There was silence in the log-house when the men drove away, and Clavering,
who sat in a corner, found the time pass heavily. A clock ticked noisily
upon the wall, and the stove crackled when the draughts flowed in; but
this, he felt, only made the stillness more exasperating. The big,
hard-faced bushman sat as motionless as a statue and almost as
expressionless, with a brown hand resting on the rifle across his knees,
in front of a row of shelves which held Miss Muller's crockery. Clavering
felt his fingers quiver in a fit of anger as he watched the man, but he
shook it from him, knowing that he would gain nothing by yielding to
futile passion.
"I guess I can smoke," he said flinging his cigar-case on the table. "Take
one if you feel like it."
The swiftness with which the man's eyes followed the first move of his
prisoner's hand was significant, but he shook his head deliberately.
"I don't know any reason why you shouldn't, but you can keep your cigars
for your friends," he said.
He drawled the words out, but the vindictive dislike in his eyes made them
very expressive, and Clavering, who saw it, felt that any attempt to gain
his jailer's goodwill would be a failure. As though to give point to the
speech, the man took out a pipe and slowly filled it with tobacco from a
little deerskin bag.
"What are you going to do with me?" asked Clavering, partly to hide his
anger, and partly because he was more than a little curious on the
subject.
"Well," said the man reflectively. "I don't quite know. Keep you here
until Larry comes, any way. It wouldn't take long to fix it so you'd be
sorry you had worried poor folks if the boys would listen to me."
This was even less encouraging; but there were still points on which
Clavering desired enlightenment.
"Will Muller bring Miss Torrance and her companion here?" he asked.
The bushman nodded. "I guess he will. It's quite a long way to Allonby's,
and they'll be 'most frozen after waiting in the bluff. Now, I'm not
anxious for any more talk with you."
A little flush crept into Clavering's forehead; but it was not the man's
contemptuous brusqueness which brought it there, though that was not
without its effect. It was evident that the most he could hope for was
Larry's clemency, and that would be difficult to tolerate. But there was
another ordeal before him. Hetty was also coming back, and would see him a
prisoner in the hands of the men he had looked down upon with ironical
contempt. Had the contempt been assumed, his position would have been less
intolerable; but it was not, and the little delicately venomous jibes he
seldom lost an opportunity of flinging at the homesteaders expressed no
more than he felt, and were now and then warranted.
Clavering, of course, knew that to pose as a prisoner as the result of his
efforts on her behalf would stir Hetty's sympathy, and his endurance of
persecution at the hands of the rabble for his adherence to the principles
he fancied she held would further raise him in her estimation; but he had
no desire to acquire her regard in that fashion. He would have preferred
to take the chances of a rifle-shot, for while he had few scruples he had
been born with a pride which, occasionally at least, prevented his
indulgence in petty knavery; and, crushing down his anger, he set himself
to consider by what means he could extricate himself.
None, however, were very apparent. The homesteader showed no sign of
drowsiness or relaxed vigilance, but sat tranquilly alert, watching him
through the curling smoke. It was also some distance to the door, which,
from where Clavering sat, appeared to be fastened and he knew the quick
precision with which the bushman can swing up a rifle, or if it suits him
fire from the hip. A dash for liberty could, he fancied, have only one
result; it was evident that he must wait.
Now waiting is difficult to most men, and especially to those in whose
veins there flows the hot Southern blood, and Clavering felt the taste of
the second excellent cigar grow bitter in his mouth. He sat very still,
with half-closed eyes, and a little ironical smile upon his lips when his
grim companion glanced at him. In the meantime the stove crackled less
noisily and the room grew steadily colder. But Clavering scarcely felt the
chill, even when the icy draughts whirled the cigar-smoke about him, for
he began to see that an opportunity would be made for him, and waited,
strung up and intent. When he thought he could do so unobserved, he
glanced at the clock whose fingers now moved with a distressful rapidity,
knowing that his chance would be gone if the bob-sled arrived before the
cold grew too great for his jailer.
Ten minutes dragged by, then another five, and still the man sat smoking
tranquilly, while Clavering realized that, allowing for all probable
delays, Muller and Miss Torrance should arrive before the half-hour was
up. Ten more minutes fled by, and Clavering, quivering in an agony of
impatience, found it almost impossible to sit still; but at last the
bushman stood up and laid his rifle on the table.
