Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "Bridges are all burned. To-morrow I begin
teaching--where do you think?"]
*The Valley of Gold*
*A Tale of the Saskatchewan*
*BY DAVID HOWARTH*
FRONTISPIECE BY
H. WESTON TAYLOR
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with Fleming H. Revell Company
Printed in U. S. A.
Copyright, 1921, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave.
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street
_TO MY MOTHER_
*Contents*
I. Heavy Odds
II. The Valley of Gold
III. Bouquets
IV. The Man, Rob McClure
V. At the Water-Hole
VI. The Threshing Champions
VII. Hallowe'en on The Qu'appelle
VIII. The Rival Bosses
IX. A Land Shark
X. The Dreamer
XI. The Third Rider
XII. Anything is Fair in Love
XIII. The Red Knight Scores
XIV. Behind the Green Baize Door
XV. One Black Night
XVI. The Spider Weaves
XVII. Hank Foyle, Unexpected Guest
XVIII. The Bird of the Coulee
XIX. Chesley Sykes Uncovers His Hand
XX. A Fawn at Bay
XXI. The Counterplot
XXII. Wolves
XXIII. The Adventure at the Bridge
XXIV. The Storm Rock
XXV. The Empty Saddle
XXVI. The Red Knight Sings of the Fairies
*I*
*HEAVY ODDS*
The east wind blew furiously, beating gray sheets down the streaming
panes. Along the village street flowed a turbid torrent, the squalid
wash of an "old-timer-three-days'-blow" from the Great Lakes. Threshing
was hung up. Every wheel was stopped for a thousand miles across the
prairies.
Sparrow's pool-room was a cavern of smoke. Through the blue-ringed mists
of tobacco moved the unkempt silhouettes of boisterous threshermen.
Suddenly over the hubbub rose a jeering cry.
Ned Pullar leaned down and knocked the ashes out of his briar. His
immobile face gave no sign that the cry was an insulting challenge.
Opening his knife he slowly scooped out the bowl of his pipe. Tapping
the inverted briar on the palm of his hand, he proceeded leisurely to
fill in the tobacco. This act duly completed, he turned about and
looked McClure in the face. In his eyes was a faint twinkle, but he
elected to hold his tongue. His deliberate silence provoked his
tormentor. Hitherto McClure had addressed him in a low tone. Now his
great voice rose above the chatter of the players and the noise of the
crashing balls.
"Come, Pullar!" he sneered. "You're yellow. How about odds?"
Play ceased and all eyes turned on the two men.
"Pull easy, Rob!" adjured some partisan of McClure's. "He's soft in the
mouth."
The crowd raised applauding guffaws.
"Naw, it's the blind staggers, pards," cried a smooth voice. "Watch his
blinkers."
The immoderate laugh of the crowd had a curiously menacing note.
Pullar's blinkers were not blinking, however. He held McClure's eyes
with a level glance.
Thrusting hands to hips akimbo McClure cried insolently:
"S-s-stumped! You quitter!"
Pullar was still silent. His clear eye was taking in the situation.
McClure was plainly bent on baiting him and his purpose was beginning to
dawn on the Valley boss. A quick survey of the room discovered to him
the presence of nine of McClure's men. He could see them moving about
into position to cut off all egress from the one door. Not a man of his
own gang was in sight and the two or three outsiders were not promising
allies. The stench of liquor and the savage flashing of wild eyes warned
him of their fell intention. In the swift process of his thought he
realized that they were about to pull him down and "jump" him with the
unspeakable savagery of drunken fools. He was trapped. With every sense
alert he went ahead imperturbably preparing to light up.
Drawing a wad of bills from his pocket McClure thrust them under
Pullar's nose.
"Five hundred bucks!" he challenged. "Five hundred little bucks to lay
against you two to one that we can lick the Valley Outfit in a thirty
day run any old time you want to take it on. No time like the present,
Pullar!"
Ned Pullar stood straight and immense, a muscular figure in overalls and
smock. His fresh, youthful face looked almost innocently from under the
peak of his cap. His eyes were serious for an instant, then released an
amused smile.
"Rob McClure!" he said quietly. "You are developing an interesting
humour. Three times to-day you have flaunted this trifling wager in my
face. It means nothing to me--nothing more than do you yourself,
Robbie, mon, or your engaging gang."
The mocking tone provoked a swift change in McClure. His eyes narrowed
to slits that gleamed evilly. The rush of passion rendered him
impotently mute. Backing their boss with yells of rage the gang moved
menacingly toward the speaker. Suddenly above the foul oaths rang out a
voice. It was one of the outsiders who had slipped unnoticed to the
door. With his hand on the knob he called out:
"Hold 'em, Ned. I'll fetch the Valley Outfit mighty quick."
There was a rush toward him, but he dashed out of the door and away.
Then followed an instant move toward the solitary and defiant figure of
the Valley boss.
"Halt! You drunken dogs!" cried Pullar in a voice that effected his
purpose.
Pausing, the crowd eyed their quarry cautiously, warned by the terrible
flame leaping from the eyes where but a moment before glimmered a
whimsical smile. Holding his pipe to his lips with a match ready to
light, he addressed them quietly.
"I was getting ready," said he, "to hit the trail for The Craggs when
McClure worked himself up over this bet. I'm not interested in his
little gamble. But I am tolerable anxious over the important matter of
hiking along home to milk the cows. I'm going to pass out that door and
I'd hate to hustle any of you fellows unnecessarily."
He took a step toward them. There was an involuntary movement to
retreat. Pullar laughed and the threshers, with wild yells, rushed at
their prey. Above the clamour rose the bull-like roar of McClure.
