The tour of the Bar Q purebred bulls had been
a disastrous and costly one. From city to city,
at a staggering expense, went the prize herd,
from which extraordinary things had been expected.
Wherever they touched it was their misfortune to be
turned back or shunted farther afield. That winter
the country was suffering from the fearful scourge,
which having stricken down its victims by the thousands
in Europe had passed over the sea to America.
Then there was a time when the Bar Q herd was condemned
by a harassed and irritated authority who,
upon the diagnosis of an incompetent veterinary surgeon,
pronounced the cattle to be suffering from foot
and mouth disease, and an order was issued for the
slaughter of the entire herd, and the burning of all
sheds, cars or other houses in which they had been
penned. Bull Langdon found himself held indefinitely
in the States, as he fought by injunction proceedings
the destruction of his herd, which would have meant an
incalculable loss--even ruin--to him.
The adjournments and delays, the long, drawn-out
legal processes, kept the herd in the States from December
till February, and when at last they were freed
the penned-in brutes were in a deteriorated condition.
Their long confinement, the unaccustomed traveling,
and the lack of proper care, made the once smooth
bulls difficult to handle and dangerous, so that by the
time the herd was ready to start back for Canada
more than one of the "hands" who had come to the
States with them deserted the outfit rather than risk
looking after the uncertain animals on tour.
Bull Langdon, raging and fretting over the enforced
delays in the States, harassed by his losses and his
failure to obtain a showing of the famous herd, was in
a black mood when at last the outfit reached Barstairs.
Here fresh trouble awaited him. Of all the bulls, the
Prince had proved the most dangerous and erratic of
temper; his ceaseless bellowing and attempts to break
loose had done much to make the outfit unpopular
throughout their travels. Always uncertain and dangerous,
back at Barstairs he became well-nigh uncontrollable,
and there was no "hand" of the entire outfit,
save Cyril, who dared approach the raging beast, as
behind heavily barred fences he ranged up and down
restlessly, calling his resounding cries to the cattle that
he could smell even if he could not see them in adjoining
pastures, and something of the wild spirit of the animal
appealed to his owner, whose own pent-up rage seemed
to find vent in a savage roaring voice. A kindred spirit
bound them together. Often, when the exasperations
of the tour threatened to overwhelm him, he would go
to where the Prince ranged up and down within the
narrow space of his shed bellowing and moaning his
demands for freedom. At such times Bull Langdon,
from the other side of the bars, would call to the bull,
not soothingly, but in a tone of encouragement, as
though cheering and "rooting" for the rebellious brute.
"Go to it!" he would snarl through the bars. "Let
'em know you're here! Keep 'em awake. Make their
nerves jump. Go to it, bull!"
Up to the time of their return to Barstairs, Cyril
Stanley had looked after the animal, and so long as he
was at hand the Prince remained fairly well under control.
But Cyril, who had been silent and morose all
through the tour in the States, suddenly decided, once
back in Canada, to quit the outfit. The cattleman
received his quiet request to be relieved of his job with
consternation and fury.
What did he want to leave for? Hadn't he had his
pay raised four times already? Hadn't he got $500
he'd been promised? He had practically full charge
of the herd already, and the foreman's job and wages
would belong to him before spring.
But neither bluster nor curses moved him, and the
offer of increases in wages, heavy bonuses and enormous
salary were steadily refused. Money meant nothing
now to Cyril. He was heartily sick of the whole business.
He felt the restlessness that comes to a man as
soon as he feels himself free again and on his native
soil, and longs to be moving along the trail. To roam
from place to place seemed all that was left to him
since his dream of a home had been shattered, and long
absence had not cured him of the sickness of love. He
had had enough of cattle. He was done with ranching,
and when the Bull demanded just what it was that he
proposed to do, he answered after a thoughtful pause:
"Think I'll hike for Bow Claire. Plenty of work there,
I guess. The river'll be high when the snows begin to
melt, and they'll be wantin' 'hands' and loggers at the
camp."
Meanwhile, Bull Langdon found his hands full.
