road. Crossing the road-allowance, Easy entered the oat-field through
the wire fence and made straight for his own machine. As he hit the
stubble trail he heard the Mogul whistle impatiently for water. A
moment later she called again. Turning around, he looked at Nick. He,
too, had heard the urgent calls and was standing up driving like Jehu.
The tank was now empty and the horses responded by breaking into a smart
trot. The sight was hugely entertaining to the watcher. He slapped his
thigh, shouting in unholy glee.
"Be the wake uv me grandmother!" he cried exultingly, "it's now we get
back the swate and precious minutes they filched by their rascalities uv
yisterday."
Away in the distance Nick was driving like mad while the Mogul tattooed
her calls for water with an angry insistence that drove him from her at
accelerated speed. The circumstance was too much for the delighted
Irishman. Laughing till the tears rolled down his cheeks he called
after the disappearing Nick:
"Go it, me hearty! Kape it up, bye, and ye'll soon reach the broad
Atlantic. Begobs! Call in at Winnipeg. They're shy on water-wagons in
the Gateway uv the Gowlden Wist."
Never a word of the matter did he give to his young boss as he emptied
his tank in preparation for the next trip. His wickedly radiant face
attracted Ned, however, stirring his curiosity.
"What's tickling you, Easy? Been filling your boiler at Louie's tank?"
"Niver the dthrop, Ned. Not wanct since the twilfth uv July have I
shined up till the dementin' crathur. 'Tis the whistle uv the Mogul
that's drivin' me tipsy. Somehow the thirsty screamin' uv it tickles me
since uv the rediculous."
"Rob's engine is out of water. She's been callin' for over half an
hour," observed Ned, looking over the stubble at the rival outfit.
"Indeed, Easy, she's hung up. Their blower is stopped."
At an unusual hearty chuckle from the tankman, Ned eyed him sharply, a
suspicion leaping into his mind.
"Shtopped's the wurrd!" exclaimed Easy in feigned surprise, shading his
eyes the better to study the Mogul. "Rob wull be afthurr havin' a
brathin' spell. May it last a wake."
Ned's eyes detected an unusual excitement on his companion's averted
face. His suspicion took a sudden definite form.
"Easy," said he seriously, "you are mighty pleased about something and
yet not at all surprised. Let me into the secret."
"Shure 'tis plazed I am this minute, Ned, and the most astonished
critter on the Valley Gang."
"Steady, lad," cautioned Ned. "You can't fool me. You know more about
the water shortage at Rob's outfit than Rob himself. What's keeping
Nick?"
Easy found a matter for precipitate occupation in the barrel he was
filling and did not reply at once. He was seized with sudden panic, for
he had caught sight of Ned's face. The unsmiling eyes filled him with
trepidation. When he at length looked up Ned's clear eyes looked
through him. For once the garrulous Irishman was speechless while a
blush flamed slowly over his brown face.
"Tell me," said Ned simply.
Hitching his overalls nervously and somewhat forcefully, Easy let a
broad, sheepish grin play on his ample face. He attempted jocularity.
"'Tis a lugoobrius confession ye'll be draggin' out uv me wid the third
degree uv yer blazin' eye."
"Tell me," repeated Ned.
"Wull," said Easy, scratching his head with obvious regret, "since 'tis
implacabul ye are, I'll make it short and swate. Nick and yer humble
sarvint meets at the mud puddle. We pass the complimints uv the sayson,
git intill a small fracas uv the tongue and out uv it by the bottle. We
had a wee dthrop. That is, Nick had. Thin he took another and another,
et cetra and so on. Nick was oncommon thirsty. In a wurrd, I filled
Nick till the neck and pulled the bung uv his tank. The one is impty and
the other full. 'Tis the Mogul and mesilf knows which and,--yersilf,
begobs, since ye tapped me wires. To sum up fer ye, me inquisitive
frind, Rob's tank is impty and his tankman full, and the pair uv thim is
headin' fer salt water at a spankin' trot. 'Tis comin' till the
blackgards if ye ask Easy Murphy."
Easy stood before his boss with hanging head. His confession had not
stimulated any risible emotions in Ned. Ned, on his part, said nothing,
but stood looking for a little at the culprit, a kindly light mingling
with the flash of his eyes. Then he stepped over to his engine and,
seizing the whistle-cord, gave it a jerk, blowing the one sharp shriek
that signals stop. Instantly the work ceased and the outfit slowed to
rest. Amid the shouts of the men demanding the cause of the stop, Easy
Murphy ran swiftly to Ned.
"Ye're not afthurr killin' the outfit," cried he, a peculiar pleading in
his voice.
