Brooke laughed softly, for it seemed to him that a little candor was

advisable. "As a matter of fact, I am not quite sure that I did. My

native wrong-headedness may have had its share in influencing me.

Anyway, that was all done with--several years ago."

"You will not be bitter, Harford," and she cast him a glance of appeal

which might have awakened a trace of tenderness in the man had it sprung

from any depth of feeling. "Can anything of that kind ever be quite done

with?"

Brooke commenced to feel a trifle uneasy. "Well," he said, reflectively,

"I certainly think it ought to be."

To his relief his companion smiled and apparently decided to change the

subject. "You never even sent me a message. It really wasn't kind."

"It appeared considerably more becoming to let myself sink into

oblivion. Besides, I could scarcely be expected to feel certain that you

would care to hear from me."

The woman glanced at him reflectively. "I have often thought about you.

Of course, I was dreadfully sorry when I had to give you up, but I

really couldn't do anything else, and it was all for the best."

"Of course!" said Brooke, with a trace of dryness, and smiled when she

glanced at him sharply. "I naturally mean in your case."

"You are only involving yourself, Harford. You never used to be so

unfeeling."

"I was endorsing your own statement, and it is, at least, considerably

easier to believe that all is for the best when one is prosperous. You

have a wealthy husband, and Helen, who wrote me once, testified that he

indulged you in--she said every caprice."

"Yes," said his companion, thoughtfully, "Shafton is certainly not poor,

and he is almost everything any one could expect him to be. As husbands

go, I think he is eminently satisfactory."

"One would fancy that an indulgent and wealthy husband of distinguished

appearance would go a tolerably long way."

Again the woman appeared to reflect "Prosperity is apt to kill romance,"

she said. "One is never quite content, you know, and I feel now and then

that Shafton scarcely understands me. That is a complaint people appear

to find ludicrous, of course, though I really don't see why they should

do so. Shafton is conventional and precise. You know exactly what he is

going to do, and that it will be right, but one has longings now and

then for something original and intense."

Brooke regarded her with a little dry smile. One, as he had discovered,

cannot have everything, and as she had sold herself for wealth and

station it appeared a trifle unreasonable to repine because she could

not enjoy a romantic passion at the same time. It was, in fact, very

likely that had anything of the kind been thrust upon her she would not

have known what to do with it. It also occurred to him that there were

depths in her husband's nature which she had never sounded, and he

remembered the look of cynical weariness in the man's face. Lucy Coulson

was one who trifled with emotions as a pastime, but Brooke had no wish

to be made the subject of another experiment in simulated tenderness,

even if that was meant, which, under the circumstances, scarcely seemed

likely.

"Well," he said, "no doubt most people long for a good deal more than

they ever get; but your friends must have reached the stamps by now, and

they will be wondering what has become of you."

"I scarcely think they will. The men seem to consider it a waste of time

to talk to anybody who doesn't know all about ranches and mines, and

Shafton has Miss Goldie to attend to. She has attached herself to him

like a limpet, but she is, of course, a Canadian, and I really don't

mind."

Almost involuntarily Brooke contrasted her with a Canadian who had spent

a week in the woods with him. Barbara Heathcote had never appeared out

of place in the wilderness, for she was wholly natural and had moved

amidst those scenes of wild grandeur as though in harmony with them,

with the stillness of that lonely land in her steady eyes. There was no

superficial sentimentality in her, for her thoughts and emotions were

deep as the still blue lakes, and he could not fancy her disturbing

their serenity for the purpose of whiling an idle day away. Then his

face hardened, for it was becoming unpleasantly evident that she could

not much longer even regard him with friendliness and there was nothing

to be gained by letting his fancy run away with him.

"You are not the man I used to talk nonsense with, Harford," said his

companion, who had in the meanwhile been watching him. "This country has

made you quiet and a little grim. Why don't you go back again?"

"I am afraid they have too many men with no ostensible income in

England."

"Still you could make it up with the old man."

Brooke's face was decidedly grim. "I scarcely think I could. Rather more

was said by both of us than could be very well rubbed off one's memory.

Besides, I think you know what kind of man he is?"

Lucy Coulson leaned forward a trifle and there was a trace of genuine

feeling in her voice. "Harford," she said, "he frets about you--and he

is getting very old. Of course, he would never show anybody what he

felt, but I could guess, because he was once not long ago almost rude to

me. That could only have been on your account, you know. It hurts me a

little, though one could scarcely take exception to anything he

said--but you know the quiet precision of his manner. If it wasn't quite

so perfect it would be pedantic now. One feels it's a relic of the days

of the hoops and patches ever so long ago."

"What did he say?" asked Brooke, a trifle impatiently.

"Nothing that had any particular meaning by itself, but for all that he

conveyed an impression, and I think if you were to go back----"

"Empty-handed!" said Brooke. "There are circumstances under which the

desire for reconciliation with a wealthy relative is liable to

misconception. If I had prospered it would have been easier."

Lucy Coulson looked at him thoughtfully. "Perhaps I did use you rather

badly, and it might be possible for me to do you a trifling kindness

now. Shall I talk to the old man when I go home again? I see him often."

Brooke shook his head. "I shall never go back a poor man," he said.

"What are you doing here?"

"Everybody travels nowadays, and Shafton is never happy unless he is

going somewhere. We started for Japan, and decided to see the Rockies

and look at the British Columbian mines. That is, of course, Shafton

did. He has money in some of them, and is interested in the colonies. I

have to sit on platforms and listen while he abuses the Government for

neglecting them. In fact, I don't know when I shall be able to get him

out of the country now. Of course, I never expected to meet you

here--and almost wonder if there is any reason beyond the one you

mentioned that has kept you here so long."

She glanced at him in a curious fashion and made the most of her eyes,

which he had once considered remarkably expressive ones.

"I can't quite think of any other, beyond the fact that I have a few

dollars at stake," he said.

"There is nothing else?"

"No," said Brooke, a trifle too decisively. "What could there be?"

His companion smiled. "Well," she said, "I fancied there might have been

a Canadian. They are not all very good style, but some of them are

almost pretty, and--when one has been a good while away----"

The man flushed a trifle at the faint contempt in her tone. "I scarcely

think there is one of them who would spare a thought for me. I should

not be considered especially eligible even in this country."

"And you have a good memory!"

Brooke felt slightly disconcerted, for it was not the first delicate

suggestion she had made. "I don't know that it is of any benefit to me.

You see, I really haven't anything very pleasant to remember."

Lucy Coulson sighed. "Harford," she said, dropping her voice a trifle,

"you must try not to blame me. If one of us had been richer--I, at

least, can't help remembering."

Brooke looked at her steadily. Exactly where she wished to lead him he

did not know, but she had flung away her power to lead him anywhere long

ago. Perhaps she was influenced by vanity, for there was no genuine

passion or tenderness in her, but Brooke was a well-favored man, and she

had her caprices and drifted easily.

"I really don't think you should," he said. "Your husband mightn't like

it, and it is quite a long while ago, you know."

A little pink flush crept into the woman's cheek and she rose leisurely.

"Perhaps he will be wondering where I am, after all," she said. "You

must come and make friends with him. We may be staying for some time yet

at the C. P. R. Hotel, Vancouver."

Brooke went with her and spent some little time talking to her husband,

who made a favorable impression upon him, while when he took his leave

of them the woman let her hand remain in his a moment longer than there

was any apparent necessity for.

"You must come down and see us--it really isn't very far, and we have so

much to talk about," she said.

Brooke said nothing, but he felt that he had had a warning as he swung

off his big shapeless hat and turned away.

XIV.

BROOKE HAS VISITORS.

The afternoon was hot, and the roar of the river in the depths below

emphasized the drowsy stillness of the hillside and climbing bush, when

Brooke stood on the little jutting crag above the canyon. Two hundred

feet above him rose a wall of fissured rock, but a gully, down which the

white thread of a torrent frothed, split through that grim battlement,

and already a winding strip of somewhat perilous pathway had been cut

out of and pinned against the side of the chasm. Men with hammers and

shovels were busy upon it, and the ringing of the drills broke sharply

through the deep pulsations of the flood, while several more were

clustered round the foot of an iron column, which rose from the verge of

the crag, where the rock fell in one tremendous sweep to the dim green

river.

Close beside it, and overhung by the rock wall, stood Brooke's double

tent, for, absorbed as he had become in the struggle with the natural

difficulties that must be faced and surmounted at every step, he lived

by his work, and when he had risen that morning the sun had not touched

the dim white ramparts beyond the climbing pines. He was just then,

however, not watching his workmen, but looking up the gorge, and a

little thrill of pleasure ran through him when two figures in light

draperies appeared at the head of it. Then he went up at a pace which

Jimmy, who grinned as he watched him, wondered at, and stopped a trifle

breathless beside the two women who awaited him above.

"I was almost afraid you would not come," he said. "You are sure you

would care to go down now you have done so?"

Mrs. Devine gazed down into the tremendous depths with something that

suggested a shiver, but Barbara laughed. "Of course," she said. "Those

men go up and down with big loads every day, don't they?"

"They have to, and that naturally makes a difference," said Brooke, with

a little smile.

"Then we can go down because we wish to, which is, in the case of most

people, even a better reason."

Mrs. Devine appeared a trifle uncertain, and her face expressed rather

resignation than any special desire to make the descent, but she

permitted Brooke to assist her down the zig-zag trail, while Barbara

followed with light, fearless tread. Once they entered the gully, they

could not, however, see the canyon, which, in the elder lady's case, at

least, made the climb considerably easier, and they reached the tent

without misadventure. The door was triced up to form an outer shelter,

and Barbara was a trifle astonished when Brooke signed them to enter.

She had seen how he lived at the ranch, and the squalid discomfort of

the log room had not been without its significance to her, but there was

a difference now. Nothing stood out of place in that partition of the

big double tent, and from the spruce twigs which lay a soft, springy

carpet, on the floor, to the little nickelled clock above her head, all

she saw betokened taste and order. Even the neat folding chairs and

table shone spotlessly, and there was no chip or flaw upon the crockery

laid out upon the latter. There had, it seemed, been a change, of which

all this was but the outward sign, in the man who stood smiling beside

her.

"Tea at four o'clock is another English custom you may have become

addicted to, and you have had a climb," he said. "Still, I'm afraid I

can't guarantee it. Jimmy does the cooking."

Jimmy, as it happened, came in with a teapot in his hand just then.

"Well," he said, "I guess I'm considerably smarter at it than my boss.

You needn't be bashful, either. I've a kettle that holds most of a

gallon outside there on the fire, and here's two big tins of fixings we

sent for to Vancouver."

Mrs. Devine smiled, but Brooke's face was a trifle grim, as he glanced

at his retainer, and Barbara did not look at either of them just then.

It was, of course, after all, only a little thing, but she was,

nevertheless, gratified that he could think of these trifles in the

midst of his activities. She, however, took the white metal teapot,

which was burnished brilliantly, from Jimmy, who, in spite of Brooke's

warning glances, still hung about the tent, contemplating her with

evident approbation as she passed the cups.

"I guess she does it considerably smarter than Tom Gordon's Bella would

have done," he said, with a wicked grin. "Bella had no use for teapots

either. She'd have given it you out of the kettle."

The glance Brooke rewarded him with was almost venomous, for he had seen

the swift inquiry which had flashed into them fade as suddenly out of

Barbara's eyes. She could not well admit the least desire to know who

Tom Gordon's Bella was, though she would not have been unwilling to be

enlightened. Jimmy, however, beamed upon Mrs. Devine, who had taken up

her cup.

