Just behind the Burrows' cabin the ground fell away with startling abruptness. There were just two or three juniper bushes and a patch of dirty snow, then the rough edge—then space. One looked down almost terrified into a blue mist; and full three thousand feet below were the tops of big pine trees in another climate—almost in another world. Opposite there rose another granite precipice, smooth, grey, gigantic, the valley between reaching away on the right, round a bend, to the meadow where Arrapahoe Bill and Black Bear guarded their bulls.
On the left was the head of the gorge, with its glacier breaking over a cliff, and the broken river, roaring down the wall, fell into a lake deep blue as the very sky. This was the Throne glacier, the seat of what seemed like a chair, with the lake at its feet, the enormous cliffs on either side for arms, the back an Alp, ice-clad, but splintering upward into needle spires, now touched with the roseate glow of sunrise.
All along the westward sky glimmered the awakening summits of the Selkirks; eastwards, across the Kootenay trench, the Rocky Mountains hung like a belt of azure mist against the sunrise; but La Mancha, sitting on the verge of that huge precipice behind the cabins, took no thought of the day or of the morrow. A little wreath of smoke rose straight up from his pipe into the thin air, and the awful magnificence of the Alps had no existence for him while he thought of a woman. Her face was before him in a dream—the face of a sweet maid, bright with impudence, a wholesome nut-brown maiden innocent. Her innocence made the Blackguard want to protect her; the frank brown eyes made him desirous of study, that in their depths he might see what it was to be good. The Blackguard had tasted all the joys of life, save this one thing—purity. The aftertaste of pleasure was sour upon his lips, but happiness seemed yet ever so far away. "If I were only good," he said to his pipe, "but I'm not; wherefore she would find me out, then hate me." So he sat at the edge of the cliff, perched like a fly on a wall, until presently there came another fly stealing up softly behind; a female fly this, full as her little body could hold of wanton mischief, to wit, the Burrows girl, who clapped her dainty hands over both La Mancha's eyes.
"You must be Love," laughed the Blackguard, "blinding a chap like that. What nice soft fingers—Um! Get away, you minx, or I'll kiss you."
"Ugh!" said the minx, suddenly releasing him.
"Now, sit down here, Impudence, and tell me who taught you your manners."
"I couldn't help it," she said in justification.
"My Uncle is talking that poor boy to death in the cabin. Oh! so grave, so solemn; I wanted to scream; I got desperate! So I came out."
"Sit down, Impudence."
Impudence sat down a yard off, blushing hotly, her childlike face full of reproach that she had been led astray from last night's fine ideals. So this was the way she was playing the part of a grown woman. Pretty chance there was if she behaved as it schoolgirl of being Una with a growly Burrow!
"Miss Burrows," said the Blackguard, "ain't you ashamed of yourself? You've interrupted the most serious thoughts, you've rumpled my hair, you've put out my pipe, you've damaged my complexion. Nice sort of girl you are!"
She looked at his wicked bronzed face—his complexion, indeed! Then she laughed, not knowing that every note of her happiness went through the man like an arrow.
"Do you know, young lady, that I'm dangerous, that I'm a bad lot, that your mother, if you have one, would be afraid to see you sitting near me, eh?"
"You needn't be conceited about it, anyway."
It was evidently no use trying to warn her—she did not believe in evil, this sweet maid, but trusted herself in his bad company—ay, and trusted him.
Clever women had played with him—had played with fire, but the wise ladies had been badly burned. Her defenceless littleness was not like their strong towers. They incited to attack, she to defence. "Little woman," he said, "it's time for me to be going."
"Oh, but the sun's only just up, and I must make amends for my Uncle's manners. I am going to make him apologise to you—I am indeed. He shall go down on his bended knees. You must stay for dinner."
"But if I am not back in camp by noon I shall be put under arrest, then awful things will happen."
"What kind of things?"
"They'll clip my ears like a dog, they'll chain me up, and give me bones to gnaw. It isn't as if I had a good character. A man with a good character can get drunk whenever he likes, smash things, punch people's heads, have a good time; but me—I'm the Blackguard, so if I look crossways at the Colonel's tent it's mutiny."
"Ha, ha!—how I'd like to see you gnawing bones!"
"I'll kiss you unless you're civil."
"You daren't!"
"Eh?" The Blackguard sprang up as she fled like the wind before him along the edge of the cliff; but then she turned, laughing over her shoulder—the little flirt, at which he drew himself up, saluting as though she were the Queen. "I forgot," said the Blackguard regretfully.
"What?" asked the girl in fearless innocence.
"Why, that my horse is whinnying for me. He just loves to be saddled up and ridden all day. Come, make friends with the Devil while I saddle him."
The Tenderfoot must see the Blackguard a mile or so on his way, but La Mancha took him by a new route which sloped down quickly into the timber. The boy's heart beat high because the Blackguard treated him now as an equal, almost as a chum, and this, which he would have disdained yesterday morning, seemed a great condescension to-day. In his heart of hearts Mr. Ramsay felt a new thing—a craving for the rough frontier life, for the romance of savagery. A real Britisher is never thoroughly civilised; inside the veneer of the university lurks the schoolboy barbarian, blessed with the hereditary instinct of clenched fists, which gives world-mastery to the Dominant Race, that blood-thirst of the Vikings, that chivalry of the Middle Ages, that headlong courage of the sea heroes who took to water in the great days of Elizabeth, that masterfulness which afterwards created the most glorious empire the world has ever seen. Britain is not in Fleet Street, or Mayfair, or the City, but at heart a rough race of conquerors and rulers. So this Tenderfoot from Balham, awakening in one short day, shook off the garments of conventionalism, worshipping the Blackguard because he was brave and strong, hung furtively a pace behind him as they walked, that he might gloat upon a pair of big rowelled spurs, a glittering cartridge belt, and a big sheathed revolver. That is the way of an English lad since the very beginning, and that must be the way until the time when we fall to rise no more.
"Why don't we ride?" he asked, for the Blackguard was leading both horses, tied head to tail.
"Because horses weren't built to carry a weight down hill. Their knees are weak."
Said the Tenderfoot fatuously, "But you're a Spaniard, they say."
"And what of that?"
"I thought Spaniards were always beastly cruel."
Yesterday the Blackguard would have struck any man living for saying as much. Now he grinned.
"You're improving, Charlie. You'll be getting damaged presently for cheek. If I were all Spaniard I'd ride down here at a gallop. I'd ride over you to begin with, just to see the blood squirting. As it is, the Spanish end of me isn't over safe to fool with, though the English end of me rather fancies your confounded impudence."
"So you're half English?"
"My mother was English."
"Oh!"
Presently the Blackguard asked a question, watching narrowly what the effect would be. "I suppose, Charlie, you'll be flirting with Miss Burrows up yonder?"
The lad blushed hotly.
