CHAPTER XV
Onthe third day of Donald’s convalescence he was able to leave his cabin. With his arm in a sling, his face patched with plaster, he made the rounds of the mill.
The men welcomed him with eager nods and smiles, many coming forward to shake his hand in silent respect. The big plant was now going at full blast. Belts flapped, logs thudded, planers snored loudly, and the great saw ripped shrilly through the big logs in a raising crescendo of sound.
Down at the siding an engine bumped noisily into a long string of flat-cars piled high with lumber. With arms akimbo, his wet undershirt clinging to his powerful torso, the mop of blond hair hanging damp on his brow, Gillis stood surveying the heavily-laden cars with an air of complacency. The lumber handlers sat about in positions of weariness, mopping their hot faces.
Gillis smiled cheerfully as Donald approached.
“Good news for you, Donnie,” he said.
“What is it, Jack?”
“Last load for the big steamer,” replied Gillis, as he pointed at the moving train.
“We’re on time, then,” cried Donald gladly.
“One day ahead,” corrected Gillis.
The engineer came to the cab window as the engine passed, and pantomimed his congratulations by shaking hands with himself. The train gathered speed, and as the caboose rattled by, the conductor came to the rear platform.
“Good work, boys!” he shouted.
They stood watching the train until it struck the down grade and disappeared through the cut.
“Well, that’s over,” observed Gillis, as he sat down heavily and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked tired and worn, but the light of victory shone in his eyes.
“If it hadn’t been for you, Jack,” said Donald earnestly, “we would not have got that order away on time. You look all in; you’d better have a good sleep.”
The big man’s eyes brightened at Donald’s praise.
“You don’t look like you’d bin to a Sunday-school picnic,” replied Gillis with a chuckle.
As Donald walked up the hill the whistle blew for the noon-hour, and the men trooped past on their way to the dining-room. Blackie left the ranks and walked shamefacedly to Donald’s side.
“I’m sorry for the part I took in the strike, boss, I——”
“It’s all right, Blackie,” interrupted Donald, “you more than made up for it. We’ll forget all about that.”
Blackie’s face wore a relieved look as Donald gave his hand a friendly grip.
Meals in logging camps are eaten in silence and with a fixity of purpose. It is a business to be finished with as hurriedly as possible. From the time the men are seated until the chairs are pushed back, the clatter of dishes and an occasional “pass the butter” are the only sounds.
As Donald moved to his place at the table the men arose and clapped their hands. Someone called for a cheer, but Donald laughingly held up his hand.
“Men, I can’t find words to tell you how much I appreciate your good work. Your long hours of labour enabled the Company to get an important order away on time, thereby saving their prestige in a big Eastern market. You will receive double pay for every hour you worked during the week.”
A low murmur of applause followed this welcome announcement.
After lunch, feeling the need of exercise, Donald made his way slowly down the hill. The severe mauling and the days in bed had weakened him to such an extent that he was forced to take frequent rests. As he turned a curve in the trail, Hand and the man with whom Andy had fought crawled stealthily from the bush, looked furtively about them, then followed Donald down the hill. He reached the open glade by the fairy nest to find Connie seated by the rippling stream, her chin resting in cupped hands, and staring dreamily into the flashing water.
“Ah!” he cried gaily, “I have caught my little dryad at her orisons.”
At the sound of his voice Connie sprang to her feet, her heart racing madly. Hearing a sound behind him, Donald turned to find the eyes of the Breed fixed on him in a malignant glare that chilled him to the marrow. For a short interval the dusky orbs of the Indian held his as though with a hypnotic power.
“Whew!” he ejaculated, as the Breed hobbled down the trail, “your guardian sure does give me an awful look. Why does he hate me, Connie?”
“Joe has peculiar ways,” she parried.
“What were you dreaming about, Connie?” he asked interestedly.
A gay light danced momentarily in her shining eyes, and the red lips curved in a smile; “I was dreaming I was rich,” she archly confessed.
“An old, old dream,” smiled Donald as he stretched himself painfully on the moss.
Connie sat down near him.
As always, this spot gave Donald a restful feeling. The gentle zephyrs wafted from the woods about them were somnolently delicious and the sparkling glacial stream that rippled through the glade sang its clear, sweet song. He closed his eyes wearily.
The proximity of the man she loved, lying there with his arm in a splint, his handsome face still bearing the marks of the blows he had suffered in her defence, thrilled Connie to the depths of her warm, impulsive heart. An almost overmastering desire to touch his hair possessed her.
“What would you do if you were rich, Connie?” he queried drowsily.
Connie sank back in the delicious moss and clasped her hands behind her golden head. “I’d buy a big trunk—one of that kind with the bulgy top—and I’d fill it with silks, satins, brocades, velvets and all kinds of soft frilly things. Then I’d unpack it slowly one by one and hang them up all around the room and sit down and look at them. I’d buy a great, big stone house in London, and I’d walk down the wide marble stairs, trailing a long rustling silk gown, and I’d raise my lorgnette to my eyes and say, ‘James, have the carriage at the door in half-an-hour.’ I’d have a country place in Scotland, with hundreds of dogs and horses, thousands of birds, and acres of flowers.”
She paused for a moment.
“I’d take Dad and Peggy with me everywhere I’d go,” she went on softly, “and I’d buy Dad millions of books, and for Peggy I’d buy a solid gold-mounted bridle, and lots of warm blankets for winter instead of those old sacks. I’d buy lots of good things to eat, and lots of good clothes for all the poor kiddies in the world.”
She looked up at the hills. “And six months out of every year,” she continued, “I’d live right here in these mountains and come every day and sit beside—beside—this stream.”
She raised herself slowly and looked down at Donald as he lay with closed eyes. Leaning forward until her golden curls almost brushed his dark hair, her eyes rested on a purple bruise on his brow. “And,” she finished fiercely, “I’d kill every man like Ole Hand.”
Donald laughed sleepily.
“Connie, you are a dear little girl,” he said tenderly.
The endearing tone held a paternal ring, and Connie bit her lip in vexation.
“I’d like to have you and your father go with me to Vancouver some day. Will you go?”
For a moment Connie was silent. “When—when my dreams come true,” she responded with an embarrassed smile.
Then he told her of the city and its ways and the things people did. She listened, not with amazement, but with a contented smile, as though what he told her was a confirmation of her dreams. But when he told her of the grand opera, the music, the costumes and the singing, her grey eyes wide with longing, she sighed deeply.
Donald’s voice trailed to a drowsy close; his chest rose and fell regularly, his features relaxed. He felt as though he were floating, exquisitely floating, on a sea of fleecy clouds that was bearing him softly away. A delicious langour enthralled him—an enchantment drowsy and dim. He felt himself drifting, drifting . . . He was asleep.
The willows at the lower end of the meadow were pushed cautiously aside, and Hand’s head appeared in the opening. For two days he had lain hidden awaiting an opportunity to waylay Donald. The day after the fight he had boarded the train for the Coast, but had slipped from the car at the station below.
