Late that afternoon Cherry took King's clothes from his room with the
intention of hanging them outside for an hour before laying them away
until he should be able to wear them again. It was a small service and
an insignificant one, and yet she lingered over the task affectionately,
shaking the dust from them and spreading them out flat upon the table,
to smooth away the wrinkles. Gabe Smith, grown garrulous again because
of renewed hopes of King's early recovery, was watching the process from
beside the doorway.
"Don't you think you're some tender with that coat?" he asked. "Shake
it well--there's a sight o' dust in that old jacket!"
For reply she threw the coat towards him.
"Here, Gabe," she remarked dryly, "why sit there and watch me do the
dirty work?"
As he put out his hands to receive the coat something fell from one of
the pockets. Cherry stooped to pick it up and then held it towards
Gabe. It was a small bundle of folded papers. Gabe took it, and at the
first glance his old face almost went white.
"My God!" he whispered hoarsely.
"Why, Gabe, what's wrong?" Cherry asked.
"I forgot," he said, looking at the papers in his hand. "It's the
location--the timber claim. And McCartney--McCartney's been away from
camp since--I don't know. We're beat."
And even as Gabe Smith spoke those words Hugh Hurley was sitting in his
office in The Town, looking through his little window to where the
valley lay smiling under the late afternoon sun. He was troubled in
spirit--more troubled than he had been for a long time. Less than an
hour had elapsed since an unwelcome visitor had come to town. But
already the visitor's name was scrawled in the big registry book where
claims were officially recorded. The claim was an extensive one in the
hills that rose to the south of The Town, some ten or fifteen miles
away--and the name on the record was the name of Bill McCartney.
Besides Hugh Hurley there was but one other person in that sleepy little
town, more sleepy and settled, it seemed, than ever--whose spirit was
not all calm. McCartney had stepped out of Cheney's place and was
standing in the street by himself, rolling a cigarette in a leisurely
manner that was contentment itself. He lifted his eyes for a moment and
caught sight of Anne coming towards him. What was almost a frown passed
quickly across his face, but was immediately replaced by a look of
amusement, feigned or genuine it would have been impossible to say, and
he continued to roll his cigarette without the slightest indication that
he knew of the girl's approach.
Anne came up to him without as much as a moment's pause and stood
directly in front of him.
"What are you doin' in town?" she asked.
McCartney grunted and ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the
cigarette paper.
"Conductin' a revival meetin', Anne," he said, folding the paper into
place. "Why?"
"Wherever you are there's somethin' dirty gettin' under way, if it ain't
already done--that's why," Anne replied.
McCartney's face still grinned, but his heart was not in the smile with
which he turned to her.
"Anne," he said, "you're a female--consequence is you can say what you
please. It ain't nice to say it, but I wish you was a man."
"Lord!" Anne replied, "ain't I wished the same thing about three million
times in two years. An' the wishes are all crowdin' each other right
now, Bill."
She walked away and McCartney struck a match and touched it to his
cigarette without speaking a word.
*CHAPTER FOURTEEN*
Gabe Smith's one concern after he had discovered his oversight, was to
do everything in his power to minimize the consequences. He went at
once in search of Keith McBain. The old contractor was out on the grade
looking over the ground in the hope that operations might be got under
way again first thing in the morning.
Gabe lost no time in unburdening his mind. He gave the packet at once to
Keith McBain and then, as briefly and as pointedly as possible,
explained to him what King had feared when he made the papers out, and
what his plan had been in case anything of an unexpected nature should
occur.
Keith McBain took the papers, and opening them, looked through them
slowly and quietly, while Gabe told his story. Had Gabe not been
accustomed to the ways of his old boss he might have felt crestfallen at
the apparent lack of effect which his spirited exposition produced in
Old Silent. It is doubtful whether in Gabe's whole life he had ever
been so excited--his piping voice was thinner and higher than ever. But
when he had finished, Keith McBain failed to respond by so much as a
single word. For some minutes he continued to look at the roughly-drawn
maps that King had made. He seemed to be reading the specifications
over and over again to himself. But Gabe, for all that he was excited,
had not failed to catch the look of concern that grew in Keith McBain's
face as he lingered over the papers.
When the old contractor spoke at last his face was more serious than it
had ever been before, so far as Gabe Smith's memory served him, and his
words came only with difficulty.
"You can leave these with me, Gabe," he said, folding the papers again
very slowly and allowing his eyes to wander off along the narrowing
perspective of the right-of-way as he spoke.
Keith McBain's mind had turned towards things that were beyond Gabe
Smith's ken, and conversation was at an end.
Gabe turned and took his way alone back to the camp, but as he was
leaving the right-of-way he looked behind him to see what had become of
his old boss. He was far up the right-of-way, picking his way carefully
along, his hands clasped behind his back, never casting a look behind
him.
It was very late that evening when Keith McBain returned to the cabin
and sat down to the supper that Cherry had prepared for him. And as he
ate he was very silent. At last, when he had finished eating, he spoke,
and his voice was very low and quiet.
"Cherry, my girl," he said, "come over here."
Cherry left the couch where she had been sitting and hurried to her
father, ready to serve him, as she thought, with something she had
forgotten to place on the table. Her face expressed what was in her
mind.
"No--there's nothing I want, girl," he said, with a little wave of his
hand. "Just stand beside me here."
Cherry came close to his chair and laid her hand across her father's
shoulders. He put his arm about her and drew her close to him, where he
held her for a moment without speaking. Then he raised his face to her
and Cherry saw that his eyes were shining in the light from the
lamp--there were tears in them.
"What is it, father?" she asked, and placed a hand very tenderly on his
forehead.
For answer he drew her down until she was on her knees beside his chair,
and then with one arm about her shoulders and one hand upon her cheek he
looked into her face.