"I hope you like it. No smoke on that," he said. "When you use the green

tea a smack of the resin goes well as flavoring, especially if it's

brewed in a coal-oil tin. Now, there's tea they make right where they

sell it in Vancouver, but what you've got is different I guess it's

grown in China, or it ought to be, for the boss he sent me down, and

says he----"

"Isn't it about time you made a start at getting that boulder out?" said

Brooke, drily.

Jimmy retired unwillingly, and Brooke glanced deprecatingly at his

guests. "We have been comrades for several years," he said.

"Of course!" said Mrs. Devine, with a little smile. "Still, I really

don't think you need be so anxious to hide the fact that you have taken

some pains to provide these little dainties for us. It would have been

apparent in any case. We know how men live in the bush."

Brooke made no disclaimer, though a faint trace of color deepened the

bronze in his face, for he remembered the six thousand dollars, and

winced under her graciousness. Then they discussed other matters, until

at last Barbara laid aside her cup.

"We came to see the canyon, and how you mean to put the rope across," she

said.

She glanced at her sister, but Mrs. Devine resolutely shook her head. "I

have seen quite as much of the canyon as I have any wish to do," she

said. "Besides, it was not exactly an easy matter getting down here, and

I expect it will be considerably worse getting up. You can go with Mr.

Brooke, my dear."

They left her in the tent, and five minutes later Brooke led the girl to

a seat on a dizzy ledge, from which the rock fell away in one awful

smooth wall.

"Now," he said quietly, "you can look about you."

Barbara, who had been too occupied in picking her way to notice very

much as yet, drew in her breath as she gazed down into the tremendous

chasm. The sunshine lay warm upon the pine-clad slopes above, but no ray

of brightness streamed down into that depth of shadow, and its eerie

dimness was thickened by the mist which drifted filmily above the

river's turmoil. Out of it a deep vibratory roar came up, diminished by

the distance, in long pulsations that died far up among the pines in

sinking waves of sound.

"Oh," she said, with a little gasp, "it's tremendous!"

"A trifle overwhelming!" said Brooke, reflectively, "and yet it gets

hold of one. There is a difference between it and the English valley you

once mentioned."

Barbara turned to him, with a little gleam in her eyes.

"Of course!" she said. "One is glad there is, since it is typical of

both countries. You couldn't tame this river and set it gliding smoothly

between mossy stepping-stones."

"No," said Brooke, "I scarcely think one would wish to if he could. One

feels it wouldn't be fitting."

"And yet we shall put the power that's in it into harness by and by."

"Without taming it?"

Barbara nodded. "Yes," she said. "If you had ever stood in a Canadian

power house, as I have done once or twice, you would understand. You

can hear the big dynamos humming in one low, deep note while the little

blue sparks flicker about the shafts. They stand for controlled energy;

but the whole place rocks with the whirring of the turbines and the

thunder of the water plunging down the shoots. The river that drives

them does it exulting in its strength. You couldn't fancy it lapping

among the lily leaves in sunlit pools. It hasn't time."

"To have no time for artistic effect is typical of this country, then?"

said Brooke.

Barbara smiled. "Yes," she said, "I really think it is. We shall come to

that later, but this, you see, isn't art, but something greater. It's

nature untrammelled, and primeval force."

"Then you, who personify reposefulness, admire force?"

Barbara held her hand up. "When it accomplishes anything I do; but

listen," she said. "That sound isn't the discord of purposeless haste.

There's a rhythm in it. It's ordered and stately harmony."

Brooke sat still, watching the little gleam in her brown eyes, until she

turned again to him.

"You are going to put that rope across?" she said.

"I am, at least, going to try. There will, however, be difficulties."

Barbara smiled a little. "There generally are. Still, I think you will

get over them." She looked down again at the tremendous gap, and then

met his eyes in a fashion that sent a thrill through him. "It would be

worth while."

"I almost think it would. Still, it is largely a question of dollars,

and I have spent a good many with no great result already."

"My brother-in-law will not see you beaten. He would throw in as much as

the mine was worth before he yielded a point to the timber-righters."

Brooke noticed the little hardness in her voice, and the sparkle in her

eyes. "If he did, you would evidently sympathize with him?"

"Of course, though it wasn't exactly in that sense I meant it would be

worth while. One would naturally sympathize with anybody who was made

the subject of that kind of extortion. If there is anything detestable,

it is a conspiracy."

"Still," said Brooke, reflectively, "it is in one sense a perfectly

legitimate transaction."

"Would you consider yourself warranted in scheming to extort money from

any one?"

Brooke did not look at her. "It would, of course, depend--upon, for

example, any right I might consider I had to the money. We will suppose

that somebody had robbed me----"

"Then one who has been robbed may steal?"

Brooke made a little deprecatory gesture while the blood crept to his

face. "I'm afraid I have never given any questions of this kind much

consideration. We were discussing the country."

Barbara laughed. "Of course. I ought to have remembered. You are so

horribly afraid of betraying your sentiments in England that you would

almost prefer folks to believe you hadn't any. I am, however, going to

venture on dangerous ground again. I think the country is having an

effect on you. You have changed considerably since I met you at the

ranch."

"It is possible," and Brooke met her gaze with a little smile in his

eyes. "Still, I am not quite sure it was altogether the fault of the

country."

Barbara looked down at the canyon. "Isn't that a little ambiguous?"

"Well," said Brooke, reflectively, "it is, at least, rather a stretching

of the simile, but I saw you first clothed in white samite, mystic,

wonderful, in the midst of a frothing river--and I am not quite sure

that you were right when you said it was not a sword you brought me."

Barbara flashed a swift, keen glance at him, though she smiled. "Then

beware in what quarrel you draw it--if I did. One would expect such a

gift to be used with honor. It could, however, be legitimately employed

against timber-righters, claim-jumpers, and all schemers and

extortioners of that kind."

She stopped a moment, and looked at him, steadily now. "Do you know that

I am glad you left the ranch?"

"Why?"

"What you are doing now is worth while. You would consider that

priggishness in England, but it's the truth."

"You mean helping your brother-in-law to get ahead of the

timber-righters?"

"No," said Barbara. "That is not what I mean, though if it is any

consolation to you, it meets with my approbation, too."

"Then what I was doing before was not worth while?"

"That," said Barbara, with a trace of dryness, "is a question you can

answer best, though I saw no especial evidence of activity of any kind.

The question is--Can you do nothing better still? This province needs

big bridges and daringly-built roads."

"I'm afraid not," and Brooke smiled a trifle wryly. "It costs a good

many dollars to build a big bridge, and it is apparently very difficult

for any man to acquire them so long as he works with his own hands."

"Still, isn't it worth the effort--not exactly for the dollars?"

Brooke looked at her gravely, with a slight hardening of his lips.

"I think it would be in my case," he said. "The difficulty is that I

should run a heavy risk if the effort was ever made. Now, however, I

had, perhaps, better show you how far we have got with the tramway."

There was, as it happened, not very much to show, and before half an

hour had passed Barbara and Mrs. Devine climbed the steep ascent, while

Brooke returned to redeem the hour spent with them by strenuous toil. It

was also late that night before he flung aside the sheet of crude

drawings and calculations he was making, and leaned back wearily in his

chair. His limbs were aching, and so were his eyes, and he sat still

awhile with them half-closed in a state of dreamy languor. He had

dropped a tin shade over the lamp, and the tent was shadowy outside the

narrow strip of radiance. There was no sound from the workmen's bark and

canvas shanty, and the pulsating roar of the canyon broke sharply through

an impressive stillness, until at last there was a faint rattle of

gravel outside that suggested the approach of a cautious foot, and

Brooke straightened himself suddenly as a man came into the tent. His

face was invisible until he sat down within the range of light, and then

Brooke started a little.

"Saxton!" he said.

Saxton laughed, and flung down his big hat. "Precisely!" he said. "There

are camps in the province I wouldn't have cared to come into like this.

It wouldn't be healthy for me, but in this case it seemed advisable to

get here without anybody seeing me. Left my horse two hours ago at

Tomlinson's ranch."

"It was something special brought you so far on foot?"

"Yes," said Saxton, "I guess it was. I came along to see what in the

name of thunder you were doing here so long."

"I was building Devine a dam, and I am now stretching a rope across the

canyon to bring his mine props over."

Saxton straightened himself, and stared at him, with blank astonishment

in his face.

"I want to understand," he said. "You are putting him a rope across to

bring props over with?"

"Yes," said Brooke. "Is there anything very extraordinary in that?"

Saxton laughed harshly. "Under the circumstances, I guess there is. Do

you know who's stopping him cutting all the props he wants right behind

the mine?"

"No," said Brooke, drily. "Devine doesn't either, which I fancy is

probably as well for the man. The one who holds the rights is, I

understand, only the dummy."

"Then I'll tell you right now. It's me."

Brooke started visibly, and then laid a firm restraint upon himself. "I

warned you against leaving me in the dark."

Saxton slammed his hand down on the table. "Well," he said, "who would

have figured on your taking up that contract? What in the name of

thunder do you want to build his slingway for?"

Brooke sat thoughtfully silent for a moment or two. "To tell the truth,

I'm not quite sure I know. The thing, you see, got hold of me."

"You don't know!" and Saxton laughed again, unpleasantly. "It's no great

wonder they were glad to send you out here from the Old Country. The

last thing I counted on was that my partner would spoil my game. You'll

have to stop it right away."

Brooke closed his eyes a trifle, and looked at him. "No," he said. "That

is precisely what can't be done."

There was no anger in his voice, and he made no particular display of

resolution, but Saxton seemed to realize that this decision was

definite. He sat fuming for a space, and then made a little emphatic

gesture, which expressed complete bewilderment as well as desperation.

Still, even then, he was quick enough of wit to make no futile protest,

for there are occasions when the quiet inertia of the insular

Englishman, who has made up his mind, is more than a match for the

nervous impatience of the Westerner.

"Well," he said again, as though it was the only thing that occurred to

him, "what did you do it for?"

Brooke smiled quietly. "As I told you not long ago, I really don't

know."

"Then I guess there's nobody could size you up, and put you in the

grade you belong to. You wouldn't take Devine's dollars when he wanted

to hire you, and now you're building flumes and dams for him. I can't

see any difference. There's no sense in it."

"I'm afraid there is really very little myself. It's rather like

splitting hairs, isn't it? Still, there is, at least, what one might

call a distinction. You see, I took over another man's contract, and

what I'm doing now doesn't make it necessary for Devine to favor me with

his confidence."

Saxton shook his head in a fashion that suggested he considered his

comrade's case hopeless. "And it's just his confidence we want!" he

said. "You don't seem able to get hold of the fact that you can't make

very many dollars and keep your high-toned notions at the same time. The

thing's out of the question. Now, I once heard a lecture on the New

England States long ago, and pieces of it stuck to me. There were two or

three of the hard old Puritans made their little pile cutting

Frenchmen's and Spaniards' throats in the Gulf of Mexico, and built

meeting-houses when they came home and settled down. Still, they had

sense enough to see that what was the correct thing among the Quakers

and Baptists of New England was quite out of place on the Caribbean

Sea."

Brooke felt that there was truth in this, but he meant, at least, to

cling to the distinction, even though he disregarded the difference,

and Saxton seemed to realize it.

"Well," he said resignedly, "we may do something with that prop sling

when we jump the claim. How are you getting on about the mine?"

"In point of fact, I'm not getting on at all. Each time I try to saunter

into the workings, I am civilly turned out again. Devine, it seems, will

not even let the few men who work on top in."

