King moved slowly towards McCartney. He faced the big foreman for a
moment, his arms rigid at his sides. Suddenly McCartney's hand shot out
and King stepped back just in time to avoid the full force of a blow
that, as it was, glanced from his cheek. Slowly King's two hands came
up and closed in a convulsive grip. While the men waited breathlessly he
stood trembling from the struggle that was going on within him--then he
wheeled quickly and going to the door, opened it, and went out.
In the darkness, King, without any thought of picking his way through
the mud and water, hurried round the corner of Cheney's place and
started down the roadway to where his horse stood tethered in front of
old man Hurley's office. Only once did he pause. Just as he stepped
into the street a great burst of loud laughter came to him from behind
the door he had just closed. He knew what it meant and for a moment his
grip upon himself weakened. He wanted to go back--he wanted to fight.
For a moment he hesitated. Then his mind was clear again and he went
on. All the way down the street, however, he could not help wondering
how long he would have to wait.
Then he got up into the saddle and went off along the muddy trail that
led west about half a mile to where his little shack stood upon a low
ridge that ran in upon his land.
*CHAPTER SIX*
When King Howden awoke next morning it was with a feeling that he was
beginning life in a new world. The feeling was deepened when he looked
out through the small window and saw the pools of water left by the
night's rain glistening in the bright sunlight. He had not slept
well--during the earlier part of the night he had not slept at all.
There had been much to think about, much that was perplexing and
disquieting. And yet, as he looked from his window at the new morning
and saw half a mile away the huts and white tents of The Town flooded
with sunlight, he was conscious not so much of the disappointments that
the week had brought him, as he was of the new determination, the high
resolve with which he looked into the future.
When his mind went back to his brother--as it did frequently--the memory
struck pain to his heart, but he was not melancholy. The loneliness he
felt caused him to straighten his shoulders and prepare himself to
square away before the task that lay before him. What that task was he
could only vaguely define as yet. But he was beginning to understand
that there was a man's work here--and a big man's work it was--awaiting
the coming of someone to do it. The fact had dawned upon him slowly,
but the first glimmerings of light were visible just the same. He was
coming to see that a new country, even a small, half-enclosed
valley-district such as this one, would become what the vital energies
of its men made it. He had not as yet had any clear vision of what the
country would be in years to come, when little towns and villages would
spring up here and there along the railway, when hundreds of men and
women and their families would rush in, hopeful that they might build
again--and strongly build--though their old lives in other lands had
crumbled into ruins. He had no concrete, complete conception of what
lay ahead. He had nothing but the vague hopes, the uncertain dreams, the
fleeting fancies that had come to him often during the past summer--only
now they were more vivid.
To the events of the night before he gave little or no thought--at
least, to the events that had brought him into conflict with Bill
McCartney. In fact, in his new mood he wondered how he could have come
so near to losing his temper over an affair that didn't amount to
anything after all. He had been in Cheney's before, but not often. As
he thought it over he quietly determined that the less he had to do with
Cheney the better. His determination was stiffened as he remembered the
group of men he had seen there the night before. It startled him to
think how near they had come to witnessing what might easily have been a
tragedy, because one of them was bent upon settling a dispute in his own
ill-chosen way; and out of all his thinking about these things there
grew up within him the clear understanding that only upon order and good
judgment could men hope to build for the future in a new community.
In all his wondering about these things--and much of it was very vague
wondering--there was only one element of a personal kind. He confessed
to himself now for the first time that Cherry McBain was as nearly
indispensable to him as anyone in his life had ever been. And now with
the birth of a new hope he did what any man would have done under the
circumstances--he threw his whole soul into a resolve that in the game
of life he was playing now, the prize was the heart of Cherry McBain.
Perhaps it was this thought that helped to make the world a good place
for him to live in, and the future something to set store by.
It was something of this nature at any rate that he confided to his sole
companion in the shack, old mongrel Sal, who had stood for some time
looking up into his face, her shaggy body performing all kinds of
contortions in vain attempts to attract her master's attention. Suddenly
he sat down on the side of his bed and grasping her two ears with his
hands drew her head between his knees and looked into her eyes.
"Sal, you old cuss, you," he said, shaking her head, "there's something
I'm going to tell you."
He put his face down until his cheek was resting against the side of her
head and murmured something very quietly. Then he straightened up and
with his two hands closed the dog's mouth, holding it shut a moment with
one hand round her muzzle.
Something in the mood that had come upon King caused him to look
critically round the single room that made up the interior of his shack.
One golden shaft of sunlight fell from the small window to the floor,
but the light it gave revealed a condition that, for some reason or
other, he had never been more than vaguely conscious of before. The
place was indescribably dirty. His few days' absence from the place had
given it a heavy, musty smell that was anything but pleasant. A litter
of odd bits of clothing and old papers lay where he had thrown them
probably weeks before. The heavy grey blankets on the bunk which he had
built into one corner of the shack had not been washed for months--they
had not even been spread out to the sun. The table that stood near the
window was covered with unwashed tin plates and cups, dirty knives,
forks and spoons. A bit of bread, dried hard, and some butter that had
turned to grease in the sun's rays lay where he had left them when he
went out on his last trip. Grey ashes covered the floor beside the
rusted sheet-iron stove.
King had once regarded this as belonging essentially to the only place
he knew as home. It had been perfectly natural, and far from revolting.
It had been even cosy. But in his present mood he found it disquieting.
He could not help wondering to himself how Cherry McBain's senses would
react, if she were suddenly ushered into the place.
He sprang up and threw open the door. The fresh Sunday morning air
swept in with its fragrance borne from the balm-o'-gileads that stood
near his door shaking their shining leaves in the bright sunlight. As
he drew himself up and lifted his chest his huge frame almost filled the
doorway. With a word to Sal he went out and made his way leisurely
towards the roughly-made stable that stood among the willows skirting
the ridge. The desire to put his shack into a presentable condition was
superseded by a yearning to roam lazily about the place for a while and
indulge his fancies for the future. It was a day to be free and
forgetful of duties, and after the crowded week he felt the need of a
rest. The general clean-up which he promised himself he would give to
his shack could wait--as it had waited during long months before he
became conscious of any such need. In the meantime he would feed his
horse and then stroll down to the town for some provisions.
When he returned to the shack he made himself a breakfast of oatmeal and
fried bacon. The meal was frugal but sufficient to supply his needs for
the time being, and he decided to postpone his jaunt to town until late
in the day. He wanted to take a walk over his land and think over his
plans for the coming year.