"Cherry, girl," he said in a whisper that had a touch of great
tenderness in it, "you had a good mother."
"Yes," she replied, and tried to smile at him.
"Your father--" he began, and then stopped.
"Yes?"
He bent low above her and kissed her hair. "Your father loves you,
girl," he spoke at last, with tears in his voice as he spoke.
"Not more than I love him," Cherry replied, with a brave effort to make
her voice cheerful.
"That's it, girl," he replied. "And we're going to stand--together?"
Never before had he spoken thus from his heart to her. Cherry tried to
speak, but her voice would not come. She put her two arms about his
neck and drawing his head down upon her shoulder gave up the struggle to
keep back the tears.
For a long time they remained thus in each other's arms, until at last
there was a stirring in the room where King lay, and Cherry got up.
Before she left her father she pressed his head close to her, and
leaning over, kissed him on the cheek. Then she hurried away to answer
King's call.
Keith McBain got up, and putting on his hat, went out alone to look
about the camp before turning in for the night. Just before he started
back for the cabin he went to the corral and looked over his team. He
patted their flanks and sides and rubbed their necks affectionately, and
then spoke to the corral foreman.
"I'll want the little team first thing in the morning," he said, and
went out again.
When he returned to the cabin Cherry was standing in the doorway.
"I'll be going to town first thing in the morning," he said, as he went
into the cabin with her.
"Father--please--"
There was pleading in her voice, the meaning of which Keith McBain could
not mistake.
"No," he said quickly, "there'll be nothing this time to trouble
you--this time or any other time. That's all past, my girl."
Cherry would have kissed her father again had he not turned away too
quickly and gone to his room.
The next morning Keith McBain was early on the grade and stayed long
enough to see that the work was going on very much as usual. McCartney
had come back to camp during the night and was in his place as foreman
when the men took their accustomed places. Old Silent slipped away and
was not seen again during the day.
Late that night he drove into camp, gave his team over to the care of
the corral foreman and went to his cabin without a word to any of the
men. His only word was to Cherry, to enquire--somewhat more eagerly
than usual, she thought--concerning King's condition. Then he ate his
supper and went to bed.
During the days that followed, Cherry watched her father with growing
anxiety. The care that was necessary to give King was growing less each
day--so rapid was his recovery, and her mind was more free to dwell upon
other things. It had become quite clear to her that a change was coming
over her father, though she could not account for it. Sometimes she
found him unusually cheerful; he became even talkative at
times--especially when he sat with King in the evenings after the day's
work was done. On such occasions, when her father's spirits were light,
her own joy scarcely knew limits.
But as a rule, he was silent, even morose at times. He ate his meals
without speaking. He spent his evenings alone outside, where he sat
near the doorway and smoked incessantly, until it was so dark he could
not see. Often he left the cabin soon after supper and went off walking
by himself along the right-of-way, or into the hills, coming back late,
and apparently very tired. Something was weighing very heavily upon his
mind every minute of the day. Sometimes at night, long after he had
gone to bed, Cherry heard him coughing and tossing about restlessly,
unable to go to sleep.
King, as he grew daily stronger, talked with Cherry about her father.
He had not failed to notice the change that had come over him, and was
almost as anxious about him as Cherry herself was. The last
conversation of any length that he had had with Keith McBain was on the
first afternoon that King had walked from his room to the chair that
Cherry had placed for him outside under the tamaracs. Once before,
while he was still lying in bed, he had asked the old man about the
claim in the hills. Keith McBain had dismissed the subject at once by
assuring him in the fewest possible words that everything was all right.
But when he came down from the grade and found King sitting outside in
the warm sunlight, and looking very much as he had always looked, he had
taken a seat near him, lighted his pipe leisurely--and had told King the
whole truth about the affair. King had received the news without
comment, and Keith McBain, after lingering a while, had left and gone
back to where the men were at work on the grade.
Then followed a week during which virtually nothing was said, except
what passed between Cherry and King, and a word of quiet greeting now
and then when the old man came in to eat his meals.
But during the week King Howden and Cherry McBain faced together the
strange problem that life had set before them, not knowing exactly what
was hidden behind the silent bearing of the man who was at the centre of
it, conscious only of the fact that they were pleased to face it
together.
King regained strength very rapidly and was soon able to take short
walks in the afternoons and evenings. He never went alone, except when
Cherry went riding. Then he strolled slowly along the little path that
led into the hills, the path down which he had come with Cherry on that
afternoon when he had found her picking berries and had come back to
supper with her.
On one of these little strolls he had gone as far as the pool beside
which he had knelt with her for a drink of fresh water. Once again he
knelt down, and placing his hands upon a small boulder, leaned forward
and took a drink. Again he paused in the act of getting up and looked
at the reflection in the water. His face was thin and his cheek showed
pale under the tan. And yet he was gloriously conscious of returning
vigor. The fresh air, fragrant with the sweetness of the pine woods,
filled him with new strength at every breath, and his very blood was
riotous to be in action again and take up the challenge of life in a
young man's land.
And yet there was one lingering regret. The days that were just coming
to a close had been days of sweet companionship with Cherry. Now those
days were almost at an end. In less than a week he would get into his
saddle again and ride away, with nothing but a memory to carry with him
into the days that lay before him.
He sat down on a fallen timber that lay close to the pool and afforded a
natural resting-place, well-shaded and conveniently near the path. In
the woods behind him he heard Sal leaping and rushing about, giving
chase to an imaginary rabbit, or barking a reply to a saucy jay.
Already the birds were beginning to flock. A few score descended like a
rush of wind and filled the branches of a near-by poplar that had
already taken on its autumn colors and stood like a yellow flame against
the dark background of evergreens. It was a day--and it was the time of
year--when youth grows pensive and the melancholy of the year creeps
into the veins of one.