His face—unprepossessing at its best—was now a horrible sight. The thick lips were swollen and cracked, the eyes discoloured and puffed, and the broken teeth bared in a snarl as he saw Donald lying by the stream. Every hour since the fight Hand’s hatred for Donald had grown blacker. He would show him that he, Ole Hand, deserved his reputation as a fighter. He would hold this crippled man helpless while he showered blows on his unprotected face, make him cry out for mercy on bended knees; perhaps kill him. His hatred grew hotter and deeper as he watched him lying peacefully beside the girl who had been the cause of the fight in which he had been ignominiously whipped.
Connie sat gazing intently down on the sleeper. A sudden thought seized her, bringing a warm flush to her cheeks. Why not? No one would ever know. Would she dare? She glanced timorously about her, then leaned slowly over, her curls falling about her face, and touched her soft lips to Donald’s cheek.
A bluejay screamed derisively. Connie came to her feet, her face crimson. Donald stirred, opened his eyes, and painfully raised himself.
“I’m sorry, Connie,” he apologized, “it was very rude of me to go to sleep.”
A moment later he walked down the hill. Connie accompanied him a short distance, then turned up a steep path, and from a high, rocky ridge she watched his retreating figure as he turned toward the dam.
A huge bucket on a cable, that had been used during construction for carrying men and material across the roaring chasm below the falls, still hung above the boiling waters.
For Donald there was a certain thrill, a keen exhilaration, in swinging in mid-air in this crude conveyance. He stepped into the bucket and with his one good arm pulled it along the rusty cable.
The Breed, hidden near the trail, saw Donald as he walked toward the dam. The venomous look in his eyes gave place to one of strained interest as he saw the two men skulking menacingly after the unsuspecting man. With a feeling of malignant exultation, as he sensed disaster to the man he hated, he hobbled to the trail and furtively followed.
From the heights above Connie saw the sneaking figures as they crouched low against the edge of the dark spruces and at once divined their murderous object. For an instant she was paralyzed with terror. Her lips refused to move and her limbs grew numb.
The men moved cautiously as they approached their intended victim, fearing that he might be armed. As Hand saw Donald suspended over the river a look of fiendish elation crossed his features. Here was a chance to dispose of his enemy with no trace of the crime. He tore a fire-axe from the wall of the tool-house and ran to the swaying cable.
The Breed heard Connie’s piercing scream of terror above the sound of crashing waters. He glanced up to see her silhouetted against the blue sky, her arms waving frantically.
“Joe! Joe! Stop them! Stop them!”
Screaming again, she plunged straight down the hillside in a mad race to reach the scene of action. Running like a deer, stumbling and falling, her breath coming in short gasps, she ran wildly on. Snarls of the thorny crab-apple tore at her, devil’s-club lacerated her face and hands, but she felt no pain. “O God,” she prayed aloud, “help me save him! Help me save him!”
Donald’s face blanched at the sound of the axe as it bit into the heavy wire cable. He looked down at the jagged rocks and seething waters below. Then with closed eyes and a prayer on his lips he tore in mad frenzy at the rope. Desperately he tugged with both hands, although the pain from his broken wrist sent a wave of torment up his arm that sickened him.
No man can measure the speed of thought in a crisis; even the sluggish brain of the Breed functioned rapidly. Connie was not for him. Her happiness was bound up in the man working feverishly at the haul-back. There was not one chance in a million that he would gain the safety of the cliff before the strands parted to plunge him to eternity. As he heard the crashing of Connie’s slender body as she tore down the hill, a softness crept into his eyes. With a speed incredible in one with his pitiful deformity, he ran in a series of bounding steps to the edge of the bluff. The noise of tumbling waters drowned the sound of his approach. Just as Hand raised his axe for the final blow, the muscular arms of the Breed were flung about him. Emitting a startled curse, the big man turned and with a twist of his powerful shoulders flung his dusky assailant to the ground. As he rose Hand swung viciously at him with the axe.
With a quick movement the Breed dodged, and the weapon flashed over his head, flew from the big man’s hands, and struck his confederate, a glancing blow on the shoulder that brought from him a howl of pain. Again the Breed’s arms closed about his adversary’s waist. Mad with the pain in his shoulder, the foreigner drew a long, keen knife, circled warily about the two wrestling men until he found an opening, then plunged the knife to the hilt in the Breed’s left side. The stricken man slithered from his opponent’s arms and fell a crumpled heap to the ground.
Sick and giddy, Donald stumbled from the bucket, seized the axe and advanced weakly toward Hand. Hand’s accomplice, taking one look at the prostrate body, turned and fled terror-stricken to the woods. Hand hesitated for a moment, then followed heavily after.
At this moment, Connie, with clothes torn and hair dishevelled, broke from the woods, and with a cry of pity flung herself to the ground by the Breed’s side and placed his head on her lap. The eyes of the wounded man flickered slowly open. He tried to speak, but a strong convulsion shook his frame from head to foot and he writhed in desperate agony.
Connie’s face as she lifted it to Donald was drawn with grief. “Get me some water, please,” she said brokenly.
The dying man’s lips moved. Connie leaned closer.
“I—I—love you,” he whispered faintly, “I—saved him—for you.”
A ghastly pallor spread over his features and his lips were widely parted in a struggle for breath. Again his lips moved in a fluttering whisper. “Connie—will—you—kiss me?”
As Connie pressed her tear-wet face to his the pain-contorted features relaxed in a smile of wonderful peace and his eyes closed.
When Donald returned Connie’s head was bowed and she was weeping softly.
“How is he, Connie?” he questioned gently.
“He’s dead.”
Donald removed his hat and knelt with bowed head.
“He died for me,” he choked.
“And for me,” she whispered inaudibly.
CHAPTER XVI
Lestwe tire of monotony, Nature gives us a change of colour for each of the flowering seasons. Flowers of every hue may be found through the different months. Pink for May, red for June, blue and pink for July, and during August royal robes of gold and purple clothe the hills and valleys.
The last week of August brought to Summit Lake a pageantry of colour that the Coast region is denied owing to the persistent rains that retard the ripening of the leaf. The deciduous trees were already withdrawing their life-giving fluid from the leaves to store it in their roots until spring. The willow, vine maple, birch and alder along the creeks and lake-shore held touches of autumnal colouring; while on the hills the yellowed leaves of the cottonwood were brilliant in their setting of sober dark green conifers.
A gaudy red were the vine maples, but there was a leafy beauty greater than theirs. The flowering dogwood blazed from every nook and cranny. The ripening of the dogwood gives to its leaves a flame that burns with a fierce glow; a glow that further ripening deepens until its crimson flush becomes the loveliest hue of the British Columbia woods.
