"I didn't expect you could," King responded.
"Can you?"
King had asked himself the same question scores of times and had made
his own reply. He expressed it now as he had expressed it to himself
every time the question had arisen in his own mind.
"Bill McCartney and King Howden can't live in the same place this
winter," he said, looking straight into Hurley's eyes. "And I ain't
going away."
When they had finished talking the three men shook hands quietly. They
had entered into a covenant on behalf of a few hundred serious men and
women who had set their faces months before towards the setting sun and
had followed the trail over the hills and into the little valley, where
lay the only hopes that life had still to offer them--the hidden valley
at the rainbow's end.
And two of those three men slept as men sleep who are without care and
are content with the day that is done. But Keith McBain could not sleep
for the thought of the price he had already paid and the price that he
was even yet to pay for his own folly.
The week that followed was one of unceasing labor and careful vigilance
on the part of Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain. King went forward with the
work he had been given to do by Keith McBain, and paid not the slightest
heed to petty obstructions that were being thrown in his way every day
by men who, though pretending to serve their old boss, were really
actuated by the designs of which McCartney was the maker and the
inspirer.
No one was unaware of McCartney's intriguing. Signs of it were in
evidence everywhere. In spite of King's endeavors to hold his men
together and secure concerted effort, there were little breaks and
hindrances that temporarily offset his best attempts to direct the work
along effective lines. Especially active among those who sided with
McCartney was Tom Rickard, who had joined the gang of men under King's
direction with no other object whatever than the frustration of all
efforts to produce harmony among the men.
Towards the end of the week, however, the division between the two
sides, represented by McCartney's supporters on the one hand, and on the
other by the men who were still faithful to Keith McBain and took kindly
to King's methods, was so marked than an open break seemed imminent. The
threatening attitude of the opposition to King was so apparent that many
of his men grew impatient with his quiet forbearance.
To make matters worse, the weather, that had been so unfavorable for
almost a month, had turned from bad to worse. The river had risen so
that the men were no longer able to get logs for building purposes from
the opposite side of the stream, and were forced to make long hauls
through wet brush and over rain-soaked ground, until their spirits were
tested almost to the limit of endurance.
McCartney was as much a student of conditions as he was an intriguer,
and was not slow to recognize that, given a little more work under
conditions that were nearly impossible, the break that he so ardently
desired was inevitable. He stood to one side, or walked about with a
smirk on his face that expressed only too well his confidence in the
outcome.
At one point, however, his calculations failed. Friday night found the
work almost completed. In spite of all obstacles, the end of another day
would see all the horses under cover and housed in buildings that would
provide comfortable quarters during the weeks that lay between the
closing of construction work and the opening of the tie-camps--for
neither Hurley nor King would admit for a moment that the camps in the
hills would not be running. They did not know how it was to be done,
but they did not allow themselves to entertain the slightest doubt that
the claim now registered in the name of McCartney would yet be worked
without his permission or assistance.
Keith McBain was not nearly so sanguine. He knew--as no one else knew,
except King and Cherry--that McCartney still held his high card and
would play it when the time was ripe. What the results would be he
could not guess--he could see nothing but chaos and disintegration
ahead. King clung to the hope--it was a sort of blind faith with
him--that somewhere, somehow, Keith McBain's fears would prove to be
groundless. Cherry was cheerful, even hopeful, though none knew whether
her high spirits were genuine or feigned. She drew some comfort, at
least, from the knowledge that, if McCartney had a card to play, so had
she--and she would play it when the moment was most opportune.
But to all this McCartney was apparently blind. He had one desire, one
aim so single and so unshakeable that he could see nothing else. His
mind was bent upon winning the game at all costs--or, losing it, to work
such havoc in the place that no one would stay. It was all a bit of
frontier politics, with all the ruthlessness and much of the intrigue
and petty conspiracy that mark the game of politics as it was played,
just over the hills, in the well-dressed, highly organized society that
these men had left in the hope of gaining a new freedom from the
restraints of their old life.
Sooner or later the break was bound to come--and McCartney had timed it
to suit his own convenience. Saturday morning Tom Rickard turned out
with the men as usual, and drove the team he had been driving all week.
King had left the scene of operations and had walked slowly down the
narrow trail worn by the logs that had been dragged out of the woods
during the week. He had gone a little more than half way towards the
point where the trail branched off in several directions at once and
lost itself in the woods. Rickard and a companion were just emerging
from the cover of the trees, bringing out two bits of timber bound
together at one end with a heavy logging chain. Suddenly Rickard's team
stopped with a jerk. The logs had slipped into an awkward position,
wedged between two stout poplars that held them as in a vice.
King came up to them and looked for a moment at the muddle without
speaking. Had Rickard showed the slightest good judgment he would never
have allowed himself to get into the tangle. King knew that--but he
stopped the words that were on his lips. Turning to Rickard's companion
he directed him to make use of his cant-hook and dislodge the timbers.
His request was made in a quiet tone and without anything offensive in
his manner, and he stepped away from the men and started round to the
other side of the horses to watch the work.
As he did so he heard Rickard muttering something that was meant for his
companion, though he did not conceal the fact that he cared very little
whether King heard it or not.
King stopped and came back.
"Just now, Rickard, this is a one man's job," he said. "You get that
straight."
Rickard's mouth curled up into a sneer. He seemed on the point of
making a reply, but he looked at King's face and shrugged his shoulders
contemptuously without speaking.
King then turned to Rickard's companion and stood by until the logs were
cleared. Then he gave Rickard orders to go ahead. Letting loose a
string of oaths, Rickard struck the horses with the knotted ends of the
lines, and continued lashing them as he drove them at a mad pace down
the trail and round the corner to where the men were working.
King stood in the trail and watched Rickard abusing his team until the
blood was hot in his veins. He made a quick start to overtake him--and
then suddenly checked himself. Stepping back a little among the trees
he waited.
In a few minutes Rickard returned for another load. King waited until
he came opposite him in the trail, and then stepped out. Rickard's
companion had not come back as yet and he was alone.