"You will stop right where you are," he said. "I'm going to put a few
billets in the stove."
Clavering nodded, for he dared not trust himself to speak, and the man,
who took up an armful of the billets, dropped a few of them through the
open top of the stove. One, as it happened, jammed inside it, so that he
could get no more in, and he laid hold of an iron scraper to free it with.
He now stood with his back to Clavering, but the rifle still lay within
his reach upon the table.
Clavering rose up, and, though his injured foot was painful, moved forward
a pace or two noiselessly in his soft moccasins. A billet had rolled in
his direction, and swaying lithely from the waist, with his eyes fixed
upon the man, he seized it. The homesteader was stooping still, and he
made another pace, crouching a trifle, with every muscle hardening.
Then, the man turned sharply, and hurled the scraper straight at
Clavering. It struck him on the face, but he launched himself forward,
and, while the homesteader grabbed at his rifle, fell upon him. He felt
the thud of the billet upon something soft, but the next moment it was
torn from him, the rifle fell with a clatter, and he and the bushman
reeled against the stove together. Then, they fell against the shelves and
with a crash they and the crockery went down upon the floor.
Clavering was supple and wiry and just then consumed with an almost
insensate fury. He came down uppermost but his adversary's leg was hooked
round his knee, and the grip of several very hard fingers unpleasantly
impeded his respiration. Twice he struck savagely at a half-seen brown
face, but the grip did not relax, and the knee he strove to extricate
began to pain him horribly. The rancher possessed no mean courage and a
traditional belief in the prowess of his caste, was famed for proficiency
in most manly sports; but that did not alter the fact that the other man's
muscle, hardened by long use of the axe, was greater than his own, and the
stubborn courage which had upheld the homesteader in his struggle with
adverse seasons and the encroaching forest was at least the equal of that
born in Clavering.
So the positions were slowly reversed, until at last Clavering lay with
his head amidst a litter of broken cups and plates, and the homesteader
bent over him with a knee upon his chest.
"I guess you've had 'bout enough," he said. "Will you let up, or do you
want me to pound the life out of you?"
Clavering could not speak, but he managed to make a movement with his
head, and the next moment the man had dragged him to his feet and flung
him against the table. He caught at it, gasping, while his adversary
picked up the rifle.
"You will be sorry for this night's work yet," he said.
The homesteader laughed derisively. "Well," he said, "I guess you're sorry
now. Anyone who saw you would think you were. Get right back to the chair
yonder and stay there."
It was at least five minutes before Clavering recovered sufficiently to
survey himself, and then he groaned. His deerskin jacket was badly rent,
there was a great burn on one side of it, and several red scratches
defaced his hands. From the splotches on them after he brushed back his
ruffled hair he also had a suspicion that his head was cut, and the
tingling where the scraper had struck him suggested a very visible weal.
He felt dizzy and shaken, but his physical was less than his mental
distress. Clavering was distinguished for his artistic taste in dress and
indolent grace; but no man appears dignified or courtly with discoloured
face, tattered garments, and dishevelled hair. He thought he heard the
bob-sled coming and in desperation glanced at his jailer.
"If you would like ten dollars you have only got to let me slip into that
other room," he said.
The bushman grinned sardonically, and Clavering's fears were confirmed.
"You're that pretty I wouldn't lose sight of you for a hundred," he said.
"No, sir; you're going to stop where you are."
Clavering anathematized him inwardly, knowing that the beat of hoofs was
unmistakable--he must face what he dreaded most. A sword-cut, or even a
rifle-shot, would, he fancied, have entitled him to sympathy, not untinged
with admiration, but he was unpleasantly aware that a man damaged in an
encounter with nature's weapons is apt to appear either brutal or
ludicrous, and he had noticed Miss Torrance's sensibility. He set his
lips, and braced himself for the meeting.
A few minutes later the door opened, and, followed by the fräulein Muller,
Hetty and Miss Schuyler came in. They did not seem to have suffered
greatly in the interval, which Clavering knew was not the case with him,
and he glanced at the homesteader with a little venomous glow in his eyes
when Hetty turned to him.
