CHAPTER XVMISS FOSTER’S ESCORT
On the morning after he met Helen Foster, Kermode sought a foreman with whom he was on good terms.
“I want to quit work for a week,” he said abruptly.
“Sorry; I can’t give you leave, and the boss went down the line yesterday. If you let up before you see him, it’s quite likely he won’t take you back.”
“If he doesn’t I won’t be very grieved. Throwing forty-foot rails about all day palls on one. But what about my wages up to date?”
“That’s a matter for the pay-clerk when he comes along. If you quit without notice, he’ll make trouble.”
Kermode considered this; but he had about ten dollars in his pocket and he was not of provident nature. He decided that something must be left to chance, though the thought that he might have handled heavy rails for the contractor’s exclusive benefit was strongly distasteful. Walking across the town, he paid a visit to Miss Foster.
“Can you ride?” he asked her.
“I haven’t ridden for years.”
“Perhaps you could manage a steady horse which wouldn’t go faster than a walk?” he suggested.
“Yes.” Then she hesitated. “But horses are expensive, and I have very little money left. Somehow, it seems to disappear rapidly in Canada.”
“That’s an annoying trick it has,” Kermode laughed.“However, you had better start for Drummond this morning, and I’ll go with you.”
The girl looked dubious. She knew nothing about him, but his manner and appearance were in his favor, and her position was far from pleasant. Mrs. Jasper, who had already presented what appeared to be an extortionate bill, seemed by no means anxious to keep her, and it might be a long time before she could communicate with her brother. How she was to hold out until he came to her assistance she could not tell.
“Thank you,” she said, gathering her courage; and after promising that he would be back in an hour, Kermode went away.
He was a man who acted on impulse and, as a rule, the more unusual a course was the better it pleased him. In spite of her lameness Miss Foster was attractive, which, perhaps, had its effect, though he was mainly actuated by compassion and the monotony of his track-laying task. He did not think the settlement, in which there were very few women, was the kind of place in which she could comfortably remain, particularly if her means were exhausted. Presently he met the livery-stable keeper driving in his buggy and motioned to him to pull up.
“How much will you charge for the hire of the roan, to go to Drummond?” he asked, and the man named his charge.
“I’ll give you eight dollars now and the balance when I come back.”
“No sir!” replied the other firmly. “You might fix up to stay there.”
“Will an order on the railroad pay-clerk satisfy you?”
“It won’t. If you want the horse, you must put the money down.”
“Then I can’t make the deal.”
The man drove on, but Kermode was not to be daunted by such a difficulty; besides, he had noticed Jim, the hired man, dawdling about the outside of the stable. When the buggy was out of sight, he accosted him.
“I want the roan in half an hour,” he said. “I see you have Mrs. Leaver’s saddle here, and as she’s away, you had better put it on. I’m going to take the lady you saw with me to Drummond.”
“S’pose you have seen the boss about it?”
“You must have noticed me talking to him,” Kermode replied curtly. “Bring the horse along to Mrs. Jasper’s as soon as you’re ready.”
Then he returned to the hotel and wrote a note which he gave the bar-tender, instructing him to let the proprietor of the livery-stable have it when he came in for dinner. After this he succeeded in borrowing a small tent, and when he had supplied himself with provisions he hurried toward the widow’s shack. The horse was already there, and when he had strapped on the folded tent and Miss Foster’s bag he helped her to mount, and set off, carrying his blankets and stores in a pack on his back. He showed no sign of haste and chatted gaily, though he was anxious to get out of the town as soon as possible, because he did not know when the stable-keeper would return.
It was a clear morning; the girl looked brighter after her night’s rest, and the fresh air brought a fine color into her face. Kermode kept her laughing with his light chatter, but he was nevertheless glad when they reached the shadow of the pines, where they could travel faster without attracting attention. After half an hour’s rapid walking, he left the trail, which ran on towardDrummond for a day’s journey before it stopped at a ranch, and turned down into the valley. He thought it might be wiser to keep to the south of the line he would be expected to take, though this would entail the crossing of rougher country. Reaching the edge of a stream, he stopped and regarded it with some concern. It ran fast between great boulders and looked deep, but as there was no sign of a better crossing he warned the girl to hold on, and led the horse in.
After a few paces he sank above his knees, and found it hard to keep his footing and the horse’s head upstream. The roan was slipping badly among the stones and the hem of his companion’s skirt was getting wet. He was pleased to notice that she did not look unduly alarmed.
“We’ll be across in another minute or two,” he said as cheerfully as he could.
