autumn fields. Her heart was conscious of a dearth as great as that of
the barren stubble. Her lips trembled as she whispered musingly:
"Daddy doesn't seem to want my love. Why is he so busy--so--so
unfriendly? So buried from us in a hundred cares?"
As she pondered she shuddered, for she remembered times when he was
well-nigh brutal. Then the fetid odour flowed from his breath. Rapt in
the poignant moment her face drew into sad lines and a mist stole over
her eyes, blurring the autumn vision.
McClure had made all haste and drew near his machine. As he approached
the engine slowed up and stopped and the pitchers, jabbing their forks
into the sheaves, lay down on the loads. Urging his horse to great
speed he rode up to the machine. A lively altercation was in progress.
A knot of excited men were gathered about Snoopy Bill Baird and Sid
Smithers, the farmer. Smithers' voice rose high in angry tones.
"She stops right now," he cried vehemently. "And you pull your Outfit
off my farm."
Throwing down the lines McClure strode in among the men. His heavy
voice rose above the hubbub.
"What's the kick?" was his demand.
"Smithers is trying to put a crimp in this job," replied Snoopy Bill.
"He's ordered the mill off the farm. He contends we're throwing over
his grain."
Smithers interposed warmly.
"And you are doing it," said he wrath fully. "It's a cussed shame. I
can prove it. Come back to the straw pile."
He promptly led the way and the crowd moved back quickly to the blower.
Reaching into the straw pile Smithers drew out a coal shovel. His voice
was indignant as he said:
"Here's what I caught in five minutes at the mouth of that blower."
The men crowded round. Cleaning the straws away he disclosed a layer of
plump yellow grains covering the bottom of the shovel. As the sight met
his eye McClure gave an involuntary start and his face grew dark. His
voice was mollifying, however, when he spoke.
"That looks pretty bad, Smithers," said he quietly. "But you just
happened to catch a shoal of grain thrown over on a bunch of straw.
I'll bet you ten to one we haven't thrown over five bushels in the last
three days."
But Smithers stood firm.
"You can't pull the wool here, McClure," was the menacing retort.
"There is a heap of my stuff going over and you quit. Easy Murphy gave
me a line on Grant's yield and he's beating me bad. My crop's as good as
Grant's and you know it. Haul your Outfit off my farm."
Smithers was determined. For a moment McClure was silent. Then he
spoke in an appeasing tone.
"I don't want to quit this job right now," said he. "I'll tell you what
I'll do. Let me finish this run in my own way and if your yield doesn't
equal Grant's I'll make up the shortage and not charge you a sou for
your threshing. Is that square?"
Smithers turned the matter over deliberately.
"Make it law," said he shrewdly, "and I'll hook up with you."
"Agreed!" was the quick response. "I'll sign the papers to-night. Meet
me at Reddy Sykes' at ten and we'll put it through."
"Go ahead on that condition," said Smithers, climbing into his wagon.
Quickly the men were in their places and the machine went roaring into
the twilight. As McClure stood by the separator he signalled to Snoopy
Bill.
"Let her rip, Bill," was his shout. "Crowd through a couple of thousand
extra before to-morrow night."
Snoopy Bill passed the word and the engineer opened the throttle. The
gang responded with a will and soon a great stream of straw was gushing
from the blower.
At that moment Mary McClure was standing up in her stirrups with eyes
fixed intently on a spur of the north bank of the Valley. As she
watched, a yodling scream came over the rounded hilltops. She smiled
delightedly. On the tip of the lofty spur she caught sight of a red
flash that she knew instantly as the shining coat of a certain bay
broncho.
"It is Flash with Margaret up!" was the pleased exclamation. "I believe
she wants me."
Forming a horn with her hands she called back in the cry of the hills.
The rider on the spur waved her gauntlet in reply, beckoning to the
rider in the Valley. Instantly Mary turned Bobs into the trees, sending
him up a steep bridle path to the left. In a few minutes the girls were
together and they set out through the stubble to where the Valley Gang
was finishing the wheat.
"We are just in time to see the move," said Margaret. "For you, of
course, the engineer is the whole gang. You will be able to see Ned in
action."
"And you will be absorbed in the rest of the gang, that is in the antics
of the separator man," countered Mary.
"At present," laughed Margaret, "I am going to make a raid on your
preserves and talk to Ned."
She rode up to the engine.
At that moment there was a boisterously gallant salute from the gang,
accompanied by a vigorous waving of caps and the shrill scream of the
engine. The girls acknowledged the reception by a gay flourish of
gauntlets.
