gently from Mary's clasp. "Your father has been talking to me of your
prospects. He wishes to see you in the office. He is coming now. If
you follow your heart all will some day be well."
With the words she bestowed upon Mary a clinging caress.
The girl walked hesitantly to the office and stood looking out of the
window as she awaited her father. She was threatened with panic but
grew composed as she heard his footsteps in the hall. She turned as he
entered and lifted her head, meeting his great eyes with the clear gaze
of her own. He, too, was steeling himself to the interview. His
unsmiling face distressed her. Passing by her, he seated himself in his
office chair and whirled about. Before he could look up to where she
stood he was surprised to feel the touch of her hands upon his head.
Enfolding him in her arms, she kissed his brow. A thrill swept over
him. For an instant he looked with the inner eye upon his own soul. He
knew it to be unnatural, brutal.
"Daddy!" she whispered. "Let me tell you all before you speak."
Gently, but with a steady, rigid motion of his hands, he pressed her
back. The tenderness that had betrayed him for but an instant vanished.
"We'll see about that in a moment," was the cold reply. "I want to ask
you a few questions before you tell your story. Sykes tells me he had a
talk with you this afternoon."
"A diplomatic conversation," corrected Mary, with a faint smile.
"What did he say?"
"A great deal. It was not, after all, very much of a conversation. It
was a declaration. I almost fancied he was issuing a veiled ultimatum.
He did, however, ask me a pointed question and I gave him a blunt
reply."
"You refused him?"
"Yes."
"Do you know Sykes?"
"Too wisely and too well. His father is a wealthy broker; his mother a
delightful aristocrat and a very fashionable lady. They live in a
dreamland on The Crescent shut in with exclusive hedges amid the bloom
of wonderful flowers. Their well-trimmed terraces run down to the
water's edge. Sykes is a fellow-student of some years' duration. He
has seemed to take rather more than a mild interest in the lone hope of
the McClures. But I do not like him, Dad. I like Ned."
"So they tell me."
"I love Ned, Dad," was the gentle confession.
"But Sykes is a gentleman," said McClure testily.
"Ned is a man. I love a man, a real man, Dad."
McClure rose to his feet, the old passion rising afresh.
"I cannot agree with you. A man would not sneak into the bluffs to be
alone with the girl he respects."
The stroke drew blood. A flush swept over the sensitive face.
"I did meet Ned once alone by accident," was the admission. "At all
other times Margaret Grant joined us. We have not had even these
interviews for weeks."
"How long have you been encouraging Pullar?"
"Ned and I became intimate in our first year at the University."
"Why did you not tell me?"
The girl looked pleadingly into the eyes that grew each moment more
chill. She halted in her reply, irresolute and deeply troubled. Had
she the courage to drag the family skeleton into the light? She dropped
her eyes and pondered. When she lifted them they were wet with tears.
"Come!" was the brusque command. "Tell me why you and Pullar skulk
about the ravines like a pair of coyotes."
"The reason I have not confided in you, Father," said the girl slowly,
"is because of your strange enmity for Ned. That, however, would not
have been a sufficient reason had it not been for the cruel thing that
has robbed Mother and me of our husband and Daddy. You have become a
stranger to us. We do not tell these dear tales to--strangers. I could
love you, Father, if you did not trample our hearts with your cruel
heels."
At her words McClure shrank back. He scarcely believed his ears. Yet
it was little Mary who stood before him self-possessed and unafraid,
smiting his conscience with her gentle voice. Her eyes were imploring
and beautiful, with a yearning he could not face. With an impatient
shrug he turned away.
"What would we have gained," continued the girl, "had I told you of my
intimacy with the man you hate? It would have resulted in only deeper
misery for our home. It is cruel of me to talk like this, but it is the
truth. Mother suffers continuous anguish, hiding it from us as only her
wonderful love can devise. This is my only reason for loving Ned in
secret. We are not afraid to let the world know of it. It already
knows. As you well know, Ned fears nothing, not even the anger of Rob
McClure."
The sight of the girl with her earnest eyes and tremulous lips touched
the buried ruth of the man. At her frank arraignment he felt the
stirrings of a compunction that was new. Her piteous helplessness held
off from him by his own chill unrelenting pierced him to a depth she
little dreamed. The memory of her suppliant figure haunted him through
the after years.
