"Then, if you hand our dollars out, it would suit us most as well," said

the spokesman.

Devine appeared to laugh softly. "I guess there are very few of them

there. Anybody who can prove a claim on me will get satisfaction, but

he'll have to wait. Neither the place nor I will run away, and you'll

find me right here when you come along to-morrow."

"Are you going to give every man back the dollars Slocum got from him?"

It was evident that the question met with the approbation of the crowd,

and a less resolute man might have temporized, but Devine laughed openly

now.

"No," he said, drily. "That's just what I'm not going to do. A man

takes his chances when he makes a deal in land, and can't expect to cry

off his bargain when they go against him. Still, if any one will bring

me proof that Slocum swindled him, I'll see what I can do, but I guess

it will be very little if some of you destroy the books and papers he

recorded the deals in. You'll have to wait until to-morrow, while I

worry through them."

His resolution had its due effect, and the fact that no man could reach

the threshold until he and the constable had been pulled down counted

for a good deal, too. The men also wanted no more than they considered

themselves entitled to, and shrank from what, if it was to prove

successful, must evidently be a murderous assault upon two elderly men.

"I guess there's sense in that," said one of them. "It's going to be

quite easy to make sure he don't get out of the settlement."

"I'm for letting him have until to-morrow, anyway," said another.

"Still, the papers aren't there. Where's John Collier? He picked up some

books and truck Slocum slung away when he met him on the trail."

"I've got them right here," and another man stepped forward. "I was

coming in from the ranch when I heard two horses pounding down the

trail, and jumped clear into the fern. The man who went past me tried to

sling a package into the gully, but I guess he got kind of rattled when

I shouted, and dropped the thing. He didn't seem to want to stop, and,

when he went on at a gallop, I groped round and picked the package up."

Devine lowered the pistol, and turned quietly to the crowd. "There are

just two courses open to you, boys, and you're going to make mighty

little but trouble for yourselves by taking one of them. This is my

office, and so long as I can hold you off nobody's coming in until he's

asked. I feel quite equal to stopping two or three. Now, if you'll let

me have those books and go home quietly, I'll have straightened Slocum's

affairs out by to-morrow, and be ready to see what can be done for you."

The men were evidently wavering, and there was a brief consultation,

after which the leader turned to Devine.

"We've no use for making any trouble that can be helped, and we'll go

home," he said. "You can have those books, and a committee will come

round to see what you've fixed up after breakfast to-morrow."

Devine nodded tranquilly. "I guess you're wise," he said. "Good night,

boys!"

They went away, and left him to go in with the constable, who came out

in a few minutes with a contented grin, which suggested that Devine had

signified his appreciation of his efforts liberally. The latter,

however, sat down, dusty and worn with an arduous journey, to undertake

a night's hard work. He had left the Canopus before sunrise, and spent

most of the day in the saddle, but nobody would have suspected him of

weariness as he sat, grim and intent of face, before a table littered

with papers. He had just imposed his will upon an angry crowd, and the

tension of the past few minutes would have shaken many a younger man,

but he showed no sign of feeling it, and, as the hours slipped by, only

rose at intervals to stretch his aching limbs and brush the cigar ash

from his dust-smeared clothes. This was one of the hard men who, in

building up their own fortunes, had also laid the foundations of the

future prosperity of a great province, and a little fatigue did not

count with him.

The settlement was very still, and the lamp-light paling as the chilly

dawn crept in, when at last he opened a book that recorded Slocum's

dealings several years back. There were several folded slips on which he

had jotted down certain data inside it, and Devine smiled somewhat drily

as he came upon one entry:--

"24th. 6,000 dollars from Harford Brooke, in purchase of 400 acres bush

land, Quatomac Valley. Ref. 22, slip B."

Devine turned up 22 B, and read: "Mem. About 150 acres 200-foot pines,

with gravel sub-soil, and very little mould on top of it. Rest of it

rock. Oregon man bid 1,000 dollars on the 2nd, but asked for re-survey

and cried off. 12th. Gave Custer four days' option at 950. 20th. Asked

the British sucker 6,500, and clinched the deal at 6,000."

Devine closed the book, and sat thoughtfully still for a minute or two.

The epithet his agent had applied to Brooke carried with it the stigma

of puerile folly in that country, and Devine had usually very little

sympathy with the men it could be fittingly attached to. Still, he felt

that nobody could very appropriately term his contractor a sucker now,

and he had just discovered that he had been systematically plundered

himself. Several points which had given him food for reflection also

became suddenly plain, and he lighted another cigar before he fell to

work again. He had, however, in the meanwhile decided what course to

adopt with Brooke when he went back to the Canopus mine.

XX.

THE BRIDGING OF THE CANON.

It was a week or two after he undertook the investigation of Slocum's

affairs, and once more the light was failing, when Devine stood at the

head of the gully above the canyon. His wife and Barbara were with him,

and they were about to descend, when a cluster of moving figures

appeared among the pines on the opposite hillside. So far as Devine

could make out, they were rolling down two or three small trunks of

firs.

The river was veiled in white mist now, but the sound of its turmoil

came up hoarsely out of the growing obscurity, and there was sufficient

light above to show the rope which spanned the awful chasm. It swept

downwards in a flattened curve, slender and ethereal, at that distance,

as a film of gossamer, and lost itself in the gloom of the rocks, across

the canyon. Barbara, however, fancied she realized what it had cost the

flume-builder to place it there, and, as he glanced at it, a somewhat

curious look crept into Devine's eyes. He knew that slender thread of

steel had only been flung across the hollow at the risk of life and

limb, and under a heavy nervous strain.

"If we are going down, hadn't we better start?" said Mrs. Devine. "If it

gets quite dark before we come up, I shall certainly have to stay there

until to-morrow. In fact, I'm quite willing to let you and Barbara go

without me now."

Devine smiled. "I'm not sure we'll go at all. It seems to me Brooke

means to give the thing a private trial before he asks me to come over

and see it work, and that's why he waited until it was almost dark. Can

you make him out, Barbara?"

Barbara had, as a matter of fact, already done so, but she realized that

her sister's eyes were upon her, and for no very apparent reason

preferred not to admit it.

"It is getting a little shadowy among the pines, and Katty used to tell

me she had sharper eyes than mine," she said.

Mrs. Devine laughed. "Still," she said, reflectively, "I scarcely think

I have seen Mr. Brooke quite so often as you have."

Devine glanced at them both a trifle sharply, but there was nothing in

their faces that gave him a clue to their thoughts. "Well," he said,

"I'm a good deal older than either of you, but I can make him out myself

now. As usual, he seems to be doing most of the work."

Nobody said anything further, and the moving figures stopped where the

rope ran into the shadows of the rocks, while it was a few minutes later

when a long, dusky object swung out on it. It slid somewhat slowly down

the incline, and then stopped where the slight curve led upward, and

remained dangling high above the hidden river. A shout came faintly

through the roar of water in the gulf below, and the dark mass

oscillated violently, but otherwise remained immovable.

"What are they doing? Shouldn't it have run all the way across?" asked

Mrs. Devine.

Devine nodded. "I guess they're 'most pulling their arms off trying to

haul the thing across," he said. "It should have come itself, but the

sheave the trolley runs on must have jammed, or they haven't pulled all

the kinks and snarls out of the rope. It's quite a big log they've

loaded her with."

The suspended trunk still oscillated, and a faint clinking came up with

a hoarse murmur of voices from the hollow. Then there was silence, and

Devine, who pointed to a fallen cedar, took out his cigar-case.

"We'll stay right here, and see the thing out," he said. "I guess the

boys have quite enough to worry them just now."

Barbara surmised that most of the anxiety would fall on Brooke, and

wondered why she should feel as eager as she did to see the fir trunk

safely swung across. The economical handling of mining props was

naturally not a subject she had any particular interest in, though she

realized that the success of his venture was of some importance to the

man who had stretched the rope across the canyon. There was no ostensible

reason why it should affect her, and yet she was sensible of a curious

nervous impatience.

In the meanwhile, it was growing darker, and she could not quite see

what the dim figures across the river were doing. They did not, in fact,

appear to be doing anything in particular, beyond standing in a group,

while the rope no longer oscillated. A thin, white mist commenced to

drift out of the hollow in filmy wisps, and, in a curious fashion,

suggested the vast depth of it. The silence the roar of the river broke

through grew more intense as the chill of the distant snow descended,

and the stately pines seemed to grow older and greater of girth. They

dwarfed the tiny clustering figures into insignificance, and as iron

columns and the raw gashes in the side of the gully faded into the

gathering night, it seemed to Barbara that here in her primeval

fastnesses Nature ignored man's puny handiwork.

Then it was with a little thrill of anticipation she saw there was a

movement among the dusky figures at last, but it cost her an effort to

sit still when one of them appeared to move out on the rope, for she

felt she knew who it must be. Devine rose sharply, and flung his cigar

away, while his wife seemed to shiver apprehensively.

"One of them is coming across. Isn't it horribly dangerous?" she said.

Devine nodded. "It depends a good deal on what he means to do, but if he

figures on clearing the jammed trolley there is a risk, especially to a

man who has only one sound hand," he said. "They've slung him under the

spare one. It's most probably Brooke."

Mrs. Devine glanced at Barbara, and fancied that the rigidity of her

attitude was a trifle significant. The girl, however, said nothing, for

her lips were pressed together, and she felt a shiver run through her as

she watched the dusky figure sliding down the curving rope. The rope

itself was no longer visible, but the dangling shape that moved across

the horrible gulf was forced up by the whiteness of the drifting mists

below. She held her breath when it stopped, and swung perilously beside

the pine trunk which oscillated too, and then clenched her fingers

viciously as it rose and apparently clutched at something overhead. Then

she became sensible of the distressful beating of her heart, and that

the tension was growing unendurable. Dark pines and hillside seemed to

have faded now, and the dim objects outlined against the sliding mists

dominated her attention. Still, though they were invisible to her, the

space between the hoary pines, tremendous rock wall, and never-melting

snow, formed a fitting arena for that conflict between daring humanity

and unsubdued Nature.

Barbara never knew how long she sat there with set lips and straining

eyes, but the time seemed interminable, until at last she gasped when

Devine, who had been standing as motionless as the pines behind him,

moved abruptly.

"I guess he has done it," he said. "That man has hard sand in him."

The dusky trunk slid onward; the dangling figure followed it; and a

hoarse cry, that had a note of exultation in it as well as relief, came

up when they vanished into the gloom beneath the dark rock's side.

"They've got him, but I guess that's not all they mean," said Devine.

"Whatever was wrong with it, he has fixed the thing. They've beaten the

canyon. The sling's working."

Then Barbara, rising, stood very straight, with a curious feeling that

she had a personal part in those men's triumph. It did not even seem to

matter when she felt that Mrs. Devine was looking at her.

"Why don't you shout?" said the latter, significantly.

Barbara laughed, but there was a little vibration in her voice her

sister had not often noticed there.

"If I thought any one could hear me, I certainly would," she said.

They stayed where they were a few minutes, until once more a faint

creaking and rattling came out of the mist, and an object, that was

scarcely distinguishable, swung across the chasm. Another followed,

until Barbara had counted three of them, and Devine laughed drily as

they turned away.

"It's most of eight miles round by the canyon foot, where one can get

across by the big redwood log, but I guess they'd have taken the trail

if Brooke hadn't given them a lead," he said. "It's not easy to

understand any one, but that's a curious kind of man."

"Is Mr. Brooke more peculiar than the rest of you?" asked Barbara.

Devine seemed to smile, though she could not see him very well.

