CHAPTER VIA DEAL IN LAND
On the morning after the corporal’s discovery, Gustave Wandle was leading his team to a drinking pool on the creek that crossed his farm. He was a big, reserved, fair-haired man, with a fleshy face that was redeemed from heaviness by his eyes, which were restless and keen. Though supposed to be an Austrian, little was known about him or his antecedents except that he owned the next half-section of land to Jernyngham’s and farmed it successfully. It was, however, believed that he was of an unusually grasping nature, and his neighbors took precautions when they made a deal with him. He had reached the shadow of a poplar bluff when he heard hurried footsteps and a man with a hot face came into sight.
“I’m going across your place to save time; I want my horse,” he explained hastily. “Curtis, the policeman, has ridden in to the settlement and told me to go up and search a muskeg near the north trail with Stanton. Somebody’s killed Jernyngham and hidden him there.”
“So!” exclaimed Wandle. “Jernyngham murdered! You tell me that?”
“Sure thing!” the other replied. “The police have figured out how it all happened and I’m going to look for the body while Curtis reports to his bosses. A blamed pity! I liked Jernyngham. Well, I must get to the muskeg soon as I can!”
He ran on, and Wandle led his horses to the pool and stood thinking hard while they drank. He was well versed in Jernyngham’s affairs and knew that he had once bought a cheap quarter-section of land in an arid belt some distance off. A railroad had since entered the district, irrigation work had been begun, and the holding must have risen in value. Now, it seemed, Jernyngham was dead, which was unfortunate, because Wandle had found their joint operations profitable, and it was very probable that Ellice and himself were the only persons who knew about the land. Wandle mounted one of the horses and set out for Jernyngham’s homestead at its fastest pace.
On reaching it, he soon found an iron cash-box in a cupboard and succeeded in forcing it with a screw-driver. It contained a few papers, among which were one or two relating to the purchase of the quarter-section, and Wandle put these in his pocket. The others he threw into the cupboard—Jernyngham’s carelessness was well known—and then hastily studied a railroad time-table. By starting promptly, he could catch a train at the station next after Sebastian, which he thought would be wiser, and reach a new wooden town of some importance in the evening. Having ascertained this, he hurried out and rode home, taking the cash-box with him. On arriving, he smashed it flat with an ax and flung it into his stove in which a fire was burning; then he made a hasty meal, changed his clothes, and saddling a horse, rode hard across the prairie. There was, he realized, some risk in what he meant to do, but it was not a very serious one, and he was thankful that the sale of land is attended by few formalities in western Canada.
When he reached his destination, business premiseswere closed for the night, but after making inquiries he found a land agent who was recommended as respectable and trustworthy at a smart hotel. Wandle led him to the far end of the lobby, where they would not be disturbed, and sitting down at a table took out the papers.
“What’s that quarter-section worth?” he asked.
The agent told him and Wandle lighted his pipe and affected to consider. He thought Jernyngham had not suspected its value.
“Don’t you think you could get another three dollars an acre?” he suggested.
“It’s possible, if you will leave the sale in my hands; but I may have to wait for a suitable opportunity. There’s a good demand for land in the district now that they’re getting on with the irrigation scheme, but to insist on the top price will mean delay.”
“Could you sell it for me promptly at the figure you mentioned?”
“Why, yes,” said the agent. “I’ve a number of inquiries for farming land on my books. I shouldn’t wonder if I fixed the thing up in a week.”
“I can’t wait a week. There’s a pretty good haulage contract I could get, but it will take some financing, which is what brought me along; because I ought to see about it in the next few days. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll sell you that land to-night at the lower figure.”
The agent pondered.
“No, sir,” he said, irresolutely. “I’d only make a few dollars an acre on the deal, and I can get ten per cent. on my money right in this hotel.”
“You’d have to wait a year for it, wouldn’t you? What price will give you ten per cent. profit on this quarter-section?You want to remember that you may get it in a few weeks, and you’d have first-class security.”
After making a rough calculation in his notebook, the agent looked up.
“As a rule, I prefer to buy for other people, but I can’t go back on what I said about land being in strong demand, and I’ll make you a bid. This is the most I can do.”
Wandle, after trying to raise the price, made a sign of acquiescence.
“We’ll let it go at that. I’ll get things fixed up as soon as the land-office is open in the morning.”
He left the hotel, satisfied on the whole, though he had sacrificed a dollar or two an acre and there was an element of danger in what he had done. The sale of the land must be registered, and the date would be two or three days after the one on which Jernyngham was killed. The latter’s homestead was, however, a long distance off, there was only one small weekly newspaper published in the district, and it was very probable that the agent would not hear of the affair until some time had elapsed, and then might not attach any importance to the fact that the victim’s name was that of his customer. Even if he did so, the small discrepancy in the dates would, no doubt, escape his attention. Wandle did not think he had much cause for uneasiness.
Reaching home the next day, he raked out his stove and found the cash-box. It had not fallen to pieces as he had expected, and he doubled it up again with the ax before he flung it into the ash pail. Then he lighted the stove and set about getting supper, for it was late in the evening. After finishing the meal, he threw some fragments of potatoes and a rind of pork into the pail and took it upto carry it to the refuse heap, but stopped with a start when he left the house. It was getting dark, but two shadowy figures were riding up the trail and by the way they sat their horses he recognized them as police troopers. Putting down the pail, he waited until they dismounted near-by.
“You’re too late for supper, Curtis,” he said coolly. “I’ve just cleaned it up.”
The corporal glanced at the pail and in the dim light noticed only the domestic refuse.
“I’ve had some,” he answered. “I want a few minutes’ talk.” Then he motioned to his companion. “Hitch the horses, Stanton, and come in when you’re ready.”