But he resisted. A sudden bracing of the unyielding will stiffened his
wavering resolution. As is usual when a man stifles the inner voice,
Rob McClure swung instantly to the opposite extreme. "Here," he mused,
"is this daughter of mine, browbeating me rather than giving me dutiful
obedience." He was about to lash her with scandalous insinuation when
the ulterior object recurred to him. He forthwith tempered his rage
with a wise craftiness.
"You have given a strange reason," said he judicially. "I will not give
my consent to your friendship with such a hound. Why not consider a
red-blooded man like Chesley Sykes? He is intelligent, educated,
wealthy and delightfully congenial. In addition, he is your father's
close friend. Never before have I used my authority. But now I forbid
you to have anything to do with Pullar. Turn your attention to
something that offers you a future."
"You mean that I must break my engagement with Ned?"
"I do," was the adamant response.
At the brutal tone a swift change came over the girl. While an infinite
suffering looked out of her eyes she stood erect and proud.
"Do you also command that I shall accept Chesley Sykes in Ned's place?"
Her voice had the ring that had shaken the confidence of Sykes but a
short time before. He felt the danger in it and tempered his reply.
"No, Mary! I don't command. I urge you."
"But you have as much right to command me to marry Chesley Sykes as you
have to forbid my friendship with Ned Pullar. Why not, then?"
McClure paused a moment, calculating her intention.
"I have the right to do either," was the triumphant reply. There was a
threat in his voice.
The girl looked at him a moment, her face aquiver with pain. The
anguish of her emotion blanched cheeks and lips. She addressed him in a
voice strange for its quality of renunciation.
"Father," said she, "your words are terrible to me. They mean that you
would deprive me of your affection--of my home. You have not the right
to command me to do a wrong. That is not the prerogative of even a
parent. As for Chesley Sykes, I abhor him as unscrupulous and cruel.
The more I know of him the less I can discover to admire. I will never
marry him. On the other hand, some day I shall marry Ned. You
misunderstand him. He is not your enemy. He would be a real friend. I
shall be forced to disobey you, Father."
Reluctantly the girl turned away and walked to the door.
McClure was the victim of an overwhelming rage. Never had he been so
stoutly withstood. It galled him to know that his daughter was right. In
logic of brain and ethics she had worsted him. He was eager for savage
retort, but the offer of Sykes dangled before him like golden fruit.
The venom of his rage would destroy it. So he was cunning and remained
silent.
"Just a moment, Mary," said he in a conciliatory voice.
She turned eagerly toward him.
"I would not force you to do anything you do not wish to do," said he.
"But do not be rash. Think it all over carefully. Your home is here. It
will always be so. Perhaps after a time you will be able to meet my
wishes."
Bitterly disappointed, the girl turned away. She was also surprised.
Her father, though beyond doubt in a violent rage, had acquiesced to her
will. Amid all the turmoil of her distress she recalled the nonchalance
of Chesley Sykes as she refused his proposal. As with him, her father
seemed not so greatly disappointed. As she pondered the enigma a
thought flitted into her mind that caused a cold chill to clutch at her
heart.
Without a reply she passed through the door.
*XXI*
*THE COUNTERPLOT*
Following their interview with Mary, Rob McClure and Sykes concluded it
expedient to make a flying visit to the city. Mary found her father in
remarkably good humour on his return. So affable was his mood that she
was beginning to hope for a reprieve of the fates to avert the calamity
she feared. But her hope was short lived. Riding into the stable after
a long evening canter through the Valley she was greeted pleasantly by
her father.
"Is Bobs going good to-day?" was his interested question.
"Bobs never misses," was the reply. "He danced along in wonderful form,
but I could not enter into his gaiety. I bounced around upon his back a
most unresponsive dreamer."
He lifted his eyebrows.
"Surely you are not yet worrying over our conversation?"
The kindliness of his tone drew the simple admission:
"Yes, Daddy."
"Have you decided to fall in with your good prospects?"
She studied his eyes with a keenness that alarmed him. He read her
answer in the wearied face and, speaking quickly, forestalled her reply.
"I will say no more about Ned Pullar," said he. "I am willing to leave
it all with you. I am confident you will see after a while that it is
best to forget him. Lest you should act rashly I want you to know that
not only your own happiness but my future career rests wholly with you.
I am now a partner in the new firm of brokers, Sykes, McClure and Sykes.
Nothing but a foolish spurning of your wonderful opportunity with
Chesley Sykes can hold back the most astonishing possibilities for us
all."