"Well," he said, drily, "that's rather more than I know, but I have a

notion that his difficulty is he isn't quite sure what he would be at.

Now, the man who does one thing at one time, and all with the same

purpose, is the one who generally gets there first."

"And Brooke does not do that?"

"It kind of seems to me he is being pulled hard two ways at once just

now," said Devine, with a curious little laugh.

Barbara asked no more questions, and said very little to her sister as

they walked home through the pines. She could not blot out the picture

which, for a few intense minutes, she had gazed upon, though it had been

exasperatingly blurred, and, she felt, considering what it stood for,

ineffective in itself--a dim, half-seen figure, dwarfed to

insignificance, swinging across a background of filmy mist. There had

been nothing at that distance to suggest the intensity of the effort

which was the expression of an unyielding will, but she had, by some

subtle sympathy, grasped it all--the daring that recognized the peril

and disregarded it, and the thrill of the triumph, the wholesome

satisfaction born of the struggle with the primitive forces of the

universe which man was meant to wage. This, it seemed to her, was a

nobler one than the strife of the cities, where wealth was less often

created than torn or fleeced from one's fellows; for needy humanity

flowed in to build her homes and prosper by sturdy toil at every fresh

rolling back of the gates of the wilderness. The miner and the axeman

led the way; but the big plough oxen and plodding packhorse train

followed hard along the trails they made. Behind, in long procession,

jaded with many sorrows, came the outcasts from crowded Eastern lands,

but there was room, and to spare, for all of them in the new Canaan.

That the man who had bridged the canyon would admit any feelings of the

kind was, she knew, not to be expected. Men of his description, she had

discovered, very seldom do, and she could rather fancy him coming fresh

from such a struggle to discuss the climate or the flavor of a cigar.

Yet he had once told her that she had brought him a sword, and, as she

had certainly shivered at his peril, she could, without asking herself

troublesome questions, now participate in the victory he had won. Still,

she seemed to feel that one could not draw any very apt comparison

between him and the stainless hero of the Arthurian legend belted with

Excalibur, for Brooke was, she fancied, in the phraseology of the

country, not that kind of man. That, however, appeared of less

importance, since she had discovered that perfection is apt to pall on

one.

She had, she decided, permitted this train of thought to carry her

sufficiently far, when a man appeared suddenly in the shadowy trail. It

was evident that he did not see them at first, and Barbara fancied he

was a trifle disconcerted and half-disposed to slip back into the

undergrowth when he did. He, however, passed them hastily, and Devine

swung round and looked after him.

"That wasn't one of Brooke's men?" he said.

"No," said Barbara. "I don't think it was. You didn't recognize him,

Katty?"

Mrs. Devine laughed. "If you didn't, I scarcely fancy there was anything

to be gained by asking me."

Barbara was not quite pleased with her sister, but she noticed that

Devine was standing still.

"Was there anything remarkable about the man?" she said.

Devine laughed. "I didn't see his face; but if he's the man I took him

for, nobody would have expected to meet him here."

Then he turned, and they proceeded towards the ranch, while Barbara, who

recollected Devine's speech at the canyon, also remembered her sister had

said she would like to know what her husband really thought of Brooke.

This had not been very comprehensible to Barbara, who had experienced no

great trouble in forming what she believed to be an accurate opinion

concerning the flume-builder. It was her feelings towards him that

presented the difficulty.

In the meanwhile, Brooke had flung himself down in a folding-chair in

his tent. He was soaked with perspiration, his hard hands still quivered

a little from the nervous strain, and his bronzed face was a trifle more

colorless than usual, but he was, for the time being, sensible of a

quiet exultation. He had done a difficult and dangerous thing, and the

flush of success had swept away all his anxieties. He, however, found it

a trifle difficult to sit still, and was carefully selecting a cigar in

an attempt to compose himself, when a man came in, and took the chair

opposite him. Then his face grew a trifle hard, and all sense of

satisfaction was suddenly reft away from him.

"I scarcely expected you quite so soon, Saxton," he said. "Here are

cigars; you'll find some drinkables in the box yonder."

Saxton opened the box he pointed to, and then looked at him with a grin

as he took out a bottle.

"I've no great use for California wine. Bourbon whisky's good enough for

me," he said. "Who've you been entertaining? Not Devine, anyway."

"Isn't the question a little outside the mark? If you want it, there's

water with ice in it here. It's from the tail of the glacier."

Saxton laughed. "Then it would take a man 'most an hour and a half to

bring a pail of it. It's quite easy to tell where you came from. Well,

I'm here; but on the other occasions it was I who sent for you."

"There is, however, a difference on this one, though I wouldn't like you

to think that was the reason. The fact is, I've been busy."

"Well," said Saxton, "we'll get down to the business one. Still, how'd

you get your arm in a sling?"

"Are you sure you don't know?"

"Quite!" and Saxton's sincerity was evident. "How should I?"

"I had fancied you knew all about it by this time, and felt a little

astonished that you didn't come over, but I see I was mistaken. I tried

to get hold of Devine's papers, as I promised you, and came upon another

man attempting the same thing. During the difference of opinion that

followed he shot me."

Saxton rose, and, kicking his chair aside, condemned himself several

times as he moved up and down the tent.

"To be quite straight, I put another man on to it, as you didn't seem to

be making much of a show," he said. "Still, what in the name of thunder

did he want to shoot you for, when he knew you were standing in with

me?"

"I can't say. The difficulty was that I was not as well informed as he

seems to have been. It would have paid you better to be frank with me.

Hasn't the man come back to you?"

"No," and Saxton's face grew a trifle vicious, "he hasn't--concern him!

You see what that brings us to? I felt sure of that man; but it's plain

he meant to find out what I wanted, and then, if he couldn't make use of

it himself, sell it me. There are three of us after the same thing now."

Brooke shook his head. "No," he said, drily, "I don't think there are.

You and the other man make two, while I scarcely fancy either of you

will get hold of the papers, because I gave them back to Devine, and he

has sent them to Vancouver."

"You had them?" and Saxton gasped.

"I certainly had," said Brooke. "They were put up in a very flimsy

packet, which Mrs. Devine handed me. I did not, however, look at one of

them."

Saxton, who seemed about to sit down, crossed the tent and stared at

him.

"Well," he said, "may I be shot if I ever struck another man quite like

you! What in the name of thunder made you let Devine have them back

for?"

"I really don't think you would appreciate my motives, especially as I'm

not quite sure I understand them myself. Anyway, I did it, and that, of

course, implies that there can be no further understanding between you

and me. I don't mean to question the morality of what we purposed doing,

but, to be quite frank, I've had enough of it."

Saxton, who appeared to restrain himself with an effort, sat down and

lighted a cigar.

"No doubt I could worry along 'most as well without you, but there's a

question to be answered," he said, drily. "Do you mean to give me away?"

"It's not one I appreciate, and it seems to me a trifle unnecessary. You

can reassure yourself on that point."

Saxton took a drink of whisky. "Well," he said, meditatively, "I guess I

can trust you, and I'm not going to worry about letting you off the

deal. You have too many fancies to be of much use to anybody. There's

just another thing, and it has to be said. It's business I have on hand,

and life's too short for any man to waste time he could pile up dollars

in, trying to get even with a partner who has gone back on him. In fact,

I've a kind of liking for you--but you'll most certainly get hurt if you

put yourself in my way. It's a friendly warning."

Brooke laughed. "I will endeavor to keep out of it, so far as I can."

Saxton nodded, and then looked at him reflectively.

"Miss Heathcote's kind of pretty," he said.

"I suggested once already that we should get on better if you left Miss

Heathcote out."

"You did. Still, when I've anything to say, it is scarcely a hint of

that kind that's going to stop me. I guess you know she has quite a pile

of dollars?"

Brooke's face flushed. "I don't, and it does not concern me in the

least."

"She has, anyway. Devine's wife brought him a pile, and I heard one

sister had the same as the other. Now, you ought to feel obliged to me."

Brooke straightened himself a trifle in his chair. "I don't wish to be

unpleasant, but you have gone quite as far as is advisable. Can't you

see the thing you are suggesting is quite out of the question?"

Saxton surveyed him critically. "Well," he said, reflectively, "I have

seen better-looking men--quite a few of them, and you're blame hard to

get on with, but there are women who don't expect too much."

Brooke's face was growing flushed, but he realized that nothing short of

physical violence was likely to restrain his visitor, and he laughed.

"You will, of course, believe what pleases you," he said. "Are you going

to stay here to-night?"

"No," said Saxton. "When I'm through with this whisky, I'm going right

back to Tomlinson's ranch. I wouldn't like Devine to run up against me,

and he nearly did it on the trail a little while ago."

Brooke looked up sharply. "He recognized you?"

"No," said Saxton, drily. "He didn't. It wouldn't have suited me. When I

come to clinch with Devine, I want to be sure I have the whip-hand of

him. Still, it wouldn't have been a case of pistols out and getting

behind a tree. It's quite a long while since I had any, and, though you

don't seem to think so in England, nobody has any use for a circus of

that kind now. I don't know that the way they had in '49 wasn't better

than trying to get ahead of the other man quietly."

Brooke made a little gesture of resignation. Saxton, he realized, had

sufficient discretion not to persist in a useless attempt to hold him to

his compact, but he was addicted to moralizing, and Brooke, who lighted

another cigar, listened, as patiently as he could, while he discoursed

upon the anxieties of the enterprising business man.

XXI.

DEVINE'S OFFER.

Evening had come round again when Brooke called at the ranch, in

response to a brief note from Devine, and found the latter sitting,

cigar in hand, at his office table.

"Take a cigar, if you feel like it, Mr. Brooke. We have got to have a

talk," he said.

Brooke did as he suggested, and when he sat down, Devine passed a strip

of paper across to him.

"There's your cheque for the tramway. I'll ask you for a receipt," he

said. "Make up an account of what the dam has cost you to-morrow, and

we'll try to arrange the thing so's to suit both of us."

Brooke appeared a trifle astonished. "It is by no means finished, sir."

"Well," said Devine, drily, "I'm not quite sure it ever will be. The

mine no longer belongs to me. It's part of the Dayspring Consolidated

Mineral Properties. I've been working the thing up quietly for quite a

while now, and I've a cable from London that the deal's put through."

Brooke, remembering what he had heard from Saxton, looked hard at him.

"You have sold it out to English company promoters?"

"Not exactly! I'm taking so many thousand dollars down, and a

controlling share of the stock. I'm also the boss director, with full

power to run operations as appears advisable at the mines. How does the

deal strike you?"

"Since you ask for my opinion, I fancy I should have preferred a good

many dollars, and very little stock."

Devine glanced at him with a curious smile.

"You believe Allonby's a crank?"

"Other people do. On my part, I'm not quite sure of it. Still, it seems

to me that the men who spend their money to prove him right will run a

tolerably heavy risk, especially as, so far, at least, there appears to

be no ore that's worth reduction in the mine, so far as it has been

opened up."

"How do you know what is in the Dayspring?" and Devine looked at him

steadily.

Brooke made a little gesture. "I don't think that point's important," he

said. "You, no doubt, had a purpose in telling me as much as you have

done?"

Devine did not answer for a moment or two, and Brooke was sensible of a

slight bewilderment as he watched him. This was, he knew, a hard, shrewd

man, and yet he had apparently permitted Saxton to beguile him into

buying a mine in which nobody but a man whose faculties had been

destroyed by alcohol believed. He was also, it seemed, willing to risk

a moderate competence in another one which was liable to be jumped at

any moment. The thing was almost incomprehensible.

Then Devine made a sign that he desired attention. "When I told you

this, I had a purpose," he said. "We are going to spend a pile of

dollars on the Dayspring, and my part of the business lies in the city.