The fireweed, or willow herb, that in July gives to the open spaces a gorgeous tint of bluey pink, were now loosing a flock of seeds to float away like tiny parachutes. Each small bit of fluff held a minute germ of life that would build a plant as large as its parent when, dropped by the friendly wind, it reaches a fertile spot. The stately cottonwood were sending out a life-fluff as tiny as that from the smaller plants. Thistles, cat-tails and asters hurried to join the silken clouds until the air was misty with these germ balloons, seeking their winter’s rest. The red elderberry and its magenta neighbour, the thimble berry, with its truculent Scotch cap, gave to the woods a material flame.
A curious timidity had come over the birds; not only were they quiet, but they were no longer to be found in their usual haunts. In some retired spot they were moulting. While the weather was at its best, and food was the most plentiful, they were dressing themselves in a new set of feathers for their long flight to the south. The tops of the tall pines were filled with sweet twitterings, of flutterings out and in, wing trails and quick short flights. A flock of waxwings had gathered for the migration. They would not leave for some time yet, but the change had come. Birds from the north had arrived, creeping south by easy stages, taking plenty of time in their journey—the freest creatures that live, staying or going as they feel inclined.
Wild berries, dead ripe, hung on lush drooping branches.
A soft “prut-prut-kwit-kwit” came from the leader of a covey of willow grouse that were feeding on the tiny fruit of a crab-apple tree. The call was answered by a shyer note from one of the young birds, who probably was being taught the scale.
The summer had been one of exceptional dryness. For weeks there had been no rain, and a blazing hot sun had poured its fiery rays from a cloudless sky. The heavy mountain dews could not penetrate the close standing timber, and the carpet of needles and moss became dry as tinder. A pall of smoke, from fires raging on the Coast, hung over lake and mountain.
For Wilkinson and his men these were anxious days. They covered the section between the mill and Squamish twice a day; scanning the hillsides and valleys, ever watchful, ever on the alert; pleading and exhorting the settlers and loggers to greater vigilance, and all the while praying fervently for rain.
Donald had posted a notice that any employee found smoking in the woods would be immediately dismissed. Logging creates a vast amount of débris, or “slash,” as it is known to the men of the woods. With the assistance of the Forestry men, Donald’s crew had piled enormous heaps of slash on the hillside, awaiting a favourable opportunity to burn. These menacing piles of brush, extending along the main road for a quarter of a mile, were a constant source of danger. Every precaution, therefore, was taken. The spaces between the mounds of brush were raked clean, the road was patrolled day and night, and pails filled with water were placed at regular intervals. Special notices stating the great danger of fire, and warning not to smoke in this area, were posted conspicuously on tree and stump.
The mill at Cheakamus had closed. Sparks from the donkey engines had threatened the extinction of both plant and timber.
Donald with Wilkinson stood surveying the piles of dangerous waste. “If a fire starts and we can get to it at once, we will be all O.K.” said Wilkinson, “but if it ever gets away from us here,” pointing down the road, “no human agency can stop it.”
They made the rounds of the patrol to satisfy themselves that the watchmen were attending to their duties. Leaving the main road, they scrambled through the tangled masses of tree-tops to ascertain how far distant the slash had been removed from the standing timber. Suddenly a tiny wisp of smoke was seen to drift from behind a fir tree at the edge of the clearing. Without comment, both men broke into a run.
Aroused by the crashing footsteps, a young man, who had been lying stretched lazily on the soft moss, came quickly to his feet, a cigarette held in his fingers. His companion, also smoking, lay with his back against the bole of a tree a few feet distant. Fishing-rods, creeks, landing-nets and the remains of a lunch lay scattered on the ground.
“Don’t you know better than to smoke here?” blazed Wilkinson.
The fisherman brazenly replaced the cigarette between his lips. Wilkinson’s arm shot forward like a flash to pluck the offending weed from the mouth of the astonished youth. “I wish we had a law to prevent smoking in the woods. I would take great pleasure in arresting you,” he growled savagely as he pinched the fire from the cigarette and ground it under his heel.
Unnoticed by the Forest Ranger, the second man removed his cigarette furtively and with a flirt of his hand threw it behind him as he rose to his feet.
“You are too damned officious! You have no authority to prevent us smoking,” he said angrily, as with clenched fists he advanced belligerently.
Wilkinson was near the breaking point. The weeks of worry, the long hours of arduous toil, and the lack of sleep had frayed his nerves. “Damn you!” he flared, “if it’s a fight you want——” He broke off suddenly, his eyes wide and staring. “My God! look!” he shouted. A flare of flame shot from the spot where the cigarette had fallen. A breeze rustled through the trees to fan the flame to a drumming roar as a pile of slash caught fire. The Red Terror was loosed.
“The alarm!” cried Wilkinson.
“Fire!” shouted Donald as he stumbled to the road.
“Fire!” repeated the nearest patrolman.
“Fire!” rang the cry down the line until the call reached the mill, and every whistle was loosed in a screaming bedlam of sound to blanch the cheeks of these hardy men, who knew the awful terror of this devastating, devouring, fiery scourge that blasts the wilderness with smoke and ashes and takes its toll of both man and beast. Men dropped their tools and ran to answer the call.
The trapper’s dugout shot swiftly across the lake.
Connie lay reading in the shade of her cabin. She came to her feet at the whistle’s first call for help. A moment later, seated astride her cayuse, she was galloping down the hill.
Every man, regardless of position, answers the call to fight fire. When a forest fire is raging the forest ranger is an absolute sovereign. He can call the lawyer from his desk or the labourer from the ditch, but seldom does he need to exercise this power, as every good citizen is willing to help stay the deadly scourge. Meanwhile the fire was leaping from heap to heap of the powder-like slash to cross the road and sweep up the hill with incredible speed. With a throbbing roar it hissed to the tree-tops and rushed up the mountain. Stifling smoke enveloped the fire-fighters. Showers of burning bark pelted them from above.
“To the mill!” Wilkinson shouted; “we can do nothing here.”
The men at the mill filed silently to their stations, and the big hoses poured torrents of water on roof and wall. Big jets curved up the hill to drench the dry, hot earth.
In short, quick sentences Wilkinson outlined his plans.
“We will try to stop it on the north at the river, on the south with fire-breaks, and at the track on the east by back-firing. On the west we have to let the fire take its course until it burns itself out on the cliff above.” His voice rose in sharp command as he sent the men to their posts. Donald with twenty men under him was set to work digging a fire-break on the south side. A “fire-break” is made by spading up the leaf-mould and humus down to the mineral soil and raking all inflammable material back from each side.
The fire was advancing rapidly and the heat was terrific. Choking and gasping in the stinging resinous smoke, the men strove in frenzy of haste to complete the fire-break before the flames should reach them.
A deer with a fawn at her heels came bounding in terror through the screen of smoke. Grouse and song-birds made a common escape from a common enemy feared by all. Rabbits, wild-eyed, scuttled in fear; squirrels and chipmunks joined in the hurried flight. Many of these smaller birds and animals would be flanked and lost.
Connie, proud that she could be of assistance, dashed back and forth carrying messages for Wilkinson to the different fronts.
