of papers. The signature was duly certified by Cy Marshall. They
loitered a moment, during which Sykes kept up a casual chat. Stepping
near, Ford at length whispered:
"We'll get out. I've got it. Steady and slow, old man."
Obediently the old man followed him through the door. As the door shut
his fingers closed around the promised flask. Then with a drunken
punctiliousness he halted.
"Say, Nick!" was the shocked whisper. "We forgot to settle with the
boys!"
Nick laughed.
"It's all right, Ed.," was the soothing response. "I laid down the
price. It's my treat."
With a relieved laugh the old man trudged after him.
Ford assisted his victim to hitch up his horses and load the mill,
joining him in a last drink before he sent him into the bitter night.
At his office Sykes sat back in his chair rubbing his hands
complacently, while Rob McClure stared at the parchments decorated with
the clear signature of Edward Pullar.
"It's a tidy little clean-up," was Rob's gratified observation.
"Tidy's the word and tight!" agreed Sykes with acquiescing nods. "We've
got Pullar hogtied with a two-inch rope. The law isn't made that can
bust these agreements. When Hank Foyle signs up we wind up a very
pleasant and totally regular deal."
Arrived at the homestead, Ned worked swiftly at his tasks. The chores
finished, he ran into the house and busied himself preparing their
simple meal. This too accomplished, he opened the mail and delved into
the pile of letters. He had barely entered upon the perusal of the
first letter when he set it down absent-mindedly. He was troubled at
the non-appearance of his father. The uneasiness aroused along the
trail changed suddenly to a fear that all was not right. He had
expected to hear the bells within an hour after his arrival. It was now
nearly two. Throwing on cap and coat, he walked down the lane to the
road-allowance and peered into the main trail. It was empty as far as
the eye could define. With hand to ear he listened. There was no sound
in all the frozen stillness. It was a deadly night for the helpless
traveller. The temperature was creeping lower every minute. He thought
of the white death that steals noiselessly through a night like this.
With the thought came a premonition. A depressive fear weighed him
down.
Hurrying back to the house he made ready for a drive, leaving the
waiting meal untouched. Throwing the driving harness on Darkey and his
mate he hitched them to the cutter and set off for the village. They
sped along at a twelve-mile clip, their nimble hoofs tattooing the dash
with a fusillade of snow chips. The wind of their own motion smote his
face with its subtle sting, blanching its exposed surfaces before he
realized the frost was at work. Ducking into the warm collar, he
avoided a bad bite. Crouching behind the wall of fur, his mind swiftly
conjured the fate of an unfortunate numbed by the fancied warmth of
liquor. Pathetic cases of terrible exposures and death flitted before
his mind. Scarcely aware of it, he urged his flying horses to fifteen
miles.
Unceasingly he searched the shadowy twin-ribbon of trail beyond the end
of the cutter tongue. At length they dipped into the Northwest Cut and
dashed over the Valley to the south climb. There as they were taking the
sharp curve about a shoulder of the hill, his horses swerved suddenly in
a shying leap. He halted them perilously near the edge of the steep
embankment. Coming slowly about the hill was his father's team. They
were taking the decline soberly and carefully and apparently on their
own initiative. There was no driver in sight. At a sharp command from
Ned they halted. Leaping from his cutter, he looked over the edge of
the double box. In the bottom of the sleigh lay his father, motionless.
With a poignant cry Ned vaulted into the sleigh. He was shocked with a
horrible fear as he discovered cap and gauntlets removed and coat wide
open. A quick glance filled him with increased alarm. Hands and face
of the sleeper were white with the wax-like colour of the dead. Hastily
he thrust on cap and gauntlets and closed the open coat. Arranging the
robes in the cutter, he carried the drunken form to the vehicle and
placed it upon the seat. Taking the robes and even the empty bags out
of the sleigh, he wrapped them about his father and took his place
beside him. Whirling his frost-coated drivers about, he sent them
furiously down the hill, leaving the heavy team to follow at their own
sedate pace.
He did not spare the willing brutes ahead and pulled them up at the door
in a cloud of steam. Throwing the robes upon them, he carried his father
in and laid him upon the floor. Rushing out, he brought in pails of
snow and set to work massaging the frozen face and hands. Circulation
once more established, he carried the still inert form to his bed. This
accomplished, he went out to his team and stabled them. The dumb brutes
wondered at the swift tenderness with which he groomed away the thick
coat of frost.