They entered the house, followed presently by the trooper, and Wandle lighted his pipe. He felt more at ease with it in his hand and he suspected that he would need all his collectedness.
“Well,” he said, “what’s the trouble?”
“I suppose you know that Jernyngham’s missing?”
“I heard that he was killed.”
“Looks like it,” said Curtis. “You know the muskeg where the creek spreads out, about fourteen miles north?”
“I don’t; never been up so far.”
Curtis noticed the prompt disclaimer.
“Anyway, Jernyngham rode there and was knocked out with something heavy that must have left him stunned, if it didn’t make an end of him. He didn’t ride away after it, though his horse went on. The point is that it was led.”
“How do you know that?” Wandle asked.
“It’s my business to know these things. Think we can’t tell the difference between the tracks of a led horse and a ridden one? The only times two horses trot closetogether at an even distance is when one’s rider has both bridles, or when they’re yoked to a wagon pole. However, I’ve come to ask if you can throw any light on the matter? You and Jernyngham were partners, in a way, weren’t you?”
“That’s so. Now and then we bought implements and horses, or hired a tractor plow, between us. As a matter of fact, Jernyngham owed me about five hundred dollars. Anyhow, I’m as puzzled about the thing as you must be.”
“Then you think we’re puzzled?” Curtis said in a significant tone.
Wandle laughed.
“It struck me as likely. You know there’s not a rancher in the district who would hurt the man. He was easy to get on with.”
“Did you know that he borrowed money on his holding and took it with him the night he disappeared?”
“I didn’t,” said Wandle, starting. “I’m not pleased to hear it now. I’ve a claim on the place and there are some pretty big storekeepers’ bills to come in.”
Curtis asked a few more questions before he took his leave. He passed near the ash pail as he went out and Stanton touched it with his foot, but they had mounted and reached the trail before either of them spoke.
“Well?” said Curtis.
Stanton smiled.
“Nothing much to be learned from him; the fellow’s about as sly and hard to get at as a coyote.”
“A sure thing,” Curtis agreed. “We’ll keep an eye on him; I’ve a suspicion he knows something.”
Then they trotted away in the moonlight, for it was a long ride to their camp beside the muskeg, which with the assistance of several men they were engaged in searching.
On the next afternoon, Prescott was at work in the summer fallow, sitting in the iron saddle of a gangplow, which four powerful horses hauled through the crackling stubble. It was fiercely hot and he was lightly clad in thin yellow shirt and overalls. A cloud of dust rose about him from the parched soil, and the broad expanse of wheat which the fallow divided glowed with varied colors as it rippled before the rush of breeze, the strong greens changing to a silvery luster as the lush blades bent and caught the light. Farther on, there were faint streaks of yellow among the oats; the great stretch of grass was white and delicate gray, the rows of clods behind the plow rich chocolate-brown.
Prescott, however, paid little attention to his surroundings. He was perhaps the only man in the district who had known Jernyngham intimately; he felt troubled about his disappearance, and he had had a disturbing interview with Wandle during the morning. The Austrian had contested his right to manage the farm, declaring that Jernyngham owed him money and had made certain plans for the joint working of their land which must be carried out. This did not so much matter, in a sense, if one could take Jernyngham’s death for granted; but Prescott could not do so and had, moreover, no intention of letting his property fall into the hands of a cunning, grasping fellow, who, he was fully persuaded, had no real right to it. If Jernyngham did not turn up, Prescott meant to discharge all his debts after harvest and, as the crop promised well, to send the balance to England as a proof that his friend had not been a failure in Canada. This might be some comfort to Jernyngham’s people.
He was considering the matter when he heard thestubble crackle behind him and, looking around, saw Curtis riding up. Stopping his team, he waited until the corporal drew bridle.
“Have you found him yet?” he asked.
“We have not,” said Curtis. “It’s a big muskeg and quite deep. You know the place?”
“Oh, yes, I know it pretty well.”
Curtis looked at him sharply, but Prescott seemed to be musing.
“It’s a sad thing when you think of it,” he said after a few moments. “From the little he told me, the man had hard luck all through; and that Mrs. Jernyngham should leave him just after he’d sacrificed his future for her must have been a knock-out blow. Yet I’ve an idea that instead of crushing it braced him. It pulled him up; he showed signs of turning into a different man.”
“You knew him better than I did,” Curtis replied. “I heard at the hotel he’d asked you to look after his place, given you a share in the crop.”
“He did. I’d some words with Wandle about the matter this morning; Jernyngham warned me he might pretend he had a claim. However, that’s not to the purpose; somehow I feel convinced he’ll turn up again. What motive could any one have for killing him? The only man we might have suspected—the fellow who went off with Ellice—must have been on the train bound for St. Paul.”
“He was; we wired the conductor. But the thing’s quite simple—the motive was robbery. You remember that wad of bills?” The corporal paused before he added: “Where did you last see Jernyngham?”
“At the trail-forks near my place. He rode right on; I took the turning.”
“Did you see your man, Svendsen, or his wife when you got home?”
“I didn’t; they live at the back of the house. I put up the horses, slipped in quietly, and went to bed.”
“Then you can’t fix the time you got back?”
Prescott moved sharply, lifting his head, while an angry color suffused his face.
“Curtis, you can’t think—Jernyngham was my best friend!” Then he laughed indignantly. “You always struck me as a sensible man.”
The corporal regarded him with scrutinizing eyes, his manner stamped with official austerity.
“I’m forming no opinions—yet. It’s my duty to find out all I can about the matter and report. If there’s anything you’re open to tell me, I’ll make a note of it.”
Prescott’s face grew stern and his glance very steady.
“I can add nothing to what I’ve said, and I’m busy.”