From up the mountain-side came a drumming roar and the rending crash of trees as the fire undermined their roots. Sparks from burning tree-tops crossed the fire-break and started other fires. To combat these, water had to be carried up the steep hillside in pails. Andy was among those delegated to this arduous task. For hours he staggered from stream to hill and back again with a brimming pail in either hand. Scorched by sun and fire, the perspiration streaming down his face and stinging his eyes, the little hero stuck gamely to his task.
“I ’ired on this ’ere job as a cook,” he grumbled, “not as a blinkin’ water-spout. Strike me pink, if the water I’ve carried to-day was sprinkled in ’ell the devil’d be out of a job. Oh, well,” he added resignedly as he filled his pails and turned to again ascend the hill, “as Methusalem said, ‘Every little bit ’elps!’ These two buckets myke exactly four million, two ’undred and six gallons that I’ve carried this d’y.” At this instant his foot caught in a root to send him sprawling on his face rolling down the mossy hillside, the pails clattering after. He lay where he had fallen, flat on his back, with arms outstretched. “There,” he soliloquized, “thatwas the wisp of straw that broke the elephant’s back. To ’ell with the fire. Let the blighter burn.”
Wilkinson came wearily down the hill. His face was blackened and blistered, his hat gone, and his shirt a network from holes burned through the cloth by flying sparks. He sprawled on all fours by the stream, drank sparingly, then plunged his face in the cooling waters.
“ ’Ello, Wilkie!” shouted Andy, “ ’ow would you like to ’ave a cold bottle of beer?”
Wilkinson seized a stone threateningly and glared at his tormentor. “Men have been killed for less,” he growled huskily.
“I s’y, Wilkie,” grinned Andy, “these Forestry jobs are a snap. Do you ’ave the nerve to collect a salary?”
The district ranger was too tired for speech. His swollen face puckered in a smile and he passed on up the hill, and Andy came stiffly to his feet and resumed his never-ending task.
Connie brought reports that the fire was being held on the north and east. The fire-break on the south held, but spot-fires were kept in check only by the almost superhuman efforts of the fire-fighters.
Forest fires reach the peak of their intensity while the sun is hottest. With darkness the wind subsides, and, especially in the mountains the heavy dews are a never-failing help.
The sun, showing blood-red through the smoke, now sank behind the hills and a blessed coolness filled the air. The fire smouldered along the fire-breaks, but the dreaded sparks were not flying. The trembling roar diminished to a steady crackling where fallen trees were being steadily consumed.
The fire-fighters, their shoulders drooping, and wavering from sheer weakness, plodded down the hill for well-earned food and rest.
“You’ll have to be at it again at daylight,” said Wilkinson grimly. They nodded a tired assent. Wilkinson and Donald with twelve men patrolled the fire area throughout the night.
The next morning broke sullenly in a dull haze. As the first streaks of light heralded the coming of the new day, the fire-fighters again took up their posts. Men from the other mill arrived, and another day of battle with the fire demon was begun. An attempt was made to check it on the west front, high up the mountain-side, where the fire had crept through in the night to a small level plateau. At ten o’clock the wind came suddenly, and with it the fire broke through on the south-west corner with a deafening roar and rushed through a stand of dead trees with ever-increasing speed.
Donald shouted a quick cry of warning to the men who were in danger of being cut off by this break. They came on the double quick, just in time, as a lurid wall of flame shot up the hill over the path they had traversed.
“Are the men all out?” questioned Donald.
“Andy isn’t here!” said one of the men excitedly.
Donald seized the speaker’s arm. “Was Andy with you?”
The man nodded.
Donald’s face set in grim lines. Whirling quickly, he ran straight toward the line of fire. With a bound Connie was on her horse and after him at a swift trot. As he neared the screen of smoke, Pegasus changed his gait to that of a mad runaway, and with the small rider lying prone on his bare back disappeared from view.
At this spot the fire had spent its fury in the first mad rush, but a heavy smoke welled up from the charred ground. Terror possessed the horse, but the calm voice of his mistress urged him on. Crimson embers showered about her. Scorching heat fanned her face as if the doors of a blast furnace had been opened. A blazing branch fell with a rushing sound, barely missing the horse’s head. Sharp reports from the tree-tops made the plucky cayuse shy in a panic of fear.
Filled with apprehension, the crowd of fire-fighters stared with tense anxiety into the drifting smoke. Then a glad cheer burst from them as horse and rider emerged: Andy clinging to Connie’s stirrup, and Donald swaying drunkenly in the rear. Ready hands held water to Andy’s parched lips and bathed his hot face as he lay panting on the ground. He sat up with an effort and looked about him. “Where’s Connie?” he asked. But Connie had stolen quietly from the scene.
By mid-afternoon the main body of the fire was apparently under control, but the persistent spot-fires kept the entire crew engaged. A huge cottonwood, standing just within the fire-breaks, was the chief offender. Sparks from its lofty blazing top were floated by the breeze to land on the dry ground, starting innumerable fires.
“That tree will have to come down or we will be fighting spot-fires indefinitely,” said Wilkinson.
Silence fell. Everyone of those lumber-jacks knew the danger attached to the falling of a rotten, blazing tree. In sound timber the skilled “faller” can cut the scarf and drive the falling-wedge to lay the tree within six inches of the desired spot. With a hollow tree the task is much more difficult, as in the soft, decayed pulp the wedge may not provide sufficient leverage to swing the enormous weight, and the tree may crash from any angle.
Men working at the butt of a burning tree, too, are exposed to the fall of branches. Even a small bough, hurtling from the dizzy height of lordly cottonwood or fir, will break a man’s limbs.
Wilkinson picked up a falling saw. “Who will go with me?” he called.
Gillis stepped forward with wedge and hammer.
“Nothin’ doin’,” said little Blackie; “Wilkinson here has a wife and kid, an’ Jack has brains enough to be our boss. Me and Hoop-la ain’t got neither, we’re just a coupla roughnecks. Whadda you say, Hoop-la?”
“Ye betcha,” came vigorously from Blackie’s pal.
Two men were sent with them to assist in clearing a space at the foot of the big snag. A few minutes later the twang of the cross-cut, mingled with Blackie’s happy song, sounded above the crackling of the fire.
Wilkinson pointed to the southern sky, where heavy nimbus clouds were massing. “At last! The blessed rain is coming!” he cried in a voice of thankfulness.
A stronger gust swept through the valley to send a surge of flame from the giant cottonwood’s topmost branches. There was a sharp cry of warning as a limb broke off with a splinter-crash and came roaring to the ground, sending up a swirl of dust. A strangled cry of pain, animal-like in its intensity, cut the air.
“Blackie’s hit,” screamed Hoop-la.
Blackie lay on his face, his clothing afire, pinned down by the shattered limb. With a heave of powerful shoulders Hoop-la flung the crushing weight aside, and his big hands quickly smothered the fire in the clothing of his fallen comrade. Gently he raised the stricken man in his arms and bore him beyond the range of fire.
