CHAPTER THREEIn a country where women are seldom seen, the presence of a pretty girl of twenty-one is a matter worthy of record—even if she is the daughter of a railway construction boss. For Keith McBain, reticent, profane to a frankly amazing degree on those rare occasions when he did speak to his men, was a seasoned old man of his class. Silent and unapproachable—as is the manner of camp bosses—Keith McBain seemed at times the least human of them all. "Old Silent" the men called him, partly on account of an instinctive grudge they all bore him for his mode of hard dealing, and partly, too, on account of a kind of unreasoned affection which they cherished for him because of his rough-handed honesty and his indomitable will. When Old Silent spoke no man spoke back. Not that he was a man to fear physically—he was a small, dyspeptic, nervous man whom anyone of his deep-chested camp-followers could have brushed aside with one hand. It was rather the man's face that they feared, with its black piercing eyes that never shifted their glance when he spoke, and its black sardonic smile that made an impenetrable mask for a soul that no man had ever seen revealed. His men all feared him—some of them hated him—and yet they never left him, once their names had been placed on the pay-roll.Once only in the memory of those who worked for him had the hope ever arisen that the old contractor's manner might soften and his hard face relax in the presence of the men. Just a year ago, nearly a hundred miles back along the line, Keith McBain had lost his wife after a long illness. She had lingered for weeks in a pathetic fight for life, and the old camp boss had watched by her bedside almost continuously, leaving the oversight of the work wholly in the hands of his foremen. Never had a gang of men worked so hard as those men had worked day after day while Old Silent was absent from his place, not only out of deference to the frail woman who was struggling gamely against too great odds, but out of sheer respect for their old boss whose burden of sorrow was daily growing heavier. And when at last the word came that the struggle was over, the men had sat about very late into the night and had spoken in whispers. Keith McBain had made the grave with his own hands, just off the right-of-way, and had marked the spot with a pile of stones and a rough-hewn cross. Then in the days that followed he had been more silent than ever, more unremitting in his dealing with the men, and, if possible, more profane. And yet every last one of his men could not help knowing that Keith McBain's heart was breaking. His light had burned late into the night—and every night—for months following the day that had brought him his great sorrow.Cherry McBain had come unannounced into the camp. In fact the men had not known of her existence until she rode into camp one afternoon a couple of weeks before the death of Mrs. McBain. Only a few of the more fortunate among them had had a glimpse of her as she came up the trail escorted by McBain's timekeeper, who had gone out to meet her and bring her to the camp. But the few that had seen her knew at once that she was the daughter of the woman who was dying in Keith McBain's cabin—so striking was the resemblance between mother and daughter.During the days that immediately followed her arrival Cherry was never seen abroad except late in the evenings when she walked out with her father and came back with her arms laden with wild flowers and fern. But when Keith McBain turned again to resume his duties after the darkest episode of his life had been closed, Cherry McBain wandered alone along the new grade or saddled her horse and explored the trails wherever they led in both directions from the camp.Men who work a whole season in the woods or on a right-of-way, and at the end of the season fling their total earnings away in one hilarious week or two in the nearest city, are likely to classify women roughly and perhaps quickly, even if for ten months out of every twelve they never hear the sound of a woman's voice. They may sometimes make errors in their classifications, but not often. The first morning that Cherry McBain strolled along the edge of the works and paused here and there to watch the men as they swung their teams round in the ever moving circle that carried the earth away from both sides of the right-of-way to the centre where it was graded up into the first rough form of a road-bed—that morning the men registered their own judgments concerning the daughter of Old Silent. In her dark eyes there was the fearless look of her father, the look that pierced through the surface and saw through the veneer to what lay behind. In her smile there was the essence of her mother's gentle nature—a nature before which men down through the centuries have bowed in silent worship.But there was something more, something that was her own. Men saw it in her lightning glance and in the quick toss she gave her head when she shook back her wind-blown, dark-brown hair. Not one of the men had been able to tell exactly what it was that was there, but all alike were convinced that while Keith McBain might command obedience in his men and squelch even his foreman with a look or an explosive word or two, he had no look that could have served him in a contest with the will of Cherry McBain.It was