Curtis rode away, but when he was out of the rancher’s sight he broke into a dry smile. He was an astute young man and knew his business, which was merely to investigate and follow the instruction of his chiefs at Regina. Unembroidered facts were what they required in the first instance, but later he might be permitted to theorize.
When the corporal had gone, Prescott went on with his plowing, but the crackle of the stubble and the thud of the heavy Clydesdales’ hoofs fell unheeded on his ears, and it was half-consciously that he turned his team at the head-land. He had a good deal to think about and his thoughts were far from pleasant. To begin with, the memory of Muriel Hurst had haunted him since she left; he recalled her with a regretful longing that seemed to grow steadily stronger instead of diminishing. He thought she had left an indelible mark on his life. Thenthere was his impersonation of Jernyngham, which he had rashly agreed to, but did not now regret. If Colston had met Cyril on the night of the riot and had gone to his untidy dwelling, he would have been forced to send home an adverse report. Prescott was glad to think he had saved his friend from a farther fall in his English relatives’ esteem, though, knowing a little of the man’s story, he held them largely responsible for his reckless career. Their censoriousness and suspicion had, no doubt, driven him into wilder rashness.
Besides all this, the corporal’s manner rankled in his mind. He knew Curtis well and had a good opinion of his ability. It seemed preposterous that such a man could imagine that he had had any hand in Jernyngham’s death. Yet the corporal’s tone had been significant and the facts had an ugly look. He had seen Jernyngham secrete his money and had afterward ridden on with him, unaccompanied by anybody else. He could not prove when he returned to his farm, and it might be said that he stood to benefit by securing the management of Jernyngham’s property.
When he reached the end of the furrows his face was grim, but he steadily continued his plowing.
CHAPTER VIITHE SEARCH
Prescott dismounted and turned loose his horse, short-hobbled, near the muskeg about two o’clock one hot afternoon. He had begun work at four that morning, and, with harvest drawing near, time was precious to him, but he was filled with a keen curiosity to see what progress Curtis had made in his search. He had a strong personal interest in the matter, because it seemed that some suspicion might rest on him; though he was far from sharing the corporal’s conviction that Jernyngham was dead. Stopping at the edge of the ravine, he looked about, taking in the details of the scene.
Though the prairie had lost its greenness and the flowers had died, it stretched away, flooded with dazzling light, a great expanse of silvery gray, flecked with faint lemon and brown. In the swampy hollow, however, the grass grew tall and green among the shining pools, and Prescott noticed to his astonishment a dozen men working assiduously lower down. They had discarded most of their clothing, their brown arms were bare, and the stiff, dark-colored soil they flung up with their shovels cumbered the bank of the ravine, which had narrowed in again. Prescott saw that they were cutting a deeper channel for the creek, with the object of draining the swamp.
Moving farther along the bank, he came upon the two policemen, who looked very hot and somewhat muddy,which, as they were usually fastidiously neat, was noticeable. He felt some hesitation in accosting them, as he recalled the corporal’s attitude when they last met, but he was curious.
“I suppose you have found nothing?” he said, and when Curtis made a sign of negation continued: “How did you get so many of the boys here?”
Putting his hand in his pocket, the policeman gave him a printed circular which announced that a reward of one thousand dollars would be paid for the discovery of Cyril Jernyngham’s remains.
“His people in the old country cabled it over,” he explained.
“Well,” Prescott said thoughtfully, “I don’t believe he’s here; but he was a friend of mine, and I’m as anxious to have the question answered as you are.”
Private Stanton, who was sitting in the grass, looked up with a rather significant smile. Indeed, there was a certain reserve in the manner of both men which exasperated the rancher.
“It’s quite likely you’ll have to wait,” Curtis rejoined. “Even when we’ve run the water out, it may take a long while to search the mushy stuff it will leave, and if we’re beaten here, we’ll have to try the bluffs.” He looked hard at Prescott. “We don’t let up until we find him.”
“Tell me where I can get a shovel and I’ll help the boys.”
Stanton brought him one and for the next two hours he worked savagely, standing knee-deep in water in a trench, hacking out clods of the “gumbo” soil, which covers much of the prairie and grows the finest wheat. When dry it sets like stone, when wet it assumes a glutinous stickiness which makes it exceptionally difficult to deal with. Fiercesunshine poured down on Prescott’s bent head and shoulders, his hands grew sore, and mire and water splashed upon him, but he was hard and leanly muscular and, driven as he was by a keen desire to test the corporal’s theory, he would have toiled on until the next morning, had it been needful. At length, however, there was a warning cry from one of the men nearer the swamp.
“Watch out! Let her go!”
Prescott leaped from the trench. There was a roar higher up the ravine, and a turgid flood, streaked with frothy lines, came pouring down the new channel, bearing with it small nut bushes and great clumps of matted grass. By degrees it subsided, and the men, gathering about the edge of the muskeg, hot and splashed with mire, lay down to smoke and wait, while the pools that still remained grew smaller. They had been working hard since early morning and they did not talk much, but Prescott, sitting a little away from them, was conscious of an unpleasant tension. It was possible that the search might prove Curtis right. The corporal stood higher up the bank, scanning each clump of grass and reeds with keenly scrutinizing eyes. At length, however, he approached the others.
“I guess you’ve made a job, boys,” he told them. “The soft spots ought to dry out in about a week, but we can’t wait till then. You want to remember there’s a thousand dollars for the man who finds him.”