“Blackie! Oh, Blackie! are you all right?” he questioned fearfully as he looked down at the quiet face that held the grey pallor of death.
“Call the doctor and bring a stretcher,” sharply ordered Wilkinson.
Men hurried to do his bidding. When the stretcher bearers leaned to lift the inanimate body, Hoop-la fiercely interfered. “Let him alone,” he said savagely. Stooping, he picked up the light form and bore it down the hill to their bed in the rough log shack. Donald forced a few drops of brandy through the dying man’s colourless lips. Blackie stirred feebly. His eyes flickered open and he smiled as he recognized Hoop-la.
“Give me your hand,” he whispered faintly; “I’m runnin’ my last high-lead, old pal. I guess God’ll be good to us roughnecks.” He gasped painfully. The irregular breathing ceased; his eyes became fixed and glassy; his jaw sagged.
Hoop-la sat motionless, the hand of his dead friend held in his warm clasp. Slowly his head dropped forward and his big frame shook with dry racking sobs. Doctor Paul came in hurriedly. In answer to the look of interrogation in Donald’s eyes, he shook his head sadly.
Donald and Wilkinson tiptoed softly to the door. They were unashamed of the tears that made furrows down their blackened cheeks. Sick at heart, utterly overcome by this tragedy, Wilkinson sank dejectedly to a seat outside the cabin door and covered his face with his hands.
There came a sudden patter of raindrops that drummed on the roof of the cabin. Wilkinson stood erect with arms stretched wide. “Rain!” he cried. “The merciful rain! Thank heaven!” He stood with face upturned for an interval, enjoying the pelting downpour, then turned to look in the cabin door, a deep and brooding sadness in his bloodshot eyes.
“Donald,” he said gently, “the newspaper account of this fire will mention the fact that ‘a logger was killed.’ A logger!—yes—men like Blackie are the backbone of this country, the salt of the earth. Will people ever learn?” he continued, in a voice vibrant with deep emotion. He pointed to the barkless skeletons of trees blackened and charred and branchless save for the gibbet-like limbs stuck out from the naked trunks. “Think of it! All this—the sniffing out of a valuable life—a verdant hillside changed to a charnel-house of dead trees and blackened stumps on bare rocks—the loss of thousands of dollars worth of valuable timber—all this caused by the careless dropping of a lighted cigarette!”
CHAPTER XVII
Donald’sannouncement that Labour Day would be celebrated at the Lake was received with good-natured approval by the men of the camp, who spoke of the coming event as the “dry” holiday. The rain, which had brought such blessed relief to the hearts of the guardians of the forest, had cleansed the air of the last vestige of haze that had overhung the valley for the past month.
The morning of the holiday dawned auspiciously. The hot days of August had given place to the mellow sunshine of Indian summer. Through the crystal clear atmosphere the mountains seemed much nearer, standing out sharply against the blue sky. Near the top there had been a fresh fall of snow that had covered the bare ice of the glaciers like a white mantle. The brilliant rays of the September sun were reflected from this virgin covering with a brilliancy that was dazzling to the eye.
Janet arrived for the occasion, bringing with her a score of her friends. All through the previous day the trail from the north had brought strings of cayuses from the Indian Reserve, their dusky riders gaily bedecked in holiday attire. “Klahowya, tillicum!” they shouted, their coffee-coloured faces lighting up with a grin that betokened a gala day spirit. Their tents dotted the lake-shore, their camp fires glowing cheerfully throughout the night.
The sports committee had arranged a varied list of events. A rowing race between the two camps; a sack race, free for all; a baseball game between the whites and the Indians; a sawing race in which two “buckers” from each camp would participate; a hundred-yard dash; a log-rolling contest between a man from the State of Maine and a citizen of New Brunswick. But these were mere preliminaries to the real event of the day, the much advertised horse-race. The men from the other camps, arrayed in their “Sunday clothes” made their appearance early in the day.
Each camp brought its quota of sandwiches and cakes, but the brunt of the work fell on Andy and his assistants, who piled tier upon tier of sandwiches on the long tables under the willows by the lake-shore. The lemonade was in half-barrels at each end of the tables, with a “help yourself” sign attached.
Old Klootchmen, with stolid, sombre faces, etched deep with cross-hatching of wrinkles, walked through the throng laden with baskets they were trying to sell. “Mika tika basket,” quavered their aged voices as they held forth their wares.
About eleven o’clock Mr. Wainwright appeared alone.
“Where’s Connie?” asked Donald.
“As you are aware, Mr. McLean, Connie is very shy. I could not induce her to accompany me.”
“That will never do,” said Donald quickly. “I am going after her.”
“I am afraid that your trip will avail you nothing,” smiled Wainwright in his absent-minded way.
Donald borrowed a cayuse and set off up the trail. He hitched the horse at the edge of the clearing and proceeded on foot down the path, his shoes making no sound on the soft dark earth. As he turned a clump of alders and came in view of the cabin he stopped short, arrested by a sight that evidently elicited his amused interest.
Connie stood outside the door before a small mirror hung on the rough log walls of the house. She was attempting to place her heavy hair in a knob at the top of her head. A page cut from a magazine was tacked to a log near the mirror. She studied the photograph carefully, then returned to the attack with renewed vigour. But she could not get it to suit her. She tried and tried, but the heavy shining coils would elude her slender fingers and fall in a golden cascade over her slight shoulders. Her efforts to reach a satisfactory result brought her to the verge of tears. She stamped her little foot impetuously. At last she got it arranged in a fair semblance to that of the envied actress. The effect was so startling that Donald fairly gasped. The child of the moment before was transformed, as if by a fairy’s wand, to a woman of wondrous grace and beauty.
Connie perked her head saucily, then half smiled to show her small milk-white teeth; apparently she was pleased with the reflection she saw in the glass. From the clothes-line she took a flour sack that had been split open and washed to be used for drying dishes. Draping this from her waist-line, she pinned it securely. Assuming a haughty pose, she walked past the mirror with a sinuous, undulating movement. The little artist was so perfect in her mimicry that Donald’s lips involuntarily formed the word “Janet.” Twice she passed before the tiny mirror with a regal step, her head turning with its characteristic bird-like motion to catch the reflection.
Gradually the queenly pose slipped from her. She stopped abruptly, throwing out her arms with a forlorn gesture. Her golden head fell forward. Two big tears welled from her blue eyes and ran down the small freckled nose. Her small hands plucked convulsively at her faded blue overalls. A sob like a stab [of] pain shook her slender body. One arm came up slowly to cover her tear-wet face as she threw herself face forward on the grass. Her slender shoulders were shaking with such an agony of weeping that Donald’s throat felt constricted and his eyes grew suddenly dim.