six o'clock by the time King reached McBain's camp on his return trip. In the distance he saw the men leaving the grade and making their way towards the camp, the sound of their voices coming to him with heartening effect after his long silent trip, during which his mind had gone back irresistibly to the days when he and his brother had romped together as boys.When he came to where the path led from the trail to McBain's cabin he turned abruptly, and getting down from the saddle allowed his horse to follow him while he made his way on foot along the narrow path. The little cabin was built of logs and stood well back from the trail, in the protecting shade of a clump of tamaracs.Keith McBain was sitting by the doorway, his pipe in his mouth, his eyes turned to the hills that rose up, scraggly and covered with fallen and charred timbers, to the south of the cabin.King's first feeling was one of pity. The old man who sat there smoking his pipe and musing was a broken man, and every line on his face showed it. There was in his eyes the look of a man whose power of will was almost gone. There was a look of fear in them, a fear lest he should reveal his weakness to others. He had an odd trick of glancing quickly about him as if he wished to assure himself that no one was coming upon him unannounced. His mouth was tight-lipped, his face covered with a short-clipped beard that once had been black but now showed gray and pale against the bloodless cheeks.And yet, for all the face showed of weakness, King was at once struck by the intensity and the unswerving directness of his gaze when Keith McBain turned to look at him. At first there seemed to be a shadow of suspicion in the grizzled old face, but King could not help observing the slow change to something almost kindly that showed deep in the old man's eyes as he got up and extended his hand."Come and sit down," he said. "The girl told me you were coming. She's off somewhere in the hills after berries—come and sit down."When they had talked a little King was so much moved by the note of pathos that crept into the voice of Keith McBain that he determined at once to share with him the news that he had received only the night before. Evidently Old Silent was in a pensive mood, and King inwardly longed for someone to whom he could speak concerning what had lain heavily on his heart all day.For a long time after King had spoken, Keith McBain sat without uttering a word."Aye, boy, you've suffered a great loss," he said at last, and his gaze was straight before him towards the hill-tops in the distance. As he continued he seemed to be talking to himself rather than to King. "It's hard for men to know what a thing like this means until they have tasted it themselves. For years I have gone out in the morning with men when the light was scarce showing through the swamp and have come in again at night tired after the work of the day to sleep—and make ready for the next day. And I've watched them—all ready for the 'roll out' when the call came at daybreak. And I've marvelled at their punctuality—and their willingness. And then a day would come when one of them wouldn't be in his place. He'd heard the call but couldn't go out. And later—perhaps a few days just—he didn't hear it—and the rest of us were quieter for a while—a little less given to talking; and then things went on very much as usual and we forgot. It's very good to forget."King was pleased with the complete freedom from restraint that now marked the old man's manner. He talked well, with the merest trace of Scotch accent recognizable in the way he rolled his r's. He paused a moment and King made no attempt to interrupt. Finally he began again."Aye—it's good to forget—when you can. But there are times when a man can't forget—not altogether. You and I know that, my boy—we know it too well. And we won't talk about it either—except to mention it in passing. And in passing I want to say that I am very sorry. Where's the use trying to say more—a man can't."He tapped his pipe gently against his hand and went leisurely about the task of filling it again."A straight man—and a clean man," he said gently, "is a rare enough article. As men go, I haven't seen many that could answer to that description. The world is full of good women, my boy—I've seen a few they told me weren't straight and weren't clean, but I've never known any such myself—though I've known a lot of women, too. But the men I've known—"He paused as if in contemplation of how he should express most effectively what was on his mind. In the interval of silence there was a sound of excited voices and hurried footsteps coming down the path towards the cabin. Looking up King recognized the two men approaching as the camp cook and his assistant. Their differences had apparently reached a head, and they were coming to thresh the matter out before the boss.In an instant Keith McBain was himself again. Leaping up before the men had come within speaking distance he met them in the pathway and fell upon them with a flow of profanity that not only reduced the two to impotent silence but sent them back along the pathway and up the trail to the camp, the picture of mute dejection and defeat.When the old contractor returned and took his seat again, he lighted his pipe in bad mood and puffed at it vigorously without speaking a word. It