There was a celebration at Bow Claire. Lanterns
hung from rafters and eaves to give the
place an air of festivity. Across the back of the big
lumber camp, where the fifty-five men who had pulled
through were now convalescent, bunting and bright
Indian blankets were hung.
Now that the last of the men had been pronounced
out of danger, the lumber-jacks, with the connivance
of the doctor and an Indian, had smuggled into the
camp the provisions for the intended festival.
When Nettie came from the foreman's house that
evening, to make her nightly rounds of her emergency
camp hospital, the surprise party awaiting her almost
frightened her. A dozen accordions all struck up at
the same moment; mouth organs joined in; Jim Crow,
the only darky in the camp, grinning from ear to
ear, was twanging a real banjo, and Mutt, a giant
Russian, with a voice like a great bell, led all hands
in a deafening cheer for Nettie, a cheer that, in spite
of their weakness, the men kept up for a long time.
Astonished and moved beyond speech, Nettie looked
at her "boys," and smiled her thanks, though the tears
ran down her cheeks. But the ceremonies were by no
means over with the cheering and singing. Thin and
pale, his eyes dark with a look of tragedy that wrung
the girl's heart, Cyril Stanley stepped forward, a bouquet
of flowers in his hands.
He alone in all the camp had been unable to find
the courage to speak to Nettie. Those flowers, ragged
from their journey on horseback, had cost the Bow
Claire Camp more than the bouquet of a prima donna;
and were intended to speak a message to the girl that
the men lacked eloquence to say. Cyril had begged for
the privilege of being the one to present the flowers.
He came slowly forward, daring to look Nettie steadily
in the face for the first time, and put out the hand
that held the flowers; but the words he had planned
to speak died on his lips. He could not even whisper
her name.
She took the flowers from him and looked deep into
his eyes. While the camp looked on in bewildered silence,
the two estranged lovers gazed at one another for a long
moment and when it had passed it had taken with it
all the doubt and misunderstanding that had clouded
Cyril Stanley's mind. Something within him seemed
to burst, breaking down all the dikes of hatred he had
built up in bitterness against her. He knew, as he looked
into Nettie Day's clear eyes, that he loved her still
beyond anything else on earth, and that he could have
sworn by the living God above them that she could
do, and had done, no wrong; that her heart was clean
and pure and unstained.
Suddenly a sharp sound broke upon the hush that
had fallen so strangely in the camp. The crisp metallic
ring of a horse's hoofs sounded outside, and slowly the
girl, her flowers still in her arms, turned as pale as
death.
His chin thrust out, his big knotted hands swinging
like a prize fighter's, half drunk with alcohol and mad
desire, Bull Langdon burst into the camp. His glance
swept that circle of feeble, motionless men, then turned
to transfix the unhappy girl, whose flowers now lay
where they had fallen to the floor. Before a word was
said the truth flashed like a miracle over Cyril Stanley's
mind. Now Nettie Day would never need to say
one word in explanation to her lover. A flood of memories
rushed over the boy, shaking him to his depths
as he realized the damnable crime that had been wrought
against the girl he loved, and which death alone could
now wipe out.
"So here y'are," cried the cattleman, towering above
the cowering Nettie. "You come along home with
me, gell. Your baby--and mine, gell, is at Bar Q. He's
needin' you more'n this bunch of bos."
An inarticulate cry broke from Cyril's throat as he
leaped fairly into the face of Bull Langdon. Staggered
by the unexpected onslaught, and then seeing who it
was that had attacked him, his lips drawn back like
a gorilla's, Bull Langdon, with a sweep of his arm,
felled the boy to the ground. He tried vainly to rise,
but, weakened by his recent long illness, he had hardly
struggled to his knees before the cattleman sent him
spinning to the floor again.
A low murmuring passed over the crowd of lumbermen,
a hoarse cursing protest, that grew in volume
and fury as the Bull laid his hand on Nettie Day. It
burst like a tidal wave when the frenzied girl broke
from his grasp and fled through the open door.
The Bull found himself surrounded by a mob of mad
men, cursing and weeping because of their weakness
and inability to pull down the man they longed to
kill, they leaped and struck at him. With his back
to the wall he struck out right and left with his mighty
fists, sending one man after another staggering to
the floor, meanwhile edging craftily nearer and nearer
to the door through which Nettie Day had fled.