heard the cry of a strange bird in the coulee and followed it. The bird
turned out to be Brubbie. Bobs carried him to the doctor here, who has
fixed him up splendidly. He will soon be around again."
The mother was dumb. For some minutes she could only nestle the child
to her breast. Suddenly, as she thought upon the circumstance, a shudder
swept her. A gruesome possibility had occurred to her.
"What would have happened to my baby if you had not heard him crying,
Miss McClure? To-night the wolves would have come. God bless you for
this."
The woman's eyes filled with tears. Under the impulse of her natural
gratitude she seized the girl's hand and kissed it reverently.
"You saved Brubbie! You saved him! You saved him!" she cried again and
again, in a quiet, grateful voice. "Nick will thank you with all his
heart. Cod bless you!"
As Mary passed through the coulee on her way home, she pulled Bobs again
and listened to the birds afresh. This time the strange call was
missing and a serious look crept into the girl's eyes as she thought
upon it.
"Little birds!" she whispered. "Happy little birds! Your sweet singing
saved a dear little life to-day."
The happiest musings attended her as she let Bobs follow the trail of
his own sweet will. The mission of the birds was not yet ended.
*XIX*
*CHESLEY SYKES UNCOVERS HIS HAND*
The night of the day upon which Mary McClure hunted the bird of the
coulee, an interesting council was held in the realty office of Reddy
Sykes. The councillors comprised McClure, Foyle and the agent himself.
They sat about the flat-topped desk, three shadows in the blue fog of
the dim lamplight. There were the usual convivial evidences, Foyle
having been the first to arrive at that affable condition obtaining in
the mazy borderlands of sobriety and inebriety.
"Pards!" said he, smashing the desk with his open hand, "I'm taking yer
lead and tickled to do it. Yer shore handing me the whole deck. I'll
see that Ford gets his little share all right and a bit over."
"You've tumbled, Foyle," replied Sykes. "You have been mighty apt at
getting the hang of things. You have nothing to do but sit tight. I
give my cheerful and professional guarantee there isn't a flaw in the
deal. If Pullar is fool enough to hold you off we'll turn on the screw
and evict him. The law is the prettiest, most efficient automatic
instrument invented by the genius of that good fellow, man. The law is
behind us everywhere. Don't you do any talking. Meanwhile, mosey
around and make yourself generally useful. That bunch of scrub out of
Athabasca Landing won't need your tender offices any more. Leave it to
Pullar and Son. They are mighty good farmers."
"Ha! That's the big noise!" agreed Foyle, with a chuckle. "I've taken
to the climate hereabouts. Got to stay. Doctor's orders. Ha, ha!
You'll find Hank Foyle sticking around any old time you want him."
"You're a good sort," commended Sykes warmly. "I'll want the help of a
reliable man in a day or two. In fact I'll want you bad, Hank."
"Put it here," cried Foyle, springing to his feet with extended hand.
"I'm spoiling for exercise. Used to scrubbing, you know. Anything you
want done kind of quiet-like just drop a wink."
"Hank, you're a game sport," was the hearty response. Then he added:
"You're a marked man. I'll trail you when I want you. And now, this
ends our confab for the present. Rob and I have a pile of work to go
through before we get out of here to-night. You are overdue at the
Dominion House. Bye, bye!"
Foyle laughed good-naturedly.
"I'll scoot," said he. "And don't forget I'm handy when you want a leg
up."
For a considerable time after he left there was silence between the
partners. Then McClure fixed his eyes curiously on Sykes. There was
something in his companion's eyes he had never seen there before. He
instantly realized that something momentous was being debated in the
mind of the agent.
"Pulling a bluff on Hank just now?" was his quizz.
"Better have an eye-opener, Rob," was the reply, as he pushed a glass
and bottle to his companion's elbow. "You are keen enough on some
things and mighty dense on others. I have a surprise for you. In a few
days I am pulling down my shingle."
McClure knit his eyebrows in perplexity.
"This is one thing you've been hopelessly opaque on, Rob," said he as he
casually filled his own glass. "Did you expect I had come to stay?"
"No-o," was the slow reply. "I knew you had a card up your sleeve. I
hold no hand in the game."
Sykes smiled.
"A clear case of cobwebs," observed the other to himself. "You are in
this game very much and have been all along. There will be nothing
obscure in your mind as to my intentions when I'm through with you
to-night. Since the onus of revelation is upon me you will maintain a
purely receptive attitude. This is coming to me.