required only a glance at his face to realize that a change had come over him. Keith McBain was Old Silent again and nothing would bring him out of his surly mood.King got up slowly and started down the footpath that led to the hills back of the cabin. Somewhere back in the shambles of pitched timbers and broken tree-trunks was Cherry McBain. When he came finally to where the path was so dimly marked that he could follow it no farther he climbed to the top of a little knoll and looked in every direction along the face of the hill to see if Cherry were anywhere in sight. Finally, when he had looked for some time in vain, he called and waited until the echoes died away in silence. There was no reply. Getting down from the knoll he scrambled further up the hill. He had seen a patch of grey ground away to the west where the fires of the year before had swept the hills clear of vegetation. In ten minutes he emerged from the cover of the evergreens and looked across the tangled mass of half-burned and fallen timbers. The climb had not been an easy one, and it was only with slight hope that he gave his call again and stood tense and motionless as he listened for a reply. From every side the echoes came back and gradually died away in faint waves that finally settled into stillness. He was about to turn back again and make for the camp, but just once more he called and waited.Almost immediately and from a surprisingly short distance away Cherry's voice came clear to him across the patch of grey. Turning at once in the direction of the voice he looked and saw her waving her hand to him. In a few moments he was beside her, where she was seated on the ground picking twigs and leaves out of the small pail of berries she held in her lap. She looked up at him and laughed roguishly, then offered him a large red berry which she held up to him between stained finger and thumb."Didn't you hear me call the first time?" he asked her.She dropped her eyes and seemed very intent upon rolling the berries about in a vain search for more leaves. He waited for her answer. Ordinarily he would not have asked the question seriously. Even now he had no thought of accusing her. When she finally spoke he was at a loss to know what was in her mind."I—heard—you," she said, very slowly, and the tone of her voice was strange to King.He waited, not knowing what to say in return, and hoping, too, that she might say something without his prompting her. When he saw that she was not going to speak, he asked another question as directly as he had asked the first."Why didn't you answer?"The next moment he wished with all his heart that he had not spoken. The look she gave him was one in which appeal and disappointment were so deeply mingled that he cursed himself inwardly for his own clumsiness."Don't ask me why," she said. Then as she saw the grave look in King's eyes she got up and placed her hand on his arm. "Oh, it has nothing to do with you," she said in a voice that was all softness. "I—I didn't know at first that—that it was you."Suddenly her manner changed."Let's go down now," she said quickly, picking up her pail of berries. "We're going to have tea."Almost as she spoke the words she was off down the hill at a pace that made King exert himself to keep up with her. She ran along the smooth round timbers and leaped from one to another of the fallen logs so lightly and gracefully that King was put to it to save himself from being completely outstripped. She carried her berries in one hand and her hat in the other, and her hair, blown loose by the breeze, shone in the sunlight—transparent gold against a mass of black.As he watched her, something of the wonder of their first meeting came back to him. He had never seen a girl so lithe, so wild, so beautiful. There was exultation in her every movement, and her laugh rippled musically as she leaped and climbed and ran along over the most difficult ground. Sometimes she looked back at him as if to make sure that he was following, and he saw her face radiant with life and youth. Once she waited till he came up to her before venturing along a dizzy bit of footing that required care in passing. When he came to her she placed her hand in his and together they went on.From the look she gave him he scarcely knew whether she wanted help herself or wished to help him. But the clasp of her hand was so firm, so throbbing with vitality, that he wished he might still hold those fingers closed within his own after they had come to level footing. The thought of it sent the blood coursing through his veins, and an impulse started up within him—an impulse that came out of the very depths of his being and made him forget for the time being everything in the world except this moment on a wild hillside with beauty and grace and youth within his reach.When they reached the evergreens Cherry bounded ahead and left him to follow. The ground was level and soft underfoot and carpeted with cones and needles. Once she stopped suddenly in a little space open to the sky, and stooping down picked a wildflower and held it up to him."Not often you find them growing in a place so sheltered as this," she remarked as she gave him the flower.He took it and looked from the flower, pure, white and soft, to her face. Unconsciously his gaze shifted to her throat, as pure and white and soft as the