"I thought so, Charlie. Halt; look me square in the eyes, if you can. The Spanish end of me wanted to ride you down just now; it got jealous, but the English end of me thinks it only common decency to warn you. I may be flirting with that girl myself,—I suppose because I oughtn't to think of her on a regular month's fine of my pay and Government rations. You needn't look like a frost-bitten chipmunk,—the betting is ten to one on you, because you're a presentable candidate, and I'm not, worse luck. The betting is a hundred to one on you, because you've got the field all to yourself, you brat. Besides that, you're good-looking in a way, with those infernally frank blue eyes, while I look like the very devil. We've each got to take our chance, and when she makes her choice, the devil take the hindmost. You understand?"
"But it's not that way at all." Mr. Ramsay was blushing. "She's an awfully nice girl—but—fact is," he drew himself up, and added with slow magnificence, "I'm not a marrying man."
The Blackguard laughed. "Well, let's drop that and get down to the Tough Nut Claim before dinner-time. By the way, when you meet these prospectors, take care not to let them suspect why you came to this country, because, if they think you represent money in London, they'll make it a point of honour to sell you a wild-cat claim."
"Why did you bring me this way?"
"When that cad Burrows has talked you blind you'll need a friend or so to lead you about. Come on, we'll have dinner at the Claim."
Among the torchlike pines they came to a little log-cabin, with a door and window in front, shaded by an extension of the ridge roof, and at the back a chimney of sticks wattled over with clay. Just beyond, a cutting had been made into the hill, this being the entrance to a tunnel, the waste rock from which had been spread out into a terrace, or dump, littered with heaps of silver-bearing lead, all glittering in the sunlight. From within the tunnel came the steady clang of a sledge-hammer beating a bar of steel into live rock; but the Blackguard tethered his horses to a stump, and the two men sat down in a rough smithy.
"What's this?" Mr. Ramsay sniffed disdainfully. "It looks like some blacksmith's shop."
"It is," said La Mancha, lighting his pipe. "They use it for sharpening the points of the drills. Look here, youngster, for fear of trouble when you meet these prospectors, I'm going to give you a dose of etiquette.
"If you meet a westerner, call him 'my good man.'
"When you dine with him, criticise the food, ask how much there's to pay, and look on while he washes up.
"Always make him keep his distance, and, if he won't take the hint, talk about your big relations—your friend, the Duchess of Balham, and so forth.
"When you light your cigar, don't offer him one first.
"Afterwards, when you meet, give him your finger-tips to shake, or don't even notice him.
"Always"—
"Stop," cried the Tenderfoot, hot with rage and shame. "Do you think I'm such an awful cad as that?"
"You were yesterday, my buck, when you left camp.
"For instance, just now you set off to walk this way with me because you were too uneasy to say good-bye. You thought you ought to offer me a tip, but you didn't dare."
"Suppose I had?" asked the other sulkily.
"I'd have thrashed you to a jelly. I always over-exert myself when I lose my temper."
For a minute or so the Blackguard watched a gaily-striped squirrel, a "chipmunk," which was playing with some nut-shells by the forge. "Cheep," said La Mancha, with a queer click of the tongue.
"Cheep," responded the animal, still busy.
"Cheep," said La Mancha again, whereupon the dainty little beast sat on end, with furry tail coiled Up its furry back, and looked from one to the other to see which spoke.
"Cheep," said La Mancha, at which the chipmunk glanced derisively at the Englishman's riding-breeches, then ran up the big man's boot and perched on his knee.
"How's the nut business, eh, little man?"
"Cheep, cheep," clicked the chipmunk; then, disdaining any further overtures of friendship, scuttled off to play again with his nut-shells.
Mr. Ramsay sat in high dudgeon, brooding over his wrongs, much to the Blackguard's amusement as he smoked peacefully until the prospectors should be ready to knock off work at the dinner-hour. The clang of the sledge-hammer had ceased, a willowy man in long boots and a muddy complexion crossed from the tunnel to the cabin, the dinner smoke began to float up from the chimney, from within the tunnel came a sound of tapping, then thumping, then silence.
"Tamping in the charges," muttered La Mancha; "there'll be blasting soon. Cheer up, Charlie; Long Leslie saw us when he went to the cabin, or he wouldn't have made a dinner fire on a hot day like this."
Mr. Ramsay disdained to answer, so La Mancha smoked peacefully, watching the chipmunk at play.
A second muddy man came running from the tunnel, dodging behind the ore bank, yelling "Look out!" A volley of stones came flying out after him; a dull explosion shook the hillside.
"All right?" called the second muddy man, now eagerly examining the fragments just thrown out. "I'll be with you, Blackguard, in a jiffy."
Mr. Ramsay had picked up a yellow object from the bench beside him, something which might have been a very big stick of barley sugar, yet felt rather like wax.
"Give that to me," said the Blackguard; then, seeing that the other resented his tone of command, he made a rapid grab at the stick.
Indignant because of the treatment he received at the hands of a man who had unconsciously flattered him into a feeling of equality and friendship, the Tenderfoot swung the yellow stick over his head with a rapid aim at the squirrel.
"Take care," said the Blackguard,—"that's dynamite."
It was too late. The stick had already flown from the youngster's hand, was swirling across the smithy. Then a red flower seemed to bud in the air, which became a gigantic blossom growing— filling all the world, scorching hot.
* * * * * *
The Blackguard opened one eye, then the other, lazily observant of the two prospectors, who were lifting away the ruins of their smithy.
"How's that Tenderfoot? Is he dead?"
Shorty answered, with a gulp in his throat, "So, you're alive? That's good."
"But the Tenderfoot?"
"Oh, we got him out all right."
Shorty was wrenching at a small beam which lay across La Mancha's shoulder.
"No bones broken; but he hasn't woke up. Here, that takes the weight off you. How do you feel?"
"Middling," said the Blackguard, closing his eyes again. "Are the horses all right?"
"Only scared."
"Ride up, one of you; fetch the Burrows girl with some tintacks and the family gum-pot. Right arm broken above the elbow. Just like my confounded luck. They'll fine me another month's pay for—breaking—leave." And then he fainted.
* * * * * *
The Blackguard groaned as he woke up. "Beg pardon, didn't mean to," he said; then opening his eyes, "Are you the Burrows girl, or a Christmas-card angel?"
Miss Violet's eyes were red as she bent over him, holding a half-empty flask.
"If you're a woman," he said, "please kiss me."
She did.
"Thanks. You're a very nice girl. Do you know how to do what you're told?"
She nodded, trying to smile, which was difficult, because her lips would curl the wrong way. "Then," he said, "take two sticks of wood, cover them all over with cotton wool, bind it down even with bandages, then strap them on either side of my arm, while Shorty and Long Leslie pull the bones out straight. Understand?"
"I'm awfully frightened," whispered Miss Violet.
"Be frightened afterwards, not now. I always come to grief whenever I try to be good. I promise I won't ever do it again; but be quick, my dear, and while you're making the splints get somebody to pour cold water on the swelling."
"How's that silly ass?" he asked tenderly, while the work went forward; and it was the Tenderfoot who answered tearfully, "The silly ass is ashamed."
