"Oh, I take 'em from the counter, the factory, the mine,
They are rough-and-ready rascals till I lick 'em into line;
They are coming, coming, coming, from the land of Who-Knows-Where,
Black and white and many-tinted, brown and yellow, dark and fair;
They are coming from the valley, from the prairie, from the hill,
They are coming from the 'May I?' to the country of 'I will!'
And for some the smart of failure, and for some Achievement's
crown,
As I roll 'em out Canadians--all but the yellow and brown."
_The Empire Builders._
Burton looked cautiously through the window. A little fire was burning
on the wet floor, and between him and the fire stood Gardiner, facing
the corner in which Miss Vane sat, pale and troubled. With a gasp he
sank to the earth. What tragedy was this, enacted before his eyes? Why
were these two here, in such a place, at such a time? Could not
revengeful Providence spare him even this? Why had he been led through
that howling night to this spot, to this scene, of all the places on the
great prairie?
His first impulse was to rush in, throttle Gardiner, and escort Miss
Vane home. He stole back to the window with this determination in his
heart, but a second look at the girl made him pause. Whatever the
explanation of her presence here she was evidently not a prisoner. She
was talking with Gardiner, talking in a low voice which he could not
hear for the din of the night. But there was no anger in her eyes,
rather a deep sorrow, and the sympathetic quiver of her lip, which
passed across it even more quickly than the uncertain flicker of the
fire, brought a lump to the boy's throat and banished every thought of
forcible intrusion. After all, Gardiner had been a good friend to him.
Had he withdrawn his bond after the discovery of the money, as most men
would, Burton at this moment would not have been at liberty. And, while
he could not understand their presence here at such a time and in such a
manner, it might be that after all a satisfactory explanation could be
given. Certainly he could not improve the situation by intruding.
They were talking earnestly, in short, tense sentences. Then Miss Vane
spoke at a little greater length, kindly, as he thought, as one may do
who does not wish to wound a friend, and Gardiner took her hand in his
and raised it to his lips.
Burton waited for nothing more. He drew away from the window as quietly
as he had come and started his tramp through mud and water back to town.
He had now one thought only, to get away, to escape, to forget
Plainville and Plainville people for ever. The last thin, silvery, cord,
stronger in its slender weave than any cable of steel, which had bound
him to the place was broken, snapped at the distant end. It still wound
round his heart and would deepen and tighten there forever, but its
other anchorage was gone. The pain was there but the restraint was
removed; Plainville was now less to him than any town of the great new
West. And to that great new country he would take himself, as quickly
and as cunningly as he knew. They would think he had crossed the line,
that would be the natural conclusion; instead, he would beat his way
into one of the new provinces and lose himself in the desolation of a
homestead far from the furthest edge of civilisation.
Burton thought these things out as he tramped the muddy road, guided by
the incessant lightning which still played in the heavens, although the
force of the storm had passed to the eastward. The revival of a purpose
was as a rudder to his life; again he threw back his shoulders and drank
in the night air, purified and vitalized by the hundred million volts of
electricity shot through it in the last few hours. He was tired and wet,
but his mind had been revived from its stupor, and he tasted the strange
delight of the hunted man--the joy of matching his wit against the united
wit of society and the machinery of government. As the fox who eludes
the hounds may well be conceived to glory among his fellows over his
accomplishment, so hunted man glories in his ability to outwit his
pursuers, and in addition can take the heroic attitude of the one
against the million.
As he approached the town he left the main road and swung down toward
the river, where was a water-tank beside the railway bridge. It was the
custom of the west-bound freights to take water at this tank, and he
trusted to a happy chance that such a train might come along before
daylight.
As though to encourage him in his new resolve he had scarcely reached
the tank when he heard the whistle of an approaching train. He walked
back along the track, keeping well into the shadow of the cut-bank. The
engines on that division did not use electric lights, and he had little
fear of being seen by the crew as they swept past.
The train pulled up slowly, the engineer having allowed for a wet rail
and shut off steam well down the line. He slid a little past the tank on
his first stop and was obliged to back up a rail-length; meanwhile
Burton had located a car with a threshing separator and engine on it,
and had little difficulty in getting on board while the tender was
receiving water. Feeling cautiously about the separator, he soon found
an open trap-door with a space inside large enough to accommodate him,
and here he concealed himself. It was dry in there, and the night was
still warm with lightning; he huddled himself up and almost before the
train was in motion had fallen asleep.