They glanced at the morass hesitatingly. It did not look inviting. In places the reeds grew as high as their heads, and one could not tell what depths they hid. In other spots there were tracks of slimy ooze in which one might sink a long way. None of them, however, was fastidious, and they waded out into the mire, shouting warnings to one another, disappearing now and thenamong the grass. The search was partially rewarded, for while Prescott and a companion were skirting a clump of reeds they saw part of a soaked garment protruding from the slime. For a few moments they stood looking at it irresolutely; and then Prescott, mustering his courage, advanced and seized the stained material. It came away more readily than he had expected, and he turned to his companion, conscious of keen relief, with a brown overall jacket in his hand. A further examination, shrinkingly made, revealed nothing else, and after marking the place they waded to the bank. The garment was carefully washed in the creek and the men gathered in a ring round Curtis when he inspected it.
“Have any of you seen this thing before?” he asked, holding it up.
None of them would identify it. Thin duck overalls are commonly worn by ranchers and working people, in place of heavier clothing, during the hot weather. Then Curtis turned to Prescott.
“What’s your idea?”
“It isn’t Jernyngham’s,” the rancher said decidedly. “It’s too old, for one thing; looks as if it had been in the water quite a while.”
“Hard to tell,” commented Curtis. “But go on.”
Prescott took the jacket and held it so that the others could see the inside of the collar.
“No maker’s tag,” he continued. “Now Cyril always bought the kind they give you a doll with.”
One of the others laughed and supplied the name of the manufacturer, which was attached to every garment.
“I’ve seen three or four of those dolls and golliwog things in his house,” the man added. “Used to guy him about keeping them, as he had no kids.”
“We can fix the thing by inquiring at the dry goods store,” Curtis rejoined.
“Can’t see whose it was, if it wasn’t Jernyngham’s,” another broke in. “There’s no homestead anywhere near the creek and mighty few people come up here!”
The policeman took from his pocket a wet envelope, upon which the blurred writing was still legible.
“Well,” he said coolly, “there’s no doubt about whose this is.” He handed it to Prescott. “Ever see it in Jernyngham’s possession?”
“Yes,” answered Prescott with some hesitation. “I recognize the address, though the English stamp has gone. It was lying near when he was talking to me on the night of the trouble in Sebastian.”
He was filled with uneasiness. The police would certainly attempt to read the letter, which was the one Colston had written announcing his arrival. If they succeeded, they would no doubt wonder why the Englishman had not stayed with Jernyngham, and investigation might lead to a discovery of the part Prescott had played.
“We’ve begun quite satisfactorily,” said the corporal, “and there’s nothing more to be done to-night. I guess you can quit and have supper, boys.”
In a little while trails of gray smoke floated across the ravine, and after a meal with one of his neighbors Prescott rode back to his homestead, feeling much disturbed. For all that, and in spite of the letter, he did not think Jernyngham would be found in the swamp.
On the following evening a commissioned officer of the police, who had made the journey from headquarters at Regina and spent an hour or two examining the scene of the supposititious tragedy, sat with Curtis in a very hot private room of the hotel at Sebastian. Its raw boardwalls gave out a resinous smell; the opening in the window was filled with mosquito-netting, so that little air crept in. On the table lay a carefully made diagram; a boot, and one or two paper patterns representing footprints were on the floor. The officer’s hair was turning gray and he had a quiet brown face with a look of command in it.
“Taking it for granted that your theory’s right, suspicion seems to fall on the men you mentioned,” he said. “Whom do you suspect?”
Curtis considered. He was reluctant to express a decided opinion in the presence of his superior, who was famous for his acumen.
“So far as we have any evidence, I think it points to Prescott,” he responded. “He saw Jernyngham hide his money; he went on alone with him, and can’t prove when he got home. Then several of the footprints marked on the plan might have been made by him.”
The officer took up the boot and one of the paper patterns.
“There’s a doubt. I suppose he knows you have his boot?”
The corporal’s eyes twinkled faintly.
“I guess he’ll miss it sometime.”
“It’s possible. But what else have you against him?”
“Prescott stands to profit by Jernyngham’s death: he has control of the holding until the year’s up, and it’s a pretty good crop. He declares the jacket isn’t Jernyngham’s; he won’t allow the man can be in the muskeg. A day or two after Jernyngham disappeared he bought one of the new wide-swath binders. Paid the money down in new bills, which was what Jernyngham had, though the implement agent didn’t note the numbers.”
“Pretty strong points. What’s your private opinion? Out with it.”
The man’s tone was commanding and Curtis complied.
“On the whole, I’m inclined to blame the other fellow, Wandle.”
“Against the evidence?” asked his superior in quiet surprise. “You of course remember your instructions and know what your duty is.”
“Yes, sir,” said Curtis. “Still, I think——” He paused and continued diffidently: “You would have an answer.”
The other leaned back in his chair with a meditative expression.
“We’ll let it go at that,” he said. “Perhaps you had better follow the waiting course you seem to have decided on, but if suspicion gathers round Prescott it won’t be a drawback and you needn’t discountenance it. For one thing, it may divert attention, and after all he may be the right man.”
A look of comprehension shone in the corporal’s eyes. He believed that his superior, who never expressed a strong opinion prematurely, agreed with him.
“Suppose either of the men lights out?” he suggested.
“You’ll have to guard against it. If it happens, apply for a warrant and follow him.”
The officer returned to Regina the next day; and a week or two, during which Curtis and his assistants laboriously searched the drying swamp, passed uneventfully. Then one morning Prescott sat somewhat moodily in the saddle of his binder which a powerful team hauled along the edge of the wheat. The great stretch of grain blazed with color as it swayed with a harsh rustle of warm-tinted ears before the breeze, but now and thenbroad cool shadows sped across it as the white-edged clouds drove by. Behind him followed two more teams and machines, half covered by falling sheets of yellow grain, while their whirling wooden arms flashed in the dazzling sunlight as they flung out the sheaves. Bare-armed and very scantily attired men came after them, piling the stocks together. Disturbed as he was, Prescott felt cheered by the prospect of harvesting a record crop.