"Sir,—I have the honour to inform you that Mr. Ramsay has been delivered in good condition at the Throne Mine. I regret to add that he has broken my left arm with a stick of dynamite which he threw at a chipmunk, now deceased. I will report to-morrow.
"I have the honour to be, Sir,Your obedient servant,JOSÉ LAS MORẼNAN DE LA MANCHA,Constable.
"The Officer Commanding,Wild Horse Creek,Kootenay, B.C."
This letter, written with pain and difficulty on a piece of wrapping paper, was put, by the Blackguard's directions, into one of the saddle-bags of Mr. Ramsay's horse.
"Make her head fast by a check-rein to the horn of the saddle," he said. "Bash the animal on the hindquarters, then turn her loose on the down trail Since she can't feed until the check-rein's unfastened, she'll go straight to camp, unless she's a born fool."
He was sitting in front of the log-cabin, his arm in splints and a sling, while the prospectors. Long Leslie and Shorty, followed these instructions as to the horse. When the mare was gone, to the extreme disgust of La Mancha's huge black charger, he looked from one to the other of the two miners.
"Prospectors' luck," he said regretfully. "Your chipmunk, now demised, had a nibble of flour a day, while I eat by the bushel."
"I guess we can stand it," said Shorty; "you needn't growl till you're told."
"Prospectors' luck," said Long Leslie wistfully, "brings a jolly good fellow to remind us we're still alive. It's your turn, Shorty, to wash up—I'm going to smoke." So he sat down beside the Blackguard, not the less enjoying his after-supper pipe because his partner must do the dirty work of the day. "We've been getting lonesome these last few months," he said,—"since the Lunatic came."
"He's a cad!" said the Blackguard.
"It's not so much that, although a Chinaman would be better company. Shorty doesn't mind, he's used to it; but I get thinking, and thinking. What does it all amount to—this life?"
"It's jolly good fun while it lasts."
"For you—yes. I used to say the same in my college days, but now— Do you know, Miss Burrows talked with me to-day for the first time. Before that her greetings were like mine to a horse when I stroke its nose. I'm not thirty yet, but from her point of view I don't count."
"I think," said the Blackguard, "that the symptoms demand a pill. How is our tongue?—our pulse? Um!—ah!—we shall get over it. But seriously, why don't you scratch up a fight with somebody—say, with Shorty? That would do you a world of good."
"You're a rare good sort, Blackguard, but you don't seem to understand. This Tough Nut Claim is as good as claims go—nine feet of passable wet ores running a steady average of thirty-five dollars a ton; but until we get shipping facilities it might as well be at the North Pole. There'll be a railroad through the valley in, say, ten years. Suppose we sell out then at fifty thousand—I shall be forty then, and the only reading matter meanwhile is theNew York Police Gazette, with a number of theCenturyperhaps once in six months. It isn't good enough."
"By George, when a prospector gets the blues he's worse than an old soldier. Go on, if it does you good."
"I should have been all right but for Burrows yonder, with plenty of cariboo, not a few grizzlies; and these summits would knock the spots out of the Alpine Club. But the Lunatic, as we call him, has put us all out of date. It's all very well sneering at new ideas, but his methods are further above our heads than American quartz-mining is above the fuddling of the old Spanish colonists. They had ladder shafts, buckets for pumping, an arastra for milling; we have common sense tunnelling, and send sorted ores to the smelter. Burrows sneers at our fissure veins, and quarries the bare country granite. Of course, I knew all along that whole mountain ranges run a dollar and a half to the ton, but I didn't care while milling cost two dollars a ton. This man is a heaven-born genius, who can mine, mill, and render his gold into ingots for only a dollar a ton."
The Blackguard whistled. "If that's true," he said, "the man's got a corner on gold—why, it's awful!"
"Archimedes said that he could capsize the planet if he had leverage. This man has leverage; capitalise his idea, get the place in the Sierras where there are the best conditions of labour, power, freighting, gradients, and a seaport; then turn him loose because he has the philosopher's stone which can transmute whole ranges of mountains into gold."
"He's such a cad, too," said the Blackguard. "But how did you find him out?"
"Worked in his mill last winter until he sacked me for calling him a maniac. I did that to draw him out, and once he started bragging in self-defence I had the key to his machinery. He has two rotary fans which get up a small cyclone between them. Into that cyclone he throws scraps of rock, and the dust of sharp-edged granite crystals cuts the stones to powder before they have time to drop. He put in a crowbar once, and I actually saw that inch-thick steel shattered into dust."
"Seems to me," said the Blackguard, "that my Tenderfoot is in for something good."
"So I suspected, but would capitalists send out a young fool like that?"
"Oh, I don't know. He's full of ignorance and bliss, but he learns quickly, doesn't get scared, keeps his mouth shut. Besides, he's honest."
Something made La Mancha look round, and there in the twilight, coming down out of the woods, were Miss Burrows and Mr. Ramsay, hand-in-hand.
The infantile innocence of their faces made him laugh: the willowy prospector, rather than embarrass any approaching fun, dodged into the shanty; so, when the enraptured couple stood before him, the Blackguard sat alone.
"We thought we ought to tell you first," the Tenderfoot simpered, blushing hotly all over,—"we are engaged."
"Oh!" said the Blackguard gravely, "since when?"
"Why, ever so long ago," Miss Burrows sighed, "this afternoon. Won't you congratulate us?"
"Next week," said the Blackguard, "if you are still of the same mind, you shall receive my blessing. Have you told Mr. Burrows?"
"No, he was too busy—but we thought that you would"— Then the girl's face flushed with a sudden indignation. "You said he would, Charlie, but he doesn't—he's a beast!"
"I know," said the Blackguard; "that is the nature of the animal. Do you think, my dear, that this young man is worthy of you?"
"I don't know," pondered the little flirt, coyly enough; but, perhaps to prove his ardour, dropped Mr. Ramsay's hand.
"Do you know, my dear,"—the Blackguard was quite paternal,—"you are going to be very beautiful? How can I commend this young gentleman's suit while I love you myself? I am jealous of my young rival." This because the rival was very justly indignant. "He is young, he is very good-looking, and quite, oh, quite respectable. Now, I'm neither young, nor good, nor beautiful, and I'm not a bit respectable, so I can speak without damaging his prospects. I have no chance whatever, but"—he bowed gracefully—"I love you, my dear, very much."
The girl raised one eye to look at him, then lowered both out of shyness, then pouted towards Mr. Ramsay with her forefinger pressed to her lips as though considering; then, seeing that her fiancé stood stupefied, she thought that she owed him a lesson, and ran for the woods.
Mr. Ramsay would have given chase at once.
"One moment," said the Blackguard, smiling in his saturnine way, while a twinge of pain from his arm made him draw up stiffly. "Young man, you don't let the grass grow underfoot; you needn't be in such a hurry—she'll wait for you, and you have weeks and months to make up for this minute. About that shanty you knocked down this morning?"
"Well? It's no business of yours—I mean, forgive me for talking like that."
"I forgive you," said the Blackguard blandly. "Don't you think you owe these gentlemen some apology—some compensation?"
"But I daren't offer money."