When he awoke he was sore in every joint, and at first he stared in
bewilderment at the slats and pulleys about him. But he soon recalled
that he was a fugitive, a hunted man, a man who dared not travel under
the name his mother gave him, and the thought brought less enthusiasm
than he had felt the night before. He was conscious, also, of hunger,
and feeling in his pockets found some broken biscuits and a few crumbs
of cheese. These he ate eagerly and settled back again to wait for the
train to resume its journey.
As time wore on and the train did not start the boy became impatient,
and at last ventured to look out. The car on which he had concealed
himself stood alone, on a side track at a flag station where it had been
set off in the early morning. He was not more than forty miles from
Plainville, and in a country where he might easily be identified. He saw
a farm house about half-a-mile away, and as the sun was approaching the
zenith he doubted not that inside were a pot of boiling potatoes and a
roast of beef, with the best the good wife's garden could produce. He
had only a few cents in his pocket, but a good muscle in his arm, and
was not afraid to work for a meal, but he feared to reveal himself lest
it might later lead to his identification. After thinking it over he
decided to remain in his hiding place until dark, when he would steal to
the farmer's garden and ward off starvation with his vegetables.
He had settled back to put in the time as best he could when another
thought occurred to him. This threshing outfit had evidently been
consigned to some farmer of the district, and was likely to be unloaded
that very day. True, it was a little early in the season for threshing
mills, but the companies were anxious to get as many as possible placed
before the real rush of harvest was upon them, and there was no reason
to suppose that this car would be taken any further until unloaded. And,
if he should be found concealed in the separator, then explanations
_would_ be required.
Having turned this matter over in his mind for a short time he let
himself out by the trap-door as stealthily as possible, although quite
sure that there could be no one within half-a-mile; sprang to the ground
on the side of the car furthest from the farmer's house, and presently
commenced to walk unconcernedly across the prairie to the north-west.
The country was not closely settled, and he soon ventured to follow a
trail leading away from the railroad. The walking was not bad here, as
the district seemed to have been out of the direct path of the storm,
and he soon found himself swinging along the road at a good rate. He
knew that ten or twelve miles to the northward was another line of
railway, and it occurred to him that it would be good policy to walk
across and divert his patronage to the other company. It would at least
make him less easily followed.
The sun was high and the day was warm, and white, blocky clouds floated
in the sky like icebergs in a sea of blue. The gophers played along the
trail, and, far above, a hawk, pinioned on motionless wings, spied the
plain for the more unwary. The memory of the night before, of the
experience of the past thirty-six hours, hid itself behind a mist of
unreality; but there was a vacant soreness, a sensation of pain as from
some deep wound now healing, a pain so keen that it was part pleasure. A
frost-bite and a burn are similar in their nature and their effect, and
there is a point at which joy can scarce be distinguished from pain. A
sense of loss may in itself become an asset; adversity and rejection,
instead of crushing some men down, force them forward and upward. Such a
spirit was Burton's; as he walked along the prairie trail a resolution
took shape in his heart that he yet would show "them"--meaning his little
world--the stuff of which he was made.
His reverie was broken by a blast of a horn which caused him to jump
clear of the roadway. Looking hurriedly around, he saw behind him an
automobile with only the driver on board, and the broad smile on the
latter's face indicated his amusement at the young man's nervousness.
Burton's first thought was that he had been followed; that his bail had
been withdrawn, and he would be taken back and thrown into jail. But
there was no menace in the kindly eye of the automobilist, as he brought
his car to a stop.
"Jump in," he called, "we are going the same way, let us travel
together."
Burton found no excuse for refusal, and obeyed.
In a moment the car was again in motion, but the driver, a man of fifty
or thereabouts, found time to catechize his guest.
"Going far?" he demanded.
"Yes, quite a distance."
"Live hereabouts?"
"No, down the line."
"Perhaps you know me. I am Doctor Millar."
"Why, yes!" exclaimed Burton, looking him in the face for the first
time. "I have often heard my father speak of you."
"Yes?" said the doctor. "And what is your name?"
"Raymond Burton." The words were out before, with a gasp of surprise, he
realised that he had revealed his identity. But it was now too late to
recall them, he must face it through.
"Not a son of John Burton's, of Plainville?" asked the doctor, a new
interest leaping into his eyes.
"The same--the only son."
"Well, well. I knew John Burton when I was a shanty doctor on the
Ottawa, and have known him ever since. In the earlier days here, when
doctor's drives were longer than they are now, and we didn't ride on
rubber either, I have been at his house more than once--but you won't
remember. But--let me see--I hope you won't think me too personal--I am
your father's friend--you had some--some misunderstanding, did you not?