"Now to begin. Here are some photographs. You have heard of John Sykes,
millionaire broker? Here he is and there is the mater. This is our
hang-out on the Crescent. John Sykes is a rather close relative of
mine. Here is the prospectus of Sykes and Sykes, the new partnership
replacing John Sykes. I hold a third of the stock, the old man the
balance."
Sykes paused while the other was examining the photographs. McClure was
visibly impressed. The faces looking at him were handsomely autocratic.
John Sykes had a set to his jaw that was familiar.
"They have some class," said he, handing back the photographs. "This
looks like the firm may have a pretty tidy turnover."
He continued to make a careful perusal of the prospectus.
"Cold figures," agreed Sykes. "We have the best connections, private
wires through to London, New York, etc., all of which means a big place
in the financial world. Here are our ratings."
McClure looked them over, his eyes evincing the most intense interest.
Before he could speak Sykes thrust into his hand a paper.
"A little bit of Who's Who? Read it over; it will acquaint you with
public opinion. It speaks well of us."
As McClure finished he looked up, his eye fascinated by some alluring
mental object. Sykes was sitting back nonchalantly in his swivel chair,
his partially emptied glass poised in his hand. He observed his
companion with a smile.
"What do you make of it all?" was his question.
"It is a great surprise to me and yet--I long ago surmised something
like this. I knew of John Sykes as a prominent financier, but had not
the faintest idea there was any connection between you."
"There may not be," said Sykes, with a peculiar laugh. "I may be
faking. It would be easy to frame up a setting like this."
McClure shook his head.
"You look too much like John Sykes. He is the only man I have ever seen
with a jaw like yours."
Sykes laughed silently at the personal allusion as he handed over
another photograph.
"Here," said he, "is a picture the mater insisted on having."
It was a likeness of himself and his mother.
"I'll complete this personal art exhibition by troubling you to run
through this folio."
It was a set of athletic photographs, splendid pictures of an
eight-oared crew. In the first a superb figure stood before him holding
a long scull. In the second the athlete was seated in a single shell,
his sculls poised for the long sweep. There were others of the "Eight"
in various poses of rest and action, several with the setting of foreign
regattas. One caught the crew sweeping along the Thames. The athlete
was Sykes.
"McClure!" said he seriously, "I had a fairly free fling in the younger
days. But I kept the going under hand. Do you think the type of
physical man you see there would go very far wrong?"
McClure laughed in some embarrassment.
"No use putting such a decision up to me," said he. "But you shape up
prime in your racing stumps."
"That will do," commented Sykes with a grin. "The art display is over.
You may think this irrelevant to the business in hand. Perhaps it is.
At any rate keep everything you have learned in the back of your head
while I spiel a bit.
"You are right in your guess. I am not in Pellawa to push petty
finance. I am here hunting the biggest game that runs. We have been
associated in some rustic ventures and they have not all come through.
Forget it. These have been trivial undertakings. Study that Who's Who?
and you'll find that I get every big thing I go after. I am after the
biggest thing right now I have ever set out to lift. You probably can
tell me what it is."
McClure shook his head.
"I am not guessing to-night," said he, holding Sykes' glance.
"Then prepare for a sweeping away of all cobwebs. My sole object in
this visit to Pellawa, Rob, is your daughter, Miss Mary McClure. I have
been playing the game for that stake right through. The time has come
for a show-down. It is up to us to deal a new hand. I have approached
your girl from every conceivable angle. She is obdurate. There is a
mighty good reason. She is the victim of a silly infatuation. She has a
local rube."
McClure sprang to his feet.
"It's a lie!" was the swift retort.
Sykes smiled darkly, shaking his head.
"No, Rob, this is not hearsay. This is personal knowledge. I hold the
facts and I will lay them before you--later. There is this infatuation.
These youthful attachments seldom result in happy matrimonial alliances.
This amour is no more promising than any other. It is not disturbing
and need have no undesirable results if we act quickly. I am willing to
accept Mary on any terms and by means of any expedient. I offer her
everything a woman could desire. Give me your complete cooeperation in
my plan to gain my purpose and I promise you unheard-of compensation.
Just a moment!"
He lifted his hand silencing McClure, who was about to speak.