The girl's head drooped. She realized that snares were being skilfully
and cruelly laid. To her father she had become a mere chattel.
"Daddy," she said gently, "it grieves me to disobey you, to disappoint
you. But once for all you must know that no inducement, however
tempting to me or however disappointing to you in my refusal of it, will
persuade me to do the thing you urge."
Again to her surprise, he showed no great chagrin. Instead he betrayed
an over anxiety in his desire to conciliate her.
Through the long, sleepless hours of the night she brooded, striving to
think a way out. The sense of personal peril grew upon her. She
remembered the light in her father's eyes as he told her of his good
fortune. She shuddered as she recalled it. In the morning, as she rode
over the Valley, she decided to see Ned at the earliest moment.
Rob McClure was greatly alarmed at the invulnerable front the girl
presented. Arrived in his office, he drew a bundle of documents from a
drawer and examined them. The title fascinated him. He rocked back in
his chair to con its lure when his eyes caught the vision of the two
faces above. Suddenly he realized that upon the inscrutable and
inviolable will behind the sweet face of Mary rested his fortune. With
Mary and not with himself rested the decision that should ratify or
destroy his arrangement with Sykes. It all depended upon the girl above
with the innocent face. Could he leave it to her? A keen study of the
pure eye and firm brow shook his confidence in a desirable outcome.
Rising, he leaned toward the picture with an abandon that betrayed his
intensity of desire.
"Mary!" he whispered. "You will throw me down. I feel it. Sykes is
right. There is no other way. The little chit is blind. I shall be
forced to do it. I will see Sykes. She will surrender when there is
nothing else to do."
This colloquy with the silent photograph had momentous results for the
fair original.
At noon there was the clatter of hoofs outside the Pullar homestead and
the winding of a silvery halloo. Ned went out.
"To saddle!" cried Mary as Ned appeared. "Get Darkey and come! We'll
ride at high noon! We'll brew a tale on the King's Highway."
Aware that some serious matter prompted Mary's visit Ned was up on
Darkey in a trice and they rode out on an endless trail of the
undulating plain. When deep out in the lonely stretch Mary drew Bobs to
a walk.
"Ned," she said, "are you prepared for a most unusual proposition?"
"Anything you propose will meet with my entire support."
"Then hear me. The danger you feared so long ago is imminent. Father
has learned of our engagement from the lips of Chesley Sykes. I have
talked with Father. You can easily surmise what that interview
involved. But a few minutes before Sykes had submitted a personal offer
to the present rider of Bobs. The offer was declined respectfully if
summarily. Father has backed his friend and forbids me you, Ned. I am
to instantly and casually forget you. In the selfsame instant I am to
foster the tenderest regard for Sykes. This very interview is a
disobedience."
She paused, looking up at Ned, her face a compound of anxiety and
mischief. Ned sent Darkey to Bobs' flank and threw his arm about the
lithe little rider.
"Mary," said he, "you are a brave girl. Will you marry me to-day? This
very day?"
"Hush, Ned!" was her cry as she placed her hand upon his lips. "You are
stealing my fire. That is my proposition. Only I put it this way. Will
you marry me not to-day or to-morrow but the day after?"
"I'll marry you to-day and to-morrow and the day after," was the happy
response. "But why put it off?"
"Now I have broken the ice, Ned, it will be easier. I am a frightened
little prairie chicken running for cover. I was going to ask you to do
this trifling thing for me the day after to-morrow when you anticipated
by two days. It is very good of my big farmer to ask no questions and
to be willing even to advance dates, but I have a little to say in
justification of this bold visit.
"Since my interview with Father the firm of Sykes and Sykes has become
the firm of Sykes, McClure and Sykes. Last night Father informed me
that if I throw down Chesley Sykes I therewith crash to the ground his
whole brilliant future--that is Father's."
"You are in a hard place, Mary," said Ned solicitously. "It is
troubling you terribly despite your brave front. You are grieving, I
know."
"A little worried, Ned," was the simple acknowledgment. "It has been
difficult and it will be. It is not Father's anger that has driven me
to you. It is abject fear. I am afraid of Sykes--and Father. I turn
down Sykes. It does not anger him. He remains congenial. I withstand
Father and promise to wreck his whole career. He is scarcely disturbed.
Why are they not provoked? Because they are not. They are confident of
realizing the thing they want. Ned, I have become such a frightened
little goose that I carry this."