For a long time King sat and gave himself over to the season's food.
How long he sat he did not know. He had lost, for the time being, his
sense of passing hours. But he was awakened suddenly by the sound of
someone coming, and the next moment Cherry appeared and came running
down the pathway towards him.
"Isn't it funny," she said, sitting down beside him on the log, "but
when I came back and found you gone, I knew at once you would be here.
It seems the very place for such a day. Isn't it glorious?"
"I think I'd like to be getting better for a long time," King replied.
"Don't you think you could have someone hit me on the head again--just
hard enough to lay me out for a few days and give me a long time to get
over it?"
Cherry laughed.
"No--I want to see you like yourself again," she replied. "You look
more like yourself to-day than you have yet."
She leaned towards him and scrutinized his face.
"And you're beginning to get a little color back, too," she commented in
a very matter-of-fact tone.
"Oh, I'm feeling fit--ready for the mail any day now," he replied. "And
I guess I'll be going back to it soon--about the end of the week."
"Three more days," Cherry mused.
"It isn't long, is it?" he asked.
"No," Cherry replied, and the conversation seemed to have come to an
end.
At last King leaned forward a little and looked into the little pool of
water at their feet.
"If I could talk," he said, as if he were thinking aloud, "if I could
only talk a little--I'd tell you that you have been very kind to me
since--"
"Don't talk about that, King," she said quickly. "I have done nothing."
King was silent again for a moment.
"I guess I'm no talker, at all," he said.
"You do very well sometimes--when you're delirious," she replied,
laughing.
King was no longer proof against her playful mood. And yet when he got
up, and taking her hand in his, announced that it was already time for
her to go back to the cabin if there was to be any supper for her
father, she got to her feet reluctantly enough and walked away with King
in a strange mood, and very silent.
After supper that night Keith McBain called his daughter to him where he
was sitting in his accustomed place, just outside the doorway. In a
moment Cherry entered the cabin again and donned a light jacket.
"Father wants me to walk with him a little," she said to King. "We'll
be back again soon."
King went to the doorway and watched the two as they walked away from
the cottage, Cherry leaning upon her father's arm. When they had
disappeared he sat down and allowed his mind to wander at will over the
events of the weeks that were now coming to a close. He was more
anxious than ever, now that his plans in regard to the timber claim in
the hills had been frustrated, to get back as soon as he was able to
ride, and talk things over with Hugh Hurley.
It was quite dark by the time Cherry and her father returned to the
cabin. King noticed at once the serious expression on Cherry's face and
the complete absence of any sign of the playful mood she displayed
before going out with her father. She appeared not to notice King where
he was sitting a few feet from the doorway, and walked into the cabin
without saying a word.
Keith McBain, however, remained outside, and drawing a chair towards
King, sat down beside him and began to talk at once.
"You are just about well again, Howden," he said, moving a little closer
in order that he might be able to see King's face in the darkness. "The
girl tells me that you will be leaving us in a few days now--about the
end of the week."
"I think so, sir," King replied. "I have wanted to tell you how much I
owe----"
"Tut, tut, man--that's nothing!" the old man broke in. "No--we all do
such things--any of us when the need comes. You may have to take me in
some time--who knows?"
"If the time ever comes----" King began.
"I know, I know," he interrupted again. "That's partly why I want to
talk to you. Howden, you're a young man yet--about----"
"Just past twenty-eight, sir," King interjected.
"Twenty-eight--aye. I didn't think you were so old even as that. Still
that's young enough for one of your experience."
He paused for a moment, during which he seemed to be thinking very hard.
"There was something I have thought lately I'd like to tell you," he
went on at last. "I want to tell you because I think you can listen
with a man's ears and understand with a man's heart. Men don't go
through life as a rule, Howden, without carrying a few secrets along
with them. The most of us have memories that we'd gladly forget--if we
could. All of us have our secrets--things we never tell, even to our
best friends. And there's nothing wrong with that--it would be wrong if
we told it. The world is a pretty fair sort, my boy, and life is worth
living, in spite of the wrongs we do. It isn't such a bad rule, I've
found, to keep your mouth shut--if opening it is going to cause trouble
for anyone."
He was silent for a while, as if he wished the truth of his statement to
sink deep into King's mind.
"But there are times when it's best to speak out," he went on. "A
little trouble sometimes saves a deal more later on. And that's the
point I'm coming to. There was a time in my life when I had no secret.
I went about my work every day and had little to worry me besides the
day's work as it came. But I grew ambitious. When you see a man that's
over-ambitious you can count on trouble lying somewhere waiting for him.
There are too many ambitious men in the world, Howden, to make it easy
for anyone to be ambitious and be happy. There were two of us--a man I
thought was a friend--and I'm not often fooled in men--and myself. When
we found things were going too slow to satisfy us we went west to the
mines for one season and staked some claims. We stayed the winter in a
little mining town that didn't live long enough to get a name for
itself. There isn't a man on the ground now. But for one season it was
a lively place. Another man joined us after we'd been there a short
time and the three of us went prospecting together. We were out for
weeks on one trip without any luck, until we gave up and started back to
camp. When men have tramped for weeks together through blizzards, and
broken fresh trails against howling winds, they're either going to be
great friends, or they're going to break. I was the oldest--the other
two were young and better able to stand it than I was. And it wasn't
long before I began to feel as if I was in the way. The grub was
getting low, too, and hungry men are not good companions on the road.
Last day out from camp the impossible happened. After going for weeks
without luck of any kind we ran upon it when we were least expecting it.
