same instant lifting a shout. But the wind snatched the cry from his
lips and flung him down the rock. The brief glance had disclosed to him
an astonishing thing, however. The rock was as bare as the nude surface
of a melting berg. The cottonwoods and their patch of clinging turf had
been swept away, leaving only the naked contour of the original
monolith. The emptiness of the place smote him with a dread fear.
Climbing cautiously into the teeth of the storm he shouted again,
throwing a name into the uproar. But the wind hurled him back once
more. As he caught his feet he was thrilled to hear a shout. It came
from the spot where he had struck. Shouting with the full power of his
throat he clambered to the edge. A heavy billow had dashed upon the
reef, flinging aloft a cloud of spray. Something at the base of the
cloud held his fascinated gaze. Fighting the buffeting deluge he sought
to visualize the thing before him. In the blur of the gray mist he
thought he defined a phantom figure balanced on the wave-battered edge
of the rock. One arm hung strangely at its side, while the other was
lifted in effort to maintain a footing upon the slippery surface. As he
looked there was a thunderous roar. An enormous wave had rolled up.
Lifting the struggling figure on its foaming crest it whisked it across
the rock. In the swift passage it fought to catch its feet, succeeding
for the briefest instant only. Upon the lee edge of the rock the figure
stood up in the wave and lifted a warding hand. But it could not breast
the whelming flow and was swept like a chip into the darkness beyond.
As the figure vanished into the mists there broke on Ned's ear a weird
shout. It sounded like the mocking laugh of a fiend.
A shudder swept over the hearer. The phantom was Chesley Sykes.
While the horror of the moment was still heavy upon him he heard what
seemed like an answering shout. The quality of it thrilled him, for it
was a woman's cry. Looking over the bare surface he was amazed to
detect the rump stump of the ragged oak. Low at its base lay a clinging
shadow. Megaphoning with his hands he shouted with all his might. He
was electrified to catch a distinct reply. The voice? He knew it. A
wild joy surged through him. It was Mary. She was clinging to the oak.
Swamped by the panic of the mad moment he was about to dash over the
rock, when there flashed before him the fate of that phantom figure. He
restrained the wild desire and studying the rock saw that by a detour of
the lee side he could reach to within a few yards of the oak. A swift
run over a dangerous buttress and he would be with Mary. Fearful that
the tremendous waves might wrench her free, he worked about the rock
with furious impatience, making the circuit without mishap. With a
sharp flit he was over the buttress.
The girl was plainly nearing the limit of her endurance and looked into
his face with a half-fearful wonder as he lifted her in his arms.
"Ned!" she cried, "you are not Sykes? I thought I heard him cry a
little ago with such a terrible, screaming laugh."
"It is Ned, dear," was his cry as he placed her more securely against
the oak. "Rest a little. You are very weak but you will recover
shortly."
Kneeling upon the rock, he took the oak in his hands and, turning his
back to the storm, crouched above her, so shielding her from the
pounding waves and the chill of the hurricane. Huge billows continued
to deluge the rock and their smashing force soon began to tell. She
discovered before he did that his strength was going. After an
exhausting struggle with an unusually powerful wave, she called to him.
"Let me go, Ned. You cannot stand much more. That last almost swung
you about the tree."
"I will crouch lower," said Ned. "The wind will subside soon. Then I
can carry you to that shelter under the ledge."
Thrilled by the magic of her clinging touch he would not acknowledge the
fearful inroads the long struggle had made on his strength. Now he knew
no terror. True, a dizziness would confuse him at times on the heels of
the heavier swells, but he clutched the tree and clung till it passed.
"You cannot stand many more," cried the girl fearfully. "Leave me. You
can still make the shelter or swim----"
"Hush, Mary!" was the cheery reply. "You would rob me of the happiest
moment I have ever known. We'll stick together, dear. We are good for
a lot of roughing yet."
"You will not leave me, Ned?"
"Not ever, Mary."
"Ned, dear heart!" was the caressing cry. "This is a wonderful moment.
It is worth all the cruelty of these last, long months and the horror of
this terrible day. You are the dearest pal."
"Pal?" cried Ned, looking into the dark eyes. "What pals we'll be!"
That they were tortured with the smiting waves and facing death with
each succeeding roller, only enhanced the supreme joy of their
confession.
"We are going to get out of this all right," said Ned, as he breathed
heavily from a battle with a mighty wave. "You hardly think it
possible, little one, you have been so broken by this battering storm.
But we'll beat it all, water, wind and human guile."
Suddenly he straightened up and placed hand to ear.
"Listen, Mary!" he called. "Can you not hear it? There are voices
coming up the wind."
