The unexpected return of the "Governor," as
the Englishmen had named Bull Langdon, was
an exciting event in their hitherto pleasant lives.
He arrived late on a March afternoon, the snort of his
engine and the honk of his horn arousing the "hands"
from a siesta, where, stretched before a raging wood
fire, they drowsily smoked and read.
They dressed leisurely in warm fur coats and overshoes,
before answering his impatient summons, and
sauntering out in their own good time, smiled good-humoredly
at the shouting cowman.
"Here, you! Take this in. Ain't no fire to the house.
Want it thawed out."
The first of the Englishmen, whose long name need
not appear here--"Bo" is what Bull Langdon called
him--took the bundle in his hands and then almost
dropped it, for something moved inside it, and a sound
that was like a suffocated moan arose from its mysterious
depths.
"My word! The thing's alive, d'you know," exclaimed
the startled Englishman. "Hang it all, man,
I believe it's a baby."
"Take it to the bunkhouse," roared the Bull, backing
into the garage. "Thaw it out."
Gingerly carried into the bunkhouse by the amazed
"Bo" and deposited upon the cot that he himself had
but recently reposed upon, the baby continued its low,
moaning cries. Both the little bare feet had kicked
out from the sheepskin coat, and were frozen stiff. One
minute fist stuck out of the coat, and there was a great
swelling on the forehead, where he had fallen off the seat
of the car to the floor. Its whole body, in fact, was
bruised from the cruel bumping of that long mad ride
from Yankee Valley, a distance of thirty-five miles.
"Cutie," the name sneeringly imposed upon the other
Englishman by Bull Langdon, because of his natty
dress and his monocle, now stuck that despised piece
of glass in his right eye, and surveyed the child with
amazement. Its cries were growing fainter, and a kind
of frozen rigor was creeping over it.
"Well, what're you gapin' at?" Bull Langdon was
glowering in the doorway.
"Where in the world did you pick the little beggar
up?" inquired "Bo."
"It ain't none o' your business," was the surly retort.
"He's here, and he's here to stay. He's mine, and
he's got my brand on him."
"You don't mean to say that you brand babies in
this country! Never heard of such a thing! It's damned
inhuman, I should say."
"Don't matter what you say or think. I want that
kid thawed out. Give 'im something to eat. He's
cold and hungry, but he's healthy young stuff and 'll
pull through. Kids ain't no different to cattle. Feed
'em and keep 'em warm. That's all they need. He's
bawlin' now for feed. You got something handy?"
"Nothing but a bite of cold venison. Hardly the
stuff for a baby."
"He ain't no baby. He's a yearling. Here!"
He had torn a strip of the venison from the piece,
and had thrust it into the child's hand. The tiny fingers
closed feebly about the meat and then feebly unclosed.
The bright eyes, so like his mother's, opened
in one wide, blind stare, then the white lids came down
over them, closing the light out forever.
"Gone to sleep," grunted the cowman. "Keep the
fire goin'. Thaw him out and feed him. That's the
stuff. He'll come round. He's good stuff. I'm off for
the timber. Be back soon. You ain't much good neither
of you at tendin' to cattle. So I'll give you a nurse
maid's job. Let the cattle rustle for themselves. You
concentrate on--". He indicated with a jerk of his
thumb Nettie's child, now quite still where it lay.
Alone, the two Englishmen continued to look at each
other, astonished out of speech.
"Well, I'm hanged," said "Bo" at last, "absolutely
hanged. What's to do?"
"Carn't say any more than you can. Blessed if I
know the first thing about a baby."
"Cutie" was looking down sentimentally now at the
small blonde head.
"It's awfully quiet, isn't it? Doesn't seem--" He
touched the tiny hand. It was cold as ice, and all
of a sudden the two men looking down on that little
frozen thing realized the truth.
"By Jove!" whispered the one. "The little beggar's
dead, d'you know."
Their eyes met apprehensively.
"What's to do?"
"Gad, I wish I knew."
"It's a dashed serious matter."
"Rather!"
"I'll plug over to the house and telephone. Where'd
he say he was going?--er to timber something. I wonder
what his telephone number might be."
"Try Information. She should know."
But Information knew of no timber number, but
when the stuttering Englishman made clear to her
that there was a dead baby at Bar Q, she connected
him swiftly with the Provincial Police Station at Cochrane,
and a voice at that end promised after a series
of impatient questions to "look into it," and "Bo"
hung up.
The charm of "rawnching" was over for the Englishmen.
All the rest of that afternoon they sat in
somber silence in the bunkhouse, carefully averting
their eyes from the small covered head. They had
no heart for their usual evening meal, but contented
themselves with strong tea and smoking steadily upon
their pipes.
It was nearly dark when the sound of a motor along
the road was heard, and then the labored panting of
the engine as it made the steep grade to the ranch. The
two young men hoped the police had come, not knowing
that the solitary mounty who had been despatched
upon the case was coming by horse twenty-eight miles
from the ranch, and could not arrive for several hours.
When the Englishmen opened the door of the bunkhouse,
they were surprised to see a woman running
swiftly ahead of the fur-coated doctor, whose acquaintance
they had already made.
Their first thought was that Angella was the mother,
and indeed she might well have been as she threw herself
down beside Nettie's baby, and burst into uncontrolled,
despairing sobs over the little dead body.