"Easy," said Ned quietly, "the Valley Outfit is running this little jig
on the square. Not a wheel turns on this mill until McClure makes up
every minute we've killed for him."
The Irishman looked into Ned's face. There had been the glimmer of an
accusing look but it was gone. In its place was something big and
honest that hushed the angry protest about to leap forth. Their eyes
held for a moment, then the tankman's fell while the flush swept his
face once again.
"I'll explain to the boys," said Ned, moving away toward the separator.
"No, lad," cried Easy, impulsively seizing his arm. "'Tis the hot curse
I was nearly givin' ye. Ye're too white, Ned, fer a divil the loikes uv
wan Easy Murphy. Shure 'tis right ye are, though I'm hatin' the idea.
I'll hike till the mill and make me diplomatical defince before the
gang. Sind me carcas till Belfast whin the boys git through wid ut."
Making a comical grimace, he set off to the separator to do the hardest
thing he had ever attempted.
The men listened silently while Easy made his brief and self-accusative
explanation. At the abrupt conclusion there resulted a most awkward
pause. The gang were dumb at the unexpectedness of it. Each man was
torn by several desires. He wanted to laugh, to howl, in fact. But
something fine in him rendered him mute. There was a great admiration
for their game boss and an even greater admiration for their game and
artful culprit. The embarrassment had about reached the explosive point
when Jean Benoit let out a scream.
"Ze res' do moche good, I tink," said he, shaking with laughter. "Wan,
two, tree cheer on de boss an' dees ver bad Irish fellow."
At his words there broke out a jolly shout while the gang lay back on
the straw and laughed to their heart's content.
Through the long wait there was not a murmur.
Meanwhile in McClure's gang consternation reigned. The last drop of
water had been sucked up by the inspirator and the water was sinking in
the glass. The men were perched on all vantage points on the lookout
for the delinquent. No sign of him could they discover.
"Get Smithers to haul these barrels filled at the slough," directed
McClure to Snoopy Bill, pointing to the barrels about the engine.
"They'll keep her going until I can find that blankety Nick."
McClure had barely set off on his quest when one of the teamsters called
the attention of the gang to the sudden "hang-up" of the Valley machine.
As an hour passed and there was no sign of the Valley men resuming work,
Snoopy Bill and his companions grew jubilant to a degree.
Nearly two hours later McClure appeared riding the tank and towing his
buggy, in which lay the inebriate tanker.
A few minutes after, the Mogul was driving ahead under full pressure,
joined shortly by the distant hum of the Valley Gang. Into the dark
they raged, fighting ahead until eight, when the defiant whistles of the
rival engines told that the great run was over.
*VI*
*THE THRESHING CHAMPIONS*
Louie Swale's restaurant was full, choked with threshers agog for the
result of the great struggle. Almost every individual present had a
stake involved. The building was a uniquely composite plant, comprising
department store, cafe, bar, club, all under the solitary genius of the
rotund and active Swale. He combined the offices of proprietor, manager,
floor-walker, bartender, chef, cashier, possessing an innocent smile of
friendliest amenity and the obsequious deportment of a suave
head-waiter. He had certain periodic fines to meet for the vending of
ancient beverages that fell without the code. These he paid promptly
with sanguine light-heartedness. Louie Swale was universally liked, as
are all good fellows whom careless Nature throws into life incomplete in
the entire central osseous system of the vertebrate. He was a fat,
juicy, even companionable earthworm.
The store carried a thorough line from roots to ribbons, occupying the
front section of the building. Out of the store one wandered into a
long room, low and rectangular, where Louie dispensed the quaffable and
edible mysteries of his bar-cafe. The rear apartment was a blind room
some twenty feet square, containing a few rough chairs and a round table
covered with a green baize cloth. A well-thumbed pack on the centre of
the table was the only purposeful article visible. There were two
doors, both provided with heavy bars on the inside. One opened into the
outshed; the other into the bar. This door was locally renowned as The
Green Baize Door, and was believed to secrete behind its baize-covered
panels a barrel of mysteries unco', cabalistic and otherwise. Since it
was windowless, two dirty lamps did duty night and day. Obviously, when
the "Square Room" was occupied seriously the Green Baize Door was to be
found shut. At such times a peculiar knock was the sesame.
Store and cafe were crowded with men anxious to hear the momentous
decision of Jack Butte. Suddenly there arose a stamping and shouting.
The stakeholder had climbed up on a table and was calling order.
Glasses were set down and cards stacked.