"We are going to time the move, Ned," shouted Margaret above the roar of
the engine, showing him her watch. "Let us see what the Valley Outfit
can do."
Drawing his watch from his pocket Ned blew the whistle, promptly gaining
the attention of the whole gang. Waving his hand toward the site of the
new setting, he lifted high his watch and pointed to Margaret. With a
ringing cheer they accepted the challenge and addressed themselves to
the race against time. One of the feats of a crack outfit is the swift
move to a new setting without mishap or confusion.
Already the last stock teams have pulled away from the separator and are
careering in wild race to the adjacent field. With the tossing in of
the final shovelful of chaff the separator stands clean and naked above
the stubble. As the last bit of wheat dribbles into the bag Ned signals
the stop and Margaret lifts her watch aloft.
"It is up to the Valley crew now," comes the silvery challenge, and the
boys respond with a merry shout and the address that marks the
discipline of the gang.
As the fly-wheel slows up the pitchers deftly throw the belt, roll it up
and hang it in place. At the same time the carriers are lowered and
secured and the two waiting grain-teams hooked to the separator.
Leaning well on the lines the drivers give the word. With a sharp gee
and a steady pull they haul the mill up on the stubble and head in a
curved line for the site of the new setting a quarter of a mile away.
There a space has been already cleared and a circle of loaded
stook-wagons is beginning to form, awaiting the arrival of the machine.
The feat par excellence of all the teaming about a threshing mill is
that of pulling the engine out of the holes into which she has settled
and over the intervening stubble. Usually two teams are detailed to
this duty, but here the big tank team is sufficient. At the drop of the
belt Easy Murphy hitched the grays. The two big beasts stand expectant.
Seizing the lines Easy gives the inspiration of his invigorating brogue.
Thrusting their great shoulders at the collars the team leans steadily
forward. Straining with their mighty muscles they sink their toes deep
into the turf. The traces stretch into tense, vibrating thongs. Hawing
sharply the real pull commences. The mass begins to move. Swaying
slightly as his horses' heads go down, Easy heartens them.
"Stiddy now, me beauties, and aisy ut is or the stubble wull be afthurr
ticklin' the bellies uv ye."
Suddenly the wheels rise out of the holes and the heavy mass rolls
along.
"Aye, 'tis an aisy waltz fer yez, me bantams!" crows the tankman as the
big team swings through the soft muck with the weighty Old Lady in tow.
At precisely the same instant the separator has made its start.
Glancing at her watch Margaret is surprised to observe that barely a
minute has elapsed.
Arriving at the cleared area the separator, under the guidance of Andy
Bissett, circles to the east, coming up to position in the teeth of the
wind. The engine takes a curve to the west, swinging east to meet it.
With the separator in place and blocked, every man springs to his task.
Carriers are swung into proper elevation, feeder and band-cutter's
stands dropped and the belt run out to the engine.
Ned stands on the rear of his engine with eye sighting along the
fly-wheel. Now is the critical moment. An inch too much to right or
left means the loss of minutes.
"Gee a little!" comes the crisp command. "Steady ahead! Let her swing
to gee! Easy now! Hold!"
At the final order Easy Murphy brings his horses to a dead stop.
Quickly the belt is slipped on and tautened. Every man stands in his
place poised for work. Two short shrieks of the siren and the whole
scene leaps into animation. Volumes of smoke belch from the funnel, the
big belt speeds flapping along to the separator, starting the whirring
of a maze of lesser belts and the spinning of countless pulleys. In a
moment the cylinder is devouring an endless flood of sheaves. From the
side of the mill the oats gush out while the straw rolls up over the
carriers in a golden stream.
The girls ride up to the engine, admiration in their eyes.
"What time did we kill?" inquired Ned, smiling through his layers of
grease.
"You made time," corrected Mary, flashing a bright smile down upon him.
"That was wonderful work, quite worthy of the Valley Outfit."
"Time," said Margaret with official dignity, "is the surprising record
of eight minutes and twenty seconds."
"I must let the gang know," said Ned in high elation. "That is a pretty
decent record." Reaching out he blew eight screeching calls. The
threshers paused long enough to respond with a trio of husky cheers.
Then back they went with a will to the grind.
"What a furiously busy gang you have, Ned," was Mary's ingenuous
observation, her eyes on the lively sight. "You all work as if we are
to have a two-foot fall of snow, during the night. Why this haste?"
