The Blackguard was a terror to evil-minded horses, heavy enough when
he chose to almost break their backs, strong enough to inflict most
merciless punishment, alert to outwit all manner of devilry, because
he had the gift of seeing things from the horse point of view. When
they submitted, he could be gentle enough, but that they had to find
out by surrendering first to his mastery. He had a wonderful way of
disarming the fears and winning the confidence of frightened colts,
so that, while the dangerous animals feared him, the gentler beasts
found him the best of friends. There is no doubt that from the very
start he was the best "buck hero" ever known in Kootenay. Too heavy
for a cowboy, he was an excellent teamster, a fairly good hand with
an axe, so that General Buster's only misgiving was the fear of
losing him.
But he was not happy--a big tree hauled out by the roots cannot be
expected to have a very joyful time just at first. Besides that, a
thirty years' habit of being bad is stronger than a four months'
habit of being good. It seemed now that to be virtuous was to lose
all the fun. He would drift a little, and haul up with a jerk; he
would rebuke with hard fists some champion of the cowboys; then,
thinking that he had done something wrong, look up the Selkirk
foothills as though he hoped for further guidance from the Throne.
From the skin outwards this Blackguard was an epitome of hardened
wickedness, inwardly like a big child. After being thirty years or
so without a soul, he was bewildered with the new possession which
had delicate little sympathies to be exercised, a kindliness toward
men and beasts past all restraint, a weakness for Miss Violet Burrows
far stronger than himself. So far as he could see, with limited
powers of introspection, his internal anatomy consisted of love and
whims. In his bewilderment he wrote to the Padre describing these
symptoms, a letter which was received by the Curate with howls of
laughter.
If the Blackguard's troubles were comic in the valley, Miss Violet's
were tragic upon the mountain. Mr. Burrows had begun to fancy
himself as a disciplinarian, confined Miss Violet to the house, and
explained his views at great length every evening.
"I will have no more of this nonsense. Your business, Mr. Ramsay, is
mining machinery, not the perpetration of matrimony. Matrimony, sir,
is a nuisance--early matrimony an utter absurdity. I have always
disapproved of"--
"I may mention," said the Tenderfoot, bristling, "that with your
consent I am engaged to Miss Violet."
"Booh!" said Miss Violet softly all to herself, looking out upon
these lords of creation from behind the sitting-room door. So far as
Mr. Burrows knew, the wicked girl was locked up for the night in her
own chamber, but then, Mr. Burrows knew very little about anything
human, nor did he perceive the elementary facts about a woman. It
never occurred to Miss Violet that she was other than very sleepy
until he turned the key for her safe keeping. Then she became
wide-awake, tried the door, poked about in the lock with a bent
hairpin, and to her utter astonishment found that she could release
the bolt. So, dressed like an angel in fluttering white, with bare
pink feet and mane of streaming hair, she crept across the
sitting-room, wondered what the men were plotting in the verandah,
and took her station in the shadow behind the door. She stood on one
leg timorously, thus leaving only five toes to be preyed upon by
imaginary mice, the other foot being curled up because it was cold.
Then, when the Tenderfoot announced himself to her Uncle as still
engaged to be married, Miss Violet whispered "Booh!"
"Moreover," continued Mr. Ramsay loftily, "my immediate marriage was
included in the terms of our agreement as to the mine."
"How dare you dictate to me?"
"You'll see how I dare. Look here, Burrows, your accounts, as I
showed you to-day, are all botched up."
Mr. Burrows calmed down partially. "Bah! a trifling oversight like
that is not of the slightest consequence. Besides, I would have you
realise that I am no mere accountant."
"So I'm writing to the firm at home. They'll turn loose a mere
actuary over there."
Mr. Burrows gasped. "To the best of my knowledge and belief"--
"You submit a false balance-sheet backed by an affidavit,--which is
perjury in London, Burrows, perjury."
"Bosh! Of course, I must look over the figures before they are
actually sent off."
"No, you don't," muttered Mr. Ramsay, who was not half such a fool as
he looked.
"What do you say?"
"Oh, nothing. Have you another cigar with you?"
"Here; let me light it for you."
There was a pause for the ceremony.