She drew an automatic gun from some mysterious repository in the breast
of her riding habit. At sight of the weapon Ned's eyes flashed their
dangerous light.
"You are wise to provide defense," said he soberly, "since your enemy is
Sykes. Your intuition has not led you astray. For all his suavity and
culture Sykes is a savage. He is the monster our civilization rears in
the lap of luxury. He has been trained to expect full satiation of his
desires. He has a maxim that he gets what he goes after. He knows
utterly nothing of self-mastery. He has never denied himself. He never
will. Nor will he yield to fate. You are in great danger and have been
for months. Some conspiracy is on foot. Its execution may be a matter
of but a few hours. There is but one thing to do, Mary. You must marry
me to-day."
The girl looked into his eyes.
"I am glad you understand," said she. "I will marry you, Ned, but at
the time I have proposed. They shall lead me into nothing undesirable
before then. To-day, to-night I want to myself to think it all out.
To-morrow I shall teach and to-morrow night I shall tell all to Mother
and consult with her. She will agree to our marriage upon 'the day
after.'"
Ned demurred but to no purpose.
"Since you insist on your date," said Ned with a smile, "will you grant
me the privilege of planning the elopement?"
"Your plans first. This is my escapade."
"Very well. The 'day after' you ride out to The Craggs as usual. I
shall meet you at the Peak of the Buffalo Trails and together we shall
ride to The Fort. It is only a canter of twenty miles. There we shall
be wed in the parsonage of Oliver Darwin. He is our good friend.
Father will go over to the school and inform the children that Miss
McClure is 'indisposed.'"
"My saddle for a bridal coach! Ned! That is an inspiration. We'll
ride the winding trail into the mystic West."
She held her lips to him and their kiss was the pure caress of a noble
passion.
That night Ned rode to The Fort and made full arrangements, reaching
home by the gray light of dawn.
*XXII*
*WOLVES*
The pastime of draw poker was engaging the energies of Sykes, McClure,
Foyle, Snoopy Bill and their gang of familiars. The hour ran long past
the closing time of eleven P.M.
Though stakes had flown high the game had failed to catch the interest
of Rob McClure. He played his hand with a detachment that threw him
open to heavy losses. So far he had escaped. His mind was the battle
ground of a struggle he had not calculated on. Sykes watched him
covertly all evening, striving to pierce the mask of his unsmiling face.
It delighted him to trace the ruthless lines about the mouth. On the
other hand it perturbed him not a little to see distinct evidences of
indecision. With the deliberate purpose of fostering the reckless mood
Sykes kept up a perpetual toasting. He toasted the pot, the queens and
the aces all in turn, drinking lightly himself while McClure took
copious draughts. With all his apathy McClure won regularly while Sykes
lost as steadily. The double-plying of the farmer with the frequently
recurring toast and an unswerving success in the game was fast realizing
Sykes' purpose. He was growing reckless in his sullen vindictiveness
while the inner struggle was evident in strange moments of aberration.
A gloominess was gathering in his befuddled brain. This greatly puzzled
Sykes and alarmed him as well. He watched like a spider in his lair.
Suddenly he leaned forward. A change had come over the farmer. McClure
sat in his place, his head resting heavily upon his left hand. His
cards lay upon the table before him face up. The game was forgotten.
His eyes were reading the contents of a half-emptied glass with a stare
repellent in its fierce amazement. Holding the glass tightly in his
right hand he trained bulging eyes on some sight within.
At that moment Rob McClure was a physical wreck rolling helplessly on a
rough sea. At best the conscience of the man was atrophied. Now it was
incapable as well. The countenance, spacious with a native bigness, was
marred by the double bestiality of bibber and rogue. The rudderless
mind was mighty with unleashed desire. Amid the wreck of faculties sat
the will, an ominous thing living, uncontrolled, with strength
unimpaired, ready to strike adder-like in any direction.
Oblivious of the commotion of the game he beheld the figment of his
drugged brain rising to view in the glass of drink. His face grew black
with an anger horrible to behold. Amid the gleam of the liquor two
faces took nebulous shape, growing in definition the longer he watched.
At length they rose into view through the bubbles and froth. They
vanished magically only to reappear with a tripled vividness of shape.