Wilkins stays right at the Canopus, and while Allonby goes along with

the mine it's too big a contract to reform him. That brings me to the

point. I want a man to take charge at the Dayspring under him, and

though you were not exactly civil when I made you an offer once before,

we might make it worth your while."

Brooke gasped, and felt his face becoming warm.

"I have very little practical experience of mining, sir," he said.

Devine nodded tranquilly. "Allonby has enough for two, but he lets up

and loses his grip when the whisky comes along," he said. "Still, I

guess you have got something that's worth rather more to me. You

couldn't help having it. It was born in you."

Brooke sat silent for a space, with an unpleasant realization of the

fact that Devine's keen eyes were watching him. He had come there with

the intention of severing his connection with the man, and now that

astonishing offer had been made him in the very room he had not long ago

crept into with the purpose of plundering him. Every detail of what had

happened on that eventful night came back to him, and he remembered,

with a sickening sense of degradation, how he had leaned upon the table

where Devine was sitting then and permitted the startled girl to force

her thanks on him. Then he raised his head, as Devine, turning a little,

looked at him with disconcerting steadiness.

"You have more reasons than the one you gave me for not taking hold?" he

said.

Suddenly, Brooke made up his mind. He was sick of the career of

deception, and had already meant to put an end to it, while he now

seized upon the opportunity of placing a continuance in it out of the

question.

"I have, and can't help fancying that one of them is a tolerably good

one," he said. "You see, you really know very little about me."

"Go on," said Devine, drily. "I'm generally quite willing to back my

opinion of a mine or man. Besides, I have picked up one or two pointers

about you."

"Still," said Brooke, very slowly, while his face grew set, "you don't

know why I came here to build that flume for you."

Then he gasped with astonishment, for Devine laughed.

"Well," he said, drily, "I guess I do."

Brooke, who lost command of himself, rose abruptly, and stood looking

down on him, with one quivering hand clenched on the edge of the table.

"You know I meant to jump the claim?" he said.

"I had a notion that you meant to try."

Then there was a curious silence, and the two men remained motionless,

looking at one another for a space, the younger one leaning somewhat

heavily upon the table, with the crimson showing through the bronze in

his face, the elder one watching him with a little grim smile. There was

also a suggestion of sardonic amusement in it at which the other winced,

as he would scarcely have done had Devine struck him.

"And you let me stay on?" he said at length.

"I did. It was plain you couldn't hurt me, and there was a kind of humor

in the thing. I had just to put my hand down and squelch you when I felt

like it."

Brooke recognized that he had deserved this, but he had never felt the

same utter sense of insignificance that he did just then. His companion

evidently did not even consider it worth while to be angry with him, and

he wondered vacantly at his folly in even fancying that he or Saxton

could prove a match for such a man.

Then Devine made a little gesture. "Hadn't you better sit down? We're

not quite through yet."

Brooke did as he suggested.

"Still----" he said.

Devine smiled again. "You don't quite understand? Well, I'll try to make

it plain. You make about the poorest kind of claim-jumper I ever ran up

against, and I've handled quite a few in my time. It's not your fault.

You haven't it in you. If you had, you'd have stayed right with it, and

not let the dam-building get hold of you so that you scarcely remembered

what you came here for. You couldn't help that either."

To be turned inside out in this fashion was almost too disconcerting to

be exasperating, and Brooke sat stupidly silent for a moment or two.

"After all, we need not go into that," he said. "I suppose what I meant

to do requires no defence in this country, but while I am by no means

proud of it, I should never have undertaken it had you not sold me a

worthless ranch. I purposed doing nothing more than getting my six

thousand dollars back."

"You figure that would have contented the man behind you?"

Brooke was once more startled, for Devine's penetration appeared almost

uncanny, but he remembered that he, at least, owed a little to his

confederate.

"You think there was another man?" he said.

Devine laughed. "I guess I'm sure. You don't know enough to fix up a

thing of this kind. Who is he?"

"That," said Brooke, drily, "is rather more than I feel at liberty to

tell you. I have, however, broken with him once for all."

Devine made a little gesture which implied that the point was of no

great importance. "Well," he said, "I guess I've no great cause to be

afraid of him, if he was content to have you for a partner. The question

is--Are you going to take my offer?"

"You are asking me seriously?"

"I am. It seems to me I sized you up correctly quite a while ago, and

you have had about enough claim-jumping. Now, I don't know that I blame

you, and, anyway, if you had very little sense, it showed you had some

grit. As the mining laws stand, it's a legitimate occupation, and you

tell me you only figured on getting your dollars back. Well, if you want

them, you can work for them at a reasonable salary."

Brooke was once more astonished. Sentiment, it appeared, counted for as

little with Devine as it had done with Saxton, and with both of them

business was simply and solely a question of dollars.

"Then you disclaim all responsibility for your agent's doings?" he said.

"No," said Devine, drily. "If Slocum had swindled you, it would have

been different, but you made a foolish deal, and you have got to stand

up to it. Nobody was going to stop you surveying that land before you

bought it, or getting a man who knew its value to do it for you. I'm

offering you the option of working for those six thousand dollars. Do

you take it?"

Brooke scarcely considered. The money was no longer the chief

inducement, for, as Devine had expressed it, the work had got hold of

him, and he was sensible of a growing belief in his capabilities, while

he now fancied he saw his opportunity.

"Yes," he said, simply.

Devine nodded. "Then we'll go into the thing right now," he said.

"You'll start for the Dayspring soon as you can to-morrow."

An hour had passed before they had arranged everything, and it seemed to

one of them that it was, under the circumstances, a somewhat astonishing

compact they made. What the other thought about it did not appear, but

he was one who was seldom very much mistaken in his estimate of the

character of his fellow-men. Then, as it happened, Brooke came upon

Barbara in the log-walled hall as he was leaving the ranch, and stood

still a moment irresolute. Whether Devine would tell her or his wife

what had passed between them he did not know, but it appeared very

probable, and just then he almost shrank from meeting her. It did not,

however, occur to him to ask himself how she happened to be there.

"So you are not going out on the trail that leads to nowhere in

particular, after all?" she said.

Brooke showed his astonishment. "You knew what Devine meant to offer

me?"

"Of course!" and Barbara smiled. "I don't even mind admitting that I

think he did wisely."

"Now, I wonder why?"

Barbara laughed softly. "Don't you think the question is a little

difficult, or do you expect me to present you with a catalogue of your

virtues?"

"I'm afraid the latter is out of the question. You would want, at least,

several items."

"And you imply that I should have a difficulty in finding them?"

Brooke had spoken lightly, partly because the interview with Devine had

put a strain on him, and he dare scarcely trust himself just then, but a

tide of feeling swept him away, and his face grew suddenly grim. The

girl was very alluring, and her little smile showed plainly that she had

reposed her confidence in him.

"Yes," he said, a trifle hoarsely, "you would have the greatest

difficulty in finding one, and I am almost glad that I am going away

to-morrow. Such a man as I am is scarcely fit to speak to you."

Barbara was, though she did not show it, distinctly startled. She had

never heard the man speak in that fashion, and his set face and vibrant

voice were new to her. Indeed, she had now and then wondered whether he

ever really let himself go. Still, she looked at him quietly, and,

noticing the swollen veins on his forehead, and the glow in his eyes,

decided it would not be advisable to admit that she attached much

importance to what he had said. He was, she fancied, fit for any

rashness just then.

"I suppose we, all of us, have moods of self-depreciation occasionally,"

she said. "Still, one would not have fancied that you were unduly

morbid, and one part of that little speech was a trifle inexplicable."

Brooke laughed curiously, but the girl noticed that one of his lean,

hard hands was closed as he looked down on her.

"There are times when one has to be one's self, and civilities don't

seem to count," he said. "I am glad that I am going away, because if I

stayed here I should lose the last shred of my self-respect. As a matter

of fact, I have very little left, but that little is valuable, if only

because it was you who gave it me."

"Still, one would signally fail to see how you could lose it here."

Brooke stood still, looking at her with signs of struggle, and, she

could almost fancy, passion, in his set face; and then made a little

gesture, which seemed to imply that he had borne enough.

"You will probably understand it all by and by," he said. "I can only

ask you not to think too hardly of me when that happens."

Then, as one making a strenuous effort, he turned abruptly away, and

Barbara, who let him go, went back to the room where her sister sat,

very thoughtfully.

Brooke in the meanwhile swung savagely along the trail, beneath the

shadowy pines, for he recognized, with a painful distinctness, that

Barbara Heathcote's view of his conduct was by no means likely to

coincide with Devine's, and he could picture her disgust and anger when

the revelation came, while it was only now, when he would in all

probability never meet her on the same terms again, he realized the

intensity of his longing for the girl. He had also, he felt, succeeded

in making himself ridiculous by a display of sentimentality that must

have been incomprehensible to her, and though that appeared of no great

importance relatively, it naturally did not tend to console him. When he

reached his tent Jimmy stared at him.

"I guess you look kind of raised," he said. "Where's your hat?"

Brooke laughed hoarsely. "I believe I must have left it at the ranch.

Still, that's not so very astonishing, because, even if I didn't do it

altogether, I came very near losing my head."

Jimmy again surveyed him, with a grin. "Devine," he said, suggestively,

"has been giving you whisky, and it mixed you up a little? That's what

comes of drinking tea."

Brooke made no answer, though a swift flush rose to his face, as he

remembered his half-coherent speeches at the ranch, and the astonishment

in the girl's eyes, for it seemed probable that the explanation that

had occurred to Jimmy had also suggested itself to her. Then he smiled

grimly, as he decided that it did not greatly matter, after all, since

she could not think more hardly of him than she would do when the truth

came out presently.

XXII.

THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS.

It was already late at night, but the mounted mail carrier had not

reached the Dayspring mine, and Allonby, who was impatiently waiting

news of certain supplies and plant, had insisted on Brooke sitting up

with him. It was also raining hard, and, in spite of the glowing stove,

the shanty reeked with damp, while there was a steady splashing upon the

iron roof above. Now and then a trickle descended from a defective joint

in it, and formed a rivulet upon the earthen floor, or fizzled into a

puff of steam upon the corroded iron pipe which stretched across the

room. The latter was strewn with soil-stained clothing, and wet

knee-boots with the red mire of the mine still clinging about them.

Brooke lay drowsily in a canvas chair, while Allonby sat at the

uncleanly table, with a litter of burnt matches and tobacco ash as well

as a steaming glass in front of him. His eyes were bleared and watery,

and there were curious little patches of color in his haggard face,

while the gorged, blue veins showed upon his forehead. He had been

discoursing in a maudlin fashion which Brooke, who had endeavored to

make the best of his company during the last three months, found

singularly exasperating, but he moved abruptly when a stream from the

roof suddenly descended upon his grizzled head.

"That," he said, "is one of the trifles a man with a sense of proportion

and a contemplative temperament makes light of. The curse of this effete

age is its ceaseless striving after luxury."

Brooke laughed softly, as he watched the water run down the moralizer's

nose. "It is," he said, "at least, not often attainable in this

country."

"Which is precisely why men grow rich in the Colonies. Now, here are you

and I, who at one time in our lives required four or five courses for

dinner, not only subsisting, but thriving upon grindstone bread,

flapjacks, molasses, and the contents of certain cans from Chicago,

which one cannot even be certain are what they are averred to be, though

the Colonist consumes them with the faith that asks no questions."

"I fancy you are, in one respect, taking a good deal for granted,"

Brooke said, drily.