"Whoa!" King said to the horses, and he stepped before them in the
trail.
Then he faced Rickard.
"Tie up here a minute," he said, indicating with his hand a tree
conveniently near, to which the team could be made secure.
Rickard looked at King quickly and again gave a shrug of contempt.
"Rickard," King said, "that won't get you anywhere. Tie up--here!"
"I will--like----"
Rickard never finished his sentence. King was beside him with one step
and had seized him by the shoulder.
"Rickard!" he said, sharply.
Rickard looked at him for a moment, and then going to the heads of the
horses, led his team over to the tree and made them fast.
"Go in there," King commanded, and pointed into the woods in the
direction of the river.
Rickard did not turn to look this time, but picked his way through the
underbrush, with King close at his heels. When they came within a yard
or two of the bank of the river King spoke again.
"This will do," he said. "I'm going to talk to you for about one
minute, and I want you to listen."
All the quietness had vanished both from King's voice and from his
manner. He was shaking with passion and his face was almost white. He
laid one hand on Rickard's shoulder and closed his fingers in a
vice-like grip.
"Ten minutes ago, Rickard," he said, "by God, I'd have killed you. Just
now, you dirty whelp--I'll give you about thirty seconds to make up your
mind to get out. Leave that team where it is and get back out of the
way till this job's done. If you're in town by Monday night I'll take my
own way of putting you out. A little better than two days--that's
enough time to square up and hit the trail. Are you ready?"
Rickard squirmed under King's hand, but King pulled him up suddenly.
"Are you ready?" he repeated.
Rickard nodded.
"Then move!"
King waited until he had gone a few yards before he followed him. They
had not retraced more than half the distance they had come when they
heard a great splash in the river behind them. They turned at once and
looked back. A large section of the river bank, undermined by the action
of the water, had fallen and had taken away the very ground on which
they had been standing only a moment before.
King paused in silent contemplation of how petty, after all, are the
things that vex us most. Only a moment did he allow his mind to wander
from the business he had in hand; then he faced Rickard again, and
without a word the two went off together.
King took the team back and gave it into the keeping of one of the men.
He never left Rickard's side, however, until he had seen him safely away
from the workers. Then he returned and went on with his work.
That evening the task was completed and King, after taking supper at
MacMurray's and chatting a moment with Anne, walked over to Hurley's to
talk with Cherry a little before he went to his shack. All day his mind
had reverted time and time again to the incident with Rickard, and more
especially to what seemed like a miraculous escape from what might have
meant death to both. Now that the work was over and his mind was free,
the whole affair came back upon him with renewed freshness. He told it
all to Cherry and Mrs. Hurley, and when he had finished, Cherry, who had
listened throughout without speaking a word, turned a serious face to
King and put her hand upon his arm.
"It looks almost--as if God himself were helping us," she said.
She did not speak fervently, nor with any emotion. Her voice was quiet
and her tone matter-of-fact. And yet King was struck by the simplicity
of her manner. She evidently believed implicitly in what she had
said--and King found himself impelled to share somewhat in her faith.
It was the last thought that lingered in his mind that night before he
went to sleep to the sound of the rain falling upon the roof of his
shack.
Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain sat together in the land office very late
that night. No one in town was in any mood for going to bed, and the
sounds that came from Cheney's and MacMurray's bore ample evidence to
the fact that the men were apparently preparing to make a night of it.
Old Gabe Smith dropped in when it was very late and stayed long enough
to observe, among other things, that if the rain didn't soon cease in
the hills the water in the river would be over the top of the bank.
After Gabe had gone, the two men decided upon taking a walk down to the
river to look at the rising water. What they saw when they got there
struck fear into their hearts at once. Since it had grown dark the
stream had risen a full foot, and was now rushing with terrific force
around the bend, about the outer angle of which clustered the huts and
cabins of the little town. Already the current had swept away large
portions of the high bank, in which there was no rock or stone of any
account to offer any resistance to the enormous weight of water that
swept down like a vicious cataract out of the hills.
"Look yonder," Hurley said, suddenly.
Keith McBain turned to look in the direction indicated. Further up
stream a little shack stood, with one corner already projecting over the
edge of the bank. In a few hours at most the ground upon which it stood
would be swept away and the shack with it.
Without losing a moment they hurried back to MacMurray's and called out
the men who had not yet retired for the night. In less than five
minutes, more than a score were at work, and before another half hour
had passed, the shack had been moved back upon safe ground.
By the time the excitement was over there was not a man left in either
MacMurray's or Cheney's. Everyone was out, either to help or look on.
Keith McBain had left and gone back with Hurley to the office when the
immediate danger was past. They were not in the crowd when Gabe Smith
came running excitedly to the men to announce that the bank was falling
away just above the place where the corral and equipment sheds had been
built during the week.
At once the men hurried toward the corral. For a few minutes there was
much excited and aimless running about on the part of the men, without
any organization, and without any plan. Soon, however, there emerged
certain unfailing indications that a part of the gang, at any rate, were
under direction. Gabe Smith was probably the first to observe it, and
his suspicions were confirmed when he saw McCartney's huge frame moving
among the men. There was organization, but designed to frustrate all
efforts to save the buildings, rather than to assist.
Gabe left the crowd of men, who were already wrangling among themselves,
and hurried to find Keith McBain. He had his hand upon the door of the
office and was about to open it, when he felt himself seized by the
shoulder and hurled back so violently that he stumbled and fell to the
ground.
He looked up and saw McCartney standing over him.
"Stay out of the way, you old crust," McCartney said, "an' you won't get
hurt."
In a moment the office door was opened and Hurley was standing in the
lighted doorway, with McBain behind him.
"What's wrong?" demanded Hurley.
For reply McCartney stepped into the office, pushing Hurley before him,
and closed the door behind him.
"This ain't an old man's town--that's what's wrong," he said.
Hurley expressed his astonishment.
"Well, but--an old man can live here as well as anywhere else, can't
he?" he protested.