"You've too much sense. Look here. Burrows keeps a sort of store to supply the prospectors hereabouts. I daresay he'd sell you a couple of Winchester rifles, with a case or so of ammunition, eh?"
"Oh, thanks—what a relief! And they won't be angry?"
"Not very. Now, young man, keep your eye on Miss Violet, because, if I can, I mean to cut you out. I've not much chance, but it's fair to give you warning. Now you may run away."
On the following evening the Blackguard, white with pain, rode on his great black charger into camp, reported huskily to the Orderly Sergeant, and straightway fell out of the saddle, having fainted.
The Colonel was deeply touched when he heard of this. "Indeed," he said to the Sergeant-Major, "that ride down from the Throne is one of the pluckiest things I ever heard of. How many men have I who would not make a broken arm excuse for a month of bilking?"
"He's the best man in D Division, sir, with all his crazy whims."
"When he's fit for light duty," said the Colonel, "find La Mancha an easy billet with staff pay. I'd make him a corporal if he'd only keep straight. Tell him I say so."
The Colonel was a very fine gentleman.
"You can tell him from me," said the Blackguard roughly, "that his butter's been standing too long in the sun to suit my teeth. He can go to blazes and have the devil for corporal."
But the Sergeant-Major only smiled under his grey moustache, knowing that this from the Blackguard meant gratitude; so, with consent of the Hospital Sergeant, La Mancha was given charge of all the horses, with sevenpence-half-penny extra per day for nominal services.
Half the troop was out on patrol, or detachment, as usual; discipline at headquarters had relaxed for the summer, and the men left in camp found leisure during the long hot days for no end of lazy swimming down in the river. The Mooyie patrol would come clattering in at sundown; the Windermere patrol would ride out in the cool forenoon; the Weekly Mail arrived and departed on Wednesday; small detachments turned up now and again with Indians, or white desperadoes carefully shackled. So all the men waxed brown, fat, and disorderly, having more good meat than they could swallow, fishing, shooting, and occasionally some stirring bout with a horse-thief or murderer at bay. Golden days, starlit nights in the open, a rousing gallop down the meadows, a bath in the river, a cool pipe by the camp fire, with a paradise to live in, the brotherhood of the West for a human interest: such was the life of D Troop all that glorious summer. Officers and men had fought shoulder-to-shoulder through the red-hot excitement of the war only two years ago; they had buried their dead, avenged them with slaughter—and that was a bond of blood between them still.
Long years have passed since 1887, the living are scattered now across the world, but when two old comrades meet, perchance to fight side-by-side again in Rhodesia, or one to help the other out of trouble on some beach in the Southern Seas, or to dine together at a white table in the parish of St. James', dressed up like ridiculous waiters, the bond of blood is strong between us still. The news told then of the old troop begets no laughter: A. deserted; B. shot himself; C. died of typhoid; D., of bad liquor; E. has disappeared; F. is supposed to have fallen at the Yalu; G. was found frozen to death in a coal-shed at Medicine Hat; but for the rest, spirits are calling across the deep from all the continents and all the oceans, and the glass that was lifted for the toast of the good old times falls shattered because some strange remembered voice comes from among the candles, "Well, here's luck!"
But although everything at Wild Horse Creek remained pretty much as before, the Blackguard was entirely changed since his trip to the Throne. Mother Darkness was alleged to be meditating an action for breach of promise; word went by the patrols up to Golden, down to the United States boundary, that La Mancha was "on the make." Corporal Dandy Irvine, on detachment at Windermere, sent down a box of cigars for thankoffering. The Colonel, in private correspondence with a friend at Fort Saskatchewan, sent the news as of more interest than even his record of trout. So the tale spread among the Mounted Police, from the Saskatchewan to the boundary, from the foothills to Manitoba, over five hundred thousand square miles of the Great Plains, that the Blackguard had "got religion."
The announcement was made by La Mancha himself down at the bathing-place. "Yes, boys, I've got religion; I've sworn off getting drunk, I'm far too good to live. If any son of a gun corrupts my morals by saying cuss words in my presence, I'll tear off his hide from scalp to heels, and roll him in salt for a"—
"Why, dammit!" said Mutiny, spluttering up after a dive.
"Mutiny," answered the Blackguard, "the word 'dammit' is profane language. Come out and have your eyes bunged up, you"—
"See you in —— first!" said Mutiny blandly, upon which the Blackguard, half-dressed after his bath, forgetting that his left arm was broken, walked into the river, gave chase, captured his prey, grabbed him by his red hair, and ducked him until he nearly choked, making remarks the while which are quite impossible to repeat.
"How can I be meek and gentle," he said afterwards, "when you fellows disturb my peace of mind by using vulgar language? Any man who doesn't want to behave like a Methodist minister at a tea-party has got to fight me first."
Two or three tried, but as La Mancha with one hand was equal to any able-bodied pugilist in D Troop, there set in a tyranny more ruthless than that of the Commissioner at headquarters during the setting-up drills. Only the Blackguard and the Sergeant-Major could relieve their feelings, except under pain of dire chastisement, and before pay-day any man who wanted to tell an improper story found it expedient to resort to the canteen.
Now, it so happened that a regulation English Curate missionising in the neighbourhood, being grieved at the spiritual destitution of the Mounted Police, had offered to hold an open-air service monthly at Wild Horse Creek. So the Colonel, to encourage the young man, ordered a church-parade. One or two, including La Mancha, got out of it by being for the time Roman Catholic, others found it impossible to neglect staff duties such as cooking, the rest had their names put on the sick-list. The Colonel thereupon commanded that sick and cripples, cooks and Catholics, should, at the sound of the bugle, attend his parade on pain of being cast into prison.
This brought about a mass-meeting, at which it was proposed by the Blackguard, and seconded by all hands, that any son of a sea-cook who sang, responded, contributed, or otherwise assisted during the church-parade should afterwards be chastised with belts.
The service was a duet between the Parson and the Colonel.
Afterwards the regulation Curate, mounted in deep dejection upon a mule, was riding away to an afternoon service elsewhere when he was waylaid in a lonely place by the Blackguard.
"Good-morning, Padre."
The Curate, responding to a military salute, drew rein. "Can I be of service to you?"
"If you can spare me a moment."
The Curate dismounted, and, letting his mule graze at the end of the rein, sat down by La Mancha's side. "I have heard, Mr. La Mancha, that you are a Roman Catholic."
"So have I. Now at the canteen we ask for Scotch, but we only get hell smoke. It isn't good, but it gets there all the same. I want to sample your religion."
"It was freely offered to you this morning, though."
"No, it was rammed down our throats, so I didn't quite catch the flavour."
"You mean, the parade was compulsory."
"Yes; if it had been left to our choice the only men absent would have been the cook and the herder, but your performance this morning disagreed with us. We called it an insult to Pater-Noster, and any man who took part in that would have been thrashed within an inch of his life."
"I think you were right," said the Curate. "Believe me, Mr. La Mancha, I shall never, so long as I live, forget this lesson. The next service shall be free."
"Then we shall read you the second lesson, Padre."
