"Ever the sun sets in the west;
Yellow and gold;
Ever a face to a window prest;
Can it behold,
Large in the lens of the dying light,
Wandering boy, in joy or plight,
Trudging sturdily into the night,
Fearless and bold?"
_The Empire Builders._
Dominion Day was the big day of the year at Plainville. Then the
baseball teams from all the towns around gathered in the Agricultural
Grounds for the final contest of the season, as the approach of haying
time would soon give the young men other outlets for their energy.
Baseball was the great game of the district, but in order to afford some
variety of attraction there would also be a football match between the
English and Canadian born--an event usually marked with much friendly
enthusiasm. The Englishmen had been schooled in the rudiments of the
game on the playgrounds of the motherland, but years behind the plough
or in the harvest field had left the flesh strangely unequal to the
spirit. The Canadians, on the other hand, knew less of the game but
trusted more to the pioneer qualities of force and endurance, although
George Grant said his chief difficulty was in dodging the h's dropped by
his opponents. Then there were pony races, usually won by some
unheralded farm plug, to the disgust of the "sports"; a tug-of-war,
married men against single, in which the benedicts, thanks to
avoirdupois, were invariably victorious, while the Plainville brass band
discoursed uncertain music to the appreciative throng.
But it is not with the celebration of Dominion Day that you and I are
concerned, much as we should enjoy an afternoon with the husky young
athletes of the prairie. Other events, essential to the progress of our
story, were under way, and demand our attention.
By common consent the Plainville stores remained open on Dominion Day
until eleven in the forenoon, when they closed to enable the proprietors
and their staffs to enjoy the day's celebration. It had been a busy
forenoon, and Burton was hurriedly sweeping up behind the grocery
counter after the blinds had been drawn, when Graves approached and
leaned over the counter, watching him. Burton was conscious of the eyes
upon him, and at length looked up. It was evident his fellow employee
had something on his mind.
"I want to say that I have a rather disagreeable piece of information
for you, Burton," said Graves, after a moment's hesitation. "Did you
ever wonder why I came out here and took this job with Gardiner?"
"No, I can't say that I did," the other replied. "I supposed you were
looking for employment and this was the first thing to turn up. But
there has been nothing disagreeable to me about it."
"Unfortunately there will be, shortly, and I assure you the whole thing,
as it is turning out, is little to my liking. Burton, you're not
suspicious enough for a criminal career. Do I look like a store clerk?"
There was a touch of sarcasm in the last two words which did not escape
his hearer, but the reference to a criminal career had cut much deeper.
"What do you mean?" he demanded. "What right have you to speak to me in
this way?"
"Now don't get angry," said Graves. "You lost your temper here once
before, and while I don't say I blame you, the rough-house with Elton
didn't improve your case any. Fact is, if you can't see it for yourself,
that I'm not here to sell goods, but to _watch you_!"
"Watch me?" exclaimed Burton, straightening up and taking in the other
man at a glance as though measuring him physically. "Then you're a----"
"A detective. Yes."
"Well, what have you found? Can you add anything to a bunch of keys and
a suspicion?"
"I haven't found much yet, but I expect to shortly. That's why I wanted
to speak to you now. I have a warrant to search your room and personal
belongings, and I propose to do so to-day. It's altogether
unprofessional in me to tip you off, but, hang it, I like you, Burton,
and if there's any changes you want to make down there slip away and get
them done, and I won't be down for half-an-hour."
"Changes? What changes should I want to make? Your words are an insult,
Graves, and if it were not for your evident sincerity I'd start making
the changes right here and now. No, I want no changes! Bring all the
world along, and let them see me searched in public."
"You carry it with a high hand, my young friend," said Graves. "However,
I can do no more than warn you. Shall we go now? There should be at
least one other present."
"Mr. Gardiner has just gone down to Goode's with some butter. We will
detain him as a witness, if you think it necessary," was Burton's reply;
"come, I am ready."
The two young men walked down the street, thronged with buggies, wagons
and automobiles, until they reached Mrs. Goode's boarding-house. At the
door they met Gardiner.
"Mr. Gardiner, will you do me a favour? I find that I have been working
alongside of a detective, instead of a store clerk, as I imagined. He
has a warrant to search my room. Will you come along, as a witness?"
"Why, yes, if you ask me to. This is a surprise for me. Graves, you need
not report for work to-morrow morning."
The three went up to room sixteen. As they were about to enter Polly
Lester came out. "I was just finishing tidying up," she explained to Mr.
Gardiner. Since the night at the river Burton had not spoken to her nor
recognised her existence.
The detective began with Burton's clothes. He searched all the pockets
and felt the fabric generally to ascertain if anything might be quilted
into it. Then he examined the bed, feeling the pillows and mattress very
carefully. Then the washstand and bureau received attention, but without
revealing anything of moment.
"There is only the trunk left," said Graves. "Will you let me have the
key?"
"Go ahead; it isn't locked," Burton returned. "I wish you joy of all you
find."