Saxton appeared to reflect. "Now, I wonder why," he said. "He's too

smart to do anything without a reason, and he's not afraid of you, or

he'd never have had you round the place. Still, you'll have to get hold

of the facts we want before we can do anything, and I'm not quite sure

what use I'll make of those timber-rights in the meanwhile. They cost me

quite a few dollars, and it may be a while yet before anybody takes them

from me. Building that slingway isn't quite what I expected from Devine

after buying up forests to oblige him."

"Well, I will do what I can, but I wish Devine would give me those

dollars back of his own accord. I'm almost commencing to like the man."

Saxton shook his head. "You can't afford to consider a point of that

kind when it's against your business," he said. "Anyway, if you can give

me a blanket or two, I'll get some sleep now. I have to be on the trail

again by sun-up."

Brooke gave him his own spruce-twig couch, and made him breakfast in

the chilly dawn on a kerosene stove, and then was sensible of a curious

relief as his confederate vanished into the filmy mists which drifted

down the gorge.

XV.

SAXTON GAINS HIS POINT.

Brooke was very wet and physically weary, which in part accounted for

his dejected state of mind, when he led his jaded horse up the last few

rods of climbing trail that crossed the big divide. It had just ceased

raining, and the slippery rock ran water, while a cold wind, which set

him shivering, shook a doleful wailing out of the scattered pines. One

of them had fallen, and, stopping beside it, he looped the bridle round

a broken branch, and sat down to rest and think, for the difficulties of

the way had occupied his attention during a long day's journey, and,

since he expected to meet Saxton in another hour, he had food for

reflection.

It was not a cheerful prospect he looked down upon, and that evening the

desolation of the surroundings reacted upon him. The gleaming snow was

smothered now in banks of dingy mist, and below him there rolled away a

dreary waste of pines, whose ragged spires rose out of the drifting

vapors rent and twisted by the ceaseless winds. It was, in words he had

not infrequently heard applied to it, a hard country he must spend his

years of exile in, and of late nothing had gone well with him.

Since he had last seen Saxton, he had lived in a state of tension,

waiting for the time when circumstances should render the carrying out

of their purpose feasible, and yet clinging to a faint hope that he

might, by some unknown means, still be relieved of the necessity of

persisting in a course that was becoming more odious every day. The dam

was almost completed, but it was with dismay he had counted the cost of

it, and twice the steel rope had torn up stays and columns, and hurled

them into the canyon, while he would, he knew, be fortunate if he secured

a profit of a couple of hundred dollars as the result of several months

of perilous labor. Prosperity, it was very evident, was not to be

achieved in that fashion. He had also seen very little of Barbara

Heathcote for some time, and she had been to him as a mental stimulant,

of which he felt the loss, while now his prospects seemed as dreary as

the dripping waste he stared across with heavy eyes. All this, as it

happened, bore directly upon his errand, for it once more brought home

the fact that a man without dollars could expect very little in that

country, while there was, it seemed, only one way of obtaining them open

to him. It was true that he shrank from availing himself of it, but that

did not, after all, greatly affect the case, and he endeavored to review

the situation dispassionately.

He had decided that he was warranted in recovering the six thousand

dollars by any means available, and it was evidently folly to take into

account the anger and contempt of a girl who could, of course, be

nothing to him. Her station placed that out of the question, since it

would, so far as he could see, be a very long time indeed before he

could secure even the most modest competence, and he felt that there was

a still greater distinction between them morally; but, in spite of this,

he realized that the girl's approbation was the one thing he clung to.

He could scarcely nerve himself to fling it away, and yet it seemed, in

the light of reason, a very indifferent requital for a life of struggle

and poverty. She had, he told himself, merely taken a passing interest

in him, and once she met a man of her own station fortunate enough to

gain her regard, was scarcely likely even to remember him.

Then he rose with a little hardening of his lips, and, flinging himself

wearily into the saddle, strove to shake off his thoughts as the jaded

horse floundered down into the valley. They were both too weary to

attempt to pick their way, and went down, sliding and slipping, with the

gravel rattling away from under them, until they reached the thicker

timber, and smashed recklessly through thickets of giant fern and salmon

berry. Now and then a drooping branch struck Brooke as he passed, but he

scarcely noticed it, and rode on, swaying in his saddle, while great

drops of moisture splashed upon his grim, wet face. It was sunrise when

he had ridden out from the Canopus mine, with his horse's head turned

towards the settlement, and dark was closing down when at last he

dropped, aching all over, from the saddle at the door of Saxton's shanty

at the Elktail mine. The latter, who opened it, smiled at him somewhat

drily, and was by no means effusive in his greeting.

"I wasn't quite sure the message I sent you from Vancouver would fetch

you, though I made it tolerably straight," he said.

"You certainly did," said Brooke. "In fact, I don't know that you could

have made it more unlikely to bring me here. Still, what put the fancy

that I might disregard it into your head?"

Saxton looked at him curiously. "Well," he said, with an air of

reflection, "you seemed to be quite at home in several senses, and

making the most of it there. There are folks who would consider that

girl with the big eyes pretty."

Brooke, who was entering the shanty, swung round sharply. "I think we

can leave Miss Heathcote out. It's a little difficult to understand how

you came to know what I was doing at the Canopus? You were in

Vancouver."

Saxton appeared almost disconcerted for a moment, but he laughed.

"Well," he said, "I figured on what was most likely when I heard Miss

Heathcote was still there."

He saw that he had made another mistake, and wondered whether Brooke,

who had, as it happened, done so, had noticed it, while the fact that

the latter's face was now expressionless roused him to a little display

of vindictiveness.

"I heard something about her in Vancouver, anyway, which it's quite

likely she didn't mention to you. It was that she's mighty good friends

with one of the Pacific Squadron officers. She has a good many dollars

of her own, and they're mostly folks who make a splash in their own

country."

Brooke afterwards decided that this must have been an inspiration, but

just then he felt that Saxton was watching him, and showed no sign of

interest.

"If she did, I don't remember it, though I should consider the thing

quite probable," he said. "Still, as Miss Heathcote's fancies don't

concern us, wouldn't it be more to the purpose if you got me a little to

eat?"

Saxton summoned his cook, and nothing more was said until Brooke had

finished his meal. Then his host looked at him as they sat beside the

crackling stove.

"Isn't it 'bout time you made a move at the Canopus?" he said. "So far

as you have gone, you have only spoiled my hand. You didn't go there to

build Devine flumes and dams."

"In point of fact, I rather think I did. The difficulty, however, is

that I am still unable to get into the mine. I have invented several

excuses, which did not work, already. Nobody except the men who get the

ore is even allowed to look at the workings."

A little gleam crept into Saxton's eyes. "Now, it seems to me that

Devine has struck it rich, or he wouldn't be so concerned particular.

It's quite plain that he doesn't want everybody to know what he's

getting out of the Canopus. It's only a mine that's paying folks think

of jumping."

"Has it struck you that he might wish to sell it, and be taking

precautions for exactly the opposite reason?"

Saxton made a little gesture of approval, though he shook his head. "You

show you have a little sense now and then, but there's nothing in that

view," he said. "Is a man going to lay out dollars on dams and wire-rope

slings when he knows that none of them will be any use to him?"

"I think he might. That is, if he wanted investors, who could be induced

to take it off his hands, to hear of it."

"The point is that he has only to put the Canopus into the market, and

they'd pile down the dollars now."

"Still, it is presumably our business, and not Devine's, you purposed to

talk about."

Saxton nodded. "Then we'll start in," he said. "You can't get into the

mine, and it has struck me that if you could your eyes wouldn't be as

good as a compass and a measuring-chain. Well, that brings us to the

next move. When Devine left Vancouver a week ago, he took up a tin case

he keeps the plans and patents of the Canopus in with him. You needn't

worry about how I'm sure of this, but I am. Those papers will tell us

all we want to know."

"I have no doubt they would. Still, I don't see that we are any nearer

getting over the difficulty. Devine is scarcely likely to show them me."

"You'll have to lay your hands upon the case. It's in the ranch."

Brooke's face flushed, and for a moment his lips set tight, while he

closed one hand as he looked at his confederate. Then he spoke on

impulse, "I'll be hanged if I do!"

Saxton, who had, perhaps, expected the outbreak, regarded him with a

little sardonic smile.

"Now," he said, quietly, "you'll listen to me, and put aside those

notions of yours for a while. I've had about enough of them already.

Devine robbed you--once--and he has taken dollars out of my pocket a

good many times, while I can't see any great difference between glancing

at another man's papers and crawling into his mine. We're not going to

take the Canopus from him anyway--it would be too big a deal--but we

have got to find out enough to put the screw on him. You don't owe him

anything, for you're building those flumes and dams cheaper than he

would get it done by anybody else."

Brooke sat silent a space, with the blood still in his cheeks and one

hand closed. He was sensible of a curious disgust, and yet it was

evident that his confederate was right. There was, after all, no great

difference between the scheme suggested and what he had already been

willing to do, and yet he was sensible that it was not that fact which

chiefly influenced him, for Saxton had done wisely when he hinted at

Barbara Heathcote's supposititious fondness for the naval officer.

Brooke had already endeavored to contemplate the likelihood of something

of this kind happening, with equanimity, and there was nothing

incredible about the story. The men of the Pacific Squadron were

frequently in Victoria, and steamers crossed to Vancouver every day; but

now probability had changed to what appeared to be certainty, he was

sensible almost of dismay. At the same time, the restraint which had

counted most with him was suddenly removed, and he turned to Saxton with

a little decisive gesture. He certainly owed Devine nothing, and his

confederate had, when he needed it badly, shown him what he fancied was,

in part, at least, genuine kindness.

"Well," he said, "I will do what I can."

"Then," said Saxton, drily, "you had better do it soon. Devine goes

across to the Sumas valley, where he's selling land, every now and then,

and I have reason for believing he's expected there not later than next

week. I guess he's not likely to take that case with him. It's quite a

big one. You'll get hold of it, and find out what we want to know, as

soon as he's gone."

"The question is--How am I to manage it? You wouldn't expect me to pick

the lock of his safe, presumably?"

Saxton, who appeared reflective, quite failed to notice the irony of the

inquiry. "Well," he said, "if I figured I could do it, I guess I

wouldn't let that stand in my way. Still, I'm not sure that he has any,

and it's even chances he keeps the case under some books or truck of

that kind in the room he has fixed up as office at the ranch. You see,

the dollars for the men come straight up from Vancouver every pay-day."

Brooke straightened himself in his chair, with a little shake of his

shoulders. "Now," he said, "we'll talk of something else. This isn't

particularly pleasant. I had, of course, realized before I came out that

one might find it necessary to follow an occupation he had no particular

taste for in the Dominion of Canada, which is, it seems, the home of the

adaptable man who can accustom himself to anything, but I really never

expected that I should consider it an admissible thing to steal my

employer's papers. That, however, is not the question. Give me a cigar,

and tell me how you purpose stimulating the progress of this great

province when you get into the Legislature."

Saxton did so at length, and it was perfectly evident that he saw no

incongruity between what he purposed to do when in the Legislature and

the means he adopted of getting there, for he sketched out reforms and

improvements with optimistic ability. Once or twice a sardonic smile

crept into Brooke's eyes, for there was no mistaking the fact that the

man was serious, and then his attention wandered, and he ruminated on

the position. Saxton appeared curiously well informed as to Devine's

movements, but though Brooke could find no answer to the question how he

had obtained the information, it did not, after all, seem to be of any

great importance, and he once more found himself listening to his

comrade languidly. Saxton was then declaiming against official

corruption and incapacity.

"We want to make a clean sweep, and put the best and squarest men into

office. This country has no use for any other kind," he said.