Allonby made a deprecatory gesture. "Being, although you might

occasionally find a difficulty in crediting it, one myself, I am seldom

mistaken about the points of a man who has moved in good society, though

I may admit that it was the ruin of me. Had I been brought up in this

country, one-third of my income would have sufficed me, and I should

have made provision for my grey hairs with the rest, while I fed, like

a Canadian, out of vessels of enamel and the useful wood pulp. As it

was, I wasted my substance, and, unfortunately, that of other men who

had undue confidence in me, in London clubs, with the result that I am

now what is sometimes termed a waster in the land of promise."

"It is not very difficult to get through a good deal of one's substance

in a certain fashion, even in Canada," and Brooke glanced reflectively

at the array of empty bottles.

"That point of view, although a popular one, is illusory, which can be

demonstrated by mathematics. A man, it is evident, cannot drink more

than a certain quantity of whisky. His physical capacity precludes it,

while even in my bad weeks the cost of it could not well exceed some

eight dollars. Excluding that item, one could live contentedly here at

an outlay of one dollar daily, if he did not, unfortunately, possess a

memory."

It seemed to Brooke that this latter observation might be true, if one

had, at least, any hope for the future. Allonby's day was nearly done,

and he had only the past to return and trouble him, but Brooke felt just

then that, in spite of his pride in the profession which had been rather

forced upon him than adopted, he had very little to look forward to,

since he had, by his own folly, made the one thing he longed for above

all others unattainable. He had been three months at the Dayspring, and

had heard nothing from Barbara. She must, he fancied, have discovered

the part he had played by this time, and would blot him out of her

memory, while now, when it seemed conceivable that he might make his

mark in Canada, all that this implied had become valueless to him.

Wealth and celebrity might perhaps be attainable, but there would be

nobody to share them with, for he realized that Barbara Heathcote did

not possess the easy toleration on certain points which appeared to

characterize Saxton and Devine. In the meanwhile, Allonby did not seem

pleased with his silence.

"You are," he said, a trifle quickly, "by no means an entertaining

companion for a man who is at times too sensible of the irony of his

position, and appear to be without either comprehension or sympathy.

Here am I, who was accustomed to fare sumptuously in London clubs,

living on the husks and other metaphorical et ceteras, and

endeavoring--for that is all it amounts to--to console myself with

profitless reflections. I am, of course, in the elegant simile of the

country, a tank, or whisky-skin, but I am still a man who found a

fortune and stripped himself of everything but whisky to develop it."

Brooke laughed to conceal his impatience. "Then you are as sure as ever

about the silver? We have got a good way down without finding very much

sign of it."

Allonby rose, with a little flush in his watery eyes, and leaned,

somewhat unsteadily, upon the table.

"It is the one thing I believe in. The rest, and I once had my fancies

and theories like other men, are shadows and chimeras now. Only the

silver is real--and there. All I made in Canada is sunk in this mine,

which no longer belongs to me, and when I make the great discovery not a

dollar will fall to my share."

"Then it is a little difficult to understand what you are so anxious to

find the silver for."

Allonby swayed a trifle on his feet, but the gleam in his eyes grew

brighter. "You," he said, "are, as I pointed out, curiously deficient in

comprehension, but you never won a case of medals that were coveted by

the keenest brains among all those who hoped to enter your profession.

Of what use are dollars to a whisky-tank who will, in all probability,

be found mangled at the bottom of the shaft one day? Still, when I made

the calculations we are now working on, there was no man in the province

with a knowledge equal to mine, and I ask no more than to prove them

right."

Brooke sat silent, because he could think of nothing appropriate to say.

He had asked the question lightly, and had got his answer. It made the

attitude of this broken-down wreck of humanity plain to him, and he

vaguely realized the pathos underlying it. Possessed by the one fancy,

the man had lost or flung away all that life might have offered him,

while he clung to the apparently worthless mine, not, it seemed, for the

dollars that success might bring him, but from pride in his professional

skill and the faculties which had long deserted him. That, as he said,

was his one point of faith, and he lived only to vindicate it.

Then Allonby lurched unsteadily to the door, and held his hand up as he

opened it.

"Listen!" he said. "Is that the mail carrier? I must know when we'll get

those drills and the giant powder before I sleep. The sinking goes on

slowly, and life is very uncertain when one drinks whisky as I do."

Brooke listened, and, for a time, heard only the splash from the pine

boughs and the patter of the rain, while Allonby's frail figure cut

against the white mists that slid past the doorway. Then a faint,

measured thudding came up the valley, and he remembered afterwards that

he felt a curious sense of anticipation. The sound swelled into the beat

of horse hoofs floundering and slipping on the wet gravel, and Brooke

smiled at his eagerness, for though he had, he fancied, cut himself off

from all that concerned his past in England, he had never been quite

able to await the approach of a mail carrier with complete indifference,

and he felt the suggestiveness of the drumming of the weary horse's

feet. There had been a time when he had listened with beating heart

while it drew nearer down the shadowy trail, and once more a little

thrill ran through him.

Then there was a clatter of hoofs on wet rock, and a shout, as a man

pulled his jaded beast up in the darkness outside, while a dripping

packet was flung into the room. Brooke could see nobody, but a voice

said, "That's your lot; I guess I can't stop. Got to make Truscott's

before I sleep, and the beast's gone lame."

The rattle of hoofs commenced again, and Brooke sat idly watching

Allonby, who was tearing open the packet with shaky fingers.

"The tools and powder are coming up," he said. "Hallo! Excuse my

inadvertence, Brooke. This one's apparently for you."

Brooke caught the big blue envelope tossed across to him, and when he

had taken out several precisely folded papers and glanced at the sheet

of stiff legal writing, sat still, staring vacantly straight in front of

him. The uncleanly shanty faded from before his eyes, and he was not

even conscious that Allonby, who had laid down his own correspondence,

was watching him until the latter broke the silence.

"I know that style of envelope, but it is, presumably, too long since

you left England for it to contain any unpleasant reference to a debt,"

he said. "Has somebody been leaving you a fortune?"

Brooke smiled in a curious, listless fashion. "No," he said, "not a

fortune. Still, I suppose one could almost consider it a competence."

"Then you appear singularly free from the satisfaction one would

naturally expect from a man who had just received any news of that

description," said Allonby, drily.

Brooke's face grew suddenly grim. "If it had come a little earlier, it

might have been of much more use to me."

Allonby had, apparently, sufficient sense left in him to recognize that

any further observations he might feel inclined to make were scarcely

likely to be appreciated just then, and once more Brooke sat motionless,

with the letter in his hand, and the inclosures that had slipped from

his fingers strewn about the floor. He had been left with what any one

with simple tastes would have considered a moderate competence, at

least, in Canada, by the man he had quarrelled with, and he gathered

from the lawyer's letter that, if he wished it, there would be no

difficulty in at once realizing the property. It naturally amounted to

considerably more than the six thousand dollars he had sold his

self-respect for, and at the moment he was only sensible of a bitter

regret that the news had not come to hand a little earlier.

If that had happened, he would never have made the attempt upon the

papers, and might have broken with Saxton without the necessity for any

explanation with Devine. He had no doubt that the latter had acquainted

his wife and Barbara, which meant that he would be branded for ever as

rather worse than a thief in her eyes. The money which would have saved

him, and might have bought him happiness, was he felt, almost useless to

him now.

In the meanwhile, Allonby had turned to his own correspondence, and the

shanty was very still, save for the patter of the rain outside and the

doleful wailing of the pines. Brooke gazed at the letter he held with

vacant eyes, but though he scarcely seemed to notice his surroundings,

he could long afterwards recall them clearly--the litter of soil-stained

garments and mining boots, the crackling stove, the rain that flashed

through the stream of light outside the open door, and Allonby's haggard

face and wasted figure.

Then it occurred to him that there was a discrepancy between the time

when the will was made and that on which the news of it had been sent to

him, and as he stooped to pick up the papers from the floor, he came

upon a black-edged envelope. He recognized the writing, and, hastily

opening it, found it was from an English kinsman.

"You will be sorry to hear that Austin Dangerfield has succumbed at

last," he read. "He was, perhaps, a little hard upon you at one time,

but Clara and I felt that he was right in his objections to Lucy all

along, and no doubt you realized it when she married Shafton Coulson.

However that may be, the old man mentioned you frequently a little

before the end, and seemed to feel the fact that he had driven you away,

which was, no doubt, what induced him to leave you most of his personal

property. Baron and Rodway will have sent you a schedule, and, as one of

the executors, I would say that we had some difficulty in finding where

to address you until we heard from Coulson that Lucy had met you. There

is one point I feel I should refer to. As you will notice, part of the

estate is represented by stock in a Canadian mine. Austin, whose mental

grip was getting a trifle slack latterly, appears to have been led

rather too much by Shafton Coulson in the stock operations he was fond

of dabbling in, and I fancy it was by the latter's advice he made the

purchase. There is very little demand for the shares on the market here,

but you will perhaps be able to form an accurate opinion concerning

their value."

Brooke laid down the letter, and took up the lawyers' schedule. Then he

laughed curiously as he realized that a considerable proportion of his

legacy was represented by shares in the Dayspring Consols. One of the

mines, he knew, was liable to be jumped at any moment, and the other was

worthless, unless the opinion of his half-crazy companion could be taken

seriously. There were one or two more small gashes in the hillside,

concerning which the miners he had questioned appeared distinctly

dubious.

Allonby turned at the sound. "One would scarcely have fancied from that

laugh that you were feeling very much more pleased than you were when

you hadn't gone into the affair," he said.

"Then it was a tolerably accurate reflection of my state of mind," said

Brooke. "This legacy, which came along two or three months after the

time when it would have been of vital importance to me, consists in part

of shares in this very mine. That is naturally about the last thing I

would have desired or expected, and results from one of the curious

conjunctions of circumstances which, I suppose, come about now and then.

When the thing one has longed for does come along, it is generally at a

time when the wish for it has gone."

"Commiseration would be a little unnecessary," said Allonby, with

unusual quietness. "The competence you mention will certainly prove a

fortune before you are very much older."

"I don't feel by any means as sure of it as you seem to be. Still, under

the circumstances, it doesn't greatly matter."

Allonby, with some difficulty, straightened himself. "I am," he said,

not without a certain dignity which almost astonished Brooke, "a

worn-out wastrel and a whisky-tank, but I'll live to show the men who

look down on me with contemptuous pity what I was once capable of. That

is all I am holding on to life for. It is naturally not a very pleasant

one to a man with a memory."

For a moment he stood almost erect, and then collapsed suddenly into his

chair. "Devine has a brain of another and very much lower order, though

it is of a kind that is apt to prove more useful to its possessor, and

in his own sphere there are very few men to equal him. If I do not fall

down the shaft in the meanwhile, we will certainly show this province

what we can do together. And now I believe it is advisable for me to go

to bed, while I feel to some extent capable of reaching it. My head is

at least as clear as usual, but my legs are unruly."

XXIII.

BROOKE'S CONFESSION.

The Pacific express had just come in, and the C. P. R. wharf at

Vancouver was thronged with a hurrying crowd when Barbara Heathcote and

her sister stood leaning upon the rails of the S. S. _Islander_. Beneath

them the big locomotive which had hauled the dusty cars over the wild

Selkirk passes was crawling slowly down the wharf with bell tolling

dolefully, and while a feathery steam roared aloft above the tiers of

white deckhouses a stream of passengers flowed up the gangway. Barbara,

who was crossing to Victoria, watched them languidly until an

elaborately-dressed woman ascended, leaning upon the arm of a man whose

fastidious neatness of attire and air of indifference to the confusion

about him proclaimed him an Englishman. She made a very slight

inclination when the woman smiled at her.