Her spotted cayuse, grazing nearby, raised his head at the sound of Connie’s hysterical sobbing and moved to the small figure of his mistress. With ears bent forward and a look of bewilderment in his soft eyes, he nuzzled her neck with his velvety nose. The sobbing continued, but her brown hand came up to pat his head lovingly.
Donald tiptoed softly back to the trail. He stood for some time with his hand on the saddle, his head bowed in deep thought. “Poor little kid,” he said gently, then whistling a lively tune, he slowly retraced his steps to the cabin. He entered the clearing just in time to see Connie as she disappeared in the timber across the field. He did not want her to know that he was aware of her flight, so he knocked loudly on the door and shouted her name. A raven croaked derisively from the top of a dead tree. The pony raised his head to eye him silently. Connie’s pet deer came around the corner of the barn, a look of gentle questioning in her beautiful big eyes.
Donald rode slowly back to camp. Connie’s distress had touched his heart; her heart-breaking sobs were still ringing in his ears. “It is not that Wainwright does not love his daughter,” mused Donald. “It must be that he is very poor.
“Don’t see how I can help,” his thoughts ran on. “One can’t very well suggest to a father that he buy clothes for his child.”
Andy rang the lunch-bell, and there was a wild but good-natured scramble for the tables.
A long table had been arranged in the big dining-room for the officials and Janet’s party to which Donald had invited Mr. Wainwright.
“Did you find Connie?” queried Wainwright.
“No,” lied Donald, “I couldn’t find her.”
Janet’s friends were having a merry time. There was laughter, jesting and gay repartee from all sides. Douglas was in his element, his quips and brilliant sallies keeping the diners in a continual uproar.
As Donald glanced around the big table at the laughing faces of the gay party, he tried to visualize Connie dressed as one of these fashionably-clad girls who represented Vancouver’s “younger set.” The vision he conjured caused him to smile dreamily.
Janet had manœuvred to secure a seat beside Donald. In spite of all her artful contriving, she had been unable to have more than a few words with her father’s busy general superintendent since her arrival. She noticed the dreamy smile on his face and wondered what could be the cause.
“You seem rather distraught,” she said with an arch smile, her dark eyes fixed on his face. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Oh yes,” he replied absently.
“You were gone for some time this morning,” she stated.
“Yes,” he concurred, “I went up to bring Connie.”
“Oh!”
Janet’s fine eyebrows lifted slightly, and she looked at Donald with a curious intentness. “Why didn’t she come?”
“She wasn’t home.”
Her woman’s intuition long ago had told her that the “wood-sprite”—as Donald called Connie—was madly in love with him. As she looked at him now and noticed his pre-occupied air, a pang of jealousy shot through her heart like an arrow. Was it possible that he had begun to realise that the wild girl of the woods was not a child, and that a love for her had been kindled in his heart? The thought made her feel faint and she tried to put it from her mind.
Lunch was finished now and they were walking back to the lake. Douglas invited the party to take a trip around the lake in a motor-boat, to which they assented gleefully.
Janet hesitated as Donald turned away with Wainwright. “Aren’t you coming, Mr. McLean?” she called.
Donald turned and shook his head. “I may be needed here,” he said briefly.
Janet flushed to the roots of her dark hair and bit her lip in anger. She was not used to being thwarted in her desires.
Donald and Wainwright seated themselves on a bench under the willows and lighted cigarettes. Donald was ill at ease. The sound of Connie’s tragic sobbing was ringing in his ears. He could see her little figure writhing on the ground in a tempest of grief that had torn at his heart-strings. He sprang involuntarily to his feet and began pacing the ground with quick, nervous strides. Wainwright glanced up at him interrogatively.
“You seem worried,” he volunteered.
“I am,” Donald admitted briefly.
“Can I assist you in any way?”
Donald was in a welter of indecision. How should he broach this delicate subject? Although poor as the proverbial church-mouse, Connie’s father had the pride of Lucifer. There was natural dignity in his bearing, a certain aloofness in his manner, that in no way interfered with his unfailing courtesy, but had always precluded exchange of intimacies. He had resided in this wilderness for many years, but none could say that they had any more knowledge of his affairs at this moment than on the day of his arrival.
Donald decided to take the plunge. He sat down on the bench beside Connie’s father and related the scene he had witnessed that morning—of Connie’s preening before the mirror with the magazine page pinned to the logs; of the struggle with her hair; of the flour sack, and of the piteous sobbing of the heart-broken child.
Wainwright’s face flushed painfully. There was a look of poignant suffering in his grave eyes. Of all the races in the world, the English—especially of the better class—fight most stoically to hide their distress.
Wainwright leaned forward, his throat working convulsively as he struggled to regain composure.
“I hope you do not consider me presumptuous,” said Donald, a note of anxiety in his tone.
Wainwright’s hand reached forth to clasp Donald’s firmly. “No, I do not doubt your sincerity. An inordinate sense of pride has kept me in my present circumstances. This circumstance you have related has brought me to a realization that it is a selfish pride, as it has denied Connie the privileges to which she is entitled. There is nothing I can say,” he went on in bitter self-condemnation, “that can even partially condone or palliate my stupidity. I should have known that she would require proper clothing now that she is grown up. As a matter of fact”—he paused, his distress acute—“my finances are at a very low ebb.”
“How old is Connie?” asked Donald, hoping to relieve Wainwright’s embarrassment.
“Nineteen.”
Donald’s head came up with a jerk. “What!” he almost shouted.
“She is nineteen,” Wainwright reiterated, a peculiar expression in his eyes as he noticed Donald’s bewilderment.
“Nineteen!” Donald re-echoed, a bemused look on his face. “Great Scot! This is a surprise. I thought of Connie as being not more than fourteen or fifteen.”
“Connie’s healthful outdoor life has tended to keep her young, and her mode of dressing enchances the youthful effect,” said her father as he sat down wearily, a far-away look in his eyes. “Her mother,” he went on softly, a tremor in his voice, “was just like her; at the age of twenty-five she looked almost a child.” He turned to Donald. “No doubt you have wondered why I buried myself in this wilderness?”
Donald nodded. At this moment they were interrupted by members of the Sports Committee, who wanted Donald’s advice on a matter pertaining to the afternoon’s programme.
It was evident to Donald as he withdrew that Wainwright had been about to disclose his past history, a history which had been locked in his heart these many years.
At three o’clock the crowd began drifting toward the race-course. The centre of the valley had been cleared of under-brush, and the long grass burned under the watchful eye of the fire-ranger. A small creek and a few swampy places had been “corduroyed” with cedar poles and then covered with soil. A judges’ stand, with a few hastily erected seats for Janet’s party, stood near the finishing point. The horse-race, as has been said, was to be the feature event of the day. The crowd surged happily from the lake-shore to line up in orderly ranks about the oval.
The brilliant and diversified colours of the Klootchmen’s skirts and head-gear showed in bright contrast to the drab wearing apparel of the white men. The Siwash Indians were dressed in nondescript clothing as to trousers and coat, but one and all wore side-brimmed cowboy hats and displayed silk handkerchiefs of gorgeous hues, knotted at the throat to drape their shoulders carelessly.