"That," said Brooke, drily, "is no doubt why you are going in. Anyway, I

fancy it is getting late, and I have a long ride before me to-morrow."

Saxton smiled good-humoredly. "Well," he said, "I can go just as

straight as any man when I've made my little pile. Most folks find it a

good deal easier then."

It seemed to Brooke, who had not found adversity especially conducive

to uprightness, that there was, perhaps, a certain truth in his

comrade's notion, but he felt no great inclination to consider the

question, and in another ten minutes was sinking into sleep. He also

started before sunrise next morning, and was walking stiffly up the

climbing trail to the Canopus mine, with the bridle of the jaded horse

in his hand, when he came upon Barbara Heathcote amidst the pines. She

apparently noticed his weariness and the mire upon the horse.

"The trail must have been very bad," she said.

"It certainly was," said Brooke, who, because it did not appear

advisable that any one should suspect he was riding to the Elktail mine,

had taken the trail to the settlement when he set out. "When there has

been heavy rain, it usually is. The trail-choppers should have laid down

logs in the Saverne swamp."

"But what took you that way?" said the girl. "It must have been a

tremendous round."

Brooke realized that he had been indiscreet, for nobody who wished to

reach the settlement was likely to cross that swamp.

"As a matter of fact, it is," he said. "As you see, the horse is almost

played out."

Barbara glanced at him, as he fancied, rather curiously, but she changed

the subject. "I have a friend from Vancouver, who heard you play at the

concert, here, and we had hoped you might be persuaded to bring your

violin across to the ranch to-night. Katty asked Jimmy to tell you that

we expected you. That is, if you were not too tired."

Brooke felt the blood creep into his face. He longed to go, but he had a

sense of fitness, and he felt that, although such scruples were a trifle

out of place in his case, he could not, after the arrangement he had

made with Saxton, betray the girl's confidence by visiting the ranch

again as a respected guest. No excuse but the one she had suggested,

however, presented itself, and it seemed to him advisable to make use of

it with uncompromising candidness. Her friendliness hurt him, and, since

it presumably sprang from a mistaken good opinion, it would be a slight

relief to show her that he was deficient even in courtesy.

"I'm almost afraid I am," he said.

Barbara Heathcote had a good deal of self-restraint, but there was a

trace of astonishment in her face, and, for a moment, a suspicious

sparkle in her eyes.

"Then we will, of course, excuse you," she said. "You will, I hope, not

think it very inconsiderate of me to stop you now."

Brooke said nothing, but tugged at the bridle viciously, and trudged

forward into the gloom of the pines, while Barbara, who would not admit

that she had come there in the hope of meeting him, turned homewards

thoughtfully. As it happened, she also met the freight-packer, who

brought their supplies up on the way.

"Where is Saverne swamp? Behind the range, isn't it?" she said.

"Yes, miss," said the freighter, pointing across the pines. "Back

yonder."

"Then if I wished to ride into the settlement I could scarcely go round

that way?"

The man laughed. "No," he said. "I guess you couldn't. Not unless you

started the night before, and then you'd have to climb right across the

big divide. Nobody heading for the settlement would take that trail."

He went on with his loaded beasts, and Barbara stood still, looking down

upon the forest with a little pink tinge in her cheeks and a curious

expression in her eyes. Remembering the trace of disconcertion he had

shown, she very much wished to know where Brooke had really been.

XVI.

BARBARA'S RESPONSIBILITY.

Darkness had closed down outside, and the lamp was lighted in Devine's

office, which occupied a projection of the wooden ranch. Behind it stood

the kitchen, and a short corridor, which gave access to both, led back

from its inner door to the main building. Another door opened directly

on to the clearing, and a grove of willows, past which the trail led,

crept close up to it, so that any one standing among them could see into

the room. There was, however, little probability of that happening, for

nobody lived in that stretch of forest, except the miners, whose shanty

stood almost a mile away. Devine sat opposite the captain of the mine

across the little table, and he had let his cigar go out, while his face

was a trifle grim.

"The last clean-up was not particularly encouraging, Tom," he said.

Wilkins nodded, and there was a trace of concern in his face, which was

seamed and rugged, for he was one of the old-time prospectors, who,

trusting solely to their practical acquaintance with the rocks, had

played a leading part in the development of the mineral resources of

that province.

"The trouble is that the next one's going to be worse," he said. "The

pay-dirt's getting scarcer as we cut further in, and I have a notion

that the boys are beginning to notice it now and then, though there's

not a man in the crowd who would make his grub prospecting. They're

road-makers, most of them."

Devine glanced at the little leather-bound book he held, in which was

entered the net yield of gold from the ore the stamps crushed down, and

noted the steady decrease.

"It's quite plain to me that the vein is working out," he said. "It

remains to be seen whether we'll strike better rock with the adit on the

different level. I don't notice very many signs of that yet."

Wilkins shook his head. "I guess I haven't seen any for a week, and

we're spending quite a pile of dollars trying to hold the hillside up.

The signs were all on top," he said. "There are ranges where you can

strike it just as sure and easy as falling off a log, but I guess

something long ago shook these mountains up, and mixed up all the rock.

There's only one man figures he knows how it was done, and he won't talk

about it when he's sensible."

"Allonby, of the Dayspring!" said Devine. "Now, the last time we worried

about the thing you told me you considered our chances good enough to

put your savings in. Would you feel like doing it to-day? I want the

information, not the dollars. You know it's generally wisest to be

straight with me."

"No, sir," said Wilkins, drily, "I wouldn't."

Devine sat thoughtfully silent for a minute or two, and the captain, who

lighted his cigar again, wondered what was in his mind. He felt

tolerably certain there was, as usual, a good deal, and that something

would result from it presently.

"You went through the Dayspring?" Devine said, at length.

"I did. So far as I can figure, it's a mine that will make its living,

and nothing worth while more. 'Bout two or three cents on the dollar."

"Allonby thinks more of it."

A little incredulous smile crept into the captain's eyes. "When he has

got most of a bottle of rye whisky into him! Allonby's a skin."

"Well," said Devine, "I'm going over to talk to him, and I needn't keep

you any longer in the meanwhile. You will remember that only you and I

have got to know what the Canopus is really doing."

The captain's smile was very expressive as he went out, but when the

door closed behind him Devine sat still with wrinkled forehead and

thoughtful eyes while half an hour slipped by. He was, however, not

addicted to purposeless reflections, and the results of his cogitations

as a rule became apparent in due time. He cheerfully took risks, or

chances, as he called them, which the average English business man

would have shrunk from, for the leaders of the Pacific Slope's

activities have no time for caution. Life is too short, they tell one,

to make sure of everything, and it is, in point of fact, not

particularly long in case of most of them, for there is a significant

scarcity of old men. Like the rest, he staked his dollars boldly, and

when he lost them, which happened now and then, accepted it as what was

to be expected, and usually recouped himself on another deal.

That was why he had bought the Canopus under somewhat peculiar

circumstances, and extended the workings without concerning himself

greatly as to whether every stipulation of the Crown mining regulations

had been complied with, until the mine proved profitable, when it had

appeared advisable not to court inquiry, which might result in the claim

being jumped by applying for corrected records. It also explained the

fact that although he had no safe at the ranch, he had brought up all

the plans and papers relating to it from his Vancouver office, and kept

them merely covered by certain dusty books. Nobody who might feel an

illegitimate interest in them would, he argued, expect to find them

there.

While he sat there the inner door opened softly, and Barbara, who came

in noiselessly, laid a hand upon his shoulder. Devine had not, as it

happened, heard her, but it was significant that he did not start at

all, and only turned his head a trifle more quickly than usual. Then he

looked up at her quietly.

"Are you never astonished or put out?" she said. "You didn't expect me?"

Devine smiled a little. "Well," he said, "I don't think I often am. The

last time I remember, a cinnamon bear ran me up a tree. What brought

you, anyway?"

"It's getting late," and Barbara sat down. "You have been here two hours

already. Now, of course, you show very little sign of it, but I can't

help a fancy that you have been worrying over something the last day or

two. I suppose one could scarcely expect you to take me into your

confidence."

"The thing's not big enough to worry over, but I have been thinking

some. We have struck no gold in the adit, and now when we're waiting for

the props the Englishman has dropped the rope into the canyon. That

little contract is going to cost him considerable."

Barbara wondered whether he had any particular reason for watching her,

or if she only fancied that his gaze was a trifle more observant than

usual.

"Still, I think he will get a rope across," she said.

"Oh, yes," said Devine, indifferently. "There's grit in him. A curious

kind of man. Wouldn't take a good offer to work for me, and yet he

jumped right at those contracts. He's going to find it hard to make

them pay his grocery bill. I guess he hasn't told you anything?"

"No," said Barbara, a trifle hastily, for once more she felt the keen

eyes scan her face. "Of course not. Why should he?"

Devine smiled. "If you don't know any reason you needn't ask me. You

can't make a Britisher talk, anyway, unless he wants to."

He made a little gesture as though to indicate that the subject was not

worth discussing, and then, taking up a bundle of documents, turned to

her again.

"You see those papers, Bab? They're plans and Crown patents for the

mine. I'm going away to-morrow, and can't take them along, so I'll put

them under that pile of old books yonder. Now, if I was to tell Katty to

make sure the doors were fast she'd get worrying, but you have better

nerves, and I'll ask you to see that nobody gets in here until I come

back again. Nobody's likely to want to, but I'll put a screw in the

window, and give you the key."

Barbara laughed. "I shall not be afraid. Are the papers valuable?"

"No," said Devine, with a trace of dryness. "Not exactly! In fact, I'm

not quite sure they would be worth anything to anybody in a month or

two. Still, the man who got hold of them in the meanwhile might fancy he

could make trouble for me."

"How?" said Barbara. "You said they mightn't be much use to anybody."

Devine smiled a little, but it was evident that he had considerable

confidence in the discretion of his wife's sister.

"I can't explain part of it," he said. "When I took hold of the Canopus,

it didn't seem likely to pay me for my trouble, and I didn't worry about

the patents or how far they covered what I was doing. Now, if you drive

beyond the frontage you've made your claim on, it constitutes another

mine, which isn't covered by your record and belongs to the Crown. It's

open to any jumper who comes along. Besides, unless you do a good many

things exactly as the law lays down, your patent mayn't hold good, and

any one who knows the regulations can re-record the claim."

"That means you or the previous owner neglected one or two formalities,

and an unscrupulous person who found it out from those papers could take

the Canopus, or part of it, away from you?"

Devine smiled grimly. "Yes," he said. "That is, he might try."

"I understand," said Barbara. "Still, there are no strangers here, and I

don't think you have a man who would attempt anything of that kind about

the mine."

"Or at the canyon?"

Barbara was sensible of a curious little thrill of anger, for Brooke

was at the canyon, but she looked at him steadily.

"No," she said. "I am quite sure that is the last thing one would expect

from anybody at the canyon, but if we stay here Katty will be wondering

what has become of me."

Devine rose and followed her out of the room, and in another half-hour

the ranch was in darkness. He rode away early next morning, and the big,

empty living-room seemed lonely to the two women who sat by the window

when night drew in again. The evening was very still and clear, and the

chill of the snow was in the motionless air. No sound but the distant

roar of the river broke the silence, and when the white line of snow

grew dimmer high up in the dusky blue, and the pines across the clearing

faded to a blur of shadow, Mrs. Devine shivered a little.

"I suppose quietness is good for one, if only because it isn't very

nice, but it gets a trifle depressing now and then," she said. "Why

didn't you ask Mr. Brooke to come across?"