The fact is, Howden, I ran upon it. I found it--and I claimed it for my
own, for the other two had told me they couldn't hold back for me any
longer and had gone on. That night I got into camp--they had got in
early in the day. There was a lot of drinking going on, and about
midnight there was a fight."
Keith McBain placed his hand over his eyes for a moment and then ran his
fingers slowly across his forehead.
"I never knew exactly what happened. All I remember was some shots and
a man lying on the floor. I had a gun in my hand--and it was smoking.
The thought of what I had done sobered me at once, and my first fear was
for my wife and girl. Had it not been for them, Howden, I swear I'd
have given myself up right there. But I couldn't do that. I asked the
other man--the man I thought was my friend--you may as well know who--it
was big Bill McCartney--I asked him to get me out of it. At first he
argued with me, but at last I persuaded him and he helped me get away.
In a few days he joined me again and we came back. Then one night I
made a bargain with him. The affair was to remain a secret between us
and he was to take the claim and get what he could from it. He went
west again and I took to the construction--and have lived the life of
the damned ever since. I told my wife--and she died. Then McCartney
came back. Now he wants everything. He knows he has my life in his
hands--and he's going to make me pay. I made him foreman. He's not
satisfied with that. He wanted the claim in the hills--and got it.
Sometimes I have been glad he did get it. I have been afraid to stand
before that man, Howden--the only man I have ever been afraid of. And
I'm not afraid for myself either. But the girl there--he wants her--has
wanted her for a long time, and says he's going to get her. To-night I
told her the whole story--just as I've told it to you. And she says if
the price has to be paid--she'll pay it. That's Cherry, my boy. The
hour has come for me, Howden. We can't run camp very late this year.
The weather's been bad. When the break-up comes, there will be plans to
lay for next year. McCartney will speak--there will be words--there are
always words when we talk business. But this will be the last. A man's
life is nothing--he can take me, but--God in heaven--there's a limit!"
He got up from his chair and stood a moment before King. Then he
extended his hand and King took it.
"We shall speak of this again, Howden," he said. "Now that there's
nothing between us we can talk without being afraid. There'll be plans
to talk over--and I'd like to talk them over with you."
He turned and went into the cabin without giving King a chance to speak,
and King sat down again and went over in his own mind the details of the
story Keith McBain had told him.
It must have been an hour later--King did not know how long he had been
there alone--when he heard Cherry's step in the cabin, and lifting his
eyes, saw her standing in the doorway.
"You must go to bed," she said, and her voice betrayed the fact that she
had been weeping.
He looked at her a moment without speaking. Then he got up and turned
towards her.
"Come out a minute, Cherry," he said, very softly.
She stepped down, and coming to where he stood, waited for him to speak.
Taking her arm he led her off a short distance along the path, where
they had walked together only a few hours before. Neither of them spoke
until they had reached a point in the pathway from which only the light
of the cabin was visible through the heavy, low-hanging branches of the
trees.
Then King stopped and faced her, with his two hands resting on her
shoulders.
"Your father has told me the whole story, Cherry," he said.
Cherry's head dropped and her shoulders shook under King's hands.
"I didn't think it was so bad," she sobbed.
"Cherry," he said abruptly, and in a voice so commanding that it was
almost harsh.
The sobbing ceased suddenly and Cherry looked up expectantly.
"It ain't so bad," he said in a gentler voice.
"But what----" she began.
"I don't know," he replied quickly. "One thing at a time, I
guess--that's enough to think about."
"But I can't let father----"
"Wait," King interrupted again. "McCartney's bad--bad clean through.
Some time--sooner or later--a bad man makes a mistake. I think Bill
McCartney's mistake is about due. He's made one bad mistake
already--maybe more--but one, anyhow."
"What has he done?" Cherry asked.
King, for once, found it easy to talk.
"He has made up his mind he'll have you," he replied quickly. "But he's
made a mistake. I'm going to have you, Cherry!"
She took a step away from him and regarded him seriously for a moment.
"There'll be some things to settle first," he went on. "But when
they're settled--I'm coming."
For a while Cherry allowed her mind to return to the doubts that had
lurked there for many days. She wanted to ask King the question that
had been in her mind ever since the evening she had ridden into town in
the dusk. Then she heard King's voice again--slow, resolute, and
touched with deep emotion.
"Just now," he said, "I'd like to kiss you--but I'll wait--I'll wait
till I deserve it more. Cherry McBain, I'm going to fight for you."
He drew her towards him and looked long into her eyes. Then he turned
her about and started towards the cabin. Together they walked in
silence until they were within a few feet of the door, and then Cherry
paused and turned to King.
"King Howden," she said, looking up at him, "you're--you're stupid!"
Before King could make reply she threw her arms suddenly around his neck
and kissed him once impulsively, passionately, and then fled into the
cabin.
After a while King Howden, wondering a great deal about his own
stupidity, passed into the cabin and went to bed.
*CHAPTER FIFTEEN*
October set in as no other October had done within the memory of Keith
McBain.
"It does nothing but rain in this country from the looks of things," he
said to old Gabe Smith, who was going over the works with his old boss.
"There's nothing for us but an early close--we may as well shut down at
once. Last night the sun set clear and--look at it now."
It was late afternoon and the whole sky was heavy. The sun had broken
through the clouds in the west, but behind the clouds the sky was red.
The breeze that rustled in the poplars was chill--even cold--and carried
the yellow leaves before it, or lifted them from the ground in little
eddying gusts that whirled sharply in the open for a moment and then
lost themselves in the closer branches of the shrubbery.
"We've had frost nearly every night this week," Gabe offered by way of
corroborating what Keith McBain had said. "A little more and there'll
be no workin' with the slushers at all."
McBain walked a short distance in silence and then turned back towards
the camp.