"Gentlemen!" he cried. "There is a little preliminary or two I must
pull off before I can announce the winner of the threshing bout between
Rob McClure and Ned Pullar. Whatever the result, I appeal to the
winners and losers to take their medicine. I want the word of both
bosses that they will not stand for any sorehead business or rough
house. I'll not hand out the totals until I get that word."
Butte paused significantly.
"Go ahead," said Ned, with a grin. "We'll be good."
"Agreed!" exclaimed McClure. "My gang is no bunch of squealers. Spit
it out."
"Thank you, gentlemen," said Butte. "That is satisfactory. But there
is another matter. Before I hand out the stakes I want you to choose two
rank outsiders from this crowd who shall go into the Square Room with me
and verify my figures. When they have made an audit I will come out and
give you the facts."
Speedily the arrangement was effected and the three men went in behind
the Green Baize Door.
During the interim Easy Murphy shuffled close to Snoopy Bill Baird.
Grinning insolently into his face he addressed him in a cavernous stage
whisper.
"How's the buttercups, Snoopy?" said he. "Ye did not consarn yersilf wid
a second bokay."
Andy Bissett, standing near, placed his hand deterringly on Easy's
shoulder.
"Steady, lad!" he whispered. "Ned's given his word. Keep in line."
Snoopy Bill ruffled instantly at the thrust. With a quick snatch at his
breast pocket he drew out a bunch of bills and fluttered them
flauntingly in Easy's face.
"How about a bokaa-y of these nice green shamrocks?" said he, with an
exasperating laugh. "Have you the eye for a fresh fifty?"
"Indade, and they are the purty flowers," was the quick response.
"They're to be had fer the pickin'. I'm wid ye, Snoopy."
Quickly he covered the bet, placing the stake with a bystander. The
incident stimulated an emulation in the crowd, and by the time Butte
appeared again the excitement had risen to the point of explosion.
"Hold your horses for a little!" he cried, smiling into the glaring eyes
of the gamesters. "I'll go right to the point. For a month past these
two gangs have been hammering away to roll up a big total, and I want to
tell you they have done it. The gangs have worked twenty-seven full days
and have made the record runs of the Pellawa country."
Butte's deliberate manner was too slow for his strained audience.
"Cut the talk, Jack! Cough up the totals!" yelled a voice.
"Hear, hear!" came an applauding roar.
"To resume," said Butte, bowing pleasantly, "in estimating the oats I
reduced them to a total weight and then dividing by sixty, found the
equivalent in weight of wheat. The total is therefore stated in terms
of wheat. This was agreed upon by the two bosses. Rob McClure's
machine has turned out a total of seventy thousand, eight hundred and
twenty-one bushels."
At the announcement the McClure gang and their partisans lifted a shout
of elation. Above the ensuing hubbub rose the brogue of Easy Murphy:
"Shure, Johnny Butte, 'tis a swell towtal. But ye'll hev till open yer
mug wider, begobs, whin ye give the Valley count."
In spite of the extreme tension a boisterous roar greeted the defy.
"Against this," said the stakeholder amid a breathless silence, "the
Valley Outfit have rolled up the huge total of seventy-one thousand,
nine hundred and fifty-five bushels----"
His words were drowned in a wild ringing cheer. Led by Murphy's deep
bass roar, the Valley Outfit let go. As the rumpus died down Andy
Bissett lifted his cap and shouted:
"Three cheers for Rob McClure's gang. They made a great run."
Ere they could raise the shout McClure yelled:
"No! Saw off your blankety howl. We want none of it. You doped one of
my men or you would never have turned the trick."
Easy Murphy's lips were framing a reply when Ned spoke up.
"I want to state," said he with quiet deliberateness, "that as far as my
knowledge goes, the Valley Gang has run this thing as straight as a
whip. I appeal to Jack Butte. Do we win on our merits?"
A chorus of applause greeted Ned's words.
"Gentlemen!" replied the stakeholder. "This game has been run on the
square. My figures have been verified and are open to the public. The
Valley Outfit are the undisputed champions of The Qu'Appelle. Come up
to the counter and I'll pay over the cash."
The convivial spirit ran high as the wagers were collected. In the rear
of the room McClure and his men held angry concourse. Suddenly they
pushed their way to the counter. McClure spoke loudly, his face and
eyes aflame.
"Come, Swale," commanded he. "We set up the drinks for the house. Make
it hard stuff all round."
His manner was offensive. Ostensibly the host, he was really the bully.
The Valley Outfit made no move to accept the proffered treat. Ned
Pullar stepped up to his sullen opponent.