"You may have noticed that he never comes when my brother-in-law is not

here, and then he brings drawings or estimates of some kind with him."

Mrs. Devine appeared reflective. "Grant has not been away for almost two

weeks now, and it is quite that time since we have seen Mr. Brooke," she

said. "Didn't we ask him to come when you had Minnie here?"

"You did," said Barbara, with a faint flush, which the shadows hid. "He

asked me to excuse him."

"Because Grant was away?"

"No," said Barbara, drily. "That, at least, was not the reason he gave

me. He said he was--too tired."

Mrs. Devine laughed, for she had noticed the hardness in her sister's

voice.

"It really must have been exasperating. He should have thought of a

better excuse," she said. "You have only to hold up a finger at

Vancouver, and they all flock round, eager to do a good deal more than

you wish them to, while this flume-builder doesn't seem to understand

what is implied by a royal invitation. No doubt you will find a way of

making him realize his contumacy."

"I am almost afraid I shall not have the opportunity."

"And you can't very well attempt to make one, especially as I remember

now that Grant told me he was very hard at work at the canyon. It would

be even worse to be told he was too busy, since that implies that one

has something better to do."

Barbara had a spice of temper, as her sister naturally knew, but she

smiled at this, for she was unwilling to admit, even to herself, and

much less to anybody else, that she felt the slightest irritation at the

fact that Brooke had shown no eagerness to avail himself of the

invitation she had given him. Still, she was, on this score, very far

from feeling pleased with him.

"I dare say he has," she said.

"Then he is, at least, not doing it very successfully. The rope--I

forgot how much Grant said it cost--fell into the canyon."

"I am not very sure there are many men who would have attempted to put a

rope across at all," said Barbara, and did not realize for a moment that

she had, to some extent, betrayed herself. She might, though she did not

admit it, feel displeased with the flume-builder herself, but that was

no reason why she should permit another person to disparage his

capabilities, all of which her sister was probably acquainted with.

"Well," she said, indifferently, "we hope he will be successful. The man

pleases me, but I would very much like to know what Grant thinks about

him."

"Then why don't you ask him?"

Mrs. Devine shook her head. "Grant never tells anybody his opinions

until he's tolerably sure he's right, and I fancy he is a little

undecided about Mr. Brooke as yet," she said. "Still, it's getting

shivery, and this silence is a trifle eerie. I'm going to bed."

She lighted a lamp, but when she went out Barbara made her way to her

room without one. There was nobody else beyond Wilkins' wife in the

ranch, and she had retired some time ago. The rambling wooden building

was not dark, but dusky, with black depths of shadow in the corners of

the rooms, for the dim crepuscular light would, at that season, linger

almost until the dawn. To some natures it would also have been more

suggestive of hidden dangers than impenetrable obscurity, but Barbara

passed up the rickety stairway and down an echoing passage fearlessly,

and then sat down by the open window of her room, looking out into the

night. A half-moon was now slowly lifting itself above the

faintly-gleaming snow, and she could see the pines roll away in sombre

battalions into the drifting mists below. Their sleep-giving fragrance

reached her through the dew-cooled air, but she scarcely noticed it as

she lay with her low basket-chair drawn close up to the window-sill.

It was the flume-builder her thoughts hovered round, and she endeavored

fruitlessly to define the attraction he had for her, or, as she

preferred to consider it, the reason for the interest she felt in him.

She admitted that this existed, and wondered vaguely how much of it was

due to vanity resulting from a recognition of the fact that it was she

who had roused him from a state of too acquiescent lethargy. What she

had seen at the Quatomac ranch had had its significance for her, and she

had realized the hopelessness of the life he was leading there. Even if

she had not done so, he had told her, more or less plainly, that it was

she who had given him new aspirations, and re-awakened his sense of

responsibility. That, perhaps, accounted for a good deal, since she was

endued with the compassionate maternal instinct which, when it finds no

natural outlet, prompts many women to encourage, and on opportunity,

shelter the beaten down and fallen.

It was, however, evident that the flume-builder did not exactly come

under that category. Indeed, of late, his daring and pertinacity had won

her admiration as well as sympathy, and that led her to the question

what his aspirations pointed to. She would not consider it, for the

fashion in which she had once or twice felt his eyes dwell upon her face

was, in that connection, almost unpleasantly suggestive. Then she

wondered why the fact that he had not long ago excused himself from

spending an evening in her company at the ranch should have hurt her, as

she now almost admitted that it did. It was, she decided, not exactly

due to pique or wounded vanity, for, though very human in many respects,

she, at least, considered herself too strong for either. That, however,

brought her no nearer any answer which commended itself to her.

The man was less brilliant than several she had met. She could not even

be sure that there were not grave defects in his character, and he was,

in the meanwhile, a mere flume-builder. Yet he was different from those

other men, though, since the difference was by no means altogether in

his favor, it was almost irritating that her thoughts should dwell upon

him, to the exclusion of the rest. There was presumably a reason for

this, but she made a little impatient movement, and resolutely put aside

the subject as one suggested itself. It was, she decided, altogether

untenable, and, in fact, preposterous.

Still, she felt far from sleepy, and sat still, shivering a little now

and then, while the moon rose higher above the snow, until its faint

light drove back the shadows from the swamp. The clustering pines shook

off their duskiness, and grew into definite tracery; an owl that hooted

eerily flitted by on soundless wing, and she felt the silence become

suddenly almost overwhelming. There was no wind that she could feel, but

she could hear the little willow leaves stirring, it seemed, beneath the

cooling dew, for the sound had scarcely strength enough to make a

tangible impression upon her senses. It, however, appeared to grow a

trifle louder, and she found herself listening with strained attention

when it ceased awhile, until it rose again, a trifle more clearly. She

glanced at the cedars above the clearing, but they stood sombre and

motionless in silent ranks, and she leaned forward in her chair with

heart beating more rapidly than usual as she wondered what made those

leaves move. They were certainly rustling now, while the ranch was very

silent, and the rest of the clearing altogether still.

Then a shadow detached itself from the rest, and its contour did not

suggest that of a slender tree. It increased in length, and, remembering

Devine's papers, she rose with a little gasp. Her sister, as he had

pointed out, had delicate nerves, Mrs. Wilkins was dull of hearing, and,

as the men's shanty stood almost a mile away, it was evident that she

must depend upon her own resources. She stood still, quivering a little,

for almost a minute, and then with difficulty repressed a cry when the

dim figure of a man appeared in the clearing. Two minutes later she

slipped softly into the room where Katty Devine lay asleep, and opened a

cupboard set apart for her husband's use, while, when she flitted across

the stream of radiance that shone in through the window, she held an

object, that gleamed with a metallic lustre, clenched in one hand.

XVII.

BROOKE ATTEMPTS BURGLARY.

The half-moon Barbara watched from her window floated slowly above the

serrated tops of the dusky pines when Brooke groped his way through

their shadow across a strip of the Englishman's swamp. The ranch which

he was making for rose darkly before him with the willows clustering

close up to that side of it, and he stopped and stood listening when he

reached them. The night was very still, so still, indeed, that the deep

silence vaguely troubled him. High above the climbing forests great

ramparts of never-melting snow gleamed against the blue, and standing

there, hot, breathless, and a trifle muddy, he felt their impressive

white serenity, until he started at a faint rattle in the house. It

ceased suddenly, but it had set his heart throbbing unpleasantly fast,

though he was sensible of a little annoyance with himself because this

was the case.

There was nothing he need fear, and he was, indeed, not quite sure that

the prospect of facing a physical peril would have been altogether

unpleasant then. Devine was away, the women were doubtless asleep, and

it was the fact that he was about to creep like a thief into a house

where he had been hospitably welcomed which occasioned his uneasiness.

It was true that he only meant to acquire information which would enable

him to recover the dollars he had been defrauded of, but the reflection

brought him no more consolation than it had done on other occasions when

he had been sensible of the same disgust and humiliation.

He was, however, at the same time sensible of a faint relief, for the

position had been growing almost intolerable of late, and, though he

shrank from the revelation, it seemed preferable that Barbara Heathcote

should see him in the true light at last. This, it was evident, must

happen ultimately, and now it would, at least, dispense with the hateful

necessity of continuing the deception. He had also, though that appeared

of much less importance then, met with further difficulties at the

canyon, and he realized almost with content that Devine would in all

probability pay him nothing for the uncompleted work. He did not wish to

feel that he owed Devine anything.

In the meanwhile a little bent branch from which the bruised leaves

drooped limply caught his eye, for he had trained his powers of

observation following the deer at the ranch, and moving a trifle he

noticed one that was broken. It was evident that somebody had recently

forced his way through the thicket towards the house, and he wondered

vacantly why anyone should have done so when a good trail led round the

copse. The question would probably not have occupied his attention at

any other time, but just then he was glad to seize upon anything that

might serve to distract his thoughts from the purpose he had on hand.

He could not, however, stay there considering it, and following the bend

of the willows he came to the door of the ranch kitchen, behind which

the office stood, and once more he stopped to listen. There was nothing

audible but the distant roar of the canyon, and, though nobody could see

him, he felt his face grow hot as he laid one hand upon the door and

inserted the point of a little steel bar in the crevice. Devine's office

was isolated from the rest of the ranch, but Brooke felt that if anybody

heard the sound he expected to make he would not be especially sorry. He

would not abandon his project, but he could have borne anything that

made it impracticable with equanimity.

The door, however, somewhat to his astonishment, swung open at a touch,

and he crept in noiselessly with an even greater sense of degradation.

The inmates of the ranch were, it seemed, wholly unsuspecting, and he

whom they had treated with gracious kindliness was about to take a

shameful advantage of their confidence. Still, he crossed the kitchen

carrying the little bar and did not stop until he reached the office

door. This stood ajar, but he stood still a moment in place of going in,

longing, most illogically, for any interruption. The ranch seemed

horribly and unnaturally still, for he could not hear the sound of the

river now, until there was a low rustle that set him quivering.

Somebody, it appeared, was moving about the room in front of him. Then a

board creaked sharply, and with every nerve strung up he drew the door a

trifle open.

A faint stream of radiance shone in through the window, but it fell upon

the wall opposite, and the rest of the room was wrapped in shadow, in

which he could just discern a dim figure that moved stealthily. It was

evidently a man who could have come there with no commendable purpose,

and as he recognized this a somewhat curious thing happened, for

Brooke's lips set tight, and he clenched the steel bar in a fit of

venomous anger. It did not occur to him that his own object was, after

all, very much the same as the stranger's, and creeping forward

noiselessly with eyes fixed on the dusky figure he saw it stoop and

apparently move a book that stood on what seemed to be a box. That

movement enabled him to gain another yard, and then he stopped again,

bracing himself for the grapple, while the dim object straightened

itself and turned towards the light.

Brooke could hear nothing but the throbbing of his heart, and for a

moment his eyes grew hazy; but that passed, and he saw the man hold up

an object that was very like a tin case. He moved again nearer the

light, and Brooke sprang forward with the bar swung aloft. Quick as he

was, the stranger was equally alert, and stepped forward instead of

back, while next moment Brooke looked into the dully glinting muzzle of

a pistol.

"Stop right where you are!" a voice said.

Brooke did as he was bidden, instinctively. Had there been any

unevenness in the voice he might have risked a rush, but the grim

quietness of the order was curiously impressive, and for a second or two

the men stood tense and motionless, looking at one another with hands

clenched and lips hard set Brooke recognized the intruder as a man who

wheeled the ore between the mine and stamps, and remembered that he had

not been there very long.

"What do you want here?" he said, for the silence was getting

intolerable.