"No use going any farther," he remarked at last, as if he were talking
to himself. "This job's about done, anyhow, and the next move will be
clear up to the valley--just north of town. Might as well hustle up the
bit that's left here and move the outfit into town for the winter. It'll
give us an early start for the spring, anyhow."
It required all of two weeks to complete what was still left of the work
Keith McBain had contracted for at that point in the right-of-way where
his camp had stood for the months of August and September. With good
weather conditions it would have been completed in three or four days.
But every morning found the ground that had been wet the day before
frozen into a hard crust that made work impossible until noon. The work
dragged along at a rate that would have tried the patience of anyone.
It kept Keith McBain in a state of ill-temper from which, during the
whole of the two weeks, he never recovered.
During those two weeks, however, the men who worked for Keith McBain
were conscious of a change in the old contractor's manner that pleased
some quite as much as it displeased others. In September it had been
freely admitted by all that the old man was losing his grip. His power
was going. His commands were not always obeyed, and no one retreated
before his outbursts of profanity as they had once done.
But now--Old Silent was back on the job, loved and hated as before,
driving his men recklessly in their labors and sparing himself as little
as he spared his men, building from day to day, as conditions permitted,
as if the whole responsibility of constructing a great national
transcontinental highway rested upon his shoulders alone. The change was
so complete, and so sudden, too, that the men marvelled. At first they
observed it individually and thought it over quietly, without offering
any comment. Later they began to discuss it in groups. Soon it became
the chief topic of conversation.
Under ordinary circumstances little consideration would have been given
to Keith McBain's return to his former habits. The men would have
observed it, mentioned it casually, perhaps, and with smiles on their
faces--and gone back to their work. But the circumstances under which
the change had taken place were not ordinary. No man in the camp--not
even McCartney--could account for it. The explanation was hidden behind
Old Silent's grey, inscrutable countenance. As a matter of fact, the
discussions in which the men engaged during the long, chilly evenings
were not prompted solely--nor in the main--by any desire to find the
explanation.
No one would have spoken at any length on the subject had it not been
for the fact that among the men working for Keith McBain were a number
who for some time had refused to admit that Keith McBain was recovering
from his long period of inefficiency and weak management. When they were
finally forced to admit what was so obvious that no one could remain
blind to it, they became violent in their dislike for his harsh methods
and intolerant moods. When they could no longer discredit him they began
to denounce him. The group was a formidable element in camp--and was
led ostensibly by McCartney, who doubtless saw one of his fondest hopes
declining.
One incident that occurred during those two weeks marked the turning
point in all the discussions that were going on. The night had been
cold, with rain and a little snow, the first of the season. The morning
was wet, and underfoot the ground was slushy. The men had risen at the
usual time and gone to breakfast at the sound of the gong. When
breakfast was almost over, but before any man had yet risen from the
table, Keith McBain appeared in the doorway of the cook-camp and ordered
the men out as usual. No word was spoken in reply and McBain, after
waiting a moment in the doorway of the camp, went out to prepare for the
day's work. No sooner had he disappeared than protests broke loose from
fully half the men at once. They appealed to McCartney, and leaving the
table, went off in a surly mood to the bunk house, confident that, if
anything could be done, McCartney would do it. McBain himself was
already out on the grade, and McCartney strode over boldly to apprise
him of the temper of the men.
Not more than three of the men heard the interview between Old Silent
and his foreman. But all three heard alike--and the reports that all
three brought in concerning what they had seen were sufficiently similar
to leave no one in doubt as to their being, in the main, correct.
McCartney's first word had brought Keith McBain down on him like a
hurricane, before which the foreman had capitulated, even cringed, and
had asked the old boss to speak to the men himself.
And Keith McBain had spoken to the men, with the result that only two in
the whole camp refused to go to work. These he promptly handed over to
the time-keeper, who gave them their time, and Keith McBain personally
supervised their departure from camp before he went back to his men on
the grade.
From that time forward there was no doubting that the old railroad boss
was still to be seriously reckoned with by any man who questioned his
ability to look after his own affairs. From that time forward, moreover,
the question was not so much one of whether Keith McBain was as strong a
man as Bill McCartney. It was rather a question of which of the two men
they were prepared to follow. For McCartney had sworn in the presence
of everyone that night that he was going to break Keith McBain, and do
it so completely that--well, they were to watch him and they would see
for themselves.
That night the camp was split into two factions. The division had been
creeping in for months. It was now complete. On one side were the men
who had succumbed to McCartney's loud boastings, and had found in
certain dark hints that he had given concerning the old contractor's
past, good food for fattening an old-time grudge. On the other side
were the men who hated McCartney as much as they sympathized with Keith
McBain, and generally speaking there was a strong affection for the old
contractor in spite of his harsh manner. Night after night during those
two weeks the breach between the two factions broadened, and on a
half-dozen occasions threatened to end in a free fight.
In the meantime King Howden rapidly recovered his normal condition.
Twice he had gone to the end-of-the-steel for the mail, and had returned
to town after his long trips in better spirits than when he had left.
On each trip he managed to drop off at McBain's camp about meal-time,
and spend an hour or more talking to Cherry and her father. But not
once did the difficult position in which Keith McBain was placed come up
for discussion. Nor did King Howden drop as much as a hint to Cherry
that he still remembered the night when he had stood alone under the
tamaracs and had made known his determination to win in the game he was
playing with Bill McCartney.
The third trip, however, was different from the others. Cherry had
secretly been expecting King all day long. He arrived finally late in
the afternoon, and with him Anne. Cherry received the girl with as much
cordiality as she could command. The four took supper together and King
went at once, leaving Anne with Cherry until he returned.
That night Keith McBain retired early and left the two girls alone
together. In spite of herself, Cherry found her heart warming towards
Anne as the evening wore on.