"All depends," McCartney replied, smiling cynically. "We'll settle that
some other time. Just now I have business with Keith McBain."
"It's time to settle," he said, looking at McBain who, for a moment,
seemed beaten in the struggle that was raging within him.
Suddenly he stood up and looked at McCartney, his eyes burning with the
fierce hate that was in his soul. When he spoke his voice seemed a
little uncertain, as if he were struggling to keep back the tears from
his eyes. But almost immediately he mastered himself and spoke
deliberately enough, if not quietly.
"What is it, McCartney?" he asked.
"Gabe Smith was here to announce to you that the new buildings an' the
outfit is all goin' down stream before daybreak unless they're moved,"
McCartney replied.
"And is nothing going to be done?" asked McBain.
"That's just what I'm here for," returned McCartney. "It'll be done if
you're ready to come through."
"Well--what will settle it?" Keith McBain asked in a voice that had
almost a touch of weariness in it.
"We've talked about all that before--there's no change," McCartney
replied.
Hurley looked from one man to the other in bewilderment.
"And if I refuse?" asked McBain.
"You're wastin' time," McCartney snapped.
Keith McBain raised his voice a little, but spoke with much the same
deliberateness as before.
"For two years, McCartney, I've been in hell expecting this time to
arrive any day. I'm past that now. I've settled it--and I'm going to
see it to the end. Don't think you can frighten me--I'm old, but--I'll
pay."
The words seemed to strike McCartney almost dumb.
"You'll pay?" he asked.
"Yes--go ahead--tell all you know!"
"By God, then, you will pay," McCartney exclaimed, and throwing the door
open, went out.
Hurley stepped over and, closing the door, turned to McBain.
"What is this--this bargain, Keith?" he asked.
"For two years he has kept a secret that has held me bound to
him--because I have been afraid to die."
"Die?" Hurley exclaimed.
"Hugh--I have killed a man."
For a moment they stood in silence and did not look at each other. Then
Keith McBain moved wearily towards the door. Before he went out he
turned and looked back at Hurley.
"Hugh," he said, quietly, "look after the men--I'm going to the girl."
Then he opened the door slowly and went out.
McCartney stood alone in the darkness by the river and waited for
Rickard, whose form was faintly visible a few yards up the river. When
Rickard had joined him, McCartney caught him by the arm.
"Well?" he asked.
"All smooth," Rickard replied.
"Nothin' rough?" McCartney prompted.
"I said--all smooth," Rickard returned, a little impatiently.
They walked together to within a few yards of the men and stood looking
at them. McCartney's group were in the majority, and stood near the
corral. Some distance back the others stood about in small groups,
talking angrily among themselves.
A bit of the bank dropped away and fell with a dull splash into the
water.
McCartney put a cigarette into his mouth and applied a match leisurely.
"I ain't much on religion, Rick," he said, jocularly, "but the Almighty
sure looks friendly to-night."
*CHAPTER SEVENTEEN*
King awoke with a start. He had been sleeping very soundly, and at
first, after he had opened his eyes, he had difficulty in bringing his
senses to bear directly on what had disturbed him. The faint grey dawn
was already at the window. Somewhere there had been a thumping and--the
sound of a voice that, even to his sleep-fogged consciousness, was
vaguely familiar.
For a moment he waited, sitting up in his bunk and rubbing the sleep
from his eyes. Suddenly the thumping was repeated--someone was at the
door. Then he heard his name called and the sound of the voice brought
him to his senses at once. It was the voice of Cherry McBain.
In an instant he was at the door.
"What's wrong?" he asked excitedly.
Cherry's voice was full of alarm. "Get dressed quickly, King," she
replied. "We want you."
King hurried into his clothes, and going to the door again shot the
wooden bar back from its socket and threw the door open. A very light
drizzling rain was still falling, and Cherry shook the wet wrap from her
head and shoulders as she stepped through the doorway. In his hurry
King had not taken time to light the lamp, but even in the darkness he
could see the expression of fear on her face. Without waiting to close
the door he placed an arm about her shoulders and drew her towards him.
"Oh, King!" she cried, "it's come--it's come!"
He did not need to ask what had come. He knew. Leading her gently to a
seat he left her, and sitting down on the edge of his bunk, drew on his
boots and laced them hurriedly. Then he got up quickly and throwing on
his coat, took his hat and turned to Cherry.
"All right--I'm ready," he announced.
Cherry got up from her seat and moved towards the door. She had not
spoken while King was completing his preparations to go out, and he knew
that she had been weeping silently.
When she got as far as the open doorway she paused and turned to him.
"King--King--" she began, but her voice failed her.
King stepped close to her and took her arm.
"Tell me about it as we go," he said.
She moved towards him, and reaching up placed her hands on his
shoulders. King looked down at her face, white and tense in the
darkness.
"You must fight, King," she said, with an emphasis that to King seemed
almost pathetic.
He pressed her closer for reply.
"And you must win," she added.
He smiled faintly. "I'm ready," he said.
Her hands crept slowly about his neck, and King, with a suddenness that
swept her off her feet, caught her to him and pressed a kiss upon her
mouth, a kiss in which all the pent-up passion of weeks found expression
at last.
When he released her he stood with his arms about her for a brief
moment, trembling before her.
"I don't deserve it," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "I
guess I'll never deserve that--but I wanted to win first--to win for
you."
She leaned a little closer to him and then drew herself up and clung
tightly with her arms about his neck.
"King," she said, breathlessly, "I love you--I love you!"
Again he put his lips to hers quickly, passionately--and then put her
back from him.
"We must get along down now," he said.
Cherry drew her wrap around her and they went out together.
A few minutes' walking brought them within sight of the town, apparently
peaceful in the cold grey glimmer of light just breaking in the east. So
quiet was it that King began to wonder if the disturbances of which
Cherry had been telling him as they came along had not been settled.