"Which is?"
"That we haven't had a chance of going to church for months. Hand round the hat and I promise you there won't be any buttons. Another thing, cover your reading-desk with the Union Jack and there'll be no whispering."
"Why?"
"Because a year after the Rebellion, when we had memorial church-parades for the dead, the order was, 'Side arms and the flag on the table.' The boys will remember."
"This is wonderful! And now, my dear fellow, since you've helped me so much, how can I help you?"
La Mancha looked across the valley, then slowly raised his eyes up to the Throne Mine; but what he said or what the Curate answered belongs to themselves and to the Almighty.
One of the Blackguard's endearing traits had always been his generosity—boundless in that when he had nothing of his own to give he lent and gave things that were not his own, causing thereby much internecine strife. The only time he had ever been known to be worsted in fair fight was after lending to an intending deserter the shot-gun which he had borrowed from Buckeye Blossom, heavy-weight champion of Medicine Hat. But now he had got religion, and had fought two pitched battles for the right to read his Bible. Not that the boys cared much what was his choice of literature, it being all the same to the crowd whether he amused himself with the Bible, or a dictionary, or theNew York Police Gazette, provided that he kept it to himself; but the Blackguard, for want of practice in the art, found it convenient to read like a schoolboy, aloud. Hence the pitched battles, which resulted in undisturbed readings from the Gospels, mingled with a running commentary, so naive, so quaint, and so exceedingly funny, that the audience waxed daily in numbers, until, for peace and quiet, the reader betook himself to the shelter of the woods. Here he read daily, expounding the Scriptures to an audience of disdainful squirrels and song-birds.
But to return to the matter of his generosity.
The immediate outcome of his queer religion was that the Blackguard became more avaricious than Shylock. When his chum, Dandy Irvine, sent him that box of cigars from Windermere, instead of giving them all away to his friends, he sold them two for a shilling. Some brought cash, with which, and a little credit, he bought a further supply; but for the most part the boys accepted the trading as a joke, running up accounts which they imagined to be purely fictitious. Then pay-day came, when the Blackguard was able for the first time to partially release his left arm, when, also for the first time, he had staff-pay not hypothecated by any previous fine. After the parade he went to all his debtors.
"Little Murphy, you owe me one dollar for cigars."
"Oh, come off," said little Murphy innocently. "What game do you think you're playing at?"
"Pay or fight," said the Blackguard.
Murphy paid, also all the others, big and little, when the Blackguard went about smiling grimly upon his customers. But if he was ruthless in exacting cash or black eyes, La Mancha was punctilious as to the payment of his own debts—in cigars. He became wholesale dealer to the sergeants' mess and the canteen, imported pipes, dealt in shot-guns, ornamental revolvers, books, and musical instruments. His mouth organs, tin whistles, and concertinas became a far worse nuisance in the valley than ever the Indians had been, but even these had comparatively little to say compared with La Mancha's pigs. Possibly the story of Daniel led to the cornet, concertina, Jews' harp, mouth organ, penny whistle, oboe, and all kinds of music; by La Mancha's own confession, the matter of the Gadarene swine suggested a litter of pigs, bought cheap from a rancher, raised on the cook's hitherto misapplied slops, and ultimately sold at a handsome profit to the Quartermaster. All this was a matter of time, but under enormous disadvantages, despite the delay and inconvenience caused by almost incessant travelling on duty, the Blackguard was reputed long before autumn to be the richest man in D Troop.
But to return to a much earlier date. When the Tenderfoot's luggage was brought over from Windermere, Dandy Irvine, who was then at headquarters, volunteered its safe delivery at the Throne Mine in consideration of leave for hunting between Saturday and Monday. It was then that the Blackguard wrote his first letter to Miss Violet Burrows. Letter-writing in camp is always a serious matter, because the needful materials must be borrowed or improvised. When a recruit first joins, he is apt to write mainly to frighten his mother with the assumption of mythical surroundings borrowed from inexpensive fiction, thus:—
"DEAR MOTHER,—
"I write in the saddle, on the summit of the Rocky Mountains, surrounded by hostile Indians, a sword in one hand and a revolver in the other." [Then the young imagination flags.] "There is no news, but please write soon,—and send some money, as washing is awfully expensive.
"YOUR LOVING SON."
But a hardened sinner like the Blackguard writes seldom or never, finding the pen awkward after shovel, axe, and gun; so the epistle to Miss Burrows, of course a strictly private communication, was delivered painfully, tongue in cheek, head askew, with a perhaps too copious discharge of ink.
Miss Violet read it with such a disdainful tilt of her little pert nose that the blotted characters were well-nigh out of range. She was sitting during the Sunday rest at the cliff edge, with Dandy Irvine on one side and Mr. Ramsay, jealously observant, on the other. "Humph," she looked sideways at the glowing scarlet of Dandy's serge jacket, then at his shining boots and glittering spurs, "he came up here," she said, "in an undershirt and one of those flappy hats. Besides, he was all dusty."
"But then, you see," explained the Blackguard's champion, "he can afford to please himself as to appearances. If I were a great aristocrat I might do the same."
"A great what?"
"Don't you know? His brother is a Duke, Ambassador from Spain to the Court of St. James'; La Mancha's cousins are mostly emperors, kings, and grand dukes; the Cid was one of his ancestors, not to mention Charles the Fifth and Philip the Second. Of course, he's only a Don, which means 'My lord,' but"—
"There," cried Miss Violet. "Oh, won't I give my Uncle beans—I'll teach him!"
"You must not neglect your filial duties, Miss Burrows; you must bring him up in the way he should go; it's your duty."
"Tell me some more."
"I will. Who let him leave the mountain before his arm was properly set? When he got back to camp he just managed to report to the Orderly Sergeant, then rolled off his horse in a dead swoon. You ought to have kept him here for a month."
Miss Burrows turned upon the Tenderfoot in withering scorn. "Your fault entirely!"
After that the Tenderfoot sulked.
"Tell me some more," said the lady.
"Well, two years ago, when we had our first scrapping match with the half-breeds, we got an awful thrashing. You've heard of Duck Lake Fight?"
"Sit up and listen." Miss Violet brought the Tenderfoot to attention with a very small pebble, which missed. "Oh, this is awfully jolly,—do go on!"
"There were ninety-four of us, police and civilians, caught in a trap by three hundred and sixty rebels. They were all round us under cover in a sort of horseshoe position, with a detachment stealing quietly through the bush to cut off our rear. We police unharnessed, drew up the sleighs in line by way of shelter, with one seven-pounder on the right, all in a mortal funk. Joe McKay, our half-breed interpreter, rode forward with Crozier to meet an Indian who came out with a white rag to talk. We thought they would argue all day, but suddenly the Indian made a grab at McKay's rifle; and Joe drew his revolver and riddled him. Then Crozier gave the order to fire, but Joe Howe, in charge of the gun, yelled out, 'You're right in our way, sir!'