"I have told you to listen while I spiel. That is the only thing for
you to do yet. I want you to be confident of this. With Mary as my
wife, she will gain everything and lose nothing. For yourself it means
a chance that does not come to one man in a million.
"I have watched you, Rob McClure, as you went to it in this world of
small farmers. You are too big a man for Pellawa. Don't misunderstand
me. I do not propose to flatter you. What I am about to propose is
frankly my own project to gain my personal purposes. Were it not for
this I certainly would not dream of handing out the deal I am going to
offer you. But the fact remains. You have the gray matter to come
through if you decide to avail yourself of this opportunity. You will
be at home in the big financial world. Take a look at that rating."
He handed his companion a certified document.
"A third of that is mine. That gets me into seven figures. What is
your own rating, land and all?"
McClure calculated swiftly.
"Roughly, seventy-five thousand."
"Rather a difference! However, it is not your fault. It is your fate.
You have done wonderfully well. But you have been playing a small game.
I had the luck to be reared in a bigger world. The pater assures me
that I have added a million to the total during my university years when
I had been supposedly engaged in the serious task of reading law. You
may think this egotism or even bluff. Perhaps it is."
McClure read the fellow's face. He was instantly convinced of the truth
of his words. He was silent.
"Now, Rob!" said Sykes, levelling at the other a glance at once piercing
and calculating. "Take in what I am about to say. It means tremendous
things for you. At the same time what may seem remarkable to you is as
nothing to me compared with the big thing I am out after. Help me to
get this thing and---- But wait a minute. My rating upsets yours
thirty to one. How would a ratio of fifty-fifty place you? Think in
the totals. A million and a quarter! You will never reach that in this
little world of Pellawa. Never. Yet that would be commensurate with
your sheer ability. Are you ready to take in that dream? Listen, Rob
McClure! It is yours now, to-day. I have an immense mellon. I will
cut that mellon exactly in half and give you one half for the hand of
Mary McClure. I offer you a partnership on the basis of fifty-fifty.
To show that I mean business, I will give half the legal grip even
before Mary becomes my wife. The balance after. There shall be this
one stipulation only. The partnership is conditioned on the fact that
Mary joins hands with me in a legal marriage."
Sykes ceased to talk.
McClure was mute, the great eyes darting flames. Sykes knew that the
crucial moment had arrived. For months he had fostered this friendship,
spun his web. Would the victim break through the mesh and go free? The
farmer looked at him, his face convulsed in conflict. At one instant
the eagerness of an overmastering ambition looked out craftily; the next
it was swept with a mighty anger. While the fierce debate raged, Sykes
addressed him in a low, steadying voice.
"Rob," said he considerately, "this is a fairly sizable proposition.
Don't make a snap decision and regret--anything. Keep the lid on a
little longer. You have not yet heard all. You have not learned who is
the rube that has fascinated Mary. Perhaps you already know or can
guess?"
"I will not guess," he flung out fiercely. "There is nothing in it. If
there had been, Mary would have let me know long ago. She has never
hinted such an attachment."
"You are logical, Rob. But you are wrong. You have hit the wrong
premise. Sometimes a good girl is induced into a clandestine amour. It
has often happened. It has happened now. Unsympathetic parents are not
auspicious persons in which to confide the tender sentiments. The
parent might have a positive hostility to the dear object of one's
regard. This is pointedly true in your own case. I know there is no
love lost between you. And now you know the party."
McClure leaned forward, a sudden intelligence flashing a wild light in
his eye.
"You don't mean----?"
McClure read Sykes' cold, bright eyes. He understood.
"It is Ned Pullar?"
"Pullar's the man, Ned Pullar," was the deliberate agreement.
Slowly the indecision vanished from McClure's face and in its place
appeared a black resolution. A malignant light darted from his eyes.
Seizing the neck of the black bottle before him, he clutched it
menacingly, as if about to hurl it at his companion.
"Rather be excused," said Sykes, lifting a defensive hand. "Remember I
am not Pullar."
Banging the bottle on the desk, McClure whirled about and began pacing
about the room, muttering vengeful execration, oblivious apparently of
the other's presence.