"You are not hurt a whit," said he gratefully, as he watched them
happily munching their oats. "And you saved Dad."
The gentle taps with which he bid them good-night were comforting to
their faithful equine spirits.
Out into the darkness he stepped, missing with a sudden and strange
acuteness the mute sympathy of the animals now shut in the stables. The
night was colder than ever and breathless with the hush of the lowering
temperature. The silence of the farmstead depressed him. He looked at
the house. It was a mysterious shape in the darkness, sheltering within
it the wreck so pitiably still. Entering, he sat down to his long
vigil. It was a lonely night for Ned Pullar--the loneliest he had ever
known.
*XVII*
*HANK FOYLE, UNEXPECTED GUEST*
Three weeks later Edward Pullar was sitting up for the first time since
his unfortunate visit to Pellawa. The scars of his terrible exposure
were losing their virulence and strength was creeping back into the
emaciated limbs.
No conversation touching the lamentable adventure had taken place. Once
only had the father referred to it in broken and pathetic apology that
was instantly hushed by the son. With the gentle assiduity of a mother
Ned had nursed his patient and nobody in the settlement was aware of the
disgrace of Edward Pullar, or of his narrow escape from the White Death
of the northern trails.
For Ned, the lapse was after all only one in many. It was the latest,
only a little more disappointing, more unfortunate and with the addition
of tragedy barely avoided. To the father it was all this and more,
infinitely more. There was a fear at his heart. He was penitent as
usual, with an almost childish contrition. The debauch was mysteriously
clouded. All he could remember was the fact of draining Nick's flask.
This was clear. After that he had faint intimations of a hellish
thirst--some effort to satisfy it. Through all his secret musings there
ran a fear, a vague foreboding, but he could not define it. Memory
would not work. He dwelt in a state of suspense, the victim of an
intangible but real Nemesis. He expected something inimical to strike.
Ned could see that something unusual was preying upon his father's mind
and it troubled him deeply.
One thing that surprised Ned was the fact that his father had never
referred to The Red Knight. He seemed to have utterly forgotten this
darling of his life. Another week passed and the old man was about.
Though correspondence was pouring in relative to the planting and
culture of the new wheat, Edward Pullar evinced no interest in the
matter. The heavy task of writing fell upon Ned. All efforts to rouse
his father failed. He seemed unaware of the existence of the thing that
had so lately made life new for him. At times an unspeakable fear swept
over him as he realized how hopeless was this condition of disinterest.
Late one afternoon Ned was busy at his desk in diligent effort to reduce
the piles of unanswered letters when a knock sounded upon the door. On
opening, a strange face presented itself.
"Come in!" said Ned courteously.
"Is this Edward Pullar's ranch?" queried the man as he stepped in.
"It is," said Ned. "Have a chair."
The stranger seated himself and glanced about inquisitively.
"My name is Hank Foyle," said he. "I live up to Athabasca Landing. I
was out on a hike in the timber limits when the letter got to me telling
me about the deal. That is why I am a month late. I toted along last
night and wrote my name into the papers this morning. Thought I'd take
a squint at the farm and buildings before moseying back to the Landing.
You've shore got a comfy joint here. Buildings first-rate."
Ned looked at his visitor with a puzzled face. Into the old man's eyes
leaped a fear, vacillating and furtive, but real.
"I hardly understand," said Ned with an apologetic smile.
The other grinned.
"Naturally you don't know me," said the man, with a series of nods. "I
am the guy that made the swap with you. Hank Foyle's my name--Foyle of
Athabasca Landing."
The stranger paused, confident that the reiteration of his name would
clear up matters. But Ned still looked at him with a nonplussed
expression. His father's face had grown white while the nails of the
old man's clenched hands dug into the flesh.
"Sorry I'm so dense," said Ned, with a good-natured laugh. "Would you
mind going into detail a little?"
Foyle looked at him keenly, studying the firm mouth and chin and the
direct eyes. There was something fearless in that face that hinted the
possibility of a serious hitch.
"You ain't changed your mind?" said Foyle, with a narrowing of his
eyelids. "You're a month late, farmer. The deal's salted away long
ago, all regular signed and witnessed. You are no soft come-back, are
you?"
Ned still smiled his perplexed smile.
"Very well!" said he affably. "What is the deal to which you refer?
I'm open to rather detailed explanation, for I have heard of no such
project."