"Oh!" she said with a gasp, and her face grew pale and stern as closing
one hand she, too, looked at the bushman.
Clavering took heart at this; but his enemy's vindictiveness was evidently
not exhausted, for he nodded comprehendingly.
"Yes," he said, "he's damaged. He got kind of savage a little while ago,
and before I could quiet him he broke up quite a lot of crockery."
The imperious anger faded out of Hetty's face, and Flora Schuyler
understood why it did so as she glanced at Clavering. There was nothing
that could appeal to a fastidious young woman's fancy about him just then;
he reminded Miss Schuyler of a man she had once seen escorted homewards by
his drunken friends after a fracas in the Bowery. At the same time it was
evident that Hetty recognized her duty, and was sensible, if not of
admiration, at least of somewhat tempered sympathy.
"I am dreadfully sorry, Mr. Clavering--and it was all my fault," she said.
"I hope they didn't hurt you very much."
Clavering, who had risen, made her a little inclination; but he also set
his lips, for Hetty had not expressed herself very tactfully, and just
then Muller and another man came in and stood staring at them. The rancher
endeavoured to smile, with very small success for he was consumed with an
unsatisfied longing to destroy the bushman.
"I don't think you need be, Miss Torrance," he said. "I am only sorry I
could not come back for you; but unfortunately--circumstances--prevented
me."
"You have done enough," said Hetty impulsively, apparently forgetting the
presence of the rest. "It was splendid of you."
Then the bushman looked up again with an almost silent chuckle. "I guess
if it had been your plates he sat on, you wouldn't be quite so sure of
it--and the circumstance was me," he said.
Hetty turned from the speaker, and glanced at the rest. Muller was
standing near the door, with his spectacles down on his nose and mild
inquiry in his pale blue eyes, and a big bronzed Dakota man beside him was
grinning visibly. The fräulein was kneeling despairingly amidst her
shattered china, while Flora Schuyler leaned against the table with her
lips quivering and a most suspicious twinkle in her eyes.
"Flo," said Hetty half-aloud. "How can you?"
"I don't know," said Miss Schuyler, with a little gasp. "Don't look at me,
Hetty. I really can't help it."
Hetty said no more, but she glanced at the red-cheeked fräulein, who was
gazing at a broken piece of crockery with tearful eyes, and turned her
head away. Clavering saw the effort it cost her to keep from laughing, and
writhed.
"Well," said the man who had come with Muller, pointing to the wreck,
"what started you smashing up the house?"
"It's quite simple," said the bushman. "Mr. Clavering and I didn't quite
agree. He had a billet in his hand when he crept up behind me, and somehow
we fell into the crockery. I didn't mean to damage him, but he wanted to
get away, you see."
Hetty swung round towards Muller. "You haven't dared to make Mr. Clavering
a prisoner?"
Muller was never very quick at speech, and the American by his side
answered for him. "Well, we have got to keep him until Larry comes. He'll
be here 'most directly."
"Flo," said Hetty, with relief in her face, "Larry is coming. We need not
worry about anything now."
The fräulein had risen in the meanwhile, and was busy with the kettle and
a frying-pan. By and by, she set a steaming jug of coffee and a hot
cornmeal cake before her guests for whom Muller had drawn out chairs. They
were glad of the refreshment, and still more pleased when Grant and
Breckenridge came in. When Larry shook hands with them, Hetty contrived to
whisper in his ear:
"If you want to please me, get Clavering away."
Grant glanced at her somewhat curiously, but both were sensible that other
eyes were upon them, and with a just perceptible nod he passed on with
Muller into the adjoining room. Clavering and the two Americans followed
him with Breckenridge, and Grant who had heard something of what had
happened from the fräulein, asked a few questions.
"You can go when it pleases you, Clavering," he said. "I am sorry you have
received some trifling injury, but I have an idea that you brought it upon
yourself. In the face of your conduct to them it seems to me that my
friends were warranted in detaining you until they made sure of the
correctness of your story."
Clavering flushed, for there was a contemptuous incisiveness in Grant's
voice which stung his pride.
"I don't know that I am very grateful," he said angrily, "and you are
probably doing this because it suits you. In any case, your friends dare
not have offered violence to me."