"Don't you sometimes find it hard to be alone so much, Anne?" she asked,
when their conversation had drifted into more or less personal channels.
Anne's reply was at first non-committal.
"Ain't you alone, too?" she asked.
"Yes," Cherry replied, "and I feel--sometimes--as if I can't stand it
any longer. But then--I have my father."
"Yes," Anne responded, "it's different. An' when you ask me if I find
it hard--I do. Sometimes--well, I just don't think about it. If I
started thinkin' I'd go crazy. But thinkin' doesn't get you anywhere."
They were both silent for some time, Cherry intent upon some sewing that
she was doing, Anne sitting watching her across the table. At last
Cherry made another effort.
"I hope you won't think it funny of me, Anne," she remarked, looking up
at the girl and smiling, "but I have never known you by anything other
than--just Anne. King never introduced us properly."
"There's been mighty little time for introducin' anyone," Anne replied.
"Yes; but King has never even told me your name," Cherry continued.
Anne was not quick to answer. "Reason is," she said slowly, after a
long pause, "he didn't know it himself."
Cherry's face expressed surprise.
"But I thought you and he were good friends," she remarked--and
something of the old Eve was rising in her. She had been struggling all
evening to keep it down, but now she found herself searching Anne's face
for the slightest change of color or expression that would betray her
feelings.
The girl spoke very quietly. "We are--if you want to put it like that,"
she replied.
There was a note in Anne's voice that was unmistakably cold, and Cherry
reproached herself at once.
"Really, Anne," she said, and she turned her eyes away as she spoke; "I
didn't mean to be personal. Please forgive me."
"That's nothin'!" replied Anne quickly. "Fact is--when I came to the
settlement I wanted nothin' better than to be left alone. When I hired
with MacMurray he asked me my name an' I told him 'Anne'. If he'd asked
what else--I'd 'a' lied to him. But he didn't. An' no one else ever
asked till just now. I could lie about it--but I'm not goin' to. When
I tell you--I'll tell you straight. Better leave it at that."
Though Anne's voice was cold and without feeling, Cherry knew that at
heart the girl was tender, even affectionate. When Anne got up from
where she had been sitting and went to the window where she stood
looking out into the night, Cherry set aside her sewing and followed
her. For a moment she stood behind Anne, neither of them speaking a
word.
At last Cherry put her arms about her and held her in a warm, impulsive
embrace.
"Anne," she said, "let's be friends. I'm alone--and so are you. But
you're older than I am, and I want you to like me."
Anne turned to her and looked at her very steadily for a long time
before she spoke.
"Ain't you like the rest of them?" she asked.
Cherry did not understand the question.
"What rest--who?" she asked in surprise.
"Oh, the whole bunch," Anne jerked out impatiently; "the women in the
town. They don't like me--an' they go out o' the way to show it.
God!--sometimes I hate to think I belong to them--but they ain't women."
"Oh, yes, they are, Anne," Cherry replied, "but they don't understand,
that's all."
"Understand? Understand--nothin'! I was ready to like them before I
understood them. When I got to understand them--I passed 'em up. One
good thing--they ain't many--so it don't matter much."
"Well, don't put me with them, Anne," Cherry returned.
Anne did not reply at once, but when she did there was caution in her
tone.
"Do you remember the first time you saw me?" she asked.
"Yes."
Cherry had remembered--the memory of it had burned itself into her
brain.
"Did you speak to me then as if you understood?" Anne questioned.
Cherry remained silent.
"An' then for two days," Anne continued, "did you act like you
understood and wanted to be friends?"
Cherry could stand the questioning no longer.
"Anne, Anne," she pleaded, "don't talk like that. Let me tell
you--can't you see what it all means, Anne--I love him--I was jealous."
"Jealous?" Anne stood back from her in surprise.
"When I saw you standing----."
"You mean King?" Anne asked her suddenly.
Cherry nodded her head.
At first Anne seemed about to laugh, but the smile died on her lips.
"Listen to me," she said. "Where'd you get that? If I was goin' to
pick someone right now--I'd pick King Howden. But I ain't pickin'
anyone, an' I'll tell you why. Now, you get this straight. In the
first place he wouldn't stand for me, that's all there is to that. He
never told me, because we never talked about it--but I don't have to be
told. Anyhow, all that don't matter--it's nowhere with me. There's
another reason--I ain't lookin' for a partner. I wasn't goin' to tell
you this--but you might as well know."
She paused a moment and looked at Cherry.
"D'you know," she continued meditatively, "I didn't want to make this
trip down here this time. I wasn't comin', only King Howden told me to
come an' get on talkin' terms with you. I didn't like you--but I came
because he wanted me to. That's how much I like him, an' it's a whole
lot. But I'm glad I came. I think I'll get to likin' you--I like you
now--or I wouldn't tell you what I never told another soul in this part
o' the world. The reason I ain't choosin' anythin' particular among the
'legible gents that's hangin' round is that I--I made a choice once. It
was sure a bad one, but--I'm standin' by it."
"You're not married, Anne?" exclaimed Cherry in surprise.
Anne nodded in the affirmative.
"I was once, anyhow," she commented with a smile.
Cherry could say nothing in reply--so complete was her surprise.
"Just now," Anne added, after a moment of silence, "I'm doin' what most
women have to do sooner or later--I'm stayin' round to keep my old man
from makin' an ass of himself. The most of 'em will do it if they're
left alone."
"Then he's here?" Cherry exclaimed with fresh surprise.
"Lord, yes--he's here," Anne replied.
When Cherry did not reply Anne took her hands and looked long and
steadily into her eyes.
"My name," she said slowly, "is Anne--Anne McCartney."