"No, Rob McClure!" was his crisp exclamation, accompanied by a flash of
indignant eyes. "We don't drink with gentlemen who insult us in the same
breath. The Valley Outfit, with their little thirty-six inch mill, beat
you to a frazzle. You'll never have a chance like this again, for next
fall will find The Qu'Appelle Champions capering about the finest mill
on the Pellawa plains. You look, Rob, almost mad enough to fight. Very
well. I have given Jack Butte my word to keep quiet. The Valley Outfit
is going to get out and leave you the whole house. If you want to mix
up with us, don't let us get away. If you are afraid of mussing up
Louie's joint we'll wait for you outside. Meanwhile, will you
accommodate us, gentlemen, by clearing away from that door?"
At the words he brushed past McClure, who stood glowering at him with
eyes that streamed a liquid hate. For all his rage McClure was held
from battle by a subtle enervation that baffled him.
"The Valley Outfit will leave at once," was Ned's cry as he flung open
the door. With his hand on the knob he waited for his men to pass out
before him. With surprising promptitude they complied. Easy Murphy was
the last to leave. Pausing on the threshold he turned about.
"'Tis a braw bunch ye are, McClure, wid yer blower bunged and yer engine
buckin'. Begobs, I cud put the howl gang uv ye till slape on a wathurr
wagon. Come out intill the moonlight."
With that he went out, followed by a flying flask and the curses of
McClure.
"Good-night, gentlemen!" said Ned, a mocking light in his eye. "We'll
hang around outside for ten minutes or so. If you can make it, why--the
Valley Outfit would be delighted."
Once out among his men they urged him to go back. But he shook his
head.
"No, lads!" he said firmly. "I do not want to fight. If they come out
we'll sail in. I think I've something better than even a good fight.
I'll put you next when we pull away from Louie's."
The ten minutes passed. The door opened once but shut again. The
Valley Gang hooted derisively. They waited five minutes longer. McClure
had evidently passed up the challenge. Though his men knew it not, Ned
was intensely relieved. He could scarcely understand. The fact was
McClure apprised the situation exactly notwithstanding his rage. He was
no coward; nor was he a fool. He knew that gang for gang Ned had him
beaten in more ways than in the mere threshing. Let the Valley Outfit
pull off its bluff. He would nurse his chagrin and strike--later.
When Ned got his men well out of ear-shot he addressed them in a sudden
light-heartedness that surprised them.
"I want to thank you, lads, for holding yourselves so wonderfully when I
know you were itching to get your hands on McClure and his oary-eyed
crew. This is a great night. We've threshed Rob McClure twice
to-night. We've out-milled him for a month and gathered in the wager
and we've handed him a mighty hard punch by forcing him and his gang to
funk. We are now going to pull off a little stunt that will be
remembered for many a day along The Qu'Appelle. Easy will come with me.
The rest of you get back to the caboose with Andy. He'll put you next.
We'll meet you there at eleven o'clock. You will all remember that
to-night's Hallowe'en."
By a mighty effort of self-restraint the men acceded to Ned's request to
leave the village. Eleven o'clock found them waiting with Andy, all agog
for the next move.
*VII*
*HALLOWE'EN ON THE QU'APPELLE*
At eleven o'clock McClure and his men staggered out of Swale's joint.
For half an hour they prowled the streets, alarming the village with
their wild whoops. At twelve they scrambled into their grain wagon and
tore down the main street at a furious pace. Out to Smithers they
raced, a roistering company of drunken fools.
Ned and Easy, posted among the poplars in the grove north of the barn,
saw them ride into the barnyard. In the light of the moon the two men
could see them tumbling out of the wagon, sprawling over each other,
noisy and ill-humoured.
"I see Rob at the heads uv the horses," said Easy. "He niver goes home
whin he's rale well pickled."
"We've got the whole crew at home, then," whispered Ned. "We are in
luck. Come, let us round up the boys."
Slipping quietly away, they arrived at their own caboose.
Andy and the rest were awaiting them. Briefly Ned rehearsed his plans
and was gratified to find them primed and ready to the last detail. In
a few moments they set out for McClure's caboose. They carried planks,
ropes, hammers and spikes, while Easy Murphy brought up the rear with
his huge span of grays. The team was shrouded in great dark blankets
with black nets covering their light heads. Each man was masked with
his bandanna handkerchief, giving the marauders the appearance of a gang
of bandits or a lynching posse.
At the edge of the grove they paused and listened intently. Not forty
yards away stood the caboose with its crew of quarrelsome men. A
confusing dialogue of altercations was in progress. After a time the men
settled into their bunks, where the bibulous debate was drowsily
maintained, finally simmering to the thick-tongued harangue of one
persistent individual.