She smiled at him rather dubiously and at the next step he sank deeper and dragged the horse round as he clung to the bridle. The roan plunged savagely and the water rippled about Kermode’s waist as he struggled for a foothold on the slippery stones. With a desperate effort he managed to find firmer bottom and soon came out on a strip of shingle. Stopping there for a few moments, he gathered breath while the girl looked about. They were in the bottom of a deep gorge filled with the sound of running water and sweet resinous scents. Here the torrent flashed in bright sunshine; there it flowed, streaked with foam, through dim shadow, while somber pines towered above it. There was no sound or sign of human life; they had entered the gates of the wilderness.
“Where do we go next?” the girl asked.
“Up this slope,” said Kermode. “Then among thepines, across the hills, and high plains, into a lonely land. I don’t suppose we’ll see a house until we get to Drummond.”
“Do you know the way?”
“I don’t,” Kermode said cheerfully. “I’ve never been here before, but I’m accustomed to traveling about the prairie, where trails are scarce. You don’t look daunted.”
There was a hint of pleasurable excitement in his companion’s laugh.
“Oh,” she replied, “adventures appeal to me, and I’ve never met with any. For three years since my brother left, I’ve led a life of drudgery; and before that, half the pleasures I might have had were denied me by an accident.”
Recognizing a kindred nature, Kermode looked sympathetic. She was evidently alluding to her lameness, which must prove a heavy handicap to a girl of the active, sanguine temperament he thought she possessed.
“In a way, it was a great adventure for you to come out here alone over the new road,” he said.
“I thought so last night,” she confessed with a smile. “When I reached the settlement and found I could get no farther, I was really scared. Now, however, all my fears have gone. I suppose it’s the sunshine and this glorious air.”
“Well, we had better get on. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk a while.”
She let him lift her down, with no sign of prudishness or coquetry, and he led the horse uphill while she followed. Her attitude pleased him, because he had no desire for philandering, although he was content to act as protector and guide. Still, while he adapted his paceto the girl’s he thought about her. Her rather shabby attire and scanty baggage hinted that she had not been used to affluence; but she showed signs of possessing a vigorous, well-trained mind, and he decided that she must have been a teacher.
When they reached the top of the ascent, she mounted and they went on among scattered clumps of pines and across a tableland as fast as he could travel, because it seemed prudent to place as long a distance as possible between them and the settlement. He had left the place with a valuable horse and saddle which he had not paid for, and he was very dubious whether the livery-stable keeper would be satisfied with the promises he had left. Accordingly he only stopped for half an hour at noon; and evening was near when he helped the girl down and picketed the horse beside a small birch bluff, and set up the tent.
“There are provisions in my pack and you might lay out supper, but I don’t think we’ll make a fire to-night,” he said. “I’ll be back in about half an hour; I want to see what lies beyond the top of yonder ridge.”
She let him go, and he climbed between slender birches to the summit of a long rise, where he lay down and lighted his pipe. From his lofty position he commanded a wide sweep of country—hills whose higher slopes were still bathed in warm light, valleys filled with cool blue shadow, straggling ranks of somber pines. The air was sharp and wonderfully bracing; the wilderness, across which he could wander where he would, lured him on. Irresponsible and impatient of restraint, as he was, he delighted in the openness and solitude. For all that, he concentrated his gaze on one particular strip of bare hillside. At its foot ran the gorge they had crossed,but it had now grown narrow and precipitous, a deep chasm wrapped in shadow. He did not think a horse could be led down into it, which was consoling, because if any pursuit had been attempted, it would follow the opposite side, near which a trail ran.
After a while his vigilance was rewarded, and he smiled when three very small figures of mounted men appeared on the hillslope. They were going back disappointed, and he did not think he had much to fear from them. Wages were high about the settlement, where everybody was busy, and the liveryman would, no doubt, find the search too costly to persist in. When the horsemen had vanished, he returned to the camp, and Miss Foster glanced at him keenly.
“Supper’s quite ready; you have been some time,” she said. “What did you see from the top?”
“Mountains, woods and valleys. They were well worth looking at in the sunset light.”
“And what else? As you live in this country, you didn’t go up for the view.”
Kermode saw that she was suspicious, and thought her too intelligent to be put off with an excuse.
“I’ll admit that I wasn’t greatly surprised to see three men a long way off. They were riding back to the settlement and I dare say they were angry as well as tired.”
“Ah!” she said. “You wouldn’t light a fire, though you have a package of tea here and there’s a spring near-by. You thought it wouldn’t be prudent?”
“I did think something of the kind; but won’t you begin your supper? What shall I hand you?”
“Wait a little. You haven’t told me very much yet.” Then her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Mr.Kermode, I’d better say that my brother will be responsible for the expenses of this journey. I suppose you haven’t paid for the horse?”
“It’s unfortunately true. The trouble was that your brother lives a long way off, and you led me to believe that your money was running out.”
“I have,” she said calmly, “fifty cents left.”
Kermode began on a sandwich she handed him.
“And I’ve three or four dollars. You see our difficulty needed a drastic remedy.”