Ned smiled peculiarly and was silent. Margaret came quickly to his
relief. She was aware of the exact situation and entirely disapproved,
but she knew Ned wished to hold the truth from Mary.
"The Valley Outfit have been rushing along at this breakneck speed for
the whole of October," said Margaret. "They are gambling, Mary. The
boys have a wager that they can pile up a record output for the month.
The trial winds up to-morrow night. Ned Pullar and his vaunted Valley
Gang are a company of very foolish gentlemen."
"There are exceptions in the case, I suspect," insinuated Mary. "Our
little Miss Grant exempts all tall, good-looking separator men. Hum!"
Ned laughed.
"Were it not for the dust," said he, "I would take you girls over for a
chat with our rather handsome fellow. I have a hunch, however, that
Margaret would scarcely enjoy it."
"What? The handsome fellow?" posed Mary mischievously.
"No. The dust," replied Ned.
"It is a little matter," agreed Margaret.
"The handsome fellow?" teased Ned.
"No. The dust," prompted Mary archly.
All three laughed.
"Here, White!" called Ned to his fireman. "You handle the throttle while
I take the girls to the mill."
In spite of the dust the four-cornered interview though necessarily
brief resolved itself into a charming "little matter." Andy was back in
his place on top of the mill oiling near the carriers. Ned stood beside
the girls, who were sitting their horses just beyond the cloud of dust.
They were enjoying a few moments' contemplation of the lively scene
before departure for the Grant homestead when suddenly a vivid light
flashed red in the twilight, flaring on the sweating face of Lawrie, the
big feeder. Instantly followed a loud metallic crashing. With a
strange, muffled shout Lawrie threw up his hands and fell on the feed
table, pitching forward into the jaws of the machine. An instant more
and he must be seized by the deadly teeth of the whizzing cylinder.
At the blare of fire Ned uttered a cry of alarm and rushed toward the
separator. Realizing Lawrie's horrible plight he shouted to White at
the throttle and taking a lightning leap drew himself up on the
separator above the whirring teeth. Already they were fanning the hair
of the insensible feeder as his head settled nearer to the blurred shine
of the hideous jaws. Reaching over, Ned seized the helpless man and
lifted him by the sheer strength of his powerful arms out of the fangs
of the machine. But the weight of his inert burden swinging suddenly
overbalanced him. Poised over that maw of whirling death the two men
hung for an awful instant as Ned fought to recover. But the weight was
too much; Lawrie began to sink. It was evident the two men were falling
back into the cylinder. A scream of terror leaped from the lips of the
horror-stricken band-cutters. Then it was Ned felt his shoulder clutched
in a mighty grip and he with his precious burden was dragged back to the
roof of the mill.
"Thank God you were there, Andy!" exclaimed the big fellow breathlessly
as they composed the huddled form of the unconscious Lawrie.
"A touch and go, Ned!" was the solemn rejoinder. "I did not know
anything was amiss--until I heard your shout. It took me an instant to
spot you in the dust. Lawrie's badly smashed."
And so it seemed, for the man's face was washed with blood.
Meanwhile White had shut down and willing hands helped them move the
wounded man to the ground. Water was speedily applied and the blood
sopped up, revealing a deep gash along the forehead gouged by some
missile thrown out by the rotating cylinder. Under the steady bathing
there were soon signs of returning consciousness. Slowly opening his
eyes Lawrie was surprised to find Ned bending over him, looking at him
with anxious, sober gaze. A gleam of intelligence crept into the man's
face and he smiled faintly.
"Oh, yes!" he said reminiscently. "I remember. I felt it slip in and
tried to draw it back but it got away." After a moment's pause he
added: "I am afraid it has played hob with the cylinder and concave.
Have you taken a look, Ned?"
"You Lawrie!" cried Ned, smiling at the game fellow. "It's the man
first here, you know. How are you feeling?"
"O.K., Ned, though by gum I seem to have taken the count."
Recovering he rose on his elbow and looked around curiously. The gang
were gathered about him, a circle of solemn faces. Giving a little
laugh he said naively:
"What's got your goat, pals?"
"Shure 'tis the lucky, quare divil ye are," said Murphy, "till be dead
wan minute and assistin' at your own post mortin the nixt."
A hearty laugh passed round the circle relieving the tension. No more
was said, but Lawrie understood the grip of Ned's strong hand.
"We must fix that cut, Lawrie," said he, looking helplessly about.
"This dirt will never do."