"Throw the big stiff!" he shouted. "Mush him under your boots before
his gang get here. Put him out and we'll handle them."
With answering shouts they leaped to the attack. Pullar stepped back
lightly, feigning retreat. Drawn by the ruse two sprang after him.
Suddenly they felt a clutch like steel. Separating the two assailants
he brought them together with a trap-like shutting of his muscular arms.
Their heads met with a muffled shock and he sent them reeling to the
wall. Hands were grasping for him as he shot out his right fist and his
left and two more of his demented foes sank to their knees. Making a
lightning side step he sprang away, freeing himself from the gripping
tentacles of the gang.
In a flashing glimpse he found that he had dodged the attack en masse
only to throw himself in the path of Snoopy Bill Baird. The huge
slouching form was charging him wickedly. He twisted aside to elude the
onset but was unable to avoid the kick of the heavy boot. It caught him
along the cheek-bone, ripping the flesh. He closed, clinching his
assailant. The big fellows were well matched, but with a confusing
speed Pullar had pinned Baird's arms in a girdling grip. Tripping his
great, writhing captive over his hip he flung him clean away above his
head. Like a flying missile the man shot through the air, crashing down
sprawlingly upon a pool table.
Pullar was not aware that his huge antagonist lay on the table a
groaning heap, for they were dragging him down on all sides. Two of his
assailants clung to his arms, robbing him of any means of defense, while
a third belaboured him fiercely about the head. Still another fastened
on his throat. This latter clutched Pullar's neck with both hands,
gouging his thumbs into the windpipe with vicious design to strangle.
The vital grip began to tell and slowly at first, then with a chuck,
they went to the floor.
"Hold him! Hold him!" shouted McClure gleefully as he danced about
seeking a chance to strike. But a sudden change came over the battle.
The fall had shaken the bulldog clutch. By a prodigious effort Pullar
wrenched his right arm free. There was a series of quick, jabbing
motions and the four assailants fell magically away. With a bound
Pullar was on his feet facing McClure. The latter struck furiously for
the face but his blow was swept aside by something rigid. Pullar stood
inside his enemy's guard. He had but to strike and it would be over.
He did not strike. Instead he smiled through the blood and stepped
lightly back.
"No, McClure!" said he with a grim smile. "I don't need to."
The other looked at him a moment then breathed a low oath of surprise.
At that instant there was a great shout and the Valley Gang charged
through the door. Turning to the gang Ned Pullar lifted his hands and
shouted out above the tumult:
"Back, men! This fracas is over!"
"Not on yer life!" cried Easy Murphy, angered to fighting-mad pitch by
the sight of the bloody face of his boss.
"The fight is over!" cried Ned, holding back his men.
"Begobs! Ye don't know this wan Irish divil, Ned?" screamed Murphy. "I
wull be afthurr pluggin' the lights uv me frind McClure."
At the words he stepped toward McClure, followed by the others. But he
was intercepted by a swift motion of Pullar.
"No, Easy!" cried the young boss firmly. "Stick with me, lad. This is
my powwow. We are about to smoke the pipe of peace."
For a fleeting instant he caught the Irishman's eye. The flash of
intelligence that passed between them checked the belligerent passion in
Murphy's wild heart. With a significant and rueful nod the thresher
agreed to Pullar's wish.
"Ah, Ned, darlint!" said he affectionately, taking in the room at a
sweeping glance. "For why have ye bin mussin' up Rob's bowld byes?
'Tis a cyclone blower ye are, me hearty. Go ahead wid the show. The
Valley Gang's occupyin' the front sates."
With a very bad grace the Valley Outfit followed their spokesman's lead.
The eyes of the two gangs turned to Ned.
Aside from the gash along his cheek he was unhurt. Walking in among
McClure's men he picked up his pipe. Repacking the tobacco carefully he
lit up. Throwing a series of blue circles to the ceiling he indulged in
a moment's reminiscence. Finally he spoke, addressing Easy Murphy in his
usual quiet tone.
"A few minutes ago," said he, "Rob McClure was eating his head off over
a certain little proposition when--we had a slight interruption. In
fact, I was anxious to get home to the milking. I have changed my mind.
Rob's proposal will interest you. He wants to stack his huskies up
against the Valley Gang on a thirty-day run. He contends laying down a
trifle of five hundred dollars that he can lick my gang----"
Here arose a sudden commotion, savage threats and a sinister movement of
the Valley Gang. Ned waved his men back with a laugh.
"Just a minute, lads," said he. "Let me have my say. McClure pretends
that he can lick the Valley Outfit in a thirty day out-put. Strange as
it may seem I cannot agree with him. If he will make a real bet, make
it cash and approve Jack Butte as holder of stakes, we'll be able to
start something right off the bat."
On the heels of his words rose a chorus of defies from his men. Hands
flew to pockets and wads appeared. Snoopy Bill caught his feet groggily
scenting a gamble. In Rob McClure's eyes shone the gleam of the shark.
"Now you're spunking up!" said he with a sneer. "Butte's our man."
Turning to one of his gang, he said:
"Scoot out, Ford, and get him."
While the man started off to carry out his bidding he whipped out his
check book and filled in a form. As Snoopy Bill spied the amount he let
out a low whistle.
"Two thousand!" he exclaimed. "Rob, you're a la-la."
McClure handed the book to Pullar. Ned read it with immobile face.
Amid a deep silence the crowd pressed around the bosses. Would Pullar
call the bluff?
