.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 52437
   :PG.Title: The Heart of Cherry McBain
   :PG.Released: 2016-06-29
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Douglas Durkin
   :DC.Title: The Heart of Cherry McBain
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1919
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

==========================
THE HEART OF CHERRY MCBAIN
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      THE HEART OF
      CHERRY McBAIN

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      *A Novel*

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      BY

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      DOUGLAS DURKIN

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      TORONTO
      THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
      LIMITED

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      Copyright. Canada, 1919.

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      THE MUSSON BOOK CO., LIMITED
      Publishers \* \* TORONTO

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   CONTENTS

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`Chapter One`_
`Chapter Two`_
`Chapter Three`_
`Chapter Four`_
`Chapter Five`_
`Chapter Six`_
`Chapter Seven`_
`Chapter Eight`_
`Chapter Nine`_
`Chapter Ten`_
`Chapter Eleven`_
`Chapter Twelve`_
`Chapter Thirteen`_
`Chapter Fourteen`_
`Chapter Fifteen`_
`Chapter Sixteen`_
`Chapter Seventeen`_
`Chapter Eighteen`_





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.. _`CHAPTER ONE`:

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   THE HEART OF
   CHERRY McBAIN

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   CHAPTER ONE

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Although it was late afternoon it was
very hot—hot even for August.  The
horse ambled sleepily up the dusty trail,
his head low and his eyes not more than half
open.  The rein hung loosely over his neck where
it had been tossed by the rider who sat dozing
in the saddle, his two hands folded across the
pommel in front of him.  The only alert member
of the group, for there were three of these
companions of the road, was the dog, a mongrel collie
that trotted ahead with tongue hanging, or waited
panting in the middle of the trail for the horse
and rider to come up.

Suddenly the horse stumbled clumsily and the
rider came to himself with a start.

"Steady up, you fool!" he said, and then, as if
he regretted the tone in which he had spoken, he
leaned forward slightly and passed his hand
along the hot neck shining with sweat, and
brushed away the big brown flies that clustered
about the horse's ears.

He picked up the rein and looked about him.
A few yards ahead the trail dipped slowly away
to the east in a long winding curve that circled
the brow of a little hill.  Bringing the horse to a
stand, he turned and glanced behind him.  To
the west the trail fell away and lost itself in a
wide valley out of which he had ridden during the
afternoon.  He got down from the saddle, and
tossing the rein over the horse's head to the
ground, snapped his fingers to the dog and
scrambled up the side of the little hill on his right
to where a pile of tumbled tamaracs lay just as
they had fallen during a fire that had scorched
the hills a year or two before.  In a minute he
had clambered upon the topmost timber and
stood hat in hand looking down into the valley.

As he stood there in the full light of the late
afternoon sun anyone catching a glimpse of him
from a distance would have been impressed most
with the bigness of the man.  But with all his
bigness he was not heavy-footed nor awkwardly
poised.  The ease with which he had sprung up
the side of the hill, and had leaped from one
fallen timber to another until he had reached the
spot where he stood, was only possible where
strong muscles are well co-ordinated and work
together in perfect harmony.  And yet as he drew
himself up to his full height there was but little
there that bespoke agility.  He looked heavy
except, perhaps, about the hips.  His broad
shoulders appeared too broad, partly because of the
slight stoop forward that seemed to lengthen the
line that marked the curve from shoulder to
shoulder across the back.  His face was the face
of a youth—but of a youth grown serious.  There
was a set to the jaw that seemed to hint at a past
in which grim determination had often been his
sole resource, and there were lines about the
mouth that told of hard living.  His eyes were the
eyes of a man who has wondered much about
things—and was still wondering.

For it had occurred to King Howden—as it
has probably occurred to every man sometime or
other—that the game was not worth the candle.
The significant thing about King's wondering,
however, was the fact that it had gone on for
months without leading to any other conclusion.
In a little less than a month he would be twenty-eight,
and he couldn't help feeling that life should
be taking shape.  Ten years ago, when he had
struck out into the world alone, a serious-faced
boy whose heart swelled at the prospect of living
a great free life in the open places of the world, he
had thought that by the time he reached
twenty-eight he would have seen some of his dreams,
at least, approaching realization.  Now as he
thought it over, he knew that he had failed, and
the knowledge had a strange effect upon him.

Down there where the valley lay filled with the
blue haze of late summer, a haze that was
touched with silver from the sun—a little village
stood hidden among the trees that lined the
banks of a small creek that chattered noisily over
its shingly bed.  It was an odd kind of a village,
that.  To begin with it had no name.  It was
known simply as The Town, having sprung into
being in a single season as the gathering place of
the scores of new settlers from "the outside," the
vanguard of the army of nation-builders,
eager to secure desirable locations before the
railroad should enter and link up the valley with the
world at large.  For months the settlers had gone
in over a hill trail of a hundred and twenty-five
miles or more.  Gathering their equipment
together, they had hitched their teams of
sleepy-eyed oxen to prairie schooners and had poked
toilsomely along for days over a trail that only
the bravest hearts would ever have followed for
its entire length.  But the reward was a worthy
one—a generous plot of virgin soil as fertile as
anything the prairies of Western Canada could
show.

And so the town had sprung into being at a
spot chosen by the men who had blazed the trail.
There was a certain native beauty about the
place, in its pretty stream that brought the cool,
fresh water from the springs in the hills, and in
the full-bosomed elms and rustling silver poplars
and fragrant balm-o'-gilead that dappled with
shadows the surface of the creek, and made a
cool retreat for weary travellers coming in hot
and dusty from the long trail.  Some day—it
could not be long now—the steel ribbons of one
of Canada's great transcontinental railways
would bind the village to the world that lay
beyond the hills and then The Town would be no
more.  Its proud successor would rise up somewhere
along the line, and the old place would be
forgotten.

In the meantime the place had a distinctive
existence of its own.  In short—as is the manner
with small towns the world over—it had a way
with it.  King Howden, who had been among the
first to come, had watched it grow and had come
to know it very well.  He knew that, young
though the village was, it had its secrets, and
when a town talks behind its hand, someone must
needs feel uneasy.  King's face had grown grave
on many occasions during his few months of life
in this little frontier town.  The villagers were
evidently concerned about this big, slow-moving
fellow who had nothing much to say to anyone,
and who, after delivering his weekly bag of mail
into the hands of old man Hurley, the kindly old
Government Agent in the place, habitually beat
a shy retreat to the little cabin he had built on a
quarter section of land that lay west of the town.

And King's face was grave now as he shaded
his eyes with one hand in an effort to pierce the
haze and get a glimpse of the white tents and the
roughly-built huts that stood down there among
the trees.

He did not know exactly where he should look
to find the town, for it was his first trip over a
new trail that led from the railway construction
camp to the town.  Once every two weeks or so
during the summer he had gone out by the long
trail and returned with a bag of mail slung
behind him.  On those longer trips he had often
perched himself upon some hill overlooking the
valley and dreamed away an hour or so as he
thought of the future—and of the past.

Now he was on a new trail.  The "end-of-the-steel"
had daily crept closer to the valley and at
last he had been notified that future deliveries of
mail for the settlement would be made at the
railway supply camp at the end of the line.

King Howden had loitered during that summer
afternoon, and the loitering was not all on
account of the heat.  There is romance in a new
trail that has been freshly-blazed and
newly-cleared, and King Howden—though he never
would have admitted it even to himself—liked the
romance that springs to meet one at every bend
in a newly-made roadway.

On a bright day he might have seen the white
tents and log cabins of The Town quite easily.
But to-day it was quite hidden behind a smoky
blue-white curtain that obscured everything
beyond a radius of only a few miles.

"Too thick to-day, Sal," he said, addressing the
dog as he prepared to get down.

At the sound of her name the dog edged up a
little closer along the log and rubbed her nose
affectionately against his knee.  King smiled
slowly and then, instead of getting down to the
ground immediately, he squatted low and took
the dog's ears in his hands.

"Sal, you old cuss," he said slowly, "look me
in the eye.  D'you remember the day I took you
in?  You common old purp, I saved your life
when you were nothing but just plain, ornery
pup.  If I hadn't come along that day and given
promises to take you away, gunnysack and
all—splash!—you'd been a dead dog, Sal."

He turned the dog's head sideways as he spoke
and thrust it downwards violently in imitation
of what might have occurred early in the dog's
history and so have terminated her career
suddenly had he not happened along at the critical
moment.  The dog blinked her eyes and licked
her jaws by way of reply.

"And a dead dog ain't worth speaking about,
Sal," he continued.  "But you're a sure 'nough
live dog even if you are common stuff and not
much account.  And I like you, Sal,—sure, I like
you.  I like you for staying round.  I like you
because you don't squeal.  If you were a squealer
now—I'd shoot you in a minute."

He bent over and rubbed his head against the
animal's face.  Then he sprang up.

"Come on, you lazy old cuss, you," he exclaimed
quickly.  "Don't you know there's a long
bit o' trail ahead yet?  Come on!"

In a moment he was mounted again and on his
way.  About twenty miles of trail lay ahead of
before he should come to the end of his
journey.  Although the afternoon was rapidly
wearing away and the westering sun already turning
red above the valley there was no special cause
for hurry.  King loved the trail in the long
northern evenings when the scent of spruce and
tamarac came down from the hills and mingled
with the delicate perfume of the prairie roses that
came up from the valley.  He loved the changing
colors deepening in the twilight.  He loved
to hear the night voices awakening one after
another.  Often he had taken the trail late in the
evening in midsummer to escape the heat of the
day and to watch the arc of daylight growing
smaller as it shifted its way round to the north
in the early night until it hung like the edge of a
huge grey disc just showing above the northern-most
point of the horizon.  He had often watched
the disc move eastward and grow again with the
hours until it spread out into the glorious dawn
of another day, and in his own way he loved it
all—for it made him feel that he was a part of the
great scheme of things.  For a while then he felt
sure of himself—and that was a good feeling for
King Howden.

Only a few miles more and he would be out
on the right-of-way where stood old Keith
McBain's construction camp.  It made a convenient
place for a pause half-way in the trip, and the
camp incidentally boasted the best cook on the
line—a fact that might have had some bearing
upon King's decision to make camp about supper
time.

A short three miles farther on, the trail took a
little dip to the left down the slope of a wooded
ridge and emerged upon the open right-of-way.
It was within half an hour of general quitting
time and the teamsters had already begun to
leave the grade, their sweating horses hurrying
quickly away in the dust, with trace-chains
clinking and harness rattling.  The rest of the gang
were still at work clearing the ground of stumps
and logs, and roughly levelling the piles of earth
that had been thrown up by the "slushers"
during the afternoon.

King had stood upon right-of-ways before, but
the prospect fascinated him as much to-day as it
had done the first day he had ever looked along
the narrowing perspective of an open avenue
canyoned between two rows of trees, and in the
centre a long straight line of grey-brown earth
heaped up into a grade.  He slipped down from
the saddle and walked leisurely along the trail
that skirted the side of the right-of-way, his eyes
upon the men who went about their work quietly
and with no more enthusiasm than one might
expect from human beings whose thanks to a
benevolent Providence found daily expression in
the formula, "another day, another dollar."

King found a bit of innocent diversion in the
efforts of four grunting and expostulating
workmen who had lifted a log from the ground and
were stumbling clumsily with it towards the
right-of-way.  The log was not so large that four
men could not have handled it easily.  King
smiled as he watched them, and thought to
himself that two men could have picked it up and
taken it away without great effort.  Suddenly a
veritable torrent of profanity broke upon his
ears, and the foreman who had been standing
near rushed up, threw his arms about the log
and scattering all four of them, carried it off
alone and threw it upon a pile of stumps and
roots that stood a few feet back from the trail.
King found himself all at once wondering what
he himself could have done with a log of the same
size.

He came to himself suddenly again at the
sound of the foreman's voice and looked round
just in time to see Sal leap to one side and run
towards him to escape a stick that came hurtling
along the ground near the dog's feet.  King
stepped out quickly to protect the dog.  As he
did so he saw the foreman standing a few yards
away, his face twisted into a grin.  For a moment
the two men eyed each other.  Then King spoke.

"Quit that," he said in a voice that trembled
with rising passion.

The foreman's only reply was a few muttered
words of profanity that King did not hear, or
hearing did not consider worthy of any account.
His concern was for the mongrel collie that had
narrowly escaped injury, and was now fawning
and whining about his legs.

"Don't do that," he said.  "She's my dog."

The foreman grinned.  "Your dog—what the
devil do I care whose dog it is!"

King spoke without moving and his voice was
now clear and steady.  "You don't need to
care—you didn't hit her."

"Well, I tried, didn't I?"

"I say you didn't hit her," King replied
slowly, "and I—I don't want you to."

For a moment the two men stood looking at
each other silently without moving.  King's face
was grave and one corner of his mouth twitched
a little in anger.  The grin never left the face of
the foreman; it was still there when he finally
turned away and strode towards the men who
were at work on the grade a short distance off.

King watched him closely for a while and then
stepped back and passed his hand soothingly
along the horse's shoulder.  Getting down on one
knee he drew the dog towards him and patted her
head gently.

"Sal, you old mongrel pup, you," he said as if
he were on the point of bringing gentle chastisement
upon her—but he said no more.  Getting
up, he threw a backward glance in the direction
of the men working on the grade and went on
slowly down the trail towards the camp.

When he had gone some distance he stopped
suddenly and looked about him as if he feared
someone were watching him.  On the ground
before him was a large, solid tamarac log.  He
placed his foot upon it and measured it with his
eyes from end to end.  He kicked the log two or
three times to assure himself that it was sound.
Then he glanced back again to where the men
were working in the distance.  When he was sure
that no one was watching him he dropped the
bridle rein to the ground and bent over the log.
Working his great hands under it he closed his
arms slowly about the middle and set himself to
lift.  Gradually he straightened himself till he
stood erect, his arms clasped about the log.  Then
swinging it round till he faced in the opposite
direction he carried it steadily to the other side of
the trail and dropped it in the underbrush.
Measuring it again with his eyes, he kicked
it—it was sound to the heart.

"I can do it," he said aloud to himself, "and I
believe—if anything—it's a bigger piece."

Even as he spoke he became aware of someone
watching him.  Something suspiciously like a
chuckle came from the bushes near by and he
raised his eyes quickly.  Not more than a dozen
paces away, half-hidden in the shrubbery, stood
a girl knee-deep in the matted vines, a sheaf of
wild roses in her arms.

For a moment King was unable to stir.  It was
as if an apparition had suddenly broken in on his
imagination—a riotous apparition of dark hair,
laughing eyes and delicate pink roses.

When he came to himself he moved back awkwardly
and was in the act of lifting the bridle-rein
when he was arrested by a burst of laughter
that caused him to turn again and stand looking
at her, the bridle-rein hanging loosely in his
hand.  His look was a question—and her only
answer was a laugh as she came out from the
cover of the bushes and stood upon the log that
King had just moved from the other side of the
trail.  From this position of advantage she looked
at him, her eyes almost on a level with his.

"I saw it all," she declared, and King thought
the expression on her face was less mischievous
now.

"What?" he asked.

"You take a dare from a man and walk away
to have it out by yourself with a log."

There was a flash of fire in her eyes as she
spoke and King became the victim of mingled
anger and self-reproach.  While he hesitated to
make a reply the girl hopped down from the log
and, brushing past him, walked quickly down the
trail towards the camp.

When she had gone almost out of easy hearing
distance he straightened himself suddenly.

"I didn't!" he called after her, but she paid not
the slightest heed.

A minute later he started off for the camp
afoot, his horse following behind him.  And as he
went he thought over the words in which he
found nothing but reproach, and worst of
all—contempt.

"'You took a dare,'" he repeated, and then to
himself he said over and over again, "I didn't—I
didn't!"





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.. _`CHAPTER TWO`:

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   CHAPTER TWO

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A little more than an hour later King
left the cook-camp and went to the corral
where his horse, well rested from the first
half of the journey, stood ready and waiting for
him.

He was in the act of throwing the saddle onto
the horse when he stopped suddenly and listened.
From round the corner of the corral came the
sound of voices of men in dispute.

"Any man who tries to call Bill McCartney
had better be sure he holds a good hand,"
the most emphatic of the speakers declared.

In affairs of this kind King Howden had a
kind of instinct that he invariably trusted.
Something told him that the man whose name he heard
was the big foreman whom he had seen on the
grade before supper.  He felt, too, that he
himself was under discussion, and laying the saddle
down he walked quietly to the corner and listened
for a moment.  He had no liking for eavesdropping,
and yet—he had not recovered from the
sting of the words that had fallen from the lips
of the girl; the look of reproach in her dark eyes
was still vividly before him.  But those words
were the words of a girl.  When men speak
disparagingly of another, the case is a different
one.

He stepped round the corner of the corral and
stood before a half dozen of McBain's men
lounging upon bales of pressed hay, smoking
after-supper pipes.

For a moment there was a silence so tense that
even King, who might have been prepared for it,
began to feel uncomfortable.

"No use bluffin'," said one of the group at last.
"We were talkin' about you an' Bill McCartney.
Looked for a while like someone was in for a
lickin' this afternoon."

King looked at the speaker.  He was an old
man, too old, really, to be combatting the rigors
of camp life.  His voice was thin, even
high-pitched, but King could not help observing the
very apparent effort the old man was making to
be pleasant.  And yet, the line where King's lips
met drew straight and tightened perceptibly.

"My boy," the old man went on, very pleasantly
but not patronizingly, "don't bother Bill
McCartney.  We don't love him none—but we
talk when he ain't 'round."  He was speaking
very directly now and had begun to fill his pipe
deliberately.  "The boys can tell you about him.
There's a hardy youngster here in camp by the
name of Lush Currie—"

The old man was interrupted suddenly by the
laughter of the other members of the group.  At
first he seemed ready to join in the chorus he had
unwittingly provoked, but he glanced once at
King and checked himself immediately.  Then
he turned to the men with a look in which there
was a mingling of anger and appeal.

"Well," he said abruptly, "what are you
laughin' at?"

If the remark relieved the old man's embarrassment
it certainly did not check the hilarity of
the men.  But when King stepped forward and
looked at them with a slow smile playing about
the corners of his lips and drawing the lines of
his mouth even more tensely, the laughing ceased
at once and the men waited in silence for him to
speak.

"Don't you go to making plans for me and this
man, McCartney," King said, and his steady
gaze seemed to take them all in at once as he
spoke.  "You better get straight on this—McCartney
hasn't done me a speck o' harm—not
yet he hasn't."

"Pray goddlemighty hard he don't!" replied
one of the men, but the remark elicited scarcely
more than a smile from the others—and not even
so much as a smile from the old man.

"And I'm not going to lose time praying about
it, either," King observed, his eyes upon the
speaker.

He turned and went back to his horse, where
he proceeded in a leisurely way to adjust the
saddle.  In a few minutes he was ready to leave,
and was on the point of getting up when he heard
a step approaching, and pausing to look behind
him observed the old man coming round the corner
of the corral.  He was alone, and as he came
forward he took his pipe from his mouth and
tapped the bowl gently against the palm of his
hand to empty it.

"My name's Gabe Smith," he said in his high,
thin voice, "an' yours?"

King gave him his name.

The old man extended his hand cordially, and
King, recognizing at once that the overtures were
meant to be friendly, could not help feeling
warmly towards him.  They exchanged a few
words that served to confirm King's opinion of
the sincerity of old Gabe Smith, and then, getting
into his saddle, King turned his horse's head
down the trail.

Just once before he urged his horse into a
gallop he turned and looked behind him.

"Sal, you!" he called to his dog.

At the summons the dog leaped from the side
of the trail and the three went off together in the
gathering dusk.

It was, perhaps, only natural that King's mind
should dwell more or less upon the disturbing
element that, during the past few hours, had come
unbidden into his life.  Early that afternoon his
mind had been occupied mainly with memories
of a past that had been woven out of failure and
disappointment and shapeless motive.  Now,
with an open trail before him, his mind was filled
with new hopes and strange misgivings.

His misgivings were not without good reason,
had he known the full truth.  Bill McCartney,
the big foreman with Keith McBain's outfit,
commanded the respect which hard-fisted men
invariably pay to those whose reputation for heavy
hitting goes before them wherever they move.
When he came to Keith McBain's camp his
reputation had preceded him by at least a week.  By
some mysterious way, for which there is no
accounting, the men had been prepared for days
against the coming of one who could hit harder
than any man west of North Bay.  It was not on
record that any of the citizens of the town that
set the eastern limit to the extent of McCartney's
reputation could actually hit harder, or even as
hard, as the formidable foreman.  It probably
never occurred to anyone to carry his investigations
so far.  It was enough that North Bay
should be generally accepted as the point that
marked the division between two worlds, in one
of which the name of Bill McCartney had never
been known, in the other of which his name was
mentioned with the deference due to men of his
class.

There was probably no fear mingled with that
feeling of deference.  The men simply knew what
Bill McCartney's reputation was, and after the
first few searching glances at the new foreman
they were prepared to believe what they had been
told, and, perhaps, to add something to it by way
of coloring it up a little.

Those who were disposed to think conservatively
of McCartney's abilities when they first
saw him were given an opportunity to correct
their estimates somewhere about the third day
after his arrival in camp, although only a few
were fortunate enough to be on hand when he
first proved his ability to live up to his reputation.
Before McCartney's arrival the name of "Lush"
Currie, a thick-set, bony fellow who had carried
off the honors in many a fight to the finish, had
always been mentioned with something of the
same deference that was now accorded the new
foreman.  In fact, Currie was one of the few
doubters who were unwise enough to have
expressed openly their own personal contempt for
reputations that were unproved.  He spoke once,
however, when McCartney was within hearing.
The small group who had witnessed the affair
afterwards said that "Lush" had spoken very
unwisely.  No one at the time knew exactly what
had occurred—though they worked out all the
details with great care later.  All agreed that only
one blow had been struck, and that blow was
McCartney's.  Before Currie had a chance to defend
himself he was lying in a heap on the ground.
Though McCartney waited for him to get up,
"Lush" could not find his feet without the help
of a couple of men who were standing near, who
lifted him and helped him off to his bunk, where
for a few days he nursed a broken jaw.

The incident had caused no end of discussion.
Some felt that Currie had not been given a square
deal—there was such a thing as a fair
fight—Currie should have been given some warning.
The affair proved nothing so far as Bill McCartney's
fighting ability was concerned; it should
be fought over again, and undoubtedly would.
Others protested that Currie had no right to talk
about McCartney unless he wanted to fight—that
he should have been prepared for what had
happened.  He had been warned—he got only what
was coming to him, and would probably know
better than to seek further trouble.

But "Lush" Currie gave neither promise nor
explanation—a fact that, in the opinion of the
great majority of Keith McBain's men, proved
his wisdom, if it did not add anything to his
reputation for courage.

But these were things that King did not know.
He only wondered about the man McCartney, in
whom he found—though he could not have told
why—the embodiment of a new and sinister
antagonism.  He could not help feeling that
somehow powers over which he had no control were
dealing the cards, and he had to play the game.

Had it not been for the fact that another—

His mind went back to the laughing eyes of
the girl that had spoken to him from the cover
of the bushes beside the trail.

Overhead the night-hawks whistled and
swooped down with whirring wings above the
tree-tops.  The damp scent of low mist-filled
hollows came to him on the motionless air, mingled
with the cool fresh fragrance of the spruce.  Little
waves of warm air rose from the trail that had
lain all day under a burning sky.  The occasional
call of a distant coyote whined across the plains,
and returned in numberless echoes till it broke
and died into silence.

Suddenly Sal stopped in the trail and stood
looking back, her head up, her ears pricked
forward, her tail brushing from side to side.  King
reined his horse in to a walk and listened.  He
could hear the rhythmic beat of hoofs on the
trail some distance behind him.  From the sound
they made he knew the rider was coming fast.
Curiosity overcame him, and he turned about
and waited at a point in the trail from which he
could look from cover across a deep hollow to
where the trail was visible winding along near the
base of the hill.  He had been waiting only a few
moments when the horse and rider came into
view.  The light had almost gone by now, but
there was still enough left of the long northern
summer twilight to make it possible for him to
follow the dimly-outlined figures of horse and
rider until they suddenly vanished where the
trail ran hidden through a stretch of evergreens.
When they emerged they were only a few yards
away and in full sight.  The rider was none other
than the girl whose image he had kept before him
in the failing twilight.

His first impulse was to turn his horse's head
across the trail—he could not believe that the girl
he had seen that afternoon was actually in
control of the animal she rode.  But not more than
a dozen paces away the horse planted his feet
before him suddenly, stopped with a jerk, and rose
on his hind legs.  Then with front feet still in the
air he pivoted round and bolted away in the
opposite direction.  King was amazed to see the girl
keep her seat, but his amazement increased when,
just before reaching the turn, the horse stopped
suddenly as he had done before, and wheeling
about came up the trail towards him again at the
same wild pace.  King stood aside this time and
caught a glimpse of the girl's face as she shot past
him.  The expression he saw there was enough
to dispel any fears that he might have entertained
for her safety.  A few yards down the trail
the horse turned again, and he saw the girl strike
him across the nose with her quirt.

Then for fully ten minutes he watched a battle
royal between a slender girl and a horse whose
spirit had never been broken.  He had seen men
breaking horses to the saddle, and he had thrilled
to the excitement of it.  But this fight was
different.  The girl who held her seat in the battle
that was being fought out before him did her
work fearlessly, firmly, and without speaking a
word, and King took off his hat and sat watching
in silence.

Back and forth they went on the trail, the horse
leaping and rearing at the turns, the girl wearing
him down gradually with sharp strokes of her
quirt across the nose.  The horse shook his head
at every stroke and came back after each turn
with as much apparent determination as ever.
The girl kept her place without a smile, her eyes
steadily before her, intent on every move.

The end came suddenly.  A quick stroke
caught the animal just as his front feet were
about to leave the ground, and he stood quivering
in every limb, champing his bit and shaking his
head in an effort to slacken the bridle rein that
the girl held firmly in her hand.  Then as he
stood, trembling and subdued, the girl spoke for
the first time, and turning him slowly round
brought him down the trail at a walk.

King wanted to cry out in admiration of the
superb manner in which the girl had conducted
herself in the struggle, but when she came to
where he stood she brought her horse to a
standstill and turned to him with a smile—and King
was dumb.

Women had never been a concern of King
Howden's.  He had never been able to quite
understand their ways, and he had come to the
conclusion that if success in life depended upon a
man's ability to succeed with women—and he
had known many who had advanced such a
theory in all seriousness—-then nothing in the
world was more inevitable than that he should
fail, and fail miserably, sooner or later.  He had
avoided women generally, and for years had
deliberately sought for conditions of living in which
he could reasonably hope for a chance to make
good without them.