King had a real affection for the place he had chosen. He had filed his
claim long before there was any competition in the field and had secured
what he considered a choice location within easy distance of wood and
water. The soil was very rich, and the ridge with its clumps of poplars
offered an excellent spot for building. From in front of his shack he
could see not only The Town, but beyond it to the blue hills rising to
the east and extending southward in a half circle forming one rim of the
valley. Between these two ranges lay a wide plain spread out under the
blue sky, fertile, well watered and pleasantly wooded. It was not the
kind of country King had been accustomed to hearing called "a man's
land" in the rugged interior of British Columbia, where he had spent
eight of the ten years since he had come west. It was
quieter--milder--softer, maybe--and of coloring less vivid. And yet it
was a man's country, too, a country with a challenge for anyone who
cared to hear it.
It was well on in the afternoon when King got back from his tramp over
his land. For a few minutes he sat down upon the door-step and rested
before starting for The Town to get something to eat. Sal lay down near
him, panting lazily in the shade of the poplars. When he was about to
go the dog gave a sharp little bark and stood up quickly with her ears
pointed in the direction of the ridge-trail leading to town.
King got up and looked down the trail.
Soon there emerged from behind the clump of willows the figure of a man
coming towards him. King sat down again and waited. In a few moments he
recognized the figure as that of Lush Currie. As the latter approached
him King regarded him with a questioning air. There was something in
Currie's face that he could not quite understand. He offered to bring
out a bench for a seat, but Lush protested quite sincerely and sat down
on the grass under the poplars. When Currie had rolled himself a fresh
cigarette and lighted it he lifted his eyes to King and looked at him
squarely for the first time.
"I'm gettin' out," he said abruptly.
King did not reply at first, but Currie's silence prompted him to ask
what he meant.
"Just that," said Currie. "I'm goin' outside to-morrow--an' I'll not be
back."
It was no unusual thing for a member of a railway construction gang to
pack up his belongings and leave for the outside. King was at a loss to
know the exact significance of Currie's announcement.
"Before I went I wanted to see you," he continued, "an' to tell you I'm
right sorry about last night."
There was something so direct and sincere in the way Currie expressed
himself that King felt his heart warming towards the man in spite of his
recollections from the night before.
"An' that's the reason I'm gettin' out," he said a little stiffly.
"Howden, you came in on a bad mess last night--just about as bad as it
could 'a' been. If it hadn't 'a' been for you I'd 'a' been lookin' for
a place to hide to-day--waitin' for night to come on so I could walk
around without bein' scared."
King moved a little impatiently. He didn't wish to have his
interference on Currie's behalf made so much of.
"For three years I've been with Old Silent's outfit," Currie went on.
"You know what it means for a man to hitch up with his gang. You
stay--that's all there is to it. I never did go lookin' for trouble.
An' I never went gunnin' before. I got that thing when I left home back
east--I thought I'd mebbe need it. I never had trouble with Old
Silent--nor with any of his men. There was a few fights--mostly with
boys from other camps--but they were all on the square. This man
McCartney was the first man who ever tried anything like that. He's a
four-flusher--I know that--an' I could a' trimmed him, too--only now--I
can't. There won't be another chance for me."
He paused for a moment while he drew meditatively at his cigarette.
"I lost my head--an' I drew on him. There wasn't room there to
fight--an' it was his size that counted. Now I'm not going back. I
couldn't stay round camp with him on the job. An', besides--I ain't got
the nerve any more--I'd be thinkin' all the time of last night."
When he ceased talking King asked him why he couldn't stay in the valley
and go on the land.
"No, Howden," he replied, "that's not my line. I'm goin' west. There's
more railroadin' out there an' the world's big enough for two of us.
I'll go west an' look round a bit. But there's one thing I want you to
remember, Howden." He got up as he spoke and King closed the door and
prepared to start down the trail. "Bill McCartney's fight is over with
me--him an' me don't come together again here--but you an' him will, an'
don't forget it. He's a dirty dog--he'll bite when you're not
lookin'--but he's not afraid to bite just the same. What's more--he'll
go on bitin' unless he gets whipped. Then he'll stop--he'll get out
then just like me."
The two men went off together down the trail, and as King walked along
in silence he felt the optimism and the buoyancy that had filled him
during the earlier part of the day struggling against the melancholy
that had haunted him strangely for months. It was not his nature to
change his mood quickly, but the warning that Currie had sounded brought
upon him the full consciousness that he had an enemy who would never be
quiet until he himself had brought him to subjection by nothing but
brute strength. He was not afraid, but he had hoped that in the days to
come he would only have to take up the struggle that men wage against
nature in their efforts to make a living. The thought of having to
fight it out with Bill McCartney before he could have any peace weighed
upon him in a way that made him feel impatient with himself. He made up
his mind, however, that he would never fight until the occasion arose
that demanded it--then he would see it through to the bitter end. The
thought steadied him as he walked along the trail, and his voice became
more cheerful as he chatted with Currie.
* * * * *
In the lodging house old man Rubble was discussing the affair of the
night before with a half dozen of the men of his own party. Word had
gone round that Lush Currie had decided to leave, and it was generally
agreed that he was doing the only thing reasonable under the
circumstances. The real point of interest was the relationship between
King Howden and Bill McCartney. As the latter, with a number of Keith
McBain's men had just left for camp, there was no reason for postponing
a discussion that had been held up during the day, merely because the
presence of Bill McCartney made any reference to the question a little
difficult. Now that McCartney had gone, the question was raised at once
and the discussion had become very spirited. One thing puzzled them all.
Why had King Howden not taken the challenge when it was given to him and
finished the fight right there? The challenge had certainly been
offensive enough to have justified any man's accepting it at once. And
King would never again get an opportunity to fight McCartney when the
latter was just finishing one struggle. The advantage had lain all with
King, and to tell the truth, the men were not a little disappointed that
he had failed to go in when the conditions were so much in his favor.
It was something more to increase the wondering they had already felt
concerning King Howden.
"There's only one way to reason it out," said old man Rubble, after
various opinions had been expressed. "The fact is Howden don't want to
mix in with Bill at all. No one ever saw Howden do anything yet. He's
just a big, raw, overgrown boy. He never did fight and I guess he never
will if he can get out of it."
Someone in the group murmured a word of protest.