The man smiled grimly, though he did not move the pistol, and his eyes

were unpleasantly steady.

"I was going to ask you the same thing, but it don't count," he said.

"There's a door yonder, and you have 'bout ten seconds to get out of it.

If you're here any longer you're going to take tolerably steep chances

of getting hurt."

Brooke realized that the warning was probably warranted, but he stood

still, stiffening his grasp on the bar, for to vacate the position was

the last thing he contemplated. Barbara Heathcote was in the ranch, and

he did not remember that she had also two companions then. Nor did he

know exactly what he meant to do, that is, while the stranger eyed him

with the same unpleasant steadiness, for it was evident that a very

slight contraction of his forefinger would effectually prevent him doing

anything. Then while they stood watching each other breathlessly for a

second or two a door handle rattled and Brooke heard a rustle of

draperies.

"Look behind you!" said the stranger, sharply.

Brooke, too strung up to recognize the risk of the proceeding, swung

round almost before he heard him, and then gasped with consternation,

for Barbara stood in the entrance holding up a light. She was, however,

not quite defenseless, as Brooke realized when he saw the gleaming

pistol in her hand. Next moment his folly, and the fact that the

stranger had also seen it, became evident, for there was a hasty patter

of feet, and when Brooke turned again he had almost gained the other

door of the room. Barbara, who had moved forward in the meanwhile,

however, now stood between him and it, and turning half round he raised

the pistol menacingly. Then with hand clenched hard upon the bar Brooke

sprang.

There was a flash and a detonation, the acrid smoke drove into his eyes,

and he fell with a crash against the door, which was flung to in front

of him. He had, as he afterwards discovered, struck it with his head and

shoulder, but just then he was only sensible of an unpleasant dizziness

and a stinging pain in his left arm. Then he leaned somewhat heavily

against the door, and he and the girl looked at each other through the

filmy wisps of smoke that drifted athwart the light, while a rapid

patter of footsteps grew less distinct. Barbara was somewhat white in

face, and her lips were quivering.

"Are you hurt?" she said, and her voice sounded curiously strained.

"No," said Brooke, with a little hollow laugh. "Not seriously, anyway.

The fellow flung the door to in my face, and the blow must have partly

dazed me. That reminds me that I'm wasting time. Where is he now?"

Barbara made a little forceful gesture. "Halfway across the clearing, I

expect. You cannot go after him. Look at your arm."

Brooke turned his head slowly, for the dizziness he was sensible of did

not seem to be abating, and saw a thin, red trickle drip from the sleeve

of his jean jacket, which the moonlight fell upon.

"I scarcely think it's worth troubling about. The arm will bend all

right," he said. "Still, perhaps, you wouldn't mind very much if I took

this thing off."

He seized the edge of the jacket, and then while his face went awry let

his hand drop again.

"It might, perhaps, be better to cut the sleeve," he said. "Could you

run this knife down the seam? The jean is very thin."

The girl's hand shook a little as she opened the knife he passed her,

and just then a cry came down faintly from one of the rooms above.

Barbara swung round swiftly, and moved into the corridor.

"Nothing very dreadful has happened, and I am coming back in a minute or

two, but whatever you do don't come down," she said authoritatively, and

Brooke heard a door swing to above.

Then she came towards him quietly, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Keep still, and I will not be long. Katty is apt to lose her head," she

said.

Her fingers still quivered a little, but she was deft in spite of it,

and when the slit sleeve fell away Brooke sat down on the table with a

little smile.

"Very sorry to trouble you," he said. "I don't know much about these

things, but the artery evidently isn't cut, and I don't think the bone

is touched. That means there can't be very much harm done. Would you

mind tying my handkerchief tightly round it where I've laid my finger?"

Barbara, who did so, afterwards sat down in the nearest chair, for she

felt a trifle breathless as well as somewhat limp, and there was an

embarrassing silence, while for no very apparent reason they now avoided

looking at one another. A little filmy smoke still drifted about the

room, and a short steel bar, a tin case, and a litter of papers lay

between them on the floor. There were red splashes on one or two of the

latter.

"The man must have dropped them," said Barbara, quietly, though her

voice was still not quite her usual one. "He, of course, brought the bar

to open the door with."

Brooke did not answer the last remark.

"I fancy he dropped them when he flung the door in my face," he said.

"Of course!" said Barbara. "He had his hands full."

The point did not seem of the least importance to her, but she was

shaken, and felt that the silence which was growing significant would be

insupportable. Then a thought struck her, and she looked up suddenly at

the man.

"But, now, I remember, you had the bar," she said.

"Yes," said Brooke, very simply, though his face was grim. "I certainly

had."

The girl had turned a little so that the light shone upon her, and he

saw the faint bewilderment in her eyes. It, however, vanished in a

moment or two, but Brooke decided that if he guessed her thoughts

correctly he had done wisely in admitting the possession of the bar.

"Of course! You hadn't a pistol, and it was, no doubt, the only thing

you could find," she said. "I'm afraid I did not even remember to thank

you, but to tell the truth I was too badly frightened to think of

anything."

Brooke nodded comprehendingly, but Barbara noticed that the blood was in

his cheeks and he smiled in a very curious fashion.

"I scarcely think I deserve any thanks," he said.

Barbara made a little gesture. "Pshaw!" she said. "You are not always so

conventional, and both I and Grant Devine owe you a great deal. The man

must have been a claim-jumper, and meant to steal those papers. They

are--the plans and patents of the Canopus."

She stopped a moment, and then, seeing Brooke had noticed the momentary

pause, continued, with a little forced laugh and a flush in her cheeks,

"That was native Canadian caution asserting itself. I am ashamed of it,

but you must remember I was rather badly startled a little while ago.

There is no reason why I should not tell--you--this, or show you the

documents."

Brooke made a little grimace as though she had hurt him physically.

"I think there is," he said.

The girl stared at him a moment, and then he saw only sympathy in her

eyes.

"I'm afraid my wits have left me, or I would not have kept you talking

while you are in pain. Your arm hurts?" she said.

"No," said Brooke, drily. "The arm is, I feel almost sure, very little

the worse. Hadn't you better pick the papers up? You will excuse me

stooping to help you. I scarcely think it would be advisable just now."

Barbara knelt down and gathered the scattered documents up, while the

man noticed the curious flush in her face when one of them left a red

smear on her little white fingers. Rising, she held them up to him half

open as they had fallen, and looked at him steadily.

"Will you put them straight while I find the band they were slipped

through?" she said.

Brooke fancied he understood her. She had a generous spirit, and having

in a moment of confusion, when she was scarcely capable of thinking

concisely, suggested a doubt of him, was making amends in the one

fashion that suggested itself. Then she turned away, and her back was

towards him as she moved slowly towards the door, when a plan of the

Canopus mine fell open in his hand. The light was close beside him, but

he closed his eyes for a moment and there was a rustle as the papers

slipped from his fingers, while when the girl turned towards him his

face was awry, and he looked at her with a little grim smile.

"I am afraid they are scattered again," he said. "It was very clumsy of

me, but I find it hurts me to use my left hand."

Barbara thrust the papers into the case. "I am sorry I didn't think of

that," she said. "Even if you don't appreciate my thanks you will have

to put up with my brother-in-law's, and he is a man who remembers. It

might have cost him a good deal if anybody who could not be trusted had

seen those papers--and now no more of them. Take that canvas chair, and

don't move again until I tell you."

Brooke made no answer, and Barbara went out into the corridor.

"Will you dress as quickly as you can, Katty, and come down," she said.

"I don't know where you keep the decanters, and I want to give Mr.

Brooke, who is hurt a little, a glass of wine."

Brooke protested, but Barbara laughed as she said, "It will really be a

kindness to Katty, who is now, I feel quite sure, lying in a state of

terror, with everything she dare reach out to get hold of rolled about

her head."

It was three or four minutes later when Mrs. Devine appeared, and

Barbara turned towards her, speaking very quietly.

"There is nothing to be gained by getting nervous now," she said. "A man

came in to steal Grant's papers about the mine, and Mr. Brooke, who saw

him, crept in after him, though he had only a little bar, and the man

had a pistol. I fancy Grant is considerably indebted to him, and we

must, at least, keep him here until one of the boys brings up the

settlement doctor."

Brooke rose to his feet, but Barbara moved swiftly to the door and

turned the key in it.

"No," she said, decisively. "You are not going away when you are

scarcely fit to walk. Katty, you haven't brought the wine yet."

Brooke sat down again, and making no answer, looked away from her, for

though he would greatly have preferred it he scarcely felt capable of

reaching his tent. Then there was silence for several minutes until Mrs.

Devine came back with the wine.

"You are going to stay here until your arm is seen to. My husband would

not be pleased if we did not do everything we could for you," she said.

XVIII.

BROOKE MAKES A DECISION.

It was the second morning after the attempt upon the papers, and Brooke

lay in a basket chair on the little verandah at the ranch. In spite of

the settlement doctor's ministrations his arm was a good deal more

painful than he had expected it to be, his head ached; and he felt

unpleasantly lethargic and limp. It, however, seemed to him that this

wound was not sufficiently serious to account for this, and he wondered

vaguely whether it resulted from too strenuous physical exertion coupled

with the increasing mental strain he had borne of late. That question

was, however, of no great importance, for he had a more urgent one to

grapple with, and in the meanwhile it was pleasant to lie there and

listen languidly while Barbara talked to him.

The sunshine lay bright upon the climbing pines which filled the

listless air with resinous odors, but there was restful shadow on the

verandah, and wherever the eye wandered an entrancing vista of gleaming

snow. Brooke had, however, seen a good deal of snow, and floundered

through it waist-deep, already, and it was the girl who sat close at

hand, looking, it seemed to him, refreshingly cool and dainty in her

loose white dress, his gaze most often rested on. Her quiet graciousness

had also a soothing effect upon the man who had risen unrefreshed after

a night of mental conflict which had continued through the few brief

snatches of fevered sleep. Brooke felt the need of moral stimulant as

well as physical rest, for the struggle he had desisted from for the

time was not over yet.

He was tenacious of purpose, but it had cost him an effort to adhere to

the terms of his compact with Saxton, and it was with a thrill of

intense disgust he realized how far it had led him when he came upon the

thief, for there was no ignoring the fact that it would be very

difficult to make any great distinction between them. It had also become

evident that he could not continue to play the part Saxton had allotted

him, and yet if he threw it over he stood to lose everything his

companion, who was at once a reproach to him and an incentive to a

continuance in the career of deception, impersonated. Her society and

his few visits to the ranch had shown him the due value of the

refinement and congenial environment which no man without dollars could

hope to enjoy, and re-awakened an appreciation of the little amenities

and decencies of life which had become scarcely more than a memory to

him. With the six thousand dollars in his hands he might once more

attain them, but it was now evident that the memory of how he had

accomplished it would tend to mar any satisfaction he could expect to

derive from this. He could, in the meanwhile, neither nerve himself to

bear the thought of the girl's scorn when she realized what his purpose

had been, nor bid her farewell and go back to the aimless life of

poverty. One thing alone was certain. Devine's papers were safe from

him.

He lay silent almost too long, watching her with a vague longing in his

gaze, for her head was partly turned from him. He could see her face in

profile, which accentuated its clean chiselling, while her pose

displayed the firm white neck and fine lines of the figure the thin

white dress flowed away from. He had also guessed enough of her

character to realize that it was not to any approach to physical

perfection she owed most of her attractiveness, for it seemed to him

that she brought with her an atmosphere of refinement and tranquillity

which nothing that was sordid or ignoble could breathe in. Perhaps she

felt his eyes upon her, for she turned at last and glanced at him.