Three husky farmers’ sons from Pemberton rode to the starting-line amid hearty hand-clapping and shouting from their friends. A swarthy-skinned rider, mounted on a spirited black cayuse, came prancing through the crowd. He lifted his hat and smiled in acknowledgment of the plaudits of the spectators. This was Joe Lafonte, the half-breed who had won first prize at the Lillooet races for the past two seasons.
The wise ones averred that Paul John, of the Indian contingent, would give him a hard race. Paul John’s cayuse was young, but the previous year he had run the half-breed’s horse a close second. Money was being placed on all sides, particularly by the Indians, who are inveterate gamblers. Amid an excited babble in Chinook, nine Indian riders came laughing and shouting, with much waving of hats, to prance about and display their horsemanship before the admiring crowd.
Donald, with Andy, Gillis and Wainwright, stood leaning over the edge of the judges’ stand watching the animated scene below.
At this moment there was an agitation at the far end of the oval, where the crowd opened to admit a horse and rider that came tearing down the course like the wind.
“Look!” Donald shouted excitedly as he seized Wainwright’s arm. “It’s Connie!”
Down the course, riding like a spirit of the woods, came the girl, her golden hair blowing about her face, sitting astride her mettlesome horse and riding as if the wilderness belonged to her alone.
Pegasus was not used to crowds. With arched neck and quivering flanks he reared on his hindlegs to poise an instant, then leaped forward like a rabbit. Connie sat on the bare back of her adored cayuse as though a part of the animal, her slender body moving in gentle undulations in perfect co-ordination with the movements of the horse. She was hard set to keep from running over the other riders, who sat with mouths agape.
Connie was unknown to the greater part of the crowd. To them this child-like equestrienne, with her mass of shining hair, appeared as an apparition. Her firm little hands soon checked her turbulent mount, who stood trembling with nervousness. The crowd gave her a rousing welcome as soon as they had recovered from their astonishment.
“Who is she? Where does she come from?” they shouted.
Connie kept her eyes fixed on the ground. She was outwardly calm and serene; inwardly she was as nervous as her fretting cayuse, and did not dare raise her flushed face to meet the battery of eyes around her.
Donald turned to Wainwright. “Are you going to let her run? Is it safe for her to enter a race with all those men?”
“I couldn’t stop her now, and besides,” he added with a touch of pride, “she can hold her own with any of them.”
The old trapper made his way to Donald’s side. His leathery old face, with its multitudinous wrinkles, wore a perturbed expression. “That feller Lafonte is cultus. He’s full of dirty tricks; ’tain’t safe for Connie to ride.”
Donald turned anxiously to Wainwright.
Connie’s father shook his head. “I am afraid it is too late now.” Then in a lower voice he added: “You must know the reason for her entering this race.”
Donald looked puzzled for an instant. Suddenly it dawned on him. “The purse?”
Wainwright nodded. “It would break her heart if I forbade her to ride, now that she has gone this far. She must have decided suddenly, as she never mentioned it to me.”
The Rennie Company had put up a purse of two hundred and fifty dollars. There was to be a collection taken after the race to add to this purse.
The horses trotted down the course. Connie’s was rearing and prancing, and it was with difficulty that she managed to get him to join the others. She leaned forward to whisper words of quieting in his twitching ears. Down the course they came. They were in nice alignment as they passed the judges’ stand.
“Go!”
Connie on her spotted cayuse showed as a bright splash of colour in the midst of her darker competitors.
Lafonte’s dark face lighted with a savage gleam as he swung his horse to the inside or “pole.”
Running neck and neck with him was his hated rival, Paul John, leaning low on his horse’s neck and shouting unintelligibly in Chinook. Connie was with the stragglers five lengths in the rear. This was new to Pegasus, and he was bewildered by the crowding horses about him. As they turned the corner of the course, Lafonte’s horse stumbled, and before he righted Paul John had slipped into the lead. Cursing wildly, Lafonte settled himself in the saddle, his horse’s head at the flank of his rival.
Hundreds of times Pegasus had travelled this field with Connie clinging to his back, slowing up for shrubs and trees and making sudden bursts of speed in the open. That had been vastly different to being surrounded by running horses and listening to the wild cries of their riders and the roaring of the excited crowd.
At the moment Lafonte lost the point of vantage to his rival, Connie leaned forward and emitted a peculiar clucking sound, at the same time striking her moccasined feet into the horse’s sides. Pegasus’s ears twitched back at the sound of the voice he loved. “Now I know what you want,” he seemed to say, as his beautiful neck stretched out and his hoofs spurned the ground. His graceful body lowered until it appeared to the spectators as though he were just skimming the earth. He moved with a springy stride, the muscles of his sinewy frame working with a sliding movement beneath the glossy skin. Gradually he drew away from the horses travelling with him. Foot by foot he crawled up on the leaders.
The party in the judges’ stand came to their feet to shout approval. The girls were cheering wildly for Connie as she crept nearer the front.
Donald was leaning forward with flushed face, his eyes glued to the spotted cayuse, a deep admiration in his heart for the intrepid little rider.
Little Andy jumped on the rail. “Strike me pink!” he yelled, “look at that ’oss run!” His eyes were bright with excitement. “A ’undred dollars on the spotted ’oss!” he shouted hysterically.
“I’ll take you,” said a voice.
“ ’Ere you are, mate; let’s make ’er two ’undred. I’m for me ’ome girl. She saved me blinkin’ life, God bless ’er!”
As they neared one of the corduroy bridges Connie was neck and neck with Lafonte. The latter glanced up as Pegasus came opposite. The roar of the crowd came dimly to Connie’s ears above the swish of air and the rumble of hoofs as they struck the culvert. An evil look crossed the half-breed’s face. He swung his horse sharply to the right. Connie’s horse floundered. Struggling to right himself, he fell off the bridge and landed with a dull thud on the soft ground below. The forward motion of the cayuse had stopped so suddenly that Connie was thrown like a projectile to a clump of bushes fifteen feet distant.
For an instant the big crowd was paralyzed. Then there went up a great groan of horror. The old trapper came to his feet, his eyes flaming, a hectic flush on his cheeks. Like a flash his hand flew to his six-shooter, and the long-barrelled Colt was trained on Lafonte. As he pulled the trigger Douglas struck his arm and the bullet sped harmlessly over the horseman’s head.
“My God!”
The words whistled through the set teeth of big Jack Gillis. “Let me get at him!” he cried hoarsely, as, pale of face, he struggled through the crowd. He would have thrown himself in front of the oncoming rider if strong hands had not clutched and held him. Connie’s father fell back a step as if struck a sudden blow, his eyes wide and staring. Andy’s head fell forward, and he groaned aloud. Janet covered her face with her hands and sat down weakly.