"Well," said Rubble, "I'm willing to wait till I find out. But I'm
telling you right now that no man in any gang I've ever been with would
have let Bill McCartney get away with it. If King Howden's got any
stomach--and if he's got anything in it--he'd 'a' hit Bill McCartney on
the jaw before he could have got the words out. I may be wrong,
but--Howden's no good!"
But Rubble was not allowed to dismiss the affair so summarily. There
was a somewhat thin voice that finally broke the long silence that
followed Rubble's words. Old Gabe Smith, who had been a silent
spectator during the events of the night before and had given silent
audience to all the discussion of the day, ventured a remark or two that
he was inclined to think had a bearing on the subject.
"An' what I would say is this," he observed in his most philosophical
manner, after he had given due notice that he intended to speak on the
question, "an' I have a feelin' that I'm not far wrong--what I would say
is--if anybody here is takin' Mister Rubble's view of the matter--an'
he's a right to his own opinion--he'd better not make up his mind for a
little while--not just yet. An' I'll tell you why. In the first place
we know that when Bill McCartney first met Currie it wasn't quite what
you'd want to call reglar. He got Lush--but he got him foul. An' that
ain't the way a good man gets anybody. An' then--in the second
place--that affair last night was a little off color--Lush couldn't do
anything there--he hadn't room. But--" and Gabe pointed the stem of his
pipe at Rubble to emphasize his words, "we haven't seen this boy Howden
at work yet."
"That's just it, Gabe," Rubble interrupted, "and we never will."
"Just a minute, now," Gabe persisted. "We haven't seen him workin'
yet--but we may--we may. An' I'm goin' to wait long enough to give the
boy a chance before I say my last word."
"Lord, Gabe, didn't he have a chance last night?"
"Well, Mister Rubble," Gabe replied with great deliberateness, "there
might be a difference of opinion on that point. You would say he had--I
would say that we don't know exactly. If we give him a few weeks
longer, Mister Rubble, we'll both know pretty well which one of us is
right. But in my opinion this boy Howden is no coward--he may have acted
a bit strange--but he's not a coward--not to my way of thinkin'--just
yet."
Gabe was sitting with his back to the doorway as he spoke and did not
see the figure that was standing there while he was engrossed in making
his opinion quite plain to Rubble. The other men, however, forgot to
listen to Gabe's exposition and were staring uneasily at King Howden,
who had appeared while the old man was talking and had stopped suddenly
on hearing his own name. When Gabe had finished, he turned confusedly
to discover the cause of the change that was so evident in the faces of
the men, and met the gaze that fell upon him from eyes that were cold
and unwavering. Then he saw the face grow serious and the lines of his
lips tighten. The next moment he seemed conscious most of the stillness
that had fallen upon the group of men who filled the room. His attempt
to relieve his own embarrassment as well as that of the men was a little
awkward, but he felt it was better than nothing.
"No harm meant, Howden, my boy," he said, and his voice was steady and
quiet, "but we were talkin' about you."
"I guess it's all right, Gabe," said King, and he took a step into the
room.
"You heard what I said?" the old man asked.
"That ain't troubling me any," King replied, "--not any at all."
But even as he spoke, his face revealed the struggle that was going on
within him. He was not concerned over the words that he had heard from
Gabe Smith. He knew, however, that someone had spoken words that had
prompted Gabe to make a reply; and it rankled in his heart that he
should come to be looked upon as a coward by anyone.
He went to a chair standing back against the wall and sat down. The
conversation dragged along without interest, old man Rubble doing his
best to carry it into one field after another without success until he
finally gave up in despair and went out. Before long the others
followed him, all except Gabe Smith, who remained alone with King.
"I'm an older man than you," he began when they were left alone,
"--older by nearly thirty years. An' I've had some chances to look
around in the past thirty years. An' I'm goin' to tell you right here
some things you've got to know. I've watched you--an' I like you. An'
when a man likes another he wants him to get along."
King's smile expressed the gratitude he felt. "I watched that business
last night in Cheney's--an' I want to tell you what I think. It wasn't
your fight to begin with--Lush and McCartney had been layin' for each
other for quite a little while. They had to settle it one way or the
other. It ain't settled yet---an' what's worse you've got yourself in
for a part of that settlement, too."
King leaned forward a little and looked at Gabe. "It's been
settled--between them two," he said gravely.
"How settled?"
"Lush won't be goin' back to work any more. He's goin' out to-morrow."
"He's leavin', then--for sure?"
"Yes. He walked up to see me this afternoon an'--he says he can't stay
here."
Gabe puckered his lips and was silent a moment. "Then--that means," he
said very thoughtfully, "--that means he's handed it over to you."
King made no reply.
"You've got to take it up from last night," Gabe remarked again, and
again King remained silent. Gabe was silent, too, for a long time, and
when he spoke his words were so sudden and direct that King was
startled. "Why didn't you finish it last night?"
King turned round slightly to meet Anne, who came into the room and
greeted him. He waited until she left before he spoke.
"Gabe," he said at last, "it's been clear between us up to now, hasn't
it?"
Gabe nodded his head slowly without a word.
"I want it to be clear--right on--from now till the end. I wanted to
settle it--an' I guess I could, too." His voice was quiet, but no man
could have doubted King's confidence in himself. "But there was a man
once who said just what Bill McCartney called me last night--an' I
killed him."
It was Gabe's turn to be startled. He took his pipe from his mouth
quickly and looked at King with consternation on his face.
"You--you killed him, boy?"
"It seems like I did," King replied slowly. "I never can tell exactly.
Something came up in me--something blinded me--an' I struck. When they
lifted him up I knew I killed him--I was sure--because I meant
to--that's what I tried to do. They told me afterwards--they told me he
came round again--he was alive. But I couldn't believe it--he was my
brother." King looked out the open doorway for a moment. "I've
wondered about that a lot," he said after a long silence. "I think I've
prayed about it, too--but I can't get it just right. That's why I
left--that's why I came here. I wanted to get away from it--and start
in new. I wanted to--to make that right with myself."
Gabe Smith seemed puzzled to understand clearly what King was saying to
him.
"Last night," continued King, "it came back again. I thought I was
strong enough, but I guess I ain't. When he called me that--it all came
back. I went blind again--and I wanted to kill Bill McCartney--only
then I remembered, and it took the heart out of me."
"Listen, boy," said Gabe. "Some day you are goin' to forget that--all
of it. Some day you are goin' out to fight--an' to fight clean--and to
win, and I'll tell you why. There's some of us countin' on you, and
you've got to make good--that's why."