The year of which we write was the fall of nineteen hundred. The smoke
of the tractor was rarely seen in the land. Of the gas-power machine
there was no sign whatever. For five years Ned had swung steadily along
the Valley's brow with his twenty-horse, thirty-six inch portable mill,
threshing the line of farmers rimming the northern bank of The
Qu'Appelle. If a farmer got Pullar's mill it assured him a straight
crew, a quick, clean job and all his grain. The Valley Gang was
thoroughly workmanlike, the crack outfit of the Pellawa stretches.
This supremacy was now disputed. Some ten years before McClure had come
from the East with bags of money and bushels of confidence, not to
mention a stock of real ability. He was keen to get and heady and
aggressive in the getting. Three years before he had entered the
threshing game and pitched in with his usual gusto. One of his first
moves was to cross the Valley and make a bold raid on Pullar's run. But
his effort failed. Pullar's line of jobs remained intact. He managed
to pick up a few farmers thrown on the threshing market through the
defunct condition of their syndicate machine. Since Pullar's outfit was
full up for a big season the cluster of jobs fell to McClure. The
farmers of the Pullar run threw out some banter and an occasional jab
resenting the attempt of McClure to cut in. This nettled McClure and
was the small beginning of a bitter rivalry. Smothering his chagrin
McClure set to work to build up a gang that would lower the colours of
the Valley Outfit. At the end of the season it was found that Pullar's
bushelage had far exceeded that of the rival machine. The following
year repeated their fortunes. Then McClure startled Pellawa by
exchanging his portable outfit for an immense forty-inch separator
driven by a thirty-horse tractor steam power, of course. The new machine
was equipped with self-feeder, self-bagger and cyclone blower. Adding
extensively to his run he put on a large gang and began the season with
everything in his favour.
Though facing alarming odds, Pullar took up the gauge in his quiet way.
Rumours of record days by both machines drifted about the settlement
with the result that the annual threshing derby began to show a tendency
toward even money. The interested public pricked up its ears, enjoying
the come-back of Ned. This popularity, with the complication of a
three-day boose fest, was responsible for McClure's insulting challenge.
Ned was still scanning the check when Jack Butte appeared in the
doorway.
"Just in time, Jack!" greeted Ned with a grin. "Hold this money for
McClure. We are hooking up for a two-hand game, gang for gang."
There was a roar of applause from the Valley threshers. Above the noise
rose the voice of Easy Murphy. He was performing the sailor's hornpipe
before the shifty form of Snoopy Bill.
"Come across wid yer dust," challenged Murphy. "Fifty till fifty we
skin ye aloive!"
"Taken!" was the eager acceptance. "Here, Butte's the dough. You can
hand it back when the cows come home."
Butte was deluged with wagers.
"Hold your horses!" cried he, lifting protesting hands. "Two at a time.
Come along quietly and we'll fix it all snug."
Taking out his note-book he made punctilious entry of all stakes. His
task completed he took the trouble to plainly restate conditions.
"I'll bank this bunch of grass," he concluded. "The game winds up at
eight P.M. on the last day of October. We'll meet in Louie Swale's
Emporium and cash in. Meet me there at ten o'clock. And, gentlemen----"
He paused, reading the faces of the bosses and their men with keen eyes.
"This game's to be run on the square. Do you get me?"
"Right-o!" agreed McClure. "We'll shear these lambs on Hallowe'en."
Ignoring the jibe Ned Pullar pointed to the checks wedged in the pile of
bills. They were McClure's and his own. Speaking quietly to Butte he
said:
"You'll cash those papers and re-bank the whole amount in your own
name?"
"Exactly!" replied Butte, flashing sharp eyes at the young boss.
"Good!" was the low response.
Taking a step nearer McClure, Pullar fastened his eyes on the face of
his enemy. The lips of the older man were parted about to make some
insulting fling when he bit his tongue. Ned's eyes were smiling but
behind the smile glittered an ominous light that made McClure strike an
attitude of defense. He retreated a step, watching the other. In an
instant the air was electric. There was a shout from the Valley men and
they leaped up beside their boss.
"Since this little deal is satisfactorily arranged, McClure," said Ned
casually, "it may occur to you that your cows need milking. At any
rate, the Valley Gang have taken a sudden whim to be alone. Think it
over. We'll give you exactly one minute to get out. If you are here
sixty seconds hence we'll maul you a little and--throw you out."
Ned took his watch from his pocket while the Valley Gang let out a
defiant and joyful shout.
There was a malignant growl from the belligerent gang across the room at
the sudden challenge. Rage swept over them but they made no move to
close with their taunting enemies. The Valley men flung jeer and jibe
in wild effort to provoke a charge. Hissing a terrible oath McClure
turned to his men. What he saw decided him. Pointing to the door he
addressed them.
"Cowards!" he snarled. "Get out!"
With a slouching alacrity they obeyed, vanishing through the door in
swift and ignominious retreat. McClure passed after them without a word.
"Tin seconds till spare, the lucky divils!" cried Easy Murphy
regretfully.
At his rueful words the Valley Outfit lifted a victorious roar,
following McClure and his men with shouts of derision.
Ten minutes later as Ned Pullar stood in the pool-room door a white
horse dashed by, cantering along the slushy street. Astride swayed the
form of a girl clothed in a slicker. Beneath her quaint hood flashed
the light of brown eyes. Their quick glance caught his salute. She
acknowledged the greeting by a dainty tip of her head and the faintest
of smiles.
The slight recognition sent his blood atingle. In a moment she
disappeared about a building. The vision of the girl remained with him
and a shadow contended with the pleasure the sudden meeting had brought
into his face. Finally the shadow triumphed and a deeply troubled look
came into his eyes.
"Ah, Mary!" he reflected. "Where will this day's work lead us?"