Those were the days of labor unrest when there were
a dozen employers in the employment offices for every
employee; when wages were soaring; when men looked
the "bosses" squarely in the face, and made their own
terms. The cattleman had returned at a time when
labor was so scarce and independent in Alberta, that
many of the farmers were forced to do their own work,
or grub together with other farmers on shares. It is
certain that there was not a ranchman in the country
willing to work with Bull Langdon. Even those he had
formerly been able to tyrannize over gave him a wide
berth; never had the Bar Q been so short-handed, and
the departure of Cyril, who was invaluable among the
purebred, was a real disaster to the Bull camp.
For some time Langdon had been beset with an almost
insensate craving for Nettie Day. All the time he had
been in the States she had never been wholly absent
from his mind, though the anxieties of the tour had
kept his desire for the girl in check; but once back in
Canada, his mind reverted to her incessantly.
As he stood watching Cyril Stanley disappear at a
slow lope over the hills, it occurred to him that he might
be making for Bar Q and Nettie, and the thought gave
him pause. The idea that Nettie and Cyril should come
together again was more than he could stand. The
blood rushed madly to his head, and everything went
red before his eyes.
Batt Leeson, a hand who had served directly under
Cyril, was the second-best upon the place; he could be
trusted to look after the cattle, and was known to be
a conscientious workman, although he had never yet
been entrusted with any position of authority. When
Cyril's job was offered him, therefore, he was rather
afraid and hesitant. However, there was no foreman
at this time at the Bull camp, which had been stripped
for the trip to the States, and there was no other man
in the outfit fit to be one.
The Bull considered the possibility of Cyril's changing
his mind and returning to Bar Q. He knew what
logging in the lumber camps meant, and that though
the work would not daunt the young man, the food and
the dirt would. The daily association with them "damn
dirty forriners," as Bull named the Russian loggers,
would soon be too much for a white man, he decided,
and counted upon Cyril's return.
When he left the camp he was by no means easy in
his mind about his cattle. He took the trail for Bar Q
in his big car, racing ahead in the teeth of a veritable
cyclone, but the good car held its straight course gallantly.
It was late at night when Bull Langdon reached
the ranch in the foothills, and the noise of his arrival
could not be heard above the gale. When he saw that
light in the kitchen, he came warily upon the place.
Sniffing the air like a bloodhound tracking down his
prey, he cautiously approached the kitchen where
Nettie's light still burned. Concealed in the darkness
of the living room his greedy eyes devoured the girl as
she moved about the room busy at the great range. All
thought was swept from his mind, leaving only the mad
desire to crush in his arms once again the girl who
awakened in him this overmastering passion.
Meanwhile, Cyril Stanley had mechanically turned
his horse's head toward the foothills. He had no definite
purpose in mind; he was vaguely conscious of being
hungry for a sight of Nettie. His long absence had
not cured him; he loved the girl as deeply as on that
first day when their eyes had met across the space of
the poor D. D. D. shack, and the room was full of
laughter.
How pretty she had looked, in spite of her shabby
dress; how her hair had shone in the sun! How gentle
and sweet and good she had been to her little brothers
and sisters! Even the strange woman in the C. P. R.
shack had melted before Nettie's shy effort to help her
in those days, reflected the unhappy Cyril. No one
could have resisted her, and he told himself that it was
small wonder that he had "fallen so hard" for her. He
had seen many women in the big cities of America, but
had found no face like Nettie's. No, he wouldn't change
his girl for any girl in the States. And as in his thought
he called her "his," he awoke suddenly to the realization
that Nettie was "his" no longer; someone had stolen
her heart from him! Yet such a longing was on him
to see the beloved face again, that he resolved to risk
her displeasure by going to Bar Q before burying himself
in the deep woods at the lumber camp.
On the road he fell in with a couple of riders from
the hill country, and their suggestive gossip aroused
him somewhat from his gloom, for he caught the girl's
name and the sneer that came into their voices caused
him to sit up abruptly, his hat pushed back, and his
eyes full of dangerous interrogation. They protested
they had only been "stringing" him, and rode rapidly
off. What they had hinted was that the quicker the
girl at Bar Q was married, the better, and that he,
Cyril Stanley, had come back only just in time.