King got up and going over to the old man gripped his shoulder in his
large powerful hand and looked down into his face.
"You're the first man ever said it to me like that," he said very
gravely, and his lips were tight as he spoke, "and I think--I think you
can count on me from now on."
Gabe Smith gave him his hand and smiled.
*CHAPTER SEVEN*
Old man Hurley sat in his office alone and looked out of the single
window which the place boasted. No other window was necessary, however,
for it gave a clear view of the west over the whole expanse of
valley-plain that was his one concern. It was his one concern in a
business way, for he had been sent in as Dominion Land Agent just as
soon as the new district had begun to attract settlers, and he was the
sole member of the new community upon whom the dignity of governmental
office of any kind rested. But it was his chief concern morally as well,
for he felt the full weight of the responsibility that was his to carry
the new adventure in settlement to a gratifying and successful issue.
The dignity of office rested gracefully upon Hugh Hurley. Genial and
affable at the same time that he was business-like and practical, he was
an unfailing source of healthy optimism and unshaken confidence in the
future. He was not unaware of the stubborn difficulties that invariably
attend the building up of any new settlement. But he had vision and was
possessed of a spirit of idealism that read something of romance into
everything he did.
In the thick of daily routine, in the midst of a confusion of maps and
blue-prints and surveyor's reports and governmental rules and
regulations, in his daily meeting with newcomers who had as yet suffered
no disillusionment, and with disgruntled "old-timers" who had been in
the district for as long as six months or even longer, in the thousand
and one matters of detail that try the patience of any conscientious
servant of the public, Hugh Hurley constantly cherished a vision. It
was of a great fertile valley, flanked on either side by rising blue
hills, teeming with an eager-hearted, virile population devoted to the
soil, and standing as one more outpost of empire, one more living
monument to high endeavour.
In the occasional hour of leisure that came to him during the day and
afforded him an opportunity of sitting before his window, he gave his
imagination free rein and allowed it to wander unchecked. Then it was
that he saw the broad fields of grain swaying in the golden sun. He saw
men moving about over ploughed fields with the rich, brown mould turned
up to the light. He heard the singing of women and the happy laughter of
children. He heard the ringing of the bells and the busy hum of life in
little towns and villages that were as yet unborn. He saw the
hillsides, now virgin and wild under the afternoon sun, blocked and
squared and trimmed by the hands of busy workers. He saw a valley
full-mantled and smiling, and mottled with shadows thrown down from
drifting clouds. And all Hugh Hurley's energies were devoted to making
his dreams come true.
But dreams are only dreams, after all. And to-day, as the old man sat
before his window, he was worried. Winding down the dusty trail about a
quarter of a mile away came a long line of men in foreign attire,
long-skirted coats drawn in tightly at the belt, trouser-legs tucked
into long boots, and round caps that fitted closely to the head. They
were the Russian Doukhobors returning from an expedition in search of
land. While they were still at a considerable distance he could hear the
solemn, almost weird chanting of their hymn as they marched along in
single file. Hurley had seen them before in similar guise and he had
always been struck by the romance, the other-worldness of the picture
they presented. To-day, however, the romance was not there. His mind was
occupied with something more actual, more immediate. These men, and
their wives and children too, would have to live during the next eight
or ten months, most of which would be trying months of fiercely cold
weather, and they were without resources of any kind. What new settlers
in the valley, except that the Doukhobors' reliance on the Almighty to
furnish them with food and shelter was as complete as it was pathetic.
Hugh Hurley knew that he must immediately constitute himself the elected
agent of Heaven itself for these people of a blind faith--and for the
others a practical provider of means whereby the winter could be met and
passed without regrets.
He was waiting now for Keith McBain, with whom he had discussed the
problem, and from whom he hoped he might get some practical suggestions.
Keith had promised, at their last meeting to see him as soon as he had
made some investigations on his own part. Only half an hour ago he had
seen the old contractor come to town. But Keith McBain's first place of
call--as it was also his last--was Mike Cheney's, and Hugh Hurley knew
that he could only wait till the old man was ready to come.
One thing that had given Hurley cause for anxiety was the fact that
during the week a number of the younger homesteaders had bidden the
place good-bye, and had left for the outside, where they were going to
remain until it was time to go on the land again in the spring. Hurley
knew what that meant. A little more of the same kind of thing and the
movement would become general. The result would mean hardship and even
suffering for the few who remained isolated from the outside during the
long months of winter.
Two young fellows entered the open doorway behind Hurley and he turned
to greet them.
"Hello, boys," he said cheerfully as he got up and went to meet them.
"You're looking good--homesteading evidently sets a man up, eh?"
They smiled and shook hands.
"We're sure feelin' good," said one of them, "but we've had enough of
homesteadin' for a little while--it gets on your nerves. We're goin'
out for the winter."
"Going out for the winter?" Hurley exclaimed with a smile. "No--no,
you're not--you're going to stay here this winter--and help out."
"Help out--at what?"
"Sit down there and smoke while I tell you a story."
When they were seated Hurley began.
"This reminds me of an argument I heard once between a pioneer preacher
and a member of his congregation. This preacher was holding forth on
hell, and after the service he met up with one of his freethinking
brethren who didn't believe in hell, or heaven, either. 'So you don't
believe in hell,' said the preacher. 'Well, mister, I'll tell you how I
size it up. I'm betting on hell--an' I'm betting for two reasons. In
the first place it's a good hunch--and in the second place I'm plum
scared not to. It's like this,' he said. 'You say there ain't no hell
an' you put your money on that hand. You just have to draw one card to
find out. I say there is a hell an' I'm playin' that hand. An' I draw
one. All right. You draw your card an' you turn it up. If you've
played the right hunch what do you win? Nothin'. If there ain't no
hell or heaven you're no better off even if you ain't worse off. You're
just where you were. But if you're playing the wrong hunch an' you turn
up your card an' find there's a sure 'nough hell--you're stuck. Ain't
that right? You stand to win nothin' an' lose everything. Now look at
me. I say there is a hell an' I draw an' turn up. If I don't make
it--I don't lose anything anyhow. I'm no better off--but I'm sure no
worse off. But if I turn up an' find there is a sure 'nough hell--I
win, because that's my hunch an' I'm ready to play it, see? I stand to
lose nothing an' there's just about one chance in two that I'll clean up
with eternal life in the stakes. Any old way you look at it I got you
beat--ain't that right? I'm bettin' on hell till the cows come home!'"