But here was a woman no man could avoid.
In one slow glance again he noted the lightning
that played in her dark eyes; he caught the wild
witchery of her tumbled hair and the beauty of
her cheeks, flushed from the excitement of the
fight she had just won, and he lost himself in
contemplation of the smile that lent an indescribable
sweetness to her firm mouth.  She was dressed
plainly—even roughly—in a waist that revealed
the soft whiteness of her neck and throat and the
firm round curve of her shoulders and breast, and
in a skirt that clung closely to her limbs.  But of
these things King Howden was only vaguely
conscious.  He could not take his eyes from her face,
with its strange contradiction of flashing eyes and
gently smiling mouth.

The girl was the first to speak.

"You must have been riding hard," she said.
"I thought I'd never catch up with you."

"Catch up?" King thought to himself, and was
at a loss to understand.

"Come on," she said quickly, and before he was
able to reply, "I'm going to ride a little way with
you."

She drew her rein back, pulled her horse about,
touched him lightly on the flank with her quirt,
and was off at an easy canter along the trail,
leaving King to follow or not as he pleased.  With
a slow smile of recognition of the somewhat
anomalous position he was in, he turned into the
trail and rode after her.

When he came up with her he drew his horse
in a little and together they rode for the next half
hour through little valleys and over gently rounding
hills dimly outlined in the failing twilight.

Here and there a rabbit started up in the trail
before them and ran its foolish frightened race
ahead of them until the dog came and put it to
cover in the low underbrush beside the roadway.
Occasionally a partridge or a prairie chicken got
up suddenly from its dust bath in the middle of
the trail and hurried off with much clucking and
beating of the wings.  Once a coyote stood with
pricked ears before them on the trail until the
sight of Sal sent him off with a lazy, half defiant
lope to a little knoll, where he perched himself
and waited while they rode past.  They caught
the delicate aroma of dew on the grass, and
brushed a warm fragrance from the foliage as
they swept close to where the trees leaned a little
over the trail.  Frequently they splashed through
little hurrying streams where the cold water ran
only a few inches deep, or rode through low
meadows where the mist lay like white shrouds and
settled lightly above the long grass that carpeted
the hollows.  And behind them the sky had
deepened to a blood-red hue with long ribbons of
pale gold stretching along the horizon already far
to the north of where the sun had gone down.

They had rounded the brow of a hill and had
come out of cover to a point in the trail where it
afforded them a wide outlook across a meadowy
valley.  The girl brought her horse to a stand and
King reined in beside her.

"I like this," she said, waving her hand toward
the valley.

King looked at her, but she had not so much
as turned her head towards him.  For the first
time he was able to look at her without
embarrassment.  He was no artist to analyze the fine
points of symmetry in face and figure.  But he
was a man—and the man in him told him that
she was beautiful.  What he liked best about her
was the strength of her beauty.  He knew at a
glance that she was not of the delicate, clinging
kind that practise a languid air and never forget
their sex.  Here was a girl whose heart-beat was
strong with the confidence and the reliance she
had learned to place in herself—and every line of
her face, every movement of her body, bore
evidence to the fact.  And yet, as she sat and looked
out over the valley half hidden under the mists,
there was a soft warmth in her dark eyes that
made her presence luminous.  For King the girl
who sat before him embodied in tangible form, it
seemed, all he had ever aspired to, all he had ever
even vaguely dreamed of.

Her voice, when she spoke, was not the voice of
reproach that she had used earlier in the
afternoon.  Now it was soft, quiet, even deep.

"I like it, too," he said, in response to her
simple expression of admiration for what lay
before them.  "But you haven't come all this way
for that"—he waved his hand gently in the
direction of the valley.

She turned to him quickly.  "No—I have seen
it before—though I don't remember when it was
ever so beautiful."

"Nor I," thought King, though he kept his
thoughts to himself.

"What is your name?" she asked suddenly and
with a directness that brought a smile to King's
face.

He told her.

"And I am Cherry McBain—my father is
Keith McBain—'Old Silent,' the men call him,"
she replied.  "I came to tell you that I need your
help—not for me—for my father."

King looked at her strangely.  "But a man,"
he said slowly, "a man who takes a dare—"

"Don't be silly!" she broke in suddenly. "I
only half believed that."

"Don't you think that's bad enough?" replied King.

"Can you fight?" asked the girl abruptly,
disregarding his reply.

The smile that had rested upon King's face
during the conversation vanished all at once
before the old grave look that was habitual with
him.  He did not answer at once—he turned the
question over and over again in his mind.

"Cherry McBain," he said at last, "I'm not
used to women—and women's ways."  His eyes
were looking off across the valley when he spoke,
and his voice was like that of a man speaking to
himself.  "I've known some women—a few—but
no woman ever asked me if I could fight—only
once—but she was a foolish woman—she wasn't
good.  No good woman ever asked me that before."

He turned his face towards her slowly and
looked at her with searching eyes.

"But you," he said hesitatingly, "you're good,
Cherry McBain."

He was silent as he looked at her now, and his
lips tightened before he spoke again.  "Years
ago," he said at last, "I fought, and the man
I struck—we were boys then—was a brother.
I was not myself—I struck him in anger.  When
I understood what I had done I left him—left my
home and all—and came west.  That was ten
years ago.  I wrote him a letter and he asked
me to come back.  He said he had forgotten—but
I—I could never go back."

"Do you think that's silly too?"

She shook her head.

"I have not hit any man since that day," he
said with emphasis.  "I can fight—I would
fight—quicker for a good woman than anything else."

Cherry McBain held out her hand to him.  "I
needn't have asked you that," she said.  "I didn't
know.  But promise me that you will come and
see my father when you are on your way back—old
Gabe has told me you are carrying the mail
for the settlement."

King pressed her hand gently.

"I guess I'll come," he said.

A smile brightened the girl's face.

"Come," she said.  "We'll have raspberries for tea."

"If it rains wildcats," he declared as he released
her hand.

"To-morrow afternoon, then," she said, and
the next moment she was gone.

King stood and watched her, hat in hand, until
she had vanished from his sight.  When the beat
of the hoofs on the hard trail was no longer
audible he shook his horse's bridle gently and
resumed his way.

King did not cease to think of his brother when
the last sound of hoof-beats had died in the
distance.  His conversation with Cherry McBain
had started in his mind a train of thought that
he could not control.

As long as King could remember, his best
friend in all the world, the one he had loved the
most—even during that one mad regrettable
moment of passion—was his younger brother, Dick.
As boys at home in eastern Canada, Dick had
always been the lucky one—King's pranks had
always been discovered.  In the ten long years that
had elapsed since King had struck west in shame
and humiliation, it was the thought of having left
Dick that weighed most heavily upon him.  It
was the memory of Dick's laughing face that had
made his heart burn with remorse whenever he
remembered how weak, how foolish he had been.
During those ten years his heart had quailed
before one fear only—the fear that something might
happen to Dick before he could see him again.

And now as he rode alone over the trail that
was all but hidden in the heavy dusk, this fear
had gripped his heart so fiercely that he was
helpless to shake himself free.  A nameless dread, a
pressing sadness brooded over him.  He was
seized with a sense of utter loneliness.

Some will say that there is no such thing as
presentiment.  But when King Howden reached
the end-of-the-steel that night and found among
the mail a letter for himself announcing the death
of his brother, Dick Howden, he was convinced,
whether reasonably or not, that voices had spoken
to him out of the silence—had been speaking to
him, indeed, for years, if he had only heard and
tried to understand.

King knew no rest that night.  Early in the
morning he left the bunkhouse where he had been
lying during the night and went out into the open
where the light of another day was growing in an
eastern sky all rose and gold.  He found a path
leading into the woods and followed it for some
distance among the trees to a spot where it led
across a little stream.  Here he sat down and for
a long time looked at the water and the trees and
the changing colors of the sky.

When the red sun pushed its way at last above
the tree-tops, there came the sound of men stirring
in the camp, and the distant sharp rattle of
the wheels of a wagon bumping along over a
rough trail.  A new day had begun—a day when
strong men would go out to work, singing and
bantering as they went.

King got up from his place beside the stream
and stood with his face to the east.  Slowly he
lifted his right hand and closed his fingers.  Then
he laid his left hand over it.

In the east the day was springing.

In his heart there was a prayer—a prayer such
as big men speak when they have seen the wrong
they have done.  And who shall say that the
prayer was not heard?

In his face there was a resolve—a resolve that
expressed itself in the tightening of the fingers
that closed over his right hand.  And who shall
say that the resolve was not recorded?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER THREE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER THREE

.. vspace:: 2

In a country where women are seldom seen, the
presence of a pretty girl of twenty-one is a
matter worthy of record—even if she is the
daughter of a railway construction boss.  For
Keith McBain, reticent, profane to a frankly
amazing degree on those rare occasions when he
did speak to his men, was a seasoned old man of
his class.  Silent and unapproachable—as is the
manner of camp bosses—Keith McBain seemed
at times the least human of them all.  "Old Silent"
the men called him, partly on account of an
instinctive grudge they all bore him for his mode
of hard dealing, and partly, too, on account of a
kind of unreasoned affection which they
cherished for him because of his rough-handed
honesty and his indomitable will.  When Old
Silent spoke no man spoke back.  Not that he
was a man to fear physically—he was a small,
dyspeptic, nervous man whom anyone of his
deep-chested camp-followers could have brushed aside
with one hand.  It was rather the man's face that
they feared, with its black piercing eyes that
never shifted their glance when he spoke, and its
black sardonic smile that made an impenetrable
mask for a soul that no man had ever seen
revealed.  His men all feared him—some of them
hated him—and yet they never left him, once
their names had been placed on the pay-roll.

Once only in the memory of those who worked
for him had the hope ever arisen that the old
contractor's manner might soften and his hard face
relax in the presence of the men.  Just a year ago,
nearly a hundred miles back along the line, Keith
McBain had lost his wife after a long illness.  She
had lingered for weeks in a pathetic fight for life,
and the old camp boss had watched by her bedside
almost continuously, leaving the oversight of
the work wholly in the hands of his foremen.
Never had a gang of men worked so hard as those
men had worked day after day while Old Silent
was absent from his place, not only out of
deference to the frail woman who was struggling
gamely against too great odds, but out of sheer
respect for their old boss whose burden of sorrow
was daily growing heavier.  And when at last the
word came that the struggle was over, the men
had sat about very late into the night and had
spoken in whispers.  Keith McBain had made
the grave with his own hands, just off the
right-of-way, and had marked the spot with a pile of
stones and a rough-hewn cross.  Then in the days
that followed he had been more silent than ever,
more unremitting in his dealing with the men,
and, if possible, more profane.  And yet every
last one of his men could not help knowing that
Keith McBain's heart was breaking.  His light
had burned late into the night—and every night—for
months following the day that had brought
him his great sorrow.

Cherry McBain had come unannounced into
the camp.  In fact the men had not known of
her existence until she rode into camp one
afternoon a couple of weeks before the death of
Mrs. McBain.  Only a few of the more fortunate among
them had had a glimpse of her as she came up the
trail escorted by McBain's timekeeper, who had
gone out to meet her and bring her to the camp.
But the few that had seen her knew at once that
she was the daughter of the woman who was
dying in Keith McBain's cabin—so striking was
the resemblance between mother and daughter.

During the days that immediately followed her
arrival Cherry was never seen abroad except late
in the evenings when she walked out with her
father and came back with her arms laden with
wild flowers and fern.  But when Keith McBain
turned again to resume his duties after the
darkest episode of his life had been closed, Cherry
McBain wandered alone along the new grade or
saddled her horse and explored the trails
wherever they led in both directions from the camp.

Men who work a whole season in the woods
or on a right-of-way, and at the end of the season
fling their total earnings away in one hilarious
week or two in the nearest city, are likely to
classify women roughly and perhaps quickly, even
if for ten months out of every twelve they never
hear the sound of a woman's voice.  They may
sometimes make errors in their classifications,
but not often.  The first morning that Cherry
McBain strolled along the edge of the works and
paused here and there to watch the men as they
swung their teams round in the ever moving circle
that carried the earth away from both sides of
the right-of-way to the centre where it was graded
up into the first rough form of a road-bed—that
morning the men registered their own judgments
concerning the daughter of Old Silent.  In her
dark eyes there was the fearless look of her father,
the look that pierced through the surface and saw
through the veneer to what lay behind.  In her
smile there was the essence of her mother's gentle
nature—a nature before which men down
through the centuries have bowed in silent worship.

But there was something more, something that
was her own.  Men saw it in her lightning glance
and in the quick toss she gave her head when she
shook back her wind-blown, dark-brown hair.
Not one of the men had been able to tell exactly
what it was that was there, but all alike were
convinced that while Keith McBain might command
obedience in his men and squelch even his
foreman with a look or an explosive word or two, he
had no look that could have served him in a
contest with the will of Cherry McBain.

.. vspace:: 2

It was six o'clock by the time King reached
McBain's camp on his return trip.  In the
distance he saw the men leaving the grade and
making their way towards the camp, the sound
of their voices coming to him with heartening
effect after his long silent trip, during which his
mind had gone back irresistibly to the days when
he and his brother had romped together as boys.

When he came to where the path led from the
trail to McBain's cabin he turned abruptly, and
getting down from the saddle allowed his horse
to follow him while he made his way on foot along
the narrow path.  The little cabin was built of
logs and stood well back from the trail, in the
protecting shade of a clump of tamaracs.

Keith McBain was sitting by the doorway, his
pipe in his mouth, his eyes turned to the hills that
rose up, scraggly and covered with fallen and
charred timbers, to the south of the cabin.

King's first feeling was one of pity.  The old
man who sat there smoking his pipe and musing
was a broken man, and every line on his face
showed it.  There was in his eyes the look of a
man whose power of will was almost gone.  There
was a look of fear in them, a fear lest he should
reveal his weakness to others.  He had an odd
trick of glancing quickly about him as if he
wished to assure himself that no one was coming
upon him unannounced.  His mouth was tight-lipped,
his face covered with a short-clipped beard
that once had been black but now showed gray
and pale against the bloodless cheeks.

And yet, for all the face showed of weakness,
King was at once struck by the intensity and the
unswerving directness of his gaze when Keith
McBain turned to look at him.  At first there
seemed to be a shadow of suspicion in the grizzled
old face, but King could not help observing the
slow change to something almost kindly that
showed deep in the old man's eyes as he got up
and extended his hand.

"Come and sit down," he said.  "The girl told
me you were coming.  She's off somewhere in the
hills after berries—come and sit down."

When they had talked a little King was so
much moved by the note of pathos that crept into
the voice of Keith McBain that he determined
at once to share with him the news that he had
received only the night before.  Evidently Old
Silent was in a pensive mood, and King inwardly
longed for someone to whom he could speak
concerning what had lain heavily on his heart all
day.

For a long time after King had spoken, Keith
McBain sat without uttering a word.

"Aye, boy, you've suffered a great loss," he said
at last, and his gaze was straight before him
towards the hill-tops in the distance.  As he
continued he seemed to be talking to himself rather
than to King.  "It's hard for men to know what
a thing like this means until they have tasted it
themselves.  For years I have gone out in the
morning with men when the light was scarce
showing through the swamp and have come in
again at night tired after the work of the day to
sleep—and make ready for the next day.  And
I've watched them—all ready for the 'roll out'
when the call came at daybreak.  And I've
marvelled at their punctuality—and their
willingness.  And then a day would come when one of
them wouldn't be in his place.  He'd heard the
call but couldn't go out.  And later—perhaps a
few days just—he didn't hear it—and the rest of
us were quieter for a while—a little less given to
talking; and then things went on very much as
usual and we forgot.  It's very good to forget."

King was pleased with the complete freedom
from restraint that now marked the old man's
manner.  He talked well, with the merest trace of
Scotch accent recognizable in the way he rolled
his r's.  He paused a moment and King made no
attempt to interrupt.  Finally he began again.

"Aye—it's good to forget—when you can.  But
there are times when a man can't forget—not
altogether.  You and I know that, my boy—we
know it too well.  And we won't talk about it
either—except to mention it in passing.  And in
passing I want to say that I am very sorry.
Where's the use trying to say more—a man can't."

He tapped his pipe gently against his hand and
went leisurely about the task of filling it again.

"A straight man—and a clean man," he said
gently, "is a rare enough article.  As men go, I
haven't seen many that could answer to that
description.  The world is full of good women, my
boy—I've seen a few they told me weren't
straight and weren't clean, but I've never known
any such myself—though I've known a lot of
women, too.  But the men I've known—"

He paused as if in contemplation of how he
should express most effectively what was on his
mind.  In the interval of silence there was a
sound of excited voices and hurried footsteps
coming down the path towards the cabin.  Looking
up King recognized the two men approaching
as the camp cook and his assistant.  Their
differences had apparently reached a head, and they
were coming to thresh the matter out before the
boss.

In an instant Keith McBain was himself again.
Leaping up before the men had come within
speaking distance he met them in the pathway
and fell upon them with a flow of profanity that
not only reduced the two to impotent silence but
sent them back along the pathway and up the
trail to the camp, the picture of mute dejection
and defeat.

When the old contractor returned and took his
seat again, he lighted his pipe in bad mood and
puffed at it vigorously without speaking a word.
It required only a glance at his face to realize
that a change had come over him.  Keith
McBain was Old Silent again and nothing would
bring him out of his surly mood.

King got up slowly and started down the footpath
that led to the hills back of the cabin.
Somewhere back in the shambles of pitched timbers
and broken tree-trunks was Cherry McBain.
When he came finally to where the path was so
dimly marked that he could follow it no farther
he climbed to the top of a little knoll and looked
in every direction along the face of the hill to see
if Cherry were anywhere in sight.  Finally, when
he had looked for some time in vain, he called
and waited until the echoes died away in silence.
There was no reply.  Getting down from the knoll
he scrambled further up the hill.  He had seen a
patch of grey ground away to the west where the
fires of the year before had swept the hills clear
of vegetation.  In ten minutes he emerged from
the cover of the evergreens and looked across the
tangled mass of half-burned and fallen timbers.
The climb had not been an easy one, and it was
only with slight hope that he gave his call again
and stood tense and motionless as he listened for
a reply.  From every side the echoes came back
and gradually died away in faint waves that
finally settled into stillness.  He was about to
turn back again and make for the camp, but just
once more he called and waited.

Almost immediately and from a surprisingly
short distance away Cherry's voice came clear to
him across the patch of grey.  Turning at once in
the direction of the voice he looked and saw her
waving her hand to him.  In a few moments he
was beside her, where she was seated on the
ground picking twigs and leaves out of the small
pail of berries she held in her lap.  She looked
up at him and laughed roguishly, then offered
him a large red berry which she held up to him
between stained finger and thumb.

"Didn't you hear me call the first time?" he
asked her.

She dropped her eyes and seemed very intent
upon rolling the berries about in a vain search for
more leaves.  He waited for her answer.  Ordinarily
he would not have asked the question seriously.
Even now he had no thought of accusing
her.  When she finally spoke he was at a loss to
know what was in her mind.

"I—heard—you," she said, very slowly, and
the tone of her voice was strange to King.

He waited, not knowing what to say in return,
and hoping, too, that she might say something
without his prompting her.  When he saw that
she was not going to speak, he asked another
question as directly as he had asked the first.

"Why didn't you answer?"

The next moment he wished with all his heart
that he had not spoken.  The look she gave him
was one in which appeal and disappointment
were so deeply mingled that he cursed himself
inwardly for his own clumsiness.

"Don't ask me why," she said.  Then as she
saw the grave look in King's eyes she got up and
placed her hand on his arm.  "Oh, it has nothing
to do with you," she said in a voice that was all
softness.  "I—I didn't know at first that—that it
was you."

Suddenly her manner changed.

"Let's go down now," she said quickly, picking
up her pail of berries.  "We're going to have tea."

Almost as she spoke the words she was off
down the hill at a pace that made King exert
himself to keep up with her.  She ran along the
smooth round timbers and leaped from one to
another of the fallen logs so lightly and gracefully
that King was put to it to save himself from
being completely outstripped.  She carried her
berries in one hand and her hat in the other, and
her hair, blown loose by the breeze, shone in the
sunlight—transparent gold against a mass of
black.

As he watched her, something of the wonder of
their first meeting came back to him.  He had
never seen a girl so lithe, so wild, so beautiful.
There was exultation in her every movement, and
her laugh rippled musically as she leaped and
climbed and ran along over the most difficult
ground.  Sometimes she looked back at him as if
to make sure that he was following, and he saw
her face radiant with life and youth.  Once she
waited till he came up to her before venturing
along a dizzy bit of footing that required care in
passing.  When he came to her she placed her
hand in his and together they went on.

From the look she gave him he scarcely knew
whether she wanted help herself or wished to help
him.  But the clasp of her hand was so firm, so
throbbing with vitality, that he wished he might
still hold those fingers closed within his own
after they had come to level footing.  The thought
of it sent the blood coursing through his veins,
and an impulse started up within him—an
impulse that came out of the very depths of his
being and made him forget for the time being
everything in the world except this moment on a
wild hillside with beauty and grace and youth
within his reach.

When they reached the evergreens Cherry
bounded ahead and left him to follow.  The
ground was level and soft underfoot and carpeted
with cones and needles.  Once she stopped
suddenly in a little space open to the sky, and
stooping down picked a wildflower and held it up to
him.

"Not often you find them growing in a place
so sheltered as this," she remarked as she gave
him the flower.

He took it and looked from the flower, pure,
white and soft, to her face.  Unconsciously his
gaze shifted to her throat, as pure and white and
soft as the flower he held in his hand.  Then she
turned quickly and hurried off again into the
cover of the evergreens.

Once she stopped so suddenly and turned so
unexpectedly to meet him that he had almost run
into her before he could check himself.  Then as
he stood in questioning attitude she shook her
hair back from her face and with a ripple of a
laugh was away again before he could speak.

As King followed her an unpleasant thought
came suddenly to him.  There was one thing he
had always dreaded in women.  He had never
been quite unconscious of the subtle power they
exerted—but he had always been suspicious of
their motives.  There was something so free, so
healthful, so simple in Cherry's manner that he
was almost disarmed of suspicion.  And yet she
was so coy, so wilful, so roguish that instinctively
he felt himself assuming the defensive—a defensive,
too, against himself and the impulses that
arose within him and clamored for expression.

Suddenly she stopped and looked down at a
small pool of cool fresh water fed from a little
spring that bubbled out of the earth just a few
yards away.  A half dozen large stones lay
touching the edge of the water, and before King
realized what she was about, she had dropped her
berries and hat and was on her knees with her
two hands resting on a small boulder, her lips
touching the surface of the water.  As he looked
at her he could not help thinking what a child
she was—and how very much older he was.  Nor
could he think it any less when in a moment she
raised her head and glanced up at him with a rare
flush in her cheeks.

"Oh, this is good," she cried.  "Look—there's
a stone for you!"

He smiled slowly, but her spirit was irresistible.
He got down beside her, his hands upon a
boulder almost touching the stone upon which
she was leaning for support.

When they had both drunk from the pool,
instead of getting up immediately, they remained
where they were, their hands upon the boulders,
their eyes fixed upon the smooth surface of the
water beneath them.  For a moment only they
looked, a moment in which both felt a power like
a spell that held them gazing into the far depths
that lay mirrored in the quiet pool.  They were
gazing like two children deep down into the
depths of the blue skies reflected far below
where the white clouds floated beyond the
downward pointing tops of evergreens.

All at once, however, King glanced at the face
of the girl where it was smiling up at him from the
water—and in a moment he was conscious of a
change.  Though her face was smiling it was
grave too, grave even as his, and he knew that in
the look each gave the other there were depths
that were more unfathomable than the skies—the
depths of life itself in all its mystery and
serious meaning.

They got up and walked off down the path
towards the cabin, strangely silent, both of them.
As they emerged from the cover of the woods and
came within sight of the cabin only a few yards
ahead of them, Cherry stopped and laid her hand
quickly upon King's arm.  King glanced at her,
and then turned in the direction indicated by her
eyes.  A man was just leaving the doorway of the
cabin where old Keith McBain was still sitting.
It was McCartney.

For a moment Cherry stood silently watching
him, her hand still upon King's arm.  Then she
started slowly towards the cabin, her eyes still
following the movements of the big foreman as
he walked down the path that led from the cabin
to the camp.

"You wanted to know why I didn't answer
when first you called me to-day," she said,
almost in a whisper.  "Well—I wasn't sure that it
was you—I thought it might be him."

There came into her eyes a look of appeal
which changed quickly to the look that King
had seen there the night before when she had
asked him if he could fight.  She seemed on the
point of speaking, but with an impatient toss of
her head she hurried down the pathway, King
following closely behind her.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER FOUR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER FOUR

.. vspace:: 2

In another hour King was ready to take the
trail again.  Beside him stood Cherry, her own
black horse waiting only a few yards away.

A dark cloud had risen in the north-east, and
King glanced quickly about him at the skies and
at the trees rustling noisily in the little breeze
that had sprung up.

"It's like rain," he warned her quietly.  "Perhaps
you'd better not go this time."

The faintest suspicion of a frown passed quickly
over her face, but that was all the reply his
warning drew from her.  Before he could help her
she had stepped upon a low-cut stump and had
sprung lightly into the saddle.

Keith McBain watched them from his seat
near the doorway.

"I'll be looking for you early, my girl," he said.

"I'll be back before it begins to rain," she
replied, and turning her horse about started towards
the trail.

King got up at once, pausing a moment to bid
the old man good-bye before he followed Cherry.

"Look after yourself," the old fellow replied,
"and come in next trip.  It'll be dull for you
now—and we'd be glad to see you."

"I'll come," King replied.  "I'd like to
come—and I'd like to hear you talk again."

"And send that girl of mine back before she
gets too far away," the old fellow called to King
who had already started down the pathway.

The clouds that were gathering behind them
as they rode westward seemed to hasten the
coming of the darkness, although the sun was just
setting when they started.  Far up the right-of-way,
along which the trail ran for a little distance,
the western sky was a blaze of glory between
the rows of tall trees that stood back from
the grade on either side.  Once or twice as they
rode along King turned in his saddle to look
again at the storm clouds gathering in the east.
There was little fear of their being overtaken by
the storm—it was still a long way off and was
coming up very slowly.  And yet King wondered
that the girl should be so keen upon taking a ride
when at any moment the dark bank of heavy
thunder clouds might suddenly rush up and force
her to ride back through a drenching rain, to say
nothing of the thunder and lightning.  But such
a possibility apparently never entered the mind
of Cherry McBain, or if it did she never showed
the least concern about it.  She urged her horse
forward at a steady pace that made King hurry
to keep up.  Not till they had covered the whole
length of the trail lying along the right-of-way
and had gone some distance beyond where it
turned into the woods and started up the hill did
she draw rein.  Then she brought her horse
slowly to a walk and turned to look behind her.
She had not spoken since she left the cabin, and
as King drew up with her he ventured to ask if
she didn't think she had gone far enough.  The
look she gave him by way of reply was enough to
make him wish he had not spoken.