The man rose and stepped up to Ned, looking curiously into his face.
"Say, Pard," said he quizzically, "are you Edward Pullar or just plain
hired man?"
"There is Edward Pullar," said Ned, pointing to his father. "He is
owner of this farm."
"You mean the man as was owner," corrected Foyle. "This half section
belongs to me now."
As he spoke he looked at the old man.
"You're the Edward Pullar person what's scratched his name on them
agreements?" was his observation as he studied the other
contemplatively. "What's eating you now?"
Ned was surprised to see a look of terror dart from his father's eyes.
There was a confusion about the manner of the old man that caused a
little alarm in Ned himself.
"I--I don't understand," said Edward Pullar helplessly.
At his words an angry flush darkened Foyle's face.
"Like the hired man, here, you ain't wise to the deal, eh?" There was a
note of derision in his voice. "Better put it straight," said he, with
a shutting of his jaws. "You mean you don't want to understand.
Getting foxy, old boy? It won't do, farmer. You can't string Hank
Foyle. You'll have to tumble to facts. Hank Foyle shuts up like a
clam; sticks like a leech. Noted for it. Your farm's mine and mine's
yours, and you are due in Athabasca Landing agin the crops are in.
That's what the paper says. You plant the crop here. I plant it at the
Landing. Then we swaps farms and hikes for home. You'll have a whole
section a scrub to wander through a-lookin' fur the cows."
"You are on the wrong farm," said the old man weakly. "We have not
entered any such deal."
"You're Edward Pullar, what owned this place?" quizzed Foyle, with an
impudent grin. "You haven't said so yet."
"I am Edward Pullar," was the acknowledgment.
"I reckon there ain't two Edward Pullars. Therefore I conclude there
ain't any mistake either."
Deliberately Foyle drew a package from his pocket. Drawing out two
papers he opened them carefully and, stooping, held them before the old
man.
"Them's the real thing," said Foyle casually. "Take a good, long squint.
You'll find everything proper."
Edward Pullar examined the documents. They were, indeed, agreements of
surrender and exchange signed by Foyle and a signature that was
undoubtedly his own. The transaction was duly witnessed by Silas
Marshall, magistrate. The old man stared at the papers, striving to
catch the flying tags of mystery. Things seemed to clear a little,
resulting, however, in deeper depression.
"I did not sign it," said he dazedly.
"Here, hired man," said Foyle, handing the papers to Ned. "Go right
through 'em. You'll find them agreements square as an eight-inch bent."
Ned looked. A close study of the documents astonished him. The
signature ascribed to his father was clearly his. As to Silas
Marshall's there could be no mistake. He had seen it many a time. A
seriousness spread over his face, mingling slowly with the amazement in
it.
"This seems all right," said he, slowly perusing the papers. "But--but,
of course, these papers are simply evidences of some fraud."
The date caught his eye. In a lightning play of thought he associated
the mystery with the tragic trip to Pellawa. He straightened up and his
chin rounded in a decisive firmness.
"Do you remember having anything to do with Cy Marshall, Dad?" was his
quiet question.
"I do not," was the unhesitating reply. "And yet there is something
familiar about it all, even those papers. I feel positive I have seen
them before."
"Just possible!" commented Foyle insolently. "Probably caught a peep of
'em about the time you scrawled yer name."
"What agent put this through?" demanded Ned of Foyle.
"No kidding," was the fierce response. "You know all right. Sykes is
the gent--Chesley Sykes--and a hum-dinger of an agent he is!"
Ned's eyes flamed upon the man.
"It is what I feared," said he, smiling the smile with which he faced
McClure and his men in Sparrow's pool-room. "Here, take this rubbish,
Mr. Foyle. You are either a crook or a dupe. Reddy Sykes has put
through a real Sykes' deal. I want to warn you that it is the fraudulent
plot of a clever swindler. This farm is my father's. I am Edward
Pullar. There are two of us, and we are going to fight you. My father
never signed away his homestead voluntarily. You can gain nothing by
pressing the matter. For a stranger, you have been grossly insulting.
Take my advice, tear up those papers and hit the trail for Athabasca
Landing. You have about two minutes to pack up."
With a savage laugh Foyle folded the papers and deposited them carefully
in his pocket.
"Pullar and Son," said he pugnaciously, "you're a pair of dang poor
bluffers. But I'll call you. There ain't a flaw in the deal. This
farm's mine. Come the time the grain's in you'll find Hank Foyle
camping----"
He did not finish, for there was a swift motion on the part of Ned.