Grant smiled grimly. "I wouldn't try them too far. But I don't quite catch
your meaning. I can gain nothing by letting you go."
"It should be tolerably plain. I fancied you desired to please some
friends at Cedar who send money to you."
There was a murmur of astonishment from the rest and Clavering saw that
the shot had told.
"I guess he's lying, Larry," said one of them.
Grant stood still a moment with his eyes fixed on Clavering. "I wonder,"
he said, "if you are hazarding a guess."
"No," said Clavering, "I don't think I am. I know you got a wallet of
dollars--though I don't know who sent them. Are you prepared to deny it?"
"I'm not prepared to exchange any words with you," said Grant. "Go while
the door is open, and it would not be advisable for you to fall into our
hands again. We hanged a friend of yours who, I fancy, lived up to, at
least, as high a standard as you seem to do."
When Clavering had left the room, the others turned to Grant. "You have
something to tell us?"
"No," said Grant quietly. "I don't think I have."
The men looked at each other, and one of them said, "That fellow's story
sounded kind of ugly. What were you taking dollars from the cattle-men
for, Larry?"
Grant saw the growing distrust in their eyes, but his own were resolute.
"I can't help that," he said. "I am with you, as I have always been, but
there are affairs of mine I can't have anybody inquiring into. That is all
I can tell you. You will have to take me on trust."
"You're making it hard," said the man who had spoken first.
Before Grant could answer, Clavering returned ready for his ride, but
Grant gave him no opportunity to address Hetty and Miss Schuyler. "It is
too far to drive to Allonby's in the sled," he said to them. "My sleigh is
at your service. Shall I drive you?"
Hetty, for a moment, looked irresolute, but she saw Clavering's face, and
remembered what was due to him and what he had apparently suffered for her
sake.
"It wouldn't be quite fair to dismiss Mr. Clavering in that fashion," she
said.
Grant glanced at her, and the girl longed for an opportunity of making him
understand what influenced her. But this was out of the question.
"Then, if he will be surety for their safety, the team is at Mr.
Clavering's disposal," he said.
Clavering said nothing to Grant, but he thrust his hand into his pocket
and laid a five-dollar bill on the table.
"I am very sorry I helped to destroy some of your crockery, fräulein, and
this is the only amend I can make," he said. "If I knew how to replace the
broken things I wouldn't have ventured to offer it to you."
The little deprecatory gesture was graceful, and Hetty flashed an
approving glance at him; but she also looked at Grant, as if to beseech
his comprehension, when she went out. Larry, however, did not understand
her, and stood gravely aside as she passed him. He said nothing, but when
he was fastening the fur robe round her in the sleigh Hetty spoke.
"Larry," she said softly, "can't you understand that one has to do the
square thing to everybody?"
Then, Clavering, who could not hear what she was saying, flicked the
horses and the sleigh slid away into the darkness.
A moment or two later, while the men still lingered talking without and
Larry stood putting on his furs in the room, Breckenridge saw Miss Muller,
who had been gazing at the money rise, and as though afraid her resolution
might fail her, hastily thrust it into the stove.
"You are right," he said. "That was an abominably unfair shot of
Clavering's, Larry. Of course, you couldn't answer him or tell anybody,
but it's horribly unfortunate. The thing made the impression he meant it
to."
"Well," said Larry bitterly, "I have got to bear it with the rest. I can't
see any reason for being pleased with anything to-night."
Breckenridge nodded, but once more a little twinkle crept into his eyes.
"I scarcely think you need worry about one trifle, any way," he said. "If
you think Miss Torrance or Miss Schuyler wanted Clavering to drive them,
you must be unusually dense. They only asked him to because they have a
sense of fairness, and I'd stake a good many dollars on the fact that when
Miss Schuyler first saw him she was convulsed with laughter."
"Did Miss Torrance seem amused?" Grant asked eagerly.
"Yes," said Breckenridge decisively. "She did though she tried to hide it.
Miss Torrance has, of course, a nice appreciation of what is becoming. In
fact, her taste is only slightly excelled by Miss Schuyler's."
Grant stared at him for a moment, and then for the first time, during
several anxious months, broke into a great peal of laughter.