"It is fortunate she can't very well get at us here," she said, glancing

at the pile of baggage which cut them off from the rest of the deck.

"Three or four hours of Mrs. Coulson's conversation would be a good deal

more than I could appreciate."

"You need scarcely be afraid of it in the meanwhile," said Mrs. Devine.

"It is a trifle difficult to hear one's self speak."

"For which her husband is no doubt thankful. Until I met them once or

twice I wondered why that man wore an habitually tired expression. Of

course there are Englishmen who consider it becoming, but one feels that

in his case his looks are quite in keeping with his sensations."

Mrs. Devine laughed. "You don't like the woman?"

"No," said Barbara, reflectively. "I really don't know why I shouldn't,

but I don't. She certainly poses too much, and the last time I had the

pleasure of listening to her at the Wheelers' house she patronized me

and the country too graciously. The country can get along without her

commendation."

"I wonder if she asked you anything about Brooke?"

"No," said Barbara, a trifle sharply. "Where could she have met him?"

"In England. She seemed to know he was at the Dayspring, and managed, I

fancy, intentionally, to leave me with the impression that they were

especial friends in the Old Country. I wonder if she knows he will be on

board to-day?"

"Mr. Brooke is crossing with us?" said Barbara, with an indifference her

sister had some doubts about.

"Grant seemed to expect him. He is going to buy American mining

machinery or something of the kind in Victoria. I believe it was he

Grant left us to meet."

Barbara said nothing, though she was sensible of a curious little

thrill. She had not seen Brooke since the evening he had behaved in what

was an apparently inexplicable fashion at the ranch, and had heard very

little about him. She, however, watched the wharf intently, until she

saw Devine accost a man with a bronzed face who was quietly threading

his way through the hurrying groups, and her heart beat a trifle faster

than usual as they moved together towards the steamer. Then almost

unconsciously she turned to see if the woman they had been discussing

was also watching for him, but she had by this time disappeared.

Barbara, for no very apparent reason, felt a trifle pleased at this.

In the meanwhile Devine was talking rapidly to Brooke.

"Here is a letter for you that came in with yesterday's mail," he said.

"Struck anything more encouraging at the mine since you wrote me?"

"No," said Brooke. "I'm afraid we haven't. Still, Allonby seems as sure

as ever and is most anxious to get the new plant in."

Devine appeared thoughtful. "You'll have to knock off the big boring

machine anyway. The mine's just swallowing dollars, and we'll have to go

a trifle slower until some more come in. English directors didn't seem

quite pleased last mail. Somebody in their papers has been slating the

Dayspring properties, and there's a good deal of stock they couldn't

work off. In fact, they seemed inclined to kick at my last draft, and

we'll want two or three more thousand dollars before the month is up."

Brooke would have liked to ask several questions, but between the

clanging of the locomotive bell and the roar of steam conversation was

difficult, and when they stopped a moment at the foot of the gangway

Devine's voice only reached him in broken snatches.

"Got to keep your hand down--spin every dollar out. I'm writing straight

about another draft. Use the wires the moment you strike anything that

would give the stock a lift."

"If you're going I guess it's 'bout time you got aboard," said a seaman,

who stood ready to launch the gangway in; and Brooke, making a sign of

comprehension to Devine, went up with a run.

Then the ropes were cast off, and he sat down to open his letter under

the deckhouse, as with a sonorous blast of her whistle the big white

steamer swung out from the wharf. It was from the English kinsman who

had previously written him, and confirmed what Devine had said.

"I'm sorry you are holding so much of the Canadian mining stock," he

read. "You are, perhaps, better posted about the mine than I am, but

though the shares were largely underwritten, I understand the promoters

found it difficult to place a proportion of the rest, and my broker told

me that several holders would be quite willing to get out at well under

par already."

It was not exactly good news from any point of view, and Brooke was

pondering over it somewhat moodily when he heard a voice he recognized,

and looking up saw a woman with pale blue eyes smiling at him.

"Lucy!" he said, with evident astonishment, but no great show of

pleasure.

"You looked so occupied that I was really afraid to disturb you," said

the woman. "Shafton is talking Canadian politics with somebody, and I

wonder if you are too busy to find a chair for me."

Brooke got one, and his companion, who was the woman Barbara had alluded

to as Mrs. Coulson, sat down, and said nothing for a while as she gazed

back across the blue inlet with evident appreciation. This was, in one

respect, not astonishing, though so far as Brooke could remember she had

never been remarkably fond of scenery, for the new stone city that rose

with its towering telegraph poles roof beyond roof up the hillside,

gleaming land-locked waterway, and engirdling pines with the white blink

of ethereal snow high above them all, made a very fair picture that

afternoon.

"This," she said at last, "would really be a beautiful country if

everything wasn't quite so crude."

"It is certainly not exactly adapted to landscape-gardening," said

Brooke. "A two-thousand foot precipice and a hundred-league forest is a

trifle big. Still, I'm not sure its inhabitants would appreciate such

praise."

Lucy Coulson laughed. "They are like it in one respect--I don't mean in

size--and delightfully touchy on the subject. Now, there was a girl I

met not long ago who appeared quite displeased with me when I said that

with a little improving one might compare it to Switzerland. I told her

I scarcely felt warranted in dragging paradise in, if only because of

some of its characteristic customs. I think her name was Devane, or

something equally unusual, though it might have been her married

sister's. Perhaps it's Canadian."

She fancied a trace of indignation crept into the man's bronzed face,

but it vanished swiftly.

"One could scarcely call Miss Heathcote crude," he said.

Lucy Coulson did not inquire whether he was acquainted with the lady in

question, but made a mental note of the fact.

"It, of course, depends upon one's standard of comparison," she said.

"No doubt she comes up to the one adopted in this country. Still, though

the latter is certainly pretty, what is keeping--you--in it now?"

"Then you have heard of my good fortune?"

"Of course! Shafton and I were delighted. Your executors wrote for your

address to me."

Brooke started visibly as he recognized that she must in that case have

learned the news a month before he did, for a good deal had happened in

the meanwhile.

"Then it is a little curious that you did not mention it in the note you

sent inviting me to meet you at the Glacier Lake," he said.

Lucy Coulson lifted her eyes to his a moment, and then glanced aside,

while there was a significant softness in her voice as she said, "The

news seemed so good that I wanted to be the one who told it you."

Again Brooke felt a disconcerting sense of embarrassment, and because he

had no wish that she should recognize this looked at her steadily.

"It apparently became of less importance when I did not come," he said

with a trace of dryness. "There is a reliable postal service in this

country. Do you remember exactly what day you went to the Lake on?"

Mrs. Coulson laughed, and made a little half-petulant gesture. "I

fancied you did not deserve to hear it when you could not contrive to

come forty miles to see me. Still, I think I can remember the day.

Shafton had to be in Vancouver on the Wednesday----"

She told him in another moment, and Brooke was sensible of a sudden

thrill of anger that was for the most part a futile protest against the

fact that his destiny should lie at the mercy of a vain woman's idle

fancy, for had he known on the day she mentioned he would never have

made the attempt upon Devine's papers. Barbara Heathcote, he decided,

doubtless knew by this time what had brought him to the ranch on the

eventful night, and even if she did not the imposition he had been

guilty of then remained as a barrier between him and her. After

permitting her to give him credit for courage and a desire to watch over

her safety he dare not tell her he had come as a thief. Still, he

recognized that it was, after all, illogical to blame his companion for

his own folly.

"Harford," she said, gently, "are you very vexed with me?"

Brooke smiled in a somewhat strained fashion. "No," he said, "I scarcely

think I am, and I have, at least, no right to be. I don't know whether

you will consider it a sufficient excuse, but I was very busy on the day

in question. I was, you see, under the unfortunate necessity of earning

my living."

"I think there was a time when you would not have let that stand in the

way, but men are seldom very constant, are they?"

Brooke made no attempt to controvert the assertion. It seemed distinctly

wiser to ignore it, since his companion apparently did not remember that

she had now a husband who could hardly be expected to appreciate any

unwavering devotion offered her, which was a fact that had its

importance in Brooke's eyes, at least. Then she turned towards him with

disconcerting suddenness.

"Why don't you go home now you have enough to live, with a little

economy, as you were meant to do?" she said. "This country is no place

for you."

Brooke, who did not remember that she previously endeavored to lead up

to the question, started, for it was one which he had not infrequently

asked himself of late, and the answer that the opportunity of proving

his capabilities as a dam-builder and mining engineer had its

attractions was, he knew, not quite sufficient in itself. Then, as it

happened, Barbara Heathcote and Mrs. Devine, who appeared in the

companion, came towards them along the deck, and Lucy Coulson noticed

the glow in his eyes that was followed by a sudden hardening of his

face. Perhaps she guessed a little, or it was done out of wantonness,

for she laid her white-gloved hand upon his arm and leaned forward a

trifle.

"Harford," she said, looking up at him, "once upon a time you gave me

your whole confidence."

Brooke hoped his face was expressionless, for he was most unpleasantly

sensible of that almost caressing touch upon his arm, as well as of the

fact that his attitude, or, at least, that of his companion, was

distinctly liable to misconception by any one aware that she was another

man's wife. He had no longer any tenderness for her, and she had in any

case married Shafton Coulson, who, so far as he had heard, made her a

very patient as well as considerate husband.

"That was several years ago," he said.

Lucy Coulson laughed, and, though it is probable that she had seen them

approach, turned with a little start that seemed unnecessarily apparent

as Barbara and Mrs. Devine came up, while Brooke hoped his face did not

suggest what he was thinking. As a matter of fact, it was distinctly

flushed, which Barbara naturally noticed. She would have passed, but

that Mrs. Coulson stopped her with a gesture.

"So glad to see you!" she said. "Can't you stay a little and talk to us?

One is out of the breeze under the deck-house here. Harford, there are

two unoccupied chairs yonder."

Brooke wished she would not persist in addressing him as Harford, but he

brought the chairs, and Mrs. Devine, who had her own reasons for falling

in with the suggestion, sat down. Barbara had no resource but to take

the place beside her, and Lucy Coulson smiled at both of them.

"I believe Mrs. Devine mentioned that you had met Mr. Brooke," she said

to the girl. "He is, of course, a very old friend of mine."

She contrived to give the words a significance which Brooke winced at,

but he sat watching Barbara covertly while the others talked, or rather

listened while Lucy Coulson did. Barbara scarcely glanced at him, but he

fancied that Devine had not told her yet, or she would not have joined a

group which included him at all. The position was not exactly a pleasant

one, but he could think of no excuse for going away, and listened

vacantly. Lucy Coulson, as it happened, was discoursing upon Canada,

which when she did not desire to please a Canadian was a favorite topic

of hers. Barbara, however, on this occasion only watched her with a

little reposeful smile, and so half an hour slipped by while, with

mastheads swinging lazily athwart the blue, the white-painted steamer

rolled along, past rocky islets shrouded in dusky pines, across a

shining sea above which white lines of snow gleamed ethereally.

Mrs. Coulson, however, had no eyes to spare for any of it, for when they

were not fixed upon the girl she was watching Brooke.

"Some of the men we met in the mountains were delightfully

inconsequent," she said at length. "There was one called Saxton at a

mine, who spent a good deal of one afternoon telling us about the

reforms that ought to be made in the administration of this province,

and which I fancy he intended to effect. It was, of course, not a

subject I was greatly interested in, but the man was so much in earnest

that one had to listen to him, and Shafton told me afterwards that he

was, where business was concerned, evidently a great rascal. Shafton,

you know, enjoys listening quietly and afterwards turning people inside

out for inspection. Still, perhaps, it was a little unwise to single the

man out individually. There is always a risk of somebody who hears you

being a friend of the person when you do that kind of thing--and now I

remember he mentioned Mr. Brooke."