Then suddenly there arose a shout from the further side of the town,
near the river, and King quickened his pace almost to a run, giving
Cherry all she could do to keep up. At last his eagerness mastered him,
and leaving Cherry with a last warning to go back to Hurley's cottage
and not to stir until he should come for her, he left her and went off
at a run in the direction of the shouting.
What King saw when he reached the point in the street where it turned
and ran along the bank of the river made him stand a moment aghast. Back
against the trees the buildings stood, huddling together closely in the
cold light of the early morning. The water in the river was almost
level with the ground on which he was standing, and large sections of
the bank had been swept away during the night, until the corral in which
the horses were placed before King left town the night before, was now
standing on the very brink of the flood.
This was in itself enough to strike fear into King's heart, but the
movements of the men were what concerned him most. Half-drunken still
from their night's debauch they seemed to be rolling about in a kind of
ridiculous orgy, stumbling and falling and scrambling to their feet
again, shouting and cursing and grappling each other in frenzied
disorder.
A glance was enough for King to realize fully what was wrong. He could
not see McCartney anywhere among the men, but Cherry had told him
enough--if telling had been at all necessary. Back a little from the
struggling mass stood six or eight men, looking on quietly and talking
among themselves. King recognized them as some of his own men, upon
whom he thought he could rely for support. In a moment he was standing
in the middle of the group.
"What are you standing here for?" he asked. "Come on--get into it!"
In a flash they were into the struggle, King leading them as they bored
their way through in an effort to reach the corral. King's plan was
clear in his own mind. Once with his back to the walls of the corral,
he could call his men one by one about him, and having displaced their
opponents, drive them off by united effort, break up their organization,
and beat them into submission.
The plan, easily enough conceived, was not so easily carried into
effect. King's appearance, it is true, had raised the spirits of the
men who were fighting together to settle the scores they had accumulated
during weeks of growing hatred for McCartney and his crowd. But as
their spirits rose, the determination of their opponents became more
grim as they saw themselves faced with possible defeat where they had
never dreamed of anything but an easy victory. The fight became more
and more furious every minute. Whereas before King's coming they had
fought without much bad temper and with little evidence of losing
control of themselves, now they struck out madly and grappled with the
fierceness of men in a battle where life and death depended upon the
outcome. They had fought only with their fists before. Now sticks and
clubs began to make their appearance as if by magic, and in many cases
the fight was for the possession of weapons.
Once King saw the flash of a knife between two men who were struggling
near him. Turning quickly he struck the fellow who held it, sending him
to the ground, where he sprawled clumsily in an effort to escape being
trampled under the feet of the fighters. The knife had fallen to the
ground, and King, placing his foot on it for a moment, waited while he
beat back a struggling pair who were close to him. Then stooping
quickly he picked up the knife and threw it into the river. No sooner
had he thrown it away than the owner pushed his way towards King and
accosted him for having attacked him. He was one of King's men.
King pushed him back angrily.
"Let them start that," he cried in a voice that rose above the din.
"Get in there!"
He pointed to where a group of his men were now massed against their
opponents and were driving them back slowly from the corral.
Then his eyes shifted suddenly in a new direction. Pushing his way
through the crowd towards King, was McCartney, his huge shoulders
towering above the other men, his dark face serious and totally divested
of its usual cynical smile. Not far behind him, on the outskirts of the
crowd, stood Old Silent.
King wasted no time on the men about him. If McCartney's anxiety to
reach him were greater than his own, there was no indication of the fact
in the eagerness with which King pressed towards him, pushing first one
and then another out of the way as he went forward.
When the two men faced each other at last they paused a moment, and
their eyes met in a long look in which there was something more than
mere hatred. In fact, an observer might have refused to believe that
the look was one of hate. There was grim resolve and unwavering
determination to settle an account of long standing. But, for a moment
at least, there arose in King's heart a feeling of something like
admiration for the embodiment of sheer brute strength that stood before
him. King did not pause long enough to ask what lingered in the look
McCartney gave him. He saw only that the tense seriousness that had
darkened the face of McCartney was gradually giving place to the old
sneer that had always played about one corner of his mouth--and the
sight stung him to madness. He thought of Cherry McBain--he thought of
the man whose life for two years had been one long curse to him--he
thought of the woman who had died of a broken heart--and he stepped
quickly and struck out at the sneering face before him.
The dawn in the east had spread upward from the horizon and filled the
sky, still clouded, with a thin grey light. There was light enough,
however, to make every movement easily discernible, and King watched his
opponent from the beginning with an alertness that rendered him proof
against any foul play. He was not going to be taken unawares, at any
rate. If he were beaten it would be because he had matched himself
against a better man.
Gradually the other men fell away from them and left the ground clear.
McCartney's men had been driven back and were beaten. But friend and
foe alike came round to watch what they rightly guessed was to be the
last scene in a play that had been running for many weeks. Keith McBain
himself stood off to one side, his face ashen white, his eyes set
immovably upon the men who were settling once and for all, he hoped, not
only their own accounts, but his as well. Old Gabe Smith stood directly
behind King, calling out words of encouragement in his little piping
voice, and totally oblivious to the existence of anyone else in the
world.
For fully five minutes the two men walked cautiously about each other,
striking out quickly but lightly, and stepping back immediately to
recover themselves after each advance. Though the sneer never left
McCartney's face, there was behind it a deep seriousness that expressed
well the fact that he was fully conscious of the magnitude of the task
before him. King's face was tense, set, terribly earnest.
Only once was there any interference from the bystanders. Mike Cheney,
who had been an interested spectator during the whole struggle, pushed
his way to the inner part of the circle of men and voiced a feeble
protest. The men near him laughed and jostled him out of the way. He
was content to remain where he was, though he no doubt felt there was
something incongruous in the fact that when he looked round he was
standing next to Hugh Hurley.
After some time had passed in which the men had remained wholly on the
defensive, McCartney began to advance persistently against King, who
stepped back out of reach whenever he found McCartney pressing him too
closely. King's wary tactics were testing the patience of his opponent.