He had turned a corner and was proceeding along another side of the great oblong when he noticed a wagon approaching, carrying two strangers and several large trunks. As their dress differed from that usually worn on the prairie, he wondered who they were and why they were driving toward his ranch. The liveryman, who held the reins, presently pulled up his team and Prescott; stopping his binder, waited to be addressed. An old soft hat fell shapelessly forward over his deeply bronzed face, his neck and most of his arms were uncovered. Before him the four powerful horses stood fidgeting in the heat, a black cloud of flies about their heads. Though not a man of striking appearance, he was in harmony with his surroundings, and formed a fine central figure in the great harvest field: a worthy type of the new nation that is rising in the West.
For a moment or two the strangers studied him carefully from the wagon. The one nearest him was a woman of thirty, he thought, of tall and chastely lined figure, with a colorless and rather expressionless face, though her features were excellent. She wore a tight-fitting dark dress which seemed to have been made all in one piece, and gave an impression of prim coldness and careful restraint. The man in the soft hat was obviously her father. He had gray hair; his face, which was finelychiseled, suggested a formal, decided, and perhaps domineering, character; his gray tweed traveling suit was immaculately neat. There was no doubt that they were English, and Prescott wondered whom they reminded him of, until the truth flashed upon him with a disconcerting shock—they were Jernyngham’s father and sister!
“Mr. Prescott?” inquired the man.
Prescott bowed, and the teamster, jumping down, handed him two cards.
“I understand that you knew my unfortunate son,” the newcomer continued.
“I did,” Prescott replied guardedly.
“Then can I have a word or two with you in private?”
Getting down from the binder, Prescott helped the other to alight from the high wagon; the man was not agile, though he carried himself well. They walked back some distance along the edge of the wheat. Then the rancher stopped and from force of habit felt for his pipe.
“I must be to some extent confidential,” began Jernyngham. “You must guess why I came.”
The strong light fell searchingly on his face, revealing lines on it which Prescott thought had lately been deepened by pain, but his eyes were very keen and hard.
“I suppose the recent calamity brought you,” the rancher ventured.
“Yes; I have come to see justice done. But we will not discuss that yet. We arrived yesterday evening and found it was impossible that my daughter should be comfortable at the hotel; besides which, it is rather too far away. I accordingly determined to look for quarters at one of the ranches, but succeeded in getting shelter for only the one night.”
Prescott felt amused. Jernyngham and his daughterwere not the kind of people the somewhat primitive prairie ranchers would welcome; their request for accommodation was more likely to cause astonishment and alarm.
“People are very busy, now that harvest’s coming on, and they’ve extra hands to cook for,” he explained.
“I understand,” continued Jernyngham, “that my son’s homestead is in this neighborhood, and domestics might be hired; but after what has happened, I fear my daughter would find living there a painful strain. That was why I thought of applying to you.”
The announcement filled Prescott with dismay. The presence of the Jernynghams might involve him in further complications.
“I’m sorry, but we live very simply,” he said hastily. “My place is only half furnished; we have no time to make it comfortable—and I’m sure you’d find our cooking barbarous. I’m afraid Miss Jernyngham couldn’t put up with the accommodation we could offer her.”
“We only want quietness, fresh air, and a little privacy, none of which seems to be obtainable at Sebastian. While the question of terms is no consideration, I recognize that I must make my appeal to your generosity.”
Prescott did not answer, and Jernyngham resumed in a more urgent tone:
“I must beg you not to make difficulties; I’m told there is nobody else in the neighborhood who could take us in. We will require very little attention and will promise to give you no trouble.”
Prescott wavered. The man was keenly anxious; it was hard to resist his appeal, and there was, after all, only a small risk that he might hear of Colston’s visit. Svendsen and his wife, who attended to the housekeeping,were Scandinavians, and could scarcely converse in English. When they addressed him by any distinguishing epithet it was always as “Boss.”
“Well,” he said doubtfully, “I can’t refuse you shelter. You can stay for a while, anyway, until we see how we get on. I’ll go up to the homestead with you.”
He had an interview with his housekeeper, who protested in broken English that harvest was a singularly inconvenient time to entertain strangers, but eventually gave away. The extra hands lately hired could be put up in the barn, and there were two rooms that could be spared. Prescott showed his visitors in and afterward watched with some amusement their surprise when they sat down to the midday meal with the lightly clad toilers from the field. During the afternoon and until late in the evening, he worked hard among the grain, but when the light was failing and he leaned on a wire fence, hot and tired after the long day of effort, Jernyngham came toward him.
“We have had very little talk so far,” he said. “My daughter, however, desires me to convey her thanks to you. She believes she will be perfectly comfortable.”
He was irritatingly formal, his tone was precise, but it changed as he added:
“So you knew Cyril!”
“Yes,” Prescott said gravely. “I was fond of him.”
Jernyngham seemed to be struggling with some stirring of his deeper nature beneath the crust of mannerisms.
“Mr. Prescott,” he said, “I may tell you that I now fear I treated the lad injudiciously, and perhaps with needless harshness. I looked upon extravagance and eccentricity as signs of depravity. It was a vast relief when I heard from Colston, whom you may have met;that Cyril had prospered and was leading an exemplary life in Canada.”
The blood crept into Prescott’s face, and Jernyngham glanced at him curiously before he proceeded.
“We were somewhat hurt that he would not come home; but after past mistakes I could not urge him, and it seemed possible that he might change his mind later. Then the dreadful blow fell—crushing and filling me with all the bitterness of useless regret. I had spoken too late; the opportunity I would not use in time had gone.”