flower he held in his hand. Then she turned quickly and hurried off again into the cover of the evergreens.Once she stopped so suddenly and turned so unexpectedly to meet him that he had almost run into her before he could check himself. Then as he stood in questioning attitude she shook her hair back from her face and with a ripple of a laugh was away again before he could speak.As King followed her an unpleasant thought came suddenly to him. There was one thing he had always dreaded in women. He had never been quite unconscious of the subtle power they exerted—but he had always been suspicious of their motives. There was something so free, so healthful, so simple in Cherry's manner that he was almost disarmed of suspicion. And yet she was so coy, so wilful, so roguish that instinctively he felt himself assuming the defensive—a defensive, too, against himself and the impulses that arose within him and clamored for expression.Suddenly she stopped and looked down at a small pool of cool fresh water fed from a little spring that bubbled out of the earth just a few yards away. A half dozen large stones lay touching the edge of the water, and before King realized what she was about, she had dropped her berries and hat and was on her knees with her two hands resting on a small boulder, her lips touching the surface of the water. As he looked at her he could not help thinking what a child she was—and how very much older he was. Nor could he think it any less when in a moment she raised her head and glanced up at him with a rare flush in her cheeks."Oh, this is good," she cried. "Look—there's a stone for you!"He smiled slowly, but her spirit was irresistible. He got down beside her, his hands upon a boulder almost touching the stone upon which she was leaning for support.When they had both drunk from the pool, instead of getting up immediately, they remained where they were, their hands upon the boulders, their eyes fixed upon the smooth surface of the water beneath them. For a moment only they looked, a moment in which both felt a power like a spell that held them gazing into the far depths that lay mirrored in the quiet pool. They were gazing like two children deep down into the depths of the blue skies reflected far below where the white clouds floated beyond the downward pointing tops of evergreens.All at once, however, King glanced at the face of the girl where it was smiling up at him from the water—and in a moment he was conscious of a change. Though her face was smiling it was grave too, grave even as his, and he knew that in the look each gave the other there were depths that were more unfathomable than the skies—the depths of life itself in all its mystery and serious meaning.They got up and walked off down the path towards the cabin, strangely silent, both of them. As they emerged from the cover of the woods and came within sight of the cabin only a few yards ahead of them, Cherry stopped and laid her hand quickly upon King's arm. King glanced at her, and then turned in the direction indicated by her eyes. A man was just leaving the doorway of the cabin where old Keith McBain was still sitting. It was McCartney.For a moment Cherry stood silently watching him, her hand still upon King's arm. Then she started slowly towards the cabin, her eyes still following the movements of the big foreman as he walked down the path that led from the cabin to the camp."You wanted to know why I didn't answer when first you called me to-day," she said, almost in a whisper. "Well—I wasn't sure that it was you—I thought it might be him."There came into her eyes a look of appeal which changed quickly to the look that King had seen there the night before when she had asked him if he could fight. She seemed on the point of speaking, but with an impatient toss of her head she hurried down the pathway, King following closely behind her.CHAPTER FOURIn another hour King was ready to take the trail again. Beside him stood Cherry, her own black horse waiting only a few yards away.A dark cloud had risen in the north-east, and King glanced quickly about him at the skies and at the trees rustling noisily in the little breeze that had sprung up."It's like rain," he warned her quietly. "Perhaps you'd better not go this time."The faintest suspicion of a frown passed quickly over her face, but that was all the reply his warning drew from her. Before he could help her she had stepped upon a low-cut stump and had sprung lightly into the saddle.Keith McBain watched them from his seat near the doorway."I'll be looking for you early, my girl," he said."I'll be back before it begins to rain," she replied, and turning her horse about started towards the trail.King got up at once, pausing a moment to bid the old man good-bye before he followed Cherry."Look after yourself," the old fellow replied, "and come in next trip. It'll be dull for you now—and we'd be glad to see you.""I'll come," King replied. "I'd like to come—and I'd like to hear you talk again.""And send that girl of mine back before she gets too far away," the old fellow called to King who had already started down the pathway.The clouds that were gathering behind them as they rode westward seemed to hasten the coming of the darkness, although the sun was just setting when they started. Far up the right-of-way, along which the trail ran for a