“But you were at work on the railroad. I understand wages are high.”
“That’s so; but it’s some time since the pay car came along.”
“But you will get what is due you, when you go back?”
“Have another sandwich,” said Kermode. “You have made them very well.” Then seeing that she meant to have an answer, he added: “I’m not going back.”
A little color crept into her face as she looked at him. Kermode had for a time led a dissipated life, but there had been a change during the last few months. He had practised abstinence, and in new surroundings found it easier than he had expected; severe labor had healed and hardened him. His brown skin was clear, his pale-blue eyes were bright and steady, his figure was spare and finely lined.
“So,” she said, “you sacrificed your wages to assist a stranger?”
He made her a whimsical bow.
“I’d like to think we’ll be better acquainted before we part.”
“But what will you do now?”
“Oh,” he responded lightly, “that’s hardly worthtalking about. I’ll strike something. So long as you’re pretty active there’s generally work to be had, and when it grows monotonous you pull out and go on again.”
Miss Foster mused.
“After all,” she said, “life must have a good deal to offer a strong man with the ability to make the most of things. He can set off, when he likes, in search of new and interesting experiences.”
“It has its drawbacks now and then,” declared Kermode, smiling. “Anyway, you needn’t imagine you’re shut off from everything of the kind. You took a big risk and faced a startling change when you came out here.”
“So I felt. Though I had misgivings, the thought of it drew me.”
“I understand. You have courage, the greatest gift, and you felt circumscribed at home. No doubt, the love of adventure isn’t confined to one sex. It’s a longing many of us can’t overcome; but it doesn’t seem to meet with general sympathy, and it’s apt to get one into difficulties.”
“Yes,” Miss Foster assented with some bitterness; “particularly a woman.”
After that, she went on with her meal while dusk crept up about the lonely camp. The sky was pale green in the west and the hills stood out against it, black and calm; not a breath of wind was stirring and it was very still, except that out of the distance came the murmur of falling water. When the air grew damper, Kermode brought her a blanket which she wrapped about her shoulders and they talked on for an hour in a casual manner. Then he got up.
“You will be quite safe in the tent,” he said. “I’ve found a comfortable berth in the wood. We’ll get off as soon as it’s light to-morrow.”
He disappeared into the shadows and she noticed that he had left her the two blankets he had brought from the settlement. She hesitated about taking them both, but decided not to call him back. A little later she entered the tent, while Kermode scraped out a hollow in a bank of fallen leaves and went to sleep.
The grass was white with frost when Miss Foster left the tent in the morning, but a fire of branches crackled cheerfully near-by and Kermode was busy with a frying-pan. A light cloud of smoke rose into the still, cold air, and day was breaking on the eastern horizon.
“This looks pretty good,” he said, taking out a greasy cake and several strips of pork. “If you will make the tea, I’ll water the horse.”
He was back in a few minutes. His companion enjoyed the simple meal, and when it was finished they resumed the march. During most of the day their pathway led over high, treeless ridges which lay in bright sunshine, though a delicate haze dimmed the encircling hills. Then they dipped to a valley where they had trouble among the timber and the girl was forced to dismount. The winter gales had swept the forest and great pines lay piled in belts of tangled ruin, through which Kermode found it difficult to lead the horse, while as they floundered over branches and through crackling brush his companion’s limp grew more pronounced. Afterward there were several rapid creeks to be forded, and Kermode was wet and Miss Foster very tired when they camped at sunset, in a grove of spruce. Little was said during the evening meal and soon after it was over the girl sought her tent, while Kermode found a resting-place among the withered sprays at the foot of a tree.
They spent the next morning toiling up a long ascent,and from its summit a prospect of majestic beauty burst upon them. The great peaks had grown nearer, the air was clear, and the girl sat, rapt, in the saddle, gazing at the vast snow-fields that glittered with ethereal brilliance, very high up against a cloudless sky. Then the wonderful blue coloring of the shadows streaking the white slopes caught her glance, and she found it unutterably lovely. Kermode, however, had an eye for other things and carefully searched the wide valley that stretched away beneath them.
“What are you looking for?” the girl asked at length.
“Smoke; I thought I saw a faint streak, but it has gone. I suppose you didn’t notice it?”
“Oh no!” she told him with a smile. “I’m afraid I shouldn’t have noticed such a commonplace thing, even if it had been very plain.”
He made a sign of comprehension.
“Then what have you seen?” he asked.
“Unapproachable, stainless whiteness, touched with an unearthly glory that daunts the mind!” Then her expression changed. “But the sight is too overpowering to talk about. I would have been more useful had I looked for smoke, as that would mean a house.”
Kermode nodded.
“We have stores enough for another meal or two and had better get on. I believe I’ve kept pretty near the line I was told to take, but I’d be glad to see the first ranch in the Drummond district by supper time.”