At this moment of his fell triumph, the real Sykes looked forth once
more. A repulsive delight played in his eyes and they shut to, in a
sort of gloating muse. While the evil light glittered through the
lashes, an unsightly grin contorted his face, drawing slowly to a
wolfish snarl about mouth and nose. The face was grotesque and hideous
to look upon. Could he have trained one rational, though fleeting
glance upon that unspeakable face, McClure would surely have been
forewarned. But he was blind with rage. Out of the fury of that fatal
moment flew the foul bird of a pitiless resolution. He chuckled
balefully. At the sound Sykes laughed softly. Ripping out an oath
McClure whirled about. Thrusting his head forward he searched Sykes'
face with blazing eyes. He was too slow, however. The malign thing had
hidden itself with swift adroitness. What he saw was the open,
sympathetic countenance of a gentleman.
"I want the facts," challenged McClure. "What do you know?"
Dissembling his intensity of interest, Sykes divulged what information
he deemed expedient to his purpose. The effect on McClure was
powerfully cumulative.
"Look here," said the agent finally, picking up a photograph of the
eight-oared crew. "You did not detect this party."
McClure looked surprised to recognize the face of Ned Pullar.
"Our coach selected Pullar for number seven to hold my oar," explained
Sykes. "Until Pullar caught the place we had trouble holding balance.
With his arrival the kink smoothed out magically and we went overseas a
wonder crew. He held my stroke. Pullar is the only man who ever did.
You have not yet realized what this man Pullar is capable of. He takes
the inside every time and sets a killing pace. He'll beat you out now
like he faded you in the threshing game unless you take my way to kill
him. I'll come across with the specific code any time you want it. You
must act swiftly and stick it. The stake is big. For me, it means one
thing only--Mary McClure. For Mary, it means a brilliant chance. For
you it means a flying start in the big world where big men hold the
throttle. For both you and me it means the smashing of Pullar."
He paused. The two men eyed each other, McClure with flaming, searching
glance, Sykes with steady, persistent gaze and eyes that poured upon the
other the mesmeric power of will.
"I have had my say," said Sykes quietly, holding that compelling glance.
"I have been straight. It is up to you."
For a long time there was silence in the room. Then McClure spoke
slowly, weighing each word, held from a full committal by some sudden
instinct of caution.
"I believe you, Sykes," was his low-voiced admission. "At present I
don't see anything against your plan. But it is a big thing, and you
have rushed it up to me. I want time to think. I'll not say just now
whether I'll hook up with your offer or not. I have a stipulation to
hand you before we go ahead. You must see the chit yourself and make
her a fair proposition. Put it straight to her and make it as rosy as
you can. If she throws you down I'll probably take a hand."
Sykes nodded his head in reluctant acquiescence.
"Very well," said he. "I'll meet you. I'll talk to the little girl,
though I know it will do no good. It may stampede her into some
decision that will queer our game. She is no fool."
"I insist," said McClure firmly. "Get busy. In the meantime I'll catch
my feet. For to-night I have had enough."
Seizing his hat, McClure took his abrupt departure.
As he shut the door Sykes put out the lamp. Taking a cigarette from his
pocket he struck a match and proceeded to light it. In the red glow his
face seemed to float out of the black pall of the night, an impish thing
from the pit. The grin of the wolf snarled off the lips as they opened
to emit a soft, chuckling laugh.
*XX*
*A FAWN AT BAY*
The following afternoon Mary McClure sat pensively at her piano, her
spirit awander in the dulcet shadowlands of an improviso. She was
pondering a remarkable thing. At that moment her parents were out for a
jaunt in the Valley, the first in years. She recalled the pleasure
lighting her mother's face as she accepted the unique proposal. Hope of
happier relations had stirred in her breast. For all the bright little
circumstance there was a query in Mary's mind that drew minor strains
from the plaintive piano.
It was some weeks since she had seen Ned Pullar. They had then agreed
to terminate their covert meetings, hoping for a turn in the wheel of
fate that would be auspicious. She was deeply troubled over rumours
that hinted embarrassment for Ned and his father. She had not learned
the true facts but had drawn shrewd deductions from the reports of Mrs.
Grundy. Lately a fear had obsessed her. She tried to banish the
thought in view of the glad incident of the afternoon, but those minor
vagaries would persist in stealing from her fingers.
A chat with Margaret Grant had informed her of the presence of the
stranger Foyle as inimical to Ned. The old homestead was in some way
involved. Shortly after her chat with Margaret she had observed her
father in friendly conversation with Foyle before the office of Chesley
Sykes. At the sight a shadow had flitted through her mind. Was her
father involved in Ned's trouble?