The girl was Mary McClure, only child of his avowed enemy.
*II*
*THE VALLEY OF GOLD*
The wind drifted along the valley crisp with the breath of the harvest
dawn. It blew gently over the prairies flowing in from the west.
Speeding valleyward a horse and rider zigzagged in easy canter through
the shrublands. They clung to the deep paths of the buffaloes, dug long
years ago by countless droves threading their way to the stream in the
great ravine.
It was the girl's delight to "trail" these grass-grown ruts through the
dense groves hanging shaggily to the south banks. In a little they ran
out on a high shoulder of The Qu'Appelle. Here the bare hill was ribbed
with the parallel paths to the number of seven or eight that slipped
over the ravine crest, disappearing a few paces below into a thick grove
of stunted oak. Halting the eager broncho, the girl let her eyes rest
on the valley.
It was a pretty gulf cleaving the prairie for a width of two or three
miles and winding out of sight into the blue distance. There was
visible the shine of lakes and their linking streams. Under the amber
light of the autumnal sunrise the valley was pricked out into a
landscape of gold. The bank upon which they stood swept away to the
southeast in a forest crescent wonderful with the variegated leafage of
the searing year. Paling greens, bright yellows, faint oranges mingled
with browns and buffs and the brilliant wines and reds. Falling away
from their feet the colourful forest was a charming Joseph's coat, but
in the spacious distance its mottled glory blent into the russet-yellow
of the prairie autumn.
The north bank rose beyond, walling the ravine in a billowy rank of
great, rounded hills bald as the skull of the golden eagle and seamed
with dark lines of wooded gulches. Here and there along the crests hung
over the edges of the great, harvest blanket, strips of wheat fields
studded with their nuggets of brown stooks. In the blue radiance above
drifted a fleet of soft clouds with creamy breasts and fringes of amber
fire. On the floor of the valley lay a lake spread out in a broad
silver ribbon that rose to the skyline for miles into the west.
"You beautiful Qu'Appelle!" cried the girl softly. "We love you--Bobs
and I."
For many minutes she revelled in the ecstasy of gleaming morning and
golden valley, her cheeks bitten to roses by the tanging wind-drift. At
length she granted release to her impatient horse and let him dash down
into the trees. Under their branches she drew him to a walk and,
leaving the selection of their trail to the petulant Bobs, abandoned
herself to the alchemy of the harvest woods.
Passing slowly through the depths of a grove of white-stemmed poplars
they ran out into a tiny glade. Here The Willow, a pretty brook, dammed
by industrious beavers, gathered itself into a little pond before its
last wild rush to the lake. As they cleared the trees Bobs pricked up
his ears and quickened his step, giving a low whinny. His rider glanced
curiously ahead, surprised to see a horseman in the pool. Her face
changed suddenly from surprise to pleasure. The horse was sipping the
cool water. The rider was Ned Pullar.
"Mary!" he cried delightedly, sending his horse through the stream.
"This is my lucky day. Darkey and I have been haunting Willow Glade for
an hour past hoping just this, but never dreaming that you and Bobs
would really show up."
"How did you know I was coming?" demanded the girl happily.
"I did not know," was the reply. "I only knew this to be one of your
favourite haunts on a Sunday morning and conceived a long chance of
meeting you here. It was necessary to have a personal talk with you.
This morning I determined to see you before the day was gone."
"Are you in trouble, Ned?" cried the girl suddenly, a soberness driving
the pleasure from her face.
"Very great trouble, Mary," said Ned. "Do you not know?"
Deeply he searched the eyes looking into his. He could tell by the
innocence, the solicitude of them that they had not learned the thing he
feared. He was greatly relieved.
"What is it, Ned?" was her anxious query. "I have heard of no trouble."
"Perhaps it is only a cloud over the sun," was the reply. "It may pass
by. Indeed you have brightened things a lot for me already. Let us
breathe our broncs while we talk it all over."
Slipping from his saddle he assisted her to dismount. Taking charge of
the horses he secured them to adjacent trees and followed to where she
had seated herself on a gnarled log at the foot of the little falls.
"I have a little surprise for you," said he, throwing himself on the
leaves at her feet. "I am not returning to college this fall."
Her eyes opened wide, expressing a mystified incredulity.
"Sad but true!" was his reiteration.
"But your year, Ned! It is your final. You must finish."
"Sheer foolishness, eh? This smashing of a final year? So it seemed to
me for a little. Only a little. I cannot leave Dad."
At the words he averted his eyes.
She studied the downcast face, an expression of pride growing in her
eyes.
"You understand, I am sure," said he softly. "It has been worse this
vacation than ever before. Dad's at a great disadvantage now and I have
to watch him like a lynx. Swale's bar is a powerful lodestone. But he
is bracing gamely. He has not touched the stuff for three weeks and if
I stay with him now I believe he'll win out. Then I'll not lose the
year after all. A steady grind at the homestead should work out an
extra-mural pass, and I could pull down my degree with the rest of you."
"You will be missed, Ned."
He looked up quickly into her eyes. They were a peculiar mixture of
sympathy and fun.
"Undoubtedly!" agreed Ned disconsolately, though his eyes twinkled.
"How the Registrar will grieve at the non-appearance of my hitherto
regular fee. And Grimes, sweet janitor! He will drop not a tear, but a
diabolic wink at my sudden demise."
"Mercenary Registrar!" sighed Mary. "And unspeakably happy Grimes!
Doubtful mourners, I admit. But others will follow the two chiefs. I
see the Rugby Team pacing after slowly and aghast. They mourn Captain
and star punter at one fell stroke or rather in the unavailable person
of one fellow, Pullar. Methinks there was to have been a great
International Debate. But now?--How can I go on down the long line?