They went down into the valley, struggling through belts of timber and clumps of brush, until they reached a broad expanse of grass broken by small bluffs. After camping for a meal, they pushed on steadily while the girl grappled with a growing fatigue, until the whitepeaks faded into dusky blue and the waste grew shadowy. Kermode had seen no sign of life and he was getting anxious when, as they approached a bluff, he pulled up the horse.
“Listen!” he exclaimed. “I think I heard something!”
There was silence for a moment or two, and then he caught a soft drumming and a rattle that might have been made by wheels.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s a team and wagon.”
The sound grew plainer, and when Kermode shouted, an answer came out of the gathering darkness. Then a moving shape appeared from behind the bluff, and a minute or two later the newcomer pulled up his team.
“Well,” he said, “what do you want?”
“Tom!” cried the girl excitedly.
The man sprang down, and Kermode needed no explanation. After his companion had dismounted and run forward, he stood quietly holding the horse, until she beckoned him.
“This is Mr. Kermode, who brought me here,” she said. “My brother, Tom Foster.”
“Indebted to you,” responded the man. “I was driving home when you shouted; my place is about six miles off. If you’ll follow, I’ll take my sister in the wagon.”
Kermode thought it better that she should explain the reason for their journey, and he got into the saddle and contented himself with keeping the vehicle in sight until it stopped at a wooden house that stood near a sod stable and rude log barn. When he entered the dwelling after putting up the horse, the lamp was lighted and the stove burning. He saw that Foster was a young man with a good-humored brown face.
“I understand that I owe you more than I thought at first,” he said. “Helen seems to have been pretty awkwardly situated when you appeared on the scene. Sit down and smoke while I get supper.”
They talked gaily during the meal.
“Is there any means of sending back the horse I brought?” Kermode asked after a while.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Foster replied.
“I have a neighbor who is going east on business. He’ll strike the new line where you left it, and he’ll be glad to have the horse.”
Then they talked about other matters, but when the men sat smoking some time later, Foster said cordially:
“You’ll stay here a while?”
Kermode said that he would remain a few days.
“Where will you make for then?” his host asked. “There’s nothing doing round here except a little cattle-raising.”
“For the mountains, I think. I hear the railroad people are busy in the passes; but I’ll try to strike something softer than handling rails.”
“I can fix that,” Foster declared. “They’ve been advertising for haulage tenders—there are a lot of piles and building logs they want brought in. Now I’ve two good horses I’ve not much use for and I’d be glad to let you have them. You could bring them back when the frost stops work.”
“Thanks,” said Kermode. “What’s your idea of shares?”
The rancher declared that he did not expect a share, but when Kermode insisted, they arrived at a satisfactory understanding, and soon after Helen appeared the party broke up.
Kermode spent three or four pleasant days with his new friends, and when he left the ranch one morning, leading two strong horses, Helen Foster walked with him some distance up the valley. She had not known him long enough to recognize his failings, which were plentiful, but his virtues were obvious, and she knew that she would miss him.
“So you are going out on the trail again,” she said. “Where will it lead you?”
“That,” he answered with a gay laugh, “is more than I can tell. No doubt, to fresh adventures and strange experiences.”
“But you know your first stopping-place, the railroad camp. When you have finished your work there, you could come here again and rest a while.”
“No,” he said, more gravely; “I’ll send your brother his horses, but I don’t think I’ll come back. It’s nice to feel that we have been pretty good friends, but it might spoil any pleasant impression I’m leaving if you saw too much of me. Besides, I’m a wanderer; the long trail beckons.”
“It runs through swamps and many rough places into the lonely wilds. Aren’t you afraid of weariness?”
Kermode smiled, falling into her mood.
“You may remember that there are compensations,” he said; “glimpses of glory on the untrodden heights. It’s true that one never gets there, but they lead one on.”
“But you can see them from the valley.”
“No; the farmer’s eyes are fixed on the furrow; he must follow the plow. His crop and his stock are nearer him; he cannot see past them. The wanderer’s mind is free.”
“When you had that glimpse of glory, you turned away and looked for household smoke.”
“There you have me,” he laughed. “Inconsistent, wasn’t it? But we’re only human: one needs rest and food.”
Helen changed the subject.
“Well,” she declared, “I’m grateful; and if it’s any comfort, you won’t be forgotten.”
He stopped the restive horses.
“That’s good to hear,” he told her. “But the ground is rough ahead and you have come some way.”
“Good-by,” she said, and gave him her hand.
He held it for a moment, and then, getting into the saddle, turned and swung off his hat. After that he rode on into the waste, leading one horse; and Helen Foster watched him for a while before she went back, slowly and thoughtfully, to the ranch.