He broke off, and his face had grown white and stern when he went on again:
“There is only one thing I can do, but if needful, I will devote the rest of my life to it—that is, to track down the man who killed my son!”
He was silent for the next few minutes, and then, after a few words on indifferent subjects, intended, Prescott thought, to cover his display of feeling, he turned away, leaving the rancher smoking thoughtfully.
CHAPTER VIIIA DAY ON THE PRAIRIE
A week after Jernyngham’s arrival at the homestead he sat among the sheaves in the harvest field late one afternoon studying a letter which the mail-carrier had just brought him. His daughter, sheltered from the strong sunlight by the tall stocked sheaves, was reading an elegantly bound book of philosophy. Gertrude Jernyngham had strict rules of life and spent an hour or two of every day in improving her mind, without, so far as her friends had discovered, any enlargement of her outlook. Among her numerous virtues was an affectionate solicitude about her father’s health, which was variable. Though still muscularly vigorous, Jernyngham was getting an old man, and he had been out of sorts of late.
“I’m glad you are looking much better than you did this morning,” she said, glancing at him after a while.
“Thank you,” Jernyngham rejoined punctiliously. “I suppose it was the strain of the past few weeks that tried me, and perhaps I have been doing too much, traveling backward and forward between here and the muskeg.” Then with an effort he banished his painful thoughts and smiled. “I wonder how many years it is since I spent an afternoon in a harvest field! I’ll confess that I find much to interest me.”
Gertrude laid down her book and glanced about. Shewas of a practical disposition and almost devoid of artistic susceptibilities, but the richness and color of the scene impressed her. Far away in front ran the long ranks of sheaves, gleaming in the sunshine amid the golden stubble which was flecked by their deep-blue shadows. The air was cooling, but the light was brilliant and the standing wheat was picked out with tints of burnished copper. By comparison with it, the oat stocks shone pale and silvery. Round the edge of the grain moved the binders, clashing and tinkling musically, while their whirling arms flashed in the sunlight.
Prescott, lightly clad, drove the foremost machine. The fine modeling of his lean, muscular figure was effectively displayed; his uncovered arms and face were the color of the soil. Seated behind the big horses, he looked wonderfully virile. The man seemed filled with primitive vigor; he was a type that was new to Gertrude Jernyngham.
“Our host,” remarked her father, “strikes one as tireless; though I’m inclined to think that during harvest everybody here works at a higher tension than would be borne at home. Their methods are rather wasteful—this tall stubble, for instance, continuous cereal crops, except for the short summer fallow—but they’re no doubt adapted to the needs of the country. Having some experience in these matters, I should say this farm was excellently managed.”
In place of answering, Gertrude watched the rancher. The physical perfection of the man had an effect on her, though she was essentially prudish.
“I ought to drive in to the settlement and send off a cablegram, though I expect it will be difficult to get a team,” Jernyngham resumed, returning to his letter.“Cranford wants instructions about a matter of importance that has cropped up since we left.”
“It wouldn’t be wise for you to drive so far,” Gertrude said firmly. “I might go instead; we’ll speak to Mr. Prescott about it this evening.”
Shortly afterward there was a harsh clanking sound and Prescott, pulling up his team, sprang down from the binder. He became busy with hammer and spanner, and in a few minutes the stubble was strewn with pinion wheels, little shafts, and driving-chains. Then, while his guests watched him with growing interest, he put the machine together, started his team and stopped it, and again dismembered the complicated gear. This, as Gertrude realized, was work that needed a certain amount of skill. Finally, when the overtaking binders had stopped near-by, he took out a small shaft and held it up so that the harvesters could see it.
“Journal’s bent; I’ll have to go get a new piece,” he said. “Go ahead with your teams.”
After that he unhitched his horses and was leading them past the place where the Jernynghams sat, when Gertrude spoke to him.
“I’m sorry you had an accident, and I suppose you will have to send the broken part to Sebastian. May I go with the team?”
“Why, of course,” he said. “I’ll drive you in to-morrow. As it’s a pretty long way, I’ll try to borrow a comfortable rig.”
He went on with the horses and she saw no more of him that day, but early the next morning he brought up a light, four-wheeled vehicle, which would carry two people and had a hood that could be drawn up. Gertrude thought it a great improvement on the prairie wagon,and she admired the restive team which he had some trouble in holding. When she got in, he sprang to the seat beside her, the horses bounded forward, and they sped out through a gap in the fence, the vehicle lurching wildly among the ruts.
For a while Gertrude was occupied, to the exclusion of everything else, in trying to keep her place, but when Prescott turned the team on to a stretch of smooth short grass she began to look about. It was a clear, cool morning, the sky was a wonderful blue, and bluffs miles away showed up with sharp distinctness. In the foreground the gray grass was bathed in a soft light which was restful to the eyes. Then Gertrude examined the rig, as the man had called it, which struck her as remarkably light and fragile; and the same thing was noticeable about the harness. The horses moved as if they were drawing no load, swinging along at a fast and springy trot, while the vehicle ran lightly up and down the slight undulations, the wheels jarring now and then into a hollow or smashing through dwarf scrub. The pace was exhilarating, the fine air invigorated the girl, and her usual prim reserve melted away.
“I am fortunate in getting in to Sebastian,” she said. “There’s a cablegram it’s necessary that my father should send.”
“Glad to take you,” Prescott rejoined. “Is Mr. Jernyngham in business?”
“Oh, no; not as you would understand it. We spend most of our time in the country, where he manages the estate. It’s small, but there are two quarries which need looking after. Then he’s director of a company. He doesn’t believe that a man should be idle.”