"Are you really so anxious to have me go
back?" she asked.

It was King's turn to look at her in surprise.
There was something more than surprise in his
voice, however, when he spoke.

"I guess I must have said what wasn't in my
mind to say," he replied very quietly.  "I don't
think you got me quite right there."

Suddenly she brought her horse to a standstill
and slipped out of the saddle to the ground.

"Get down and walk for a little while," she
said, looking about her as she spoke.  "The rain
is a long way off yet and I'm not afraid."

King responded by getting down at once.  He
stood for a moment with the bridle in his hand
and waited for her to come up to him.  Then they
walked slowly side by side along the trail.  For a
few minutes they proceeded in silence, King waiting
for her to begin.

"I was afraid you might want to send me
back," she began at last, "and I didn't want to
go.  I wanted to talk to you.  I want to tell you
about my father.  You saw him to-night, and
you know there is something wrong—you
couldn't help knowing that as well as I do."

She was not asking a question.  She was merely
stating a fact in which she confidently expected
King's concurrence.  The pause was not to give
him an opportunity of replying.  She wished only
to collect her thoughts, to marshal the parts of
the story she was about to tell him.

"My father is a railway construction contractor,"
she went on after she had walked a few yards
without speaking.  "The men love him—and
they hate him—both at the same time.  He's
generous and he's straight, and he's good—but
he's hard in his dealings and he crushes everyone
who opposes him.  For years he has taken railway
contracts and worked in the woods.  I was
born in a mining camp out west, where my father
was prospecting.  When I began to grow up I
was allowed to spend only a few weeks each
summer in camp with him and mother.  The rest of
the summer I spent with my aunt in Winnipeg,
where I went to school.  But I never liked it.  I
always wanted to be with them in the camp.  I
loved the life and I loved the men and their rough
ways.  Most of all, I loved my father—my
mother was very quiet and very sweet, but my
father and I have always been chums."

She paused a moment to pick up a small stick
from the road which she sent whirling along the
trail ahead of her.

"One day something happened.  My mother
told me what she knew about it and my father
knows that she told me, but he has never spoken
to me about it.  Two years ago he left my mother
and me in the city and went to the coast with
some others to look for gold.  One of the men
was Bill McCartney, who was a teamster for my
father during the previous summer.  In the
spring they came back unexpectedly.  Father had
written us to tell us that he had made a good
strike, but when he came back there was a change.
McCartney was with him, and one night they sat
all night long and there were loud words between
them.  In the morning my father told us that he
had lost everything and that McCartney was
going back to the coast again.  He told
mother something that made her cry, but he
said, 'A bargain is a bargain—and I count this
a good bargain.'  Those are the only words I
ever heard him speak about the affair.  McCartney
left that night.  After that my mother grew
sick—and she never got better.  Later I came to
camp to be with her, and one night she told me
that she was dying—she said her heart was
breaking—breaking for my father.  She told me that
some day McCartney would be back—that she
hoped she might die before he came.  She died
last summer and McCartney came back just a
few weeks later."

The muscles in King's arms grew rigid and his
hands clenched fiercely as his mind rested upon
the fragmentary story that Cherry McBain had
told him.  Instinctively he felt that Bill McCartney
had been in some way the cause of the death
of Keith McBain's wife.

"There was something more," she said,
suddenly breaking in upon his musing.  "When
McCartney came back my father made him
foreman of the camp and ever since then the
control of the work has been gradually passing out
of father's hands.  To make matters worse,
father has been drinking until his very mind is
going.  Some day, I am afraid, he will drink
himself to death.  And it is not all on account
of the loss of my mother.  There is something
else.  The bargain he made with McCartney did
not work out satisfactorily.  The claim turned
out badly and McCartney came back dissatisfied.
And now—though he has never said so openly—he
has plans of a different kind.  Once he met me
alone on the trail—he had followed me without
my knowing it—and when he tried to be pleasant
to me in his own way, I told him to leave me.  He
grinned and took me by the arm and then—I
struck him with my hand across the face.  His
expression never changed, but he warned me
never to do that again—and he spoke of my
father.  The next day father came to me—his
voice broken—his face haggard; he hadn't slept
all night.  And he told me not to make McCartney
angry.  He told me to stay away from him—go
back to the city—anything, but to keep out
of his way and give him no cause for anger.  I
told my father that I would not leave him—and
I won't.  But I can't go anywhere without that
man shadowing me.  I can't speak to one of the
men but he comes and forces his attentions upon
me, though he knows that I hate him.  One thing—he
has never offered to touch me again, and I
have never had the heart to tell him what I think.
I am always thinking of what may happen—and
I can see the fear in my father's eyes."

She came a little closer to King and laid her
hand on his arm.

"Some day," she said slowly, and her breast
rose and fell fitfully as she spoke, "some day he
will not wait any longer.  I shall have to make
my choice.  Either I shall smile on him and
accept his attentions—or I shall send him away
and bring upon myself the complete ruin of a
life that is already broken beyond hope of repair."

A faint rumbling of distant thunder caused
them both to stop and look behind them.

"It is something new for me to be afraid.  I
never was afraid before—only there has been a
change—a change that I don't like because I
don't know how to meet it.  The men in the camp
have always been good to me.  My mother was
good to them and they liked her—and I have
tried to be good to them.  I have always thought
they liked me too.  But there are some—we
meet them once in a while—who can't stand good
treatment.  They weren't born for it.  And
McCartney has got a few of that kind with him."

They had come to a ridge overlooking a valley,
a sort of ravine, through which a small stream
picked its straggling course between the hills.
Dusk had already set in and the stream was only
faintly visible.

Without announcing her intentions, Cherry
dropped her bridle-rein and left her horse standing
on the trail while she led the way to a knoll
that commanded a better view of the ravine.  For
a long time she stood looking to the westward
where only a faint arc of light was still left low
upon the horizon.  Her hat was in her hand and
the quiet breeze that came from the east blew a
few loose locks of her dark hair about her face.
King gazed at her intently, and thought of
McCartney.

He had picked up a stout tamarac stick on his
way to the knoll.  It was almost as thick as his
wrist and was sound and dry.  Without speaking
a word and without twitching a muscle of his
face he slowly bent the stick in his two hands
until it began to snap.  Then he twisted it until
the frayed ends parted and he held the two ragged
bits of stick in his hands.  These he flung
into a clump of bushes on the slope below.

Cherry looked at him quietly.

"No," she said slowly, "not that—not that.
Some day it may have to come—some day I may
call you—but not yet."

King smiled gravely.

"I told you last night about my brother, Dick,"
he said.  "Well—Dick is dead."

"King!"

She had never before called him by his first name.

"Yes—I had a letter last night.  It was waiting
for me when I got down.  But that's all gone
now—it's past and settled.  But this other
thing—it has mixed me some.  I didn't think I'd ever
want to hit a man again.  And I'm not looking
for McCartney—not for any man," he said, and
his eyes turned to the spot where he had thrown
the broken stick.  "But no man ever found me
running—and Bill McCartney won't."

Cherry laid one hand on his arm and looked
at him.

"He has gone to town with a lot of men to-night,"
she said.  "They often ride in on Saturday
night—that's why we have been able to ride
and talk together.  He will be there when you
get to town—and all day to-morrow.  And listen—I'm
not afraid—not afraid for you, nor for
me.  But I don't want you to meet him yet."

King's reply came quietly and with great
deliberation.

"I've been in that town since the first tent was
pitched," he observed in a voice that was even
and showed no excitement.  "I've watched it
grow up—and I've gone pretty much where I
liked.  I guess I'll go on in about the same way."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of that," Cherry replied.
"I've told you I'm not afraid for you—and not
for myself.  But if the break should come—"

"I guess you don't need to worry about that,"
King remarked.  "There won't be any break
between me and McCartney—not till there's a
reason for it."

Cherry went back again to the trail and taking
the bridle-rein in her hand led the way down
towards the river.  King followed her until
they came to the roughly-made bridge that
spanned the little stream, a hurriedly constructed
bridge of tamarac poles that had been thrown
into place by the advance parties of railway
workers.

"I have never gone farther than this," said
Cherry, when they had come to the centre of the
bridge.  "I often ride out in the evenings and
stand here for a while before going back.  Some
day I am going on to town, just to see what sort
of place you have."

"This is the White Pine," said King.  "I have
crossed it often higher up.  It gets very nasty
after two or three days' rain."

Suddenly a flash of lightning reminded them
that the storm was approaching.  While they
talked they had all but forgotten the black clouds
rolling up from the east.  Cherry got up at once
upon the stout log that ran along the side of the
bridge to keep the poles in place, and putting one
foot into the stirrup drew herself up lightly into
the saddle.  When she was seated she turned and
looked at King.

"We shall ride out again some time," she said,
and gave him her hand.

He closed his big hand over her fingers for a
moment without speaking.  When he was about
to turn away she clung still to his hand and
looked at him very earnestly.

"Why don't you sometimes talk a little?" she
asked.

The abruptness with which she asked the question
brought the slow smile back to King's face.

"I'm not good at talking," he replied.  "Besides—I
like to hear you talk."

King had not ventured before in their short
acquaintance to offer a compliment.  He did not
mean to compliment her now.  He was speaking
his mind simply, directly, sincerely.

She regarded him strangely for a moment in silence.

"Sometimes," she said at last, "sometimes I
think—"

She paused a moment and then withdrew her
hand suddenly and wheeling her horse about went
off at a gallop down the trail, leaving him gazing
after her in wonderment.

When she had passed out of sight he looked
once at the clouds before getting into the saddle
and then, getting up, he gave a sharp whistle that
brought Sal bounding to him, and set off along
the trail that led to town.  Behind him the storm
was coming up rapidly.

"It's you for it now," he said to his horse as he
leaned forward and stroked the warm neck.

Only once after that did his voice break the
silence of the long ride.  The first drops of rain
brought him suddenly out of his dreaming.

"If you could only talk!" he said to himself,
and his voice was full of impatience.

But King Howden was no talker.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER FIVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER FIVE

.. vspace:: 2

The town was in a state of excitement that
was not altogether new.  In fact, the
few score of permanent residents in the
place always looked to Saturday night to furnish
some little change from the humdrum existence
of the week.  There is nothing very stirring
about sitting in a village—even if it is an outpost
of civilization a hundred and twenty-five miles
from anywhere—with nothing to do from day to
day except to greet the newcomers who arrive
from the outside to begin their search for land.
But when a couple of red-coated men wearing
blue breeches striped on either side with gold,
their heads covered with wide-brimmed Stetsons,
their feet stoutly booted and spurred—when two
such men ride in from over the Saskatchewan
border and go clanking down the one street in
the place a certain amount of shuffling is almost
inevitable.

Nor was the flutter of excitement due to any
fear that the "Mounties" were on business bent.
Since the jurisdiction of the famous riders of the
plains did not extend any farther than the border,
their sudden appearance set no one guessing as
to who, among the men of the town, was being
entertained, a criminal unawares.  The place
had served as a week-end retreat for the men of
the force before, and all such occasions had
turned out more or less eventful.

No previous arrangement had been made that
would have explained the sudden influx of men
who came into town from all over the district to
spend the week-end together.  But small groups
had begun to arrive before the sun had set—some
of the settlers had come in during the day from
their shacks on lonely homesteads and made a
fair-sized reception committee to greet the later
arrivals.  There were men there from Rubble's
survey gang, and a dozen or more from the camp
of Keith McBain.

That they should make their rendezvous late
in the evening at Mike Cheney's was only
natural.  There was MacMurray's lodging house,
of course, that stood at the end of the street near
the river, but no one came to town to eat.
Cheney's place stood at the other end of the
street—discreetly apart.  And those who came and
went exercised considerable discretion and talked
very little when others were in hearing.

Mike Cheney himself treated his business
very philosophically.  In a man's country where
men were in the habit of taking life none too
seriously, there must needs be some place to
foregather—so he thought—on the days when the
rain drove everyone indoors, and on nights when
the rest of the town had gone to bed.  Furthermore,
there was need of a place of last call for
the men on their way to the railway camps or the
homesteads.  Besides, what were men to do in
the winter, with the thermometer dancing back
and forth between thirty and forty degrees below
zero, if they had to depend solely upon bad tea
and weak coffee?  Mike declared, and to all
intents and purposes he believed, that he served the
community in proportion as he was successful in
dispensing conviviality among its members.  It
didn't occur to him to feel abashed that a few
held him and his business in abhorrence.  Nor
did it worry him that he was conducting his
business without legal sanction.  It would have
caused him as much trouble to win the regard of
such as held him in contempt as to procure an
official document setting the seal of the
government's approval on his business.  He was
content to give little or no heed to either.

And so, without any special announcement,
and without any invitation, the visitors took their
way, when it was late enough, to the large room
at the back of Mike Cheney's place, where they
knew they would be made heartily welcome.
And to tell the truth, a welcome of some kind was
something the men felt the need of.  Rain had
begun to fall quite heavily—what had looked like
a mere thunder shower when it appeared first in
the north-east, had steadied down to an all-night
rain.  And certainly MacMurray's lodging house
offered no cheer.  No one, furthermore, even
cast his eyes a second time in the direction of
the two large log buildings the government had
erected for immigrants without shelter.

The room at the back of Cheney's place was
blue with smoke that rendered almost useless the
large kerosene lamp that hung from the ceiling.
In one corner of the room a small group were
already well into a game of poker.  Though the
stakes were of necessity low—for what can men
do on a dollar a day?—the interest in the game
was sufficiently high to attract a half dozen
spectators who watched the play in silence and
smoked incessantly.

In another corner three or four land-seekers
were exchanging opinions of the fine points of the
law governing the rights of the "squatter," and
the rather intricate regulations that made
provision for what is known as "jumping" a claim.

In the corner farthest from the door where
Mike Cheney stood at the service of his customers,
Big Bill McCartney was listening to what one
of the red-coated visitors had to say about the
effect of solitude on a man's nerves.  The
subject was one that evidently appealed strongly to
one of MacDougall's men, whose mood was
rather too jovial for so early in the evening and
whose literary instincts prompted him to attempt
the metrical flights of the lines beginning,

   |  "I am monarch of all I survey."


McCartney pushed him back on the bench
where he had been sitting and turned to hear
something that Cheney was offering to the
discussion.

"There's another thing about this country,"
said Mike, leaning towards McCartney and the
red-coat.  "It's a-gettin' to some of the boys in
a way they never expected."

He paused a moment to wipe up a little water
from the table with his cloth.

"Now there was old Bob Nason—he was before
your time here, Bill.  He was one of the first
to come in here when the trail was opened into
the valley.  There was a good fellow for
you—an' a good man too.  No better ever put foot on
the ground.  Saw him heave a barrel of salt into
the back end of his wagon—just like that."

Mike used appropriate gestures to show how
easily the thing had been done.

"I'd like to have seen you an' him together,
Bill," he went on, and a broad smile accompanied
his remarks.  "Could 'a' give you about all you
could handle, Bill, if size counts for anything.
Anyhow—poor old Bob came in here one night—it
was a night like this—only there was a regular
howlin' wind and the rain was heavy.  I hears
a poundin' at the door—I was all alone—an' I
gets up and opens it.  An' there stands Old Bob—feet
bare—shirt gone—head bare—pants all in
rags—an' mud an' water—it was awful!"

He paused in an effort, evidently, to call the
picture more vividly to mind.

"An' I says, 'Bob, what's wrong?'  An' then I
knew right away what it was—from the grin he
gave me.  But I says, 'Come in an' get something'.
An' poor old Bob comes in an' sits down
an' starts cryin' like a baby.  An' I says, 'Bob,
you're lookin' bad,' but he wouldn't talk.  I sat
with him all night an' the next day we sent him
out with a couple of boys that was totin' freight."

For a moment Mike paused while he turned to
pick up an empty glass and look at it.

"My God," he said, looking into the glass, "to
think of old Bob losin' his head out there—just
for the sake of someone to talk to.  I'll never
forget it."

"It'll get to anyone if he's only left alone long
enough," commented the policeman, and he went
on to tell of a similar case that had come under
his observation in the West.

"There's just one thing this country needs
right now, Mike—an' it needs it bad," McCartney
offered by way of supplementing what had
just been said.  As he spoke he held a lighted
match in his hand ready to apply to a cigarette he
had just rolled.

"You mean—" Cheney waited.

For a moment McCartney was silent while he
applied the match to his cigarette.

"I mean—"

The door opened suddenly and a girl stepped
into the room.

"——there's the answer," he concluded.

Several of the men glanced up as the door
closed and the girl came forward to where Cheney
was standing on the corner.  He greeted her
quite casually.

"Hello, Anne," he said, "you sure picked a
good night for strollin'.  What's the idea?"

For a moment she said nothing by way of reply
as she shook the rain from the cloak that hung
loosely about her shoulders.  Then she looked
round the room at the men.

"Nothin's the idea," she remarked.  "It's my
night off and—well, where can you go in this
place.  Slingin' grub's all right—ten hours a
day—but you want a change, don't you?  Give me
a smoke."

The request was addressed to McCartney, who
proceeded at once to roll a cigarette while she
looked on.

"Nobody in this town let's me in if they know
I'm comin'," she remarked in a tone that carried
not the slightest trace of regret.  She wished
simply to record the fact merely.

And a fact it was, for Anne, who was the single
waitress at the lodging-house, had been placed in
a class by herself in the town, though not a man
in it—or woman either—had any facts upon
which to base their prejudice.

For a moment only during the process of rolling
the cigarette the eyes of McCartney and the
girl met.  No one in the room saw the exchange
of glances and no one could have detected the
slightest change of expression in either face.

McCartney smiled oddly as he folded the edge
of the cigarette paper into place and tapped the
ends lightly against his hand.

"Shouldn't have any trouble findin' a little
entertainment in this bunch," he observed.

She regarded him coldly.  "You didn't hear
me sayin' anything about entertainment, did
you?" she returned.

Without making any immediate reply he gave
her the cigarette and offered his own for a light.

"Tell you what, Anne," he said at last, "I've a
hunch you've brought me luck to-night an' I'd
like to sit in to a game.  I'd like to know if the
boys here play the kind of a game I'm used to.
Come on over, Anne, an' look on."

They walked over to the corner where the men
were playing cards.  On the far side of the table
was Lush Currie, the pile of chips before him
indicating that he had held a few good hands
during the evening.  As McCartney took his place
at the table, Currie hesitated for a moment and
acted as if he wanted to withdraw from the game.
McCartney received his pile of chips and arranged
them in three little piles under his right hand,
then scanned the faces of the men before him.

For men who take life as it comes, one day at
a time and little thought of the morrow, poker is
the game of games.  It matters little whether it
is played in the Far North where men take
fortunes from the beds of frozen creeks, or on the
quieter and less rugged frontiers where they build
the nation's highways at a dollar a day and three
square meals always in sight.  In one case the
stakes are for thousands, with a jack-pot sometimes
growing into six figures.  In the other the
limits are set by the meagre earnings of a season
of some six months or so between the spring and
the freeze-up.  One man risks a fortune he may
retrieve in a single month of good luck with his
shovel and pan.  The other lays a wager that
will take him a whole season to pay if he comes
off loser.  But in any case, whatever the
circumstances, the game is the same, and the men are
the same—playing the game for the game's sake
and despising nothing so much as a poor
loser—unless it be a crooked winner.

For the first half hour or so the game that
McCartney had just taken a hand in went along
very quietly—like the first rounds of a match
with the boxers sparring for an opening.  The
cards having been cut, the deal fell to the man on
McCartney's left.  The round found them all
without openers and the pack was dealt again.
This time Lush Currie opened the game and the
others stayed.

"Cards?" said the dealer, who was Dan Martin,
of Rubble's gang.

He came to Currie and looked at him questioningly.

"This is good enough for me," replied Currie
and left his cards where he had put them face
downwards on the table before him.

When Martin came to McCartney the latter
drew three cards, glanced at them and laying
them down smiled across the table at Anne.
Currie made a small bet which was raised by the
next man.  Then they waited for McCartney.
He picked up his cards, glanced at them
again—and tossed them to one side.  Dan Martin
seemed about to raise the bet, but on second
thought decided to let it stand.  The next man
followed McCartney's example and with three
men in the game Currie called and won with
three queens.

"Pretty easy pickin', Currie," he said.

"Why didn't you stay, then?" asked Martin.
"I didn't tell you to get out."

"I might 'a' stayed at that," McCartney replied.

The next two games were won on a pair of aces
and two pairs, respectively.  The cards then went
to the man on McCartney's left and he dealt.
McCartney picked up his cards one by one as
they came to him and arranged them in his hand.

"Comin' like trained pigs!" he said.  "What'd
I tell you, Anne?  You're my luck—just see this
thing through an' I'll split the loot."

There was nothing contagious in his pleasantries.
Though he appeared in high spirits, his
hilarity was so obviously artificial that no one
paid any particular attention to him—except,
perhaps, Lush Currie, who glanced back at Anne
with his cards still in his hand.  Then, as if a
thought suddenly struck him, he closed his hands
quickly over his cards and laid them down.

The girl, on her part, did not even so much as
look up—either at McCartney or at Currie.  She
appeared too busy with her own thoughts and
was unaware of the suspicions that were being
entertained regarding her.

When the round was completed McCartney
drew the chips towards him and reached for the
deck—he had won on a show-down with three
fives and a pair of jacks.  It was his deal.

"Now then, you're comin' to me, see?" he cried
as he slipped the cards one by one from the pack
and slid them to the players.  "That makes first
blood—an' the night's young!"

For a few moments there was silence while the
players looked at their cards.  This time Currie
opened high and the others stayed.  They took
their draws and settled down.  No one bet until
it came round to McCartney.

"I'll just kick 'er along a little bit," he said,
and put in his chips.

Two players threw their cards away, leaving
Currie, McCartney and two others in the game.
It was Currie's turn to bet.  He picked up one
card that had been dealt to him in the draw and
was about to look at it.  As he did so he hesitated
and looked across the table.  McCartney's eyes
were on Anne.  Something in the latter's face
made Currie postpone his bet for a moment.

"Anne," he said, glancing over his shoulder,
"you're sittin' too close to me.  It ain't
lucky—an' I don't like it."

His voice betrayed excitement and the girl was
not slow to catch the implication.

"Say, Lush Currie—look here," she protested,
"what are you tryin' to tell me?"

"Nothin' only what I said," Currie replied.
"Don't sit behind me in this game."

His voice was shaking as he spoke and he
fingered his cards nervously.

"Sit round here, Anne," said McCartney, his
voice full of sarcasm.  "He's jealous—he doesn't
like you lookin' at me so often."

McCartney's efforts to make a joke of the
whole affair were pathetically inadequate, and
served only to heighten Currie's suspicion.  But
the girl stood up and faced McCartney with a
look that was as cold as it was direct.

"Say, Bill McCartney," she remarked in a
voice that was cutting in its deliberateness, "does
Lush Currie think I'm tippin' you off to his hand?
Well, listen to me.  I've been lookin' a whole long
time for the kind of man I'd do that for
an'—you—ain't—him."

McCartney's expression changed suddenly.

"What the hell are you anyhow?" he asked,
with a sneer, and turned to Currie.  "Your bet,
Currie."

For answer Currie threw his cards into the
centre of the table and got up from his chair.

"This game can go on without me," he said,
and he moved his chair back and walked away
from the group.

A couple of the players put out restraining
hands and tried to persuade him to go on with
the game.  Cheney came forward and invited
him to take a drink, but Currie was obstinate.

"I don't sit in to no game with a——"

The epithet he used brought McCartney to his
feet.  He pushed his chair to one side with his
foot and stepped towards Currie.

"You ain't big enough to say that to me," he
said, tossing his cigarette to one side.

The men showed no desire to interfere.  The
history of Currie's previous encounter had gone
the rounds and left them all hoping that Currie
might some day have an opportunity to meet his
man fairly and have it out.  They had little
respect for Currie, whose untimely accusations
against Anne were, they felt sure, not only out
of place but without foundation.  The girl's
rebuff had rung true and no one doubted
her—though they were convinced that Bill McCartney
would have used any advantage, had it been
offered to him.

They stood back to give room to the two men
who occupied a space near the centre of the floor.
They liked a fight and they wanted to see the
much-talked-of foreman in action.

McCartney bore down steadily on Currie, who
relied upon his quick, cat-like movements as his
sole means of defending himself against the
towering strength of his opponent.  But wherever
Currie went McCartney followed relentlessly,
taking the short quick jabs of his antagonist
without showing the slightest uneasiness.  He
displayed the full confidence of one who knows that
if he can get his man into a corner he can end the
fight in a few seconds.  But that was precisely
what Currie avoided.  He danced about McCartney
and landed light blows almost at will.
Finally the big fellow began to show signs of ugly
temper and quickened his advance in an effort to
get within fair striking distance.  As he came
close Currie crouched near the door and then
leaped and sent his foot out in a vicious kick that
barely missed McCartney's chin.  As it was, the
foreman took the full force of the blow on his
neck and for a few seconds staggered backwards,
shaking his head savagely and blinking his eyes
as if to clear his sight.  Had Currie followed up
his advantage at once the affair might have been
ended right there.  But while he hesitated
McCartney recovered sufficiently to size up the
situation afresh.

He stood for a few moments looking at Currie,
his face twisted into a smile.  Those who
saw that smile began to feel pity for the smaller
man who had put up a good fight and a plucky
one.  There was a look in Currie's face too, that
seemed to reveal for the first time his failing
confidence in the outcome.

"It's going to be stiff travellin' for Lush from
now on," murmured one of the men to Cheney in
a voice that was barely audible.

McCartney, who was near enough to the
speaker to overhear the remark, seemed about to
speak, but he shut his teeth hard and went
towards Currie crouching in an attitude of cautious
defence.  His face was the face of an animal.

Suddenly Cheney pushed his way forward, a
look of consternation on his face as he watched
Currie vainly shifting his position in a last effort
to get out of the way and gain the open space in
the middle of the floor.

"Ain't someone goin' to stop this before it's
gone too far?" he muttered to one of the men.

No one made reply.

