated with profanity. In the full tide of their
conversation a quiet voice broke in:
“Too many 'damns.'”
“What!” exclaimed Duff.
“I beg your pardon!” said Sandy.
“Too many 'damns,'” said Barry, looking quietly at Duff.
“Dams? Where?” said Duff, looking about.
“Beaver dams, do you mean?” enquired Sandy. “I don't see any.”
“Too many 'damns,'” reiterated Barry. “You don't need them. You really
don't need them, you know, and besides, they are not right. Profanity is
quite useless, and it's wicked.”
“Well, I'll be damned!” said Stewart in a low voice to his friend. “He
means us.”
“And quite right, too,” said Sandy solemnly. “You know your English is
rotten bad. Yes, sir,” he continued, turning round to Barry, “I quite
agree with you. My friend is quite unnecessarily free in his speech.”
“Yes, but you are just the same, you know,” said Barry. “Not quite so
many, but then you are not quite so excited.”
“Got you there, old sport,” grunted Duff, highly amused at Sandy's
discomfiture. But to Barry he said, “I guess it's our own business how
we express ourselves.”
“Yes, it is, but, pardon me, not entirely so. There are others in the
world, you know, and you must consider others. The habit is a bad habit,
a rotten habit, and quite useless--silly, indeed.”
Duff turned his back upon him. Sandy, giving his friend a nudge, burst
into a loud laugh.
“You are right, sir,” he said, turning to Barry. “You are quite right.”
At this point Slipper created a diversion.
“Hello!” said Duff. “Say! Look at him!” He pointed to the dog. “Ain't he
a picture!”
A hundred yards away stood Slipper, rigid, every muscle, every hair
taut, one foot arrested in air.
“I'll just get those,” said Duff, slipping out of the buckboard and
drawing the gun from beneath the seat. “Steady, old boy, steady! Hold
the lines, Sandy.”
He moved quickly toward the dog who, quivering with that mysterious
instinct found in the hunting dog, still held the point with taut
muscles, nose and tail in line.
“Hello!” Barry called out. “It isn't the season yet for chicken. I say,
Mr. Duff,” he shouted, “it isn't the chicken season, you know.”
“Better leave him alone,” said Sandy.
“But it isn't the season yet! It is against the law!” protested Barry
indignantly.
Meantime Stewart Duff was closing up cautiously behind Slipper.
“Forward, old boy! Ste-e-e-ady! Forward!” The dog refused to move.
“Forward, Slipper!”
Still the dog remained rigid, as if nailed to the ground.
“On, Slipper!”
Slowly the dog turned his head with infinite caution half round toward
his master, as if in protest.
“Hello, there!” shouted Barry, “you know--”
Just as he called there was on all sides a great whirring of wings. A
dozen chicken flew up from under Duff's feet. Bang! Bang! went his gun.
“Missed, as I'm a sinner!” exclaimed Sandy. “I thought he was a better
shot than that.”
Back came Duff striding wide toward the buckboard. Fifty yards away he
shouted:
“Say! what the devil do you mean calling like that at a man when he's on
the point of shooting!” His face was black with anger. He looked ready
to strike. Barry looked at him steadily.
“But, I was just reminding you that it was not the season for chicken
yet,” he said in the tone of a man prepared to reason the matter.
“What's that got to do with it! And anyway, whose business is it what I
do but my own?”
“But it's against the law!”
“Oh, blank the law! Besides--”
“Besides it isn't--well, you know, it isn't quite sporting to shoot out
of season.” Barry's manner was as if dealing with a fractious child.
Duff, speechless with his passion, looked at him as if not quite sure
what form his vengeance should take.
“He's quite right, Stewart,” said his friend Sandy, who was hugely
enjoying himself. “You know well enough you are down on the farmer chaps
who go pot hunting before season. It's rotten sport, you know.”
“Oh, hell! Will you shut up! Can't I shoot over my dog when he points?
I'm not out shooting. If I want to give my dog a little experience an
odd bird or two don't matter. Besides, what the--”
“Oh, come on, Stewart! Get in, and get a move on! You know you are in
the wrong. But I thought you were a better shot than that,” added Sandy.
His remark diverted Duff's rage.
“Better shot!” he stormed. “Who could shoot with a--a--a--” he was
feeling round helplessly for a properly effective word,--“with a fellow
yelling at you?” he concluded lamely. “I'd have had a brace of them if
it hadn't been for him.”
“In that case,” said Barry coolly, “I saved you from the law.”