Behold the Winged Seven, favourites for the Hockey Cup, now, alas, the
Wingless Six! And the Eight-oared Crew?--Can you not see that you will
be missed ever so little?"
Ned looked up with a rueful grin.
"Grave losses all," replied Ned. "The ironic heartlessness of the small
Co-ed notwithstanding. Varsity will gradually recover from her terrible
handicap. Infinitely more terrible is it for me. Calculate the
unmaterialized wisdom of four hundred priceless lectures. But, after
all--it is nothing."
"No-o?" commented Mary slyly in sceptical demur.
Ned glanced into the brown eyes in time to surprise a smile uniquely
pleasing in its whimsical delight. Instantly they became mockingly
sober.
"Mary!" said he seriously, holding her gaze. "Will you miss me?"
The girl's eyes wandered suddenly to tree, sky, brook, finally resting
on a log at their feet.
"What a sudden switch from general to particular," said she, absorbed
apparently in the task of pecking a hole in the bark with the dainty toe
of her riding-boot.
Laughing quietly Ned proceeded.
"If you could peep into my mind, Mary, you would find a seething
resentment there. And all because of you. Soon you will be rejoining
the old class. There's the rub. I cannot conceive of Pellawa without
you."
"Indeed?"
"And a very big 'indeed,'" aggrieved Ned. "To think that Rooter Combes
and his rah-rahs will be in clover. This obsession has been actively
depressing since last Thursday. Perhaps you remember riding by
Sparrow's. You looked quaintly desirable in that chic, brown
slicker----"
"With my face all spattered and Bobs a mud tramp!"
"I did not see Bobs at all, just a chicily hooded girl with peeping
curls of brown hair, flashing eyes and a nod adorably imperious but very
welcome."
"I should not have recognized you."
"But you did and at that particular moment the act was doubly precious
to me. How can I resign you, Mary, to the too tender solicitude of
Combes and those dear fellows?"
Mary tipped her head reflectively while she read his half-serious eyes.
"Is this your trouble, Ned?" said she smiling frankly down at him. "Do
you mean that you will miss me--quite a little?"
"Just so. Since you comprise the population of Pellawa--for me.
But----"
"You may not be called upon to forego the society of this so immensely
necessary person."
Now it was his eyes that opened wide.
"I have a piece of big news for you," continued Mary, shaking her head
wisely while she enjoyed his surprise. "I, too, am dropping out. No
Varsity for me this term. You see me to-day, Ned, a specially permitted
schoolma'am. Last Thursday as I rode by Sparrow's I was on my way to
sign the entangling documents. Bridges are all burned. To-morrow I
begin teaching--where do you think?"
He shook his head.
"In the school of--The Craggs. I shall be your very close neighbour.
Mary McClure is not flitting away from you. Combes and his
tender-hearted fellows should worry very considerably, I fancy."
"Mary, Mary!" was the elated cry. "I am sorry for you but riotously
happy for myself."
She looked down upon him a moment with eyes brimmingly glad, then a
shadow crept into them.
"I am spending this year with Mother and Dad," she said simply.
Looking earnestly at her he caught the shine of tears. Stifling the gay
words leaping to his lips he rose and stepping to her drew her head to
his breast.
"Mary," said he gently, "our work is planned for a year ahead. Home is
the only place for us just now."
"We'll make it a great year, Ned," was the hopeful reply. "When I was a
little girl, everything good for Mother and Dad was described as
'bestest.' This is to be the 'bestest' year for our loved ones that
they have ever known. Can we make it so?"
"You are only a little girl yet," said Ned, kissing the face turned up
to him. "And this is to be their 'bestest' year. We shall see to that.
Now for my trouble, the thing that drove me out to find you. These last
moments have made it deepen rather than vanish. On Thursday afternoon,
a short time before I saw you, I had an adventure. Have you heard of
it?"
"Not even a rumour, Ned. Mother and I are not as intimate with Pellawa
life as we should be."
"I am glad you have not heard," said Ned earnestly. "There was an
encounter in the pool-room. Your father was involved."
At Ned's words a fear flashed into the girl's eyes.
"Your father and I have made rather slow progress in our mutual
acquaintanceship. We got to know each other much better at Sparrow's.
I cannot say the event has helped any. We are now enemies publicly
acknowledged. At least your father so considers me. The clash was
sharp and promises serious trouble ahead for us. It will hamper us not
a little in our plans of the last few minutes."
"Ned!" she cried with lips a-tremble. "You did not fight? Not that?"
He looked at her, deeply troubled by the white face and the pain in her
glance. She was looking at the scar on his cheek. He thought of the
wager. A staggering regret swept over him. He was about to tell her the
whole story, but now? No. She should not know all--just yet. Forcing a
reassuring smile he replied:
"No. We did not fight. It was a touch and go but resulted in nothing
more than a sharp brush with your father's gang. That scratch is from
the boot of Bill Baird. I was able to restrain the Valley Gang, thanks
to Easy Murphy's loyalty. Otherwise the worst would have happened. We
did not fight and I am confident I can give you my promise that we never
shall."
Immense relief filled the girl's eyes.
"You were in a hard place," said she, her look of strange comprehension
searching his face. "You held your hand because--because of our love. I
know it."
Her sure intuition astonished him, but before he could speak she
continued:
"There is startling cause for cheer in all this, Ned. If you can
prevent the terrible possibility I am thinking of, you can win Dad."
"How would you have me do it, Mary?" was his abrupt appeal.
She pondered deeply, her eyes growing in solicitude as the moments
passed. At length she looked at him with troubled face, shaking her
head.