"Sorry, Hank!" said he with a grin. "But time's precious. Open the
door, Dad."
With a wild laugh Foyle swung for the smiling face. Ned ducked and
Foyle missed and continued the swing, the force of his empty blow
spinning him around. When he had half completed the circle he felt
himself seized by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his trousers
and lifted high by the powerful derricks of Ned's arms. Through the
door he was carried with arms windmilling and legs kicking, and dropped
ignominiously into the cold receptacle of a melting drift. As he
scrambled to his feet he heard the door shut. For a moment he
hesitated, savaged with rage. But the memory of those steel arms was
salutary, and he turned about and walked down the lane. For a mile or
more there were mutterings filling the air about him such as would come
fittingly from an Athabasca Lander on landing unexpectedly.
For a long time after Foyle's exit there was silence in the room. The
two men were thinking hard. The last hour had been one of revelation to
them both. Ned looked up about to speak, but desisted, hushed by the
sight that met his eyes. His father sat huddled in a rocking-chair, his
face buried in his hands. A pang pierced Ned as he realized the
pitiable state of his father's mind.
Walking over, he laid his hand gently on the bowed head.
"Never mind, Dad," said he cheerily. "Reddy Sykes is not going to steal
the homestead so easily. Of the foul work we are positive. We have only
to track it down. We have until June to ferret out the rogues. You
made a good fight, Dad. You were drugged. I have known that ever since
I found you on the hill."
Raising his head he looked at Ned. Through the misery of grief there
was a pathetic eagerness.
"Do--do you believe--I put up a fight, laddie?" was the trembling plea.
"I do, Dad," was the swift response. More Ned could not say, but he
enveloped his father in a strong, steady embrace, tenderly holding the
gray head that sobbed upon his breast. His eyes were wet. What they
wanted just then was Kitty Belaire.
*XVIII*
*THE BIRD OF THE COULEE*
There is life on the road--a rush into the April shine; muffled clatter
of galloping hoofs; the rhythmic sway of a girlish form to the drum and
flute of flying feet and carolling lips. Youth and beauty in the saddle
of spring!
Mary McClure was enjoying the leisure of the open trail and halted Bobs
on the floor of a coulee, a narrow, stream-like depression with abrupt
banks. It was a pretty green dip zigzagging out of sight into east and
west, and lined on either bank with rounded clumps of willow. There
were gleams of a tiny creek. From the willows near her came the soft
twitter of nesting birds. Restraining the impatient Bobs, she strove to
discern the sweet singers. The cries were familiar--all but one. It
was a strange little call with a plaintive, human-like wail and a
ventriloquistic quality that led one to think it came from far away.
She was positive it was the cry of some rare bird hidden in the leaves.
Swinging Bobs she trotted close to the trees. The birds, alarmed, took
flight down the coulee. She followed cautiously and listened again,
delighted at length to distinguish the voice of the feathered stranger.
A sudden impulsive advance of Bobs, who essayed to crop a mouthful of
leaves, put the birds to flight once more. They doubled back in a cloud
of whirring wings. She was about to follow when the cry of the strange
bird came again out of the tree before her. It alone had remained. She
searched the tree, but no sign could she discover of the mysterious
creature. Concluding at length that the sound came from a more distant
clump, she rode further into the east. The sound now seemed much
nearer. Tree after tree was passed, with the strangely recurring result
of a growing clearness. She was deeply puzzled and intensely curious as
to the enigma. Finally she reached the end of the bluff and still she
could hear the call coming with an undoubted increase of volume.
Pondering the circumstance she suddenly concluded that her bird was a
weird illusion.
"Bobs!" she cried perplexedly, "our bird is not a bird. It is a
disembodied voice."
Then as the cry broke clearly from a distance, she said in alarm:
"It is a human voice, Bobs. Somebody is in distress far down the
coulee. Let us listen carefully. No champing of that bit, please."
The voice came again. It was indeed a human cry, smothered in some
inexplicable way. The tone was one of plaintive terror. Urging the
horse ahead, she cantered along the creek. Rounding a bend, she realized
that the sound came from some point very near. Rising in her stirrups,
she searched the coulee. The only unusual object that met her eye was
the carcass of a horse. It lay in a sharp curve of the north bank close
in. The noise was emanating from the vicinity of the dead animal.