Brooke noticed that Barbara cast a swift glance at him, and wondered

with sudden anger if Lucy Coulson had not already done him harm enough.

Then Barbara turned towards the latter.

"Saxton," she said quietly, "is an utterly unprincipled man. I really do

not think we have many like him in this country. You probably mistook

his reference to Mr. Brooke."

Mrs. Coulson laughed. "Of course, I may have done, though I almost think

he said Harford was a partner of his. Perhaps, however, he had a purpose

in telling us that, for he had been trying to sell Shafton some land

company's shares, though if it hadn't been true he would scarcely have

ventured to mention it."

There was a sudden silence, and Brooke, who felt Barbara's eyes upon

him, heard the splash of water along the steamer's plates and the

throbbing of the screw. He also saw that Mrs. Devine was rather more

intent than usual, and that Lucy Coulson was wondering at the effect of

what she had said. He could, he fancied, acquit her of any ill intent,

but that was no great consolation, for he could not controvert her

assertion, and he felt that now she had mentioned the condemning fact

his one faint chance was to let Barbara have the explanation from his

own lips instead of asking it from Devine. Still, he could scarcely do

so when the rest were there, and Lucy Coulson, at least, showed no

intention of leaving him and the girl alone. It was, in fact, almost an

hour later when her husband crossed the deck and she rose.

"Shafton has nobody to talk to, and one has to remember their duty now

and then," she said.

Then as the steamer swung round a nest of reefs that rose out of a white

swirl of tide the sea breeze swept that side of the deckhouse and Mrs.

Devine departed for another wrap or shawl. Lifting her head Barbara

looked at the man steadily.

"Was that woman's story true?" she said.

Brooke made a little gesture which implied that he attempted no defence.

"It was," he said.

A faint spark crept into Barbara's eyes, and a tinge of color into her

cheek. "You know what you are admitting?"

"I am afraid I do."

Barbara Heathcote had a temper, and though she usually held it in check

it swept her away just then.

"Then, though we only discovered it afterwards, you knew that Saxton was

scheming against my brother-in-law, and bought up the timber-rights to

extort money from him?"

Again Brooke made a little gesture, and the girl, who seemed stirred as

he had scarcely believed her capable of being, straightened herself

rigidly.

"And yet you crept into his house, and permitted us--it is very hard to

say it--to make friends with you! Had you no sense of fitness? Can't you

even speak?"

Brooke was too confused, and the girl too furious, for either of them to

realize the significance of her anger, since the fact that she had

merely permitted him to meet her as an acquaintance at the ranch

scarcely seemed to warrant that almost passionate outbreak.

"I'm afraid there is nothing I can plead in extenuation except that

Grant Devine's agent swindled me," he said.

Barbara laughed scornfully. "And you felt that would warrant you playing

the part you did. Was it a spy's part only, or were you to be a traitor,

too?"

Then Brooke, who lost his head, did what was at the moment, at least, a

most unwise thing.

"I expect I deserve all you can say or think of me," he said. "Still, I

can't help a fancy that you are not quite free from responsibility."

"I?" said Barbara, incredulously.

Brooke nodded. "Yes," he said, desperately, "you heard me correctly.

Under the circumstances it isn't exactly complimentary or particularly

easy to explain. Still, you see, you showed me that the content with my

surroundings I was sinking into was dangerous when you came to the

Quatomac ranch; and afterwards the more I saw of you the more I realized

what the six thousand dollars I hoped to secure from Devine would give

me a chance of attaining."

He broke off abruptly, as though afraid to venture further, and Barbara

watched him a moment, breathless with anger, with lips set. There was

nobody on that part of the deck just then, and the steady pounding of

the engines broke through what the man felt to be an especially

disconcerting silence. Then she laughed in a fashion that stung him like

a whip.

"And you fancied there were girls in this country with anything worth

offering who would be content with such a man as you are?" she said.

"One has, however, to bear with a good deal that is said about Canada,

and perhaps you would have been able to keep the deception that gained

the appreciation of one of them up. You are proficient at that kind of

thing."

"I am quite aware that the excuse is a very poor one."

The girl felt that whether it was dignified or not the relief speech

afforded was imperative.

"Haven't you even the wit to urge the one creditable thing you did?"

Brooke contrived to meet her eyes. "You mean when I came into the ranch

one night. You don't know that was merely a part of the rest?"

The blood rushed to Barbara's face. "The man was your confederate, and

you fell out over the booty--or perhaps you heard me coming and arranged

the little scene for my benefit?"

"No," said Brooke, with a harsh laugh. "In that case the climax of it

would have been unnecessarily realistic. You may remember that he shot

me. Still, since you may as well know the worst of me, it happened that

we both came there with the same purpose, which is somewhat naturally

accounted for by the fact that your brother-in-law was away that night."

"And you allowed me to sympathize with you for your injury and to

fancy----"

Barbara broke off abruptly, for it appeared inadvisable under the

circumstances to let him know what motive she had accredited him with.

"My brother-in-law is naturally not aware of this?" she said.

"I, at least, considered it necessary to acquaint him with most of it

before I went to the Dayspring. No doubt you will find it difficult to

credit that, but if it appears worth while you can of course confirm it.

You would evidently have been less tolerant than he has shown himself!"

Barbara stood up, and Brooke became sensible of intense relief as he saw

Mrs. Devine was approaching with a bundle of wraps.

"I would sooner have sacrificed the mine than continue to have any

dealings with you," she said.

Then she turned away, and left him sitting somewhat limply in his chair

and staring vacantly at the sea. He saw no more of her during the rest

of the voyage, but when two hours later the steamer reached Victoria he

went straight to the cable company's office and sent his kinsman in

England a message which somewhat astonished him.

"Buy Dayspring on my account as far as funds will go," it read.

XXIV.

ALLONBY STRIKES SILVER.

Winter had closed in early, with Arctic severity, and the pines were

swathed in white and gleaming with the frost when Brooke stood one

morning beside the crackling stove in the shanty he and Allonby occupied

at the Dayspring mine. A very small piece of rancid pork was frizzling

in the frying-pan, and he was busy whipping up two handfuls of flour

with water, to make flapjacks of. He could readily have consumed twice

as much alone, for it was twelve hours since his insufficient six

o'clock supper, but he realized that it was advisable to curb his

appetite. Supplies had run very low, and the lonely passes over which

the trail to civilization led were blocked with snow, while it was a

matter of uncertainty when the freighter and his packhorse train could

force his way in.

When the flour was ready he stirred the stove to a brisker glow, and,

crossing the room, flung open the outer door. It was still an hour or

two before sunrise, and the big stars scintillated with an intensity of

frosty radiance, though the deep indigo of the cloudless vault was

paling in color, and the pines were growing into definite form. Here and

there a sombre spire or ragged branch rose harshly from the rest, but,

for the most part, they were smeared with white, and his eyes were

dazzled by the endless vista of dimly-gleaming snow. Towering peak and

serrated rampart rose hard and sharp against a background of coldest

blue. There was no sound, for the glaciers' slushy feet that fed the

streams had hardened into adamant, and a deathlike silence pervaded the

frozen wilderness.

Brooke felt the cold strike through him with the keenness of steel, and

was about to cross the space between the shanty and the men's log

shelter, when a dusky figure, beating its arms across its chest, came

out of the latter.

"Are the rest of the boys stirring yet?" he said.

The man laughed, and his voice rang with a curious distinctness through

the nipping air.

"I guess we've had the stove lit 'most an hour ago," he said. "They've

no use for being frozen, and that's what's going to happen to some of us

unless we can make Truscott's before it's dark. Say, hadn't you better

change your mind, and come along with us?"

Brooke made a little sign of negation, though it would have pleased him

to fall in with the suggestion. Work is seldom continued through the

winter at the remoter mines, and he had most unwillingly decided to pay

off the men, owing to the difficulty of transporting provisions and

supplies. There was, however, a faint probability of somebody attempting

to jump the unoccupied claim, and he had of late become infected by

Allonby's impatience, while he felt that he could not sit idle in the

cities until the thaw came round again. Still, he was quite aware that

he ran no slight risk by remaining.

"I'm not sure that it wouldn't be wiser, but I've got to stay," he said.

"Anyway, Allonby wouldn't come."

The other man dropped his voice a little. "That don't count. If you'll

stand in, we'll take him along on the jumper sled. The old tank's 'most

played out, and it's only the whisky that's keeping the life in him.

He'll go out on the long trail sudden when there's no more of it, and

it's going to be quite a long while before the freighter gets a load

over the big divide."

Brooke knew that this was very likely, but he shook his head. "I'm half

afraid it would kill him to leave the mine," he said. "It's the hope of

striking silver that's holding him together as much as the whisky."

"Well," said the man, who laughed softly, "I've been mining and

prospecting most of twenty years, and it's my opinion that, except the

little you're getting on the upper level, there's not a dollar's worth

of silver here. Now I guess Harry will have breakfast ready."

He moved away, and when Brooke went back into the shanty, Allonby came

out of an inner room shivering. His face showed grey in the lamplight,

and he looked unusually haggard and frail.

"It's bitter cold, and I seem to feel it more than I did last year," he

said. "We will, however, be beyond the necessity of putting up with any

more unpleasantness of the kind long before another one is over. I shall

probably feel adrift then--it will be difficult, in my case, to pick up

the thread of the old life again."

"If you stay here, I'm not sure you'll have an opportunity of doing it

at all," said Brooke. "It's a risk a stronger man than you are might

shrink from."

"Still, I intend to take it. We have gone into this before. If I leave

Dayspring before I find the silver, I leave it dead."

Brooke made a little gesture of resignation. "Well," he said, "I have

done all I could, and now, if you will pour that flour into the pan,

we'll have breakfast."

Both men were silent during the frugal meal, for they knew what they had

to look forward to, and the cold silence of the lonely land already

weighed upon their spirits. Long weeks of solitude must be dragged

through before the men who were going south that morning came back

again, while there might very well be interludes of scarcity, and hunger

is singularly hard to bear with the temperature at forty degrees below.

Allonby only trifled with his food, and smiled drily when at last he

thrust his plate aside.

"Dollars are not to be picked up easily anywhere, and you and I are

going to find out the full value of them before the thaw begins again,"

he said. "We shall, no doubt, also discover how thoroughly nauseated one

can become with his companion's company. I have heard of men wintering

in the mountains who tried to kill one another."

Brooke laughed. "It's scarcely likely we will go quite as far as that,

though I certainly remember two men in the Quatomac Valley who flung

everything in the range at each other periodically. One was inordinately

fond of green stuff, and his partner usually started the circus by

telling him to take his clothes off, and go out like Nebuchadnezzar.

They refitted with wood-pulp ware when the proceedings became

expensive."

Just then there was a knock upon the door, which swung open, and a

cluster of shadowy figures, with their breath floating like steam about

them, appeared outside it. One of them flung a deerhide bag into the

room.

"We figured we needn't trail quite so much grub along, and I guess

you'll want it," a voice said. "Neither of you changed your minds 'bout

lighting out of this?"

"I don't like to take it from you, boys," said Brooke, who recognized

the rough kindliness which had prompted the men to strip themselves of

the greater portion of their provisions. "You can't have more than

enough for one day's march left."

"I guess a man never hits the trail so hard as when he knows he has to,"

somebody said. "It will keep us on the rustle till we fetch Truscott's.

Well, you're not coming?"