CHAPTER XVITHE MISSIONARY’S ALLY
On reaching the railroad camp, Kermode was engaged by the contractor to haul in logs cut in a neighboring forest for constructional purposes. The line ran into a wild valley, clinging to the rocks that formed one side of it, with a torrent brawling hoarsely among the stones beneath. Above rose vast slopes, streaked in some places with small firs, in others ground to a smooth scarp by sliding snow. Farther back were glaciers and a chain of glittering peaks.
The mouth of the valley had been laid out as the site of a future town, but so far it was occupied by rows of tents and rude wooden shacks, inhabited by the construction gangs. A large proportion of them were orderly, well-conducted men: industrious immigrants who had seized the first opportunity for getting work, small farmers attracted by high wages, skilled artisans. There were, however, some of a rougher type; and the undesirable element, was, as usual, well represented. On the whole, the camp was sober, largely because no licenses had been issued, though this did not prevent men who came up from other points from bringing liquor in, and the authorities suspected another source of supply.
Kermode had little trouble with his work, which he found profitable, and he rapidly made friends. Among them was a young Presbyterian missionary whom he met for the first time on the hillside, engaged on a squaredlog with a big jack-plane. He wore knee-boots and a threadbare suit of gray, while his hat had suffered from exposure to the weather. Kermode stopped his team near-by and the clergyman looked around.
“If you have a good eye, you might tell me whether this chamfer’s running true,” he said.
“You want a bit off here.” Kermode laid his finger on the spot. “Except for that, it’s good.”
The clergyman sat down and pulled out a tobacco pouch.
“I’ll attend to it presently, but I feel I’m entitled to a rest. Take a smoke; you’re not paid on time.”
“I’m not sure it would matter if I were.” Kermode’s eyes twinkled as he filled his pipe. “An idea of the kind you suggested doesn’t go far in a construction camp, unless, of course, a foreman happens to be about. However, you made one rash statement, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid I make a good many,” replied the clergyman good-humoredly. “But you are right. It would be very rash to claim all that one was entitled to; in other words, one’s deserts. You’re Mr. Kermode, I believe; you must know my name is Ferguson.”
Kermode bowed.
“What are you going to do with this log?” he asked.
“It’s to be a door-post in the new church. I wonder if you would be willing to haul it in?”
Kermode said that he would be glad to do so.
“You encourage me to go a little farther,” Ferguson continued. “Building a church is a costly proposition.”
“So I should imagine; I can’t speak from experience.” Kermode was generally liberal, and he took out some money. “I think you ought to let me off with this, as I don’t belong to your flock.”
“It’s a generous contribution; better than the excuse. There are, I may remind you, many kinds of sheep, and the outward difference is often marked. Since, you’re from the old country, you can take the little Cheviot and the ponderous Shropshire as examples. You see the drift of this?”
“That they’re all sheep. I’ve noticed, however, that they wear a good many different brands.”
“Ah, the pity of it! After all, a shepherd has his human weaknesses; perhaps he’s too fond of using his private mark or the stamp of his guild.”
“That,” Kermode smiled, “is a handsome admission. Anyway, you have no rival in shepherding the boys here; and taking us all round, we need it. But can you raise building funds on the spot?”
“Oh, no! I went to Ontario this summer and spent a month begging from people who have very little to spare. The response was generous—I’ve a carload of shiplap lumber coming out; but you may understand how that adds to one’s responsibility.”
“It’s obvious. I suppose you know you’re up against a strong opposition?”
“That’s true, unfortunately.” The clergyman looked thoughtful. “There’s one group, the Mitcham crowd, who would like to run me out. The fellow’s piling up money by smuggling in liquor; he and his friends are depraving the camp. They must be stopped.”
“It’s a big thing for one man to undertake. It may wreck your mission.”
Ferguson’s eyes sparkled.
“The risk mustn’t count. One can’t shut one’s eyes to what those fellows are doing. But I want backers; will you give me your support?”
“That’s more than I can consistently promise. However, I’ll look on and see you get fair play. If the opposition hit below the belt, I may take a hand in.”
“Thanks,” responded Ferguson, and Kermode went on with his team.
He was favorably impressed by the young missionary and kept the promise he had made, though it now and then involved him in difficulties with his comrades. The carload of lumber duly arrived, and with the help of men who gave their labor after their hard day’s work was done, the church was raised by the light of flaring blast-lamps which the contractor allowed. By day, Ferguson worked at it alone, and the building steadily grew into shape; but as the weather got colder trouble broke out in camp. Men engaged on the higher portions of the line were laid off by snow and frost, and when the cost of their board ran on, their tempers got short. There were dismissals, and as working hours diminished, the gangs were driven harder. Friends began to quarrel over games of chance, and the violence they displayed was often accounted for by indulgence in smuggled liquor.
Ferguson, however, was making progress: gaining staunch adherents here, tacit sympathizers there, though the opposition saw to it that several had reason to regret their joining him. Kermode took no open part in the struggle, but watched it interestedly.