"'Never mind me!' said Crozier. Then the rifles began to crackle on both sides, and our thirty-five civilians were detached off up a lane on the right. One of the police boys was sent to recall them, because the snow was waist-deep when once they got off the trail. The way was a sort of lane, with a fence on the left, bush on the right shutting off all view of the main crowd, and a log-house at the end full of loop-holes pouring out a most awful fire. You see, the half-breeds had filled that little house with all their crack marksmen, while our boys had nothing to aim at but logs and smoke. Men were falling thick, the snow was too deep for a charge, and there was no particular use for getting to that house anyway. At last, what was left of the party fell back, fighting hard, leaving their dead in the snow. But one of them wasn't dead, only wounded, and that was the policeman who had followed the civilians out of shelter. He saw the half-breeds swarming down from the cabin, Indians swinging their clubbed rifles to make sure of those who were down by cracking skulls. I guess that policeman was too far gone to care; he watched them lazily through a sort of haze, forgetting all about the full revolver slung on his belt. Of course, there were no white men left in sight, but Indians and half-breeds were swarming out from cover as our whole outfit, police and civilian, harnessed their teams for the retreat. But one of the police remembered having seen his own chum go out after the fools' charge of civilians, and never come back. Any other man would have tried his best to forget, but this chap broke away through the bush, waded in deep snow to where his chum lay among the dead, fired a few revolver shots to keep back the Indians, slung the wounded man over his shoulder, and brought him back to the main road just as the last sleigh was passing under cover of the rear-guard."
"What a hero!" cried the Tenderfoot. "Yes; that was the Blackguard, and the wounded man wasme."
"Charlie," said Miss Violet after that interview, "why are you only a Tenderfoot?"
"You're always flinging that in my face. How can I help it?"
"Don't be cross. A Romeo by any other name would—. No, a quotation is worse than a rat-trap. But there is something wrong with you; I know there is. You don't wear pretty clothes like Mr. Irvine, you don't write me beautiful blotty love-letters like the Blackguard."
"How can"—
"Now, there you are again, flying at me like a sitting hen when I poke too hard. I took you to worship me on approval—you don't suit—you're too horrid; I shall give you a month's notice—so there! Now, as to giving you a 'character.' Of course, I don't want to be hard—so you be very good this month and—I'll see about it."
Mr. Burrows was gravely disturbed. Sufficient had been his responsibility ever since a dying sister bequeathed to him the guardianship of her child. At first he had not taken the matter very seriously. The girl was at school, doubtless being well cared for, but presently, although every dollar he could raise was needed for costly mining machinery, he had to pay her tuition fees. Then the Lady Superintendent wrote, hinting deftly that her pupil had reached an age when the chaperon might have a more desirable influence than a teacher. He never read between the lines, he was too little a man of the world to realise that a paying pupil would not be unacceptable to any lady superintendent so long as the young person was docile. The young person in question was anything but docile, as Mr. Burrows found to his grief when Miss Violet came to rule himself and his mine with a rod of iron. Certainly she cost less at a time of straitened means than his late Chinese cook; but then, she was such a nuisance. He loved her not at all, his affections being wholly devoted to certain patented steel fans in a cylinder. Unlike the steel fans, she set his will at naught, ignored his rules, his regulations, his beautifully machine-made precepts, distracted him with interruptions, pulled his ear, demanded new frocks which were quite beyond his means, and finally, to crown her misdemeanours, fell in love. His cylinder never fell in love, or, if it conceived so indelicate a line of action, would certainly refrain from two several and concurrent flirtations.
Miss Violet seemed bound by no rules, subject to no conceivable laws, therefore, like that nonsensical abstraction, Religion, she was beyond the pale of reasonable study. Not being acquainted with the factors of the love problem, or dealing in the abstruse mathematics of whims, Mr. Burrows blandly ignored the whole subject for six weeks; consequently, when circumstances compelled him to bring to bear the forces of his intellect, he was just six weeks too late. So far as he could see, which was not quite to the end of his nose, he then found the facts somewhat as follows.
Miss Violet was in love, but whether with young Ramsay, or with that big policeman, or with both at once, was a matter of no moment. Inasmuch as Mr. Burrows had reached the age of fifty without loving anybody better than himself, Miss Violet's behaviour was at once ridiculous and unnatural. She was only nineteen, a child fresh from school, her vocation in life to cook his meals, make his bed, keep her tongue from chatter and her fingers from his ears. (The fact that his ears were large and seductively ugly could not palliate the young woman's mania for stroking them.) In short, Miss Violet had no right to love, and, as to marrying, her duty was to himself. Almost with tears in his eyes he pictured the loneliness to which she would selfishly consign him if she married. She should not marry—it would not be good for her.
Then there was the big policeman, who never failed to spend his Sundays hard by at the Tough Nut Claim. Mr. Burrows, priding himself on his powers of observation, found something furtive, something underhand and dishonourable in the way that policeman avoided his own hospitality. He had written to the Officer Commanding at Wild Horse Creek, protesting on behalf of the "mining population" against weekly visits of a disreputable character to the Throne Mining Camp. This took effect upon the Colonel, who counted any disparagement of his men as a personal affront to himself, and, pending the chastisement of the writer, saw that La Mancha never asked in vain for Sunday's leave.
And, last element of the love problem, Mr. Ramsay, who should have been making an exhaustive study of mine and mill for his father's firm, spent the time sulking about the hills. A workhouse pauper who has dropped a penny down a grating could not have looked more forlorn.
So two months went by. Miss Violet very demure, like a kitten after its first mouse; the Blackguard spending every Saturday and Sunday night in the saddle to snatch brief hours for courtship; the Tenderfoot perched in desolate places brooding on suicide.
Then of a sudden Mr. Ramsay became demurely expectant, and Miss Violet unnaturally gay. Some new absurdity was in the wind, so Mr. Burrows, with the gingerly air of one broaching a gift of untasted wine, had a few words with his niece.
"Come here, Violet."
"Yes, Uncle."
"What does all this mean?"
"Nothing, Uncle."
"That policeman did not come to the Tough Nut Claim on Sunday."
"Didn't he, Uncle?"
"Why didn't he come?"
"I'm sure I don't know. He doesn't belong to me. Do you want him very much, Uncle?"
"Want him? Of course, I don't want him. What should I want him for? Now, answer me this—what are your intentions with regard to Mr. Ramsay?"
"I was just thinking about that." She perched on the table beside him. "The saucepan's too small, you see. Would you like him poached?"
Since there was but little change to be got out of Miss Violet, Mr. Burrows went off fuming and fussing in search of his guest, who was discovered in a state of innocent bliss, fishing with rod and line from the edge of the great precipice.
"What are you doing?"
"Hush, you'll disturb the swallows. One of them pecked my worm."
"Haw—ah—indeed." Mr. Burrows sat down on the next rock, grunting. "Mister Ramsay, I know that these matters are delicate, and require to be dealt with by a man of tact."
"Indeed they do—they won't even look at a fly."
"I am not alluding to birds, Mr. Ramsay. May I ask what your intentions are with regard to my niece?"