For just a moment Brooke felt his resolution wavering, and, under

different circumstances, he might have taken Allonby by force, and gone

with them, but by a somewhat involved train of reasoning he felt that it

was incumbent upon him to stay on at the mine because Barbara Heathcote

had once trusted him. It had been tolerably evident from her attitude

when he had last seen her, that she had very little confidence in him

now, but that did not seem to affect the question, and most men are a

trifle illogical at times.

"No," he said, with somewhat forced indifference. "Still, I don't mind

admitting that I wish we were."

The man laughed. "Then I guess we'll pull out. We'll think of you two

now and then when we're lying round beside the stove in Vancouver."

Brooke said nothing further. There was a tramp of feet, and the shadowy

figures melted into the dimness beneath the pines. Then the last

footfall died away, and the silence of the mountains suddenly seemed to

grow overwhelming. Brooke turned to Allonby, who smiled.

"You will," he said, "feel it considerably worse before the next three

months are over, and probably be willing to admit that there is some

excuse for my shortcomings in one direction. I have, I may mention, put

in a good many winters here."

Brooke swung round abruptly. "I'm going to work in the mine. It's

fortunate that one man can just manage that new boring machine."

He left Allonby in the shanty, and toiled throughout that day, and

several dreary weeks, during most of which the pines roared beneath the

icy gales and blinding snow swirled down the valley. What he did was of

very slight effect, but it kept him from thinking, which, he felt, was a

necessity, and he only desisted at length from physical incapacity for

further labor. The snow, it was evident, had choked the passes, so that

no laden beast could make the hazardous journey over them, for the

anxiously-expected freighter did not arrive, and there was an increasing

scarcity of provisions as the days dragged by; while Brooke discovered

that a handful of mouldy floor and a few inches of rancid pork daily is

not sufficient to keep a man's full strength in him. Then, when an

Arctic frost followed the snow, Allonby fell sick, and one bitter

evening, when an icy wind came wailing down the valley, it dawned upon

his comrade that his condition was becoming precarious. Saying nothing,

he busied himself about the stove, and smiled reassuringly when Allonby

turned to him.

"Are we to hold a festival to-night, since you seem to be cooking what

should keep us for a week?" said the latter.

"I almost fancy it would keep one of us for several days, which, since

you do not seem especially capable of getting anything ready for

yourself, is what it is intended to do," said Brooke. "I shall probably

be that time in making the settlement and getting back again."

"What are you going there for?"

"To bring out the doctor."

Allonby raised his head and looked at him curiously. "Are you sure that,

with six or eight feet of snow on the divide, you could ever get there?"

"Well," said Brooke, cheerfully, "I believe I could, and, if I don't,

you will be very little worse off than you were before. You see, the

provisions will not last two of us more than a few days longer, and you

can take it that I will do all I can to get through the snow. Since you

are not the only man who is anxious to find the silver, your health is a

matter of importance to everybody just now."

Allonby smiled curiously. "We will consider that the reason, and it is a

tolerably good one, or I would not let you go. Still, I fancy you have

another, and it is appreciated. There is, however, something more to be

said. You will find my working plans in the case yonder should anything

unexpected happen before you come back. Life, you know, is always a

trifle uncertain."

"That," said Brooke, decisively, "is morbid nonsense. You will be down

the mine again in a week after the doctor comes."

"Well," said Allonby, with a curious quietness, "I should, at least,

very much like to find the silver."

Brooke changed the subject somewhat abruptly, and it was an hour later

when he shook hands with his comrade and went out into the bitter night

with two blankets strapped upon his shoulders. Their parting was not

demonstrative, though they realized that the grim spectre with the

scythe would stalk close behind each of them until they met again, and

Brooke, turning on the threshold, saw Allonby following him with

comprehending eyes. Then he suddenly pulled the door to, shutting out

the lamplight and the alluring red glow of the stove, and swung forward,

knee-deep in dusty snow, into the gloom of the pines. The silence of the

great white land was overwhelming, and the frost struck through him.

It was late on the third night when he floundered into a little sleeping

settlement, and leaned gasping against the door of the doctor's house

before he endeavored to rouse its occupant. The latter stared at him

almost aghast when he opened it, lamp in hand, and Brooke reeled, grey

in the face with weariness and sheeted white with frozen snow, into the

light.

"Steady!" he said, slipping his arm through Brooke's. "Come in here.

Now, keep back from the stove. I'll get you something that will fix you

up in a minute. You came in from the Dayspring--over the divide? I heard

the freighter telling the boys it couldn't be done."

Brooke laughed harshly. "Well," he said, "you see me here, and, if

that's not sufficient, you're going to prove the range can be crossed

yourself to-morrow."

The doctor was new to that country, and he was very young, or he would,

in all probability, not been there at all, but when he heard Brooke's

story he nodded tranquilly. "I'm afraid I haven't done any

mountaineering, but I had the long-distance snowshoe craze rather bad

back in Montreal," he said. "You're not going to give me very much of a

lead over the passes, anyway, unless you sleep the next twelve hours."

Brooke, as it happened, slept for six and then set out with the young

doctor in blinding snow. He had forty to fifty pounds upon his back now,

and once they left the sheltering timber it cost them four strenuous

hours to make a thousand feet. Part of that night they lay awake,

shivering in the pungent fir smoke in a hollow of the rocks, and started

again, aching in every limb, long before the lingering dawn, while the

next day passed like a very unpleasant dream with the young doctor. The

snow had ceased, and lay without cohesion, dusty and dry as flour,

waist-deep where the bitter winds had whirled it in wreaths, while the

glare of the white peaks became intolerable under the cloudless sun.

For hours they crawled through juniper scrub or stunted wisps of pines,

where the trunks the winds had reaped lay piled upon each other in

tangled confusion, with the sifting snow blown in to conceal the

pitfalls between. By afternoon the doctor was flagging visibly, and

white peaks and climbing timber reeled formlessly before his dazzled

eyes as he struggled onward the rest of that day. Then, when the

pitiless blue above them grew deeper in tint until the stars shone in

depths of indigo, and the ranges fading from silver put on dim shades of

blueness that enhanced their spotless purity, they stopped again, and

made shift to boil the battered kettle in a gully, down which there

moaned a little breeze that seared every patch of unprotected skin. The

doctor collapsed behind a boulder, and lay there limply while Brooke fed

the fire.

"I'm 'most afraid you'll have to fix supper yourself to-night," he said.

"Just now I don't quite know how I'm going to start to-morrow, though it

will naturally have to be done."

Brooke glanced round at the grim ramparts of ice and snow that cut

sharp against the indigo. Night as it was, there was no softness in that

scheme of color lighted by the frosty scintillations of the stars, and a

shiver ran through his stiffened limbs.

"Yes," he said. "Nobody not hardened to it could expect to stand more

than another day in the open up here."

He got the meal ready, but very little was said during it, and for a few

hours afterwards the doctor lay coughing in the smoke of the fire, while

his gum-boots softened and grew hard again as he drew his feet, which

pained him intolerably between whiles, a trifle further from the

crackling brands. He staggered when at last Brooke, finding that shaking

was unavailing, dragged him upright.

"Breakfast's almost ready, and we have got to make the mine by

to-night," he said.

The doctor could never remember how they accomplished it, but his lips

were split and crusted with coagulated blood, while there seemed to be

no heat left in him, when Brooke stopped on a ridge of the hillside as

dusk was closing in.

"The mine is close below us. In fact, we should have seen it from where

we are," he said.

Worn out as he was, the doctor noticed the grimness of his tone. "The

nearer the better," he said. "I don't quite know how I got here, but you

scarcely seem at ease."

"I was wondering why Allonby, who does not like the dark, has not

lighted up yet," Brooke said, drily. "We will probably find out in a few

more minutes."

Then he went reeling down the descending trail, and did not stop again

until he stood amidst the piles of debris and pine stumps, with the

shanty looming dimly in front of him across the little clearing. It

seemed very dark and still, and the doctor, who came up gasping, stopped

abruptly when his comrade's shout died away. The silence that closed in

again seemed curiously eerie.

"He must have heard you at that distance," he said.

"Yes," said Brooke, a trifle hoarsely. "If he didn't, there's only one

thing that could have accounted for it."

Then they went on again slowly, until Brooke flung the door of the

shanty open. There was no fire in the stove, and the place was very

cold, while the darkness seemed oppressive.

"Strike a match--as soon as you can get it done," said the doctor.

Brooke broke several as he tore them off the block with half-frozen

fingers, for the Canadian sulphur matches are not usually put up in

boxes, and then a pale blue luminescence crept across the room when he

held one aloft. It sputtered out, leaving a pungent odor, and thick

darkness closed in again; but for a moment Brooke felt a curious relief.

"He's not here," he said.

The doctor understood the satisfaction in his voice, for his eyes had

also turned straight towards the rough wooden bunk, and he had not

expected to find it empty.

"The man must have been fit to walk. Where has he gone?" he said.

Brooke fancied he knew, and, groping round the room, found and lighted a

lantern. Its radiance showed that his face was grim again.

"If you can manage to drag yourself as far as the mine, I think it would

be advisable," he said. "It seems to me significant that the stove is

quite cold. One would fancy there had been no fire in it for several

hours now."

The doctor went with him, and somehow contrived to descend the shaft.

Brooke leaned out from the ladder, swinging his lantern when they neared

the bottom, and his shout rang hollowly among the rocks. There was no

answer, and even the doctor, who had never seen Allonby, felt the

silence that followed it.

"If the man was as ill as you fancied how could he have got down?" he

said.

"I don't know," said Brooke. "Still, I think we shall come upon him not

very far away."

They went down a little further into the darkness, and then the

prediction was warranted, for Brooke swung off his hat, and the doctor

dropped on one knee when Allonby's white face appeared in the moving

light. He lay very still, with one arm under him, and, when a few

seconds had slipped by, the doctor looked up and, meeting Brooke's eyes,

nodded.

"Yes," he said. "It must have happened at least twelve hours ago. How, I

can't tell exactly. Cardiac affection, I fancy. Anyway, not a fall.

There is something in his hand, and a bundle of papers beside him."

Brooke glanced away from the dead man, and noticed the stain of giant

powder on the rock, and shattered fragments that had not been where they

lay when he had last descended. Then he turned again, and took the piece

of stone the doctor had, with some difficulty, dislodged from the cold

fingers.

"It's heavy," said the latter.

"Yes," said Brooke, quietly. "A considerable percentage of it is either

lead or silver. You are no doubt right in your diagnosis; so far as it

goes, I'm inclined to fancy I know what brought on the cardiac

affection."

The doctor, who said nothing, handed him the papers, and Brooke, who

opened them vacantly, started a little when he saw the jagged line,

which, in drawings of the kind, usually indicates a break, was now

traced across the ore vein in the plan. There was also a scrap of paper,

with his name scrawled across it, and he read, "When you have got your

dollars back four or five times over, sell out your stock."

He scarcely realized its significance just then, and, moving the

lantern a little, looked down on Allonby's face again. It was very white

and quiet, and the signs of indulgence had faded from it, while Brooke

was sensible of a curious thrill of compassion.

"I wonder if the thing we long for most invariably comes when it is no

use to us?" he said. "Well, we will go back to the shanty."

There was nothing more that any man could do for Allonby until the

morrow, and the darkness once more closed in on him, while the

flickering light grew fainter up the shaft.

XXV.