At length, one nipping morning, he left his tent with a shiver before it was light and busied himself about his horses with a lantern in their rude branch and bark shelter. Winter was beginning in earnest, and a bitter wind had raged all night, covering gorge and hillside deep with snow, but this would make his hauling easierwhen he had broken out a trail. He plowed through the snow in the darkness, and the threatening dawn had broken when he came down the hillside with the ends of three or four big logs trailing behind his jumper-sled. The shacks and tents were white in the hollow, over which there floated a haze of thin, blue smoke; the rapid creek that flowed past them showed in leaden-colored streaks among the ice; and somber pines rose in harsh distinctness from the hillside.
Then the half-covered frame of the church caught Kermode’s eye. Something was wrong with it. The skeleton tower looked out of the perpendicular; and on his second glance its inclination seemed to have increased. The snow, however, was clogging the front of his sled and he set to work to scrape it off. While he was thus engaged there was a sharp, ripping sound, and then a heavy crash, and swinging around he saw that the tower had collapsed. Where it had stood lay a pile of broken timber, and planks and beams were strewn about the snow.
Kermode urged his team downhill, and when a group of men came running up to meet him, he recognized Ferguson some distance in front of them. The man’s face showed how heavy the blow had been.
“It looks bad; I’m very sorry,” said Kermode when they reached the wrecked building.
“I’m afraid we can’t get things straight until spring and I don’t know how I’ll raise the money then,” declared Ferguson. “A good deal of the lumber seems destroyed, and I’ve levied pretty heavily on every friend I’ve got.” Then he tried to assume a philosophic tone. “Well, I suppose this is the result of impatience; there were spikes I didn’t put in because I couldn’t wait for them and sometenons were badly cut. It blew hard last night and there must have been a big weight of snow on the new shingling.”
“I don’t think you’re right,” Kermode said dryly, and turned to a bridge-carpenter who stood near-by. “What’s your idea?”
“The thrust of what roof they’d got up wouldn’t come on the beams that gave,” rejoined the man. “There’s something here I don’t catch on to.”
“Just so,” said Kermode. “Suppose you take a look at the king-posts and stringers. We’ll clear this fallen lumber out of the way, boys.”
They set to work, and in an hour the sound and damaged timber had been sorted into piles. Then, when the foundations were exposed, Kermode and the carpenter examined a socket in which a broken piece of wood remained.
“This has been a blamed bad tenon,” the mechanic remarked. “The shoulders weren’t butted home.”
“I’m afraid that’s true; I made it,” Ferguson admitted; but Kermode, laying his finger on the rent wood, looked up at his companion.
“For all that, should it have given way as it has done?”
“I’ll tell you better when we find the beam it belonged to.”
It took them some time; and then the carpenter turned to Ferguson.
“You marked this tenon off before you cut it. Did you run the saw past your line?”
“No,” said Ferguson with a start; “that’s certain. I dressed up to the mark afterward with a chisel.”
The carpenter looked at Kermode meaningly.
“Guess you’re right. See here”—he indicated thebroken stump—“there’s a saw-cut running well inside his mark. Now that tenon was a bit too small, anyway, and when they’d notched her, she hadn’t wood enough left to hold up the weight.”
There were exclamations from the others standing round in the snow, but Kermode glanced at Ferguson. His face grew darkly red, but with an effort he controlled his anger.
“Who can have done this thing?” he asked.
“There’s no direct evidence to show, but I’ve my suspicions,” Kermode said. “It’s dangerous to interfere with people’s business, particularly when it isn’t quite legitimate. You must have known you ran a risk.”
“Do you think I should have let that stop me?” Ferguson asked with sparkling eyes.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Kermode rejoined. “Perhaps you had better wait and think the thing over when you cool off. I’ve some logs to haul in.”
He moved off with his team and went on with his work all day, but when night came he attended, by special invitation, a meeting held in a tent that flapped and strained in the boisterous wind. Half a dozen men were present, steady and rather grim toilers with saw and shovel, and though two or three had been born in Ontario, all were of Scottish extraction. Their hard faces wore a singularly resolute expression when Kermode entered.
“Boys,” he said, “before we begin I’d better mention that taking a part in a church assembly is a new thing to me.”
One or two of them frowned at this: his levity was not in keeping with the occasion.
“Ye’re here, and we’ll listen to your opinion, if ye hae one,” said their leader. “Jock is for raiding Mitcham’sshack and firing him and the other scoundrel out of camp.”
“I see objections. Mitcham has a good many friends, and if he held you off, you’d have made a row for nothing, besides compromising Mr. Ferguson.”
“There’s reason in that,” another remarked.
“Then,” continued Kermode, “you can’t connect Mitcham with the wrecking of your church.”
