The North-west breeze was fresher than usual when, one afternoon, Helen rode through a belt of sand-hills on her way to the Charnock farm. Clouds of dust blew about the horse's feet, and now and then fine grit whistled past her head. She had her back to the boisterous wind, but she urged the horse until they got behind a grove of scrub poplars. Then she rolled up her veil and wiped her face before she looked about.
Round, dark clouds rolled across the sky, as they had done since spring, but for nearly a month none had broken. A low ridge, streaked by flying shadows, ran across the foreground, and waves of dust rose and fell about its crest. Sandy belts are common on parts of the prairie, and when they fringe cultivated land are something of a danger in a dry season, because the loose sand travels far before the wind.
Beyond the sand-hills, the level grass was getting white and dry, and in the distance the figures of a man and horses stood out against a moving cloud of dust. Helen supposed he was summer-fallowing, but did not understand the dust, because when she last passed the spot the soil looked dark and firm. She remembered that Festing had been anxious about the weather.
Riding on, she saw the roof of the Charnock homestead above a straggling bluff, and her thoughts centered on its occupants. Strange as the thing was, she had come to think of Sadie as her friend. Her loyalty and her patience with her husband commanded respect, and now it looked as if they would be rewarded. Bob was taking an interest in his farm and had worked with steady industry for the last month or two. Helen thought she deserved some credit for this; she had had a part in Bob's reformation and had made Stephen help.
Sadie trusted her, and no suspicion or jealousy marked their relations. Indeed, Helen wondered why she had at one time been drawn to Bob. Were she free to do so, she would certainly not marry him now. Still she had loved him, and this gave her thoughts about him a vague, sentimental gentleness. It was a comfort to feel that she had done something to turn his wandering feet into the right path.
When she reached the homestead she found Sadie looking disturbed. Her face was hard, but her eyes were red, and Helen suspected that she had been crying. It was obvious that something serious had happened, because Sadie's pluck seldom broke down.
“I'm glad you came,” the latter said. “I'm surely in trouble.”
Helen asked what the trouble was, and Sadie told her in jerky sentences. Charnock had started for the railroad early that morning, and after he left she discovered that he had written a cheque, payable to Wilkinson.
“It's not so much the money, but to feel he has cheated me and broken loose when I thought he was cured,” she concluded. “He has been going steady, but now that brute has got hold of him he'll hang around the settlement, tanking and betting, for a week or two. Then he'll be slack and moody and leave the farm alone, and I'll have to begin the job again.”
Sadie paused, with tears in her eyes, and then pulled herself together. “Pshaw!” she said, “I'm a silly fool. Before you came I thought I'd quit and let Bob go his own way; but I'm not beaten yet. If Wilkinson wants him, there's going to be some fight. Now, I want you to ride over with me to the fellow's place.”
Helen felt sympathetic. Sadie's resentment was justified, and she looked rather refined when angry. Her stiff pose lent her a touch of dignity; her heightened color and the sparkle in her eyes gave her face the charm of animation. Moreover, her want of reserve no longer jarred. Reserve is not very common on the plains.
“But you must tell me something about it first,” Helen replied. “How did you find out he had written the cheque?”
“I suspected something after he'd gone and looked for his cheque-book. He'd torn out a form, but hadn't filled up the tab. Bob's silly when he's cunning and didn't think about his blotter. The top sheet was nearly clean and I read what he'd written, in a looking-glass.”
“Why did he give Wilkinson the money?”
“I guess it's to speculate in wheat or building-lots, and Bob will certainly lose it all; but that's not what makes me mad. After all, it's his money; he's been saving it since he steadied down. I can manage Bob if he's left alone, and thought I'd cut out the friends he shouldn't have. Wilkinson was the only danger left, but he's a blamed tough proposition.”
Helen knew Festing disliked the man, but she felt puzzled. “The sum is not very large,” she said. “I don't quite see why Wilkinson thought it worth while——”
“It shows he's pinched for money, and there's some hope in that. Then he doesn't like me, and I imagine he has a pick on your husband. Stephen froze him off one day when he was getting after Bob. Anyhow, I mean to get the money back.”
“But can you? It is Bob's cheque.”
“I'm going to try. The bank deals withme,” Sadie answered. “But come along; I hear the hired man bringing the rig.”
When they got into the vehicle, Helen remarked that Sadie had brought a flexible riding whip. Since the quirt was useless for driving, Helen wondered what she meant to do with it. The trail they took ran through the grass, a sinuous riband of hard-beaten soil that flashed where it caught the light. It was seamed by ruts and fringed by wild barley but in places the grass had spread across it, leaving gaps, into which the horses' legs and the wheel sank. The smell of wild peppermint rose from among the crackling stalks as the team brushed through. Now and then a prairie-hen got up, and small animals, like English squirrels, squatted by the trail until the wheels were nearly upon them, and then dived into holes.
“The gophers are surely plentiful,” Sadie remarked. “Don't know that I've seen so many around before, and that's going to be bad for the grain. They're generally worst when the crop is poor.”
“Do you think the crop will be poor?”
Sadie glanced at the sky, which was a dazzling blue, flooded with light, except where the scattered clouds drove by.
“We didn't get the June rains, and the frost-damp has gone down pretty deep. Then we have had very few thunder-storms, and the sand is blowing bad. It makes trouble in parts of Manitoba, but the scrub trees in our sand-hills generally hold it up. What does Steve think?”