With an agility that was surprising in a man of his size, he stepped
about the enclosure, keeping just out of reach of McCartney, and
starting forward, snapping out his left hand when an opportunity
presented itself. His blows were not heavy, but he was reaching
McCartney's face and body almost every time he struck. McCartney swung
and lunged heavily every time he struck at King, but his blows were
without control.
Growing impatient at last with following King from place to place, he
closed quickly and seized King about the body. This time, however, he
had misjudged his man. As he came forward King stepped in and met him
with a blow from the shoulder that struck McCartney on the chin. His
full weight was behind the blow and McCartney's head went back from the
force of it. Then his arms went round King and he hung on dazedly in an
attempt to gain a little more time for recovery. But King was
determined to make his recovery as difficult as possible. With
McCartney's full weight bearing him down, he sent half a dozen quick,
short blows to the body that made his opponent gasp for breath.
But McCartney kept his hold and tightened it, so that King found himself
in a grip that made striking impossible. It was just this situation
that King had tried to avoid. He knew McCartney's strength was probably
more than a match for his own, and he had hoped that he might be able to
keep him at a distance. As he felt the powerful arms closing more and
more tightly about him he struggled to break the hold. After a few
moments, however, he knew that his efforts were in vain. McCartney had
him in a grip that reduced his effectiveness and made any attempt to
break it simply a waste of reserve strength. He locked his arms about
McCartney's shoulders and threw his whole weight upon him. His change
of tactics was so sudden that McCartney staggered for a moment under his
weight, and in that moment King's foot shot out suddenly and the two men
went to the ground together, locked in each other's arms. Once, twice,
three times, they rolled over, each attempting to gain the advantage of
position without success. Then suddenly they broke apart and scrambled
to their feet again, crouching at opposite sides of the circle.
For some seconds the men faced each other without attacking, both
apparently taking advantage of even a brief breathing spell. Those who
were anxious for McCartney's defeat began to express their impatience at
King's failure to assume the aggressive. McCartney was plainly
weakening under the punishment that King was inflicting. The fact that
his aggressive tactics had not already brought the fight to an end had
taken the heart out of McCartney. The face that during the earlier
stages of the struggle had borne a sneer was now painfully serious.
Even Hugh Hurley caught some of the excitement of the crowd as he saw
that a well-directed aggressive on King's part would bring an end to the
fight in a few minutes. Keith McBain's eyes were fixed upon King's
face. Once or twice during the short lull in the struggle they
exchanged glances. Keith McBain's heart sank within him, and he moved
round to get closer to King. There was a look in King's eyes that he
could not understand. When he found a place directly behind him he
stepped in a little and put one hand on King's shoulder.
"Just a bit more, boy," he said, encouragingly. "He's nearly done."
King seemed on the point of turning his head to reply, but just then
McCartney started towards him. This time King took a half step towards
him and met the rush without attempting to step aside. Both men struck
at the same moment, and both blows went home. McCartney's rush was
checked, but the full force of his rush was behind the blow that caught
King on the point of the chin. For a moment King was almost overcome by
a sickening dizziness that set the world spinning about him. His mind
went suddenly back to the night in McBain's camp when he had been hit on
the head, and there started within him a terrible fear that the darkness
that had overcome him then was creeping upon him now and blotting out
his senses. For fully a minute--it seemed an hour--he fought to keep
his eyes open and his attention centred on McCartney. He threw his
weight against him blindly and gripped him in sheer desperation.
Gradually his legs steadied under him and his sight cleared. Still he
clung to his man.
Had McCartney had enough strength in reserve to deliver one more blow
with any weight behind it, he could have finished the fight in another
second. He knew as much himself, and he paused just a moment to muster
what little strength he had left. Then he broke away suddenly and sent
his right hand over as he stepped away. King's head went back and his
arms went out before him helplessly.
His men shouted to him in that one sickening moment when the sense of
utter defeat was forcing itself upon him. Hurley and McBain called his
name frantically, but he seemed not to hear them. He sank to the ground
on one knee, holding himself as erect as possible in a last effort to
meet the rush that he knew was bound to come.
McCartney's men went wild with excitement. They called on him to bore in
and finish it. Those behind stepped up and pushed him forward. When he
didn't move they cursed him for a fool. But he stood swaying
unsteadily, waiting, apparently, for King to fall to the ground.
Behind King there was a sudden commotion in the crowd. Gabe Smith's
thin voice was giving commands to the men to make way for him. He pushed
his way to the front, leading behind him Cherry McBain.
"Fight--you--fight!" he cried at the top of his voice.
King glanced quickly about at the sound of Gabe's voice and his eyes
fell upon Cherry's face. Her look was one of pathos and appeal--but she
was smiling.
At once a change passed over King's countenance. Getting up he brushed
his hand impatiently across his face and stepped towards McCartney. As
he did so McCartney came forward and the two men met at the centre of
the enclosure.
From that moment neither man gave an inch of ground. Fighting furiously
at close quarters they seemed both to have gained sudden strength and
renewed powers of endurance. There was little attempt at defense, each
man trying to inflict as much punishment as possible upon his opponent,
and caring little how much he received himself.
Fighting as they were, they could not hope to last much longer. The end
came very suddenly. Stepping back quickly, King crouched a moment and
waited for McCartney to advance. He had not a second to wait. When he
saw him start he leaned far back and swung his right hand from his hip
with all the strength he could command. The blow went straight and
true, landing squarely on the side of McCartney's jaw, and the big
foreman went down in a heap to the ground.
For a moment King stood above him--but the struggle was over. Then the
sickening sensation returned suddenly. He turned to Cherry, who was now
at his side.
"Take--me--away," he said, giving her his hand.
The next moment the arms of Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain were about him,
and he staggered out of the crowd with Cherry and old Gabe leading the
way before him.
It was not until they had gone some distance that they noticed King
beginning to limp badly. At every step he took his face winced with
pain. Finally he asked them to let him stand for a minute.
"It's my foot," he said, in answer to Hurley's question. "My
ankle--something happened when we fell--just wait a little--it'll be all
right in a minute."