They listened. From the lee of the rock came a faint shout. Together
they replied. Again the shout and this time astonishingly close.
"There is a boat near," cried Ned. "I caught a glimpse of it through
the spray."
With the sudden prospect of rescue, hope leaped up afresh. A new
courage entered their minds and a strange new strength their bodies.
Both were opportune, for now they entered upon a desperate struggle with
successions of formidable waves. They had nearly passed when the black
dizziness, that of late had been recurring with alarming frequency, fell
suddenly upon Ned. Fainting under the exertion he sank. His head hung
over the edge of the rock and only the super-human efforts of his
companion prevented him from plunging headlong into the lake.
"Mary!" he cried as consciousness came dimly back. "I have been asleep.
Did the roller beat me that time?"
"You were nearly gone," cried the girl faintly.
"How did you ever hold me, dear?"
"I don't know, Ned. But you are here. You cannot stand another. Is
the boat near?"
The girl's voice had a terror in it that smote Ned with pity.
The boat at that moment rode through the choppy waves, to shelter at the
base of the rock. The instant the prow struck a great figure leaped out
of her and scrambled up over the ledge. As it straightened up for the
dash to the oak, Ned was amazed to behold the face of Rob McClure. It
was distorted by a terror born of no sense of physical danger. There
was a poignant agony in his voice as he cried:
"Mary, Mary! Are you here?"
"She is here and safe," shouted Ned in reply.
Stooping down Ned exerted all his strength and lifting the small form,
placed her in her father's arms.
"Brace against that stump," cried Ned as a billow hit them.
"Daddy! You have come!" cried the girl as she nestled in her father's
arms. Upon her face was the look of wonder inexplicable with which she
had greeted Ned. In Ned's eyes was a wonder even greater. He was
pondering this astounding enigma when a cloud swept over his mind with a
horrible enveloping and he fell on the rock. A fresh wave clutched him
as two shadows darted to where he lay.
"Just in time!" cried the voice of Andy Bissett, as he fought the wave
for possession of the inert form.
"Shure, 'tis full spint is the lad," was the response of Easy Murphy.
"There's been a divil of a scrap wid wind and wathurr on this
bauld-headed stone."
"It has been a wonderful fight," agreed Andy as they got their burden
safely out of the clutch of the breakers.
"Thrue, me hearty! And the swate colleen wuz worth it, begobs."
In the boat were Lawrie and Jean Benoit and another--Foyle. He was
haggard and dishevelled and silent.
Securing their precious salvage the crew explored the rock, shouting
loudly in hope of another survivor, but the only reply was the uproar of
the tempest. Convinced that no living thing remained they shoved off
and ran for the southeast shore.
*XXV*
*THE EMPTY SADDLE*
After tearing free from Sykes, Bobs galloped through the woods till with
true broncho instinct he circled to the trail and shot post haste for
home. After a time his terror passed and he reduced his speed to a
comfortable canter, then to a trot and finally to a walk. Loitering
leisurely along the way he nibbled choice tufts of grass.
When the hour of Mary's home-coming arrived and there was no sight of
her along the Valley trail, Helen McClure grew mildly anxious. With the
passage of an hour and still no sign she became alarmed and consulted
McClure. He betrayed no evidences of anxiety and endeavoured to calm
the agitated woman. It was during the furious outbreak of the storm
that she saw the riderless horse trot swiftly down the lane. A dread
seized her and she called to Rob.
He was seated in his office, his eye fixed in remarkable tenderness upon
the two faces that for the last few days had haunted him. The anguished
tone of his wife smote him and a wave of shame passed over his face. He
dropped his head upon his hand. A curious enervation sapped his
strength. That cry with its tender distress broke something hard within
him. He could not lift up his head. The fact of the bribe and its
mighty lure were forgotten. In the space of one marvellous instant he
became humane. In upon him surged an overwhelming solicitude for Mary's
safety. Endearing memories rushed upon him. His dishonour and the
pathos of Mary's betrayal cried out in the smitten cry of his wife.
Remorse and contrition were strangely confused in the mind that refused
to work with its accustomed celerity. Grimly he reflected that the
office of the blue automatic was desirable. Opening the drawer he
thrust his hand within. The gun was gone. Who could take it? His
wife? Mary? Ah, it was Mary. He brushed his brow in a troubled
gesture. In upon the deepening gloom burst a disquieting fear.
"Rob!" came the cry again in a low frightened tone. "Bobs has come home
without Mary. He must have thrown her. Perhaps she is injured
or--killed."