There was a quick, sharp cry as Anne came out
of the semi-darkness of one corner and rushed
forward in a frantic effort to get between the two
men.

"Stop—for God's sake!  Oh, you damned
fools!" she cried, struggling vainly to break the
grip of a couple of men who held her back.  Then
she was pushed gently into her place in the
corner, where she sat down on the bench and covered
her face with her hands.

Currie was now in a narrow space between the
door and the table at which only a few minutes
before they had been playing poker.  Twice he
made a quick move to get out, and twice McCartney
caught him before he was well started and
drove him back.  In another moment it would
all be over.

Then something happened which no one among
the onlookers seemed altogether for the moment
to understand.  Currie crouched low as if
preparing for another spring—but everyone knew it
would be a hopeless attempt.  Suddenly he
straightened up—his hand came quickly from
behind him and shot towards McCartney—but not
for a blow.

"No—no, sir," said Currie, his breath coming
short and labored, "no—you can't—you can't
get me—like that.  Get back—I'll get you—sure
as God—I'll bore you.  Now—get back."

McCartney sprang back and looked at Currie
who had covered him.  He knew—they all
knew—that Lush Currie was fool enough to shoot if
it came to a show-down.  And no man can trust
a gun in the hands of a fool.  The big foreman
turned in mute appeal to one of the mounted
policemen who stood near.

Suddenly the door opened and King Howden
stepped into the room, took off his hat, shook
the rain from it, and then looked around him.
His mind, usually slow at taking in a situation,
seemed to react quickly to what he saw
on this occasion.  He took a step farther down
the room and rubbed his eyes quickly with one
hand as if the light bothered him.  Then he
looked again at the men and turned to Currie,
who was crouching near him.  Something like a
smile played upon his face as he stepped to Currie
and extended his hand.

"You ain't clear on some things, I guess," he
said, in a voice that was unusually stern and
direct.  "This ain't a gunning country."

Without another word he stepped deliberately
to where Currie stood, and taking the gun from
him, opened it and having emptied it into his
hand, returned it.  Turning round, his eyes fell
upon Anne, who had got up again and was
coming forward.

"Anne," he said, "you better be getting along home."

There was a note in his voice that the girl had
never heard before.  This man was not the King
Howden she had talked to often during the
summer.  She drew her cloak about her shoulders
and went out.

Then King looked at Bill McCartney.  He
was standing back against the table behind which
Mike Cheney had stood earlier in the evening
when there had been customers to serve.  King
had been cool and deliberate—now he felt the old
demon rising in him and he struggled to gain
control of himself.  He realized now that he hated
this man, though he could scarcely have told why.
With a supreme effort he mastered his rising
temper and stood regarding McCartney in
silence.  The latter, however, realizing that
Currie was now at his mercy, and mastered by an
uncontrollable desire to end the affair to his
advantage, stepped deliberately in the direction
of Currie who was cowering near the door.

"Stand back!" he roared, and the words were
meant more for King than for the two or three
men who made weak attempts to restrain him.

King, recognizing that McCartney was speaking
to him, stepped deliberately between the two men.

"You'd better leave," he said, glancing behind
him, and even as he spoke Currie opened the
door and slipped out.

King was about to follow but turned as
McCartney's voice came to him, muttering
something he only half heard.

"You're not talking to me, are you?" he said.

McCartney bellowed his reply: "I'm talkin'
to you, you son of a dog!"

King moved slowly towards McCartney.  He
faced the big foreman for a moment, his arms
rigid at his sides.  Suddenly McCartney's hand
shot out and King stepped back just in time to
avoid the full force of a blow that, as it was,
glanced from his cheek.  Slowly King's two
hands came up and closed in a convulsive grip.
While the men waited breathlessly he stood
trembling from the struggle that was going on within
him—then he wheeled quickly and going to the
door, opened it, and went out.

In the darkness, King, without any thought
of picking his way through the mud and water,
hurried round the corner of Cheney's place and
started down the roadway to where his horse
stood tethered in front of old man Hurley's office.
Only once did he pause.  Just as he stepped into
the street a great burst of loud laughter came to
him from behind the door he had just closed.
He knew what it meant and for a moment his
grip upon himself weakened.  He wanted to go
back—he wanted to fight.  For a moment he
hesitated.  Then his mind was clear again and
he went on.  All the way down the street,
however, he could not help wondering how long he
would have to wait.

Then he got up into the saddle and went off
along the muddy trail that led west about half a
mile to where his little shack stood upon a low
ridge that ran in upon his land.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER SIX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER SIX

.. vspace:: 2

When King Howden awoke next morning
it was with a feeling that he was beginning
life in a new world.  The feeling
was deepened when he looked out through the
small window and saw the pools of water left
by the night's rain glistening in the bright
sunlight.  He had not slept well—during the earlier
part of the night he had not slept at all.  There
had been much to think about, much that was
perplexing and disquieting.  And yet, as he
looked from his window at the new morning and
saw half a mile away the huts and white tents of
The Town flooded with sunlight, he was
conscious not so much of the disappointments that
the week had brought him, as he was of the new
determination, the high resolve with which he
looked into the future.

When his mind went back to his brother—as it
did frequently—the memory struck pain to his
heart, but he was not melancholy.  The loneliness
he felt caused him to straighten his shoulders
and prepare himself to square away before the
task that lay before him.  What that task was he
could only vaguely define as yet.  But he was
beginning to understand that there was a man's
work here—and a big man's work it was—awaiting
the coming of someone to do it.  The fact had
dawned upon him slowly, but the first glimmerings
of light were visible just the same.  He was
coming to see that a new country, even a small,
half-enclosed valley-district such as this one,
would become what the vital energies of its men
made it.  He had not as yet had any clear vision
of what the country would be in years to come,
when little towns and villages would spring up
here and there along the railway, when hundreds
of men and women and their families would rush
in, hopeful that they might build again—and
strongly build—though their old lives in other
lands had crumbled into ruins.  He had no
concrete, complete conception of what lay ahead.
He had nothing but the vague hopes, the uncertain
dreams, the fleeting fancies that had come to
him often during the past summer—only now
they were more vivid.

To the events of the night before he gave little
or no thought—at least, to the events that had
brought him into conflict with Bill McCartney.
In fact, in his new mood he wondered how he
could have come so near to losing his temper
over an affair that didn't amount to anything
after all.  He had been in Cheney's before, but
not often.  As he thought it over he quietly
determined that the less he had to do with Cheney
the better.  His determination was stiffened as
he remembered the group of men he had seen
there the night before.  It startled him to think
how near they had come to witnessing what
might easily have been a tragedy, because one of
them was bent upon settling a dispute in his own
ill-chosen way; and out of all his thinking about
these things there grew up within him the clear
understanding that only upon order and good
judgment could men hope to build for the future
in a new community.

In all his wondering about these things—and
much of it was very vague wondering—there was
only one element of a personal kind.  He
confessed to himself now for the first time that
Cherry McBain was as nearly indispensable to
him as anyone in his life had ever been.  And
now with the birth of a new hope he did what any
man would have done under the circumstances—he
threw his whole soul into a resolve that in the
game of life he was playing now, the prize was
the heart of Cherry McBain.  Perhaps it was
this thought that helped to make the world a
good place for him to live in, and the future
something to set store by.

It was something of this nature at any rate
that he confided to his sole companion in the
shack, old mongrel Sal, who had stood for some
time looking up into his face, her shaggy body
performing all kinds of contortions in vain
attempts to attract her master's attention.
Suddenly he sat down on the side of his bed and
grasping her two ears with his hands drew her
head between his knees and looked into her eyes.

"Sal, you old cuss, you," he said, shaking her
head, "there's something I'm going to tell you."

He put his face down until his cheek was
resting against the side of her head and murmured
something very quietly.  Then he straightened
up and with his two hands closed the dog's mouth,
holding it shut a moment with one hand round
her muzzle.

Something in the mood that had come upon
King caused him to look critically round the
single room that made up the interior of his
shack.  One golden shaft of sunlight fell from
the small window to the floor, but the light it gave
revealed a condition that, for some reason or
other, he had never been more than vaguely
conscious of before.  The place was indescribably
dirty.  His few days' absence from the place had
given it a heavy, musty smell that was anything
but pleasant.  A litter of odd bits of clothing and
old papers lay where he had thrown them probably
weeks before.  The heavy grey blankets on
the bunk which he had built into one corner of
the shack had not been washed for months—they
had not even been spread out to the sun.  The
table that stood near the window was covered
with unwashed tin plates and cups, dirty knives,
forks and spoons.  A bit of bread, dried hard,
and some butter that had turned to grease in the
sun's rays lay where he had left them when he
went out on his last trip.  Grey ashes covered
the floor beside the rusted sheet-iron stove.

King had once regarded this as belonging
essentially to the only place he knew as home.
It had been perfectly natural, and far from
revolting.  It had been even cosy.  But in his
present mood he found it disquieting.  He could not
help wondering to himself how Cherry McBain's
senses would react, if she were suddenly ushered
into the place.

He sprang up and threw open the door.  The
fresh Sunday morning air swept in with its
fragrance borne from the balm-o'-gileads that stood
near his door shaking their shining leaves in the
bright sunlight.  As he drew himself up and
lifted his chest his huge frame almost filled the
doorway.  With a word to Sal he went out and
made his way leisurely towards the roughly-made
stable that stood among the willows skirting the
ridge.  The desire to put his shack into a
presentable condition was superseded by a yearning to
roam lazily about the place for a while and
indulge his fancies for the future.  It was a day to
be free and forgetful of duties, and after the
crowded week he felt the need of a rest.  The
general clean-up which he promised himself he
would give to his shack could wait—as it had
waited during long months before he became
conscious of any such need.  In the meantime he
would feed his horse and then stroll down to the
town for some provisions.

When he returned to the shack he made himself
a breakfast of oatmeal and fried bacon.  The
meal was frugal but sufficient to supply his needs
for the time being, and he decided to postpone his
jaunt to town until late in the day.  He wanted
to take a walk over his land and think over his
plans for the coming year.

King had a real affection for the place he had
chosen.  He had filed his claim long before there
was any competition in the field and had secured
what he considered a choice location within easy
distance of wood and water.  The soil was very
rich, and the ridge with its clumps of poplars
offered an excellent spot for building.  From in
front of his shack he could see not only The
Town, but beyond it to the blue hills rising to the
east and extending southward in a half circle
forming one rim of the valley.  Between these
two ranges lay a wide plain spread out under the
blue sky, fertile, well watered and pleasantly
wooded.  It was not the kind of country King
had been accustomed to hearing called "a man's
land" in the rugged interior of British Columbia,
where he had spent eight of the ten years since
he had come west.  It was quieter—milder—softer,
maybe—and of coloring less vivid.  And
yet it was a man's country, too, a country with a
challenge for anyone who cared to hear it.

It was well on in the afternoon when King got
back from his tramp over his land.  For a few
minutes he sat down upon the door-step and
rested before starting for The Town to get
something to eat.  Sal lay down near him, panting
lazily in the shade of the poplars.  When he was
about to go the dog gave a sharp little bark and
stood up quickly with her ears pointed in the
direction of the ridge-trail leading to town.

King got up and looked down the trail.

Soon there emerged from behind the clump of
willows the figure of a man coming towards him.
King sat down again and waited.  In a few
moments he recognized the figure as that of Lush
Currie.  As the latter approached him King
regarded him with a questioning air.  There was
something in Currie's face that he could not quite
understand.  He offered to bring out a bench for
a seat, but Lush protested quite sincerely and sat
down on the grass under the poplars.  When
Currie had rolled himself a fresh cigarette and
lighted it he lifted his eyes to King and looked at
him squarely for the first time.

"I'm gettin' out," he said abruptly.

King did not reply at first, but Currie's silence
prompted him to ask what he meant.

"Just that," said Currie.  "I'm goin' outside
to-morrow—an' I'll not be back."

It was no unusual thing for a member of a
railway construction gang to pack up his
belongings and leave for the outside.  King was
at a loss to know the exact significance of Currie's
announcement.

"Before I went I wanted to see you," he continued,
"an' to tell you I'm right sorry about last
night."

There was something so direct and sincere in
the way Currie expressed himself that King felt
his heart warming towards the man in spite of
his recollections from the night before.

"An' that's the reason I'm gettin' out," he said
a little stiffly.  "Howden, you came in on a bad
mess last night—just about as bad as it could 'a'
been.  If it hadn't 'a' been for you I'd 'a' been
lookin' for a place to hide to-day—waitin' for
night to come on so I could walk around without
bein' scared."

King moved a little impatiently.  He didn't
wish to have his interference on Currie's behalf
made so much of.

"For three years I've been with Old Silent's
outfit," Currie went on.  "You know what it
means for a man to hitch up with his gang.  You
stay—that's all there is to it.  I never did go
lookin' for trouble.  An' I never went gunnin'
before.  I got that thing when I left home back
east—I thought I'd mebbe need it.  I never had
trouble with Old Silent—nor with any of his men.
There was a few fights—mostly with boys from
other camps—but they were all on the square.
This man McCartney was the first man who ever
tried anything like that.  He's a four-flusher—I
know that—an' I could a' trimmed him, too—only
now—I can't.  There won't be another
chance for me."

He paused for a moment while he drew meditatively
at his cigarette.

"I lost my head—an' I drew on him.  There
wasn't room there to fight—an' it was his size
that counted.  Now I'm not going back.  I
couldn't stay round camp with him on the job.
An', besides—I ain't got the nerve any more—I'd
be thinkin' all the time of last night."

When he ceased talking King asked him why
he couldn't stay in the valley and go on the land.

"No, Howden," he replied, "that's not my line.
I'm goin' west.  There's more railroadin' out
there an' the world's big enough for two of us.
I'll go west an' look round a bit.  But there's one
thing I want you to remember, Howden."  He
got up as he spoke and King closed the door and
prepared to start down the trail.  "Bill McCartney's
fight is over with me—him an' me don't
come together again here—but you an' him will,
an' don't forget it.  He's a dirty dog—he'll bite
when you're not lookin'—but he's not afraid to
bite just the same.  What's more—he'll go on
bitin' unless he gets whipped.  Then he'll
stop—he'll get out then just like me."

The two men went off together down the trail,
and as King walked along in silence he felt the
optimism and the buoyancy that had filled him
during the earlier part of the day struggling
against the melancholy that had haunted him
strangely for months.  It was not his nature to
change his mood quickly, but the warning that
Currie had sounded brought upon him the full
consciousness that he had an enemy who would
never be quiet until he himself had brought him
to subjection by nothing but brute strength.  He
was not afraid, but he had hoped that in the days
to come he would only have to take up the
struggle that men wage against nature in their
efforts to make a living.  The thought of having
to fight it out with Bill McCartney before he
could have any peace weighed upon him in a way
that made him feel impatient with himself.  He
made up his mind, however, that he would never
fight until the occasion arose that demanded
it—then he would see it through to the bitter end.
The thought steadied him as he walked along the
trail, and his voice became more cheerful as he
chatted with Currie.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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In the lodging house old man Rubble was discussing
the affair of the night before with a half
dozen of the men of his own party.  Word had
gone round that Lush Currie had decided to
leave, and it was generally agreed that he was
doing the only thing reasonable under the
circumstances.  The real point of interest was the
relationship between King Howden and Bill
McCartney.  As the latter, with a number of
Keith McBain's men had just left for camp, there
was no reason for postponing a discussion that
had been held up during the day, merely because
the presence of Bill McCartney made any reference
to the question a little difficult.  Now that
McCartney had gone, the question was raised at
once and the discussion had become very spirited.
One thing puzzled them all.  Why had King
Howden not taken the challenge when it was
given to him and finished the fight right there?
The challenge had certainly been offensive
enough to have justified any man's accepting it at
once.  And King would never again get an
opportunity to fight McCartney when the latter was
just finishing one struggle.  The advantage had
lain all with King, and to tell the truth, the men
were not a little disappointed that he had failed
to go in when the conditions were so much in his
favor.  It was something more to increase the
wondering they had already felt concerning King
Howden.

"There's only one way to reason it out," said
old man Rubble, after various opinions had been
expressed.  "The fact is Howden don't want to
mix in with Bill at all.  No one ever saw Howden
do anything yet.  He's just a big, raw, overgrown
boy.  He never did fight and I guess he
never will if he can get out of it."

Someone in the group murmured a word of protest.

"Well," said Rubble, "I'm willing to wait till I
find out.  But I'm telling you right now that no
man in any gang I've ever been with would have
let Bill McCartney get away with it.  If King
Howden's got any stomach—and if he's got
anything in it—he'd 'a' hit Bill McCartney on the
jaw before he could have got the words out.  I
may be wrong, but—Howden's no good!"

But Rubble was not allowed to dismiss the
affair so summarily.  There was a somewhat
thin voice that finally broke the long silence that
followed Rubble's words.  Old Gabe Smith, who
had been a silent spectator during the events of
the night before and had given silent audience to
all the discussion of the day, ventured a remark
or two that he was inclined to think had a bearing
on the subject.

"An' what I would say is this," he observed in
his most philosophical manner, after he had given
due notice that he intended to speak on the
question, "an' I have a feelin' that I'm not far
wrong—what I would say is—if anybody here is takin'
Mister Rubble's view of the matter—an' he's a
right to his own opinion—he'd better not make
up his mind for a little while—not just yet.  An'
I'll tell you why.  In the first place we know
that when Bill McCartney first met Currie it
wasn't quite what you'd want to call reglar.  He
got Lush—but he got him foul.  An' that ain't
the way a good man gets anybody.  An' then—in
the second place—that affair last night was a
little off color—Lush couldn't do anything
there—he hadn't room.  But—" and Gabe pointed
the stem of his pipe at Rubble to emphasize his
words, "we haven't seen this boy Howden at work yet."

"That's just it, Gabe," Rubble interrupted,
"and we never will."

"Just a minute, now," Gabe persisted.  "We
haven't seen him workin' yet—but we may—we
may.  An' I'm goin' to wait long enough to give
the boy a chance before I say my last word."

"Lord, Gabe, didn't he have a chance last night?"

"Well, Mister Rubble," Gabe replied with great
deliberateness, "there might be a difference of
opinion on that point.  You would say he had—I
would say that we don't know exactly.  If we
give him a few weeks longer, Mister Rubble, we'll
both know pretty well which one of us is right.
But in my opinion this boy Howden is no coward—he
may have acted a bit strange—but he's not a
coward—not to my way of thinkin'—just yet."

Gabe was sitting with his back to the doorway
as he spoke and did not see the figure that was
standing there while he was engrossed in making
his opinion quite plain to Rubble.  The other
men, however, forgot to listen to Gabe's
exposition and were staring uneasily at King Howden,
who had appeared while the old man was talking
and had stopped suddenly on hearing his own
name.  When Gabe had finished, he turned
confusedly to discover the cause of the change that
was so evident in the faces of the men, and met
the gaze that fell upon him from eyes that were
cold and unwavering.  Then he saw the face
grow serious and the lines of his lips tighten.  The
next moment he seemed conscious most of the
stillness that had fallen upon the group of men
who filled the room.  His attempt to relieve his
own embarrassment as well as that of the men
was a little awkward, but he felt it was better
than nothing.

"No harm meant, Howden, my boy," he said,
and his voice was steady and quiet, "but we
were talkin' about you."

"I guess it's all right, Gabe," said King, and he
took a step into the room.

"You heard what I said?" the old man asked.

"That ain't troubling me any," King replied,
"—not any at all."

But even as he spoke, his face revealed the
struggle that was going on within him.  He was
not concerned over the words that he had heard
from Gabe Smith.  He knew, however, that
someone had spoken words that had prompted
Gabe to make a reply; and it rankled in his
heart that he should come to be looked upon as a
coward by anyone.

He went to a chair standing back against the
wall and sat down.  The conversation dragged
along without interest, old man Rubble doing his
best to carry it into one field after another without
success until he finally gave up in despair and
went out.  Before long the others followed him,
all except Gabe Smith, who remained alone with King.

"I'm an older man than you," he began when
they were left alone, "—older by nearly thirty
years.  An' I've had some chances to look around
in the past thirty years.  An' I'm goin' to tell you
right here some things you've got to know.  I've
watched you—an' I like you.  An' when a man
likes another he wants him to get along."

King's smile expressed the gratitude he felt.
"I watched that business last night in Cheney's—an'
I want to tell you what I think.  It wasn't
your fight to begin with—Lush and McCartney
had been layin' for each other for quite a little
while.  They had to settle it one way or the other.
It ain't settled yet—-an' what's worse you've got
yourself in for a part of that settlement, too."

King leaned forward a little and looked at
Gabe.  "It's been settled—between them two,"
he said gravely.

"How settled?"

"Lush won't be goin' back to work any more.
He's goin' out to-morrow."

"He's leavin', then—for sure?"

"Yes.  He walked up to see me this afternoon
an'—he says he can't stay here."

Gabe puckered his lips and was silent a
moment.  "Then—that means," he said very
thoughtfully, "—that means he's handed it over
to you."

King made no reply.

"You've got to take it up from last night," Gabe
remarked again, and again King remained
silent.  Gabe was silent, too, for a long time, and
when he spoke his words were so sudden and
direct that King was startled.  "Why didn't you
finish it last night?"

King turned round slightly to meet Anne, who
came into the room and greeted him.  He waited
until she left before he spoke.

"Gabe," he said at last, "it's been clear between
us up to now, hasn't it?"

Gabe nodded his head slowly without a word.

"I want it to be clear—right on—from now till
the end.  I wanted to settle it—an' I guess I
could, too."  His voice was quiet, but no man
could have doubted King's confidence in himself.
"But there was a man once who said just what
Bill McCartney called me last night—an' I killed
him."

It was Gabe's turn to be startled.  He took his
pipe from his mouth quickly and looked at King
with consternation on his face.

"You—you killed him, boy?"

"It seems like I did," King replied slowly.  "I
never can tell exactly.  Something came up in
me—something blinded me—an' I struck.  When
they lifted him up I knew I killed him—I was
sure—because I meant to—that's what I tried to
do.  They told me afterwards—they told me he
came round again—he was alive.  But I couldn't
believe it—he was my brother."  King looked
out the open doorway for a moment.  "I've
wondered about that a lot," he said after a long
silence.  "I think I've prayed about it, too—but
I can't get it just right.  That's why I left—that's
why I came here.  I wanted to get away from it—and
start in new.  I wanted to—to make that
right with myself."

Gabe Smith seemed puzzled to understand
clearly what King was saying to him.

"Last night," continued King, "it came back
again.  I thought I was strong enough, but I
guess I ain't.  When he called me that—it all
came back.  I went blind again—and I wanted
to kill Bill McCartney—only then I remembered,
and it took the heart out of me."

"Listen, boy," said Gabe.  "Some day you are
goin' to forget that—all of it.  Some day you are
goin' out to fight—an' to fight clean—and to win,
and I'll tell you why.  There's some of us countin'
on you, and you've got to make good—that's why."

King got up and going over to the old man
gripped his shoulder in his large powerful hand
and looked down into his face.

"You're the first man ever said it to me like
that," he said very gravely, and his lips were tight
as he spoke, "and I think—I think you can count
on me from now on."

Gabe Smith gave him his hand and smiled.





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.. _`CHAPTER SEVEN`:

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   CHAPTER SEVEN

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Old man Hurley sat in his office alone and
looked out of the single window which the
place boasted.  No other window was necessary,
however, for it gave a clear view of the
west over the whole expanse of valley-plain that
was his one concern.  It was his one concern in a
business way, for he had been sent in as Dominion
Land Agent just as soon as the new district had
begun to attract settlers, and he was the sole
member of the new community upon whom the
dignity of governmental office of any kind rested.
But it was his chief concern morally as well, for
he felt the full weight of the responsibility that
was his to carry the new adventure in settlement
to a gratifying and successful issue.

The dignity of office rested gracefully upon
Hugh Hurley.  Genial and affable at the same
time that he was business-like and practical, he
was an unfailing source of healthy optimism and
unshaken confidence in the future.  He was not
unaware of the stubborn difficulties that
invariably attend the building up of any new
settlement.  But he had vision and was possessed of a
spirit of idealism that read something of romance
into everything he did.

In the thick of daily routine, in the midst of a
confusion of maps and blue-prints and surveyor's
reports and governmental rules and regulations,
in his daily meeting with newcomers who
had as yet suffered no disillusionment, and with
disgruntled "old-timers" who had been in the
district for as long as six months or even longer,
in the thousand and one matters of detail that try
the patience of any conscientious servant of the
public, Hugh Hurley constantly cherished a
vision.  It was of a great fertile valley, flanked on
either side by rising blue hills, teeming with an
eager-hearted, virile population devoted to the
soil, and standing as one more outpost of empire,
one more living monument to high endeavour.

In the occasional hour of leisure that came to
him during the day and afforded him an
opportunity of sitting before his window, he gave his
imagination free rein and allowed it to wander
unchecked.  Then it was that he saw the broad
fields of grain swaying in the golden sun.  He
saw men moving about over ploughed fields with
the rich, brown mould turned up to the light.
He heard the singing of women and the happy
laughter of children.  He heard the ringing of
the bells and the busy hum of life in little towns
and villages that were as yet unborn.  He saw
the hillsides, now virgin and wild under the
afternoon sun, blocked and squared and trimmed by
the hands of busy workers.  He saw a valley
full-mantled and smiling, and mottled with shadows
thrown down from drifting clouds.  And all
Hugh Hurley's energies were devoted to making
his dreams come true.

But dreams are only dreams, after all.  And
to-day, as the old man sat before his window, he
was worried.  Winding down the dusty trail
about a quarter of a mile away came a long line
of men in foreign attire, long-skirted coats drawn
in tightly at the belt, trouser-legs tucked into long
boots, and round caps that fitted closely to the
head.  They were the Russian Doukhobors
returning from an expedition in search of land.
While they were still at a considerable distance
he could hear the solemn, almost weird chanting
of their hymn as they marched along in single file.
Hurley had seen them before in similar guise and
he had always been struck by the romance, the
other-worldness of the picture they presented.
To-day, however, the romance was not there.
His mind was occupied with something more
actual, more immediate.  These men, and their
wives and children too, would have to live during
the next eight or ten months, most of which would
be trying months of fiercely cold weather, and
they were without resources of any kind.  What
new settlers in the valley, except that the
Doukhobors' reliance on the Almighty to furnish them
with food and shelter was as complete as it was
pathetic.  Hugh Hurley knew that he must
immediately constitute himself the elected agent
of Heaven itself for these people of a blind
faith—and for the others a practical provider of
means whereby the winter could be met and
passed without regrets.

He was waiting now for Keith McBain, with
whom he had discussed the problem, and from
whom he hoped he might get some practical suggestions.