“He hasn't told me. Sometimes he looks anxious, but he doesn't talk about it much.”
“That's Steve's way. I don't know if it's a good way. He sees when he's up against a hard thing and makes his own plans. Now I want to know my husband's troubles. You feel better when you can talk.”
Helen agreed with Sadie; she often wished Stephen would talk to her about his anxieties. He wanted to save her and had confidence in himself, but she felt that he left her out too much.
“How does the sand damage the wheat?” she asked.
“Cuts the stalk. Takes time, of course, but the sharp grit puts down the grain like a binder knife, if it blows through the field long enough. However, I'm not worrying much about that; there are worse things than the sand and drought. We're fools and make our real troubles; that's what's the matter with us.”
Helen smiled. Sadie was amusing when philosophized, but Helen thought her views were sound. She had chosen a stern country, but its stinging cold and boisterous winds were invigorating, and with pluck one could overcome its material obstacles. It was human weaknesses that made for unhappiness.
“Well,” she said, “we must hope the rain will come; but hadn't we better go by the long bluff? The new man has put a fence across the other trail.”
Sadie left the trail, and as they crossed a hollow the tall grass rustled about the horses' legs. It had lost its verdure; the red lilies and banks of yellow flowers had withered on their parched stalks. When they reached the level the grass was only a few inches high and the wide plain rolled back in the strong light, shining pale-yellow and gray. It was only when the shadows passed that one could see streaks and patches of faded green. In the distance a cluster of roofs broke the bare expanse, and Helen knew they marked the Wilkinson ranch. A horse and buggy approached it, looking very small, and she glanced at Sadie, who said nothing, although her face was stern. By and by the latter stopped her team in front of the homestead and fastened the reins to a post.
“Now,” she said, “you sit on the veranda and wait for me. It was Wilkinson's rig we saw, and I'll find him in.”
Wilkinson looked up from the table at which he was writing when Sadie entered the room. He was, on the whole, a handsome man, but was rather fat, and his black eyes were unusually close together. This perhaps accounted for the obliquity of his glance, which, some believed, conveyed a useful hint about his character. He was neatly dressed in light, summer clothes, although the farmers generally wore brown overalls. As he got up his look indicated that he was trying to hide his annoyance.
“This is something of a surprise, Mrs. Charnock,” he said politely. “However, if there's anything I can do—”
“You can sit down again in the meantime,” Sadie replied, and occupied a chair opposite, with the quirt on her knee. “To begin with, if you're writing to your Winnipeg friend, you had better wait a bit.”
“I'm not writing to Winnipeg; but don't see what this has to do with your visit.”
“Then you haven't sent off Bob's cheque yet! I mean to get it back.”
Wilkinson saw that he had made a rash admission. Mrs. Charnock was cleverer than he thought.
“If Bob wants it back, why didn't he come himself?”
“He doesn't know I have come,” Sadie answered calmly.
Wilkinson studied her and did not like her look. Her face was hard, her color higher than usual, and her eyes sparkled ominously.
“Well,” he said, “you told me you would pay no more of your husband's debts, but this is not a debt. Besides, the money must be Bob's, since he gave me the cheque.”
“Why did he give it you?”
The question was awkward, because Wilkinson did not want to state that he had persuaded Bob to join him in a speculation. This was the best construction that could be put upon the matter, and he did not think it would satisfy Mrs. Charnock.
“Why does a man give another a cheque?” he rejoined, with a look of good-humor that he did not feel.
“The best reason I know of is—for value received. But this doesn't apply. You allowed it wasn't a debt, so Bob has got no value.”
“One sometimes pays for value one expects to get.”
Sadie laughed scornfully. “If that's what Bob has done, he'll get badly stung. There's nothing coming to him from a deal with you. I guess you don't claim he made you a present of the money?”
“I don't,” said Wilkinson, with a frown, for he thought he saw where she was leading him.
“Very well. One pays for something one has got or is going to get, and as we can rule out both reasons, the cheque is bad. In fact, it's not worth keeping. Better give it me back.”
“Your argument looks all right, Mrs. Charnock, but you don't start from sure ground. How do you know there's nothing coming to your husband?”
“I know you,” Sadie rejoined. “Anyhow, the cheque is certainly bad. They'll turn it down if you take it to the bank.”
Wilkinson made an abrupt movement. “You can't stop your husband's cheque. You don't mean he hasn't the dollars to meet it?”
“I don't,” said Sadie, with an angry flush. “Bob is honest. The money's there, but if you think the bank will pay when I tell them not, go and see. The manager knows me and he knows you.”
Wilkinson saw that he was beaten, but tried to hide his anger. “Well, it looks as if Bob was lucky. He has a wife who will take care of him, and I reckon he needs something of the kind. However, here's the cheque; I want a receipt.”
Sadie wrote the receipt and he noted that her hand shook. As she got up he glanced at the quirt.
“Did you ride over? I thought I heard a rig.”
“I drove,” said Sadie. “Looks as I needn't have brought the quirt. Well, I'm glad you agreed about the cheque being bad. I meant to get it anyhow.”
Wilkinson gave her a curious look, but said nothing and she went out.
“I've saved Bob's money,” she told Helen as she started the team. “Wilkinson saw my arguments and didn't kick as much as I expected, but he certainly doesn't like me any better. I think he'll make trouble if he can.”