"Tut, tut, Helen!" was his answer. "She is not hurt. Have no fear for
Mary. She is too good a rider. She is walking along the trail."
"But it is so late," objected the mother anxiously.
Together they went out to where Bobs was refreshing himself at the
trough. A quick examination of the horse aroused in McClure a new
uneasiness. The bridle was torn and the rein gone. Suddenly Helen
discovered something Rob hoped she would not see.
"Here are marks of the spurs," called his wife. "Mary never uses these
terrible things."
She pointed to red dabs along the flank.
Passing about the horse Rob discovered a bloody mark on Bobs' white hip
that aroused a panic in his own breast. Beneath the smear of blood
there was no wound. His wife detected what he was looking at.
"That cannot be from the spurs," she cried in a stricken voice. "Mary
has met with an accident, that she made a wild effort to escape."
She sought his eye.
"Listen, Helen!" said he in a low tone, transfixed by her compelling
glance. "Do not jump to wild conclusions and believe all I say. You
may never forgive me. You must believe me. Mary is not hurt. She has
gone with Chesley Sykes. They will come back again. He was to intercept
her on her way from school. It was all arranged. I gave my consent and
Hank Foyle was to help him out. He will marry our girl."
His confession had come in a slow, passionless voice. As the truth
dawned upon her the blood receded from her face, leaving her white and
haggard. Old age seemed to have fallen magically upon her. Her lips
moved as if to speak, but no sound issued forth. She reeled as if
struck. Rob threw his arms about her. At his touch she stood erect and
rigid. Thrusting him gently from her, she turned away with a low moan.
With bowed head he led Bobs to the stable and went slowly, dazedly into
the house. All within was quiet. The stillness troubled him. His wife
had secluded herself. He called her name but no answer came back.
Making a swift search he found her at length in Mary's room. She knelt
before the bed fondling some trinkets she had spread out upon the
counterpane. Her eyes were fixed upon a tiny photograph. It was a
likeness of Mary when a babe.
"Ah, poor little baby!" she whispered. "They have broken your dear
little heart."
As Rob watched the stricken creature an exquisite pain stabbed his own
soul. Walking over to her he threw his great arms about her.
"Listen, Helen," said he brokenly. "Before God Almighty I'll bring Mary
back to you."
She seemed not to hear him.
Rising he walked out.
Hitching up his team he pushed them at a terrific pace for Magee's Cove.
He arrived at the Cove thankful to find that the bloods were still
there. He was ahead of the boat. He soon discovered it out in the lake
and in grave peril. Before he could fully realize the situation the boat
crashed upon the Storm Rock. In the closing dusk he fancied he saw a
gleam of white upon the rock. Obsessed with a wild hope that it was Mary
he sent his horses at a gallop to Magee's and got out his big steam
launch just as Andy and his party came up, bent on the same purpose.
Supplementing the engine with oars they drove for the rock, picking
Foyle up near shore. The tale he gave them impelled them to heroic
effort and they fought their way steadily toward the rock. When near
they discovered two figures, taking them for Mary and Sykes. Their
astonishment knew no bounds when they found out that Mary's companion
was Ned.
The return was effected easily and speedily. The boat was cutting
through the breakers not far from shore when Lawrie, who was in the
prow, gave a peculiar cry and signalled the reversal of the engine. It
was called forth by an object rocking amid the flotsam. Instantly the
boat was halted and backed to where the object lay in the water.
"My God!" cried Easy Murphy, as they rode alongside. "It's Sykes, poor
divil!"
At the words a moan came from somebody. Through McClure passed a shudder
and he drew Mary close to him. Producing a rope they attached it to the
gruesome thing out in the waves and started shoreward once more.
Mary was taken direct to her home. Mrs. Grant insisted on warmth and
refreshment, but Rob would hear of no delay.
"Her mother is waiting," said he, with the saddest of smiles.
The drive was accomplished at a speed that brought the bays to rest at
the McClure threshold in a reek of sweat.
On that home-coming no eyes must peer. Upon Helen McClure's face lay
the ineffaceable scars of her dark vigil. But her heart was healed by
the miracle of the storm.
And Ned? The tonic of love and youth more than pulled him through.
*XXVI*
*THE RED KNIGHT SINGS OF THE FAIRIES*
The sun was sinking behind a sky of golden fleeces. Through the
dazzling cloud-rims streamed the lava of sunny light, flooding The
Qu'Appelle with its restful glow. Below lay the lake, a rippling basin
of molten gold.
Everywhere the shadowy greens of the crests were checkered with square
patches of ripe wheat. Some fields were mellow for the sickle. Upon the
morrow the binders would hum the overture of the harvest symphony.