"Eh?" Mr. Ramsay glanced at the other sideways. "I say, would you mind very much if I were to—to pay my addresses to Miss Violet?"
"Certainly not, my dear Mr. Ramsay. The human affection always meets with my warmest approbation—the—in fact, my very warmest approbation. Let me shake you by the hand."
"I wouldn't, if I were you—fact is—worms, you know. I hope you're not sitting on any of them?"
Mr. Burrows' approbation of the human affections was suddenly mitigated; he jumped up with a sudden but strictly philosophical remark—but seeing that this matter of the worms was a false alarm, he breathed more freely, and, grunting again, sat down.
"No, that's all right!" the Tenderfoot felt very much relieved. "You haven't spoilt one of them. I ought to tell you, though,—you were so busy I didn't like to mention it before,—that we're engaged."
"Since when, my dear young friend?"
"Oh, months ago—it must be supper time. Why don't they bite? I love her desperately."
"Your sentiments do you justice. The alliance between our families will do much, my young friend, to strengthen the material bonds which are about to so closely unite my interests to those of your respected father. The brilliant future in store for the Burrows-Ramsay Mining & Milling Syndicate Limited"—
"By George," cried the Tenderfoot joyfully, while the rod jerked in his hand, "I've got a bite!"
Down by the American boundary a stream called Eagle Creek has cut a ravine two hundred feet deep in the plateau at the base of the Rockies, carving the banks into a medley of grotesque and isolated mounds strewn with boulders, nearly void of grass, whose eccentric shapes give the view from the bottom a most singular and impressive contour. The stream itself had dwindled under the autumn heat, leaving only a string of miry ponds, whose stagnant waters fed the few fruit-laden shrubs upon their margins, and beside them was half an acre left of pleasant grass. Here were round patches, traces of camp-fires, by which many travellers in that lonely way had been wont to rest. How waggons got down the trail to the bottom without accident is one of the many wonders of the West.
The sun was set behind the Selkirks, the wind was sinking, the air had a blue dryness blown from some forest fire; heavy, sultry enough to make all nature sulk. Foxes were dodging about from cover to cover, a crane stood melancholy in the untroubled water, meditating on one leg, hopeless of even a desultory minnow by way of supper. A cloud of dust arose behind the southern boundary of the ravine, the crane flapped sorrowfully away, hearing a distant tramp of horses, and presently a mounted man in bright cavalry uniform rode to the edge of the hills, standing out against the deepening sky a beautiful silhouette, motionless as a statue. Then, two by two, came twenty mounted men, each with a rifle poised on the horn of his Mexican saddle, and many a glittering point of brass and steel about his harness. At a word of command they dismounted to advance, leading their horses down the slope; while behind them appeared five waggons, each carrying two men, and a rear-guard of two, who lingered a bit to be clear of the dust which arose in clouds from the groaning wheels of the transport. Some of these riders wore canvas clothes adorned with brass buttons, some buckskin suits, or blue flannel shirts, or old red jackets, according to the pleasure of the wearers. All had riding-boots, spurs, leather belts carrying a row of brass cartridges, and big revolvers with a lanyard buckled to the butts, and passing over one shoulder.
Reaching the level land at the bottom, the mounted men formed up in line, and the waggons drew up behind them, forty feet apart; a rope was stretched along the waggon line, then, leaving his saddle at the dismounting point, each trooper had made his horse fast to the rope before ever the teams were unharnessed. Meanwhile three men from the transport had selected a spot by some bushes where an iron bar was set on uprights five feet apart; and, before the sound of axes had ceased in the bush behind, three full camp kettles swung over a roaring fire. A bell tent was pitched for the officer in command, Inspector Fraser Gaye; the horses were watered, groomed, fed with a liberal ration of oats; then, at a last merry call from the bugle, there was a general dash to the waggons for plates and cups, and knives were whipped from belt or bootleg, ready for an astonishing slaughter of fried pork and hard tack, mitigated with lashings of scalding tea. The meal was followed by an uplifting of delicate grey smoke toward the clouds, and a lively fire of chaff in most of the British and American dialects.
At times the whole crowd would turn upon one or two who dared to converse in their native French-Canadian patois, "A wuss Nitchie! Can't you talk white? Get away back to your reserve, or behave like a white man, you mongrel!"
But all this was silenced presently, because the horses must be hobbled, or picketed out for the night, and a guard of three men was detailed to watch by turns until sunrise. Blankets were being spread out along the saddle line, and in and under the waggons; first post sounded, last post sounded, then the third of the bugle melodies.
"That's all, boys. Dream of the girls you've lost. Lights—out!"
So the last sad notes echoed away along the sterile hills, and there was silence under the starlight.
The horses were pulling at the grass, or roving about with a quick, sharp clank of the hobbles, the man on duty gliding ghostlike among them, speaking to one or another lest they should fear him in the silence. All seemed well with the tired beasts, so the "picket" strolled back to the dying fire, drank a little tea, lit his pipe, and stood thinking. His body seemed gigantic against the light, his face borrowed something of satanic dignity from the glare, the light glimmered upon the points of his harness, while he kicked lazily the backs of smouldering logs till the flames leaped up again. Poor Blackguard! His thoughts were bitter that night; memories of the innocent-seeming child he had grown to love, and still trusted lovingly, until under the girl's frank laugh he had seen the woman's flirting. She was a woman—playing fast and loose—Miss Violet the Vixen, irresponsible. The Blackguard's heart was too great for her understanding, a wonderful spirit of passionate tenderness, compassionate forgiveness, and large tolerance. The surface of him was all humour and quaint devilry, the depth of him hid much love and curious wisdom. She had tried to play with him the game of cat and mouse; so, smiling inly at her mistake, he had gone away, sending no word or giving any sign. When the cat wanted her mouse again, when she longed for him and could not do without him, she would send him a sign. If not—the Blackguard sighed over his pipe.
Perhaps he had been good through these summer months to no purpose; a lot of genuine religion had very likely, it seemed, been wasted, desperate efforts after wealth and respectability all thrown away. In that case, a couple of weeks hence, when his five years expired, he would spend the money he had made and saved in giving the "boys" a lively night or two, then re-enlist and be as bad as he pleased. But yet, if she would send a sign.
He looked up, hearing the crackle of a twig.
"Halt—who goes there?" he cried.
"All right!" came a shaky voice out of the darkness.
"Advance, and be recognised!"
"Eh?"
"Advance, or I fire!"
"Oh, give us a rest."
These were the war challenges, and the Blackguard had only used them to scare an evident stranger who did not know enough to say "Friend."
"All right," he said. "Advance, and be damned. Who are you?"
"Hello, Blackguard! The very man I want—I'm Long Leslie."
"Sit down, old chap. Help yourself from the tea kettle. Well, how are things?"
"I'm fencing for General Buster," said Leslie,—"got to earn our winter grub at the Tough Nut."
"How's the claim?"
"Ripping. Came on a splendid pay streak up at the hanging wall. These contact propositions are always worth assessments, anyway. Shorty and me are both working at Buster's, and when I heard your bugle calls I thought I'd stroll over. Come up from Tobacco Plains?"