Donald leaned from the judges’ stand, his face pale as death. A vision of Connie’s broken body came before his eyes. “Oh, God!” he cried aloud in a voice vibrant with pain. He covered his eyes as though in dread of looking at the spot where she had fallen.
A shout came from the crowd—then a cheer that seemed to rock the hills. “Look! look!” they shouted.
Donald’s heart was beating tumultuously. Could he believe his eyes? Connie was standing upright. She appeared to sway slightly; then, like a flash, she was at her horse’s head.
Trembling and snorting, Pegasus came to his feet. With a bound she was on his back and seized the reins. Pegasus reared like a stag and was off down the course at the tail end of the race.
As Connie passed the judges’ stand she was well up with the tail-riders and gaining steadily. Her face was pale and tense. A smear of red showed on her arm, and a little stream of blood trickled down her forehead from the wound invisible in the thickness of her hair.
The crowd became suddenly quiet as Connie thundered past—a silent tribute to her glorious pluck. But as she crept toward her original position they roared their applause. Pegasus was showing an endurance and speed that had never been equalled in all of that district. As they turned to come down the home-stretch Connie was a good fifty yards behind the leaders. Lafonte’s wiry cayuse was again in the lead by a few feet.
The shock and strain were beginning to tell on Connie. She leaned forward and in a broken, trembling voice she cried: “Oh, Peggy! Win, Peggy! Please! Please! I don’t want to lose! I’ve got to win! Go! Go!” She was sobbing hysterically now, and her small hands were patting the horse’s neck.
Pegasus had never heard that tone of supplication in the sweet voice of his mistress before. Nobly he responded to the call. She felt his body lower under her as he set himself to the herculean task of overcoming his rival’s enormous lead.
Lafonte was using the whip. Paul John, hanging so persistently to his flank, angered him. They thundered across the corduroy, and at the sound of Pegasus’s hoofs on the cedar poles Lafonte turned to glance behind. A look of astonishment crossed his face as he saw the golden-haired rider so close. With a curse he struck his horse a brutal blow that caused the animal to lose its stride momentarily and fall back in line with Paul John.
Slowly, but surely, Connie’s spotted cayuse was closing the gap between himself and the two leaders, sweeping along at a terrific pace, his body and limbs moving with the rhythmic grace of a thoroughbred. Connie was leaning so low that the heavy white mane of her horse was brushing her face. Her hair was streaming in the wind like fine-spun gold. The party in the judges’ stand rushed to the railing, leaned anxiously forward to get a glimpse of the running horses as they turned the corner, and cheered lustily as the three riders thundered over the small bridge and came toward the finishing line. Connie was at Lafonte’s flank now.
Pegasus’s remarkable speed fanned the spectators’ excitement to a fever heat. Andy had done so much shouting that his voice was reduced to a whisper. Standing on the top rail, his arms waving, he was shouting huskily, “Come on, Connie! Come on, Connie!”
Donald’s dark eyes were glowing as he watched the slender figure clinging to the flying horse’s bare back. “What a pity if she loses,” he said under his breath. Leaping to the rail, he joined in the shouts of encouragement to the straining Pegasus.
With one hundred yards to go, Connie uttered one last appeal to her flying steed. Above the drumming of hoofs the spectators heard her voice ring in passionate entreaty. “Now, Peg! Now! Go! Go!”
With nostrils distended, his breath coming in choking gasps, his eyes bulging, and the voice of his adored mistress ringing in his ears, the gallant animal with a burst of speed that made the onlookers marvel, ranged himself alongside his labouring rivals.
Ten yards from the finish—five yards—they were neck and neck. Then, summoning his last ounce of strength, Pegasus leaped forward as though he would annihilate time and distance. With eyes nearly blinded with dirt, tears and the roaring air, Connie saw Pegasus hurl himself past the winning post—a winner by half a length!
The ear-splitting roar that went up from the race-mad crowd must have caused the marmots on the slides near the distant glaciers to seek their holes in terror. A flock of mallard ducks, which had floated peacefully near the centre of the placid lake throughout the day’s commotion, rose with frightened cries to seek a more secluded spot in which to finish their afternoon’s siesta.
The crowd had seemingly gone mad. The atmosphere pulsated with a wild tumult of sound. Hats were thrown in air and throats were strained with shouting.
Donald found himself with his arms about Andy, dancing and cheering in a frenzy of joy.
Connie made no attempt to check her cayuse’s onward flight. She was in no mood to listen to the kudos of the admiring crowd; she wanted only to get away from the scene as quickly as possible. The movement toward the centre gave her the opportunity she desired, and she urged the weary cayuse through an opening on her left. Many hands were reached up to congratulate her, but she pushed her way through to the trail.
At the sound of hoof-beats behind her she turned to see Lafonte urging his tired mount toward the Pemberton trail and looking back apprehensively over his shoulder.
Several men were running after him, shaking their fists and uttering loud imprecations. A man leaped from behind a jack-pine to land in the path in front of the half-breed, lunged for the reins, missed, then caught the stirrup. Lafonte struck the man a blow with his heavy whip that loosened his hold and felled him to the ground.
Connie saw Gillis break from the crowd, jump to the saddle of a cayuse and start after the fleeing man just as the latter disappeared in the woods. Gillis waved his hand to her and vanished in pursuit. She urged Pegasus to the shelter of the timber as she saw her father and Donald running toward her.
The strenuous race and the spectacular fall had left both horse and rider in a badly shaken condition. Connie’s body was bruised and sore, and her head ached horribly. The cayuse’s strained muscles were stiffening, he was limping badly, and his head drooped wearily as he dragged his tired limbs up the steep trail.
At the barn door Connie dismounted stiffly, removed the horse’s bridle, then threw her arms passionately around his neck and stroked his symmetrical head with soft caresses. “I’m so sorry, Peggy darling,” she said in a choking voice.
The horse nipped her shoulder in a weak attempt at playfulness, as if to signify that he quite understood.
Connie’s eyes brightened at a sudden thought. “Peggy dear,” she whispered softly as she nestled her cheek against his soft mane, “do you know that I can have some nice clothes now? Lots and lots of nice things. I am going to buy you a blanket—a nice thick one for winter—and some ribbons for your mane. And you, Peggy”—with a flood of tenderness in her voice—“you won all this for me.”
She was crooning sweet nothings in his ear that only Pegasus could understand when her father appeared, breathless from running, his face grey and anxious.
“Are you all right, Constance darling?”
Connie stepped forward. She was pale and weak, but her colourless lips tried to form a smile.
“Yes, Daddy dear—I’m—all—ri——” Her voice trailed to a whisper and the blue eyes closed as darkness fell upon her like a cloud. Swaying uncertainly for an instant, she fell like a broken flower into her father’s outstretched arms. For the first time in her life Connie had fainted. She lay like a child in his trembling arms, her upturned face wearing the pallor of death.
With a prayer on his lips and an agony of fear in his heart, her father carried her to the cabin and tenderly stretched the bruised little body on the coarse blankets of her bunk.