Keith had promised, at their last meeting to
see him as soon as he had made some investigations
on his own part.  Only half an hour ago he
had seen the old contractor come to town.  But
Keith McBain's first place of call—as it was also
his last—was Mike Cheney's, and Hugh Hurley
knew that he could only wait till the old man was
ready to come.

One thing that had given Hurley cause for
anxiety was the fact that during the week a
number of the younger homesteaders had bidden the
place good-bye, and had left for the outside,
where they were going to remain until it was time
to go on the land again in the spring.  Hurley
knew what that meant.  A little more of the same
kind of thing and the movement would become
general.  The result would mean hardship and
even suffering for the few who remained isolated
from the outside during the long months of
winter.

Two young fellows entered the open doorway
behind Hurley and he turned to greet them.

"Hello, boys," he said cheerfully as he got up
and went to meet them.  "You're looking
good—homesteading evidently sets a man up, eh?"

They smiled and shook hands.

"We're sure feelin' good," said one of them,
"but we've had enough of homesteadin' for a little
while—it gets on your nerves.  We're goin' out
for the winter."

"Going out for the winter?" Hurley exclaimed
with a smile.  "No—no, you're not—you're
going to stay here this winter—and help out."

"Help out—at what?"

"Sit down there and smoke while I tell you a story."

When they were seated Hurley began.

"This reminds me of an argument I heard once
between a pioneer preacher and a member of his
congregation.  This preacher was holding forth
on hell, and after the service he met up with one
of his freethinking brethren who didn't believe in
hell, or heaven, either.  'So you don't believe in
hell,' said the preacher.  'Well, mister, I'll tell
you how I size it up.  I'm betting on hell—an'
I'm betting for two reasons.  In the first place it's
a good hunch—and in the second place I'm plum
scared not to.  It's like this,' he said.  'You say
there ain't no hell an' you put your money on
that hand.  You just have to draw one card to
find out.  I say there is a hell an' I'm playin' that
hand.  An' I draw one.  All right.  You draw
your card an' you turn it up.  If you've played
the right hunch what do you win?  Nothin'.  If
there ain't no hell or heaven you're no better off
even if you ain't worse off.  You're just where
you were.  But if you're playing the wrong hunch
an' you turn up your card an' find there's a sure
'nough hell—you're stuck.  Ain't that right?  You
stand to win nothin' an' lose everything.  Now
look at me.  I say there is a hell an' I draw an'
turn up.  If I don't make it—I don't lose
anything anyhow.  I'm no better off—but I'm sure
no worse off.  But if I turn up an' find there is a
sure 'nough hell—I win, because that's my hunch
an' I'm ready to play it, see?  I stand to lose
nothing an' there's just about one chance in two
that I'll clean up with eternal life in the stakes.
Any old way you look at it I got you beat—ain't
that right?  I'm bettin' on hell till the cows come
home!'"

Hurley went and stood for a moment before
the window and looked out across the valley.

"The point is this, boys," he said at last,
turning quickly and looking at the two sturdy young
fellows before him, "you and I and the rest of
these people here"—he waved his hand towards
the window—"have come into this valley because
we believed in it.  We're playing a kind of a
hunch, boys, that the place is a good place to live
in, an' when a man does what we've done he's
playing pretty heavily.  If we throw up the game
now, we lose.  That's all there is to it.  And not
only do we lose but these people around us lose
too—and lose heavily.  We've got to play the
game through against hard luck and wait for the
next spring before we begin to take our winnings."

"But we've got to live, Mr. Hurley," one of the
men protested.

"Live—yes—and I've been working on that.
And I'll tell you what I'll do.  I'll grub-stake the
whole caboodle of you for six months, beginning
the middle of October, and I'll pay you a dollar a
day for every day's work you put in if you hang on."

The men looked doubtful but were interested.
"That looks all right," one of them offered, "but—"

"But nothing," interrupted Hurley.  "I'll do
what I say and I can make money on it too.  I
couldn't pay one man a dollar a day for a
forenoon just now, but listen—this country's got to
produce something if it's going to live, and it
might as well start in this year as next.  And
when the rush comes in here next spring—and it's
coming strong—there'll be a crowd of people here
I hear about it every time the mail comes in.  This
town will be five times as big in a month.  The
man who's on the ground with his eyes open will
take the winnings.  The railway will be in before
July, and the towns will be springing up and
business will start and we'll be a part of the world
we've just left before we know it.  And that's
only one side of it.  You boys have registered
your claims here and started improvements
because you want to live here sometime.  If it's
going to be a fit place to live in we don't want any
set-backs.  Start to stampede for the outside now
and by the time you get back you'll be where you
were when you first landed here.  That's not my
idea.  I'm going to stay right here and get ready
for the big rush."

All at once they were aware of someone entering
the office, and turned to find Keith McBain
coming through the doorway.  The young
fellows got up at once and with a word to Hurley,
promising to drop in the next day, left the office.

"Do you know what I've done?" said Hurley
as soon as they had gone.

Keith McBain merely waited for a reply.

"I've promised those two boys work for the
winter at a dollar a day and three square meals.
I had to do it, Keith—they're good men, both of
them, and they were on their way out for the
winter.  We can't let these men go.  We've got to
give them something to do and hold them here till
spring."

"I've got it worked out," said Keith.  "I was
talking last week to McKenzie, and we can put in
a camp just as soon as we can get a good location.
They want a quarter to a half million ties for
construction.  There's a lot of stuff in there just
south of the camp.  All we've got to do is to go
and find it and start right in.  Any of your men
here know anything about cruising?"

As if by way of answer to this question King
Howden rode up to the door and without getting
down called for Hurley to bring out the mail bag.
Hurley went to the door and invited him in.
When King entered his eyes fell upon Keith
McBain, and for a moment he paused and held out
his hand.  The old contractor's greeting was
pleasant, and King went in and stood waiting for
Hurley to speak.

"You did some work once in the lumber woods
at the coast, King, didn't you?" Hurley asked him.

King's look expressed mild surprise.  "A little,"
he said.

"Done some timber-cruising?"

"About all I did for three years—summer and
winter," he answered.

"Well, you'd better spend an extra day or two
on your trip this time.  You'd better wait over
until to-morrow morning and get ready.  Take
enough grub—they'll fix you up at the
lodging-house—and a couple of blankets, and get a good
start in the morning.  We'd like you to take the
old trail into the hills and then work your way
east to the right-of-way.  You might aim at coming
out pretty close to the end of the steel.  Use
your own judgment.  Anyhow, we want you to
get a good location for a tie-camp for the winter.
We have a contract and want to open on it as
soon as the frost comes.  What do you think
about it?"

"I guess I can do that, sir," King replied
quietly.  "The mail will be a couple of days late,
but—"

"Never mind about that, King," Hurley interrupted.
"The mail can afford to wait over.  Just
get ready to spend as much time as it will take to
do it right."

King turned and went out to set about his
preparations for the trip into the hills.

As he started hastily down the street he
brushed against someone standing near the entrance
to Hurley's office.  Looking back, he recognized
Tom Rickard, one of Keith McBain's men,
lounging lazily against the wall only a few feet
from the doorway.  The circumstance held no
special significance for him at the time, and yet
he couldn't help wondering why Rickard was in
town.

In the office Hurley was standing before Keith
McBain, who had remained perfectly silent
during the interview with King.  Hurley was
regarding McBain seriously.

"What do you think of Howden?"

"He's a good boy," Keith remarked dryly.

"Couldn't he handle that camp for the winter—a
little better than anyone around here?"

McBain did not say anything for some time,
but sat meditatively smoking his pipe.  Finally
he seemed to have reached a conclusion.

"He's a good boy, Hugh," he remarked slowly,
"but he's got to be more than that before he can
handle a gang of men in a bush.  He's got to have
the stomach!"

Hurley went to his window and looked out.  In
his own mind he was turning over the possibility
of getting King to prove himself worthy of the
confidence he felt.  He had heard the men talk
of the affair with McCartney, and he knew pretty
well what was in Keith McBain's mind.

.. vspace:: 2

King's preparations were made quickly, and
by supper time he was ready to take the trail next
morning.  He had yet to go back to his cabin for
a couple of blankets, but he waited till later in the
evening, and decided that he would spend the
night in his shack and start from there early in
the morning.  He took supper at the lodging-house
in company with Keith McBain, who was
in one of his silent moods, having already spent
too much time in the company of Mike Cheney
during the afternoon.  With them was Tom
Rickard, as silent and uncommunicative as Keith
McBain.  From the knowledge that King had of
the old contractor's ways he feared he was out on
another of his lengthy visits to town.  And King's
mind went back immediately to Cherry, who was
probably even then waiting anxiously for her
father's return.

The first hours of such a visit on the part of
Keith McBain were usually spent in secret with
Mike Cheney, and invariably produced a mood in
which he refused to speak to anyone.  When they
sat down to the table, King asked him when he
intended going back to camp.  The old man
offered not a word by way of reply, and the meal
went forward without any further conversation
between the two.  Anne came and went
frequently during the short half hour that King
spent at the table, or stood a little back from him
and offered a few words now and then which
King responded to briefly but pleasantly enough.
The two young fellows who had visited Hurley's
office earlier in the afternoon to announce their
intention of going out for the winter had eaten
earlier in the evening, and had apparently spoken
of their plans in Anne's hearing.  She had
something to say about it herself—but she waited till
Keith McBain had gone out and disappeared up
the street, followed by Tom Rickard.  Then she
spoke of the thing that was on her mind.

"They're sure in luck," she remarked as if she
were thinking aloud.  "This place gives me the
blues.  Talk about a dead place—this ain't no
town, it's a graveyard!  It's worse than that—it's
a prayer-meetin' without the shoutin'!"

King laughed quietly to himself, and Anne
turned to him.  "Honest, King, it ain't no place
for white people to live.  It's been all right this
summer with everybody round and things movin'
a little—but the winter—an everybody away—God,
you don't know how I hate the idea."

King got up from the table and went to the
doorway.  It had already begun to grow dusk
and the air was cool and inviting.  For a moment
he stood looking into the street with its rambling
houses and squat little cabins on either side.

"Anne," he said slowly, "some of us have to
stay, I guess—stay here and see it through.  It
won't be easy—but it's the right thing to
do—that's how I see it.  Besides, it may be better
than we think—wait and see."

While he talked his eyes were still turned
towards the street.  He did not look at the girl
until he was through.  Then he turned to her
and looked at her where she stood, leaning
against the table.  Her eyes were on his face, and
her gaze was long and steady.  He had a
suspicion that there were tears ready to come—there
was something deeper and more thoughtful in
them than he had ever seen there before.  He
knew that the girl was lonely, and that she had
no friends.

"Anne," he said slowly, in a voice that was
kindness itself, "you ought to get out more—you
ought to ride out a little.  You ought to walk."

She smiled and gave an impatient shrug to her
shoulders.

"Walk—Lord!"  Then she set about clearing
the table and for a while both were silent.  At last
she set down a dish she held in her hand and came
over to where King stood in the doorway.

"Haven't I walked?" she said in a voice that
was tense with emotion.  "Haven't I spent hours
alone walking these trails up and down?  That
doesn't help any.  I came in here because I
wanted to get away by myself an' start all over
again.  Lord, I sure did it—I got away by myself
all right.  An' I got sick of it.  Then I wanted to
get out with people—honest-to-God-people that
cared a little—no matter who.  But where can I
go?  They think there's something wrong because
I got into Mike's place the night of the scrap.
They didn't like my way round here before that.
Well, it's my way, isn't it?  It's all I got.  I don't
owe anything—I'm square.  But I want some
one that will talk to me—an' talk right—not like
a lot of these fellows want to talk.  That's what I
want."

King put out his hand and took her arm.  "I
guess that's right, Anne," he said.  "I've felt like
that.  We'll talk—you and I—talk together
sometimes.  And then maybe—" he began to
think of the possibility of Anne coming to know
Cherry McBain.

"I've been wantin' to talk to you often," she
said, very quietly and very slowly.  "But you
seemed to pass me up like the rest of them.  Only
I liked you because you looked square.  An' I
was afraid to talk to you—because I wanted you
to like me."

For a moment King was silent as he weighed
the full meaning of her words.  He felt the
pressure of her hand on his arm as she spoke, and
there crept over him a strange feeling of fear.
He liked the girl, he had the deepest sympathy for
her, he would do anything in his power to make
life more pleasant for her.  And yet—he shrank
slowly from her touch and was impatient to get
away.

"I guess it'll be late enough when I get back,"
he said suddenly.  "And I've got to make a good
start for the hills to-morrow."

He turned and looked at her for a moment, and
then laid his hand on her shoulder.  "We've got
to face a lot of things in life, Anne," he said; "a
whole lot of things.  It ain't always easy—but it
pays to face up."

He stood before her in the doorway and looked
directly into her face as he spoke.  For a moment
she returned the look and then suddenly bowed
her head before him.  Putting his arm about her
shoulders he raised her head gently and looked
at her.

"Anne, girl," he said slowly, "I'm coming to
see you—if it would help any—when I get back.
So long!"

She looked at him squarely and he knew she
understood him.  The fear he had entertained
only a moment before was gone now.  He was
confident that everything between them was just
as he wanted it to be.  In her heart was a deep
yearning for companionship—in his, a feeling of
great pity for the girl who was struggling against
the demon of loneliness.

"King," she said at last, "you're right—and I
like that."

A sound of hoofs came suddenly from the trail
only a few yards away.  Anne stepped back
quickly from the doorway and King turned to
face Cherry McBain, who had brought her horse
to a standstill and was already looking down at
him from her place in the saddle.  He was about
to express his surprise, but the look she gave him
caused the words to die on his lips.

"I'm looking for my father," she said in a voice
that to King's ears sounded like the voice of a
stranger.

The sound of men's voices came from farther
up the street, and looking out, King saw Hugh
Hurley and Keith McBain leaving the land-office.
Cherry saw the men at the same moment
and without a word rode away to join her father.
Just once King called after her, but received no
reply.  He watched them till all three had
vanished in the direction of Hurley's little house that
stood under the poplars at the end of the street.
Then he stepped out and went off down the trail
to where his horse was tethered outside Hurley's
office.

When he had mounted into his saddle he turned
and looked back along the street.  In the dusky
frame of the lodging-house doorway he could see
Anne still standing where he had left her.  She
waved her hand to him as he looked back at her,
and he waved in reply as he drew his horse's head
about and took the trail that led westward to his
cabin.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER EIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER EIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

King Howden was at a loss to understand
himself that night.  Into a few short
days had been crowded more emotion, more
stirring experience than he had ever known
before.  The very fact that there had been nothing
spectacular, nothing especially thrilling, in what
had occurred only made the effects more
far-reaching and real.  A change had come over him
that was the result of forces working so deeply
within him that he knew life from this time
forward was to mean something different, something
more serious than it had ever meant to him.

When he arrived at his cabin, after putting his
horse away for the night and making a few final
preparations for an early start in the morning,
he found his bunk strangely uninviting.  His
mind, was unusually busy turning over and
over a host of thoughts that crowded upon one
another in a confusion that made sleep impossible.
He went to the doorway of his shack, and
sitting on the doorstep drew his dog down beside
him and tried to think himself clear of the
confusion.  He recalled the night he had learned
of his brother's death—it seemed as if a year had
gone since that night, instead of a week.  His
imagination dwelt upon Cherry McBain as she
looked that night when she rode beside him on
the trail.  His heart bounded again as he saw her
standing before him on the little bridge over the
White Pine—and he felt again, as he had felt a
hundred times since, the ecstasy of that moment
when Cherry had asked him for his help against
a man he already hated.  He smiled at the
recollection of his meeting with McCartney in
Cheney's place.  Then his heart froze as he
thought of what had happened only within the
last hour.

As he sat alone on the doorstep the night came
down on the hills and the valley, but King had
no thought of the passing hours.  His mind was
on the sudden appearance of Cherry McBain,
like an apparition out of the dusk, and the coldly
accusing note in her voice when she had spoken.

"She couldn't think—" he murmured to himself
and then stopped.

He wondered that he had not gone off to find
her—to follow her and explain it all.  And then
it occurred to him that words—his words
particularly—were helpless things after all.  Even if he
had gone and found her, and spoken to her, what
would his words have done?  And yet—he clung
fiercely to a hope—the hope that had so lately
been born in him.

"She can't think I'm wrong," he went on.  "She
can't—I couldn't stand that.  I've been trying—I'm
not right all through, but I'm not wrong like
that.  She's got to believe me."

And then it came upon him—came with crystal
clearness—that the heart of Cherry McBain
could be won and held only by a man that was
not afraid of himself, a man who had a task so
great that it overshadowed petty problems and
made them insignificant by comparison.  And so
King Howden renewed the covenant he had made
with himself only a few days before, that his
place in life was something more than the small
circle drawn about his narrow existence, with its
little weaknesses and discouragements and
failures.  Only this time the covenant was made
sacred because a man's love for a woman had set
its seal on it.

By the first streak of dawn King was already
well along the trail.  He wanted to reach the top
of the hills by sunrise, and with a climb of some
five or six miles before him he urged his horse
forward at a good pace.  From the low-lying
levels of the grassy plain and the deep meadows,
to the first rolling uplands he mounted while the
dawn was still gray, and from the uplands to the
hills and down through the valleys that lay
between.  The old trail had not been used much
during the latter part of the summer owing to
the steadily decreasing distance that now lay
between the new settlement and the end of the steel.
On either side and in the centre of the trail where
ran the narrow ridge between the two tracks, the
grass was high and drenched the horse's legs with
dew.

And as he mounted higher, the coming of the
new day broke upon him like a benediction, so
that his very soul sang with the joy of the open
sky and the rolling hills, the free trail and the
throbbing pulse of youth.  When he reached the
top of the first upstanding hill he emerged from
the fringe of trees that lined the crest just in time
to see the sun pushing its way above the horizon.
In the valley that lay before him the morning
mist was stretched low and motionless.  On the
hillside opposite, where the sun's rays had not yet
found their way, the trees were hidden in the
half-dusk like ghosts waiting for some voice to waken
them.  The trail that led before him lost itself
under cover of the white shroud, and over all was
poured the rich glory of the rising sun.  King took
off his hat and looked long and silently.  Then
facing northward he dismounted and, taking the
bridle rein in one hand, left the trail and plunged
into the woods.

Early that night he found a circle of tamaracs
beside a little stream of cold water and decided
to put up for the night.  The day had been a long
one, and had proven very heavy, but he had
succeeded in his quest and was content with the
results of his efforts.  He was very tired, and after
removing the saddle and pack from his horse he
found a grassy plot not far away and tethered
him for the night.  Then he prepared a little
smudge at the edge of the plot and returned to his
camp.  When he had eaten his supper he
unstrapped his blankets and tossed them in a loose
roll upon the soft ground where it was covered
with brown needles and dry cones.  Then he
rolled himself a cigarette and smoked it in silence
while he thought over the results of his day's
cruising.

The sun had already gone down when he got
up and went again to make sure that his horse
had received all the attention necessary for the
night.  When he had satisfied himself that
everything was as it should be, and had partly
smothered the smudge in order that its usefulness might
last well through the night, he turned back up the
hill again to roll in for the night.  A passing mood
caused him to circle about so that he came out
on a small elevation, clear of trees, that stood
back from his camp.

When he had reached the top of the hill he
could see clear away to the west over the broad
valley where lay the town and his own little
cabin that he had left early that morning.  He
thought he could make out the place, off to the
north, where lay the right-of-way and Keith
McBain's construction camp.  Then as his eyes swept
the intervening space something arrested his
attention.

Everywhere were the slow-forming mists of the
early evening.  But down there to the right—it
couldn't be more than a mile away—there was
something that was not mist, though it was
difficult to make it out, even at so short a distance,
with the shadows already beginning to deepen in
the lower places.  What he saw was a slowly
rising thin column of smoke, and his heart beat
faster as he began to realize slowly what it might
mean.  Someone was down there making a camp
for the night.  There was no reason in the world
for anyone wandering through the hills at such
a time—unless it was the same reason that had
brought King Howden himself there.  It was not
easy to explain, but he was not slow in coming to
a decision to act.  Merely as a matter of
self-defence he determined that he should at least
guard against being discovered.

He hurried down the hill, sliding, leaping, and
running by turns, and came in a few seconds to
the edge of the little meadow where his horse was
standing in the comfortable protection of the
cloud of smoke rising from the smudge.

"You poor old cuss," he said regretfully,
"you'll have to use your tail to keep the
mosquitoes off to-night.  No more smoke, if they eat
you alive."

With that he kicked the smudge-pile vigorously,
scattering it over the ground and leaving
the embers smoking feebly where they lay in the
grass.  Then he went carefully from one spot to
another and stamped out the last traces of the
fire.  Going back to the spot he had chosen for the
night he left Sal on guard with a word of warning
not to follow him, and set off again in the
direction in which he had discovered the smoke.  He
had no intention of attempting to satisfy his
curiosity by spying on strangers.  He wanted to
be reasonably sure that he himself was not being
spied upon—that was all.

And so he moved about cautiously and waited
patiently for the first sound that would announce
the approach of anyone.  When it was very late
and he had heard nothing to alarm him, he
returned, confident that he would not be molested,
and rolling himself in his blankets, pillowed his
head on the saddle and went to sleep.

The next morning he was awake at dawn, and
without waiting to prepare breakfast, he
clambered up the hill behind his camping place and
sat down to watch for the first signs of life in the
camp below.  And as he sat and waited he
worked out in his own mind, now fresh from the
night's sound sleep under the open sky, what was
at least a tentative explanation of the new
circumstance that had so suddenly forced itself into
his plans.  He remembered now, with a new sense
of its possible significance, the unexpected
arrival in town of Cherry McBain late in the evening.
Why had she come for her father?  Then
he recalled the fact that Keith McBain had not
come to town alone.  Was there any special
significance in the presence of Tom Rickard in town
at the same time?  There was nothing in Keith
McBain's silence that was unusual to one who
knew him, but King felt that the old contractor
had been more than ordinarily silent and perhaps
a little ill-natured.  He could not help thinking
that something was brewing behind it all and,
right or wrong, his conviction was that the camp
down there a mile or so away had some connection
with it all.

Suddenly he was aware of a column of white
smoke rising out of the trees.  The traveller was
apparently making ready for an early start.  King
sat watching the smoke for nearly an hour before
anything happened to which he could attach any
special importance.  Then the figures of two men
appeared suddenly in the open space beside the
trees.  They were leading a couple of horses.  He
got to his feet as he saw them and then squatted
down suddenly and drew Sal towards him, lest
she should catch a glimpse of the strangers and
set up an alarm.

The figures were headed southward, in the
direction from which King had come the day
before.  For several minutes he watched them
without moving from his place.  Then as they
disappeared from view behind the shoulder of a hill he
scrambled down the slope to his camp and went
about leisurely to prepare his breakfast.  If the
strangers were on a similar errand to his own
he was well ahead of them.  Before evening he
would have completed his cruising in the hills
and with ordinary good luck would reach the end
of the steel by night-fall.  When he had
breakfasted he completed a few preparations necessary
for the day's trip and was on his way again at
sunrise.

Late in the afternoon he emerged upon the
trail about half-way between McBain's camp and
the end of the steel.  The air was heavy with a
promise of rain in it.  For the last mile or so he
had followed a creek in which only a small stream
of water trickled over the stones, and now, the
wearisome part of the day's work done, he sat
down upon a log at the side of the road and sized
up the work he had done during the last two days
in the hills.  The timber was there for the
purposes that Hurley and Keith McBain sought, the
supply was more than their needs called for, and
he had found an admirable site for a camp.

It was with a feeling of great satisfaction,
therefore, that he finally got into the saddle and
started for the end-of-the-steel.

Late that evening King strolled leisurely in the
direction of the railway siding where stood a long
line of cars that served as sleeping quarters for
the men who were attached to the bridge gang.
For a month or more they had been busy
replacing the old temporary bridge by a more
permanent structure.  From a distance he had heard
the voices of the men chatting and laughing
among themselves.  The two days spent alone in
the hills had awakened in him afresh the desire to
be with men and hear them talk.

He came upon them at an interesting moment.
Two men of the gang were matched in a wrestling
bout, the others standing round watching the
contest closely.  King waited at some distance
until the affair was over before he made his
presence known.  Then he stepped forward and
entered the circle of men.  Good nature pervaded
the group, and King was the recipient of pleasant
greetings from all sides.  On the opposite side of
the circle stood Larkin, Keith McBain's freighter.

"Hey, you outsiders—Larkin and Howden,"
called one of the men; "you fellows can't sit in
on this game for nothin'.  Give us a little action.
Even money that Howden can put Larkin on his
back in three minutes."

"Any takers?" asked Larkin, during the pause
that followed this outburst.

Almost immediately came a dozen responses,
whether from lack of confidence in King's ability
or from sheer desire for sport.

King felt himself pushed out into the centre of
the circle, where he stood smiling and looking
at Larkin.

"Get in, Larkin," cried a voice.  "No time now
for lettin' your blood freeze in your veins.  I'm
backin' you to win and by —— you've got to step
lively."

Larkin was smiling as he got up, but the smile
gave place to a look of deadly earnestness as he
leaped suddenly at King in an effort to overcome
him at one rush.  King was still smiling as he
braced himself and received the full force of
Larkin's rush without yielding more than half a step.
Then as Larkin bent low to get a hold, King
caught him quickly about the waist and, lifting
him off his feet, held him for a moment while he
kicked and lurched helplessly in an effort to free
himself.  In another second he had Larkin on
the ground with his shoulders pinned down.

The whole thing had not occupied a minute,
and there was not a man in the group that did
not express his surprise at the sudden and
unexpected outcome of the encounter.  King, on his
part, felt a strange new thrill of pleasure as he
got up and looked round at the men.  At no time
during his little set-to with Larkin had he
doubted his ability to take care of himself, but
the sharp action, though momentary, had
exhilarated him and he was conscious of the renewed
vigor that had come to him during the two days
wandering in the hills.

Back in the group of men stood one big
fellow, a Spaniard of powerful build and hasty
temper, whom no one in the gang had ever
pretended to know.  There was a look in his eyes
now, however, that attracted and even amused
King.  Someone else apparently saw that look at
the same moment.

"You, Spain," came a voice.  "Feelin' pretty
strong?  Get in there and stack up.  You and
Howden mate up pretty close."

"Go on—get in, Spain," came from another
quarter, and at once the big Spaniard, serious and
struggling to control his excitement, became the
centre of interest.  With a deal of urging, they
finally got him to step out—not very reluctantly,
it seemed, for he came towards King rather
eagerly.