little distance, the western sky was a blaze of glory between the rows of tall trees that stood back from the grade on either side. Once or twice as they rode along King turned in his saddle to look again at the storm clouds gathering in the east. There was little fear of their being overtaken by the storm—it was still a long way off and was coming up very slowly. And yet King wondered that the girl should be so keen upon taking a ride when at any moment the dark bank of heavy thunder clouds might suddenly rush up and force her to ride back through a drenching rain, to say nothing of the thunder and lightning. But such a possibility apparently never entered the mind of Cherry McBain, or if it did she never showed the least concern about it. She urged her horse forward at a steady pace that made King hurry to keep up. Not till they had covered the whole length of the trail lying along the right-of-way and had gone some distance beyond where it turned into the woods and started up the hill did she draw rein. Then she brought her horse slowly to a walk and turned to look behind her. She had not spoken since she left the cabin, and as King drew up with her he ventured to ask if she didn't think she had gone far enough. The look she gave him by way of reply was enough to make him wish he had not spoken."Are you really so anxious to have me go back?" she asked.It was King's turn to look at her in surprise. There was something more than surprise in his voice, however, when he spoke."I guess I must have said what wasn't in my mind to say," he replied very quietly. "I don't think you got me quite right there."Suddenly she brought her horse to a standstill and slipped out of the saddle to the ground."Get down and walk for a little while," she said, looking about her as she spoke. "The rain is a long way off yet and I'm not afraid."King responded by getting down at once. He stood for a moment with the bridle in his hand and waited for her to come up to him. Then they walked slowly side by side along the trail. For a few minutes they proceeded in silence, King waiting for her to begin."I was afraid you might want to send me back," she began at last, "and I didn't want to go. I wanted to talk to you. I want to tell you about my father. You saw him to-night, and you know there is something wrong—you couldn't help knowing that as well as I do."She was not asking a question. She was merely stating a fact in which she confidently expected King's concurrence. The pause was not to give him an opportunity of replying. She wished only to collect her thoughts, to marshal the parts of the story she was about to tell him."My father is a railway construction contractor," she went on after she had walked a few yards without speaking. "The men love him—and they hate him—both at the same time. He's generous and he's straight, and he's good—but he's hard in his dealings and he crushes everyone who opposes him. For years he has taken railway contracts and worked in the woods. I was born in a mining camp out west, where my father was prospecting. When I began to grow up I was allowed to spend only a few weeks each summer in camp with him and mother. The rest of the summer I spent with my aunt in Winnipeg, where I went to school. But I never liked it. I always wanted to be with them in the camp. I loved the life and I loved the men and their rough ways. Most of all, I loved my father—my mother was very quiet and very sweet, but my father and I have always been chums."She paused a moment to pick up a small stick from the road which she sent whirling along the trail ahead of her."One day something happened. My mother told me what she knew about it and my father knows that she told me, but he has never spoken to me about it. Two years ago he left my mother and me in the city and went to the coast with some others to look for gold. One of the men was Bill McCartney, who was a teamster for my father during the previous summer. In the spring they came back unexpectedly. Father had written us to tell us that he had made a good strike, but when he came back there was a change. McCartney was with him, and one night they sat all night long and there were loud words between them. In the morning my father told us that he had lost everything and that McCartney was going back to the coast again. He told mother something that made her cry, but he said, 'A bargain is a bargain—and I count this a good bargain.' Those are the only words I ever heard him speak about the affair. McCartney left that night. After that my mother grew sick—and she never got better. Later I came to camp to be with her, and one night she told me that she was dying—she said her heart was breaking—breaking for my father. She told me that some day McCartney would be back—that she hoped she might die before he came. She died last summer and McCartney came back just a few weeks later."The muscles in King's arms grew rigid and his hands clenched fiercely as his mind rested upon the fragmentary story that Cherry McBain had told him. Instinctively he felt that Bill McCartney had been in some way the cause of the death of Keith McBain's wife."There was something more," she said, suddenly breaking in upon his musing. "When McCartney came back my father made him foreman of the camp and ever since then the control of the work has been gradually passing