"No?" and Allonby's embarrassment was unmistakable. "Well, there is no
great reason why you should. I have a habit of talking at random
occasionally. There are quite enough sensible people in this country
without me just now."
"Then," said Cheyne, "I went on to an especially forlorn place called
Boynton, and discovered with some difficulty that Mr. Grant, who hired the
locomotive, had stopped it at a dangerous curve and picked several men up.
He took them on to Boynton, and there they seem to have disappeared,
though it was suggested that they had departed for a place unknown, either
on the top of, or underneath a fast freight train."
Chris Allonby chuckled. "Well," he said, "we haven't the least use for
Larry here, but I am almost proud he was a friend of mine."
Cheyne glancing round at the others fancied there was a little glow in
Hetty's eyes and a trace of warmer colour in Flora Schuyler's face. It was
only just perceptible to him, but he had less doubt when he saw that Miss
Allonby was watching her companion covertly, for he was quite aware that
the perceptions of the average young woman were likely to be much keener
than his own in such affairs.
"I can't help fancying you have a clue to what really happened, Miss
Torrance," he said.
"Yes," said Hetty quietly. "It is quite plain to me that Larry saved the
train."
Cheyne glanced at her sharply, and then turned to Allonby. "It strikes you
that way, too?"
"Of course," said Allonby unguardedly. "It is too bad of Larry. He has
beaten us again, though Clavering fixed the thing quite nicely."
Cheyne's face grew stern. "I am to understand that you did not warn the
engineer or any of the railroad men?"
"No," said Allonby, with evident embarrassment. "We didn't. It was
necessary to make the thing as ugly for Larry's friends as we could, and
we knew you would be at the bridge. If you had caught them in the act,
with the train not far away, it would have looked ever so much better for
us--and you."
He stopped, with an unpleasant feeling that he had blundered. Cheyne's
face had become grimmer. Miss Schuyler's lips were curled in a little
scornful smile, and there was a curious sparkle in Hetty's eyes.
"I wonder if you quite recognize the depth of Mr. Grant's iniquity yet?"
Flora Schuyler asked.
Cheyne smiled. "I confess I should very much like to meet the man. You
see, my profession prevents my being a partisan, and the cleverness and
daring of what he has evidently done appeals to me. He took the chances of
his own men turning on him to save them from an affray with us, brought
them off, and sent your cattle-train through; and what, it seems to me,
was more than all, disregarded the probability of his enemies associating
him with the contriving of the outrage."
"Wouldn't you have done that?" asked Miss Allonby.
"No," said the soldier quietly. "I don't think I should. A man who would
do what this one has done would be very likely to take a hand in that kind
of thing."
Again there was an almost embarrassing silence broken by Miss Allonby. "I
wonder who could have told him."
Nobody spoke until Cheyne felt it advisable to break the silence.
"You have no sympathy with Grant, Miss Allonby?"
"No," said the girl plaintively. "I don't go quite as far as Mr. Clavering
and my cousin do--though Chris generally talks too much--but Larry is a
nuisance, and really ought to be crushed. You see, we had everything we
wanted before he and the others made the trouble here."
"That is quite convincing," Cheyne said, with somewhat suspicious gravity.
He looked at the others, and fancied that Hetty would have answered but
that Flora Schuyler flashed a warning glance at her.
"One could almost fancy that most of us have too much now," she said. "Are
we better, braver, stronger, or of choicer stuff than those others who
have nothing, and only want the little the law would give them? Oh, yes,
we are accomplished--very indifferently, some of us--and have been better
taught, though one sometimes wonders at the use we make of it; but was
that education given us for our virtues, or thrust upon us by the accident
that our fathers happened to be rich?"
"You will scarcely approve, Miss Allonby?" said Cheyne.
The girl's lips curled scornfully. "I never argue with people who talk
like that. It would not be any use--and they would never understand me;
but everybody knows we were born different from the rabble. It is
unfortunate you and Larry couldn't go up and down the country together,
convincing people, Flo."
Cheyne, seeing the gleam in Miss Schuyler's eyes, wondered whether there
had been malice in the speech, and was not sorry that Torrance and
Clavering came in just then.
"I have just come from Newcombe's and heard that you had failed," said
Torrance. "If you will come along to my room, I should like to hear about
it."
Cheyne smiled as he rose. "I don't know that failed was quite the correct
word. My object was to protect the track, and so far as I could discover,
no attempt was made to damage it."
Torrance glanced at him sharply as they moved away. "Now, we were under
the impression that it was the capture of the man responsible for the
affair."
"Then," said the soldier drily, "I am afraid you were under a
misapprehension."
He passed the next half-hour with Torrance amicably, and it was not until
he was returning to the hall with Clavering that he found an opportunity
of expressing himself freely. Torrance, he realized, was an old man, and
quite incapable of regarding the question except from his own point of
view.
"I am just a little astonished you did not consider it advisable to follow
the thing up further, when you must have seen what it pointed to," said
Clavering.
"That," said Cheyne, smiling, "is foolish of you. I would like to explain
that I am not a detective or a police officer."
"You were, at least, sent here to restore tranquillity."
"Precisely!" said Cheyne. "By the State. To maintain peace, and not
further the cattle-men's schemes. I am, for the present, your leader's
guest; but I have no reason for thinking he believes that in any way
constitutes me his ally. In his case I could not use the word
accomplice."
Clavering flashed an observant glance at him. "It should be evident which
party is doing the most to bring about tranquillity."