Prescott smiled. He had read a good deal aboutEngland, and he could imagine Jernyngham’s firm control of his property. His rule would, no doubt, be just, but it would be enforced on autocratic and highly conventional lines. His daughter, the rancher thought, resembled him in some respects. She was handsome and dignified in a colorless way; she might have been charming if she were only a trifle less correct in manner and there were more life in her.
“Well,” he said, in answer to her last remark, “that’s a notion you’ll find lived up to here. The man who won’t work mighty hard very soon goes broke. It’s a truth you in the old country ought to impress on the men you’re sending out to us.”
She liked his easy phraseology; which she supposed was western, and there was nothing harsh in his intonation. It was that of a well-educated man, and the Jernynghams were exacting in such matters.
“I think there must be something in the air which makes toil less arduous,” she said. “The people I’ve met have a cheerful, optimistic look.” She hesitated, and added in a confidential tone: “I like to imagine that my brother wore the same expression, though he was always carelessly gay. He seems to have made a capable rancher. It was a great relief to us when we were told of it.”
Prescott grew hot and embarrassed, but he thought he could understand how Cyril Jernyngham had entered on a course of recklessness. It was a reaction against the overwhelming propriety of his father and sister.
“I don’t think you need grieve for your brother yet,” he said gravely. “Although nobody here seems to agree with me, I find it impossible to believe that he is dead.”
Gertrude gave him a grateful look.
“I’m glad to hear you say so—there is at least a doubt, and that is comforting; though I’m afraid my father can’t be made to realize it.”
“Can’t you persuade him not to take too much for granted?”
“I wish I could.” Gertrude’s tone was sad. “He has been brooding over the dreadful news ever since it reached us. It has possessed him absolutely; he can think of nothing else, and there will be no relief for him until he finds the guilty person, or it is proved beyond all doubt that the police are mistaken.” She paused before she went on. “If they’re right, I think I should feel as merciless as he does. Cyril was my only brother; I was very fond of him.”
Her voice trembled a little, though her eyes were hard, and Prescott felt sorry for her. She was not of emotional nature; he could imagine her shrinking from any display of tenderness. Nevertheless, it was obvious that she was a prey to fear and grief.
“So was I,” he said. “I wonder if I may point out that he struck me as being different from you and your father?”
“I think I know what you mean. Cyril was like my mother—she died a long while ago, but I remember her as gentle, sympathetic, and perhaps more variable than I am. Cyril was swayed by feeling rather than by judgment.”
Prescott knew this was correct, but he found his companion an interesting study. She was wrapped up in cold propriety; she must have led an uneventful life, looked up to and obeyed by the small community that owned her father’s rule. Romance could not have touched her; she was not imaginative; but he thought there were warmth and passion lying dormant somewherein her nature. She could not have wholly escaped the consequences of being Cyril Jernyngham’s sister.
Nothing further was said for a while, and presently the team toiled through a belt of sandy ridges, furrowed by the wind, where the summits were crested here and there by small jack-pines. Looking up as they crossed one elevation, Gertrude noticed a wedge of small dark bodies outlined against the soft blue sky.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Wild geese; the forerunners of the host that will soon come down from the marshes by the Polar Sea.”
“But do they go so far?”
He laughed.
“They cross this continent twice a year; up from the steaming lagoons on the Gulf to the frozen muskegs of the North, and back again. They’re filled with a grand unrest and wholly free; travelers of the high air, always going somewhere.”
“Ah!” responded Gertrude. “To be always doing something is good. But the other—the ceaseless wandering——”
“Going on and on, beating a passage through the icy winds, rejoicing in the sun, seeking for adventure. Is there no charm in that?”
She looked at him uneasily, as if his words had awakened some half-understood response.
“I think Cyril must have felt something of the kind. So far it has never stirred me. Isn’t it wise to hold fast by what is safe and familiar?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Prescott answered with a smile. “I follow the course you mention, because I have to. It’s my business to drive the plow, and the hazard of having a crop hailed out is adventure enough. But Idon’t think it should make one hard on the people who prefer the other thing. After all, they may be right; the life they take pleasure in may be the best for them, though it wouldn’t appeal to you or me.”
“I’m not sure that toleration should be encouraged. It often means indifference, perhaps a lack of principle.”
She grasped tightly the rail around the seat, for the horses plunged down a sandy slope at a wild gallop, passing at the bottom a horse and buggy in which sat a man dressed in a dark gray suit, to whom Prescott waved his hand.
“Is he a clergyman?” asked Gertrude.
“Well,” Prescott smiled, “he’s a Presbyterian minister. I suppose you think there’s a difference?”
His companion with unusual forbearance let this pass.
“Then you have churches at Sebastian?”
“Four. I can’t say they’re crowded; but, while we’re liberal-minded on many points, the flocks won’t mix. Strikes me as a pity.”
“It is a pity; there should be only one strong and united church in every place.”
“And that the right one?” Prescott’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “You’re thinking of the one we call Episcopalian?”
“Yes,” said Gertrude severely; “the Church.”
“I’ll admit that I’m on pretty good terms with the lot, but Father Dillon’s my favorite. For one thing, he’s a practical farmer as well as a fine classical scholar. His crowd, for the most part, are hard-up foreigners; and he shows them how to build decent homes and put their crops in. All the same, I’ve quite a high opinion of the Methodist and the Presbyterian, who are at the opposite end of the scale.”
Gertrude showed signs of disapproval.
“In these matters, broad-mindedness may be dangerous. One can’t compromise.”
“Well,” he said, “even the Roman Curia tried it before the council of Trent, and your people made an attempt to conciliate the English Calvinists about Elizabeth’s time; you were inclined to Genevan Protestantism once or twice afterward.”
His companion’s surprise was evident, and he laughed as he read her thoughts.
“Oh,” he explained, “I used to take some interest in these matters once upon a time. You see, I was at McGill.”