"I don't know, young fellow," he said seriously
as he came forward.  "By golly, I t'ink I lika try
dat for once anyhow."

He advanced warily and tried to get his huge
arms about King's body.  King, however, avoided
him by moving back a step at a time about the
enclosure until the look of seriousness in the
Spaniard's face became one of impatience, and
King knew that the moment had arrived when he
must close with his antagonist and fight it out.
His decision had barely been made, however,
when the Spaniard made a quick movement
towards him and King had to leap to one side
quickly to avoid the powerful arms that came out
to encircle him.  The movement left him slightly
in the rear and to one side of his opponent, and
stepping in quickly he sent his arm forward and
upward, and laying his hand on the back of the
Spaniard's neck brought his head down with a
snap.  In another ten seconds he had doubled him
up and thrown him on the ground.

When the Spaniard got to his feet his black
eyes were flashing angrily, and he was muttering
incoherently as he looked at King.  The latter,
however, was smiling with such genuine good
nature that at last the fire died in the black eyes
and the big fellow began to smile at his own defeat.

"By golly, young fellow," he said, "I lika know
dat little treek, jus' once."

King found a place for himself in the circle of
men and moved quietly to the outside where he
would be less in evidence.  The centre of the
circle was taken almost immediately by a couple
of men who had come out to prove their prowess
at "squaw-wrestling."

While the interest in the match was at its
height, King felt someone touch his arm, and
looking round, found himself face to face with
Lush Currie, who, with one finger on his lips as
a signal for silence, was beckoning King to come
out of the crowd and follow him.  King withdrew
at once without attracting any attention, and
followed Currie until he came up with him just a
few yards off on the roadway.

When King had joined him he walked along in
silence for a short distance, expecting Currie to
speak.

"I just came from up the line," said Currie at
last.  "I didn't know you were here—where'd you
come from?"

King hesitated a moment before he replied.
The glimpses he had caught early that morning
of the two men in the hills set him thinking
during the day, and he was determined to be careful.

"I came from town," he said in reply to Currie's
question.

"Yes—but—but when?"

"To-day.  Got here in time for supper."

"Got here to-night?  You didn't come from
McBain's camp to-day?"

King's reply was ready.  "No—I took another
way this time.  But what—"

"I think you'd better put back," Currie broke
in.  "McCartney's got somethin' movin'.  Old
Silent's in town—been there for three days
now—probably livin' at Cheney's.  The girl went up
but came back this morning without him.  I don't
know what's doin', but Gabe says Bill's got some
of Cheney's firewater an' there's goin' to be
trouble.  Gabe was wishin' to-day you'd come
along.  He expected you back when the girl came
and when you didn't turn up he was worried.  He
says the girl's worried too."

They walked some distance before King made
any comment.  At last he turned off in the direction
of the corral where he had put his horse for
the night.

"I guess I'll be gettin' along back," he said
quietly.

Lush Currie stood and watched him until he
had vanished in the darkness.  And even as he
stood there, the rain that had been threatening
all day began to fall slowly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER NINE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER NINE

.. vspace:: 2

Cherry McBain stood in the open doorway
of the cabin and looked out at the
heavy grey skies and the gathering darkness.
The air carried a chill reminder that summer
was coming very rapidly to a close.  All day
long there had been a cold wind and scudding
clouds that drifted low about the hill tops, and
hurried before a fitful eastern breeze that carried
dashes of mist and thin rain with it.

Now that evening had come the wind had gone
down, but the drizzling rain was falling steadily
and monotonously, as it does when it sets in for
a long downpour.  Though it was still early
evening it was almost dusk, especially among the
heavy-limbed tamaracs where the cabin stood.
Cherry had lighted the lamp very early in an effort
to bring some little cheer to the place, for the
heavy unbroken gloom of the skies, now growing
dark with the coming night, had filled her with a
sense of loneliness from which she could not free
herself.

It was not merely the fact that she was twenty-one
and that the day had been a dull one, though
perhaps a girl of Cherry McBain's temperament
needs no other excuse for being melancholy.  She
was lonely, more indescribably lonely than she
had ever been in her life before.  The distance
from happiness to despair is often a very short
one indeed, and Cherry had gone from one to
the other in what, to her, was an incredibly short
time.  The latter weeks of the summer just
coming to a close had been the most supremely
happy time of her life.  But the last two or three
days had been like long dreary months to her.  It
seemed as if she had been given but one short
glimpse of bright hope only to be plunged again
into deepest darkness.  At first it was wounded
pride that gave her pain.  She loved King
Howden—what hurt her most was the fact that she
loved him still in spite of herself.  Now that she
recalled the way she had spoken to King, and
then recalled what she had seen when she came
unexpectedly upon Anne and King standing
together in the deeper dusk of the doorway—she
bit her lip and clenched her hands in anger at
herself that she should have allowed herself to
be such a fool.

It was this wounded pride of hers that had
unsettled her so that she was unable to play her
wonted part when she had finally tried to make
her father come back to her.  He had met her
suggestion with a stormy outburst—worse than
any he had ever brought upon her before—and
she had broken miserably before it, and had left
him and ridden back to the camp alone.  What
did it matter that she had walked up and down
the crooked street of The Town for two days with
as firm a step and as erect a bearing as ever?
What did it matter that she had tossed her head
proudly and passed Anne without so much as a
word of recognition whenever the two met?  What
did it matter that she had ridden into camp with
the same air of indifference that she had always
carried?  Others might not know—and she
vowed they would not know—but she knew that
she had suffered a double defeat, and it hurt.

But Cherry McBain was not one to forget her
duty even in the hour of keenest disappointment.
Her sense of defeat had been partly relieved
during the day in the time-honored way that
women have of relieving their feelings.  Now as she
stood in the doorway of her cabin and looked out
at the grey world, she was the victim of a feeling
that she had never really experienced before.  She
was afraid.

During the day she had spoken with old Gabe
Smith, who had come to get news from her of her
father.  A change had come over the camp during
the past few days, the nature of which had made
Gabe very anxious to have Keith McBain back
again and asserting his old control.  He did not
have to tell Cherry that Bill McCartney was the
cause of all the unrest he had reported to her.
She knew the meaning of it better than Gabe.
Cherry longed for her father's return.  She even
upbraided herself for having left town without him.

But even as she prayed for his coming, strange
doubts arose in her mind concerning her father's
power to combat the hostile forces of which
McCartney was not only the director but the creator
as well.  She knew, in short, as others doubtless
knew, that Keith McBain was a broken man.  His
power to break a man's will by a look or a word
was almost gone, and none knew it so well as his
own daughter.

And yet she wanted him back.  After all, she
had always relied upon him in critical moments
in the past; it had come to be a habit with her.
Besides, there was no one else to whom she could
turn.  Old Gabe Smith was kind and good, and
would always help to the extent of his ability,
but after all he was of no more use than any other
camp follower when a crisis had to be met.

While she stood wondering what best to do she
saw Gabe himself coming down the pathway
towards her.  All at once her mind was made up.
With a word or two to Gabe she went back into
the cabin and dressed herself preparatory to
going out.  In a few minutes she was back again in
the doorway waiting for Gabe, who reappeared
presently in the pathway leading Cherry's horse
behind him, saddled and bridled, ready for the
road.  She allowed Gabe to help her into the
saddle, and then, leaving him to blow out the
light and close the door, she set off to the trail
and headed for The Town.  This time she was
determined that her father's will should be no
match for her own.  She would have her way with
him, no matter what he said, and he would
return to camp with her and give commands.

No one saw her as she rode through the camp,
no one, at least, spoke to her, and in a couple of
minutes she was safely through with nothing
before her but a long stretch of winding trail
already wet from the rain.  She went forward with
great caution though she knew every foot of the
trail she was traversing, and urged her horse only
in the higher stretches where the road was sandy
and still dry.  The footing was very uncertain
in spots, and on account of the increasing
intensity of the darkness she was forced to rely almost
wholly upon the instincts of her horse to guide
her.  Fortunately there was but one trail, and
that one was flanked on either side by bushes and
trees and fallen logs that made an effective
barrier against her wandering from the beaten way.

One thing that caused her some concern as she
rode along was the fact that the little creeks she
had crossed countless times before, had crossed
scarcely twelve hours since, as a matter of fact,
had swollen considerably during the day.  Every
time she attempted a fording she did so with an
increasing sense of surprise at the swirling of the
water about her horse's legs.  She knew it had
been raining in the hills during the day, and she
had expected some little change in the size of the
streams, but nothing so formidable as the turbulent
rushing of these little creeks had presented
itself to her imagination.  They were actually
vicious, she thought to herself, and once when the
water reached her foot and her horse stopped a
moment and leaned against the current before he
went on, she was more than a little anxious for
the outcome of her mission.  She experienced a
strange thrill of something like fear, too, as she
looked down at the water beneath her, black
under the darkness of the night, and swirling and
rushing crazily onward in headlong haste.

She had been on the way for nearly three hours
when she came at last to the little ridge overlooking
White Pine river.  It was the prospect of having
to make this crossing that gave her most concern.
From the top of the ridge she could see nothing
in the pitchy blackness of the night.  Cautiously
she urged her horse down the gentle slope
of the ridge towards the river.  She began to
wonder whether the little bridge of poles had been
swept out by the current.  If the water had not
risen above the level of the bridge there was no
reason why a perfectly safe crossing could not be
made.  With the instinct born of long contact
with the world out-of-doors she strove to
measure the distance she had gone since she left the
ridge crest.  The bridge was some distance off yet,
probably fifteen or twenty yards, when all at once
she thought she heard the sound of water running
about her horse's fore-feet.  She urged him
forward a little, and found herself standing some ten
yards or so from the bridge with the water rushing
just beneath her.  Dimly in the darkness she
could make out the form of the bridge.  It was
still in its place with the water rushing past at
either end, though it had not gone over it as yet.

For a moment she stopped and faced the situation,
and the new problems it presented to her.
She had no doubt that she could cross the bridge
quite safely and finish her trip successfully.  But
if it continued to rain during the night, there
would be no getting back again.  With the camp
cut off from them, she and her father would
simply have to wait until the rain ceased and the
rivers went down sufficiently to allow a safe
passage before they could think of returning.  But
that was like enlisting Providence on the side of
the devil, for she knew it would be simply playing
into the hands of McCartney to leave the camp
in his charge, perhaps for days, while the wet
weather made it impossible for the men to work
on the grade.  Though she did not know what she
could do if she were alone at the camp, she felt
intuitively that while her father was away her
duty was to fill the place he had left, if she could
do nothing but stand as a sort of symbol of the
leadership which her father had embodied.

She decided to abandon the trip to The
Town and to return to camp, there to match
her wits against those of McCartney, and
hope for the best.  The decision quickly made
was suddenly shaken by the fear that her
father might even now be on the road.  As
she thought of him attempting to cross the
White Pine alone with only his team to take
care of him, she shrank with fear.  She recalled
the nights during the summer when his team had
brought him safely home, though he himself had
never known anything about it until he awoke
the next morning.  But good fortune cannot
bring a man through everything, and Cherry
knew her father could never cross the White Pine
in its present condition and under the heavy
darkness that hid everything within a few feet.

Turning her horse's head back she rode again
up the slope of the ridge and dismounted when
she was about half way to the crest.  Here she
found a fallen log in the shelter of a closely grown
clump of trees and sat down.  She was far enough
from the river to hear quite easily other sounds
than the rushing of the water.  Above her the
trees brushed back and forth in the wind, with
boughs rustling and creaking and moaning in the
darkness.  The sound from the river was like
the low, steady washing of a distant surf.  Cherry
sat and strained her ears for the least noise from
the other side of the bridge.  Time after time she
started up at what she thought was the striking
of a hoof or the scraping of a wheel upon a stone.
Once she got to her feet suddenly, her heart
thumping with expectancy.  She was sure she
had heard her father's voice in a gruff word of
command to his team.  But although she stood
with breath held and ears strained for the
slightest sound, none came, and she sat down again,
feeling that she might have been dreaming.

When she at last arose to take the trail back to
the camp it was past midnight.  Nothing had come
of her long wait and she felt it would be useless
to remain longer.  No one would have allowed
even Keith McBain to leave town on such a night
and at an hour that would make the trip to camp
doubly hazardous.

But as she went over the top of the ridge and
rode along the trail she had come over earlier in
the night she began to estimate the difficulty of
the problem that awaited her if her fears concerning
McCartney's designs had any foundation in fact.

She knew the hour must come sooner or later
when McCartney would give up his policy of
quiet waiting.  She knew something of his
determination and recklessness of consequences.  She
knew he would strike when he thought the
moment most opportune.  And she was not blind to
the fact that the moment was perhaps at hand.
He would carry out his threat some time—why
should he not do so to-night?

Cherry McBain had never been afraid of Bill
McCartney; she had usually managed to meet
him when the other men were around, or when
her father was near, and she had successfully
avoided anything but the most casual passages
between them.  Her chief security had lain in the
fact that she had always been on the best of terms
with the men of her father's camp.  She liked
them and she knew they liked her.  But she did
not fail to recognize that McCartney's chief
concern during the last few weeks had been to win
for himself the regard of the men and make them
his followers.  That he had won a small group
through the fear he had inspired by his display
of brute strength Cherry well knew.  Just how
far he had been successful among the more
independent men of the camp she did not know.  Gabe
Smith had often spoken to her about it, and had
assured her of the loyalty of the great majority
of them, but she knew that Gabe's judgment on
such things was not always to be relied upon.  It
was this uncertainty that made her afraid.  She
was actually afraid for herself.  Without the
active support of the men in her father's camp she
would be powerless against a man of McCartney's
temper, to say nothing of his size, and she
dreaded the moment when he would step up and
demand that she should do her part to make good
her father's bargain.

She knew at any rate what the future held for
her if the worst came to the worst.  She would
fight as long as she had strength left in her body
and wit in her mind.  If she failed at last it
would be for her father's sake, at least, and she
would harbour no regrets and cherish no grudge.
Suddenly, as she rode along in deep thought,
she was awakened from her dreaming by the sight
of a red flare in the clouded night-sky.  It
appeared directly ahead of her, a large spot of
ruby light glowing against the low clouds.  She
knew what it meant only too well, but the fear of
what its full meaning might be sent a chill to her
heart as she looked at it.  Then she gave her
horse a sharp cut with her quirt and he was off
at a mad gallop along the muddy trail.

The caution she had exercised in picking her
way along through the darkness was suddenly
forgotten.  The horse would have to do the best
it could to find a footing and keep the trail.  One
thought only occupied her mind.  The camp was
on fire and she must save it, if she could cover the
distance in time.

About half an hour of the maddest riding she
had ever done brought her to the edge of the
camp where the trail left the grade and emerged
from the bushes beside the corral.  In the middle
of the camp the men were dancing about the
flaming remnants of what had been the cook
camp.  It had been nothing but a frame of logs
and canvas, and had gone up like so much dry
kindling in a few minutes.  What she saw was
nothing more than a heap of burning debris,
about which the men were running and shouting
like beings half-crazed.

At first Cherry stood at a distance, scarcely
knowing what to do.  Three workless days had
produced the kind of results that she had long
since learned to expect in construction camps.
With McCartney on the ground she knew the
results were inevitable.  The men were nearly all
drunk and many of them scarcely seemed to
know what they were doing.

All at once she saw the swaggering form of
McCartney in the light from the fire.  The sight
maddened her and with a flash of her quirt she
sent her horse flying into the crowd, pulling him
back suddenly almost upon his haunches at the
very edge of the fire.

Her sudden appearance like an apparition out
of the night struck surprise into the hearts of the
men.  They fell back, some of them with terror
on their faces as she struck, first on one side, then
on the other, at a couple who approached her in
threatening attitude.

"Get to your bunks, you!" she cried in a voice
that all could hear and in a tone that none could
mistake.

Moving quickly about, she called to a half
dozen men whom she knew best and liked, among
them Gabe Smith.

"Stay here for a little while," she said after she
had got them together.  "Look round at the
store and the corral and the bunkhouse to make
sure there is no more danger of fire.  Gabe, you
take charge for to-night, and get these men to
help.  Make the others go to bed."

In half an hour the camp was in a state of
comparative quiet.  Nothing was left of the
cook-camp but a heap of embers smouldering in the
rain which was still falling steadily.  Cherry
found Gabe in the bunkhouse patiently arguing
with three or four of the men who had ill-temperedly
protested against going to bed at the command
of anyone, much less that of a woman.
She called him out to her.

"Let them sit up if they like, Gabe," she said
with a smile.  "The less trouble the better.  Two
or three of you had better stay round till daylight
anyhow.  I'm going to the cabin.  I'll take my
horse along and tether him under the tamaracs.
If anything happens let me know.  I'll lie down.
The lamp will be lit, and I'll be ready to come
out at once if you need me.  Some one must go
to town in the morning."

Gabe came up to her as she was about to leave.

"There's one thing, my girl," he said.  "You'd
better not leave your door unlocked.  I can
knock—"

"Don't be silly, Gabe," she interrupted quickly.
"I'm not afraid."

"Well, take this," he said, drawing a revolver
from his pocket and holding it towards her.

"Why, Gabe," she exclaimed, laughing at him,
"what in the world are you going to do with that?"

"Nothing, I hope," he replied a little sheepishly.
"Lush Currie left it with me as a kind of
remembrance and I've been keeping it by me."

"But you'd never use it, Gabe?"

"No," he replied with a slow smile as he slipped
it back again into his pocket, "but it does give a
man a comfortable feeling to have it on him, in
case."

She bade him good-night cheerfully and rode
off towards the cabin.  Although she had been
amused at what she thought was an unnecessary
precaution for Gabe Smith to take, she could not
help admitting to herself that she shared
somewhat in the feeling of comfort which the old
fellow protested was his chief reason for carrying
the weapon.  She regretted, moreover, that she
had not asked him concerning the whereabouts of
McCartney.  He had disappeared suddenly when
she had come upon the scene.  The first glimpse
she had had of him was the last, and she felt a
little uneasiness at not knowing where he had
gone.  It had come to her mind frequently
during her conversation with Gabe that she should
ask him to find McCartney and keep an eye on
him, but she did not wish the old man to know
what was in her mind.  As she rode into the
tamaracs, however, and tethered her horse in a
sheltered spot, she wished with all her heart that
she had given at least a hint of her fears to Gabe.
But perhaps he had already guessed at them for
himself—there was a little comfort in the hope
that he had done so; and with this thought in
her mind she entered the cabin.

When she had lighted her lamp she looked
about her to assure herself that everything was
just as she had left it.  Then she smiled to
herself as she remembered that she had probably
never done such a thing before.  She was actually
nervous and the discovery really amused her.

Quickly she removed her wet garments, and
having dressed again in warm, dry clothing, she
lowered the light and, drawing a heavy cover
about her, lay down on the couch and dropped to
sleep almost instantly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER TEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER TEN

.. vspace:: 2

Cherry awoke with a start and sat up
quickly, blinking her eyes in the dim light
and struggling to regain control of her
senses.  Something had frightened her out of a
heavy sleep.  Now that she was awake she
thought she remembered a sensation of a cold
breath of air on her cheek.  Suddenly her eyes
fell upon a shadowy form standing beside the
door.  At first she was not sure but that she had
been dreaming.  Gradually her mind cleared,
however, and she sprang to her feet as she
recognized the face of Bill McCartney looking at her
from where he stood with his hand still upon the
door-latch.

At the first sight of the intruder her heart
seemed to stop beating and she faced him for a
moment in silence.  Then she stepped swiftly to
the table and turned up the light.  As she did so
McCartney took his hand from the latch and
turning his back to the door looked at her
steadily, smiling and folding his arms.

"What do you want here?" Cherry asked in a
voice that betrayed her nervousness in spite of
her efforts to control herself.

McCartney remained silent, answering her
only with a smile.

"What have you come here for at this time of
night?" she asked again.  Her voice was more
steady now and she straightened up defiantly as
she spoke.  "Get out of here, or I'll have a dozen
men——"

He took a step towards her and raised his hand
for silence.

"Cherry," he said, "there ain't any use of you
an' me disagreein'.  You know that just as well
as me.  I come here now because I want to tell
you something you ought to know for your own
good.  You don't let me talk to you like some
others.  I've got to take my own way of doin'
things or I won't get them done at all, see?  You
go back there an' sit down.  I'm goin' to talk an'
I want you to listen."

He waited for Cherry to go back to the couch
again, but she stood motionless by the table and
looked at him for some time before she spoke.
She knew she could gain nothing by rousing his
anger.  From the look in his eyes and the tone of
his voice it was quite clear that he had been
drinking.  If she vexed him he might resort to ugly
tactics in which she would be no match for him.
Her only course was the one she had followed for
weeks.  She must fight for time in the hope that
something might occur before she would have to
admit defeat.

"I shall not sit down till you do," she said,
pointing to a chair beside the door.

He looked behind him and then looked at her.
What he saw in her face was enough to convince
him that she was in earnest, at any rate, and he
turned slowly, and going to the chair, sat down,
taking his hat off as he did so and putting it on
the floor beside him.

"Now, then," he said, as he looked up at her.

For reply Cherry moved the lamp to one side
in order that it might not obstruct her view of
McCartney from where she intended to sit, and
going to the couch from which she had risen only
a few minutes before, sat down and waited for
him to speak.

"You ask me what brings me here so late," he
began.  "Don't you think that's a strange
question to ask me?  You an' me ain't talked much
together lately, but when we had our last long
talk together I thought you understood it clear
enough.  An' I don't think you're the kind that
forgets easy, either."

Cherry gave a little shrug of impatience and
looked away from him, letting her eyes rest upon
the floor at her feet.

"You asked me what I want—what I came
here for," he went on.  "Well, what's the use of
mixin' words?  You know—an' I ain't goin' to
tell you unless you've forgot.  But listen to me,
Cherry."  He lowered his voice as he spoke.
"Bill McCartney is the best friend you've got.
An' he's the best friend Keith McBain's got.
Your father's an old man, but he's a wise man
an' he knows some things his daughter can't
understand.  You ain't got a better friend than
me, an' the sooner you get that straight the better
off you'll be."

He paused as Cherry looked at him with more
impatience than before.

"You don't need to tell me all this," she said.
"I've thought it all over a hundred times.  I
want to know what you have come here for
to-night.  The rest can wait for some other time."

The smile left his face as she spoke, and he
seemed on the point of getting up from his chair.
"Well," he began, in a voice that was pitched
much higher than before, "I'm here to tell you
this for one thing.  There's a kind of arrangement
between you an' me.  You know all about
that.  There's goin' to be trouble for anyone who
tries to spoil that arrangement.  You understand?"

Cherry professed ignorance of the significance
of his words.

"Don't tell me you don't know," he protested
quickly.  "I've got eyes to see with, an' if I hadn't
there's lot's more that has, an' it ain't hard to find
out what's goin' on.  There's someone breakin'
into my game an' he's got to get out an' stay out."

"Who?" Cherry asked in a voice that was almost
coquettish.

"Who?" he blustered.  "For God's sake—who?"

"Yes," she insisted, "who?"

"Howden—that's who."

She did not show the slightest disturbance, but
laughed a little to herself as she looked again at
the floor.

"No," she said, "you're wrong.  King Howden
and I are not even good friends any more."

He looked at her in surprise.  "That ain't
true," he said.

She raised her eyes quickly.  "You have never
known me to lie over anything," she replied.
"You wouldn't expect me to lie over this."

He grunted to himself and regarded her
strangely.  "Then I'm goin' ahead with that in
mind," he said.  "Am I doin' right?"

"I can only speak for myself," she replied.  "I
don't know what's in King Howden's mind."

"I don't give a—"  He checked himself in an
effort, apparently, to be polite.  "I don't
worry about what's in his mind," he said.  "I'll look
after him, an' I'm goin' to settle with him myself."

He paused for some time and Cherry took
advantage of the pause to draw about her shoulders
the cover that lay on the couch where it had
fallen when she had first got up.

"And is that all?" she asked.

"That's all on that—just now," he said.
"There's just one more thing I want to say—just
a little warnin' I want to give you.  I don't want
you interferin' with things in the camp.  That's
no place for you.  You jumped in to-night where
you wasn't wanted an' you got away with it—but
it ain't goin' to happen again."

"But my father is away and—"

"That's just the point, now," he broke in.  "If
you just let things go along in their natural way
nothin' will happen.  Everybody knows Keith
McBain ain't goin' to last for another year's
contractin'.  Nobody's goin' to take his place but the
one that has a right to take it.  That's me—all on
account of our understandin'."

Cherry got to her feet, her arms rigid, her
finger-nails biting into her palms.

"Keith McBain is still boss of this camp," she
said, "and if you want to know it, his daughter,
Cherry McBain, is still mistress of her own heart.
It's time you knew that you can't frighten either
of us."

She was fully aware of the hazardous game she
was playing.  So long as his conversation turned
upon her alone she had been capable of keeping
her impatience well under control.  After all, he
might tire of a game in which he was no match
for a wary opponent.  But when he mentioned
her father's name she could stand it no longer.
The blood of Old Silent was hot in her veins, and
the fire that had flashed from his eyes was
leaping now in her own.  She recalled the numberless
times when she had seen her father reduced to a
pitiful meekness before a word from Bill
McCartney.  She had wept bitterly for the old man,
broken in body and will by a man whose only
title to recognition was brute force and the
possession of a life secret.  All the injustice of it
came upon her like a flood.  She would do no
more weeping.  She would cringe no more.  She
would fight, whatever the consequences, and
bring her father to fight as well.

McCartney got up and looked at her with his
customary sneer.  "You talk that way because
you don't know," he said slowly, "because he
ain't here to stop you.  But I ain't goin' to be
foolish about it.  When Keith McBain wants to
fight Bill McCartney he's welcome.  But he
won't fight—because he can't fight.  He's wanted
bad an' he knows the right hunch to play.  An'
you ain't goin' to fight Bill McCartney neither,
for Bill McCartney ain't goin' to fight you.  He's
goin' to love you!"

He left his place beside the chair and lurched
unsteadily towards her.  Leaving the couch
quickly, Cherry moved till she got the table
between herself and McCartney and then looked
at him steadily.  For some reason her fear, her
nervousness was gone.  She felt equal to any
emergency, and quite capable of matching any
move he should make.  She made up her mind
that if she could reach the door she would make
a dash for the outside and call Gabe.  But
McCartney, dazed though he was from drinking, was
sufficiently alert to anticipate any such move on
her part, and was careful to keep possession of the
side of the table nearest the door.  After a couple
of futile attempts on McCartney's part to reach
Cherry, he stood for a moment and looked at her,
leaning forward with both hands on the table.