Hurley went and stood for a moment before the window and looked out
across the valley.
"The point is this, boys," he said at last, turning quickly and looking
at the two sturdy young fellows before him, "you and I and the rest of
these people here"--he waved his hand towards the window--"have come
into this valley because we believed in it. We're playing a kind of a
hunch, boys, that the place is a good place to live in, an' when a man
does what we've done he's playing pretty heavily. If we throw up the
game now, we lose. That's all there is to it. And not only do we lose
but these people around us lose too--and lose heavily. We've got to
play the game through against hard luck and wait for the next spring
before we begin to take our winnings."
"But we've got to live, Mr. Hurley," one of the men protested.
"Live--yes--and I've been working on that. And I'll tell you what I'll
do. I'll grub-stake the whole caboodle of you for six months, beginning
the middle of October, and I'll pay you a dollar a day for every day's
work you put in if you hang on."
The men looked doubtful but were interested. "That looks all right," one
of them offered, "but--"
"But nothing," interrupted Hurley. "I'll do what I say and I can make
money on it too. I couldn't pay one man a dollar a day for a forenoon
just now, but listen--this country's got to produce something if it's
going to live, and it might as well start in this year as next. And
when the rush comes in here next spring--and it's coming
strong--there'll be a crowd of people here I hear about it every time
the mail comes in. This town will be five times as big in a month. The
man who's on the ground with his eyes open will take the winnings. The
railway will be in before July, and the towns will be springing up and
business will start and we'll be a part of the world we've just left
before we know it. And that's only one side of it. You boys have
registered your claims here and started improvements because you want to
live here sometime. If it's going to be a fit place to live in we don't
want any set-backs. Start to stampede for the outside now and by the
time you get back you'll be where you were when you first landed here.
That's not my idea. I'm going to stay right here and get ready for the
big rush."
All at once they were aware of someone entering the office, and turned
to find Keith McBain coming through the doorway. The young fellows got
up at once and with a word to Hurley, promising to drop in the next day,
left the office.
"Do you know what I've done?" said Hurley as soon as they had gone.
Keith McBain merely waited for a reply.
"I've promised those two boys work for the winter at a dollar a day and
three square meals. I had to do it, Keith--they're good men, both of
them, and they were on their way out for the winter. We can't let these
men go. We've got to give them something to do and hold them here till
spring."
"I've got it worked out," said Keith. "I was talking last week to
McKenzie, and we can put in a camp just as soon as we can get a good
location. They want a quarter to a half million ties for construction.
There's a lot of stuff in there just south of the camp. All we've got
to do is to go and find it and start right in. Any of your men here
know anything about cruising?"
As if by way of answer to this question King Howden rode up to the door
and without getting down called for Hurley to bring out the mail bag.
Hurley went to the door and invited him in. When King entered his eyes
fell upon Keith McBain, and for a moment he paused and held out his
hand. The old contractor's greeting was pleasant, and King went in and
stood waiting for Hurley to speak.
"You did some work once in the lumber woods at the coast, King, didn't
you?" Hurley asked him.
King's look expressed mild surprise. "A little," he said.
"Done some timber-cruising?"
"About all I did for three years--summer and winter," he answered.
"Well, you'd better spend an extra day or two on your trip this time.
You'd better wait over until to-morrow morning and get ready. Take
enough grub--they'll fix you up at the lodging-house--and a couple of
blankets, and get a good start in the morning. We'd like you to take
the old trail into the hills and then work your way east to the
right-of-way. You might aim at coming out pretty close to the end of
the steel. Use your own judgment. Anyhow, we want you to get a good
location for a tie-camp for the winter. We have a contract and want to
open on it as soon as the frost comes. What do you think about it?"
"I guess I can do that, sir," King replied quietly. "The mail will be a
couple of days late, but--"
"Never mind about that, King," Hurley interrupted. "The mail can afford
to wait over. Just get ready to spend as much time as it will take to
do it right."
King turned and went out to set about his preparations for the trip into
the hills.
As he started hastily down the street he brushed against someone
standing near the entrance to Hurley's office. Looking back, he
recognized Tom Rickard, one of Keith McBain's men, lounging lazily
against the wall only a few feet from the doorway. The circumstance
held no special significance for him at the time, and yet he couldn't
help wondering why Rickard was in town.
In the office Hurley was standing before Keith McBain, who had remained
perfectly silent during the interview with King. Hurley was regarding
McBain seriously.
"What do you think of Howden?"
"He's a good boy," Keith remarked dryly.
"Couldn't he handle that camp for the winter--a little better than
anyone around here?"
McBain did not say anything for some time, but sat meditatively smoking
his pipe. Finally he seemed to have reached a conclusion.
"He's a good boy, Hugh," he remarked slowly, "but he's got to be more
than that before he can handle a gang of men in a bush. He's got to
have the stomach!"
Hurley went to his window and looked out. In his own mind he was
turning over the possibility of getting King to prove himself worthy of
the confidence he felt. He had heard the men talk of the affair with
McCartney, and he knew pretty well what was in Keith McBain's mind.
King's preparations were made quickly, and by supper time he was ready
to take the trail next morning. He had yet to go back to his cabin for
a couple of blankets, but he waited till later in the evening, and
decided that he would spend the night in his shack and start from there
early in the morning. He took supper at the lodging-house in company
with Keith McBain, who was in one of his silent moods, having already
spent too much time in the company of Mike Cheney during the afternoon.
With them was Tom Rickard, as silent and uncommunicative as Keith
McBain. From the knowledge that King had of the old contractor's ways
he feared he was out on another of his lengthy visits to town. And
King's mind went back immediately to Cherry, who was probably even then
waiting anxiously for her father's return.
The first hours of such a visit on the part of Keith McBain were usually
spent in secret with Mike Cheney, and invariably produced a mood in
which he refused to speak to anyone. When they sat down to the table,
King asked him when he intended going back to camp. The old man offered
not a word by way of reply, and the meal went forward without any
further conversation between the two. Anne came and went frequently
during the short half hour that King spent at the table, or stood a
little back from him and offered a few words now and then which King
responded to briefly but pleasantly enough. The two young fellows who
had visited Hurley's office earlier in the afternoon to announce their
intention of going out for the winter had eaten earlier in the evening,
and had apparently spoken of their plans in Anne's hearing. She had
something to say about it herself--but she waited till Keith McBain had
gone out and disappeared up the street, followed by Tom Rickard. Then
she spoke of the thing that was on her mind.