"Yes," continued Mr. Burrows, "there is, as you say, much room for
discussion on both sides. I cannot disguise from you my own anxiety
as to the fate of my niece should this disreputable character
succeed, as you anticipate, in"--
"A runaway match?" Mr. Ramsay pressed home his advantage. "Of
course, you sneered and sneered, although I've warned you again and
again that his plans are well-nigh completed. This must be
prevented, Mr. Burrows."
"What do you suggest?"
"Well, this experimental mill of yours has got to be wrecked and
abandoned anyway. On that the firm insists, and your excuses for
delay are getting too thin, Burrows,--altogether too thin."
Mr. Burrows groaned.
"This business of yours, Burrows, must be reported as an utter
failure, or we shall find the new ground held at fancy prices. We
could have the mill burned to-night by accident, the wedding
to-morrow at the Mission; then, you see, Miss Violet would be safe
from the Blackguard."
Miss Violet had heard enough, in all conscience, yet for a moment she
could not move. Her curled-up foot went boldly down among the
imaginary mice upon the floor, for this was more exciting even than
live rats. She shivered a little, partly in compliment to the autumn
chill, but more with cold fright. Then her growing resentment made
the warm blood race through her veins. She flushed with indignation,
and in another minute, boiling over with rage, would have rushed out
upon her enemies. But no; on second thoughts, she had a man to do
her fighting, a big brave man, whose wickedness would be turned
toward her adversaries, whose love toward herself.
"Blackguard," she whispered into the air,--"dear true Blackguard, you
might be ever so bad, but you're not a coward like this Charlie."
Silently she crept across the room, in breathless terror unlocked the
back door of the cabin and looked out. The chill struck her
instantly. She glanced doubtfully at her bare feet, then, because
she could hardly feel respectable even by starlight no better dressed
than one of the angels, she stole to her bedroom for clothes. There
panic seized her, so, grabbing up a cloak and a pair of slippers, she
fled out into the solitude of the hills. Across the open she ran
from cover to cover, from rock to rock, stopping at times, holding
her breath as she looked back, lest some crackling twig should betray
her. One slipper was lost already in a morass, but she went on, her
poor bare foot bleeding with a cut from some stone. Her long hair
caught among the branches when she had gained the wood, and all the
shadows of the trees were full of awful eyes, of staring spectres, of
nameless beasts who would spring out upon her if she looked. Down
the long hills she fled, stumbling, falling, tearing her cloak,
suffering agonies from thorns and stones, and greater agonies from
things unseen. And so the poor child came sobbing to the Tough Nut
cabin. The good prospectors would take a message for her; they need
not see her, because she would hide, and when she had roused them
with her cries would speak to them out of the very deep shadows.
But when she called and called there was no answer; when at last she
dared come nearer, creeping up with many a start of sudden fright,
she saw a padlock glimmering on the door. The cabin was empty, the
prospectors were away.
"Shorty!" she cried. "Oh, Long Leslie, where are you? Help! Help!"
The silence sank down heavily upon the woods, all the spaces of the
hills lay in a breathless slumber, from the black sky dead Alps
looked down like ghosts, and the stars were so far away.
"What shall I do, dearest? How shall I bring you to me. Oh, my
love, my love!"
She sank down sobbing upon the ground, the ground which was all
covered with gleaming pine chips left by the miners' axes, the chips
which they always used to kindle fires. To kindle fires? She looked
up, wiping the tears away with her long hair. They used these
scented chips to kindle fires, and she would kindle such a blaze that
night that the news of it should go forth all over the valley. Then
the Blackguard would come to see what was the matter.
So she set off along the hillside, racked with miserable cold, with
bitter pain, the tears dried stiff upon her cheeks, and dragged
herself to the mill, the mill which was to be burned in any case.
There should be no doubt as to the mill. She opened the lower door,
the office door--there upon the table were papers. He had been
working there all day--had been very tired--had forgotten this once
to put them into the safe. There was a bunch of matches beside them,
and on the ground outside bushels of chips to make the fire burn up,
and in the corner of the office a five-gallon can of lamp oil. So
she piled up her fuel against the outer wall.
That night there was a blaze upon the mountains, the mill and the
woods were all afire. So news went out along the valley.