"There ain't a bit o' use in this—an' you know
it!" he declared, and for the first time since he
had entered the cabin his look was sinister and
threatening.  "Do you want me to go out o' here?"

"I do—get out!" Cherry replied.

"If I get out, Keith McBain 'll pay.  He knows
that, if you don't."

"You can't frighten me—and you can't
frighten him.  Get out, I tell you!"

"If you mean that—" he straightened up as he
spoke, as if he were about to leave.

"Get out, I tell you!"

Suddenly his manner changed.  A smile of
contempt curled one corner of his mouth.

"You damn little fool!" he sneered.

Seizing the lamp quickly he placed it on the
chair behind him, and with one movement of his
powerful arms he swept the table to one side and
lurched clumsily towards her.  Realizing that
she could not escape, Cherry set herself to meet
his rush.  As he put out his arms to seize her she
closed her hand and swung with all the weight of
her body at his face.  The blow went straight and
quick, so quick that McCartney recoiled a little
in surprise, and paused a moment to look at her.
One moment was enough for Cherry.  Before he
could clearly understand what had happened she
had darted for the door.  Her hand was on the
latch before he came to himself, and in another
second she would have been out and away.  But
McCartney's heavy hands clutched her shoulders
as she was on the point of opening the door, and
she felt herself lifted bodily from the floor.

Setting her upon her feet at a safe distance
from the door he turned her round, and raising
her face, looked at her with a smile.

"Ain't you the little fool!  I thought you had
sense."

He stopped suddenly and his hold upon Cherry
relaxed.

There was a sound of footsteps on the pathway
outside.  Cherry listened with indrawn breath—the
footsteps were familiar.  When they stopped
before the door she turned quickly.

"Gabe!  Gabe!" she called.

The door opened quickly and old Gabe stood
in the doorway and blinked wonderingly as he
looked into the cabin.

"Put this man out, Gabe!" Cherry said, quickly,
breaking away from McCartney, whose whole
attention was now on the old man who had come
to take a hand in an affair that he had thought
peculiarly his own.

Gabe continued to blink uncertainly, and
seemed to have difficulty in finding anything to
say.  But the next moment the old man showed
a surprising quickness of movement.  If he had
not moved quickly McCartney would have been
upon him.  Stepping back suddenly through the
open doorway into the darkness outside he
avoided the kick that the big foreman aimed at
him.  But before McCartney could recover himself
to close the door, Gabe had leaped back into
the light again, only this time he was prepared to
take the aggressive.

In his right hand he held Lush Currie's
"remembrance," the light from the lamp glinting on
the polished steel.  Gabe's hand shook so perceptibly
that, in spite of the critical situation all three
were facing, Cherry had all she could do to keep
from laughing.  But if Gabe's hand shook, his
eyes were steady and it was Gabe's eye that
McCartney watched.

"Now, Bill," he said in a voice that expressed
grim determination even if it was a little thin,
"you git out—an' move damn quick!"

Cherry watched the men closely for a moment
while McCartney stood as if rooted to the spot
from sheer surprise at the old man's nerve.  That
moment was like an hour to Cherry.  She did not
think Gabe would actually carry out what he
threatened if his commands were not obeyed to
the last syllable, but there was a note in his voice
that was new to her.  It meant simply that Gabe
Smith would stand for no trifling.

The next moment, however, brought relief.
McCartney moved round towards the door and
Gabe circled away from it very cautiously.  By
the time McCartney had reached the doorway
Cherry was ready to laugh at the whole
performance.  When he turned sulkily and stepped
quickly out, followed by Gabe, who waited a
moment in the doorway before he came back into the
cabin and closed the door again behind him, she
did laugh.

Gabe stood and looked at her in silence and
surprise until she was through laughing, and then
sat down.

"Gabe, you dear old silly!" she said, going over
to him.  "You might have hit me—or even
yourself if you had put that thing off!"

Gabe made no reply.  He was too serious, too
much occupied, perhaps, with the importance of
the thing he had done and the things it would
probably lead to in the very near future.

The new day had already begun to dawn when
Gabe finally stole quietly out of the cabin and
took his way down the path.  He had left Cherry
sleeping soundly and was himself very weary
after his night's vigil.  But he knew a full day
awaited him, and he was determined to face it
with as much courage as his old heart could
muster.

Countless times that night he had prayed
inwardly for help from somewhere.  Even now, as
he plodded wearily from the cabin to the trail, he
was muttering something to himself that might
have passed for a petition to the Heavenly Powers.

And as if in answer to his prayerful mutterings,
there came trudging heavily towards him round
the bend in the trail just where it left the trees
and entered the camp, a man leading a horse by
the bridle rein and followed by a tired-looked dog.

"King, boy!" cried Gabe, and could say no more.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER ELEVEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER ELEVEN

.. vspace:: 2

King's first enquiry was concerning Cherry.
For reasons which were perhaps his own,
Gabe made no reference to what had
occurred in the cabin during the night, and after
briefly assuring him that she was all right,
hastened to ask King where he had been and how
he had come to put in an appearance so
unexpectedly.

King, in his turn, simply smiled at the old
man's curiosity, and asked Gabe to get him
something to eat at once.  Gabe met the request by
pointing to the pile of smoking ashes that now
lay where the cook-camp had stood.  King made
no effort to conceal his surprise.  As a result of
Currie's warning of the night before, he was
prepared to meet difficulty on arriving at the camp.
He had not lived for the best part of his life in
camps without knowing something of what a man
of McCartney's type could do if he were given a
free hand with a gang of men.  He was prepared
to find the men carousing and perhaps fighting
among themselves.  He expected to find the camp
in a state of general excitement.  But the heap of
smouldering ashes was a concrete result that he
scarcely expected.

He looked for a few moments at the smoke
rising from the ashes and then turned to Gabe
with a questioning look in his eyes.  Gabe's reply
was brief but effective.

"Bill McCartney," he said.

When King had questioned him fully and had
learned all the details of the trouble that had
culminated in the burning of the cook-camp, he went
with Gabe to the camp-store and awakened the
timekeeper, who opened the door very warily at
first, until he was satisfied that the early morning
visitors had no design upon his person, nor any
upon his stores either except what might be
expected of two very hungry men.

And for the next two hours or more the two
men held council seated upon a couple of packing
boxes, and laid their plans for the day.  Nor
were the plans easy to make.  There were many
things to be done at once if the work that Bill
McCartney had started was to be undone before
it was too late.  They went carefully over the
names of the camp-followers, using the pass-book
of the timekeeper for a guide, and divided the
men roughly into two groups, one composed of
those to whom they could appeal for assistance
and the other of the men who had probably been
won over to the side of McCartney.  This task
was not a difficult one, but it was not so easy to
organize their dozen or so of picked men so that
they could effectively do the work that would
have to be done during the day.

In the first place Keith McBain must be
brought from town.  Both King and Gabe were
firmly of the opinion that Keith's presence would
at once bring the men to their senses.  They
believed, moreover, that McCartney would back
down when called upon to face Old Silent.  King
determined that they should wait until the
afternoon, with the hope that the old contractor might
come back of his own accord.  In case he did not
put in an appearance, King decided that he should
go himself to town while there was yet light
enough to make travelling easy.  The rain had
stopped during the night, and although the sky
was still heavy the clouds were showing signs of
breaking.

In the event of King having to go finally for
Keith McBain, the care of the camp was to be
left in the hands of old Gabe and the few men
they had picked to help him.  King insisted upon
special provision being made to the end that no
harm should befall Cherry, and that the cabin
among the tamaracs should be left unmolested.

By the time they had perfected their plans and
were ready to go out to put them into effect, the
sun was already well above the horizon, and
when they stepped out of the narrow doorway it
was under a sky in which ragged edges of clouds
were torn apart and changed to silver where the
long shafts had broken through.  The day was
dawning full of promise at any rate, and both
men felt its influence strike them as they turned
and walked down the trail.

As matters turned out, the day passed so
quietly that both King and Gabe were surprised.
During the morning scarcely anyone stirred in
camp, most of the men making good their
opportunity to sleep off the effects of the night
before.  Three times King strolled off in the direction
of the cabin to watch for the first indication
that Cherry was moving about.  Not until it was
noon, however, did he see the smoke rising from
the pipe that served as a chimney and stuck out
from under the roof at one end of the cabin.

His first impulse was to go down and see
Cherry at once.  He wanted to talk to her about
the affairs of the camp, and he hoped he might
have an opportunity to explain the
misunderstanding that existed between them.  On second
thought, however, he decided to get Gabe to go
with him and to confine whatever conversation
they might have to the business they had in hand.

Accordingly the two men went to the cabin
together early in the afternoon to acquaint Cherry
of the plans they had laid.  She was standing
outside among the tamaracs when they arrived.
King noticed that her greeting, while courteous,
was without any enthusiasm.  They went into the
house and sat down.

"We have some help, Cherry," Gabe said when
they had seated themselves.

"So I see," she responded without concern.

Gabe, however, was probably unaware of any
change in Cherry's manner.  The change was
meant for King and it was not lost upon him.  He
sat silently listening to Gabe and Cherry while
they discussed plans.

Only once did Cherry show anything of her
usual manner, and that was when Gabe mentioned
the fact that King was about to start for
town to get her father.

"I was just getting ready to do that myself,"
she protested.

"I think King had better go," Gabe insisted.
"Of course, if you would like to go along—."

"Oh, no," she replied, "it isn't necessary.
Besides you might need some more help here, Gabe."

She smiled at the recollection of what had
occurred the night before.

"Yes—we might need you here," Gabe mused,
as if he were talking to himself.  "I was just
thinkin' that things were so quiet now that
perhaps I could get along alone."

"No, Gabe," said Cherry, "one will be enough
to go for father.  I'll stay in the camp."

A few minutes later when the two men were
walking down the pathway towards the camp
Gabe looked oddly at King.

"There's something gone the matter with that
girl," he said.  "She ain't like she always is."

"Perhaps it's—her father," King suggested,
but Gabe made no immediate response to the
suggestion.

"No, it ain't her father," he said after a few
minutes.  "She was as much worried over her
father last night as she is to-day.  There's
something else."

King did not offer any further suggestions and
the two walked along in silence for some little
distance.  At last Gabe stopped abruptly.

"Now I come to think of it," he said suddenly,
"what the devil was wrong with you?  You
ain't seen her for days and yet you sat there all
that time without speakin' a word."

The smile that started to King's face vanished
suddenly.  "Gabe, there's little chance for us to
understand a woman," he said slowly.  "I never
could—they were always strange to me."

"I ain't thinkin' just now about her ways,"
Gabe replied with a directness that he never
achieved except when he was very excited or very
much in earnest.  "It's you—your way ain't what
it always is."

"I guess you're right, Gabe," King replied.
"There's been something—just a
misunderstanding—that's all."

Gabe whistled to himself—a very long, low
whistle.

Dinner was served in camp that day very much
as usual, with the exception that tables had to be
set in the bunk-house.  The supply of dishes was
not all that might have been desired, but the
cook's ingenuity and the exigencies of the
occasion in which there was at least a little humour,
did much to make the dinner hour almost as
pleasant as it had ever been.  The supply of
eatables was ample, with plenty still to spare in the
store.  And although nothing was said about it
there was a tacit recognition, and it was pretty
general too, that the men had King to thank for
the fact that the first meal served since the
burning of the cook-camp was ample and
well-ordered, even if it did come two hours late.

It was the middle of the afternoon before King
got away.  With anything like good luck in
travelling he hoped he might reach town before dusk
and if the roads were in a condition that made his
return possible that night he would be on his
way back again by dawn the next day.  He hoped
that he might be able to return again that night.

His hopes were not encouraged, however, as he
rode along.  The trail was in bad shape and the
rivers had not yet begun to go down.  A wish he
had entertained when he set out, that he might
perhaps meet Keith McBain somewhere along
the way, changed quickly to a fear lest the old
man should have set out by himself and have met
disaster on the way.  For he knew that if the old
contractor's home-coming on this occasion was
anything like it had been on other occasions,
there was only one chance in a thousand that he
would get through.

There was still more than an hour of daylight
left when he reached the White Pine River.  The
water had risen until now it was running over
the bridge in the middle where the logs that had
been thrown across for main supports sagged
most.  The bridge itself, however, was still intact.
The embankments that had been thrown up at
either end were still visible and appeared to offer
good footing, although King knew that the
submerged roadway leading away from the
bridgehead on either side was washed away by the
current.  The only question that gave him any
concern was whether or not the poles that did
service for the bridge planking were still in their
places.  So far as he could see not one of them
had moved out of place.  Altogether he felt sure
that the crossing was worth trying at any rate.
The distance was not great, and if the worst
should happen he was confident of his ability to
bring himself safely to shore somewhere down
stream.  The attempt to cross was not to be made
recklessly, at any rate, and getting down from his
horse King made as careful a survey of the
conditions as he could on foot.  When he had looked
the place over thoroughly and considered the
different emergencies that might arise and what
he should do to meet each, he got back again into
the saddle, and turning his horse towards the
bridge-head urged him forward gently.

The horse stepped down very cautiously into
the water, proceeded a few yards—and then
stopped.  The water was almost up to animal's
flanks now and was rushing past in a dizzy whirl
that made the horse tremble in every muscle and
limb.  The dog was still standing with two front
paws in the water, whining and yelping.  For a
moment King waited to reconsider what he had
planned.  He felt almost like turning back and
taking the affairs of the camp arbitrarily into his
own hands until Keith McBain turned up of his
own accord.  But in that moment of hesitation
something happened that decided the whole
question for him at once.

Above the rushing of the water he heard the
sound of wheels striking against stones, and
looking up he saw Keith McBain's horses coming on
the run towards him, the buckboard jumping
along behind them and rocking from side to side
in the trail—empty.  When the team came to the
opposite side of the stream, King shouted to them
and they stopped suddenly, but not before they
had plunged half way to the bridge-head and
stood in the deepest part of the current on the
other side of the bridge.  For a moment only,
they stood and looked at King and then wheeling
about, and carried by the weight of the flood,
plunged back again out of the water and into the
poplars that stood at the side of the trail.  There
they were brought to a standstill in a tangle of
branches and underbrush.

All thought of turning back was now impossible
for King.  Somewhere along the trail that
lay ahead Keith McBain was probably lying
injured at least, perhaps unconscious, possibly
dead.  A word to his horse and they plunged
into the stream, at first quickly, then more
carefully as the water became deeper.  Once or twice
when the footing became uncertain King got
ready to dismount and hold to the horn of the
saddle with one hand while the horse brought him
to safety, but he realized that his own weight
helped the horse to keep its feet.  Then suddenly
the ground seemed to give way under them, and
he swung his leg over and slipped into the water.
Just as he did so the horse gave a mad plunge
forward and King had all he could do to keep his
hold upon the saddle.  But in that one leap the
animal found fresh footing and the next moment
was standing upon the bridge-head with King
beside him.

King looked back just in time to see Sal jump
into the water and come paddling towards him.
But the current was too much for the dog.  In
spite of King's whistling and calling to her by
way of encouragement, she was carried downstream
past the embankment and King watched
her with grave doubts rising in his mind.  Where
the stream took a quick turn to the right King
lost sight of the dog among partly submerged
tree-trunks, but in a moment he heard her bark
echoing through the woods and before long she
was standing on the trail beside him, shaking
herself and yelping at him.

The next stage of the crossing was no less
uncertain, but King walked ahead and led his horse,
trying every pole with his foot to see that it was
secure before he went forward.  At the middle of
the bridge the water was almost to his knees and
the force of the current was so great that King
marvelled that the bridge held against it.

When he came at last to the end of the bridge
he sent the horse in and walked along beside him
with his hand on the horn of the saddle.  The
passage proved easier than before and presented
no special difficulty.

Having shaken the water from his clothes,
King left his horse standing in the trail and went
to extricate Keith McBain's team from the
woods.  The task was not so difficult as he had
anticipated, for although the horses were excited
and nervous they seemed almost exhausted and
allowed King to move about them without
showing any ill temper.  In less than fifteen minutes
he had unhitched them and led them out upon
the trail, where he tethered them securely in a
sheltered place under cover of a clump of poplars.
Then he brought the badly shaken buckboard out
and left it standing beside the trail.

This done, he adjusted the girths of his own
horse, and getting into the saddle went off at a
gallop.  There was still almost an hour of
daylight left in which to find Keith McBain, bring
him back, and recross the White Pine.  The
knowledge that he might have to go most of the
way to town before he should find the old man,
and the fact that Keith McBain was in all
probability lying in a helpless condition with body
battered and bones broken, made King urge his
horse forward as fast as the slippery trail would
allow.

Fortunately, however, he had not far to go.
Mounting a little hill that he remembered quite
well from having stood there in the evening to
get a glimpse of the valley below with its little
stream of water and its wild meadows, King
thought he heard the sound of voices.  When he
got to the top of the hill and looked down, he was
surprised to see the figure of a girl standing in
the middle of the trail and waving to him.  It
was Anne.

In a moment he was beside her and was following
her on foot to where Keith McBain was lying
upon the ground.

"Is he hurt?" King asked at once as he looked
at the old man.

"Not much—nothing serious, I think," Anne
replied.

Keith McBain turned his head and looked at
King at the sound of a new voice.  He seemed on
the point of speaking but simply shook his head
a little, and then with a great deal of effort
propped himself up on one elbow and regarded
King very thoughtfully.

"It's me—King Howden—Mr. McBain," King said.

"I know—that's all right," was the reply.
"Get me out of here—I've got to get back—I've
got to get to the camp—and I've got to get back
to my girl."

He dropped his eyes as if he were looking
himself over.  Then he looked at King again.

"Is she all right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir—everything's all right," King
replied; "only we must get you back."

"Everything?" the old man asked, coming
suddenly to himself again, speaking in his sharp,
direct way.  "Who asked about everything?
What the hell do I care about everything?  I
want to know about my girl."

"She's all right, Mr. McBain," King assured
him again.

"That's right, eh?  Howden, don't lie to me!"

King smiled and put his arm under the old
man to raise him to a more comfortable position.

"Where's McCartney?" he asked as soon as
King had made him comfortable.

"He's at the camp, sir," King said, and he
guessed something of what was passing in Keith
McBain's mind.

"Then get me out of here—I've got to get back
there.  I've been too long away—altogether too
long.  But something happened—the dirty
crooks.  Here—get me up."

King and Anne got him to his feet and helped
him out to the trail, where he stood for a moment
and looked about him.

"What's wrong here?" he asked when he had
looked round at the roadway and the woods.
"Where's my team?  Didn't I leave them here a
minute ago?  Where are they?  Anne, bring the
team."

Anne looked at King.  "He doesn't know
what's happened to him," she said.

"I've got the team waiting for you down the
trail a little," King replied.  "You'll have to get
up here and ride."

Without murmuring he allowed himself to be
lifted into the saddle.  King, with Anne walking
beside him, helped him to keep his seat, and
together the three went back the way King had
just come.

Only twice did Keith McBain speak a word
along the way.  Once he addressed Anne.
"You're a good girl, Anne," he said.

A little later he leaned and touched King's
shoulder.  "My boy," he said, nodding his head
towards Anne, "she got me out of this."

And in the meantime Anne was recounting for
King the circumstances that had led her to bring
Keith McBain away from town.

"There's something crooked about it," she told
King.  "That scrub Rickard came to town the
same day.  He's been hangin' round ever
since—keepin' Old Silent under his eye.  But the old
fellow seemed to catch on that he was not goin'
to have his little time all alone, and he came to me
last night and says, 'Anne, I want to go back in
the morning.  No matter what happens,' he said,
'no matter what I say about it, take me back, will
you?  Promise that!'  I promised and he took
my hand.  Then he went out.  Late last night
Mike Cheney and Rickard brought him in and
put him to bed.  When I went to wake him this
morning I couldn't get him to answer.  I opened
the door and he was lyin'—dead to the world.  I
didn't say anything to the house.  I just worked
him out of it myself and when he came back a
little I went out and got the team.  Old Hurley
came and helped me till we got started away.
Hurley didn't like the idea, but I told him what
he'd told me the night before, and he didn't say
anything against it.  We slipped out without
anyone knowin' about it and was gettin' on great
until we come to high water back there under the
hill where you found us.  The team had been
skittish all the way, but the high water put them
up in the air, and I just couldn't hold 'em and
look after the old man too.  It might 'a' been all
right at that, but we hit something in the road
and he rolled out.  I did everything I could, but
the team was runnin' their fool heads off and I
couldn't stop 'em.  So I got over the seat and
dropped off behind and let them go.  Then I went
back and found him lyin' beside the trail.  I
thought he was dead, for, honest to God, he looked
it.  But I rolled him over and got him lyin' out
flat and was workin' over him when I heard you
comin'.  That's all there is to it."

It had already begun to grow dusk when they
came to the White Pine crossing.  Leaving Keith
McBain in Anne's care for the time being, King
busied himself with preparations for getting to
the other side.  Though he had been gone only a
little more than an hour he was gratified to find
that the water had receded considerably—as is
the way with mountain streams where the source
is only a few miles off—and the surface of the
bridge was almost clear.

Quickly hitching the team to the buckboard,
King gave the reins to Anne and told her to get
up on the seat.  Then, helping Keith McBain to
dismount, he led him to a place where he could
sit down and wait.  Mounting his own horse, he
took hold of a short tethering rope fastened to
the bit of one of McBain's team, and led the way
with emphatic warnings to the girl to hang on.
The passage was not a difficult one for King,
although it had now grown dusk.  His horse
managed to keep his feet in the current, though
once or twice he seemed to have all he could do.
For Anne the crossing must have been almost
nerve-shattering—but she never spoke a word
until they were safely across.  Then she got down
from the seat and stepped up to where King was
tethering the team.  She looked at her dripping
clothes and then at the stream rushing past in the
thickening darkness.

"Are you goin' back there again?" she asked.

King grunted an affirmative.

"Go ahead—I'll do the prayin'," she replied.

A few minutes later King was beside Keith
McBain, helping him into the saddle.  When he
got him up he bound him securely to the seat
and tied his feet so that they could not come out
of the stirrups.  Then he sent the horse in and
walked alongside, his hand on the saddle horn.
The crossing was made without accident of any
kind and in a few minutes they were ready for
the road, Anne mounted in the saddle, and King
seated in the buckboard with Keith McBain
beside him.  At a sharp whistle from King, Sal
started from the bushes beside the trail and all
set off together.

A couple of hours later, as they drove through
the camp on the way to Keith McBain's cabin,
King noticed two dark figures on horseback
riding into camp from the opposite direction.  As
they passed him he looked them over very
carefully.  Though it was too dark to see clearly who
the men were, King's mind naturally reverted to
the two riders he had seen in the hills early in the
morning of the day before.

And right there he decided that Anne had been
sent by heaven in a time of need.  He would send
her back next day with full instructions to old
man Hurley to register the claim in the hills—if
necessary under Anne's signature.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER TWELVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER TWELVE

.. vspace:: 2

Five minutes later King and Anne stood
before the door of the cabin, one on each
side of Keith McBain.  The door was
closed, but there was a light within and the sound
of someone talking.  King was about to knock
when the old man put his hand out abruptly and
pressing the latch pushed the door open.

"Cherry, girl!" he called.

In a moment Cherry was facing them, with her
hands out to her father, the form of old Gabe
Smith crowding into the doorway beside her.
Gabe apparently did not see that Keith McBain
was not alone, and expressed his eagerness to
assist his old boss.

"Wait, sir," he said, moving Cherry to one side
as he came forward, "I'll give you a hand."

"Get out of the way," commanded Keith McBain
in a voice that was very much like his own.
"I don't need your help."

Gabe had seen King and Anne and had already
stepped back into the cabin with Cherry.
The old contractor lifted his chest, steadied
himself a little, and then shook his shoulders
impatiently to be rid of the support that Anne and
King were giving him.  Then he stepped
resolutely up and entered the doorway.  For a
moment he hesitated and looked straight before him
into the room, and then walked deliberately
towards the couch.  King and Anne stood just
inside the doorway and watched him as he made
his way uncertainly across the floor.  Cherry was
beside him all the way, offering to help him, but
he gave her not the slightest heed.  When at last
he reached the couch he turned and was in the
act of seating himself when his legs seemed to
give way under him and he collapsed in a heap.
They lifted him quietly and laid him on the
couch.  For a long time he was silent and no
one in the room spoke.  Finally he looked about
him until his eyes fell upon his daughter, and he
held out his hand to her.

"A little water, girl," he said, quite clearly,
and when she put the cup to his lips he gulped a
mouthful nervously and then pushed it away.
"There—that'll do, my girl—let me lie down for
a little."

He relaxed completely when they had set him
back, and in a few moments went off in a sound
sleep.  Scarcely a word had been spoken by any
member of the group, but as soon as they realized
that the old man had fallen asleep Gabe and King
withdrew quietly, leaving Anne with Cherry.

As soon as King had heard Gabe's report on
what had occurred during his absence he outlined
in brief form what he believed to be McCartney's
plan to register a timber claim in the hills and set
up a camp for the winter.  For the first time he
felt it was necessary to reveal to Gabe the secrets
that lay behind McCartney's power and the
objectives which he knew McCartney was aiming to
achieve.  The old man listened intently and
surprise grew in his face as he heard what King had
to relate.  The circumstances made it very clear
to Gabe that King must stay in camp for a couple
of days at any rate, or until such time as Keith
McBain could resume control of affairs.  That
Anne should be sent back early in the morning
with instructions to Hurley seemed at once the
most feasible, and the most easily executed plan
they could adopt.  Accordingly, after turning the
horses over to the care of the corral foreman, they
went at once to the store where they knew they
would probably be alone, where King, with the
help of roughly-sketched maps and memoranda
he had made during his trip in the hills, drew up
detailed information which Anne should place in
the hands of Hurley.

When the information was complete and all the
instructions carefully worked out, King took
Gabe with him to make the rounds of the camp
before laying plans for the night.  The strenuous
life of the past week, with its days and many of its
nights crowded with activity, was beginning to
tell on King, and he was hoping that he might be
able to steal a few hours' rest before anything
further cropped up to claim his attention.

The camp was in darkness.  A solitary light
shone from the window of the large bunkhouse
where the men had eaten their meals during the
day.  King, with Gabe following closely behind
him, went first to the corral to see that the horses
had not been neglected.  They found the foreman
sitting on a bale of pressed hay, smoking quietly
by himself.  He had attended personally to the
comfort of King's horse and Keith McBain's
team, and seemed pleased when King looked his
approval.

"They don't look bad at all," King remarked,
running his hand over the flank of one of
McBain's team.