"I do not know," was her helpless confession. "How would you win him?"
"The only way is to play the man with him," was the slow answer. "He
would turn over heaven or hell to break me. Obviously I must break
him."
The girl shuddered at the words. Watching the quivering face he was
surprised to hear her say:
"I know there is no other way. One of you must conquer. But there is a
condition I want to make. You will be right, always, Ned, as well as
irresistible. I know you will."
"I shall always have the right with me. I have it now," was the quick
reply. "I expect to butt into stone walls at times, but we shall win
out. There is only one great, lurking dread. Sometimes I fear your
father may strike at me through you, we mean so much to each other."
As he spoke he fancied he saw in her eyes the glimmer of a haunting
fear. But it vanished so swiftly he doubted he had ever glimpsed it.
The big eyes reading his were heavy with grief. With sudden impulse he
crushed her in the shelter of his great arms.
"I should not have breathed the thought," said he penitently. "Nothing
conceivable can ever strike our love, Mary. You are not afraid?"
"Not of that," was the reply as she nestled contentedly within the
strength of him. "Many things may happen, but not that. Just now
Father is obsessed with his new friendship. It is a thousand pities
that the friend should be Chesley Sykes. His presence in Pellawa is an
ominous mystery to me. So far he has deported himself with desirable
aloofness. May he continue to do so. He is completely outside of this
beautiful moment. Let us forget him."
"And ride away together," suggested Ned.
"I have an hour yet," calculated Mary.
"We'll spend it riding No-trail Gulch," tempted Ned.
"Let us away," laughed the girl gaily. "For the trail----"
"Is luring," completed Ned, leading her to the horses.
A moment later they clattered over the gravel bed of the brook and into
the trees.
*III*
*BOUQUETS*
The month of October sped swiftly away in one long attack on oceans of
stooks amid the blue blaze of cloudless skies. The threshers were having
a run of "great weather" as the blank fields and the piles of straw
averred. The matter of the McClure-Pullar wager had of course leaked
out and become the one thrilling feature of the annual wind-up. Aside
from the two gangs there was a keenly interested and, alas, gaming
public. The sympathy of the plains went to Ned Pullar; the odds to Rob
McClure. Jack Butte had become an inhuman sphinx. Into Jack's elevator
had come the steady stream of grain from the contending mills but to no
one had he divulged the respective records. No system of tapping his
books had yet succeeded. This was due to the fact that Jack Butte was an
irreproachable and resourceful stakeholder. As rare evidence of his
unique qualifications he had sworn the secrecy of every farmer threshed
by the rivals. It was a tribute to the sporting public that with but
three days to run only one man knew of the interesting situation.
The Valley Outfit was resting. Ned Pullar was oiling-up and cleaning
his engine during the dinner interim. Every bit of brass about her was
gleaming gold while the friction surfaces shone clean like new silver.
The "Old Lady" had established a personal reputation in the Valley as a
"mighty good engine," and her engineer was justly proud of her. To Ned
she had become a living thing. Mounting on the footboard he grasped the
throttle. During the pounding grind of the past month he had formed the
habit of communing with this thing of power that he controlled with so
masterful a hand. As his eyes read gauge and water-glass with
satisfaction he spoke to the engine, addressing her not by word of mouth
but with the voice of his reflection.
"Just a couple of days more and we'll ease up on you, old girl. You've
been a game old Pal and you'll not throw me down now."
The Old Lady made violent protest at even the hint of such infidelity by
throwing a hissing cloud of steam from her exhaust. Ned smiled,
gripping the throttle with a fond clutch.
"Same old ready bird!" said he. "Eager to get at it, are you? Just
five minutes, Old Lady, and we'll set you purring again."
With the flames roaring through her flues the thing of steel waited
restively for the thing of will that held her levers in sinewy grasp.
At the separator the men resting for a few minutes upon the straw were
looking up into the face of Andy Bissett, the separator man, listening
to him as he worked away with wire prod and oil can.
"I tell you, lads, we are up against a stiffer proposition than any of
you fellows think. Ned's out for blood. He doesn't care a whiff for
that wager Butte holds. But he's got to win it."
"Hold on, Andy!" cried Lawrie, the big feeder. "You've got me up in the
air. I thought the Valley Outfit was after McClure's long green."
"So they be," agreed Dad Blackford belligerently. "And Ned, 'e's a-goin'
to get hit."
But Andy shook his head.
"You don't get me," said he, pausing in his work. "And I can't explain
for I'm as much at sea as the rest of you. But we've got to win this
little bet. If we put it over McClure it will only be by a thousand or
two. Ned says he won't push the Outfit any harder, but I've taken the
liberty to put on the squeeze play for a couple of days. Grant's
putting on two extra stook wagons and a couple of men. Here they come
now. We're going to slam through a couple of thousand above the
regular. If Grant can bung this old fanning mill I don't know it."
The men leaped to their feet, for the extra wagons had rattled up.
There was a fresh determination in every face. They had been working at
high pressure for the long run, but they were right on their toes in the
face of the challenge. Each man went to his place addressing himself to
the struggle in the workmanlike fashion of the Valley Outfit. Jean
Benoit, the little French bagger, plucked the tankman's sleeve as the
group broke up.
"What Ned hole on hees cheek?" questioned the Frenchman excitedly.
Easy Murphy looked at him a moment deeply puzzled. Suddenly light
broke.
"Begobs, 'tis the tongue in his chake yer dappy about. Why, sez you,
does not the sly divil be afthur-r showin' the hand uv him? Shure Ned's
not wearin' his heart on his lapel, me frind from Montmorenci."