Each article in the trunk was lifted out and set on the bed, carefully.
Graves was at least a thorough workman. At last there were only a few
items in the bottom of the trunk, and Gardiner was about congratulating
Burton, when the detective cried, "Hello, what have we here?"
Both spectators rushed to his side. At the very bottom of the trunk lay
a large envelope, on which two large wax seals were visible.
"That looks like it," said Gardiner, in a tense voice. "Dig it out."
The package was produced and held before Burton. The young man was too
astonished for speech.
"Well, what have you to say about it?" said Graves, at last.
"It is the stolen package," said Burton, with a dry sob. "But how it got
there God only knows." He put his hand to his head; he looked around as
one dazed, bewildered; his eye fell on the crack of the door, and
through that crack he caught the gleam of another eye, blue-black as a
hail-cloud on a summer night. He gasped, and would have rushed for the
door, but Graves detained him.
"There's no hurry, Burton," he explained. "Perhaps you will see your way
to make a clear breast of this business. If Mr. Gardiner gets his money
back I think he might be big-hearted enough to withdraw the charge,
although you have no right to expect such treatment from him, after
betraying his trust in this way, and then trying to brazen it out as you
have done. Of course, it's a criminal charge, and out of Gardiner's
hands, but there's more ways of killing a dog than choking it with
butter. I have something to do with the Department, and I promise you
that if you come out and clean this thing up and express your regret
there'll be no true bill found against you. The money is all there,
isn't it?"
"I don't know. I didn't know any of it was there. I----"
Gardiner picked up the package and turned it over in his hands; suddenly
it almost dropped from his fingers. "This package has been opened," he
said to Graves.
The detective took it and withdrew the bills. They were bright, new ten
dollar bank notes. He counted them.
"Well, I congratulate you, Gardiner. The package has been opened, but
only one bill is gone. And the serial letter and number compare with the
memo, furnished us by the bank. You have your money back, practically
complete. What am I to do with this man?"
"Let him go. Burton, I'm sorry," said Gardiner.
"No, I won't let him go," said Graves. "He has refused a fair chance of
liberty; now he must take the consequences. I advise you, Gardiner, to
withdraw your bail. One of these days this fine fellow will be across
the line."
"Leave that to me," said Gardiner, shortly.
Within an hour the finding of the stolen money in Burton's trunk was a
general topic in the town; by evening it was common knowledge among all
the crowd assembled for the sports.
Burton went straight to the store and locked himself in. Neither the
streets nor the grounds were any place for him that day. Presently
Gardiner let himself in and discovered the young man in the office.
"Burton," he said, speaking with some difficulty, "this is a bad mess.
There was every reason to expect your acquittal until this turned up.
Now--well, now you're in for it."
The young man sat with his face between his hands, and made no reply.
At length Gardiner continued. "I hate to think you guilty, Burton, I
really do, for your own sake, and for your father's, and for
your--friends! But what else can I think? And if I, who have stood by
you, protesting you innocent, all along, must admit your guilt, what
will the people in the town and country, who are only too glad to
believe evil, think of you? You will be a marked man, and an avoided
man. I don't like to say it, but it is quite impossible for me to keep
you any longer in my employ. The fact is, Burton, you're up against it.
I don't want to see you go to jail, but if you come to trial that's
what's going to happen. If you take my advice you'll get out while the
coast is clear."
"But you are my bondsman! You will have to forfeit the bail!"
"I know. But I am willing to do that, to see you safe at liberty. I may
lose the bail, but I have the money back, so I'm really nothing more
out. You can get across the line to-night, and work west or south or
east. The world is big, and if you straighten up you will soon find
chances of useful life. If you go to jail your life is ruined, but if
you take my advice you may still be a credit to yourself."
"They'll follow me," the young man moaned. "They'll get me anywhere."
"No, they won't. If you were a murderer, or a criminal of that sort,
public opinion would keep them after you, but a case of this kind is
really a private matter after all, and will soon be forgotten. Have you
money?"
"A little."
Gardiner took a roll from his pocket. "There is a hundred dollars," he
said. "That should see you out of harm's way."
"I can't take it, Mr. Gardiner; I really can't. You have done too much
for me already."
"Take it as a loan, then.... Well, think it over. I'll leave it here in
the till, and if you're as wise as I take you to be, both you and the
money will be missing to-night. Good-bye, Burton," he said, but without
offering to shake hands. "I have to drive out to Grant's."
There was a significance in the last remark that did not escape Burton.
As he sat in the dimly lighted office in the dark, empty, silent store,
the ruins of his life came crashing down upon him. He tried to think
calmly, to collect his thoughts, but his mind was a chaos of emotions.