“McGill? I seem to have heard the name, but what does it stand for?”
Prescott looked amused.
“I don’t know that it quite means what Oxford does to you, but it’s something of the kind; you might have seen the fine buildings at the foot of the mountain, if you had stayed in Montreal. Then we have Toronto; with deference to the Toronto men, I’ll compare that to Cambridge. Still, so far as I understand your English ideas, there’s a difference—our boys go to McGill or Toronto with the intention of learning something that will open up a career. They certainly play football and one or two other games pretty well, but that’s a very secondary object; so’s the acquiring of a polished style. In fact, it’s not altogether unusual on this side of the Atlantic to find university men spending a vacation as waiters in the summer hotels.”
“But why do they do that?” Gertrude asked with a shocked expression.
“For money,” Prescott answered dryly. “One gathersthat the St. Andrew boys did something of the same kind in Scotland in your grandfather’s time; and no logical objection could be made to it, anyway. Isn’t it a pretty good test of a man’s determination? It’s hard to see why he should make a worse doctor, engineer, or preacher, because he has the grit to earn his training by carrying plates, or chopping trees, which some of our boys take to.”
This was difficult to answer, and Gertrude did not attempt it; her prejudices were stronger than her powers of reasoning. Looking southward, she saw the turreted tops of the Sebastian elevators rising from the sea of grass like cathedral towers. Their smallness emphasized the vastness of the plain, which was beginning to have a stimulating effect on her mind. She thought it might explain the broadness of her companion’s views, which, while erroneous, were becoming comprehensible. He lived in the open, beyond the bounds of walls and fences, breathing this wonderful invigorating air. Nevertheless, he was obviously a man of varied and extensive information, which struck her as somewhat curious in face of his severely practical abilities. He could mend harness, plow a straight furrow, break horses, and strip a complicated machine. As a new type, he deserved attention.
After a while they struck into a well-beaten track which had been graded where it crossed a muskeg. The rude work, however, had suffered from frost and rain: the ruts in the hard black soil were deep and there were dangerous holes. To make matters worse, a big gasoline tractor, intended to assist in some harvesting operations, had got into difficulties near the middle of the graded track. It was making an alarming noise and diffusing a pungent odor, while two men thrust bits of board beneath the wheels for it to climb out of the hole on.Prescott’s team slackened their pace, jerking their heads and pricking their ears. They were young range horses that had roamed over wide spaces, and were badly broken.
Getting a tight grip on the reins he turned to his companion.
“We can’t get around—the muskeg’s too soft. I’d put you down, only that I may not be able to hold the team after we get past that machine.” He raised his voice. “Can’t you stop her, boys?”
“No, sir!” cried a grimy man. “Soon as we cut out the engine she’d run back into the hole! We’ve been here two hours already!”
“Hold tight!” Prescott cautioned Gertrude, and urged the horses forward.
As they approached the tractor the noise suddenly increased, and its wheels spun faster, grinding on the skids. One of the horses reared, swinging up the pole, which nearly threw its fellow; then there was a frantic thud of hoofs against the frame of the vehicle, and the team, swinging half around, threatened to overturn it into the swamp. Prescott plied the whip; the beasts plunged. One pair of wheels left the road, and the rig slanted alarmingly. A violent crash and jolt followed; Gertrude came near to being flung out of her seat; and they passed the tractor and sped across the graded stretch at a furious pace. Prescott was braced backward, his feet pressed hard against a bar, his lips tightly set, while Gertrude, shrinking from the disaster that seemed imminent, wondered how he swung the panic-stricken beasts clear of the worst holes. She gasped with relief when they had passed the muskeg, but the trail was still in a dangerous state, and Prescott turned the team upon the grass, where they galloped on while the wheels smashed throughshort scrub, until at last the speed began to slacken. The horses’ coats were foul and flecked with spume when Gertrude looked backward and saw the tractor far away in the distance.
“They’ve had enough,” Prescott remarked. “We made the last mile at a pretty good clip; I kept them at it. Guess they won’t start another circus if we meet a freight locomotive on the switches.”
The settlement was reached without further mis-adventure, and Prescott, as a special favor, secured a separate table at the hotel, where Gertrude was served with an excellent meal. Afterward he showed her how to despatch her father’s message, and as she turned away the telegraph operator grinned at Prescott.
“Where are all these high-toned English girls coming from, Jack?” he said. “You have brought another one this time.”
Leaving the man without an answer, Prescott rejoined his companion.
“Are there any English people staying near the settlement?” she asked.
“The fellow was alluding to Miss Hurst.”
“Muriel Hurst?” Gertrude exclaimed sharply. “Was she here with you?”
“Yes.” Prescott regretted that she had asked for an explanation of the operator’s remarks. “I once drove her in; Cyril’s team was doing something else. But you said you wanted to visit the drygoods store, didn’t you?”
Gertrude accompanied him there and when he left her in the hands of a lady clerk she fancied that she was favored with somewhat unusual attention on his account. The man seemed to be a favorite in the settlement. She spent a tedious afternoon in the hotel parlor while hewent about the business that had brought him in and the team rested. It was a relief when he reappeared in time for supper; and after that they set out again. The sun set before they reached the homestead, the air grew bracingly cool, and the prairie rolled away before them, dim and mysterious, streaked with shadowy blurs of bluffs until a full moon rose and flooded it with silvery light. There was strange, deep silence except for the thud of hoofs which rose and fell in sharp staccato rhythm.
Gertrude was tired when Prescott helped her down at the homestead, but all her senses were unusually alert. She had enjoyed what she felt had been an invigorating day, and she admitted that, although she by no means agreed with all the rancher said, his breezy talk had added to its zest.