"I have been thinking--about that night," she said.

"You really shouldn't," said Brooke, who felt suddenly uneasy. "It isn't

worth while."

Barbara smiled. "That is a point upon which opinions may differ, but I

understand your attitude. You see, I have been in England, and you

apparently believe it the correct thing to hide your light under a

bushel there."

"No," said Brooke, drily, "at least, not all of us. In fact, we are not

averse from graciously permitting other folks, and now and then the

Press, to proclaim our good deeds for us. I don't know that the more

primitive fashion of doing it one's self isn't quite as tasteful."

Barbara shook her head. "There are," she said, "several kinds of

affectation, and I am not to be put off. Now, you are quite aware that

you did my brother-in-law a signal service, and contrived to get me out

of a very unpleasant, and, I fancy, a slightly perilous situation."

The color deepened a little in Brooke's face, and once more he was

sensible of the humiliation that had troubled him on previous occasions,

as he remembered that it was by no means to do Devine a service he had

crept into the ranch. It was a most unpleasant feeling, and he had

signally failed to accustom himself to it.

"I really don't think there was very much risk," he said. "Besides, you

had a pistol."

Barbara laughed softly. "I never fired off a pistol in my life, and I

almost fancy there was nothing in the one in question."

"Didn't you notice whether there were any cartridges in the chamber?"

"No," said Barbara. "I'm not sure I know which the chamber is, but I

pressed something I supposed to be the trigger, and it only made a

click."

Brooke glanced at her a trifle sharply. "You meant to fire at the man?"

"I'm afraid I did. Was it very dreadful? He was there with an unlawful

purpose, and I saw his eyes grow wicked and his hand tighten just as you

sprang at him. Still, I was almost glad when the pistol did not go off."

She seemed to have some difficulty in repressing a shiver at the

recollection, and Brooke sat silent for a moment or two with his heart

throbbing a good deal faster than usual. He could guess what that effort

had cost his companion, and that it was his peril which had nerved her

to overcome her natural shrinking from taking life. Perhaps Barbara

noticed the effect her explanation had on him, and desired to lessen it,

for she said, "It really was unpleasant, but I remembered that you had

come there to ensure the safety of my brother-in-law's property, and one

is permitted to shoot at a thief in this country."

Brooke, who could not help it, made a little abrupt movement, and felt

his face grow hot as he wondered what she would think of him if she knew

the purpose that had brought him there. The fact that she seemed quite

willing to believe that one was warranted in firing at a thief had also

its sting.

"Of course!" he said. "I am, however, inclined to think you saved my

life. The man probably saw your hand go up and that made him a trifle

too precipitate. Still, perhaps, he only wanted to look at your

brother-in-law's papers and had no intention of stealing anything."

Barbara, who appeared glad to change the subject, smiled.

"Admitting that, I can't see any great difference," she said. "The man

who runs a personal risk to secure a wallet with dollar bills in it that

belongs to somebody else naturally does not expect commendation, or

usually get it, but it seems to me a good deal meaner thing to steal a

claim by cunning trickery. For instance, one has a certain admiration

for the train robbers across the frontier. For two or three

road-agents--and there are not often more--to hold up and rob a train

demands, at least, a good deal of courage, but to plunder a man by

prying into his secrets is only contemptible. Don't you think so?"

Brooke winced beneath her gaze.

"Well," he said slowly, "I suppose it is. Still, you see there may be

excuses even for such a person."

"Excuses! Surely--you--do not feel capable of inventing any for a

claim-jumper?"

Brooke felt that in his case there were, at least, one or two, but he

had sufficient reasons for not making them clear to the girl.

"Well," he said, "I wonder if you could make any for a train-robber?"

Barbara appeared reflective. "We will admit that the dishonesty is the

same in both cases, though that is not quite the point. The men who hold

a train up, however, take a serious personal risk, and stake their lives

upon their quickness and nerve. They have nobody to fall back upon, and

must face the results if the courage of any of the passengers is equal

to theirs. Daring of that kind commands a certain respect. The

claim-jumper, on the contrary, must necessarily proceed by stealth, and,

of course, rarely ventures on an attempt until he makes sure that the

law will support him, because the man he means to rob has neglected some

trivial requirement."

"Then it is admissible to steal, so long as you do it openly and take a

personal risk? Still, I believe I have heard of claim-jumpers being

shot, though I am not quite sure that it happened in Canada."

Barbara laughed. "They probably deserved it. It is not admissible to

steal under any circumstances, but the safer and more subtle forms of

theft are especially repellent. Now, I think I have made out my case for

the train-robber, but I cannot see why you should constitute yourself an

advocate for the claim-jumper."

Brooke contrived to force a smile. "It is," he said, "often a little

difficult to make sure of one's motives, but we can, at least, take it

for granted that the man who robs a train is the nobler rascal."

Barbara, who appeared thoughtful, sat silent awhile. "It was fortunate

you arrived when you did that night," she said, meditatively. "Still, as

you could not well have known the man meant to make the attempt, or have

expected to find anybody still awake at the ranch, it seems an almost

astonishing coincidence."

Though he surmised that no notion of what had brought him there had

entered his companion's mind, Brooke felt hot to the forehead now, for

he was unpleasantly sensible that the girl was watching him. An

explanation that might have served also suggested itself to him, but he

felt that he could not add to his offences.

"It certainly was," he said, languidly. "I have, however, heard of

coincidences that were more astonishing still."

Barbara nodded. "No doubt," she said. "We will let it go at that. As you

may have noticed, we are now and then almost indecently candid in this

country, but I agree with my brother-in-law who says that nobody could

make an Englishman talk unless he wanted to."

"Silence is reputed to be golden," said Brooke, reflectively, "and I

really think there are cases when it is. At least, there was one I

figured in when some two or three minutes' unchecked speech cost me more

dollars than I have made ever since. It happened in England, and I

merely favored another man with my frank opinion of him. After a thing

of that kind one is apt to be guarded."

"I think you should cultivate a sense of proportion. Can one make up for

a single mistake in one direction by erring continually in the opposite

one? Still, that is not a question we need go into now. You expect to

get the rope across the canyon very shortly?"

"Yes," said Brooke, whose expression changed suddenly, "I do."

"And then?"

Brooke, who felt the girl's eyes upon him, and understood what she

meant, made a little gesture. "I don't know. I shall probably take the

trail again. It does not matter greatly where it may lead me."

There was a curious little vibration he could not quite repress in his

voice, and both he and his companion were, under the circumstances,

silent a trifle too long, for there are times when silence is very

expressive. Then it was Barbara who spoke, though she felt that what she

said was not especially appropriate.

"You will be sorry to go?"

Brooke looked at her steadily, with his lips set, and, though she did

not see this, his fingers quivering a little, for he realized at last

what it would cost him to leave her. For a moment a hot flood of passion

and longing threatened to sweep him away, but he held it in check, and

Barbara only noticed the grimness of his face.

"What answer could I make? The conventional one demanded scarcely fits

the case," he said, and his laugh rang hollow.

"But the dam will not be finished," said Barbara, who realized that she

had made an unfortunate start.

Again Brooke sat silent. It seemed folly to abandon his purpose, and he

wondered whether he would have sufficient strength of will to go away.

It was also folly to stay and sink further under the girl's influence,

when the revelation he shrank from would, if he persisted in his attempt

to recover his dollars, become inevitable. Still, once he left the

Canopus he must go back to a life of hardship and labor, and, in spite

of the humiliation and fear of the future he often felt, the present was

very pleasant. On the other hand there was only scarcity, exposure to

rain and frost, and bitter, hopeless toil. He sat very still with one

hand closed, not daring to look at his companion until she spoke again.

"You say you do not know where the trail may lead you, and you do not

seem to care. One would fancy that was wrong," she said.

"Why?"

Barbara turned a little, and looked at him with a faint sparkle in her

eyes. "In this province the trail the resolute man takes usually leads

to success. We want bridges and railroad trestles, forests cleared, and

the valleys lined with roads. You can build them."

Brooke shook his head, though her confidence in him, as well as her

optimism, had its due effect.

"I wish I was a little more sure," he said. "The difficulty, as I think

I once pointed out, is that one needs dollars to make a fair start

with."

"They are, at least, not indispensable, as the history of most of the

men who have done anything worth while in the province shows. Isn't

there a certain satisfaction in starting with everything against one?"

"Afterwards, perhaps. That is, if one struggles through. There is,

however, one learns by experience, really very little satisfaction at

the time, especially if one scarcely gets beyond the start at all."

Barbara smiled a little, though she looked at him steadily. "You," she

said, "will, I think, go a long way. In fact, if it was a sword I gave

you, I should expect it of you."

Brooke came very near losing his head just then, though he realized

that, after all, the words implied little more than a belief in his

capabilities, and for a few insensate moments he almost decided to stay

at the Canopus and make the most of his opportunities. Saxton, he

reflected, might put sufficient pressure upon Devine to extort the six

thousand dollars from him without the necessity for his part becoming

apparent at all. With that sum in his hands there was, he felt, very

little he could not attain, and then he shook off the deluding fancy,

for it once more became apparent that the deed, which gave Saxton the

hold he wished for upon Devine would, even if she never heard of it,

stand as barrier between Barbara Heathcote and him.

"One feels inclined to wonder now and then whether success does not

occasionally, at least, cost the man who achieves it more than it is

worth," he said. "The actual record of the leaders one is expected to

look up to might, in that connection, provide one with a fund of

somewhat astonishing information."

Barbara made a little gesture of impatience. "Is the poor man the only

one who can be honest?"

"One would, at least, feel inclined to fancy that the man who is unduly

honest runs a serious risk of remaining poor."

"I think that is an argument I have very little sympathy with," said

Barbara. "It is, you see, so easy for the incapable to impeach the

successful man's honesty. I might even go a little further and admit

that it is an attitude I scarcely expected from you."

Brooke smiled somewhat bitterly. "You will, however, remember that I

have made no attempt to persuade you of my own integrity."

Just then, as it happened, Mrs. Devine came into the verandah with a

packet in her hand.

"These are the papers the man tried to steal," she said. "Since you

insist upon going back to the canyon to-day I wonder if you would take

care of them?"

Brooke gasped, and felt the veins swell on his forehead as he looked at

her. "You wish me to take them away?"

"Of course! My nerves are really horribly unsettled, and I was sent to

the mountains for quietness. How could any one expect me to get it when

I couldn't even sleep for fear of that man or some one else coming back

for these documents?"

"They are, I think, of considerable importance to your husband," said

Brooke.

"That is precisely why I would like to feel that they were safe in your

tent. Nobody would expect you to have them there."

Brooke turned his head a little so that he could see Barbara's face.

"I appreciate your confidence," he said, and the girl noticed that his

voice was a trifle hoarse. "Still, I must point out that I am almost a

stranger to Mr. Devine and you."

Barbara smiled a little, but there was something that set the man's

heart beating in her eyes.

"I am not sure that everybody would be so willing to make the most of

the fact, but I feel quite sure my sister's confidence is warranted,"

she said. "That, of course, does not sound very nice, but you have made

it necessary."

Brooke, who glanced curiously at the single seal, laid down the packet,

and Mrs. Devine smiled. "_I_ feel ever so much easier now that is off my

mind," she said. "Still, I shall expect you to sleep with the papers

under your pillow."

She went out, and left him and Barbara alone again, but Brooke knew that

the struggle was over and the question decided once for all. The girl's

trust in him had not only made those papers inviolable so far as he was

concerned, but had rendered a breach with Saxton unavoidable. He knew

now that he could never do what the latter had expected from him.