They were living faces, of beautiful women sorrowful with a gentle
reproach that stirred some tender, sleeping thing within him, while at
the same instant it bated the savage beast glaring out of his eyes. As
he looked, one instant fearful, the next enraged, the tender thing was
suddenly crushed and the beast sprang from his lair. A wild
vengefulness gleamed in his eyes as he sprang to his feet with a weird
cry. Swinging his arm aloft he hurled the glass crashing upon the table
before him.
"Ha!" he cried laughing horribly. "That will shut your blankety eyes."
Cunningly he searched the ring of startled faces. As he looked something
clicked in the brain and the hallucination passed. His face resumed its
normal expression, though an inkling of what he had just done remained
dimly with him.
The others sprang to their feet in alarm, striking sudden attitudes of
defense. An instant's contemplation disclosed to all his drunken state.
His eyes were fixed curiously upon the shivered glass. A chorus of
raillery broke out. But McClure did not smile. His face was dark.
"What the ----?" jollied Snoopy Bill.
Stepping to the door he stooped down and yelled through the keyhole:
"Hi you, Louie! No more strong stuff for McClure. He's seeing 'em.
Bring a tray of lemonade."
McClure was in an unfortunate mood for the jibe. Stung by the roar of
applause he leaped at Snoopy Bill in swift reprisal. Gripping him
savagely by the throat he applied a strangle clutch. Snoopy's head
bobbed back and he sank to the floor with blackening face. With shouts
of alarm the others sprang toward the two men. Tearing away McClure's
deadly grasp they pinned him to the floor. The struggle aided him to
recover his mental poise. Looking up at them with a sane glance he said
quietly:
"I'm through. Let me up."
Released, he regained his feet and resumed his chair.
Snoopy Bill's face was livid as he sank panting into his place. Into
his eyes crept a vengeful light. He glanced sullenly about. He, too,
had imbibed over freely. As he recovered the sense of outrage deepened
and he proceeded to wreak immediate revenge. With the slyness of the
inebriate he reached out and seized his glass. Fixing direful eyes on
McClure he drew back his hand. But the murderous throw was interrupted.
His wrist was suddenly caught in the vise-like grip of Sykes' long
fingers.
"Better not, Bill," he admonished in a low voice. "Rob is dead drunk.
Don't even know he fouled you. If you let him have that you'll be up
against murder."
"He's a blankety coward," was the angry retort. "I'll get him yet.
Watch me bust up this gang. By the blankety blank I'll tip Pullar
himself."
Above the growls this threat produced rose the voice of Sykes roaring
blasphemously at Swale who stood in the open door with mouth agape.
"You bottle washing smuggler!" he cried. "Fill up a tray of your dummest
swill and hand it out on the double quick. No more poison or we'll blow
you up."
Satisfied that the brawl was over Swale disappeared with the desired
alacrity.
McClure's assault had tapped a smoldering mine. Though the game was
resumed neither McClure nor Snoopy Bill evinced any interest, while the
latter continued to breathe vengeance. Beside him sat Ford who too was
showing little interest in the cards.
"Come, Ford!" challenged Snoopy Bill in a stage whisper. "I'll stump
you to split on the hounds. I'm quitting."
"Cut the ragging!" called Sykes appeasingly. "This bad stuff all comes
from drinking Swale's rotten whiskey. Here comes the best ever."
Swale appeared with a loaded tray. The glasses were passed around.
"Keep it!" said Snoopy Bill. "I tell you I'm quitting."
"Me too," said Nick Ford, pushing his glass away. "I reckon I'm with
Bill," said he rising. "This gang's never been right. But it hit the
rocks good and hard about the time Hank Foyle blew in. I know I ain't a
Sunday-school teacher but I've felt like a skunk since that steal of
Pullar's farm. I've a sneaking idea there's some scurvy game on right
now. Rolling an old man is bad enough but I draw the line at fouling a
woman. I'm through."
Nick's words had a startling effect. The drinkers paused in their act
of tossing the glass. There was a passage of swift glances between Sykes
and McClure. The hush of a deep calm fell on the room, broken by a wild
laugh from Snoopy Bill.
"Keep it up, old top!" he shouted, slapping Ford on the back. "Cough it
out. Spit up the facts. We'll enjoy 'em."
Ford gave a knowing smirk.
"No, Bill," was his insinuating reply. "I ain't telling all I know.
I'll let it off at the regular time."
For McClure and Sykes his words had a disquieting significance. How
much did Ford know? Beyond all doubt he had an inkling of the facts.