The moment the girls realized the accident they had dismounted and
assumed the official duties of Red Cross first aid. Mary McClure smiled
at Ned's words. She had already arrived at a solution. Rising from her
place beside Lawrie she spoke.
"Ned," said she curiously, "have you a knife?"
"Here," was the prompt response as he produced a jack-knife.
"Margaret, you take it," said the girl, "and if the Valley Gang will
close their eyes for a minute I'll direct you what to do."
At the words she lifted her skirt daintily, revealing the snowy white
edge of the petticoat beneath. With dancing eyes the gang made the
right about turn and Lawrie decided on an immediate snooze. A few
minutes later his brow was bound with a clean bandage and he was making
his way shakily to the feed-board. Calling a farewell the fair riders
rode away over the stubble, followed by the applause of the grateful
fellows.
Meanwhile at the machine there were interesting developments. Jean
Benoit, who was working in on the shakers, gave a sudden shout and
popped up out of the separator holding something in his hand. It was a
heavy wrench. He examined it in a puzzled manner for a moment then
handed it to Easy Murphy. The tool was minus one of its jaws. On the
remaining jaw some initials had been punched, but they had been almost
obliterated through the recent offices of a file.
"Dat no Valley wrench!" exclaimed Jean.
"Probably one of Grant's left on the stock during the binding," said
Ned.
Easy Murphy shook his head sceptically.
"Ah!" was his fierce cry as he tipped the tool at a new angle to the
light. "So I think. By the Howly St. Paddy! Take a look, Ned. Can
you see?"
Ned took a look and there in the bright shine of the filed surface were
good traces of the punch marks forming plainly the letters, R-M. Over
him swept an ominous conviction. Without a word he placed the wrench
carefully in the tool-box.
"'Tis the hand uv Snoopy Bill," said Easy Murphy darkly. "And 'tis his
foul plot near did fer Lawrie and Ned." Clenching his hands he dropped
suddenly into a vengeful silence.
A desire for revenge swept through the gang like an electric shock.
Even Ned's cool eyes emitted a dangerous glare. Andy Bissett saw the
dire change in his companion. Laying his hand on Ned's shoulder he said
quietly:
"Ned, it's a dastardly trick but Lawrie will be well in half an hour.
It's up to the Valley Outfit to call the bluff and play the winning
card. Half a dozen teeth are gone in the concave and several others
twisted. The cylinder is about as bad. With fast work it will mean only
a two-hour stop. Let us finish strong."
"Very well!" agreed Ned. But his face did not resume its usual
imperturbable demeanour.
There was no more threshing that night. Morning found them out an hour
earlier, however, pounding grimly ahead, bent on recovering the lost
time. As Ned stood at the throttle, a masterful shadow in the gray
dawn, he thought over the adventure of the night before. It seemed to
hold some sinister portent. Easy Murphy had in the meantime recounted
to him the episode with Snoopy Bill Baird. Two more heavy tools had
been discovered in one of the loads. Suddenly he became conscious of
the malignant nature of the foe with whom he was striving. His jaw set
tightly and a mighty resolution shot from his eyes. Unconsciously he
opened the throttle and the power throbbed with a fresh leap along the
great belt. As he did so a vision flitted unexpectedly before him. He
saw Mary McClure standing amid the gang, her eyes alight with laughter
while she held her skirt daintily lifted to disclose the snowy fabric
for Lawrie's wound. Suddenly his face lost its seriousness and he
laughed delightedly.
"Mary!" he cried softly.
Shutting off the throttle he curbed the engine in her impulse to race.
"I guess we have a bunch of pressure left, Old Lady," said he
confidently, as he guided her into steadiness. The thing of power
steamed on into the strenuous day while the thing of will threw down the
challenge of youth.
*V*
*AT THE WATER-HOLE*
Easy Murphy shaded his eyes from the sun as he gazed eagerly over the
prairie. After a prolonged look he remarked:
"Begobs, I belave he's coming!"
A further scanning of the landscape elicited a cry of satisfaction.
"Nick's headin' fer the howl all right," said he elatedly.
The Irishman was standing on the tank, his hand on the pump-handle. He
had backed the grays into a pool fed by a small creek that here expanded
into a miniature pond some dozen yards across. In Western threshing the
tankman draws his water from the nearest hole or stream. For some days
both Easy and Nick Ford, the McClure tankman, had been filling their
tanks at the same pool.