"They're sure in luck," she remarked as if she were thinking aloud.
"This place gives me the blues. Talk about a dead place--this ain't no
town, it's a graveyard! It's worse than that--it's a prayer-meetin'
without the shoutin'!"
King laughed quietly to himself, and Anne turned to him. "Honest, King,
it ain't no place for white people to live. It's been all right this
summer with everybody round and things movin' a little--but the
winter--an everybody away--God, you don't know how I hate the idea."
King got up from the table and went to the doorway. It had already
begun to grow dusk and the air was cool and inviting. For a moment he
stood looking into the street with its rambling houses and squat little
cabins on either side.
"Anne," he said slowly, "some of us have to stay, I guess--stay here and
see it through. It won't be easy--but it's the right thing to
do--that's how I see it. Besides, it may be better than we think--wait
and see."
While he talked his eyes were still turned towards the street. He did
not look at the girl until he was through. Then he turned to her and
looked at her where she stood, leaning against the table. Her eyes were
on his face, and her gaze was long and steady. He had a suspicion that
there were tears ready to come--there was something deeper and more
thoughtful in them than he had ever seen there before. He knew that the
girl was lonely, and that she had no friends.
"Anne," he said slowly, in a voice that was kindness itself, "you ought
to get out more--you ought to ride out a little. You ought to walk."
She smiled and gave an impatient shrug to her shoulders.
"Walk--Lord!" Then she set about clearing the table and for a while
both were silent. At last she set down a dish she held in her hand and
came over to where King stood in the doorway.
"Haven't I walked?" she said in a voice that was tense with emotion.
"Haven't I spent hours alone walking these trails up and down? That
doesn't help any. I came in here because I wanted to get away by myself
an' start all over again. Lord, I sure did it--I got away by myself all
right. An' I got sick of it. Then I wanted to get out with
people--honest-to-God-people that cared a little--no matter who. But
where can I go? They think there's something wrong because I got into
Mike's place the night of the scrap. They didn't like my way round here
before that. Well, it's my way, isn't it? It's all I got. I don't owe
anything--I'm square. But I want some one that will talk to me--an'
talk right--not like a lot of these fellows want to talk. That's what I
want."
King put out his hand and took her arm. "I guess that's right, Anne,"
he said. "I've felt like that. We'll talk--you and I--talk together
sometimes. And then maybe--" he began to think of the possibility of
Anne coming to know Cherry McBain.
"I've been wantin' to talk to you often," she said, very quietly and
very slowly. "But you seemed to pass me up like the rest of them. Only
I liked you because you looked square. An' I was afraid to talk to
you--because I wanted you to like me."
For a moment King was silent as he weighed the full meaning of her
words. He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm as she spoke, and
there crept over him a strange feeling of fear. He liked the girl, he
had the deepest sympathy for her, he would do anything in his power to
make life more pleasant for her. And yet--he shrank slowly from her
touch and was impatient to get away.
"I guess it'll be late enough when I get back," he said suddenly. "And
I've got to make a good start for the hills to-morrow."
He turned and looked at her for a moment, and then laid his hand on her
shoulder. "We've got to face a lot of things in life, Anne," he said;
"a whole lot of things. It ain't always easy--but it pays to face up."
He stood before her in the doorway and looked directly into her face as
he spoke. For a moment she returned the look and then suddenly bowed
her head before him. Putting his arm about her shoulders he raised her
head gently and looked at her.
"Anne, girl," he said slowly, "I'm coming to see you--if it would help
any--when I get back. So long!"
She looked at him squarely and he knew she understood him. The fear he
had entertained only a moment before was gone now. He was confident
that everything between them was just as he wanted it to be. In her
heart was a deep yearning for companionship--in his, a feeling of great
pity for the girl who was struggling against the demon of loneliness.
"King," she said at last, "you're right--and I like that."
A sound of hoofs came suddenly from the trail only a few yards away.
Anne stepped back quickly from the doorway and King turned to face
Cherry McBain, who had brought her horse to a standstill and was already
looking down at him from her place in the saddle. He was about to
express his surprise, but the look she gave him caused the words to die
on his lips.
"I'm looking for my father," she said in a voice that to King's ears
sounded like the voice of a stranger.
The sound of men's voices came from farther up the street, and looking
out, King saw Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain leaving the land-office.
Cherry saw the men at the same moment and without a word rode away to
join her father. Just once King called after her, but received no reply.
He watched them till all three had vanished in the direction of Hurley's
little house that stood under the poplars at the end of the street. Then
he stepped out and went off down the trail to where his horse was
tethered outside Hurley's office.
When he had mounted into his saddle he turned and looked back along the
street. In the dusky frame of the lodging-house doorway he could see
Anne still standing where he had left her. She waved her hand to him as
he looked back at her, and he waved in reply as he drew his horse's head
about and took the trail that led westward to his cabin.
*CHAPTER EIGHT*
King Howden was at a loss to understand himself that night. Into a few
short days had been crowded more emotion, more stirring experience than
he had ever known before. The very fact that there had been nothing
spectacular, nothing especially thrilling, in what had occurred only
made the effects more far-reaching and real. A change had come over him
that was the result of forces working so deeply within him that he knew
life from this time forward was to mean something different, something
more serious than it had ever meant to him.
When he arrived at his cabin, after putting his horse away for the night
and making a few final preparations for an early start in the morning,
he found his bunk strangely uninviting. His mind, was unusually busy
turning over and over a host of thoughts that crowded upon one another
in a confusion that made sleep impossible. He went to the doorway of his
shack, and sitting on the doorstep drew his dog down beside him and
tried to think himself clear of the confusion. He recalled the night he
had learned of his brother's death--it seemed as if a year had gone
since that night, instead of a week. His imagination dwelt upon Cherry
McBain as she looked that night when she rode beside him on the trail.
His heart bounded again as he saw her standing before him on the little
bridge over the White Pine--and he felt again, as he had felt a hundred
times since, the ecstasy of that moment when Cherry had asked him for
his help against a man he already hated. He smiled at the recollection
of his meeting with McCartney in Cheney's place. Then his heart froze
as he thought of what had happened only within the last hour.