BARBARA IS MERCILESS.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening when Brooke stopped a moment

as he entered the verandah of Devine's house, which stood girt about by

sombre pines on a low rise divided by a waste of blackened stumps and

branches from the outskirts of Vancouver city. Beneath him rose the

clustering roofs and big electric lights, and a little lower still a

broad track of silver radiance, athwart which a great ship rode with

every spar silhouetted black as ebony, streaked the inlet. Though the

frost was arctic in the ranges he had left a few days ago, it was almost

warm down there, and he felt that he would have preferred to linger on

the verandah, or even go back to his hotel, for the front of the wooden

house was brilliantly lighted, and he could hear the chords of a piano.

It was evident that Mrs. Devine was entertaining, and standing there,

draped from neck to ankles in an old fur coat, he felt that he with his

frost-nipped face and hard, scarred hands would be distinctly out of

place amidst an assembly of prosperous citizens, while he was by no

means certain how Mrs. Devine or Barbara would receive him. Often as he

had thought of the latter, since he made his confession, he felt

scarcely equal to meeting her just then. Still, it was necessary that he

should see Devine, who was away at the neighboring city of New

Westminster, when Brooke called at his office soon after the Pacific

express arrived that afternoon, but had left word that he would be at

home in the evening and would expect him; and flinging his cigar away he

moved towards the door.

A Chinese house boy took his coat from him in the hall, and as he stood

under the big lamp it happened that Barbara came out of an adjacent door

with two companions. Brooke felt his heart throb, though he did not

move, and the girl, who turned her head a moment in his direction,

crossed the hall, and vanished through another door. Then he smiled very

grimly, for, though she made no sign of being aware of his presence, he

felt that she had seen him. This was no more than he had expected, but

it hurt nevertheless. In the meanwhile the house boy had also vanished,

and it was a minute or two later when Mrs. Devine appeared, but Brooke

could not then or afterwards decide whether she had heard the truth

concerning him, for, though this seemed very probable, he knew that

Barbara could be reticent, and surmised that Devine did not tell his

wife everything. In any case, she did not shake hands with him.

"My husband, who has just come home, is waiting for you in his

smoking-room," she said. "It is the second door down the corridor."

Brooke fancied that she could have been a trifle more cordial, but the

fact that she sent nobody to show him the way, at least, was readily

accounted for in a country where servants of any kind are remarkably

scarce. It also happened that while he proceeded along the corridor one

of Barbara's companions turned to her.

"Did you see the man in the hall as we passed through?" she said. "I

didn't seem to recognize him."

Barbara was not aware that her face hardened a trifle, but her companion

noticed that it did. She had certainly seen the man, and had felt his

eyes upon her, while it also occurred to her that he looked worn and

haggard, and she had almost been stirred to compassion. He had made no

claim to recognition, but his face had not been quite expressionless,

and she had seen the wistfulness in it. There was, in fact, a certain

forlornness about his attitude which had its effect on her, and it was,

perhaps, because of this she had suddenly hardened herself against him.

"He is a Mr. Brooke--from the mine," she said.

"Brooke!" said her companion. "The man from the Dayspring? I should like

to talk to him."

Barbara made a little gesture, the meaning of which was not especially

plain. She had read the sensational account of the journey Brooke and

the doctor had made through the ranges, which had by some means been

supplied the press. It made it plain to her that the man was doing and

enduring a good deal, and she was not disposed to be unduly severe upon

a repentant offender, even though she fancied that nothing he could do

would ever reinstate him in the place he once held in her estimation.

The difficulty, however, was that she could not be sure he was contrite

at all, or had not sent that story to the press himself with a purpose,

though she realized that the last course was a trifle unlikely in his

case.

"Since Grant Devine will probably bring him in you may get your wish,"

she said, indifferently.

Devine in the meanwhile was gravely turning over several pieces of

broken rock which Brooke had handed him.

"Yes," he said, "that's most certainly galena, and carrying good metal

by the weight of it. How much of it's lead and how much silver I

naturally don't know yet, but, anyway, it ought to leave a good margin

on the smelting. You haven't proved the vein?"

"No," said Brooke, "I fancy we are only on the edge of it, but it would

have cost me two or three weeks' work to break out enough of rock to

form any very clear opinion alone, and I was scarcely up to it. It

occurred to me that I had better come down and get the necessary men,

though I'm not sure we can contrive to feed them or induce them to

come."

Devine nodded. "You must have had the toughest kind of time!" he said.

"Well, we'll bid double wages, and you can offer that freight contractor

his own figure to bring provisions in."

He stopped abruptly with a glance at Brooke's haggard face. "I guess you

can hold out another month or two."

"Of course," said Brooke, quietly.

"It's worth while. Allonby was quite dead when you got back to him?"

"Yes, I and the doctor buried him. We used giant powder."

Devine laid down his cigar. "It was a little rough on Allonby, for it

was his notion that the ore was there, and now, when it seems we've

struck it, it's not going to be any use to him. I guess that man put a

good deal more than dollars into the mine."

Brooke, who had lived with Allonby, knew that this was true, but Devine

made a little abrupt gesture which seemed to imply that after all that

aspect of the question did not greatly concern them.

"I'll send you every man we can raise," he said. "I've got quite a big

credit through from London, and we can cut expenses by letting up a

little on the Canopus."

"But you expected a good deal from that mine."

"No," said Devine, drily, "I can't say I did. It's quite a while since

we got a good clean up out of it."

Brooke sat silent, apparently regarding his cigar, for a moment or two.

"Are you sure it's wise to tell me so much?" he said. "There are men in

this city who would make good use of any information I might furnish

them with."

Devine smiled in a curious fashion. "Well," he said, reflectively, "I

guess it is. You've had about enough of playing Saxton's game, and,

though I don't know that everybody would do it, I'm going to trust you."

"Thank you," said Brooke, quietly.

Devine, who took up his cigar again, made a little movement with his

hand. "We'll let that slide. Now when I got the specimen and your note

which the doctor sent on I figured I'd increase my holding, and cabled a

buying order to London, but I had to pay more for the stock than I

expected. It appears that a man, called Cruttenden, had been quietly

taking any that was put on the market up."

Brooke knew that his trustee had, as directed, been buying the Dayspring

shares, but he desired to ascertain how far Devine's confidence in him

went.

"That didn't suggest anything to you?" he said.

"No," said Devine, drily, "it didn't--and I've answered your question

once. Besides, the man who snapped up every thing that was offered

hadn't waited until you struck the ore. Still, I'd very much like to

know what he was buying that stock for."

Brooke did not tell him. Indeed, he was not exactly sure what had

induced him to cable Cruttenden to buy. He had acted on impulse with

Barbara's scornful words ringing in his ears, and a vague feeling that

to share the risks of the man he had plotted against would be some small

solace to him, for he had not at the time the slightest notion that the

hasty act of self-imposed penance was to prove remarkably profitable.

"I scarcely think it is worth while worrying over that point," he said.

"There are folks in our country with more money than sense, or a good

many foreign mines would never be floated, and it is just as likely that

the man did not exactly know why he was doing it himself."

Devine laughed. "Well," he said, "we'll go along now and see what the

rest are doing."

Brooke would considerably sooner have gone back to his hotel, but Devine

persisted, and he was one who usually carried out his purpose. Brooke

was accordingly presented to a good many people whom he had never seen

before, and did not find remarkably entertaining, though he fancied that

most of them appeared a trifle interested when they heard his name. The

reason for this did not, however, become apparent until he stopped close

by a girl who looked up at him. She was young, but evidently by no

means diffident.

"You are Brooke of the Dayspring, are you not?" she said, making room

for him beside her.

"I certainly come from that mine," said Brooke, and the girl turned to

one of her companions.

"You wouldn't believe he was the man," she said.

Brooke was not altogether unaccustomed to the directness of the West,

but he felt a trifle embarrassed when two pairs of eyes were fixed upon

him in what seemed to be an appreciative scrutiny.

"One would almost fancy that you had heard of me," he said.

The girl laughed. "Well," she said, "most of the folks in this province

who read newspapers have. There was a column about you and your sick

partner and the doctor. You carried him across the range when he was too

played out to walk, didn't you?"

"No," said Brooke, a trifle astonished. "I certainly did not. He was a

good deal too heavy, as a matter of fact, and I was not very fit to drag

myself. But when did this quite unwarranted narrative come out, and what

shape did it take?"

They told him as nearly as they could remember, and added running

comments and questions both at once.

"You had almost nothing to eat for a week when you started across the

range to bring the doctor out. That must have been horrid--and what did

it feel like?" said one.

Brooke shook his head. "I really don't know," he said. "I should

recommend you to try it."

"And then the poor man was dead when you got there--I 'most cried over

him. There was a good deal about it. It must have been creepy coming

upon him lying in the dark."

Brooke, who understood a little about Western journalism, waited until

they stopped, for the thing was becoming comprehensible to him.

"Now," he said, "I know how the story got out. I didn't think the doctor

would be guilty of anything of that kind, but no doubt he told the

little schoolmaster at the settlement, who is a friend of his, and, I

believe, addicted to misusing ink. Still, you see, the thing is

evidently inaccurate. Do I look as if I could do without anything to eat

for a week?"

One of the girls again favored him with a scrutinizing glance. "Well,"

she said, with a little twinkle in her eyes, "you certainly look as

though square meals were scarce at the Dayspring."

Brooke laughed, and then glancing round saw Barbara approaching. He

fancied that she could not well have avoided seeing him unless she

wished to, but she passed so close that her skirt almost touched him,

and then stopped, apparently smiling down on a matronly lady a few yards

away. Brooke felt his face grow warm, and was glad that his companions'

questions covered his confusion.

"Who'd you get to do the funeral? There wouldn't be any kind of

clergyman up there."

"No," said Brooke, grimly. "We had to manage it ourselves--that is, the

doctor did. I'm afraid it wasn't very ceremonious--and it was snowing

hard at the time."

He sat silent a moment while a little shiver ran through him as he

remembered the bitter blast that had whirled the white flakes about the

two lonely men, and shaken a mournful wailing from the thrashing pines.

"How dreadful!" said one of his companions. "The story only mentioned

the big glacier, and the forest lying black all round."

Brooke fancied he understood the narrator's reticence, for there were

details the doctor was not likely to be communicative about.

"The big glacier was, at least, three miles away, and nobody could have

seen it from where we stood," he said, evasively.

Just then, and somewhat to his relief, Mrs. Devine came up to him.

"There are two or three people here who heard you play at the concert,

and I have been asked to try to persuade you to do so again," she said.

"Clarice Marvin would be delighted to lend you her violin."

Seeing that it was expected of him, Brooke agreed, and there was a

brief discussion during the choosing of the music, in which two or three

young women took part. Then it was discovered that the piano part of the

piece fixed upon was unusually difficult, and the girl who had offered

Brooke the violin said, "You must ask Barbara, Mrs. Devine."

Barbara, being summoned, made excuses when she heard what was required

of her, until the lady violinist looked at her in wonder.

"Now," she said, "you know you can play it if you want to. You went

right through it with me only a week ago."

A faint tinge of color crept into Barbara's cheek, but saying nothing

further, she took her place at the piano, and Brooke bent down towards

her when he asked for the note.

"It really doesn't commit you to anything," he said. "Still, I can

obviate the difficulty by breaking a string."

Barbara met his questioning gaze with a little cold smile.

"It is scarcely worth while," she said.

Then she commenced the prelude, and there was silence in the big room

when the violin joined in. Nor were those who listened satisfied with

one sonata, and Barbara had finished the second before she once more

remembered whom she was playing for. Then there was a faint sparkle in

her eyes as she looked up at him.

"It is unfortunate that you did not choose music as a career," she said.

Brooke laughed, though his face was a trifle grim.

"The inference is tolerably plain," he said. "I really think I should

have been more successful than I was at claim-jumping."