"It is not," said Cheyne. "I don't know that it is my business to go into
that question; but one or two of the efforts you have made lately would
scarcely impress the fact on me."
"You are frank, any way," with a disagreeable laugh.
"No," said Cheyne, with a twinkle in his eyes, "I'm not sure that I am. We
occasionally talk a good deal more plainly in the United States cavalry."
He passed on to the hall and Clavering went back to Torrance's room. "We
have got to get rid of that man, sir," he said. "If we don't, Larry will
have him. Allonby had better go and worry the Bureau into sending for
another two or three squadrons under a superior officer."
Torrance sighed heavily. "I'm 'most afraid they are not going to take
kindly to any more worrying," he said. "In fact, now it's evident how the
feeling of the State is going, I have an idea they'd sooner stand in with
the homestead boys. Still, we can try it, any way."
It was about the same time that Grant flung himself wearily into a chair
in the great bare room at Fremont ranch. His face was haggard, his eyes
heavy, for he had spent the greater part of several anxious days and
nights endeavouring to curb the headstrong passions of his followers, and
riding through leagues of slushy snow.
"Will you hurry Tom up with the supper, while I look through my letters?"
he said.
Breckenridge went out, and, when he came back a little while later, found
Grant with a strip of paper on his knee.
"More bad news?" he asked.
Grant made no answer, but passed the strip of paper across to him, and
Breckenridge's pulses throbbed fast with anger as he read: "It is quite
difficult to sit on both sides of the fence, and the boys have no more use
for you. Still, there was a time when you did what you could for us, and
that is why I am giving you good advice. Sit tight at Fremont, and don't
go out at nights."
"The consumed asses!" he said. "You see what he means? They have gone
after the herring Clavering drew across the trail."
The bronze grew darker in Larry's face, and his voice was hoarse.
"Yes--they figure the cattle-men have bought me over. Well, there were
points that would have drawn any man's suspicions--the packet I would not
give up to Chilton--and, as you mention, Miss Torrance's wallet. Still, it
hurts."
Breckenridge saw the veins swell up on his comrade's forehead and the
trembling of his hands. "Don't worry about them. They are beasts, old
man," he said.
Grant said nothing for at least a minute, and then clenched one lean brown
hand. "I felt it would come, and yet it has shaken most of the grit out of
me. I did what I could for them--it was not easy--and they have thrown me
over. That is hard to bear, but there's more. No man can tell, now there
is no one to hold them in, how far they will go."
Breckenridge's answer was to fling a cloth upon the table and lay out the
plates. Grant sat very still; his voice had been curiously even, but his
set face betrayed what he was feeling, and there was something in his eyes
that Breckenridge did not care to see. He also felt that there were
troubles too deep for any blundering attempt at sympathy, but the silence
grew oppressive, and by and by he turned to his companion again.
"We'll presume the fellow who wrote that means well," he said. "What does
his warning point to?"
Grant smiled bitterly. "An attempt upon my homestead or my life, and I
have given them already rather more than either is worth to me," he said.
Breckenridge was perfectly sensible that he was not shining in the rôle of
comforter; but he felt it would be something accomplished if he could keep
his comrade talking. He had discovered that verbal expression is
occasionally almost a necessity to the burdened mind, though Larry was not
greatly addicted to relief of that description.
"Of course, this campaign has cost you a good deal," he said.
"Probably five thousand dollars--all that seemed good in life--and every
friend I had."
"After all, Larry, the thing may be no more than a joke or an attempt at
bluff. Even admitting that it is not, it probably only expresses the views
of a few of the boys."
Grant shook his head. "No. I believe it is quite genuine. I saw how
affairs were going even before I wouldn't give Chilton the packet; most of
the boys were ready to break away then. Well, one could scarcely blame
them for not trusting me, and I felt I was laying down my authority when I
sent the stock train through."
"Not blame them!" said Breckenridge, clenching his fist, his eyes blazing.
"Where in the wide world would the crazy fools get another man like you?
But if you can take it quietly, I ought to, and the question is, what are
you going to do?"
"What I can," said Grant. "Hold the boys clear of trouble where it is
possible. There are still one or two who will stand behind me, and what we
can't do may be done for us. When a man is badly wanted in this country he
usually comes to the front, and I will be glad to drop out when I see
him."
"Larry," Breckenridge said slowly, "I am younger than you are, and I
haven't seen as much, but it would be better for me if I had half your
optimism. Still, that was not quite what I was asking. If the beasts
actually mean to burn your place or attempt your life you are surely not
going to give them the opportunity. Can't we fix up a guard among the few
sensible men or send for the cavalry?"
Grant smiled wearily as he shook his head. "No," he said. "The one thing I
can't do is to lift my hand against the men I brought here in a private
quarrel."
Just then the cook came in with the supper, and, though the pair had eaten
nothing since sunrise and ridden through soft snow most of that day, it
cost Breckenridge an effort to clear the plate set before him. Grant
scarcely touched the food, and it was a relief to both when the meal was
over, and Grant's plate, still half-filled, was taken away. After he had
several times lighted a cigar and let it go out again, Breckenridge
glanced at him deprecatingly.
"I can't keep it up any longer, and I know how it is with you, because I
feel the thing myself," he said. "Now, if you want me here, I'll stay, but
I have a notion the poor attempts at talk I'm making are only worrying
you."
Grant smiled, but Breckenridge saw the answer in his face, and went out
hastily, which was, under the circumstances, the wisest thing he could do.
Then, Grant stretched his arms wearily above his head, and a faint groan
escaped him.
"It had to come--but it hurts," he said.