As he sat alone on the doorstep the night came down on the hills and the
valley, but King had no thought of the passing hours. His mind was on
the sudden appearance of Cherry McBain, like an apparition out of the
dusk, and the coldly accusing note in her voice when she had spoken.
"She couldn't think--" he murmured to himself and then stopped.
He wondered that he had not gone off to find her--to follow her and
explain it all. And then it occurred to him that words--his words
particularly--were helpless things after all. Even if he had gone and
found her, and spoken to her, what would his words have done? And
yet--he clung fiercely to a hope--the hope that had so lately been born
in him.
"She can't think I'm wrong," he went on. "She can't--I couldn't stand
that. I've been trying--I'm not right all through, but I'm not wrong
like that. She's got to believe me."
And then it came upon him--came with crystal clearness--that the heart
of Cherry McBain could be won and held only by a man that was not afraid
of himself, a man who had a task so great that it overshadowed petty
problems and made them insignificant by comparison. And so King Howden
renewed the covenant he had made with himself only a few days before,
that his place in life was something more than the small circle drawn
about his narrow existence, with its little weaknesses and
discouragements and failures. Only this time the covenant was made
sacred because a man's love for a woman had set its seal on it.
By the first streak of dawn King was already well along the trail. He
wanted to reach the top of the hills by sunrise, and with a climb of
some five or six miles before him he urged his horse forward at a good
pace. From the low-lying levels of the grassy plain and the deep
meadows, to the first rolling uplands he mounted while the dawn was
still gray, and from the uplands to the hills and down through the
valleys that lay between. The old trail had not been used much during
the latter part of the summer owing to the steadily decreasing distance
that now lay between the new settlement and the end of the steel. On
either side and in the centre of the trail where ran the narrow ridge
between the two tracks, the grass was high and drenched the horse's legs
with dew.
And as he mounted higher, the coming of the new day broke upon him like
a benediction, so that his very soul sang with the joy of the open sky
and the rolling hills, the free trail and the throbbing pulse of youth.
When he reached the top of the first upstanding hill he emerged from the
fringe of trees that lined the crest just in time to see the sun pushing
its way above the horizon. In the valley that lay before him the morning
mist was stretched low and motionless. On the hillside opposite, where
the sun's rays had not yet found their way, the trees were hidden in the
half-dusk like ghosts waiting for some voice to waken them. The trail
that led before him lost itself under cover of the white shroud, and
over all was poured the rich glory of the rising sun. King took off his
hat and looked long and silently. Then facing northward he dismounted
and, taking the bridle rein in one hand, left the trail and plunged into
the woods.
Early that night he found a circle of tamaracs beside a little stream of
cold water and decided to put up for the night. The day had been a long
one, and had proven very heavy, but he had succeeded in his quest and
was content with the results of his efforts. He was very tired, and
after removing the saddle and pack from his horse he found a grassy plot
not far away and tethered him for the night. Then he prepared a little
smudge at the edge of the plot and returned to his camp. When he had
eaten his supper he unstrapped his blankets and tossed them in a loose
roll upon the soft ground where it was covered with brown needles and
dry cones. Then he rolled himself a cigarette and smoked it in silence
while he thought over the results of his day's cruising.
The sun had already gone down when he got up and went again to make sure
that his horse had received all the attention necessary for the night.
When he had satisfied himself that everything was as it should be, and
had partly smothered the smudge in order that its usefulness might last
well through the night, he turned back up the hill again to roll in for
the night. A passing mood caused him to circle about so that he came
out on a small elevation, clear of trees, that stood back from his camp.
When he had reached the top of the hill he could see clear away to the
west over the broad valley where lay the town and his own little cabin
that he had left early that morning. He thought he could make out the
place, off to the north, where lay the right-of-way and Keith McBain's
construction camp. Then as his eyes swept the intervening space
something arrested his attention.
Everywhere were the slow-forming mists of the early evening. But down
there to the right--it couldn't be more than a mile away--there was
something that was not mist, though it was difficult to make it out,
even at so short a distance, with the shadows already beginning to
deepen in the lower places. What he saw was a slowly rising thin column
of smoke, and his heart beat faster as he began to realize slowly what
it might mean. Someone was down there making a camp for the night.
There was no reason in the world for anyone wandering through the hills
at such a time--unless it was the same reason that had brought King
Howden himself there. It was not easy to explain, but he was not slow
in coming to a decision to act. Merely as a matter of self-defence he
determined that he should at least guard against being discovered.
He hurried down the hill, sliding, leaping, and running by turns, and
came in a few seconds to the edge of the little meadow where his horse
was standing in the comfortable protection of the cloud of smoke rising
from the smudge.
"You poor old cuss," he said regretfully, "you'll have to use your tail
to keep the mosquitoes off to-night. No more smoke, if they eat you
alive."
With that he kicked the smudge-pile vigorously, scattering it over the
ground and leaving the embers smoking feebly where they lay in the
grass. Then he went carefully from one spot to another and stamped out
the last traces of the fire. Going back to the spot he had chosen for
the night he left Sal on guard with a word of warning not to follow him,
and set off again in the direction in which he had discovered the smoke.
He had no intention of attempting to satisfy his curiosity by spying on
strangers. He wanted to be reasonably sure that he himself was not
being spied upon--that was all.
And so he moved about cautiously and waited patiently for the first
sound that would announce the approach of anyone. When it was very late
and he had heard nothing to alarm him, he returned, confident that he
would not be molested, and rolling himself in his blankets, pillowed his
head on the saddle and went to sleep.
The next morning he was awake at dawn, and without waiting to prepare
breakfast, he clambered up the hill behind his camping place and sat
down to watch for the first signs of life in the camp below. And as he
sat and waited he worked out in his own mind, now fresh from the night's
sound sleep under the open sky, what was at least a tentative
explanation of the new circumstance that had so suddenly forced itself
into his plans. He remembered now, with a new sense of its possible
significance, the unexpected arrival in town of Cherry McBain late in
the evening. Why had she come for her father? Then he recalled the fact
that Keith McBain had not come to town alone. Was there any special
significance in the presence of Tom Rickard in town at the same time?
There was nothing in Keith McBain's silence that was unusual to one who
knew him, but King felt that the old contractor had been more than
ordinarily silent and perhaps a little ill-natured. He could not help
thinking that something was brewing behind it all and, right or wrong,
his conviction was that the camp down there a mile or so away had some
connection with it all.
Suddenly he was aware of a column of white smoke rising out of the
trees. The traveller was apparently making ready for an early start.