Jean searched the Irishman's face as it went through the contortion of
an excessively wise and secretive wink.
"Mon Gar!" exclaimed the confused fellow. "De boss wan woodhead! Why he
de debble not squeal? Eef we know, den lak wan blankety busy bee we
work de whole gang. Eef we not know, Ned he ged him on de neck."
"You're right, Jean!" was the emphatic pronouncement. "And yit Ned wull
not be afthurr tellin' his saycrits till the gintle lugs uv the Valley
Gang. Can't ye see whut's eggin' him on? 'Tis not the wee wager. 'Tis
a man." Tapping the Frenchman wisely on the breast he whispered
tragically, "The boss is thrailin' a varmit be the cognomin uv Robbie
McClure and he'll be afthurr gittin' his man dead or aloive. Put that
intill the poipe uv ye and smoke ut, not forgettin' till wur-rk like
---- in the manetoime. Farewell!"
Jean did not understand quite all but he turned to the bagger with
fierce resolution. As he knocked the filling bag with his knee he
caught sight of McClure's smoke through the cloud of dust enveloping
him. His dark eyes shone.
"We lick heem! We lick heem!" was his low soliloquy. Then he added
joyously as he gave the bag a vicious jab, "Ha! Eet will be good!"
The thought energized him mightily. Deftly settling the bag and closing
it he seized it adroitly and by united force of arms, knees and back
hurled it up into the wagon, remarking ferociously:
"So we give McClure the beeg fall. We give him beeg scare too, eh? And
mebbe leetle licking also."
Smiling gleefully he settled to the grind.
Easy Murphy was absorbed in a brown study as he climbed up on his water
tank and started his horses over the stubble. Suddenly he came out of
the maze of his cogitations and called fiercely at his horses.
"Arrah, me beauties, shake the legs uv ye or I'll be afthurr pokin' yer
rumps wid me number tins."
The horses took the hint and broke into a lumbering trot. They were
making a trip to the water-hole and at the moment were passing through a
field of oats into which they would soon be hauling the Outfit. As he
drove through the wire gate out into the road-allowance he saw a
buckboard pull up at the fence some distance away. The sole occupant
dropped out of the vehicle and passing through the strands of wire
walked for a considerable distance into the stocks. Pausing for a moment
the stranger knelt down beside a stock, then rising walked on to
another, where he knelt again. His actions excited a keen curiosity in
his observer.
"Begobs, me hearty!" exclaimed Easy. "Ye're not pickin' pansies in an
oat-field. Nathur are ye adorin' the Almighty, for ye're almighty loike
Snoopy Bill Baird, head foozler of McClure's bums. I'll hail yuh, Bill,
till I find out yer tack."
He was about to yell when he checked himself, muttering:
"Howld yer jaw, ye owld fool."
The other had noticed his approach and loitered a few minutes shelling
the grain, interested evidently in the yield. This matter duly settled,
he climbed back through the fence and reentering the buckboard drove
slowly along toward the tank. It was Snoopy Bill all right. As they
drew abreast Easy pulled up his horses. A roguish twinkle played in his
eyes as he said:
"'Tis a foine day wur-r havin', Bill. A pleasant day indade for
pluckin' swate bokays."
"Great day! Great day! Murphy!" was the jocular reply,
"Bin pickin' pansies the day," continued Easy naively, curious to
discover what he could.
Snoopy Bill looked at him sharply. But no guile could he discover in
the face grinning down at him.
"No such luck, Murphy," said he casually. "I was taking a squint at the
yield. Pretty durn good, eh?"
"And it's the yield ye're afthurr meddlin' with and not the swate and
gowlden daisies. I saw yuh pokin' around among the stooks as I pulled
through the gate."
The smile on Snoopy Bill's face ceased to deepen while the whole man
became suddenly alert. Easy Murphy caught the change.
"Ye're Snoopy Bill, shure enough," blurted he. "And I'll lay ye a
tin-spot ye were up to no godly devowshuns kneeling in the muck by the
stooks. Ye're not prominint for religion, are ye, Snoopy?"
Snoopy Bill's tone was galling to Easy's inflammable spirit as he
replied imperturbably:
"Leaving the matter of the 'swate daisies' aside, Murphy. I was praying
for you, honest. I was putting in a lick for the Valley Gang asking the
good Lord to have a look to Pullar's Outfit when we clean them up."
Easy's jaw set, a sign that an ultimatum was imminent.
"Ye blatherin' spalpeen!" he cried, his hands opening and shutting
convulsively. "I'll be afthurr spilin' yer sassy mug if ye open it
agin."
Snoopy Bill opened his "mug" with commendable lack of hesitation. An
impudent drawl pointedly accentuated did not tend to reduce Easy's
evident irritation.
"Talking about mugs, Murphy," said he confidentially, "it seems to me we
have some curious and fine large samples hereabouts gopping wide open
for free inspection."
The sardonic grin that accompanied the casual observation touched off a
whole magazine of high explosive. Easy's mouth was a generously ample
specimen and his posture of attention was to sit with it ajar. The
amplitude of that particular area of his facial map was a source of
constant regret. Hence the remark rankled.
"Ye've said it!" was his angry utterance as he threw down the lines.
With a leap he was off the tank. They dropped to the road together, but
Snoopy Bill having a shorter descent recovered first and rushing at his
antagonist swung swiftly and struck, planting a powerful blow on the
chest, hurling the other against the tank. He followed quickly for the
head with his other hand but Easy's native wit acted with surprising
speed and he ducked. Snoopy Bill's closed fist rapped on the hard
surface of the tank, skinning the knuckles.