“That seems unlikely,” Helen remarked. “I imagine that as you have beaten him he'll be glad to let the matter drop. No doubt he wanted the money and was vexed because he had to give it up, but I hardly think he'll try to revenge himself on you. Men don't do these things.”
“My husband and yours don't, but Wilkinson is different,” Sadie answered.
Charnock had not returned when she reached the farm, and after Helen left she sat on the veranda, feeling disturbed. Bob had told her he was going to the railroad to bring out some goods, but he could have got back two or three hours earlier. Then Wilkinson no doubt knew where he had gone. A small settlement, with two new hotels, had sprung up round the station, and as the place was easily reached by the construction gangs there was now and then some drunkenness and gambling. For all that, Sadie did not mean to anticipate trouble, and set about some household work that her drive had delayed. It got dark before she finished, but Bob did not come, and she went outside again.
The night was clear and refreshingly cold after the scorching day. The wind had dropped, everything was very quiet, and she could see for some distance across the plain. The hollows were picked out by belts of darker shadow, and the scattered bluffs made dim gray blurs, but nothing moved on the waste, and she did not hear the beat of hoofs she listened for.
For a time she sat still, lost in gloomy thought. Bob's relapse had been a bitter disappointment, because she had begun to hope that the danger of his resuming his former habits was past. He had stuck to his work, which seemed to absorb his interest, and had looked content. There was ground for believing that with a little judicious encouragement he might make a good farmer, and Sadie did not grudge the patient effort necessary to keep him in the proper path. Now he had left it again and might wander far before she could lead him back.
For all that, she did not mean to give up. She had fought hard for Bob and was resolved to win, while there was a ray of comfort. The woman she had at first thought a danger was her best friend, and she felt for Helen Festing a grateful admiration that sometimes moved her deeply. Helen had many advantages that she could not have combated had they been used against her: grace, polish, and a knowledge of the world in which Bob had lived. But Helen was on her side. Sadie's admiration was perhaps warranted, but she undervalued her own patience and courage.
At length she got drowsy and forgot her troubles. She did not think she really went to sleep, but after a time she got up with a start. A beat of hoofs and rattle of wheels had roused her, and she saw a rig coming towards the house. For a minute or two she stood shivering and trying to brace herself. If Bob was driving, things might be better than she thought; but when the horses stopped another man got down.
“Perhaps you'd better rouse out your hired man, Mrs. Charnock,” he said awkwardly. “I've got your husband here, but it's going to take two of us to bring him in.”
Sadie brought a lamp and, with her mouth firmly set, looked into the rig. Bob lay upon some sacks in an ungainly attitude, and the jolting had not broken his heavy sleep. It was some time since he had come home like this, and Sadie felt dejected and tired. Then with an effort she went to waken the hired man.
They carried Charnock in, and when she had given the driver some money she sat down and indulged her passionate indignation. Wilkinson had sent the rig, but had not been prompted by kindness when he told the man to drive Bob back; it was his revenge for his defeat. He had found Bob, made him drunk, when there was nothing to be gained by doing so, and sent him home like this. The fellow was poison-mean, but she thought him rash. He had struck her a cruel blow, but she did not mean to sit still and nurse the wound. She must strike back with all the force she could use and make him sorry he had provoked her to fight. Then, putting off her half-formed plans until next day, she went to bed.
When Sadie got up next morning she ordered the buggy to be brought round, and then went to look at Charnock. He was asleep, of which she was rather glad, because there was something to be said and she was highly strung. She could not trust her temper yet and might go too far. Bob was generally docile, particularly when repentant; but it was possible to drive him into an obstinate mood when nothing could be done with him. She was angry, but her anger was mainly directed against Wilkinson.
After breakfast she drove off across the plain. It was about eight o'clock, but the sun was hot. The breeze was not so fresh as usual, and a bank of dark clouds rolled up above the prairie's edge. They looked solid and their rounded masses shone an oily black, and she wondered whether they promised one of the thunder-storms that often broke upon the plains on summer afternoons. She would have welcomed the savage downpour, even if it had spoiled her clothes.
Sadie was getting anxious about the crop. Its failure would mean a serious loss, and she hated to see labor and money wasted; but this was not all. Knowing the risks the farmer ran on newly-broken land, she had not adventured too much of her capital on the first year's harvest; but success might encourage Bob, while failure would certainly daunt him. He would work for an object he was likely to gain, but if disappointed, regretted the exertions he had made, and refused, with humorous logic, to be stirred to fresh effort.
“I'm not convinced that farming's my particular duty,” he once said. “When I plow it's in the expectation of cashing the elevator warrants for the grain. If I'm not to reap the crop, it seems to me that working fourteen hours a day is a waste of time that might be agreeably employed in shooting or riding about.”
Sadie urged that one got nothing worth having without a struggle. Bob rejoined: “If you get the thing you aim at, the struggle's justified; if you don't you think of what you've missed while you were uselessly employed. Of course, if you like a struggle, you have the satisfaction of following your bent; but hustling is a habit that has no charm for me.”
Sadie reflected that the last remark was true. Bob never hustled; his talk and movements were marked by a languid grace that sometimes pleased and sometimes irritated her. It was difficult to make him angry, and she was often silenced by his whimsical arguments when she knew she was right. But he was her husband, and she meant to baulk the man who hoped to profit by his carelessness.