"Huh—they're all right," the foreman replied.
"They don't do enough to hurt them.  No—but
here's a couple that looks about all in."

He led King and Gabe to two horses that stood
together munching lazily at the wisp of dry hay
that the foreman had placed before them.

"Them horses are too tired to eat," he said, as
he went between them and stroked their coats
still matted with rain and sweat.

King looked the horses over in silence.  He
did not have to be told the reason for their
condition.  When Gabe turned to him with
questioning look, King nodded.  After they had gone
the rounds of the corral and had found everything
in good order they left and went out again
to learn, if possible, what mood the men were in.

They had not gone more than a dozen steps
when the door of the large bunkhouse opened and
a flood of light fell from the open doorway upon
the wet ground immediately in front.  Someone
appeared in the doorway for a moment and threw
a bottle that fell against a pile of stones a few
yards away.  At the sound of the breaking glass
old Gabe grunted.

"They're at it again to-night," he said with
grim emphasis.

"I guess we'll have to go in and look round
anyhow," King replied quietly.

As he spoke the sound of laughter came from
the bunkhouse, and the voices of two or three
men speaking very loudly.

King and Gabe paused when they came to the
door and listened for a moment to what was going
on within.  There was the usual round of noisy
conversation without the slightest indication of
dissension of any kind, and King was of two
minds whether he should go in at all, or turn back
and go to the store, at the back of which he had a
cot prepared for a night's rest.  While he
hesitated, however, Gabe stepped forward and opened
the door, and the next moment King followed
him into the bunkhouse.

Their coming created no surprise.  They were
greeted casually and with no show of concern.
At the end of the open space that ran the length
of the bunkhouse from the door to the other end,
one of the camp hands, a mere boy, was just
beginning a song for the entertainment of the men,
who were lounging about on benches and in the
bunks, some of them already half asleep.

King and Gabe sat down on the edge of one of
the bunks and listened to the high falsetto that
piped through the whole length of twelve or
fifteen verses that reeked with tragedy.  During the
song King looked about him quietly at the men.
In the faces of most of them he could trace the
effects of two or three days' debauch.  But they
all seemed quiet and gave no indication of bad
temper.  In fact when the boy came to the last
line of his song and spoke the words in the
time-honored manner that camp singers have of
ending a song, the applause that broke from the men
was so generous and their comments so good-natured
that King could not help feeling his sense
of security returning.  He was confident that he
had nothing to fear from these men if they were
left alone.  With the exception of three or four,
who looked as if they had been drinking a little
too freely during the evening, the men had
sobered up and were almost normal again.

King got up and walked the full length of the
open space between the bunks and sat down on a
bench near a group of men who were playing
cards.  He spoke to no one except to return the
greetings he received here and there as he passed
among the men, and when he had sat down he
rolled himself a cigarette and watched the game
in silence.  Gabe was still sitting near the door
talking to some of the men.

Gradually, as King sat watching the game, he
became conscious of a change in the atmosphere
of general good nature that had pervaded the
bunkhouse.  The conversation grew noisy and he
thought he heard his own name mentioned once
or twice in a hoarse whisper.  He did not even
turn his head, however, until he felt someone's
hand on his shoulder and looked round to see
Gabe leaning over him.  The old fellow indicated
by a shake of his head that he was ready to go,
and King got up to follow him.

Immediately there was a disturbance behind
him, and he turned to see three of the men
struggling with a fourth.  When they had
succeeded in pushing him back into his bunk one of
them turned to King with a laugh.

"Your life ain't worth mor'n a bob-tailed flush
round here, Howden," he said, "an' I'm givin'
you odds at that."

King looked at the man in the bunk.  "What's
the matter?" he asked.

"Don't you bother about him, Howden," said
another, "he's drunk, an' he don't like you,
but——"

"He just got in from the road," interrupted the
first speaker, "an' he ain't had much to eat.  A
couple o' drinks was enough to put him out."

For a moment the hum of conversation ceased
and the men looked out from their bunks with
expectancy in their faces.  And in that moment
the door opened and Bill McCartney stepped in.

King looked at him from the other end of the
long aisle.  For some time McCartney apparently
didn't see him.  Suddenly their eyes met
and King noticed that McCartney swayed
unsteadily, and putting out his hand laid it upon
the edge of a bunk for support.

Someone standing close to King muttered in a
half whisper:

"Look out, Howden, he's drunk, an' he's ugly,
an' he's goin' to get you if he can."

But King continued looking at McCartney
without speaking a word.  Gabe tugged a
moment at King's arm, but King moved him gently
to one side.  His whole attention was centred on
McCartney, who had taken his hand from the
bunk and was doing his best to stand erect and
return King's gaze.  Once he took a couple of
steps towards King, but his knees wobbled and
he was forced to put a hand out again to keep
himself from falling.  Then he looked at King
with a sneer on his lips.

"What the hell—are you doin'—here?" he
asked, in a voice that was thick and unsteady.

King did not reply.

"It won't do you no good—comin' round
here—interferin' between Keith McBain an' me,"
McCartney went on.  "That's my affair an' you
keep out."

Still King did not offer to say a word.

But someone else spoke up from behind King.

"Go on back to your bunk, Bill," said the voice.
"You're too drunk to talk that way to-night."

"Drunk?" sneered Bill McCartney, and for a
moment he seemed suddenly to sober up.  "Well,
I'll tell you this.  I may be drunk but I know
what brings this son of a dog here where he ain't
wanted—an' he knows.  He's payin' a visit—a
reg'lar visit."

King's frame straightened up and his jaw set
firmly.

"But he's welcome, he can have her," McCartney
continued.  "He can ask her who was with
her last night—ask Gabe there."

King took a half dozen steps towards McCartney
and thrust his face close.  Conversation
had ceased and a deathly silence had come over
the place.  Every man there had looked forward
to the time when these two should meet and settle
accounts.  The fact that McCartney was clearly
under the influence of liquor gave some cause for
regret but, on the other hand, they felt that if
McCartney was going to play the game at all it
was strictly his own affair, and it was his business
to come prepared for a show-down whenever and
wherever the occasion arose.

"You don't give me a chance," King said very
slowly and in a tone of genuine regret.  "You
talk to me like that because you're drunk.  But
you won't talk like that where I am, even if you
are drunk.  Some day you'll be sober, and I'm
going to ask you about this.  Then you'll have to
eat what you said.  But I'm going to wait.  Just
now I'm going to throw you out."

Even as he spoke, he stepped deliberately
towards McCartney, and the latter lurched heavily
to meet him, aiming a blow with his huge fist as
he came.  The blow was badly directed and King
parried it without effort.  The next moment he
had McCartney round the waist and had lifted
him bodily from the floor.

"Open the door, Gabe," he ordered, and as
Gabe swung the door open King half carried, half
pushed his struggling burden into the open doorway
and with a final effort, into which he put all
his strength, he lifted the drunken foreman and
threw him out into the darkness, where he
stumbled and fell clumsily to the ground.

King stood for a moment and watched him
while he scrambled awkwardly to his feet and
stood cursing.  He would have come back at
King almost immediately had it not been for a
couple of the men who edged their way out
quickly past King and led McCartney away in the
darkness to his own quarters, cursing and
shouting threats as he went.

Then King turned and looked behind him at
the men.

"I guess we'll be going on back, Gabe," he said
quietly.  "There won't be any more trouble to-night."

Together the two men left the bunkhouse and
started off down the trail towards the store.

When they had reached the door King stopped
and looked once round the camp, where it lay in
pitch darkness.

"Go on in, Gabe," he said to the old man.
"I'm going to take a walk over to the cabin and
see that everything is all right."

Gabe hesitated at the thought of letting King
go away alone, but knowing his protests would
be quite useless, he entered the store and King
went off.

At first King found it difficult to make up his
mind to go directly to the cabin.  In his heart of
hearts he yearned for one look at Cherry.  But
he knew Cherry's disposition.  He knew that she
had resolved upon a course of action in her future
relations with him that he might just as well save
himself the trouble of trying to change.  And
yet he wanted to hear her voice again; he wanted
to speak to her and explain.  He wondered if
Anne might not have already said something that
would make it easy for him to attempt to restore
himself to Cherry's confidence.

And so, as he strolled along in the darkness, his
mind was divided as to what he should do.  By
the time he had come to within a dozen yards of
the cabin he had decided to allow his course of
action to grow out of the dictates of the moment.
One step at a time, he thought to himself, and
started off again towards the cabin.

The light still shone from the cabin window,
and the thought came to King that he might
creep up and perhaps get a glimpse of Cherry
through the window.  But before he had covered
half the distance he became instinctively aware
of the presence of someone behind him.  At first
he had only a vague presentiment such as comes
often to one moving about alone at night.  But
soon the feeling took complete possession of him,
and he turned to see if he might not catch sight
of someone following him.  His first thought
naturally was of McCartney, but he realized on
second thought that McCartney was at that
moment in no condition to justify the suspicion.

As a precautionary measure he walked back
slowly along the pathway.  He had gone not
more than a dozen yards, however, when he
stopped suddenly where the pathway was
obscured by a clump of bushes that hung over from
one side.  Directly in front of him a form was
moving towards him out of the darkness.  When
it had come within three yards of him it stopped
and King thought he recognized the newcomer
as one of the two riders whom he had met coming
into camp earlier in the evening.

There was a quick movement that King could
scarcely discern in the darkness, and he threw up
his arms instinctively to ward off an attack.  He
was too late, however.  Something struck him
heavily upon the head and for a few moments he
swayed dizzily with his hands upon his face, his
teeth clenched in a struggle to beat back
by sheer will-power a flood of horrible darkness
that threatened to engulf his senses.  For one
brief moment he thought how utterly ridiculous
it was that his legs should tremble so uncertainly
under him, and that the world about him should
seem to be moving in a dizzy circle.  Then
suddenly the realization came to him that he was in
danger of losing the fight, and he redoubled
his efforts to shake himself free from a power
that clutched him like some black monster
battling for his overthrow.  He was vaguely
conscious of something warm creeping down his
cheek—like a great bead of sweat.  He put his
hand slowly to his head and ran his fingers
through his hair.  The sensation turned him sick.

In one last remaining moment of consciousness
he realized that the struggle was going against
him, and he summoned all the energy and power
of will that was left him in an effort to reach the
cabin before giving up.  The noises in his ears
became suddenly more deafening—he found it
impossible to place his feet where they should
go—his knees became sickeningly weak—then he
stumbled over nothing and put his hands out
blindly before him as he fell.

In a moment it was as if all the darkness that
brooded over the world had crowded into one
brain and blotted out the last ray of light.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER THIRTEEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER THIRTEEN

.. vspace:: 2

King awoke and looked round him.  There
had been a sound of a door closing
somewhere and voices coming to him across a
great distance.  He remembered the passing of a
cool breeze across his cheek with the fresh scent
of wet pine in it.

Raising himself on his elbow he turned his
head and took a quick survey of the room in
which he was lying.  Across the room the door
was partly ajar—above him the window was
wide open, letting in a flood of morning light.
He tried to remember what had occurred—his
head was very heavy and his temples throbbed
with pain—he became dizzy, and the arm with
which he supported himself became suddenly
weak.  He lay back again heavily upon the cot.
For a moment he lay with his eyes closed,
struggling to beat off the sense of utter
forgetfulness that crept into his brain.

Something touched his elbow and he turned
his head slightly on the pillow and opened his
eyes again.  Sal was there, her two front paws
upon the patch-quilt that covered him, her eyes
shining and her ears pricked forward in eager
concern.  King lifted a hand wearily and placed
it upon the dog's paws, in response to which Sal
emitted an anxious whine that ended in something
like a bark.

Immediately the door was pushed wide open,
and Gabe Smith stepped into the room.  He was
in his shirt-sleeves, but his hat was on his head
and his pipe in his hand, ready, apparently, for
action of whatever kind the occasion might
prompt.

He moved over to the side of the cot and
looked down at King with an odd smile, half of
pity and half of amusement, lighting his old face.

"Tryin' to kick off?" he asked in an attempt to
appear cheerful, "or are you jist tryin' to scare
the rest of us to death?"

King's smile was too faint to be very assuring,
and Gabe leaned down and looked more closely
into his face.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

For reply King put one of his hands to his
head and sighed heavily.  He seemed to be on
the point of speaking, but finding the effort too
great turned his head away impatiently and
relaxed wearily against the pillows.

Without speaking another word Gabe left the
room and returned in a few moments with
Cherry.  He remained standing by the door
while the girl stepped over to the cot and laid her
hand gently on King's forehead.  At the touch of
her hand he turned his head slowly again towards
them and opened his eyes.  He looked bewildered.

"You're here with us in the cabin," Cherry
said, quietly.  Then she got up quickly and left
the room.  When she came back she carried a
jug of fresh water from the spring, and a white
cup.  Filling the cup quickly, she placed one
hand under King's head and put the water to his
lips.

He drank till the cup was quite empty and then
lay back again upon the pillows and closed his
eyes.  Cherry looked at him with a strange fear
gripping her heart.  His face was pale and drawn,
with a bright red spot flaming on each cheek.
His brow was hot when she laid her hand on it,
and his arms lying powerless upon the bed-cover
were burning to the touch.  She did not know
whether he was asleep or not—he lay so still.

Getting up, she poured some water she had
just taken from the spring into a dish that stood
on a small table in one corner of the room.  She
dipped a clean bit of white cloth in the water
and wrung it dry.  Then she stepped again to
the side of the cot, and brushing the hair back
gently from King's forehead, laid the cold cloth
on his brow.

For a moment she stood with her hand lying
lightly upon the cloth and looking into King's
face.  Gabe came closer and stood looking down
at them, extending one of his hands towards Sal,
who was moving restlessly about and pawing at
Gabe's knees to get his attention.

Slowly King opened his eyes.  He looked at
them a moment in silence.

"Would you like some more water?" Cherry
asked him.

He nodded his head slightly and Gabe filled
the cup and handed it to Cherry.  This time he
drank more slowly and was satisfied when he
had taken but half of what was in the cup.

"I guess I'm—I'm worrying you," he said, and
his voice was scarcely more than a hoarse
whisper.  "Sorry—but I'll be all right—soon.  It's
my head—I must have been hit—hit hard.  I
remember—I tried not to go down—but I—I had
to go."

Cherry brushed her hand lightly across his hair.

"But you mustn't talk, King," she said quietly.
"You must be quiet for a while."

He smiled up at her.

"Don't bother about me," he said.  "I'll be
better—right away."

His whole body seemed to relax suddenly as
he ceased speaking, and he closed his eyes again.
Cherry remained crouching upon one knee beside
the cot, her eyes upon his face, one of her hands
still under his head, where she had placed it when
she helped him to drink, the other hand on the
coverlet, her fingers touching his arm.

Half consciously she allowed her hand to creep
down until her fingers were pressing lightly
against the pulse in his wrist.  It was very fast,
but quite strong.  Even after she had ceased to
observe the pulse-beat she allowed her fingers to
remain half circling his stout wrist.  Then she
moved her hand over his and caught his fingers
in her own.  She glanced behind her—old Gabe
had gone out of the room.  For one long moment
she allowed her hand to rest upon his, and then
her fingers tightened slowly and her head bowed
towards him.

His lips moved, and Cherry listened breathlessly
for any word he might speak.

"I'll go back—stay here—Anne," he muttered.
"Here you—Sal—come here.  Steady up—you fool."

His voice trailed off into incoherent
mutterings.  Then he lay still and his breathing became
even, though Cherry, in spite of her inexperience,
knew that it was very quick and weak.

Once more she removed the cloth from his
head, and washing it in cold water, replaced it
again and pressed it down softly with her fingers.

Then she went out to where old Gabe Smith
was standing in the doorway of the cabin.  For a
long time they stood together in silence, their
eyes turned towards the trail where it came out
of cover of the shrubbery and entered the camp.

"There's no use looking for her yet," said
Cherry.

"No, she'll do well if she gets here much before
supper," Gabe replied.

Cherry and Gabe were thinking of the same
thing—they had been thinking of it for hours.
Not long after King had stumbled and fallen
unconscious in the darkness near Keith McBain's
cabin, Gabe had started out to learn, if possible,
what was delaying his return.  When he came
to the cabin and found that King had not been
there, a hurried search was made, in which both
Anne and Cherry assisted, and in a very short
time they came across King's form lying a few
feet from the beaten pathway, all but hidden
among the grass and low brush into which he had
fallen.

At first they had feared the very worst.  He
seemed to show no signs of life whatever.  They
got him into the cabin as quickly as possible,
however, and Cherry's cot was made ready to
receive him.  When they had laid him down and
bathed his head and face with cool water, old
Gabe placed his hand close upon King's breast,
while the two girls waited, fear and hope
struggling for mastery in their hearts.  At last
Gabe drew a deep breath and nodded in the
affirmative.

At once both girls hurried to perform a dozen
small tasks, while Gabe removed King's outer
clothing and got him into bed.  Then for an hour
or more Cherry and Anne, with a gentleness that
was native to them and went a long way towards
supplying what they wanted in the way
of experience, carefully washed the clots of blood
from his hair and cleaned the wound that gaped
viciously within a few inches of his left temple.
When they had bathed the wound thoroughly
and dressed it to the best of their ability, they
were relieved to find him breathing quite audibly.
His pulse was easily perceptible, and once or
twice he had sighed deeply, like one coming out
of a long sleep.

King's condition did not cease to cause them
anxiety, however, and all three admitted their
own helplessness in the face of serious developments.

It was Anne who spoke the first words that
gave shape to their wondering.  "We've got to
get the company doctor," she said.  "I'm goin'
to the end-of-the-line.  You can stay here and
look after things."

She asked no help in preparing for the trip.
A little after midnight she was off alone on
Cherry's horse on a trail more than half hidden
in darkness, a trail, moreover, that she had never
travelled before.  After all, she told herself, there
was only one trail and it ended at the supply camp.

The hours of waiting that followed passed very
slowly.  Cherry had given her father all the
attention he required and had left him sleeping
soundly, with the hope that the morning would
find him ready, as usual, to get up and go about
the regular duties of the camp.  During the hours
that were left between Anne's departure and
daybreak Cherry watched by King's side, placing
cold cloths upon his fevered brow and bathing his
wrists and arms in cold water from the spring.
Gabe had stayed with her, dozing for a couple of
hours on the couch, where he was ready to answer
her call in case she wanted his assistance.

When the sun was well up Keith McBain had
got up from his bed much as he had done every
morning for years.  After eating his breakfast
and looking in for a brief moment upon King, he
had left the cabin without a word to anyone,
except Gabe Smith, whom he told to stay by Cherry
during the day and see that she got some rest.
During the early hours of the morning he had
not once come back to the cabin, nor sent
anyone to make inquiries.  As many men as could
be used on the grade in work that could be done
in spite of the wet ground, were sent out under a
foreman to go about their tasks in the usual
manner.  He himself had remained behind, with
a score of men and a couple of teams, to repair
the damage that had been done the night before.
Though there would be at most only a few
weeks during which there could be any use for a
cook camp, Keith McBain went about the work
of putting up a new camp with the same cool
determination and matter-of-fact oversight that he
would have given to the building of a camp that
was to last for the whole summer.  Before he
had been on the ground an hour the men were
swinging along at their work as evenly and as
regularly as the parts of a machine.

McCartney failed to put in an appearance at
all during the day—but Old Silent never made
the slightest reference to the fact.

As it turned out, it was already quite dark by
the time Anne returned, seated in a buckboard,
with the company doctor.  The horse that she
had ridden away on trotted along behind them,
where they had tethered it to the rear axle.

Keith McBain met them at the door and
greeted the doctor with a handshake and a smile
that seemed for the moment to transform his
stern grey face, lighting it up with a rare
sympathy and a kindliness that seldom found
expression in his work-a-day life.

"The roads must be bad," he remarked, after
they had exchanged greetings, and then, when
the doctor had removed his coat and looked
questioningly at him, "He's in there.  The girl's
with him."

The doctor, a young, energetic chap, whose
manner was efficiency itself, went at once into
the room that Keith McBain had indicated.  No
sooner was he gone than Anne stepped quickly to
the old man and took him eagerly by the arm.

"How is he?" she said.

Keith McBain shook his head doubtfully.

"He may be some better," he replied.  "He has
slept all day, except now and then when he asked
for a drink.  He talks all right when he's awake,
but——"

Cherry came out of the room and closed the
door after her.  Her face showed clearly the
effects of what she had been through in the last
few days, but no one could see the slightest
indication that she was ready to give up.  The
light in her dark eyes shone stronger and more
steady than ever.  She had entered a conflict
of which, for the time being at least, she felt
herself the centre.  The little world she had built
for herself, and in which she had lived so long
without giving more than a passing thought to
the evil forces that were moving about her, was
now in a state of chaos and disorder.  She could
no longer say to herself, as she had done so often
before, that time would show the way.  She knew
enough of McCartney's designs (he had revealed
enough to her himself) to know that unless
something was done at once a very short time would
bring disaster upon her father—of what nature
and by what means she had ceased trying to
imagine—and she knew not what misfortune upon
herself.

And this conflict was supplemented by another,
no less keen, that was being fought with her own
heart as a battleground.  In the room she had
just left lay the man in whom, for the first time
in her life, and for reasons she could not
understand, she had imposed her fullest confidence
in the face of impending disaster.  But he was
more than a protector.  She had realized more
keenly than ever, while she watched beside his
cot, that a heart-hunger had seized her that only
this big boy of a man could satisfy.  She prayed
for his recovery, for his own sake and for her
father's sake—but passionately for the sake of
the woman that she was.

And now as she stood by the door she had just
closed and looked at Anne, who was talking to
her father, she felt as one who has awakened
from a happy dream.  In her pride she could not
think of showing any but the most casual regard
for Anne; but in her riotous young heart she
almost hated her.  Even as these thoughts flashed
across her mind she saw her father place an arm
about Anne's shoulders.

"Anne," he said quietly, "you've done your
part, girl.  But you've got to get some rest now.
Cherry—make her go to bed as soon as she has
had a bite to eat."

For the next hour there were few words spoken.
Keith McBain sat by himself apart and smoked
incessantly.  Occasionally the doctor opened the
door of the room in which he was working and
asked for something to be brought him.  But the
request was made without any exchange of
words beyond what was absolutely essential.
Even when Gabe Smith entered after seeing that
the horses had received the attention they
required, there was little more than a questioning
look or two and an exchange of glances.

When after a long time the doctor finally
came out of the room the expression on his face
was so reassuring as to change the mood of every
one of them instantly.  Keith McBain was the
first to speak.  He got up quickly, taking his
pipe from his mouth as he stepped briskly
towards the doctor.

"Well," he said, "what's the verdict?"

The doctor smiled.

"If the same thing had happened to me,
Mr. McBain," the doctor replied, "my light would
have gone out for good.  But this boy, Howden—he'll
be out again for the mail in a week, if he
gets anything like careful handling in the
meantime.  There are some men in the world that you
can't kill—and he seems to be one of them.  But
give me something to eat.  I can talk better on
a full stomach."

The conversation turned into another channel
and finally followed a course that was of interest
only to the men.

The doctor did not stay long after he had eaten
his supper, but he gave his directions very
specifically to Cherry.  The patient had to be kept
where he was for a few days, and Cherry herself
would have to give him all the attention possible.
He was not to talk nor become excited.  The
dressings were explained thoroughly, and all the
details of the treatment he was to receive were
gone into briefly but pointedly.  And then—the
doctor was gone, and they were alone again.

The next morning Anne left for town.  For
reasons which Cherry could not explain she had
been strangely drawn to the girl during the two
nights they had spent together in the cabin.
Fears and hopes that are shared in common are
powerful factors in shaping human lives and
moulding human sympathies.  And Cherry had
actually come to look upon Anne with something
like pity.

It was this feeling that prompted her to ride a
little distance with her—this and her father's
suggestion that she should go along to keep the girl
company as well as to get into the air a little
herself.

Their conversation had never turned to King
Howden, except when they had referred to his
condition.  It was all the more surprising to
Cherry, then, when, after a long silence during
which they had been riding slowly and lost in
their own thoughts, Anne spoke very quietly and
with some feeling concerning King.

"I'm goin' back to town because there's nothin'
else to it for me," she said.  "If I had my own
way—I'd stay by that boy till he was ready to
come back."

Cherry was startled at the girl's words and her
face expressed something of what she felt.  Anne
glanced at her and hastened to continue.

"Oh, don't get me wrong on that," she said
apologetically.  "I know you'll do what's
right—do it better than I could."

"I don't misunderstand you," Cherry replied,
and to herself she wished Anne's words could
have meant something different from the
meaning she had taken from them.

"He's right," Anne continued, without more
than a glance to satisfy Cherry; "he's right—an'
that's sayin' something.  I'm older than you—though
twenty-five ought to be young enough for
anyone—but I've seen a few men—an' a mighty
lot of what passes for men—an' I'll tell you this,
when you find a man that's on the level you
can't help wantin' to keep him round.  But—Lord,
Anne's gettin' sentimental."

She broke off suddenly and gave her rein a
shake, and the next moment was off along the
trail with Cherry following at an easy, loping
gait behind her.

They rode thus in silence until they came to the
bridge over the White Pine.  The water had gone
down almost as suddenly as it had risen, and
the crossing presented no difficulty whatever.
Cherry waited till Anne had got safely over to
the other side, and then, after an exchange of
farewells, turned back towards the camp.

Cherry's mind was busy every moment of the
ride home that morning.  Anne was a strange
girl, behind whose jaunty manner, she felt sure,
were hidden heart-breaks and disappointments
that the outside world knew nothing of.  Cherry
had talked with her only a very little, had never
really come to know her at all, in fact—and had
never thought of her as anything more than just
Anne, the girl in MacMurray's lodging-house.
And yet, in her presence, Cherry felt a subtle
power—the power that comes from long and hard
experience, that made it difficult even to talk
much.

But always, as Cherry thought about her, there
arose in the background an image of King
Howden standing in the open doorway of the
lodging-house with his arm about the girl, all
but hidden in the gathering dusk.  And somehow
she could not resist the thought that Anne's
words fully confirmed what she had first feared
that evening when she rode so unexpectedly to
MacMurray's door.  The single hope to which
she had clung in moments of depression, when
disaster seemed about to break upon her world,
was fast slipping away from her and she was
being left to fight the battle alone.

And yet——

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER FOURTEEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER FOURTEEN

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER FIFTEEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER FIFTEEN

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER SIXTEEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER SIXTEEN

.. vspace:: 2

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.

Hurley's smile broadened.  "I can't put the
duffer out."

"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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER SEVENTEEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER EIGHTEEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   THE END.

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::