“I’m thinking the connection’s plain enough for us. Weel, we ken——”
“Knowing a thing is not sufficient; you want proof, and if you go ahead without it, you’ll put yourselves in the wrong. This is not the time to alienate popular sympathy.”
“Weel,” said the leader, “hae ye a plan?”
Kermode lighted his pipe and after a few moments answered thoughtfully:
“I hear that Mitcham, Long Bill, and Libby will take the trail to-morrow with Bill’s team and sled—he’s laid off work because of the snow. They were away three or four days once or twice before, and when they came back a number of the boys got on a high-class jag and there was trouble in camp. I dare say you can put the things together?”
“Sure,” declared one who had not spoken yet. “Where do we butt in?”
“This is my suggestion—half a dozen picked men will meet Mitcham coming home and seize the sled. If its load is what I suspect, somebody will ride off for Sergeant Inglis on my horse, and you’ll have a guard ready to bring the sled to camp and hold the liquor until the police arrive. I’m inclined to think you can leave the rest to them.”
A harsh smile crept into the faces of the listeners, and their leader nodded gravely.
“We cannot do better. It will work.”
The plan was duly put into execution, and one bitter night Kermode and several others plodded up a frozen creek. It had been snowing hard for the last few hours and he could scarcely see his companions through the driving flakes, while the wail of the wind in the pines above drowned the soft sound of their footsteps. Kermode was tired and very cold, and could not have explained clearly what had induced him to accompany the expedition. Adventure, however, always appealed to him, and he was sorry for Ferguson, who had, he thought, been very shabbily treated. Kermode had a fellow-feeling for anybody in difficulties.
After a while the snow ceased and they could dimly see the dark pines climbing the steep banks that shut them in. It was obvious that if Mitcham’s party had entered the deep hollow, they could not well get out of it. The expedition had only to go on or wait until it met them; but Kermode did not envy the man whose duty it would be to ride across the open waste to the lonely post where Sergeant Inglis might be found. Resting, however, was out of the question. They must move to keep from freezing, and though the snow began again, they plodded on, with heads lowered to meet the blast that drove the stinging flakes into their faces.
At length the leader stopped and raised his hand. Standing still, they heard a muffled sound that might have been made by the fall of hoofs ahead, and they hastily turned toward a clump of spruce. The trees concealed them and the sound grew nearer, until they could see the dim shapes of men and horses movingthrough the driving flakes. Then they left cover and spread out across the creek. The team stopped and an angry voice came out of the snow:
“What’s this? What do you want?”
“Yon sled and its load,” the leader concisely replied.
“Stand clear!” cried the voice. “Go right ahead, Bill!”
A man sprang forward and seized the near horse’s head.
“Stop where you are!” he cried. “We’re not looking for trouble, but we want the sled!”
Two others ran out from behind the horses, but the leader of the expedition raised his hand.
“It’s six to three, Mitcham, and that’s long odds. Ye’ll get sled and team when ye claim them in camp. Lift a fist and ye’ll give the boys the excuse they’re wearying for. I’ll ask nothing better.”
Mitcham turned to his companions.
“They’ve got us, boys. Leave them to it,” he said.
“Lead the horses, Kermode,” directed one of the party, and the team moved on again while the leader, walking beside the sled, hastily examined its load. Several small cases lay beneath a tarpaulin.
What became of Mitcham and his friends did not appear, for they were left behind in the snow; but the night grew wilder and the cold more biting. For minutes together they could see nothing through the cloud of flakes that drove furiously past them; it was hard to urge the tired horses forward through the deeper drifts and all were thankful when they came to reaches which the savage wind had swept almost clear. They could not, however, leave the creek without their knowing it, and they had a fringe of willows, into which they stumbled now and then,as guide. When, at length, the gorge opened out, there was a high ridge to be crossed, and they had cause to remember the ascent. The route led up through belts of brush and between scattered pines, and leaving it inadvertently every now and then, they got entangled among the scrub. Two of them plodded at the stumbling horses’ heads, four pushed the sled, and at the top of every steeper slope every one stopped and gasped for breath. It was now near dawn and they had marched all night after a day of heavy toil.
The ascent made, they went down the hill at an awkward run, the horses slipping with the sled pressing on them, colliding with small trees, smashing through matted brush, until they heard a hail. It was answered and another body of men appeared and escorted them into camp. Drowsy voices called to them and here and there a man looked out as they passed the lines of shacks and tents, but no word was spoken until they reached their leader’s cabin. The cases were carried in and while two of the company took the horses away the others were given hot coffee and afterward sat down to wait for morning. It was very cold and icy draughts crept in, but they were undisturbed until daybreak, when there was a cry outside:
“Here’s Mitcham wanting to talk to you!”
A weary man, white with snow, entered and looked eagerly round the shack.
“I’ve come for those cases,” he said, pointing to the pile.