Then she urged the horse. It was a long drive to the settlement where she had kept the hotel, and she had not been there for some time. The goods she and her neighbors bought came from the new settlement on the railroad, which was not far off; but she had an object in visiting the other. It was noon when she reached the hotel and sat down to dinner in the familiar room. She did not know if she was pleased or disappointed to find the meal served as well as before, but her thoughts were not cheerful while she ate. She remembered her ambitions and her resolve to leave the dreary plains and make her mark in Toronto or Montreal. Now her dreams had vanished and she must grapple with dull realities that jarred her worse than they had done.
The dining-room was clean, but unattractive, with its varnished board walls, bare floor, and wire-mesh filling the skeleton door, which a spring banged to before the mosquitoes could get in. There were no curtains or ventilator-fans, the room was very hot, and the glaring sunshine emphasized its ugliness. Then it was full of flies that fell upon boards and tables from the poisonous papers, and a big gramophone made a discordant noise. Sadie remembered Keller's pride in the machine and how he had bought it, to amuse the boys, after hearing an electric organ in a Montreal restaurant. Yet she knew her craving for society must be gratified at such places as this; a rare visit to the settlement was the only change from monotonous toil.
When she offered her meal-ticket at the desk the clerk shook his head.
“You don't need to open your wallet in this house. The boss left word he'd be glad to see you at the store.”
Sadie, who had meant to see the proprietor, complied, and found him and his wife in the back office, where she and Bob had often sat. The woman gave Sadie a friendly smile.
“I hope they served you well. When you're in town we want you to use the house like it still belonged to you.”
Sadie made a suitable reply. She had charged a good price for the business, but had stuck to the Keller traditions and made a straight deal. Stock and furniture had been justly valued, and when the buyers examined the accounts she had frankly told them which debts were doubtful and which were probably bad. It was about these things they wished to talk to her, and she meant to indulge them.
“How's trade?” she asked, to give them a lead.
“In one way, it's good,” replied the man. “We're selling out as fast as we can get the truck; but there's a point I want your views about. The cheque I gave you wiped off most all the capital I had, wholesalers put up their prices if you make them wait, and a number of the boys have a bad habit of letting their bills run on. Now, if you can give me some advice——.”
“Certainly,” said Sadie, who thought the woman looked anxious. “Suppose you read out the names and what they owe?”
The man opened a ledger, and she told him what she knew about his customers; whom he could trust and whom he had better refuse further credit. Then she looked thoughtful when he said: “Wilkinson, of the range—”
“He didn't deal with us.”
“But you know everybody round here and can tell me if he's likely to make good,” the man urged.
“How much does he owe you?” Sadie asked.
The man named a rather large sum and she pretended to consider.
“Well,” she replied, “the boys have probably told you that Wilkinson's not a friend of mine, and since that's so I'm not going to say much about his character.”
“It's not his character we're curious about. Do you know how he's fixed?”
Sadie was silent for a few moments. The others were young and newly married and had admitted that the purchase of the business had strained their resources. It was plain that a large bad debt might involve them in difficulties. Wilkinson had forced her to fight, and she meant to show him no mercy, but she must say nothing that could afterwards be brought up against her.
“Character counts for as much as dollars,” she remarked. “That was my father's motto, and he was never afraid to take steep chances by backing an honest man. Although he had debts on his books for three or four years, it was seldom a customer let him down. But he cut out a crook as soon as he suspected what the fellow was. However, you want to know how Wilkinson stands? Well, it's a sure thing he finds dollars tight.”
“Anyhow, a man can't disown his debts in this country.”
“That's so; but if he's a farmer, the homestead laws stop your seizing his house and land and part of his stock, unless he has mortgaged them to you. If somebody else holds a mortgage, you generally get stung.”
“The trouble is that if you're too hard on a customer, he tells his friends, and the opposition gets his trade and theirs.”
“Sure,” said Sadie, “Keller's let the opposition have that kind of trade. A crook's friends are generally like himself, and there's not much profit in selling goods to folk who don't mean to pay.”
“Has Wilkinson given a mortgage?” the man asked.
“If he had, it's got to be registered. You can find out at the record office, and I guess it would pay you to go and see.”
“Well, I hear he's just sold a good bunch of horses. That means he'll have some money for a while.”
“Then you had better take your bills over and get them paid before the money's gone,” Sadie answered in a meaning tone.
“If you had the store, would you risk his being able to pay all right and afterwards dropping you?”
“I certainly would,” said Sadie. “I'd harness my team and start for the range right now.”
The woman looked at her husband. “That's my notion, Tom; you'd better go,” she said, and turned to Sadie. “It would hit us hard if Wilkinson's bill got much longer and he let us down.”
Sadie left them and went to a new store farther up the street, after which she called on an implement dealer who occasionally speculated in real estate and mortgages, and one or two others. She knew them all, and they knew that on business matters her judgment was sound. It was plain that they were suspicious about Wilkinson, but, so far, undecided what to do. They had doubts, but hesitated to admit that they had been rash, and shrank from using means that might cost them a customer. Sadie gave one information she had gathered from another, and added hints of what she herself knew. The tact she used prevented their guessing that she had an object, and she did little more than bring their own suspicions to a head; but she was satisfied when she returned to the hotel.