Nick Ford was known familiarly as Boozey Ford, a self-explanatory
sobriquet. Whiskey aside, he was one of the most reliable tankers along
the Valley. With whiskey by his side his water-wagon was apt to receive
a diluted attention.
As the days sped by the struggle between the two outfits became intense.
The two tankmen were nearing the point of interpersonal complications in
their heated conversations on the issue. Easy Murphy was feeling
irrepressibly loquacious on this occasion, for he had not met Boozey
since the affair of the R-M wrench. However, as Nick drove up he began
a foxy approach, greeting him in a friendly manner.
"Nick! How is the wur-r-rld using you?" was his opening.
"So, so!" was Nick's no less friendly response.
"Ye'll be afthurr faylin' a demi-semi-quaver in yer boots, Nick, since
till-night's the night the Valley Outfit take the candy from the kid."
"There's sure going to be a lark to-night," agreed Nick. "We'll have a
howling time putting the kibosh on your little, old Outfit. You mark my
words, Murphy, when Jack Butte hands out his estimates you'll freeze
stiff. I'll bet you even money we lick you by a thousand."
"Just cover that wee trifle," said Easy, revealing a ten-dollar bill.
"Sorry to rob you, Murphy," said Nick, "but it's awfully decent of you
to accommodate me. We'll hand it to Butte just before the curtain goes
up."
"'Tis a great pleasure till contribute," agreed Easy light-heartedly.
Then he added slyly, "By the way, Nick, did ye miss anny tools from yer
tool-chist lately?"
"Not that I know of," was the frank reply.
"Shure we found wan uv Rob McClure's wrenches in our separator
yisturr-day."
Nick's interest perceptibly increased.
"'Tis not the act uv a gintleman, but a dirty trick uv Snoopy Bill
Baird, and 'tis achin' I am till spile the impudint jaw of the Snoopy
wan fer the same foul act."
Nick's blood began to sweep into his animated face. But the other
continued:
"Howld yer timper, lad. I'm not afthurr blamin' you, Nick. Yer as
innocent as the lambs in the spring."
His voice grew sweet as honey and he made a suspicious motion to his
breast pocket.
"We'll just have a wee dthrop as gintlemen together on the head uv the
divilmint, and part--frinds."
He drew an amber-coloured flask from his pocket.
"'Tis the rale Irish, Nick. Be afthurr washin' down a swate swallow."
He extended the bottle convivially.
Nick took in the sight with fascinated and thirsty eyes. All hostility
magically vanished and a supreme joy capered shamelessly into his face.
"Don't care if I do," said he, with a too casual unconcern. "Dad,
that's prime stuff!" was his genuine approval as he handed back the
flask.
"Shure I'm afthurr sayin' the same mesilf. Yer over modest, lad. Take a
sip that wull tingle the toes uv ye."
So gracious a pressure was not to be resisted, and Nick responded with a
ready acquiescence that left nothing to be desired. Easy emulated in
pantomime, tipping the flask adroitly but permitting no drop to pass his
lips. Taking another "sensation," Nick scurried off to his own tank and
began pumping vigorously. Soon, however, he felt the desire for still
another touch and was back at the flask. Easy Murphy kept the bottle
supplied from some mysterious source about his person. So the best part
of an hour passed and signs began to appear that Nick was rivalling the
tanks in the quantity of liquid he was carrying. In the meantime Easy
had leisurely filled his own tank. Suddenly The Mogul, McClure's giant
engine, sounded the water call. Nick recognized the signal and,
dropping the pump-handle, seized the lines and started off, urging his
amazed horses in a line of patter that was new to them. As he drove
away Easy slipped down off his own wagon and, stealing craftily after,
tapped the bung of Nick's tank with a stone. One or two skillful knocks
and the peg fell out, letting the water away in a heavy gush. Throwing
the bung into the grass, Easy climbed up on his tank and followed.
Ahead drove Nick, supremely unconscious of the fact that his tank was
fast emptying. When they reached the road-allowance he became suddenly
confused. His trail lay directly across the road and into a field. His
horses would have taken the right way, but Nick pulled them up sharply.
His eyesight was temporarily impaired. He could see only the good road
running east and west. Pulling on the left line, he turned into the
east. Yet he was not sure, and drew up his horses once more. His
tongue was thick as he called back:
"Hello, Eashy! (hic) Ish the trail (hic) all right?"
"Shure and indade it is that," came the wily response. "Go right ahead
to yer outfit, Nick, man. It's a foine road, the smoothest in the howl
counthry."