For once Cherry checked herself before she put her thoughts into words.
She drew Anne towards her and held her close for a long time in silence.
In her heart was a riot of confused emotions. She could not resist the
overwhelming satisfaction she felt upon learning at last that her
suspicions concerning King were foolish and without foundation. She
reproached herself inwardly for having entertained such fears. Then her
self-reproach vanished before the supreme joy that came to her--he was
still the man she had known him to be when first they rode together on
the trail. It was only natural that the hatred she had for McCartney
should now cause her some uneasiness in the presence of the woman who
bore his name. In the end her heart went out in pity to the girl who
was struggling through life with a burden such as she herself knew
nothing of.
It was this feeling that was strongest in her heart as she pressed Anne
very close to her and kissed her. Anne sensed at once what was in
Cherry's mind, and drew back.
"Don't start pityin' me," she said abruptly. "I did it--an' I did it
with my eyes open. An' now that I've told you"--she put her fingers to
her lips--"don't muss everything. You got that out o' me when I--I
forgot myself."
She spoke impatiently, but Cherry hurried to reassure her.
"You can trust me, Anne," she said.
"When it comes to that," Anne replied, "there's nobody like your own
self. Still--I'm goin' to count on you--not a word."
That night was the longest night Cherry McBain had ever known. So many
questions chased each other through her mind that sleep was impossible.
She felt herself the plaything of a score of different forces, at the
mercy of cross-currents over which she had no control and against which
it was useless for her to battle.
One thing especially troubled her. Should she have told Anne all she
knew about McCartney? She had hesitated because her father was so
vitally involved. Besides, she didn't know what plans were in King's
mind. When the first grey of the dawn came through her window she had
come to a decision: she would tell Anne all about it in the morning.
When they were alone together after they had eaten their breakfast,
Cherry summoned all her courage and began her story. Anne stopped her
before she had spoken a dozen words.
"You're not tellin' me a thing I don't know," she said. "Didn't I say I
was here to keep Bill McCartney from playin' the damn fool? Well, he'll
do that in spite of me--but I'm not goin' to let him make as big a fool
of others as he has of me. Let's go and look at the horses."
Early that afternoon King arrived, and Anne went back to town with him.
Cherry stood on the trail at the end of the pathway leading from the
cabin, and watched them until they were out of sight. She was on the
point of turning back again to the cabin when she caught sight of her
father coming towards her.
"Well, girl," said Keith McBain when he had joined her, "the work's
over. We begin moving the outfit to-morrow."
Cherry had been expecting the announcement every day for the past week,
but when it actually came at last it found her sad in the thought of
leaving the spot where all that had ever mattered much in her life--save
the death of her mother--had occurred.
"I can get ready any time, father," she replied. "But--I'll hate to
leave my trees--and my cabin--and my hills."
The old man looked down at his daughter and smiled. Then he put his arm
about her and the two went off down the pathway together.
*CHAPTER SIXTEEN*
The next day Keith McBain's men began to break up the old camp. By
night the first wagons were loaded and ready for the trail in the
morning. McBain's decision to store his outfit in The Town rather than
take it to the end-of-the-steel, met with the men's approval. It meant
a shorter haul, and it meant a foregathering of the men from farther up
the line, including Rubble's gang, as a sort of final wind-up of the
season's activities. In three days there was nothing left of the old
camp, except a few walls and foundations--and the little log cabin in
the shelter of the tamaracs. Keith McBain had acceded to his daughter's
wish to remain "just another day," and had allowed his men, under the
supervision of McCartney and Gabe Smith, to go ahead and complete the
task of putting the outfit under cover and preparing winter shelter for
the horses.
When Cherry and her father arrived just a day after the last freight
team, the place had already begun to take on a holiday appearance. They
were met by Hugh Hurley, who took them at once to his cottage, where he
insisted upon their staying until McBain could have a cabin of his own
erected. Leaving Cherry with Mrs. Hurley, Old Silent went out to see
what had been accomplished by his men. Scarcely an hour's work had been
done, under either old Gabe or McCartney, towards storing the equipment,
and half the men were already showing the effects of frequent visits to
Cheney's. Gabe was the first to meet McBain when he arrived, and at
once he confessed that scarcely a thing had been accomplished. The old
contractor laid his plans carefully and with quiet deliberation. He had
a long talk with Hugh Hurley, and together the two visited King Howden
in his shack on the ridge, where the three talked late into the night.
Next morning Keith McBain was out at daybreak rounding up his gang and
getting them ready for the day's work. He found nearly half of them
unable to report for duty, but the others responded readily, and were
soon at work hauling timbers and clearing spaces for the erection of the
corrals. When they were well under way McBain went to Hurley's office,
where he found King Howden, and bringing him out, put him in charge of
the men.
Until noon the work went along quite smoothly, and Keith McBain watched
King with approval growing in his heart. Noon, however, brought the
discovery to McCartney, and to those who had not responded to McBain's
call, that the work was apparently proceeding successfully without them.
For an hour or so there were petty councils here and there, in
MacMurray's and Cheney's places particularly, and one by one the men
stepped away and went to work, though many of them took their directions
from King with ill enough grace. Keith McBain and Hugh Hurley watched
the process from the latter's office, and smiled to themselves at what
they saw. Before night a scant half dozen were all that remained aloof
from the operations--these and Bill McCartney, who had stayed discreetly
apart all day.
Nightfall found Cheney's place crowded to the door. There was a feeling
of expectancy in the air and the men gathered quickly and fell to
discussing the events of the day. But discussion led nowhere. There
seemed to be general disagreement on almost every point that was raised.