When the horse had rested she drove out of the settlement. For some distance a wire fence ran along the dusty, graded road, but it ended at a hollow, seamed by deep ruts that united on the other side, where a trail emerged. Then for a mile or two, she passed new scattered homesteads with their windmills and wooden barns, until these dropped behind and she drove across the empty wilderness. No rain had fallen, the sky was getting clear and green, and a vivid crimson sunset burned on the edge of the grass. The air was now cool, and although she was anxious about the weather, Sadie felt more cheerful than when she had come.
She had no scruples about what she had done. For one thing, she had kept to the truth when she might have made her hints more damaging by a little exaggeration. Her antagonist had struck her a treacherous blow; he was dangerous, and must be downed. Then she smiled with grim humor as she admitted that she had perhaps done enough for a time. Wilkinson's creditors were on his track; it would be amusing to watch them play her game.
It was dark when she reached the farm and found Charnock waiting on the veranda. He looked dull but not embarrassed, and there was nothing to indicate that he had been disturbed by her absence. Sadie did not tell him where she had been and did not talk much. She had found out that it was better not to make things too easy for Bob.
“I suppose you have a headache; you deserve it,” she said. “I'm tired and don't want to hear your excuses now.”
“I really haven't begun to make excuses,” Charnock answered.
“Then don't begin. It's late, and you have got to start for the bluff at sun-up and haul those fence-posts home. The job has been hanging on too long and must be finished to-morrow.”
“It will be finished before dinner,” Charnock replied. “As a matter of fact, I brought in most of the posts to-day.”
Sadie's look softened, but she did not mean to be gracious yet.
“I reckoned you'd be loafing round the house and finding fault,” she said and left him.
When she had gone Charnock smiled. Sadie would, no doubt, come round to-morrow, and it was lucky she knew nothing about the cheque he had given Wilkinson; but he wondered where she had been. Now he came to think of it, Wilkinson had said nothing abut the cheque when they met at the railroad settlement; but after all there was perhaps no reason he should do so.
About seven o'clock one evening a fortnight later, Festing threw down the cant-pole he had been using to move a big birch log, and lighting his pipe, stopped and looked about. A shallow creek flowed through a ravine at the edge of the tall wheat, and below the spot where he stood its channel was spanned by the stringers of an unfinished bridge. The creek had shrunk to a thread of water, but Festing, who had been wading about its bed, was wet and splashed with mire. Moreover he had torn his threadbare overalls and his hot face was smeared where he had rubbed off the mosquitoes with dirty hands.
The evening was hot, he felt tired and moody, and his depression was not relieved when he glanced at the wheat. There was no wind now, but the breeze had been fresh, and the ears of grain that were beginning to emerge from their sheaths dropped in a sickly manner. The stalks had a ragged look and fine sand lay among the roots. The crop was damaged, particularly along its exposed edge, although it might recover if there was rain. Festing, studying the sky, saw no hope of this. The soft blue to the east and the luminous green it melted into, with the harsh red glare of the sinking sun, threatened dry and boisterous weather. Unless a change came soon, the wheat would be spoiled.
It was obvious that he had sown too large a crop, and the work this implied had overtaxed his strength. He had felt the strain for some time, and now things were going against him it got worse. Hope might have braced him, but the thought of failure was depressing. For all that, there were economies he must practise at the cost of extra labor, and bridging the creek would lessen the cost of transport and enable him to sell one of his teams. He was late for supper, but wanted to finish part of the work before he went home.
By and by he saw Helen stop at the edge of the ravine. Her face was hot, as if she had been walking fast, and she looked vexed.
“You have kept us waiting half an hour and don't seem ready yet,” she said.
“I'm not ready,” Festing replied, and stopped abruptly. “Very sorry; I forgot all about it,” he resumed.
Helen made a gesture of annoyance. She had invited some of their neighbors to supper and had spent the day preparing the feast. Things, however, had gone wrong; the stove had got too hot and spoiled her choicest dishes.
“You forgot!” she exclaimed. “It really isn't often I trouble you with guests.”
“That's lucky, because I haven't much time for entertaining people. I'm overworked just now.”
Helen hesitated because she was afraid she might say too much. She admired his persevering industry, but had begun to feel that he was slipping away from her and devoting himself to his farm. Sometimes she indulged an angry jealousy, and then tried to persuade herself it was illogical.
“Then why give yourself another task by building the bridge?” she asked.
“I tried to explain that. I can get the thing done with less trouble when the creek is nearly dry, and if we had to use the ford when hauling out the grain, it would mean starting with a light load or keeping a team of horses there. When I've built the bridge and graded back the road we can take the full number of bags across, and that makes for economy. It looks as if I'll have to be severely economical soon.”
Helen colored. She thought he did not mean to vex her, but he had ventured on dangerous ground.
“You know that what is mine is yours,” she said.
“In a way, it is, but I put all my capital into the stock and crop, and must try to get it back. I can't ask my wife for money if I loaf about and lose my own.”
“You don't loaf,” Helen rejoined. “But if you lose your crop from causes you can't prevent happening, there is no reason you shouldn't accept my help.”
“I know you're generous and would give me all you had but—”
Helen shook her head. “You don't see the matter in the right way yet; but we'll let it go. Get your jacket and come back at once.”
“Must I come?” Festing asked irresolutely.
“Isn't it obvious?”
“I don't think so. Can't you tell the folks I'd forgotten and started something I must finish?”
“I can't,” said Helen sharply. “It hurts to know you had forgotten. The farm is lonely and I haven't many friends; but I can't tell outsiders how little that matters to you.”