Cyril turned this over heavily in his mind, shaking
his head as though the problem were beyond him, but
he changed his course away from the hill, deciding to
spend a few days at his homestead. He would stay in
the little house he had built for Nettie; he wanted to
look over the place that was to have been their home.
He would go to Bar Q later. At least, Nettie would
not refuse to bid him good-by.
As he rode along, his hat over his eyes, smarting
tears bit at the lids, and the heart of the lad who used
once to go singing along the trail and about his work
was heavy as lead within him.
At the homely little cabin, faith and confidence in
Nettie seemed to come back to him; perhaps her strange
behavior had all been some hideous mistake. Perhaps
she had been merely angry at his going to Barstairs.
Well, a girl had a right to be angry, and maybe she
had gotten over it by now. There was no accounting
for a girl's moods, he reasoned; he "wasn't no saint
himself" to hold anything against her. If only Nettie
would smile at him again he would forget all he had
suffered during all those cruel months. If only she
would look at him and speak to him as she used to do.
Nettie! His girl! His own, out of all the world. It
had been love at first sight; so much they had always
agreed on, and she had been fond of repeating that it
was also a love that would never die. She had meant
it then, as they sat hand in hand amongst the berry
bushes, with the evening sunlight on the tree-tops glistening
like moon rays on the whispering leaves.
The longer Cyril stayed there gazing around the
cabin that was filled with things Nettie herself had
helped him to make, the stronger grew his hope and
faith. A new exhilaration suddenly possessed him,
making him feel that life was worth living again. He
looked with a new warmth and kindness upon the world,
and not even the slowly gathering storm that darkened
the March day could quell his mounting spirits.
He was whistling and bustling about the shack when
he heard a hanging upon the door, and opened the door
to find Dr. McDermott standing there. He greeted his
old friend with unaffected delight, for the doctor was
always associated in his thoughts with Nettie, whom
he had brought into the world in the best day's work
he ever accomplished, so thought Cyril.
"Hello, doc. Gee, it's great to see your good old mug
again. How'd you know I was back? How're you?"
But the old doctor was scowling at him like an angry
bulldog, underlip thrust out, and his face puckered
into lines of unmistakable disapproval; worse still, he
was pointedly refusing Cyril's proffered handshake.
"No, sir," he said, "I'll not shake hands with a scallawag.
Not till he's done the right thing, by gad!"
"Wow, doc! What's bitin' you?"
"Lad," said Dr. McDermott sternly, "I'm not here
on any pleasure call. I've come as a matter of duty,
mon to mon to ask--to demand--that you do the right
thing by that puir lass."
"Lass? Who do you mean?"
"You know domned well who I mean. None other,
mon, but Nettie Day."
At the mention of that name Cyril's face turned suddenly
gray and stern.
"There are certain things I don't discuss with no
man, doc. One of them's--Nettie. I don't let no man
talk to me about her. Some coyotes on the road stopped
me, and started to blat some stuff about her, but they
shut up tight enough and gave me the heels of their
broncs before they'd barely got started with that line
of talk. And I ain't lettin' even an old friend like you
say anything about Nettie. What's fallen between her
and me is our affair."
Dr. McDermott's fist came heavily down upon the
table.
"Lad, ye're going to marry that girl, if I have to
shove you by your neck to the parson."
A light flamed in the boy's face; his eyes widened as
he stared incredulously at the doctor.
"I say," he said, all but weeping for joy, "that's a
good joke on me. Is that what you're drivin' at, doc?
Marry her! Say, I'd marry Nettie Day this blessed
minute if she'd have me!"
"Very good, lad. You'll have your chance. I've got
her now at Miss Loring's. I'll go myself after the
missionary, if you'll lend me a horse. Trail's not fit
for a car. I'll do my best to get back first thing in the
morning. Meanwhile, you'll have a chance to get your
house in shape. You'll want it to shine for that wife
and baby of yours."
"That wi--and-- Say, what's the joke, anyway?"
The doctor was now in better humor. His errand
had been highly successful, and after all a lad was only
a lad, and he liked young Cyril Stanley. There was
good stuff in Cyril--good Scotch stuff.