"Yes, bound north again."
"I guessed you were with this outfit."
"Thanks, old man."
"I hear that Arrapahoe Bill is in trouble up at the bull pasture on Throne Creek."
"What's the old tough gaoled for this time?"
"Not that. He seems to have been having a scrapping match with a grizzly bear, but I haven't heard if he'll live."
"Poor devil! Any other news?"
"Oh yes, that Tenderfoot of yours is making the fur fly."
"What fur?—the Burrows girl?"
"Yes; they're to be married before the month end, according to the Lunatic. By the way, I've got something of yours. She asked me to hand it over if I met you. Here."
A Mounted Police button dropped into La Mancha's hand, but he said nothing.
"The bush fires are bad this fall on the upper Kootenay."
"Yes, and on the Mooyie. Bitt's was burned out last week."
"Serve him right for a good-for-nothing greaser. Well, I must be getting home. Long day to-morrow. Kind regards to the boys. Good-night, old chap."
"Good-night."
When the time came the Blackguard kicked his relief awake, and the relief in due course kicked another chap whose turn was the morning watch. The stars were doing a very poor business that night on account of the pungent dry smoke from burning woods, but when they gave up their half-hearted twinkling as a bad job, the dawn mist rising from the meadow was cool and ghostlike as usual; full of dream-faces, if one could only have seen them, ghosts of nice children, pretty girls, and respectable parents, who had come to call on the Mounted Police while they were off duty.
Startling all the echoes, making the keen ear tremble, waking the summer world, and losing coherence in the distant hills, reveille rang out clear and sharp, a burst of triumphant, unexpected music—and the night was gone.
Then, to successive bugle calls, blankets were rolled, waggons loaded, the horses carefully tended, breakfast was eaten, and almost before the sun had lighted the deep ravine the mounted party began to toil up the hillside, and the waggons followed groaning across the meadow.
Miss Violet and the Tenderfoot were sitting on a bench in front of the cabin, she peeling potatoes, he watching her.
"Go on," she said wearily.
"And then we shall have a house in Park Lane."
"We had that before—next door to the Duke of Something."
"Yes, in the ground just above; I forget the number. I shall have a private hansom to drive down to Board Meetings in the City; and when I come home tired in the evening you shall entertain all the millionaires we do business with. We shall get tremendous investments over the dinner-table. Won't it be jolly?"
She yawned. "Yes, I suppose so. What will you do with my Uncle?"
"Oh, he shall be our general agent in South Africa."
"That's a long way off, and perhaps he'll get wrecked coming home. I like that part. He shall have a large memorial window."
"Yes, a huge one, or say a dozen in St. Paul's Cathedral. Of course, I shall be a great benefactor to all sorts of things, and they'll put your picture in theSketchas the great philanthropist's wife; of course, with an interview."
"An interview all about you, I suppose?"
"No, about my great gifts to the Polytechnics, my College for Commercial Travellers, my County Council work."
"Then you can write the beastly thing yourself; so there!"
"I intend to be a very great man," said the Tenderfoot dreamily. "Of course, you must never interrupt me in the evenings when I'm busy dictating letters to my secretaries."
"What shall I do then?"
"Oh, I don't know. You'll have lots of things to manage—servants, dinner-parties, and"—
She dropped her potatoes and kicked over the pail, scattering its contents broadcast.
"Pick them up," she said.
He picked them up.
The little lady sat with her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, sniffing at the acridness of raw potatoes, staring gloomily the while out into the Sunday stillness of the afternoon. "I wish I was dead," she said miserably, addressing the Rocky Mountains over the way.
"But why?" He sat up on his haunches, the pail in one hand, an earthy vegetable in the other, staring horrified. "You shouldn't say such things. It's wicked. I won't have you say such things. I forbid it."
"You won't?" muttered Miss Violet vindictively; then gazing down at him with portentous emphasis she said—
"Damn!"
"Oh, I say!"
"Yes, you say. It's always you—'I'll this, or I'll that. It's my wish—I—I—I.' You're made of I's. There's nothing else in you but 'I.' Now, you listen to what little me says—I hate you, and if I marry you I'll make you as miserable as I am, you toad."
"My dear, I love you."
"No, you don't—you only love yourself; but I've got to marry you to get away from my Uncle. He gets on my nerves. Go away!"
Mr. Ramsay stared.
"Go away!"
Mr. Ramsay went mournfully away down towards the mill, where Mr. Burrows was saying his Sunday afternoon prayers to the steel cylinder. Half-way, among the trees, and just out of sight from the cabin, was a big wooden flume carrying water-power for a plant of turbines which turned the Burrows' generators, which actuated the fans, which ground the stone, which held the gold, which was to pay for the Park Lane house—for that is the stuff which dreams are made of. Mr. Ramsay sat down on the flume feeling very miserable.
But he felt worse than miserable presently when he saw a horseman ride up to the mill whom he recognised to his utter disgust as the Blackguard.
"Hello, Burrows!" La Mancha's big voice rang out through the woods. "Want a word with you, Burrows. Come out and talk like a white man. You won't?—ah, well, I'll talk while you keep your mouth shut. Are you in charge of Miss Violet Burrows? You are, eh? All right, I'm paying my addresses to Miss Violet, and if she'll have me I'm going to marry her. D'you hear? Yes, marry her. I didn't ask for your consent—I only ask favours from gentlemen. All right, Burrows, be good to yourself."
So, having propitiated her guardian, La Mancha turned his horse uphill to propose to the lady.
Meanwhile Mr. Ramsay was considerably ahead, out of sight, running through the trees for dear life, determined to get the lady out of his reach.
"Violet," he cried hysterically, coming up before the cabin, "come with me—there's a great big cariboo grazing up on the spur." He ran into the cabin, snatching up his rifle. "Come—by the back way—quick!"
"You saw a cariboo?" said Miss Violet calmly. "You were down in the timber and you saw him up on the spur?"
"Come quick!" he cried in an ecstacy of excitement. But she would not move from her seat. Then the Blackguard emerged from the timber, riding steadily up the slope.
"I see," said Miss Violet. "Be quick, Charlie, or you'll lose your cariboo; I'll stay here."
Mad with excitement, Mr. Ramsay seized her forcibly by the wrists, and half dragged, half carried her into the cabin.
"You shan't meet him," he cried. "You shan't!—you shan't!"
Flushed with a sudden rage, Miss Violet wrenched herself loose, struck him violently across the face, then ran out of the cabin and breathless down the hill.
When the Blackguard jumped from his horse at the sight of her, she, scarce knowing what she did, flung herself into his arms.
"My love," he said gently, "what's the matter?—poor little woman, who frightened you?"
She was crying like a frightened child, clinging to him, swaying to and fro, while the big sobs shook her little body.
Then suddenly she stopped short, and looked up in his face very much surprised.
"What was I doing?" she said.
"Breaking my heart with your trouble—poor little woman. Tell me who hurt you, and I'll kill him at once. Why, your wrists are all bruised and red. Who dared to touch you?"
But she would not say.