Riding toward it, she was thrilled to catch sight of a bit of red
clothing.
"Bobs, Bobs! What a terrible thing!" was her horrified cry as she
leaped to the ground beside the horse.
Crowded into a hole between the horse and the bank lay the figure of a
little boy, scarcely five years of age. He was stretched upon the
ground with his small body half twisted into the bank. His bare limbs,
right arm and left leg, were clutched in the steel fangs of a brace of
great wolf traps. The dead horse had been used as a bait by some
trapper who had set his traps between the horse and bank, at head and
feet, in order to catch his wolf as it sought the entrails. Instead
they had caught the curious child. Both limbs were torn and bloody from
the grip of the biting steel as the boy twisted under the torture. His
cry for help had been muffled by the encroaching bank.
The little fellow moaned for release as he caught sight of the girl.
Looking up with wild, dazed eyes he cried:
"Take me, Mummie! Take me away!"
"You poor laddie!" comforted the girl. "I will help you, darling. You
will be out in a minute. Do just what I say."
The sight of the small unfortunate made a powerful appeal to the
sympathies. The little face was streaked with the pitiable wash of
tears. The child could scarcely see. At a glance she saw that he was
near collapse. She acted swiftly. Placing her foot upon the spring of
the trap imprisoning the leg, she rested her whole weight upon it and it
sank. With a quick motion of her deft fingers she opened the jaws and
took out the limb. A moment later the arm, too, was free. Released,
the little form rolled upon its back and lay helpless. Stooping she
picked him up gently and carried him to the bank of the creek, laying
him upon the grass.
"Lie here quiet, laddie," she enjoined in a soothing voice, "and I'll
ride back to the village for a carriage. I'll be back in a few
minutes."
But the child clung to her crying fearfully:
"Take me! Take me! Brubbie afraid!"
Kneeling beside him she gathered the small bundle into her arms.
"I will not leave you, darling," she soothed, hushing his fears. "I
will take you with me. Bobs will have to be a very gentle stretcher
bearer. You must trust me, little one, and be careful to obey me. Bobs
will carry us back. But first I must cover these poor torn limbs."
Producing clean bandages, with the resource of a former occasion, she
wrapped the wounds securely from air and dirt. Then she placed the boy
upon Bobs' neck while the intelligent brute stood motionless, obedient
to her low voiced commands. Climbing carefully into the saddle she took
the child in her arms and guiding Bobs by voice and knee, rode back
along the coulee. The child slept almost instantly, lulled by the
gentle pace of the horse and endearing cooings of the girl.
Aware that the surgeon's skill was urgently needed, she made her way to
the doctor's office. He discovered her approach and running out to the
curb relieved her of her burden. In a few words she informed him of her
discovery of the boy and his misfortune.
"Will you come in?" said he. "You have done wonderfully and can help me
with this operation. There is no nurse in the village just now."
"Gladly, if I can be of service," was the quick reply.
"Rest assured you can. With your assistance I shall be able to avoid
the anaesthetic, though these wounds are a ragged mess. The poor little
kid must have lain in those traps for hours. Pierre Leduc set them out
for wolves. These curious little busybodies fall into surprising
adventures. Brubbie will not forget this day for the rest of his life."
Swiftly the doctor performed his work, cleaning the frayed lacerations
and stitching with nimble address, while Mary beguiled the boy from his
pain by the charm of her caress and the soothing touch of her woman's
hand.
"There now, Brubbie!" said the doctor at length. "You are fit. Come,
we'll take you to your mother. Miss McClure had better come along and
take charge of this most difficult phase of the operation. Will you,
Miss McClure?"
"Still at your service, Doctor. But who is Brubbie, as you call him?"
"Brubbie? Why, Brubbie is the young scamp of Pellawa, general town
favourite and Nick Ford's baby. Brubbie is an incorrigible little
vagrant. I'll warrant his mother hasn't even missed him. This will be
some shock to her."
It was a very startled and white-faced woman who gathered the small form
to her breast.
"Mummie, Mummie!" was the penitent cry. "Brubbie run away. He step on
traps and dey bite him. Brubbie think he will die and cry, cry, cry.
But the leddy come and take Brubbie out of the traps and bring him home
on the nice horse. Oo, oo!"
He encircled the woman's neck with a strangling hug.
Mary smiled, relieved that the explanation had been made.