“I'm sorry,” Festing answered with some embarrassment. “Still I think you're exaggerating; nobody would look at it like that. Our neighbors know one has to stay with one's work.”
“Bob finds time to go about with his wife.”
“He does,” said Festing dryly. “Driving about is easier than farming, and Bob has no scruples about living on his wife's money. I expect that was his object when he married her. There's another thing I forgot; he's coming to-night.”
“He and Sadie have been at the house some time.”
Festing made a sign of resignation. “I could stand the others better. They know what we may have to face, but nothing bothers Bob, and it's hard to play up to his confounded cheerfulness when you're not in the mood. Then I suppose I've got to put on different clothes?”
Helen forced a smile. When they first came to the homestead, Stephen had changed his clothes for supper and afterwards devoted himself to her amusement, sometimes playing chess, and sometimes listening while she sang. Then, as the days got longer, he had gradually grown careless, contenting himself with changing his jacket and half an hour's talk, until at length he sat down to the meal in dusty overalls and hurried off afterwards. Helen had tried to make excuses for him, but felt hurt all the same. Stephen was getting slovenly and neglecting her.
“It's plain that you must take off those muddy overalls,” she said.
They went back, and supper was delayed while Festing changed. He forced himself to be polite when he joined his guests, but it cost him something, and the dishes Helen had carefully prepared were spoiled. On the whole, he felt grateful to Sadie and Bob, who kept the others in good-humor and relieved him from the necessity of leading the talk; but he was glad when they left.
When the rigs melted into the shadowy plain he stood on the veranda and yawned.
“Well,” he remarked, “that's over, and it will be some time before they need come back. I hope none of them will think they have to ask us out in return.”
“You gave them a very plain hint,” Helen said bitterly.
Festing did not answer and went into the house. He felt he had not been tactful, but he was very tired, and if he ventured an explanation might make things worse. Besides, he must get up at four o'clock next morning.
Helen sat still for some time, looking out on the prairie. She was beginning to feel daunted by its loneliness. Except for Sadie Charnock, visitors seldom came to the farm. Her neighbors lived at some distance, but she had hoped to plan a round of small reunions that would break the monotony. Stephen, however, had shown her that she could expect no help from him, and had actually forgotten her first party. She felt wounded; it was hard to think that so long as he had work to do she must resign herself to being left alone.
A week or so after the supper party Festing started for the settlement with some pieces of a binder in his wagon. He had bought the machine second-hand, and meant to replace certain worn parts before harvest began, although he doubted if this was worth while. The drought was ripening the grain prematurely and some of it was spoiled, but he must try to save as much as possible. Reaching the edge of the wheat, he stopped the team irresolutely, half tempted to turn back, because it seemed unlikely that the old binder need be used.
The wind had fallen; the mosquitoes were about and bit his face and neck. Everything was strangely quiet, it was very hot, and masses of leaden cloud darkened the horizon. Festing, however, had given up hoping for rain, which would not make much difference if it came now.
The front of the wide belt of grain was ragged and bitten into hollows by the driving sand. The torn stalks drooped and slanted away from the wind, while others that had fallen lay about their roots. Farther in, the damage was less, but the ears were half-filled and shriveled. The field was parti-colored, for the dull, dark green had changed to a dingy, sapless hue, and the riper patches had a sickly yellow tinge instead of a coppery gleam.
Festing's face hardened. If he thrashed out half the number of bushels he had expected, he would be lucky. He had staked all he had on the chances of the weather and had lost. It was his first failure and came as a rude shock to his self-confidence. He felt shaken and disgusted with himself, for it looked as if he had been a rash fool. Still, if rain came now, he might save enough to obviate the necessity of using Helen's money. She would give him all he asked for, but this was a matter about which he felt strongly, and she knew his point of view.
Driving on, he met the mail-carrier, who gave him a letter. It was from Kerr, his former chief on the railroad, who had been moved to a new section on the Pacific Slope. He told Festing about certain difficulties they had encountered, and the latter felt a curious interest. Indeed, he looked back with a touch of regret to the strenuous days he had spent at the construction camps. The work was hard, but one was provided with the material required and efficient tools. Then there was freedom from the responsibility he felt now; one did one's best and the company took the risk.
Festing's interest deepened when, at the end of the letter, Kerr told him about a contract for which nobody seemed anxious to tender. It was a difficult undertaking, but Kerr thought a bold, resourceful man could carry it out with profit. He did not know if it would appeal to Festing, although prairie farmers sometimes went to work with their teams on a new track when their harvest was poor. Kerr ended with the hope that this was not the case with Festing.
The latter sat still for a few minutes with his brows knit and then started his team. It was too late to think of railroad contracts; he had chosen his line and must stick to it, but his look was irresolute as he drove on.
Some time after Festing reached the settlement, Wilkinson and three or four others sat, smoking, in the poolroom. This supplied a useful hint about their character, because supper would not be ready for an hour or two, and industrious people were busily occupied. The room was hot, the floor and green tables were sprinkled with poisoned flies, and the wooden chairs were uncomfortably hard, but it was cooler than the sidewalk, and the men lounged with their feet on the empty stove.
“Does anybody feel like another game?” one asked.
“No,” said the man he looked at. “I've lost three dollars, and that's all I can spare. Can't spare it, for that matter, but it's gone. I'm going broke if this weather lasts.