After a moment's pause they started off again, but King found walking
impossible. Keith McBain called a couple of men and they carried him to
Hurley's cottage, where they laid him on a couch and left him in the
care of Cherry and Mrs. Hurley.
McBain and Hurley went off at once to the scene of the early morning
struggle. Gabe lingered a little while with King, busying himself with
such odd jobs as Cherry and Mrs. Hurley found for him.
In a short time King had recovered sufficiently from the first
ill-effects of his battle with McCartney to give some thought to what
was going on outside.
He called Gabe to him.
"Have they gone back--McBain and Hurley?" he asked.
Gabe replied in the affirmative. "An' they'll handle it, too--don't you
worry!" he added.
King thought seriously for a moment.
"Gabe," he said.
Gabe took the hand that King extended to him and waited.
"Get Anne--and bring her here," he said.
Gabe went out at once and King looked at Cherry, who was standing above
him, her hand resting lightly upon his head.
"I want to tell Anne," he said quietly. "I want her to know I didn't
want to do this. I want her to understand--it had to come."
"Then she told you, too?" Cherry asked.
King nodded in reply. Then he reached up and took her hand.
"Come down here beside me," he said, and his face was very serious.
Cherry knelt on the floor beside the couch.
"Cherry," he whispered, drawing her towards him, "I don't deserve
it--but I want to kiss you."
She leaned forward and King's arms went round her as their lips met.
Keith McBain and his men went to work as if nothing had occurred for
days to disturb the quiet, work-a-day life they had been living for
months. Only one building was in imminent danger of being swept away by
the flood, and in less than ten minutes after the close of the fight the
men were busily engaged removing the camp equipment preparatory to
taking the logs down and shifting the buildings back from the water's
edge.
Gabe came upon the old contractor giving orders and directing the work
in his customary way.
"Where is she?" asked Gabe, excitedly, as he came up with McBain.
"She--who?"
"Anne--she's gone!" Gabe replied.
McBain left the men and accompanied Gabe back to MacMurray's. They
found McCartney lying on a bench where his men had placed him. Rickard
was standing beside him talking with MacMurray.
"Where's the girl--Anne?" McBain asked MacMurray.
He replied by looking at McCartney and then at Rickard. McCartney
turned and looked at McBain and then allowed his eyes to rest on
Rickard.
"Rick," he said, "get her and bring her here. You can tell her I want
her."
Rickard was gone less than ten minutes when he returned, preceded by
Anne, who came quickly through the door and stopped suddenly before what
she saw.
She looked at the men standing about and then paused before Keith
McBain. She did not ask the question, but McBain knew what was in her
mind. His reply was brief.
"Howden," he said, and Anne's slow smile proved that she understood.
Then she went over to McCartney's side and looked down at him.
"You always were a damn fool," she said very deliberately, and very
slowly--and her voice had a strangely deep note of pity in it.
Scattering the men before her, she hurried to the kitchen and came back
with water in a basin and set about bathing McCartney's swollen face and
washing the blood from his lips and chin. She was very silent and very
gentle, and McCartney spoke no word to her as she worked over him.
The men looked on only for a moment and then went out one by one, until
the two were left alone.
Later that morning Cherry went to MacMurray's to see if she could not
prevail upon Anne to come over to Hurley's cottage to see King. She
found Anne seated beside McCartney, who had fallen asleep. Anne was
bending low over him, tears streaming down her cheeks. When she saw
Cherry she got up quickly and brushed the tears impatiently from her
eyes. Then she came to Cherry, where she was standing in the doorway.
"Anne--Anne," Cherry said, her voice soft with pity.
But Anne was mistress of herself now.
"How is King?" she asked, in a most matter-of-fact tone that expressed
quite clearly how little she wanted anyone's sympathy.
"He's all right now," Cherry replied. "He has a bad ankle and can't
walk, but it will be all right in a day or two. He asked me to bring
you over."
"What does he want?"
Cherry found it hard to reply to Anne's question--it was asked with such
cold directness.
"I think he wants to explain to you what he feels about----."
Anne stopped her abruptly. "Tell him it's all right. I ain't goin' to
worry over a thing that I've been expectin' for weeks. Tell him it's
all right."
Cherry turned to go.
"Wait a minute," Anne called, and vanished into the house.
She was gone a long time and Cherry waited patiently for her return.
When she appeared again she held a folded paper in her hand and her hair
was in disorder about her face.
"I had a time gettin' it," she said, coming towards Cherry and holding
the paper before her. "I had to wake him up to tell me where it was. But
he told me. One thing about Bill--he knows when he's beat--an' that's
sayin' something for a man that was never beat before--ain't it?"
She smiled comically, and Cherry could not help smiling at her in reply.
"Anyhow, here it is," she said, giving the paper to Cherry. "I thought
of takin' it over myself--I like that boy--but you'd better give it to
him."
Cherry knew little or nothing about official documents, but she could
not help guessing the meaning of the paper she held in her hand. She
opened it and glanced quickly over the written record of a timber claim
in the hills, interjected between the lines of legally phrased printed
matter.
"Take it to him," Anne continued after a pause. "He'll know what to do
with it. If he don't--ask old man Hurley."
"But Anne----" Cherry protested, only to be interrupted again.
"Don't worry--I ain't stealin' it. Ain't I his wife?" she asked with a
laugh. "Anyhow there's something else. I had a claim once out west--a
good claim, too--never mind!"
She broke off abruptly and gave Cherry a little push.
"Give it to him an' tell him 'God bless him' for me," she added.
Cherry walked off slowly and Anne stood in the doorway watching her.
When she had gone a few yards she stopped and came back.
"But father----" she began and paused awkwardly.
Anne's face took on a strange look. She stepped down from the doorway
and confronted Cherry.
"Say--did Bill spring that man-killin' joke on Old Silent?" she asked.
Cherry nodded.
"Well, I'm blistered!" she exclaimed. "Leave it with me--I'll make him
straighten that out himself."