King sat watching the smoke for nearly an hour before anything happened
to which he could attach any special importance. Then the figures of
two men appeared suddenly in the open space beside the trees. They were
leading a couple of horses. He got to his feet as he saw them and then
squatted down suddenly and drew Sal towards him, lest she should catch a
glimpse of the strangers and set up an alarm.
The figures were headed southward, in the direction from which King had
come the day before. For several minutes he watched them without moving
from his place. Then as they disappeared from view behind the shoulder
of a hill he scrambled down the slope to his camp and went about
leisurely to prepare his breakfast. If the strangers were on a similar
errand to his own he was well ahead of them. Before evening he would
have completed his cruising in the hills and with ordinary good luck
would reach the end of the steel by night-fall. When he had breakfasted
he completed a few preparations necessary for the day's trip and was on
his way again at sunrise.
Late in the afternoon he emerged upon the trail about half-way between
McBain's camp and the end of the steel. The air was heavy with a
promise of rain in it. For the last mile or so he had followed a creek
in which only a small stream of water trickled over the stones, and now,
the wearisome part of the day's work done, he sat down upon a log at the
side of the road and sized up the work he had done during the last two
days in the hills. The timber was there for the purposes that Hurley
and Keith McBain sought, the supply was more than their needs called
for, and he had found an admirable site for a camp.
It was with a feeling of great satisfaction, therefore, that he finally
got into the saddle and started for the end-of-the-steel.
Late that evening King strolled leisurely in the direction of the
railway siding where stood a long line of cars that served as sleeping
quarters for the men who were attached to the bridge gang. For a month
or more they had been busy replacing the old temporary bridge by a more
permanent structure. From a distance he had heard the voices of the men
chatting and laughing among themselves. The two days spent alone in the
hills had awakened in him afresh the desire to be with men and hear them
talk.
He came upon them at an interesting moment. Two men of the gang were
matched in a wrestling bout, the others standing round watching the
contest closely. King waited at some distance until the affair was over
before he made his presence known. Then he stepped forward and entered
the circle of men. Good nature pervaded the group, and King was the
recipient of pleasant greetings from all sides. On the opposite side of
the circle stood Larkin, Keith McBain's freighter.
"Hey, you outsiders--Larkin and Howden," called one of the men; "you
fellows can't sit in on this game for nothin'. Give us a little action.
Even money that Howden can put Larkin on his back in three minutes."
"Any takers?" asked Larkin, during the pause that followed this
outburst.
Almost immediately came a dozen responses, whether from lack of
confidence in King's ability or from sheer desire for sport.
King felt himself pushed out into the centre of the circle, where he
stood smiling and looking at Larkin.
"Get in, Larkin," cried a voice. "No time now for lettin' your blood
freeze in your veins. I'm backin' you to win and by ---- you've got to
step lively."
Larkin was smiling as he got up, but the smile gave place to a look of
deadly earnestness as he leaped suddenly at King in an effort to
overcome him at one rush. King was still smiling as he braced himself
and received the full force of Larkin's rush without yielding more than
half a step. Then as Larkin bent low to get a hold, King caught him
quickly about the waist and, lifting him off his feet, held him for a
moment while he kicked and lurched helplessly in an effort to free
himself. In another second he had Larkin on the ground with his
shoulders pinned down.
The whole thing had not occupied a minute, and there was not a man in
the group that did not express his surprise at the sudden and unexpected
outcome of the encounter. King, on his part, felt a strange new thrill
of pleasure as he got up and looked round at the men. At no time during
his little set-to with Larkin had he doubted his ability to take care of
himself, but the sharp action, though momentary, had exhilarated him and
he was conscious of the renewed vigor that had come to him during the
two days wandering in the hills.
Back in the group of men stood one big fellow, a Spaniard of powerful
build and hasty temper, whom no one in the gang had ever pretended to
know. There was a look in his eyes now, however, that attracted and
even amused King. Someone else apparently saw that look at the same
moment.
"You, Spain," came a voice. "Feelin' pretty strong? Get in there and
stack up. You and Howden mate up pretty close."
"Go on--get in, Spain," came from another quarter, and at once the big
Spaniard, serious and struggling to control his excitement, became the
centre of interest. With a deal of urging, they finally got him to step
out--not very reluctantly, it seemed, for he came towards King rather
eagerly.
"I don't know, young fellow," he said seriously as he came forward. "By
golly, I t'ink I lika try dat for once anyhow."
He advanced warily and tried to get his huge arms about King's body.
King, however, avoided him by moving back a step at a time about the
enclosure until the look of seriousness in the Spaniard's face became
one of impatience, and King knew that the moment had arrived when he
must close with his antagonist and fight it out. His decision had barely
been made, however, when the Spaniard made a quick movement towards him
and King had to leap to one side quickly to avoid the powerful arms that
came out to encircle him. The movement left him slightly in the rear
and to one side of his opponent, and stepping in quickly he sent his arm
forward and upward, and laying his hand on the back of the Spaniard's
neck brought his head down with a snap. In another ten seconds he had
doubled him up and thrown him on the ground.
When the Spaniard got to his feet his black eyes were flashing angrily,
and he was muttering incoherently as he looked at King. The latter,
however, was smiling with such genuine good nature that at last the fire
died in the black eyes and the big fellow began to smile at his own
defeat.
"By golly, young fellow," he said, "I lika know dat little treek, jus'
once."
King found a place for himself in the circle of men and moved quietly to
the outside where he would be less in evidence. The centre of the
circle was taken almost immediately by a couple of men who had come out
to prove their prowess at "squaw-wrestling."
While the interest in the match was at its height, King felt someone
touch his arm, and looking round, found himself face to face with Lush
Currie, who, with one finger on his lips as a signal for silence, was
beckoning King to come out of the crowd and follow him. King withdrew
at once without attracting any attention, and followed Currie until he
came up with him just a few yards off on the roadway.
When King had joined him he walked along in silence for a short
distance, expecting Currie to speak.
"I just came from up the line," said Currie at last. "I didn't know you
were here--where'd you come from?"
King hesitated a moment before he replied. The glimpses he had caught
early that morning of the two men in the hills set him thinking during
the day, and he was determined to be careful.
"I came from town," he said in reply to Currie's question.
"Yes--but--but when?"
"To-day. Got here in time for supper."
"Got here to-night? You didn't come from McBain's camp to-day?"