“That's nothing,” remarked another. “Some of us have been broke since we came here; you get used to it. There'll be other folks in a tight place if the rain doesn't come; but it won't make much difference to you, Wilkinson. I guess the storekeepers have you fixed now.”
Wilkinson frowned. He knew the remark was prompted by malice because he had won the money his companion had lost. The fellow, however, had not exaggerated. His creditors had recently stopped supplies and made demands with which he was unable to comply, and since they were obviously consulting each other, it looked as if he would be sold up and forced to leave the neighborhood. Somebody had put them on his track and he suspected Mrs. Charnock. He meant to punish her if he could.
“I've certainly got to sell off a bunch of young horses sooner than I meant; I expect you've seen the notices,” he said, and added with a sneer: “They'd have made a much better price if I could have kept them until the spring, and now's your chance if you have any dollars to invest. It's a sure snap for anybody who'll help me hold them over.”
One of the men laughed ironically and another asked: “Why don't you try Charnock? He used to be a partner of yours, and he's more money than the rest of us.”
Wilkinson saw his opportunity. His companions were loafing gossips, and those who were married would tell their wives. In a very short time the rumor he meant to start would travel about the neighborhood, and there was enough truth in it to make it dangerous and hard to deny.
“Charnock's deadbeat. He's as poor as you.”
“His wife has plenty dollars, anyhow.”
“That's so, but she's not going to give him any more,” Wilkinson rejoined. “He married Sadie for her money, and now he hasn't sense enough to stick to her.”
It was obvious that he had secured the others' attention, for they waited eagerly, with their eyes fixed on him. The room was quiet, but a rig came up the street and the rattle of wheels and harness drowned the sound of steps outside. Nobody noticed that the door, which was not quite shut, opened wider.
“What do you mean by that?” one asked.
“Bob's running after Mrs. Festing. Old sweetheart of his in England, though he turned her down to marry Sadie. Now she's got hold of him again—tired of Festing or has a pick on Mrs. Charnock, perhaps. Anyhow, Bob's round the Festing place all the time, and I don't know that I blame him much. Mrs. Festing's a looker and Sadie's a difficult woman to live with.”
“But what has Festing got to say?”
Wilkinson laughed. “Festing's a bit of a sucker and doesn't know. He's scared about the big crop he has sown and thinks of nothing but the weather and his farm, while Bob goes over when he's off at work. But I guess there's trouble coming soon.”
“It's coming now,” said somebody, and Wilkinson's jaw fell slack, and he sat with his mouth open as Festing strode into the room.
The latter had come to look for a smith, and hearing Wilkinson's voice as he went up the steps, waited for a moment or two. He was too late, in one sense, because the harm had been done, but he could not steal away. Although the course he meant to take was not very logical, judgment would be given against him if he did nothing. His sunburned face was rather white and he stood very stiff, with muscles braced, looking down at Wilkinson.
“Get up, you slanderous brute, and tell them it's a lie,” he said.
“I'll be shot if I will!” said Wilkinson, who got on his feet reluctantly. “You know it's true.”
Then he flung up his arm, a second too late, for Festing struck him a smashing blow and he staggered, with the blood running down his face.
He recovered in a moment, and seizing a billiard cue brought the thick end down on Festing's head. Festing swayed, half-dazed, but grasped the cue, and they struggled for its possession, until it broke in the middle, and Wilkinson flung his end in the other's face. After this, for a minute or two, the fight was close and confused, and both made the most of any advantage that offered.
In Western Canada, personal combat is not hampered by rules. The main thing is to disable one's antagonist as quickly as possible, and Festing knew that Wilkinson would not be scrupulous. He must not be beaten, particularly since his defeat would, to some extent, confirm the slander.
He grappled with Wilkinson as a precaution, because another cue stood near, and with a tense effort threw him against the empty stove. The shock was heavy enough to bring the stove-pipe down, and a cloud of soot fell upon the struggling men, while the pipe rolled noisily across the floor. Wilkinson, however, stuck to him, and they reeled up and down between the wall and table, getting an arm loose now and then to strike a blow, and scattering the chairs. Nobody interfered or cleared the ground, and by and by Wilkinson caught his foot and fell down, bringing Festing with him. After this, they fought upon the floor, rolling over among the chairs, until their grip got slack. Both got up, breathing hard, and Festing gasped:
“Tell them you're a liar. It's the last chance you'll get!”
Wilkinson did not answer, but struck him before he could guard, and the fight went on again amidst a cloud of dust that rose from the dirty boards. Then it ended suddenly, for Festing got his left arm free as he forced his antagonist towards the open door. He struck with savage fury, and Wilkinson, reeling backwards across the narrow veranda, plunged down the stairs and fell into the street. He did not get up, and Festing leaned against the wall and wiped his bleeding face.
“Pick up the hog and take him to the hotel,” he said, and tried to fill his pipe with shaking hands while the rest went out.
Other people joined them in the street, and Festing, stealing away as a crowd began to gather, went to the implement store, where he washed his face and brushed his damaged clothes. There was a cut on his forehead and his jacket was badly torn, while some of the soot that had fallen upon it would not come off. After a rest and a smoke, however, he did not feel much worse, and the dealer, going to the hotel, brought back news that Wilkinson had driven home.
“I guess you have done all you could and can let the fellow go,” he said. “My notion is he won't be in the neighborhood long.”