"You appeared almost unwilling to take the responsibility," said the

girl.

Brooke smiled curiously. "I really think that was the case," he said.

"In fact, your confidence almost hurt me. One feels the obligation of

proving it warranted--in every respect--you see. That is partly why I

shall go away the day we swing the first load of props across the

canyon."

Barbara felt a trace of disconcertion. "But my brother-in-law may ask

you to do something else for him."

"I scarcely think that is likely," said Brooke, with a little dry smile.

Barbara said nothing further, and when she left him Brooke was once

more sensible of a curious relief. It would, he knew, cost him a

strenuous effort to go away, but he would, at least, be freed from the

horrible necessity of duping the girl, who, it seemed, believed in him.

When Jimmy arrived that evening to accompany him back to his tent at the

canyon, and expressed his satisfaction at the fact that he did not appear

very much the worse, he smiled a trifle drily.

"That," he said, "is a little astonishing. I am, I think, warranted in

believing myself six thousand dollars worse off than when I went away."

Jimmy stared at him incredulously.

"Well," he said, "I never figured you had that many, and I don't quite

see how you could have let them get away from you here. Something you

didn't expect has happened?"

Brooke appeared reflective. "I'm not quite sure whether I expected it or

not, but I almost hope I did," he said.

XIX.

BROOKE'S BARGAIN.

There was a portentous quietness in the little wooden town which did not

exactly please Mr. Faraday Slocum, the somewhat discredited local agent

of Grant Devine, as he ascended the steep street from the grocery store.

The pines closed in upon it, but their sombre spires were growing dim,

and the white mists clung about them, for dusk was creeping up the

valley. The latter fact brought Slocum a sense of satisfaction, and at

the same time a growing uneasiness. He had, as it happened, signally

failed to collect a certain sum from the store-keeper, who had expressed

his opinion of him and his doings with vitriolic candor, and it was

partly as the result of this that very little escaped his notice as he

proceeded with an ostentatious leisureliness towards his dwelling.

A straggling row of stores and houses, log and frame and galvanized

iron, jumbled all together in unsightly confusion, stretched away before

him towards the gap in the forest where the railroad track came in, but

it was the little groups of men who hung about them which occupied his

quiet attention. He saluted them with somewhat forced good-humor as he

went by, but there was no great cordiality in their responses, and some

of them stared at him in uncompromising silence. There was, he felt, a

certain tension in the atmosphere, and it was not without a purpose he

stopped in front of the wooden hotel, where a little crowd had collected

upon the verandah.

"It's kind of sultry to-night, boys," he said.

Nobody responded for a moment or two, and then there was an unpleasant

laugh as somebody said, "You've hit it; I guess it is."

Slocum remembered that most of those loungers had been glad to greet

him, and even hand him their spare dollars, not long ago; but there was

a decided difference now. He was a capable business man, who could make

the most of an opportunity, and the inhabitants of the little wooden

town had shown themselves disposed to regard certain trifling

obliquities leniently, while they or their friends made satisfactory

profits on the deals in ranching land and building lots he recommended.

That, however, was while the boom lasted, but when the bottom had, as

they expressed it, dropped out, and a good many of them found themselves

saddled with unmarketable possessions, they commenced to be troubled

with grave doubts concerning the rectitude of his conduct. Slocum was

naturally quite aware of this, but he was a man of nerve, and quietly

walked up the verandah steps.

"It's that hot I must have a drink, boys. Who's coming in with me?" he

said, genially.

A few months ago a good many of them would have been willing to profit

by the invitation, but that night nobody moved, and Slocum laughed

softly.

"Well," he said, "I'm not going to worry you. This is evidently a

temperance meeting."

He passed into the empty bar alone, and a man who leaned upon the

counter in his shirt sleeves shook his head as he glanced towards the

verandah.

"They're not in a good humor to-night. It looks very much as if someone

has been talking to them?" he said.

Slocum smiled a little, though he had already noticed this, and taken

precautions the bar-keeper never suspected.

"I guess they'll simmer down. Who has been talking to them?" he said.

"The two ranchers you sold the Hemlock Range to. There was another man

who'd bought a piece of natural prairie, and it cost him most of five

dollars before he got through telling them what he thought of you. Now,

I don't know what their notion is, but I'd light out for a little if I

was you."

Slocum appeared to reflect. "Well," he said, "I may go to-morrow."

"I'd go to-night," said the bar-keeper, significantly. "I guess it would

be wiser."

Slocum, who did not consider it necessary to tell him that he quite

agreed with this, went out, and a few minutes later stopped outside his

house, which was the last one in the town. A big, rudely-painted sign,

nailed across the front of it, recommended any one who desired to buy or

sell land and mineral properties or had mortgages to arrange, to come in

and confer with the agent of Grant Devine. He glanced back up the

street, and was relieved to notice that there was nobody loitering about

that part of it. Then he looked at the forest the trail led into, which

was shadowy and still, and, slipping round the building, went in through

the back of it. A woman stood waiting him in a dimly-lighted room, which

was littered with feminine clothing besides two big valises and an array

of bulky packages. She was expensively dressed, but her face was

anxious, and he noticed that her fingers were quivering.

"You're quite ready, Sue?" he said.

The woman pointed to the packages with a little dramatic gesture. "Oh,

yes," she said. "I'm ready, though I'll have to leave most two hundred

dollars' worth of clothes behind me. I've no use for taking in plain

sewing while you think over what you've brought me to in the

penitentiary."

Slocum smiled drily. "If you hadn't wanted quite so many dry goods, I'm

not sure it would have come to this, but we needn't worry about that

just now. Tom will have the horses round in 'bout five minutes. You

don't figure on taking all that truck along with you?"

"I do," said the woman. "I've got to have something to put on when we

get to Oregon!"

"Well," said Slocum, grimly, "I'll be quite glad to get out with a whole

hide, and I guess it couldn't be done if we started with a packhorse

train or a wagon. I hadn't quite fixed to light out until I got the

message that Devine, who didn't seem quite pleased with the last

accounts, was coming in."

"Could you have stood the boys off?"

"I might have done," said Slocum, reflectively. "Still, I couldn't stand

off Devine. It's dollars he's coming for, and I've got 'bout half the

accounts call for here."

"You're going to leave him them?"

Slocum laughed. "No," he said. "I guess they'll come in handy in Oregon.

I'm going to leave him the boys to reckon with. They'll be here with

clubs soon after the cars come in, and we'll be a league away down the

trail by then."

A patter of horse hoofs outside cut short the colloquy, though there was

a brief altercation when the woman once more insisted on taking all the

packages with her. Slocum terminated it by bundling her out of the door,

and, when she tearfully consented to mount a kicking pony, swung himself

to the saddle. Still, for several minutes his heart was in his mouth,

as he picked his way through the blacker shadows on the skirt of the

beaten trail, until a man rose suddenly out of them.

"Hallo!" he said. "Where're you going?"

Slocum, leaning sideways, gave his wife's pony a cut with the switch he

held, and then laughed as he turned to the man.

"I guess that's my business, but I'm going out of town."

"Quite sure?" said the other, who made a sudden clutch at his bridle.

He did not reach it, for Slocum was ready with hand and heel, and the

switch came down upon the outstretched arm. Then there was a plunge and

a rapid beat of hoofs, and Slocum, swinging half round in his saddle,

swept off his hat to the gasping man.

"I guess I am," he said. "You'll tell the boys I'm sorry I couldn't wait

for them."

Then he struck his wife's horse again. "Let him go," he said. "We'll

have three or four of them after us in about ten minutes."

The woman said nothing, but braced herself to ride, and, while the beat

of hoofs grew fainter among the silent pines, the man on foot ran

gasping up the climbing trail. There was bustle and consternation when

he reached the wooden town, and, while two or three men who had good

horses hastily saddled them, the rest collected in clusters which

coalesced, and presently a body of silent men proceeded towards the

Slocum dwelling. As they stopped in front of it, the hoot of a whistle

came ringing across the pines, and there was an increasing roar as a

train came up the valley. That, however, did not, so they fancied,

concern them, and they commenced a parley with the local constable, who

came hurrying after them. His duties consisted chiefly in the raising

and peddling of fruit, and he had been recommended for the post by

popular acclaim as the most tolerant man in the settlement, but he was,

it seemed, not without a certain sense of responsibility.

"What d'you figure on doing with those clubs, boys?" he said.

"Seasoning them," said somebody. "Mine's quite soft and green. Now,

why're you not taking the trail after Slocum? The province allows you

for a horse, and Hake Guffy's has three good legs on him, anyway."

The constable waved his hand, deprecatingly. "He fell down and hurt one

of them hauling green stuff to the depot. I guess I'd have to shove him

most of the way."

There was a little laughter, which had, however, a trace of grimness in

it, and one of the men grasped the constable's shoulder.

"Hadn't you better go round and run Jean Frenchy's hogs out of your

citron patch?" he said.

For a moment the constable appeared about to go, and then his face

expanded into a genial grin.

"That's not good enough, boys," he said. "I'm not quite so fresh that

the cows would eat me. What've you come round here for, anyway?"

The man who had spoken made a little gesture of resignation. "Well," he

said, "if you have got to know, we are going in to see if Slocum has

left any of the dollars he beat us out of behind him."

"No," said the constable, stoutly. "Nobody's going in there without a

warrant, unless it's me."

There was a little murmur. The man was elderly, and a trifle infirm,

which was partly why it had been decided that he was most likely to find

a use for the provincial pay, but he turned upon the threshold and faced

the crowd resolutely. Had he been younger, it is very probable that he

would have been hustled away, but a Western mob is usually, to some

extent, at least, chivalrous, and there was another murmur of protest.

"Go home!" said one man. "They're not your dollars, anyway."

"Boys," and the old man swung an arm aloft, "I'm here, and I'm going to

make considerable trouble for the man who lays a hand on me. This is a

law-abiding country, and Slocum wasn't fool enough to leave anything he

could carry off."

"We don't want to hurt you," said one of the assembly, "but we're going

in."

There was a growl of approbation, and the men were closing in upon the

door when a stranger pushed his way through the midst of them, and then

swung round and stood facing them beside the constable. He held himself

commandingly, and, though nobody appeared to recognize him, for darkness

was closing down, the meaning of his attitude was plain, and the crowd

gave back a little.

"Go home, boys!" he said. "I'll most certainly have the law of any man

who puts his foot inside this door."

There was a little ironical laughter, and the crowd once more closed in.

Half the men of the settlement were present there, and a good many of

them had bought land from, or trusted their spare dollars to, Slocum.

"Who are you, anyway?" said one.

The stranger laughed. "The man who owns the building. My name's Devine."

It was a bold announcement, for those who heard him were not in the best

of humors then, or disposed to concern themselves with the question how

far the principal was acquainted with or responsible for the doings of

his agent.

"The boss thief!" said somebody. "Get hold of him, and bring him along

to the hotel. Then, if Thorkell can't lock him up, we'll consider what

we'll do with him."

"No," said another man. "He'll keep for a little without going bad, and

we're here to see if Slocum left anything behind him. Break that door

in!"

It was a critical moment, for there was a hoarse murmur of approbation,

and the crowd surged closer about the pair. At any sign of weakness it

would, perhaps, have gone hardly with them, but the elderly constable

stood very still and quiet, with empty hands, while Devine fumbled

inside his jacket. Then he swung one foot forward, and his right arm

rose, until his hand, which was clenched on a dusky object, was level

with his shoulder.

"Boys," he said, drily, "somebody's going to get hurt in another minute.

This is my office, and I can't do with any of you inside it to-night."