Cyril, taking the doctor's remark for one of the
coarse jokes commonly cracked in that countryside at
the time of a wedding, laughed half-heartedly, but the
words stuck queerly in his mind. To change the subject,
he said:
"Doc, what do you suppose ever possessed Nettie to
treat me as she did? When I got back from Barstairs--let
me see, that was last October--no, a bit before
that--What does she do but run away from me, and
when I chased after her, she turned me down dead cold.
Said she'd changed--wasn't the same, and a--and--she
simply sent me packing--made me think someone'd cut
me out with her and----"
Cyril broke off. The memory of that time was still
an open wound in his mind.
"I don't blame her a bit," blustered the doctor, in
assumed anger. "If it wasn't for that baby now, she'd
do better to send you packing altogether. What's the
matter with you young people today? Can't you hold
back like respectable folk? Don't you realize that even
though you marry the gell now, she'll always be branded
with the shame of this thing; and it's not only the lass
to be considered, there's the innocent child--the baby
to consider."
"That's the third or fourth time that you've said
that word. What do you mean, anyway? What baby?
Whose?"
"Whose? Why, your own, lad--yours and Nettie's."
"Mine and--Have you gone plumb crazy, doc?"
"Not I, lad. I helped bring your child into the world
this morning, and Nettie's resting quiet now, and waiting
for you, I have no doubt. Now, lad----"
He broke off, for something in the look and motion
of Cyril Stanley stopped him from further reproach.
"I've no intention of being hard on you. Young
blood--is--young blood, and I was young myself once."
Cyril had staggered back, like one mortally struck.
Slowly the truth had dawned upon him, and with the
realization that Nettie had been false to him, something
primitive and furious seemed to shake the foundations
of his being; something that was made up of outrage
and ungodly hatred.
"So--she's--got--a baby, has she?"
"A wee lad----"
"And you come to me--to me to get a name for it!"
"To you? Who else?"
"Who else?" jeered the lad frantically. "Ask her!"
Dr. McDermott recoiled before the savage glare in
the young man's eyes, and slowly he began to realize
the truth. He was stunned by the thought that another
man than Cyril had been the cause of the girl's
downfall. Who could it be? Slowly he turned the
matter over in his mind, rejecting one by one each of
the possible men he could think of, till at last the great
sinister figure of the Bull loomed up before his mind's
eye. He began clearly to recall a certain day at Bar Q
when he had caught the evil expression of the cowman's
face as, behind his wife's back, he followed Nettie Day
with his greedy, covetous eyes.
Dr. McDermott's shoulders seemed to bend as if a
great burden lay upon them, and he looked long and
searchingly at the furious boy before him. When he
spoke his voice was shaken with emotion.
"The Lord help you, lad!" he said. "The Lord help
us all in our deep trouble. Give us sober and humble
hearts. Teach us to bear as best we can the iniquities
of the wicked who beset us. Amen."
The sound of the door closing fell like a lash on Cyril
Stanley's brain. Alone with his frenzy and despair,
he looked wildly round as if to find some outlet for his
feelings. A great ax lay on the floor near the out-kitchen
door, and the young man seized it and swung
it high in his hand. It crashed down upon the table,
splintering it in two. Again and again the ax descended
until everything he had bought for Nettie Day lay in
fragments about the room. Then he took from the
storeroom a five-gallon can of kerosene, and emptied
it deliberately over the floor.
He put on chapps, sheepskin, fur cap and spurs,
tied up a few other necessaries in a bundle and walked
heavily to the door. Outside, he smashed the windows
and a gale of snow flew into the wrecked house. Lastly,
he struck a match and, guarding the flame, he knelt
in the doorway and threw it into a pool of kerosene.
The flames around the floor crept like snakes, then
leaped up the walls, and from the piles of broken chairs
and tables went roaring to the roof.
The house went up in a furious blaze. Long after
Cyril Stanley had disappeared into the great timber
country the smoke of his burning homestead rose above
the blanket of snow, until the smoldering ruins were
buried under the soft whiteness and covered from the
eyes of the world. But later on the sunshine of the
spring would melt the shroud away and reveal where
his love lay ruined on the prairie.