An hour later, Festing drove out of the settlement, with a strip of sticking plaster on his forehead and his jacket clumsily mended. The sky was now a curious leaden color, and the wild barley shone a livid white against the dark riband of the trail; the air was very hot and there was not a breath of wind. Festing noted that the horses were nervous and trotted fast, although they had made a long journey. Now and then they threw up their heads and snorted, and swerved violently when a gopher ran across the trail or a prairie-hen got up. The flies seemed to have gone, but the mosquitoes were out in clouds, and the hand with which he slapped his face and neck was soon smeared with small red stains. He could not hold the whip; but it was not needed, because the team rather required to be checked than urged.
When the trail permitted he let them go, and swung, lost in gloomy thoughts, with the jolting of the rig. The damaging part of Wilkinson's statement was false, but since part was true the tale would spread and some would believe the worst. It was impossible to doubt Helen, but he was angry with her. She had let her ridiculous notion of reforming Bob carry her away. Festing did not think Bob could be reformed, but it was Sadie's business, not Helen's. Besides, he had objected to her encouraging the fellow to hang about the homestead, and she had disregarded his warnings. Now, the thing must be stopped, and it would be horribly disagreeable to tell her why. She had been obstinate and rash, but after all she meant well and would be badly hurt. He began to feel sorry for her, and his angry thought's centered on Charnock.
It was, of course, ridiculous to imagine that Bob was seriously trying to make love to Helen; he knew her character too well. All the same, the fellow might amuse himself by mild indulgence in romantic sentiment. He was a fool and a slacker, and had now humiliated Helen for the second time. The longer Festing thought about it, the angrier he got, and when he roused himself as the horses plunged down the side of a ravine he was surprised to note how far he had gone. He had just time to tighten the reins and guide the team across the open log bridge at the bottom, and as they plodded up the other side saw that he had better get home as soon as possible.
The drooping leaves of the birches in the hollow flittered ominously, and when he reached the summit a bluff that stood out from the plain two or three miles off suddenly vanished. It looked as if a curtain had been drawn across the grass. The horses set off at a fast trot, and the rig jolted furiously among the ruts. It would not be dark for an hour, but the gray obscurity that had hidden the bluff was getting near. At its edge and about a mile off a pond shone with a strange sickly gleam.
Then a dazzling flash fell from the cloud bank overhead and touched the grass. A stunning crash of thunder rolled across the sky, and the team plunged into a frantic gallop. Festing braced himself in a vain attempt to hold them, for the trail was half covered with tall grass and broken by badger holes. He was soon breathless and dazzled, for the lightning fell in forked streaks that ran along the plain, and the trail blazed in front of the horses' feet. Thunder is common in Canada, but it is on the high central plains that the storms attain their greatest violence.
The team plunged on, and Festing, jolting to and fro, durst not lift his eyes from the trail. The storm would probably not last long and might do some good if it were followed by moderate rain. But he was not sure that moderate rain would fall. By and by a few large drops beat upon his hat, there was a roar in the distance, and a cool draught touched his face. It died away, but the next puff was icy cold, and the roar got louder. He looked up, for he knew what was coming, but there was not a bluff in sight that would shield him from the wind.
Turning down his hat-brim against the increasing rain, he let the horses go. He need not try to hold them; the storm would stop them soon. It broke upon him with a scream and a shower of sand and withered grass. He staggered as if he had got a blow, and then leaned forward to resist the pressure. The horses swerved, and he had trouble to keep them on the trail, but their speed slackened and they fell into a labored trot. For a few minutes they struggled against the gale, and then the roar Festing had heard behind the scream drowned the rumbling thunder. He threw up his arm to guard his face as the terrible hail of the plains drove down the blast.
It fell in oblique lines of ragged lumps of ice, hammering upon the wagon and bringing the horses to a stop. They began to plunge, turning half round, while one pressed against the other, in an effort to escape the savage buffeting. Festing let them have their way at the risk of upsetting the rig, and presently they stopped with their backs to the wind. He let the reins fall, and the hail beat upon his bowed head and shoulders like a shower of stones. The horses stood limp and trembling, as powerless as himself.
Their punishment did not last long. The hail got thinner and the lumps smaller; the roar diminished and Festing heard it recede across the plain. The wind was still savage, but it was falling, and the thunder sounded farther off. There was a savage downpour of drenching rain, and when this moderated he pulled himself together, and turning the horses, resumed his journey. He was wet to the skin, his shoulders were sore, and his face and hands were bruised and cut. Pieces of ice, some as large as hazelnuts, lay about the wagon, and the wild barley lay flat beside the trail. Not a blade of grass stood upright as far as he could see, and the ruts in which the wheels churned were full of melting hail and water.
It was getting dark when his homestead rose out of the plain; a shadowy group of buildings, marked by two or three twinkling lights. He was wet and cold, but he stopped by the wheat and nerved himself to see what had happened to the crop. He had not had much hope, but for all that got something of a shock. There was no standing grain; the great field looked as if it had been mown. Bruised stalks and torn blades lay flat in a tattered, tangled mass, splashed with sticky mud. The rain that might have saved him had come too late and was finishing the ruin the sand and hail had made.
Then the downpour thickened and the light died out, and he drove to the house. He could see in the morning if any remnant of the crop could be cut, but there would not be enough to make much difference. Hope had gone, and his face was stern when he called the hired man and got down stiffly from the dripping rig.