“What right have you to them?” Kermode inquired.
“What right?” cried the other. “They’re my property; I bought them!”
Kermode smiled.
“You hear that; you’ll remember it, boys.”
Mitcham’s face grew dark as he saw the trap he had fallen into.
“Anyhow, I want them,” he muttered. “You won’t be wise to keep them.”
“Now see here,” said one of the party. “We have a dozen men round this shack, and if there’s trouble, we have only to call for more. Every boy knows what to do. Strikes me it wouldn’t pay you to bring your hobos along.”
Mitcham looked at the others and saw that they were resolute. His enemies were masters of the situation. Bluster and threats would not serve him; but it was Kermode’s amusement which caused him the most uneasiness.
“Well,” he said, “keep them while you can. You’re going to be sorry for this!”
He went out and several of the men broke into a laugh. They had, however, a problem to face later, when they received a sharp message from the foreman demanding their immediate return to work. All were willing to lose a day’s pay, but the prompt dismissal which would follow disobedience was a more serious matter.
“The trouble is that if we leave the shack without a guard, Mitcham will steal his liquor back,” declared one.
“I think I had better see Mr. Morgan,” Kermode suggested, and they let him go.
The young engineer he interviewed listened with a thoughtful air to the request that several of the workmen should be given a day’s leave.
“It would be awkward to let these fellows quit,” the engineer protested.
“If you would tell the foreman to send the boys I’ll mention ahead up the track, so they couldn’t get backbefore evening, and give two of us a day off, it would get over the difficulty.”
When he heard the names the engineer looked hard at Kermode.
“Has this request any connection with the collapse of Mr. Ferguson’s church?”
“It has, indirectly. I’m sorry I can’t give you an explanation.”
“Try to understand how I’m situated. I may have my sympathies, but I can’t be a partizan; my business is to see you do your work. Suppose I do as you suggest, will it make any trouble in the camp? I want a straight answer.”
“No,” said Kermode. “I give you my word that what we mean to do will lead to quietness and good order.”
“Then I’ll have the boys you mentioned sent up the track; they’re a crowd I’ve had my eye on. One of your friends and you can lie off.”
Kermode thanked him and went back to the shack, where he kept watch with the leader of the Presbyterians until two police troopers rode up late in the afternoon. They opened the cases and heard Kermode’s story.
“You declare the man Mitcham claimed this liquor as his property?” Sergeant Inglis asked.
“He said he’d bought it. We’re ready to swear to that, and we can give you the names of several more who heard him.”
“I’ll take them down. Where’s Mitcham?”
They told him and he closed his notebook.
“You may be sent for from Edmonton later. Don’t let these cases out of your sight until Private Cooper calls for them.”
He went out and came back later with the trooperand a teamster they had hired, who loaded the cases on a sled. Sergeant Inglis, however, sat still in his saddle, with a watchful eye on Mitcham and another man who stood, handcuffed, at his horse’s side. When the police had ridden off with their prisoners, Morgan, the engineer, sent for Kermode.
“I’ve seen the sergeant and he gave me an outline of the affair,” he said. “It was cleverly thought out—I suppose the idea was yours?”
“I can’t deny it,” returned Kermode modestly.
“Well,” said the other, “see that your friends and you begin work as usual to-morrow.”
During the next two weeks Ferguson made some progress in repairing the damage to his church. He found several helpers, now that his strongest opponent had been removed. The weather, however, grew more severe and as the frost interfered with operations, men were freely dismissed. One day Morgan and the contractor’s clerk sat talking in the latter’s office.
“I’ll have to cut out two or three teams,” he said. “I don’t know whom I ought to fire.”
“Kermode,” Morgan advised promptly.
The clerk looked surprised.
“Foreman reports him as a pretty good teamster. He strikes me as smart and capable,” he objected.
“He is. In fact, that’s the trouble. I like the man, but you had better get rid of him.”
“You’re giving me a curious reason.”
Morgan smiled.
“I expect our plans for the winter may lead to some trouble with the boys; such work as we can carry on is going to be severe. Now do you think it prudent to provide them with a highly intelligent leader?”
“Guess you’re right,” the clerk agreed. “He’ll have to go, though I’m sorry to part with him.”
“I’ll send him to another job nearer the coast,” said Morgan.
The next day Kermode was informed of this decision and took it good-humoredly. Before leaving the camp he spent an evening with Ferguson, who expressed keen regret at his departure.
“I have an idea that I may have got you into trouble, and it hurts me,” the minister said.
Kermode laughed in a reassuring manner.
“It’s likely that you’re wrong; but I’m not the first man who has found a righteous cause unprofitable.”
“That,” Ferguson returned gravely, “is in one sense very true.”
They sat up late, talking; and the next morning Kermode found means of sending Foster’s horses back, and then resumed his journey.