She had abandoned herself to a sombre brooding upon this disquieting
theme when a knock sounded upon the door. It startled her, for she was
alone. Lifting her hands from the keys, she went to the door. On
opening she was confronted with the great figure of Chesley Sykes. A
smile lit his handsome face. Touching his hat with graceful courtesy,
he greeted her respectfully.
"Good-day, Miss McClure!" was his quiet salute.
At the sound of his voice the episode at the door flashed into her mind.
She regretted the absence of her parents.
Hospitality forbade rudeness and she invited him within.
"I have come to see you, yourself," said he, smiling at her formality.
"I am heartily glad there is nobody else about. I have been anxious to
crave your pardon for my part in the incident at the door. It was
inexcusable and foolish, I acknowledge. I am sorry."
The girl looked away with serious face. Instinct warned her against the
man, but his tone and manner were agreeably penitent. She believed him.
"I do not hold grudges, Mr. Sykes," was her reply. "I remember the
matter well and I am glad to forget it, since you desire it."
"That relieves me," was the pleased reply. "I promise to observe the
good old conventions in the future. There was something extenuating,
had you known it. Have you no suspicion of what a real fact lay behind
that silly act? Of that fact I am not ashamed."
Mary offered no surmise and moved to the window, where she became
absorbed in the world without.
"I want to talk some things over to-day," said he frankly, moving to her
side. "This is probably the last time I shall solicit your forbearance.
I am leaving Pellawa.
"You know of the college years and the unswerving interest a certain
student at law took in a certain small co-ed. That interest had
deepened during these days in Pellawa. You and you alone, Mary McClure,
are the reason for my presence here. I have been chasing the gleam. I
have been bitterly disappointed. The rustic life has not drawn us any
nearer. And yet--I--I have not thrown up the sponge. I am not
resigning you, Mary. That is my purpose here to-day. I want to let you
know this. I have only one objective, only one dream in the alluring
puzzle called life, and that is, Mary McClure. My single ambition is to
win you for my wife. Some day, Mary, will you marry me?"
The girl turned toward him, astounded at his impudence, a flush rising
in her cheeks. At sight of him she could not doubt his sincerity.
"Mr. Sykes," she said quickly, "you have no right to make such an
approach to me."
"Only the right of a mighty big regard that keeps on growing without any
especial attention from the most desirable quarter."
She remained silent a moment, suddenly reflective.
"Perhaps you are right," she said thoughtfully. "If you are, you already
know my answer. I can never become the wife of Chesley Sykes. Never."
Her manner was so emphatic, so deliberate, that the confidence of the
man received a jolt. He heard the ring of steel on steel and looked in
wonder at the dainty antagonist.
"I am sure you will not approach me again," said she in a manner he
realized was imperative. Then she smiled. "You are Daddy's friend,"
said she, with a pleasant courtesy. "I will not forget that."
There followed a long silence. At length she looked up. His face was a
surprise to her. There was no vexation, no displeasure. Instead, the
passion of the man expressed itself in a great friendliness. There was
something else that disturbed her. It was a confidence, an assurance, a
determination not to be denied.
With a shrug of his shoulders he seemed to throw off the gloom that
attended his defeat and, smiling ingenuously, said:
"Play for me that sweet thing you were dreaming over when I broke up
your paradise."
She shook her head.
"No," was her quiet refusal. "I cannot. My mood is not musical any
longer. I hear Father's bells. He will be better able to entertain
you."
"Sorry you cannot draw to me to-day," said he regretfully, taking up his
hat. "But your mood will change. Some day you will take a delight in
delighting me. I, myself, am not now in a frame of mind to be
companionable. It is better that I return to Pellawa. Give my regards
to your parents. And remember," enjoined he with peculiar emphasis,
"remember that I am still on the trail of my distracting little
Will-o'-the-wisp."
Sykes had gone but a few minutes when Helen McClure entered. Her face
was flushed and unhappy. Gathering Mary into her arms, she kissed her
with impulsive tenderness.
"Whatever happens, darling," she whispered hurriedly, "follow your
heart. The happiness of us all depends upon it, though it may seem
otherwise."
"Mother!" said the girl, excitement welling up in her eyes. "How
troubled you are! What is it?"