And Cherry went off with a light heart.
That night Keith McBain came into the room where Cherry and King were
sitting. King was preparing to leave for his shack--in spite of the
protests of Mrs. Hurley--confident that he was able to get about and
look after himself quite well with the help of old Gabe, who was going
to stay with him. McBain came upon the two somewhat abruptly. When
they looked up he was standing within a few feet of them, his old face
beaming with a light that had not shone there for months.
"Cherry, girl," he said, coming towards her and holding his arms out to
her, "it's all right!"
"What, father?" she asked, jumping up and going to him.
"McCartney lied--he has told me everything. The man is alive--Anne
nursed him back--it's all right!"
Cherry threw her arms about her father's neck and kissed him.
"Father, father, father!" she cried; and suddenly her voice broke. "If
we had only known."
"If we had only known!" repeated Old Silent; and his mind went back to a
pile of stones and a little wooden cross that stood miles back beside,
the right-of-way.
*CHAPTER EIGHTEEN*
King dropped his scythe upon the windrow of freshly-cut hay and stood a
moment while he wiped the sweat from his brow. It was July, and the day
had been very hot, and King had cut a very wide swath in the tall, wild
grass. A little way off on the higher ground of the ridge stood his
first crop of growing wheat, the soft green shoots stretching upward
from the new soil and bending before a gently moving breeze. Between
the meadow and the wheat lay a stretch of newly-broken land where, only
the day before, King had driven the plough through long furrows of rich
mould. Even yet the mellow odor of freshly-turned soil came to him,
mingled with the cool fragrance of the meadow.
King looked about him until his eyes fell upon Sal, where she was
working half-buried in a hole she had dug in a futile attempt to follow
a gopher to its place of hiding under the ground. He gave a sharp
whistle and crouched low, holding out his hands as the dog came bounding
towards him.
Taking her in his arms he lifted her from the ground and then rolled her
over playfully on the hay.
Getting up, he strolled off along the edge of the standing grass, Sal
running before him in a zig-zag search for gophers. When they came to
the edge of a small slough the dog pounced at once into the water,
almost on top of a wild duck and her brood of half-grown ducklings.
They started up suddenly with much splashing of water and beating of
wings and loud quacking.
"Back you--lie down!" King cried, and Sal retreated from the edge of the
slough and came towards King wriggling and twisting her shaggy body in
an effort to appear apologetic.
It was a great day, and now that the afternoon was wearing on, King was
strongly tempted to be lazy. He had worked hard during the past weeks.
The land he had prepared for crop had been sown broadcast by hand. He
had cut his hay with a scythe and would have to rake it by hand--though
Cherry was longing for the hay to cure so that she could get into the
field with King and rake the long windrows into coils.
Oh, yes--Cherry was King's helper now. One day in spring, just before
the men had gone out to begin work on the railway construction again,
there had been a final gathering from the whole valley. Cherry and King
might have left it until midsummer. King wanted to get his land into
shape and his first crop in--and Cherry wanted to see her father started
once again on his right-of-way contracts. At least, so they said. The
fact of the matter was that Old Silent wanted to keep his daughter by
him for just a few weeks more, and King and Cherry had both agreed, to
humor him a little until the work was well under way.
But the men had settled it. McCartney and his crowd--or such of them as
felt themselves unable to face Keith McBain again--had withdrawn before
the snow was on the ground. The season in the camps had been highly
successful in every sense, a fact, by the way, that reflected much
credit upon King Howden, who had handled the men and had taken the
responsibility of conducting the camp during the winter. The work on the
grade was waiting, and when the men went out to the right-of-way and the
young settlers went to their land, The Town would be no more. There had
not been a wedding in the place since the first hut had been built. The
men--through a committee duly chosen and given full powers--made known
to Keith McBain their feelings on the matter. For once the old
contractor allowed himself to be persuaded against his will. He made
only one condition, namely, that he himself should announce to King and
Cherry the decision that The Town had come to. The men agreed, and
withdrew from the presence of Old Silent to begin preparations for the
great day.
And it had been a day for all to remember. King thought of it now as he
walked back to where his scythe lay, and picking it up stood it on its
haft while he applied his whet-stone to the blade, and sent the rhythmic
tune of the hay-maker ringing across the meadow.
The Town was gone. There were a few old unfilled wells and the tumbled
foundations of cabins, and a winding street grown over with grass and
weeds--but that was all. Farther up the valley its ambitious successor
was already thriving beside the right-of-way, waiting for the coming of
the steel. Soon it would be linked up with the outside world, it would
be given a name and placed on the map by someone who probably had never
seen it--and the world's outer edge would have been pushed a little
farther westward, and a little farther northward.
King tossed his stone aside upon the coat that lay on the hay near him,
and taking his scythe in his hands, stepped forward and swung it through
the grass.
From behind him came a clear call, and pausing at the end of his stroke
he turned with a smile and waved his hand to Cherry, who was tripping
along down the meadow towards him. King dropped his scythe and went to
meet her. When they met he caught her by the arms, and lifting her from
the ground, kissed her on the lips.
"Leave the hay, King," she said, as soon as he had set her upon her feet
again, "and let's go to the camp for supper. It's not four o'clock
yet--we have more than two hours."
King glanced at the hay waiting to be put into coils and then at Cherry,
whose face was full of fresh girlish expectancy. Her eyes were as
roguish as they had been in those first days of their meeting, nearly a
year ago.
She caught his sidelong glance and read its meaning at once.
"Ah, King," she pleaded, "it won't rain--see, there isn't a cloud in the
sky! Besides--if it does--let it. There's lots and lots of hay--and
there's only a little--just so much summer."
She pinched the end of a slender finger to give point to her last
statement, and looked at King with a smile brightening in her eyes.
"You little scamp," he said, going to her and taking her head between
his hands, "what's the use of a man making up his mind to anything where
you are?"
He kissed her again and started towards the little cabin on the ridge,
with Cherry dancing along beside him, clinging to his arm and chattering
as she went.