Out of the maze of perplexities, complete mysteries and half known
truths more baffling still, a few characters, a few incidents, gradually
distinguished themselves. The night at Grant's, the singer, and his
recital, spoken to an audience but aimed at one soul; the sacramental
day at Crotton's Crossing, again in memory he rehearsed it; he recalled
the great stone, he saw the faces blend in the smiling water, and the
solemn red sun look through the serried bars--! Ah, the bars! Prophetic
vision which he had left unread! Bars, bars between him and the
sunlight! Yes, bars, and cold, wet stone walls. They stared at him now,
they glared at him, wet and shiny, out of the dark corners. They circled
him, they compassed him, they crowded him. Bars, and stones, and water!
They would strip him of the dress of civilization and clothe him in the
garb of infamy. They would feed his body with prison fare, but his soul
they would leave to shrivel and starve. However innocent he might go in,
only a criminal could he come out. There was something worse than being
a fugitive. Better to defy the law and the officers of the law than to
let them thrust him into the criminal mill. Gardiner was right. He would
fly. The world was large, there still was a chance for him, he would
learn to live--and forget.
A mental numbness followed the strain of these thoughts; he did not
sleep, but he lost consciousness of time. When he came to himself it was
quite dark, and he was hungry. He groped his way through the store and
found some cheese and biscuits, which he thrust into his pocket. Then he
remembered the money Gardiner had left, but as he reached to take it
from the drawer his hand paused, irresolute. Surely Gardiner had done
enough for him; Gardiner, who had gone his bond and then urged him to
fly. He turned away, the money untouched.
Burton let himself out by a side door; the outer air was strangely hot
and oppressive. He heard many voices, and a babel of strange, confused
sounds; horses being hurried into shafts, automobiles whirring along the
streets. He made his way to a lane, and a large drop of rain spat on his
face. His eyes were as yet unaccustomed to distant objects, but he
turned to the west and beheld the heavens a-seethe with lightning--not a
vivid glare that blinds the beholder, but a bright silvery flush playing
like the aurora behind a mass of dark-blue cloud. Burton knew the
country well enough to read the menace at a glance; the heavy blue-black
cloud riding ahead of the storm never hunts except for big game. The air
was oppressively still, but shortly it would be torn with the violence
of the tornado; the half-obscured lightning, now playing all the way
from the horizon to the zenith, would break in jagged, white-hot thunder
bolts through the uneven atmosphere, and at its heels would come the
deluge of rain and, perhaps, hail. It was not an uncommon scene; once or
twice a season these terrifying storms were to be expected, and farmer
and merchant alike watched anxiously for the straight, misty, greyish
cloud and listened for the accompanying rumble of the dreaded hail.
But to the fugitive the threatened storm meant nothing. The warfare of
the elements could tear no deeper than the warfare of his own soul; the
fire-edged death from heaven would furnish honourable end to a
discouraging struggle. Avoiding the main roads, he made his way into the
country, but on every trail were rigs driving by at high speed. The
drivers and occupants were much too concerned with the problem of
getting home dry and safe to pay attention to pedestrians on the road,
and he walked on mechanically, confident that none recognised him and
that none cared.
The early darkness closed down quickly; the great cloud in advance of
the storm, rolling in the heavens like a mighty fish, had swept far to
the eastward; the lightning now played in dazzling flashes from cloud to
cloud and from cloud to earth, its zig-zag course marking the rarer
atmospheres, and accompanied by a growing, growling chorus of thunder as
the menagerie of the skies roared and crackled on the crest of the
storm. The blinding light left the eyes useless in the dark, and it was
with difficulty Burton followed the trail.
Presently the rain came on. Swept by a mighty wind that overturned more
than one top buggy that night, a few great, scattered drops dashed
against the ground, then the wind subsided and was followed by a sudden
stillness so intense it could be felt. But it was for an instant; a
great rift of lightning shook the clouds asunder and their pent-up load
of moisture poured out upon the earth. In a moment Burton was drenched
to the skin; the prairie roads were running in water; and as he
floundered on a cold wind struck him that brought a shiver, not for
himself, but for the farmers whose fortunes were all on the growing
fields. Then the thought came to him that if he should be caught
unprotected in the hail he would be killed. He had faced the lightning
without fear, but the prospect of being gradually pummelled to death was
not inviting, and he began to look about for some place of shelter. It
was not until now that he realised he had paid no attention to the
course he took, and although most of the country was familiar to him in
daylight he had no idea where he was. To his great relief a warm breeze
sprung up, which indicated that the hail strip was narrow and had
probably chosen another course, and he struggled on through mud and
water hoping that every flash of lightning would reveal some place of
shelter. But the country seemed strangely desolate, and the night must
have been half spent before he caught an instant's glance of a building.
He pressed toward it, and another flash revealed a deserted log hut
which he now recalled as being only a few miles from town and but a
short way from the main road that led to Grant's. The windows were gone
and the door was off its hinges, but it would at least be better than
outside, and he hurried toward it. As he did so through the darkness he
fancied he saw a gleam of light in the deserted building. It was not
lightning, and yet he could have sworn it was no trick of the
imagination or the nerves. As he drew nearer he saw it again--a dull
flicker lighting up the square framed by the empty window. Stealthily he
approached the building.