Two watchers sat on the Grant lawn drinking in the liquid glow of the
west. Down upon them rolled a field of Red Knight, covering the terrace
to their feet. The light of a blazing summer and its dews and rains lay
before them, stored in a forest of magic heads. The grain was standing
thick and erect, its cream-gold surface dappled with pursuing waves of
shade and shine. The eyes of the watchers rested on the sea of plumes.
They were talking of it.
"Wonderful! Indeed!" exclaimed Margaret softly. "It is as wonderful as
Ned and his father think it is."
"Yes!" agreed Andy. "I for one believe it will far surpass their hopes.
And yet I am scarcely qualified to judge since the ride of a certain
girl to the rescue of The Red Knight. His precious gold kernels were
the sesame that opened her eyes. I have a natural bias toward him but
he is a marvel all the same and the king of cereals. The scientists, the
cereal breeders, even the millers agree with the Pullars and the farmers
in pronouncing The Red Knight a wonder grain. I believe with old Edward
Pullar that it will be the elixir of life to millions of farmers. It is
interesting to conjure just what this will mean to the future of our
country. Beyond a doubt it will draw the strong of the earth to the
virile North."
Andy paused musing for a time. Then he said gently:
"There is something great, magnificently great in all this, something
that dwarfs The Red Knight himself."
At his words the girl sought her companion's eyes. Swiftly she divined
his thoughts.
"You mean somebody is great, do you?" said she.
Andy nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes. There is Edward Pullar and Ned, himself, and the little mother.
These dear neighbours of ours have been great in vision and patience. We
have not understood. Most people about Pellawa never will. The old
homestead at The Craggs has been a place of unobtrusive but astounding
achievement. These quiet farmers are mighty benefactors. What farmers
they are!"
"Look!" cried Margaret, suddenly pointing into the west.
Along the distant edge of the wheat were moving three shapes, black
shadows of riders suspended in the amber light as they skimmed along the
high shoulder of an upper bench. A moment only were they visible. Then
they melted into the yellow sea.
"The McClures!" announced Margaret, a reflective light shining in her
eyes. "This is Mary's first ride--since the storm. She is happy
to-night."
"I am sure she is. But how do you know?" mused Andy.
"The curvetings of Bobs assured me," was the reply. "Mary is in the
happy mood that inspires Bobs with a foolish notion that he has wings
instead of legs and must fly away."
"Which reminds me," said Andy with a smile, "that I, too, am foolishly
happy. Have you observed my grove lately? If not, better take a
careful look."
Margaret followed his gesture. She saw a strange white object among the
trees. Her eyes brightened, but dissembling with feminine facility, she
looked up in naive curiosity.
"It is the gable of our roof," explained Andy, looking deep into the
clear eyes. "I cut down that old rotten elm that you might get a
glimpse of what is to be expected--of you. Hum!"
Margaret made no reply except a widening of innocent eyes.
"To resume," continued Andy. "It will be plastered before the frost;
during the winter we shall finish it. Then, after seeding, some day in
June----"
Andy paused. The gaze of his companion was gratifyingly intent. He
waited.
"Well?" came the incurious query.
"Well!" was the deliberate reply. "What so rare as a bride in June?"
Margaret read the face above her, read it deeply, gravely, for a moment,
then released an entrancing smile.
"Would you care to really know?" was her arch reply.
"Would I?"
"Then hear! It is the bold fellow who conspires with himself against
her."
Edward Pullar was passing among his head-row plots, spending a busy hour
in the cool of the twilight. His eyes were ashine and a cheerful
humming proclaimed a happy worker, deeply in love with his work. And it
was so, for was not the Red Knight scaling another wall in the grand
assault? Already the aged gleaner had harvested a wealth of selected
heads and the tub on the kitchen floor was the receptacle of several
gallons of the astonishing brown-red kernels. There was a prophetic
light on the old man's face as he plucked the wonderful heads. So deep
was his self-communion that he was startled when a voice called for the
second time:
"Mr. Pullar!"
The voice was powerful but suppressed, its tone familiar. The old man
looked up in surprise.
Before him stood Rob McClure and his wife. With instinctive gentility he
doffed his hat and bowed.
"Good-evening to you, friends!" was his cordial greeting.
"Thank you for your kindness, Edward Pullar," was McClure's slow reply.
"I have ridden over to see you though you may not desire conversation
with me. I would not blame you----"
Edward Pullar raised his hand.