At a signal from Ned the Valley Outfit crept noiselessly upon their
unsuspecting prey. Arrived at the caboose they made a swift survey.
The farmstead was quiet. Smithers and his men were sound asleep. No
interruption from that quarter. The caboose was the usual midget
bunkhouse, a rectangular box on truck chassis with a bow roof. At the
tongue end was a door. In the other end near the roof was a tiny
window, too small for the exit of a man's body. Andy and his men stole
around to the rear of the caboose. Striking one end of the plank
solidly into the ground, they placed the other against the middle of the
door. Two men held it in place while two swung their weight on it,
holding the door shut as with a vise. McClure and his men were trapped.
Quickly a stout plank was placed across the top of the door and nailed
with five-inch spikes to the corner posts. Another plank was nailed
similarly across the bottom, perfectly sealing the caboose.
By this time a commotion had arisen within. Snoopy Bill could be heard
shaking the men and dragging them out of their bunks. Above the tumult
soared McClure's heavy voice, disclosing in the angry vehemence of his
curses a swift conclusion as to the identity of the assailants. Outside
in the moonlight frolicked the masked figures. The excitement was
intense. At Ned's desire all audible speech was to be suppressed. Easy
Murphy was in his element and wanted to holler.
"Be the ghost uv me grandfahthurr!" he whispered to Jean Benoit. "'Tis
the happiest hour since Oi left Owld Oireland."
Amid ill-suppressed laughter the freak proceeded. Backing his horses to
the tongue, Easy speedily hitched on and pulled out of the barnyard.
Long before Smithers and his men could wake and realize what had
happened the big grays had spirited away the caged crew, surrounded by
the triumphant body-guard of Valley threshers.
Urging his horses to a trot, Easy turned into the west road and bowled
along merrily over ruts and stones to the fierce accompaniment of the
pandemonium from within. Once a head unwisely protruded itself through
the small opening only to receive a smart rap and to be instantly drawn
in.
"Head across the Northwest Cut," directed Ned. "We'll run them up on
Bald Hill, where they can get a good view of the lake."
When the brow of the Cut was reached Easy reined in his horses.
"Shall we cross be the thrail," said he in a loud whisper to Ned, "or
shall we bounce sthraight on over the rocky road till Dublin?"
"Give them the rocky road," was Ned's grim response.
"Begobs, yer a darlin'!" cried Easy, with a muffled whoopee as he swung
the grays off the prairie down the side of the Cut.
Then began a half-mile of rocking and tossing, pitching over hillocks,
boulders, badger holes and stumps, the caboose lurching about like a
ship in a heavy sea and thoroughly churning up its human contents. The
little bunkhouse became hideously vocal as execrations came forth,
vengeful chorus from its tormented interior. Easy's eyes seemed to have
uncanny vision for holes and hidden logs and jolting rocks, while the
big grays, alarmed by the outrageous tumult, snorted wildly, plunging
through everything with irresistible force.
The weird passage of the gulch was at length accomplished, winding up on
the windy skull of Bald Hill.
"They'll have a very fine stretch of the valley to look into from here,"
said Andy with a grin, as his eyes took in the sweep of the hill.
"Indade, 'tis rale illigint," said Easy. "Rob wull be chargin' a nickel
a pape from the bay window above."
"Unhitch the grays, Easy," said Ned, his eyes darting mischief. "We are
not going to leave the caboose here. The fun is about to begin."
Ned's remark was cryptic. "If we are not going to leave them here, why
unhitch?" was the query in every mind.
"Ah, Ned! 'Tis a darlin' I said ye wuz!" exclaimed Easy, seized by a
sudden inspiration. He had tumbled to Ned's dark design. "Ye wull be
afthur shootin' the shoot wid our frinds in the packin'-box?" was his
sly guess.
"Hats off to our little boss!" cried Andy softly, shaking with laughter.
"By gar, dat cabooze yump on de lake lak beeg eggspress! Ha!" Jean
forthwith "went up" venting his ecstasy in a series of handsprings.
When he came down he did what the rest were doing. He took a swift,
keen glance at the hill. The slope fell rapidly away, dropping evenly
hundreds of feet to the sandy shingle of the beach over a quarter of a
mile away. Through a wide gap in the shore bluffs could be seen the
silver shimmer of the waves. There could be but one end to the proposed
flight of the caboose,--the cold, white bosom of the lake.
With deliberate thoroughness the Valley men made their preparations.
The horses unhitched, the tongue of the caboose was roped high and
locked firmly so that it could have no side swing. Then the men took
their places about the wheels and rear.
"Just a minute!" whispered Ned. "One of you lads had better pull a
watch on this thing. This old bus is in for her record run."