"Thry agin!" yelled the Irishman mockingly, with a vicious thrust into
his enemy's ribs. The blow staggered his opponent. Swiftly he followed
it with a jolting up-cut, yelling again, "Take wan yersilf and be
hanged!"
The blow made Snoopy Bill's head bob back and he dropped to his knees.
Easy stood over him furiously triumphant. Stooping he called into the
other's ear:
"Git busy at yer devowshuns, me hearty. Put in a wur-rd for McClure and
his divils."
With a weak smile Snoopy Bill staggered to his feet.
"You are a hard hitter, Murphy," said he dazedly.
Picking his late antagonist up bodily Easy bundled him into his
buckboard and slapping the horse smartly on the hip sent him off at a
trot. Placing his hands to his mouth the tankman shouted:
"If ye want anny more forgitmenots come back the morrow, the garden's
full."
With this parting shot he climbed up on his tank and resumed his trip to
the water-hole.
*IV*
*THE MAN, ROB McCLURE*
Rob McClure sat before his roll-top desk, his head resting upon his
hands. He was perturbed. Occasionally his head would sink into a
posture of dejection. In a moment he would straighten, shrug his
shoulders and look out of the window, his face swept by the irony of an
uncouth smile.
He was a man of powerful physique, large of frame, possessor of a
presence singularly impressive. He was conscious of his power. An
habitual, impatient shrug revealed a restive spirit deeply antagonistic
to baffling elements. A relentless, implacable expression inwrought the
face that exhibited even in the act of smiling the dominance of an
over-riding will. There was something cruel in the hard lines about the
mouth, while the deep little wrinkles about the eyes more than hinted
brutal cunning. One felt that given sufficient pressure Rob McClure was
capable of the unspeakable. There were, however, relieving features to
the hard visage, most prominent of all a high, expansive brow and great,
volcanic eyes.
Looking out of the window his eyes fell on the yellow stretches of
stubble, empty now save for the huge piles of straw thrown up by the
blower. In the west the plain was gulfed by the blue depths of The
Qu'Appelle Valley. His glance swept over the autumn landscape all
unseeing, for his gaze was fixed on two streams of distant smoke that
rose for a little in straight columns, then floated off in long parallel
lines to the west. Clenching his fist he brought it down on the desk.
"I've got him nailed!" he breathed fiercely, smiling his strange smile.
Then his confidence seemed to shake. The two lines of smoke were
streaming over the fields evenly abreast.
"Pullar's a silent devil," he whispered darkly. "He is deep--deep as
----, and he cleans up a pile of stuff."
He meditated for a little then added decisively:
"But I've got him nailed tight."
The irresolution disappeared and the cruel smile stole out again.
"If he should win," was the jocular reflection. "We'll take a look at
the little game proposed by Reddy Sykes. Reddy has a way--a fetching
way." The name brought a certain merriness to his face. The humour was
not attractive.
With a satisfied shrug he rocked back in his chair. As he did so his
eyes rested on a photograph above his desk. Down upon him gazed two
beautiful faces. Instantly a tender light softened the hard features.
His lips moved, shaping involuntarily the names:
"Helen! Mary!"
The picture held his searching gaze until the sound of approaching
footsteps broke the spell. At the sound the tender light vanished and a
conflict surged over his face. Gradually his jaw set and the steel of
the unyielding will revealed itself. The door opened quietly and in a
moment a hand rested gently on his head. The voice that fell on his ear
was sympathetic and affectionate. Mary had broken into his sanctum.
"Why, Daddy," she cried, "you are looking very serious. Are you
troubled about something?"
The very solicitude of the voice seemed to chafe him.
"No," he exclaimed abruptly.
Nothing daunted she fondled his hair.
"Is the mill not running well, Daddy?"
The appeal in the voice caused a relenting of his face but his tone was
forbidding as he replied:
"Yes. She's running along fine. I must go out to her right away."
Submitting brusquely to her kiss he rose and snapping the roll-top shut
took his departure.
Mary McClure sat down in the vacated chair, resting her head on her
hands as her father had done.
"Poor Daddy!" she murmured. "You are so busy, so preoccupied."
There was a trace of pain in the voice, a great wistfulness in the eyes.
Once again she was confronted with the tragedy of affection unrequited.
Looking at the father one would expect in his daughter the robust, ample
type. But she was small and fragile, a delicate bloom of young
womanhood. Out of the bright face looked lustrous brown eyes, a
seriousness lying in their playful depths. In appearance only was she
fragile, for the small form was well compacted, lithe and wiry, capable
of really great endurance. She was more than equal to exhausting rides
along the ravine and the trails of the upper country. Sitting by the
desk she was a diminutive, disconsolate figure. She had drooped into a
pensiveness that of late visited her all too frequently. Nose and chin
had the dainty grace of the spirituelle and such was Mary McClure. Yet
was she human, fired with an intense passion for people. A quick, light
glance of her eyes or the flash of her smile threw the spell that was
irresistible. Life opened to her on all sides. The girl was fortunate
in her mother. The glory of a great affection enveloped her. In the
mother appeared the culture of Old Varsity, giving to the McClure home a
distinguishing atmosphere not often found on a Western farm. Helen
McClure was a fine companion for the vivacious girl, and the two enjoyed
a delightful camaraderie.
In her father Mary was presented with the most cruel enigma. Here lay
the secret of the solemnness that so often filled her eyes. By him all
affectionate approach was resented. He seemed deliberately striving to
quench her natural attachment. But Mary's affection knew no repulse.
Patiently she pressed the attack, intent on destroying the barrier he
would insist on building between them. At times she fancied a relenting
had rewarded her efforts.