"Hush! My friend!" he entreated gently, a brightness glowing in his
eyes. "I understand all. Nick Ford has given me the tale without
reserve. The past has been very dark for all of us; the
expiation--costly. There are enigmas that remain unexplained but the
explanation would merely satiate curiosity. It would not alter
anything. We have forgotten the past. Life is new, sacredly new for
Ned and me--since the storm. We want no confession, no ceaseless
grieving, simply your dear friendship. We are looking ahead into the
gloriously happy days. Give me your hands."
The others stepped impulsively to him and seized his hands.
"You mean it! I know you mean it!" said Rob McClure, his great eyes
lingering reverently on the old man's face. "Do you know that we
attempted to steal your bins of Red Knight? That we sold your farm by a
devil's ruse? That we fought Ned, nine to one, with savage design to
maim him for life? That we planned a terrible wrong and carry the red
brand of crime? Do you..."
"Hush! My friend!" cried the old man, stemming the hot torrent of
self-condemnation. "Do not recall it, I implore you. I know it all,
but it is cast behind. We hold in our memories only the joys of those
dark days, for there was much that was precious. Besides, there are the
bairns. For their sakes and for our own I will be having you always for
my friends."
"Edward Pullar!" cried the soft, thrilled voice of Helen McClure. "God
will bless you for those noble words. He will nourish this dear
friendship into which you are taking us."
As she spoke the moon rolled up over the prairie edge, throwing over
them all a faint, rosy light through the gauzy fringe of a low cloud.
"How wonderful!" cried Helen McClure. "It is the warm light of
promise."
Through the shadows of the young night came suddenly the voice of
laughter, silvery as the call of a bird to its mate. It was barely
audible indeed, but distinct and athrob with joy. It was Mary's voice.
At the sound a wave of deep emotion swept over the three people and
their hands tightened in a clinging grip.
Mary was in just the fettle Margaret had surmised. Discovering Ned busy
at his binders, she had lured him with her call. In a moment he was
with her and gathered her into his arms. About them flowed the light of
the moon, bathing tree trunks and leaves and the rippling wheat in its
soft, red shine.
"See her!" cried the girl, pointing to the glowing orb veiled in its
tracery of leaves and limbs. "Have you ever seen her so benign?"
"Never!" cried Ned happily. "To-night she is witching. She is painting
you with her dainty rouge, face and lips, and this soft, brown hair. In
your eyes her light of wonderful old rose is the light of dear desire."
"Evidently she holds a spell," teased Mary, "and does not scruple to
throw dream stuff into the foolish eyes of young farmers."
"What an occult magician she is!" cried Ned delightedly, abandoning
himself to the deceit of the moment. "She has everything about us
revelling. The little winds are flirting scandalously with your curls
and there is a whispering music out there in the moving grain. There
are voices in the wheat that haunt me. Often have I dreamed of them but
never have I caught their singing until now. Something tells me you
understand--you favourite sorceress of rose-light moons."
"This is our mad-moon, Ned," laughed Mary softly. "I begin to feel the
strange thrill of its lunacy. This old-rose light is a glamourous
thing. Put your cheek against mine, dear pal, and I'll whisper to you
the secret that is throbbing in the heart of our wonderful Knight.
"His voices come sweetly in stealing from very far and in all their
singing there is a tender tale they tell of kind eyes that glanced upon
him one great day and of a gentle hand that plucked him out of the wilds
and set his roots in the wise hearts of men. With a million, adoring
tongues he is hymning to-night the tender spirit of Kitty Belaire. Hark
to the legends he sings of the coming days! One beautiful noon your
father, Ned, told me a remarkable thing. 'The Red Knight,' said he,
'will push the grain belt three hundred miles nearer the poles.' It is
of this The Red Knight is whispering now. His prophetic voices are
winging in from everywhere and they tell of a wondrous host trekking the
illimitable plains of this magic North. Listen, Ned, and you will hear
their tramp through the enchanting glow of our mad rose moon."
"I can hear it, Mary!" was the hushed reply as he nestled the brown head
close. "And in all the tramping of the countless feet I hear a fairy
patter like the sound of falling leaves. Are they the fragile feet of
the fairy children flitting to us out of the infinite?"
"Ned, my Ned!" was the endearing cry. "The Red Knight is singing of the
homes he will build in his gardens of wheat, of the tiny fairies, the
little children of the plains who shall play in his gardens--in your
garden, Ned, and mine."
Ned's answer was the drawing tight of his great arms and the sheltering
crush of his mightier love.
A mist crept over Mary's eyes. Looking through the glad tears she
whispered:
"It is the 'bestest' year we have ever seen, both for us and for--them."
Over all rose the moon, now white and serene, pouring upon them the
silver light of her purity.
_Printed in the United States of America_