“Saved me from the law! What the devil do you mean, anyway?” said
Stewart. “If I want to pick up a bird who's to hinder me? And what's the
law got to do with it?”
“Well, you know, I'm not sure but it might have been my duty to report
you. I feel that all who break the game laws should be reported. It is
the only way to stop the lawless destruction of the game.”
Barry spoke in a voice of quiet deliberation, as if pondering the proper
action in the premises.
“Quite right, too,” said Sandy gravely, but with a twinkle in his blue
eye. “They ought to be reported. I have no use for those poachers.”
Duff made no reply. His rage and disgust, mingled with the sense of his
being in the wrong, held him silent. No man in the whole country was
harder upon the game poachers than he, but to be held up in his action
and to be threatened with the law by this young preacher, whom he rather
despised anyway, seemed to paralyse his mental activities. It did not
help his self-control that he was aware that his friend was having his
fun of him.
At this moment, fortunately for the harmony of the party, their
attention was arrested by the appearance of a motor car driven at a
furious rate along the trail, and which almost before they were aware
came honking upon them. With a wild lurch the bronchos hurled themselves
from the trail, upsetting the buckboard and spilling its load.
Duff, cumbered with his gun, which he had reloaded, allowed one of
the reins to drop from his hands and the team went plunging about in a
circle, but Barry, the first to get to his feet, rushed to the rescue,
snatched the reins and held on till he had dragged the plunging bronchos
to a halt.
The rage which had been boiling in Duff, and which with difficulty had
been held within bounds, suddenly burst all bonds of control. With
a fierce oath he picked up the gun which he had thrown aside in his
struggle with the horses, and levelled it at the speeding motor car.
“For God's sake, Stewart, stop!” shouted Bayne, springing toward his
friend.
Barry was nearer and quicker. The shot went off, but his hand had
knocked up the gun.
“My God, Stewart! Are you clean crazy!” said Bayne, gripping him by the
arm. “Do you know what you are doing? You are not fit to carry a gun!”
“I'd have bust his blanked tires for him, anyway!” blustered Duff,
though his face and voice showed that he had received a shock.
“Yes, and you might have been a murderer by this time, and heading for
the pen, but for Dunbar here. You owe him more than you can ever pay,
you blanked fool!”
Duff made no reply, but busied himself with his horses. Nor did he speak
again till everything was in readiness for the road.
“Get in,” he then said gruffly, and that was his last word until they
drove into the village.
At the store he drew up.
“Thank you for the lift,” said Barry. “I should have had a tough job to
get back in time.”
Duff grunted at him, and passed on into the store.
“I am very glad to have met you,” said Bayne, shaking hands warmly with
him. “You have done us both a great service. He is my friend, you know.”
“I am afraid I have offended him, all the same. But you see I couldn't
help it, could I?”
Bayne looked at his young, earnest face for a moment or two as if
studying him, then said with a curious smile, “No, I don't believe you
could have helped it.” And with that he passed into the store.
“What sort of a chap is that preacher of yours?” he asked of the
storekeeper.
“I don't know; he ain't my church. Ask Innes there. He's a pillar.”
Bayne turned to a long, lean, hard-faced man leaning against the
counter.
“My name is Bayne, from Red Pine, Mr. Innes. I am interested in knowing
what sort of a chap your preacher is. He comes out to our section, but I
never met him till to-day.”
“Oh, he's no that bad,” said Innes cautiously.
“Not worth a cent,” said a little, red headed man standing near. “He
can't preach for sour apples.”
“I wadna just say that, Mr. Hayes,” said Innes.
“How do you know, Innes?” retorted Hayes. “You know you fall asleep
before he gets rightly started.”
“I aye listen better with ma eyes shut.”
“Yes, and snore better, too, Mac,” said Hayes. “But I don't blame you.
Most of them go to sleep anyway. That's the kind of preacher he is.”
“What sort of a chap is he? I mean what sort of man?”
“Well, for one thing, he's always buttin' in,” volunteered a
square-built military looking man standing near. “If he'd stick to
his gospel it wouldn't be so bad, but he's always pokin' his nose into
everything.”
“But he's no that bad,” said Innes again, “and as for buttin' in,
McFettridge, and preachin' the gospel, I doubt the country is a good
deal the better for the buttin' in that him and his likes have done this
past year. And besides, the bairns all like him.”
“Well, that's not a bad sign, Mr. Innes,” said Sandy Bayne, “and I'm not
sure that I don't like him myself. But I guess he butts in, all right.”
“Oh, ay! he butts in,” agreed Innes, “but I'm no so sure that that's no
a part of his job, too.”