The papers get things so wrong, but----"
There was something in the man's manner, in his frank, open face and
clear, genial eyes that commanded Burton's confidence. He resolved to
make a clean breast of it.
"Yes, I'm in trouble," he admitted. "A package of two thousand dollars
disappeared from my employer's safe, and I was suspected. I was
committed for trial although the evidence against me was very vague. But
detectives were put on my trail, and the money was found in my trunk.
How it got there you know as well as I, Doctor. But it swept my feet
from under me, and now I am beating my way west. I hope to lose my old
life entirely, and make a fresh start where this shadow will not follow
me."
The doctor drove furiously for a full mile. Then he slowed up.
"Its pretty hard to lose one's old life," said he. "You will find
acquaintances wherever you go, just as you found me. But there must be
an explanation to this thing. You must have enemies?"
"No, at least, only one, and he's a farmer living out of town, with no
means of doing me this injury."
"You can never tell. I'd have him shadowed, if I were you. You are sure
there is no one else?"
As though it had risen before him at that moment, Burton saw a black,
keen eye through the crack of a door, but he answered, "No, there is no
one else."
They were now nearing a town on the other line of railway, where Dr.
Millar lived.
"Come right in with me," said the doctor. "We will go right to my house
and have dinner, and then we will diagnose your case further."
Burton gladly agreed, and when dinner was over Dr. Millar took him into
his consultation room.
"The first thing I do with a patient, especially a country patient"--his
eye twinkled--"is give him a bath. We will start at the beginning. Step
into the bathroom here and slip your clothes out to me. They may need
some attention, too."
Burton did as he was bidden, and the refreshing delight of a good bath
went far to restore his confidence in himself.
"I'll take my clothes now, if they're ready for me," he called to the
doctor.
A bundle of clothes was slipped in through the door. Burton opened them
out and saw at a glance that they were not his. The suit, although of no
better quality, was dry and pressed, and there were clean shirt,
underwear and hose. Even a clean collar and tie had not been overlooked.
"These are not my clothes," he called. "You have made a mistake."
"They are what the doctor ordered," came the answer, with a laugh, "and
you put them right on, or stay where you are."
There was nothing for it but to obey, and in a few minutes Burton, well
and dryly clad, was back in the consultation room, expostulating with
the doctor.
"Sit right down here," said the doctor, disregarding his protestations.
"Do you know what is the matter with you?"
"No," said the young man, in surprise.
"You have eczema!"
"Eczema! Nonsense, doctor. I am quite well, physically."
"Now look here, young man, this is my case, and if I say you have eczema
you have eczema, and you have it bad. So bad I'll have to send you to a
town I know in the far West for treatment."
"Doctor! I don't understand you, but even if I had eczema, or any such
trouble, why should I go to the far West for treatment? Are there
specialists there?"
"No, but--well, you see, it's in the new homestead country."
"Doctor!"
"Not a word. There's a train leaving in two hours, and you're going on
it. By the time I dress up that face for eczema your own father wouldn't
know it, and a good sousing with iodoform will keep the passengers from
getting too curious."
"But doctor, I cannot have you do this thing. You are assisting a
fugitive. You may be held responsible. You are running a risk."
"Not much. I have no evidence that there is a warrant out for you. If I
make a mistake in treating you for eczema that is simply a professional
misjudgment. A doctor is permitted to make mistakes--and bury them."
"But it is at least an evasion of the spirit of the law. Of course, I'm
not trying to defend the law, I'm evading it myself, but I don't want
you to be mixed up in it."
"I've been thinking of that, too. I studied your case while you were
making your toilet. I'm a good Canadian, and I obey the law. Society is
founded upon obedience. But if laws conflict, which am I to obey?"
"The higher law, I suppose," said Burton, not just clear to what the
doctor referred.
"Very well. That is just the way I figured it out. The law of man says,
'Hand him over to the police.' The law of God says, 'Do unto others as
ye would--.' When the law of man conflicts with the law of God, the law
of man is _ultra vires_. We must obey the higher law, and if men
generally would do so fewer jails would be needed. So you see how you
happen to have eczema."
"I can't thank you enough," said Burton, the moisture gathering in his
eyes. "I will repay--when I can."
"That's all right," the good doctor assured him, but he turned his face
away a little. "I helped you into the world, and I guess it's my
privilege to help you through it."