McCartney stood back from the crowd with a smile fixed on his face,
apparently enjoying the discomfiture and allowing the men to develop
their differences as they wished. What he wanted just now was
disorganization and confusion--the more of it the better. Any
organization must of necessity centre round Keith McBain, who was the
sole embodiment of authority of any kind in the place. When disorder
had broken McBain's control McCartney's moment would arrive. And he was
confident that the card he would play was sufficiently high to win the
game.
The men were not altogether blind to the strangely quiescent attitude
that McCartney had so suddenly assumed. Late that night, when the
discussion was at its highest, someone suddenly turned upon him.
"Ain't you in on this, Bill McCartney?" asked one of the men who had
been a participant in more than one heated argument during the evening.
"Sure, I'm in on it," he replied, "but I'm not talkin' just now."
"Not talkin' just now? Hell, when are you goin' to do your talkin'?"
By this time the men had turned their attention to McCartney, and stood
waiting for his reply.
"Well, boys," he said, with a sneer, "I'll begin talkin' when I'm good
and ready to talk."
There was a moment's silence and then, almost in an instant, the
confusion of voices was as great as ever.
When the general hubbub was at its highest Tom Rickard edged his way
towards McCartney and touched him on the shoulder. In a moment the two
were back against the wall where they could talk without being
overheard.
"You're playin' a fool's game, Bill," Rickard said in a voice that was
scarcely more than a whisper. "You're lettin' go when you could speak
one word and the boys would back you up to a man."
McCartney looked at Rickard a moment with a puzzled expression. He
seemed to be trying to settle with himself whether or not Rickard was to
be trusted. At last he smiled, a little patronizingly, and laid a hand
upon Rickard's shoulder.
"Tom," he said, quietly, "you'd better let me play this hand the way I
want to. I could get them to-night--I know that--but I want them later
on. I've got something to say--and when the time comes I'm goin' to say
it--don't worry. But there's something to be done first."
He paused and gave Rickard another searching glance.
"Are you still playin' this game with me?" he asked pointedly.
Rickard looked about him quickly. Then he moved close to McCartney and
put out his hand. McCartney took it and nudged him gently with his
elbow.
"Come outside--it's gettin' close in here."
They went out without attracting any special attention, and when they
had closed the door behind them McCartney turned towards the river.
They walked the full length of the street without speaking, stopping
only once to take a glance through the window at MacMurray's, where a
crowd of men were gathered in the front room. When they stood at last
on the bank of the river, McCartney nodded his head towards Hurley's
office, standing back a short way from the street. There was a light in
the window.
"Old Hugh is workin' late," he said, with a grunt of sarcasm.
Rickard followed McCartney along the bank, until they came to the space
the men had cleared in the brush during the day. A half dozen large
timbers had already been hauled to the site of the new corral, and the
first four had been squared and fitted together to make the foundation.
A little farther down a cut had been made in the steep clay banks that
ordinarily rose some fifteen feet above the water in the river, to
provide a passage-way for the horses going to water. From where they
stood they could see the lantern in the hands of the corral foreman, as
he went about taking a last look at the horses before retiring for the
night. Besides the stamping of the horses' feet on the ground, there
was not a sound except the running of the water in the stream below
them, now swollen from the rains of the past couple of weeks.
McCartney sat down quietly on one of the timbers and beckoned Rickard to
a place beside him.
"This looks like a bit of deep plottin'," McCartney said when Rickard
was seated. "Well, forget the melodrama, Tom. It may look stagey, but
I'm real serious--an' I'm goin' to be real careful, too."
MacMurray's door opened, letting out a flood of light, and McCartney
ceased speaking till the door was closed.
"You were with me on one bit of business a few weeks ago, Tom," he
continued. "I've got no kick comin'--you did all you could, an' we came
pretty near to gettin' away with it at that. If the old man could 'a'
been kept in town another day we'd 'a' swung the thing good. It
wouldn't 'a' mattered a damn whether he ever came back."
"And we'd 'a' done it, too, if it hadn't been for just one thing--Anne
handed the old man an ace--an' he bobbed up in camp about twenty-four
hours too soon. And Anne's goin' to queer this deal right through
unless we can keep her out. Now, listen to me. I know that girl--just
between us, I knew her before I ever came here--an' I can tell you right
now what she's goin' to do. No use goin' into cases--but I know. Anne's
got to be put away--nothin' rough, y'understand----"
The sound of someone approaching from behind them caused McCartney to
cease speaking and get up. The corral foreman was returning to
MacMurray's.
"Come on," McCartney whispered quickly, and led the way, with Rickard
following closely behind him. They did not exchange a word until they
had gone some distance up the street in the direction of Cheney's. The
presence of a number of men in the street made further conversation
impossible, and they entered Cheney's place, where McCartney sought at
once to make amends for his previous aloofness during the evening by
inviting the men to come up and "have one on him."
In Hurley's office the three men, Keith McBain, King Howden and Hugh
Hurley himself, sat late that night reviewing the events of the day and
considering their possible bearing on the immediate future. For the
benefit of Hugh Hurley, Keith McBain had gone to some length in tracing
the course of events during the past few weeks.
"But what's his idea--what's his plan?" asked Hurley, after McBain had
completed his account.
Keith McBain was silent a moment before he replied.
"Bill McCartney wants more--more than I can tell you, Hurley--he
wants----"
King saw the struggle that the old man was having and came at once to
his relief.
"I guess he wants all he can get," he broke in. "There's only one thing
to do now, Mr. Hurley--we can't have him round this place--he's got to
get out."
Hurley smiled.
"You're beginning to talk business, King," replied Hurley. "If you
believe what you say--you ought to be able to go where your faith leads
you."
King looked at him questioningly.
"I mean that McCartney will stay here till he's put out," the old man
continued.
"That's what I mean," King replied quickly.