When they came to the cabin they went in for a few moments to prepare
for their trip. The cabin was larger and more comfortable than the
shack in which King had lived during the previous summer--and infinitely
cleaner. King had brought the logs from the hills during the winter,
and had built the cabin with the assistance of a half dozen of Keith
McBain's men. Cherry did the rest--and the place was as neat and snug
as the heart could wish.
In a moment King was out again and was gone to the corral among the
willows below the ridge. When he returned and stood before the door of
the cabin he led the horses, saddled and bridled and champing their
bits. King called and Cherry emerged ready for the road. Sal leaped
about them until they had got into the saddles, and then all went off
together.
Keith McBain's camp lay some twelve or fifteen miles up the valley to
the north and west. With two hours to make the trip they had ample time,
without much loitering, to reach camp before the men should leave the
grade for supper. They followed the freighters' trail that wound in and
out, now skirting the edge of the right-of-way, now heading into the
standing poplars, or running out across open reaches of green plain.
Before the summer's end the steel gang would have laid the rails and the
first trains would have steamed into the valley from beyond the hills.
Even now the gang of engineers and levellers were close upon the heels
of the graders, giving the road-bed its final touches before the steel
was laid.
Cherry and King rode along easily, without hurrying their horses, King
listening while Cherry did most of the talking. Here and there new
beauties came to meet them in the curving trail and waving grass and
tall white poplars with glistening leaves and white powdered trunks.
They crossed a half-dozen little streams of clear water rippling over
gravel and shale. Frequently they came out where they caught a distant
view of the hills that lay to the north of the valley, pale blue and
lying low upon the horizon, like a fringe of dark cloud. To-day they
were a very pale blue, and Cherry smiled as she pointed to them and
reminded King of what she had told him in the meadow.
"You see--it isn't going to rain for days," she said. "See how smoky
the hills are."
King extended his hand and leaned towards her. The horses moved closer
together in instinct born of training at the hands of practised riders,
and King's arm went about Cherry as he drew her close to him.
He seemed about to speak, but kissed her instead.
The next moment they were off at a brisk run along a stretch of open
trail.
It was not yet six o'clock when the trail took them out upon the
right-of-way a scant half mile from where Keith McBain's men were still
at work on the grade. King drew his horse in and stood for some time
gazing down the open right-of-way towards the workers, and then turned
to look behind him, where the grade stretched far into the distance and
was lost in the closing perspective.
"I like this," he said to Cherry, who had drawn rein beside him.
"There's something about it all that makes a man glad he has lived and
taken some little part in it. If we could see the world in the
making--I think it would be something like this."
He stretched out his arm and swept it about him as he spoke.
Cherry looked into his face, in contemplation, not so much of what he
was saying but rather of what she saw in his eyes. All that made him a
man--all that made him the man she loved--all that made him the man that
men loved--was there in the simple gravity and the deep seriousness of
his face.
A few moments later they rode down among the men to where Keith McBain
was standing alone smoking his pipe and watching a line of teamsters
swinging about, an endless chain of "slushers" moving the earth from the
side of the right-of-way to the grade in the middle. They were met on
all sides by greetings from the men, who paused in their work to give
them a welcome.
When they came to Keith McBain, Cherry sprang to the ground and kissed
her father, and King, swinging down from the saddle, came forward and
shook hands with the old contractor. In Keith McBain's eyes there was a
light as of returning youth. The smile on his face was the smile of a
man who had found the world a good place to live in, after all, and
wants nothing more than to be left to do his work and fill his remaining
days with achievement.
There was almost a half hour still left before six o'clock, but Cherry
went close to her father and patted his cheeks with her two hands.
"Let's all quit work for the day," she said. "I don't come to camp
often."
Old Silent looked at her with all the pretense at being stern that he
could command in the presence of his daughter.
"Who's going to build this railroad?" he asked, a smile growing upon his
features.
Cherry kissed her father and patted his cheeks playfully again. "Old
Silent is," she said; "but his daughter, Cherry McBain, is going to make
his men glad she came. She's going to make them want her back again."
"You buy your popularity at a very high price," he replied.
"Remember--I have a husband who does as I tell him," Cherry returned.
"If you don't call the men in--I'll tell him to do it."
Keith McBain looked at King and then put his arm about his daughter.
The look carried a meaning, and King turned towards the men and gave the
call.
"All in!"
The men responded as if they had been expecting the call, and almost at
once the works were deserted and the men were trooping off in the
direction of the camp. The little group of three were the last to leave
the grade. They lingered a long time talking and looking over the work
the men had done during the day. Then they walked off together, King
and Cherry on either side of the old man, the two horses following
behind them with the bridle-reins hanging across their necks, Sal
leisurely bringing up the rear.
"And won't you be leaving this work soon and coming to stay with us?"
King asked of Keith McBain when they had come almost to the camp.
"What--leave this and go puttering round on a farm?" he replied. "No,
boy, no. As long as I can give the call to 'roll out' in the mornings
I'll stay with it. When I'm through--I'll quit here--with my men!"
The remainder of the walk to camp was made in silence.
There was a big dinner that evening that lasted long after the usual
hour. And there was much talking and laughing and some singing of songs
at the table. All ate together, with a place at the centre of one long
table for Cherry, where she could see all the men from where she sat.
On one side of her sat her father, and on the other side her husband.
And when it was all over the men gave cheers, first for Cherry McBain,
and then for the man who was the father of Cherry McBain, and last of
all for the man who had played the game and had won the heart of Cherry
McBain.
And late that evening King and Cherry took the trail again to return
home. And the men gathered to cheer once more until they were gone from
sight.
Then came upon them the silence of the evening and the magic of it. In
the west was the dying flame of a day that had set. About them lay the
woods and the grassy reaches of plain, with a deep hush upon them broken
only by the occasional sleepy twitter of birds, or the lazy croaking of
frogs in the hollows, or the sharp whistle of night-hawks that swept
down above them on whirring wings. And from far away there came the
sound of someone singing in the night.