out of father's hands. To make matters worse, father has been drinking until his very mind is going. Some day, I am afraid, he will drink himself to death. And it is not all on account of the loss of my mother. There is something else. The bargain he made with McCartney did not work out satisfactorily. The claim turned out badly and McCartney came back dissatisfied. And now—though he has never said so openly—he has plans of a different kind. Once he met me alone on the trail—he had followed me without my knowing it—and when he tried to be pleasant to me in his own way, I told him to leave me. He grinned and took me by the arm and then—I struck him with my hand across the face. His expression never changed, but he warned me never to do that again—and he spoke of my father. The next day father came to me—his voice broken—his face haggard; he hadn't slept all night. And he told me not to make McCartney angry. He told me to stay away from him—go back to the city—anything, but to keep out of his way and give him no cause for anger. I told my father that I would not leave him—and I won't. But I can't go anywhere without that man shadowing me. I can't speak to one of the men but he comes and forces his attentions upon me, though he knows that I hate him. One thing—he has never offered to touch me again, and I have never had the heart to tell him what I think. I am always thinking of what may happen—and I can see the fear in my father's eyes."She came a little closer to King and laid her hand on his arm."Some day," she said slowly, and her breast rose and fell fitfully as she spoke, "some day he will not wait any longer. I shall have to make my choice. Either I shall smile on him and accept his attentions—or I shall send him away and bring upon myself the complete ruin of a life that is already broken beyond hope of repair."A faint rumbling of distant thunder caused them both to stop and look behind them."It is something new for me to be afraid. I never was afraid before—only there has been a change—a change that I don't like because I don't know how to meet it. The men in the camp have always been good to me. My mother was good to them and they liked her—and I have tried to be good to them. I have always thought they liked me too. But there are some—we meet them once in a while—who can't stand good treatment. They weren't born for it. And McCartney has got a few of that kind with him."They had come to a ridge overlooking a valley, a sort of ravine, through which a small stream picked its straggling course between the hills. Dusk had already set in and the stream was only faintly visible.Without announcing her intentions, Cherry dropped her bridle-rein and left her horse standing on the trail while she led the way to a knoll that commanded a better view of the ravine. For a long time she stood looking to the westward where only a faint arc of light was still left low upon the horizon. Her hat was in her hand and the quiet breeze that came from the east blew a few loose locks of her dark hair about her face. King gazed at her intently, and thought of McCartney.He had picked up a stout tamarac stick on his way to the knoll. It was almost as thick as his wrist and was sound and dry. Without speaking a word and without twitching a muscle of his face he slowly bent the stick in his two hands until it began to snap. Then he twisted it until the frayed ends parted and he held the two ragged bits of stick in his hands. These he flung into a clump of bushes on the slope below.Cherry looked at him quietly."No," she said slowly, "not that—not that. Some day it may have to come—some day I may call you—but not yet."King smiled gravely."I told you last night about my brother, Dick," he said. "Well—Dick is dead.""King!"She had never before called him by his first name."Yes—I had a letter last night. It was waiting for me when I got down. But that's all gone now—it's past and settled. But this other thing—it has mixed me some. I didn't think I'd ever want to hit a man again. And I'm not looking for McCartney—not for any man," he said, and his eyes turned to the spot where he had thrown the broken stick. "But no man ever found me running—and Bill McCartney won't."Cherry laid one hand on his arm and looked at him."He has gone to town with a lot of men to-night," she said. "They often ride in on Saturday night—that's why we have been able to ride and talk together. He will be there when you get to town—and all day to-morrow. And listen—I'm not afraid—not afraid for you, nor for me. But I don't want you to meet him yet."King's reply came quietly and with great deliberation."I've been in that town since the first tent was pitched," he observed in a voice that was even and showed no excitement. "I've watched it grow up—and I've gone pretty much where I liked. I guess I'll go on in about the same way.""Oh, I'm not afraid of that," Cherry replied. "I've told you I'm not afraid for you—and not for myself. But if the break should come—""I guess you don't need to worry about that," King remarked. "There won't be any break between me and McCartney—not till there's a reason for it."Cherry went back again to the trail and taking the bridle-rein in her hand led the way down towards the river. King followed her until they came to the roughly-made bridge that spanned the little stream, a hurriedly constructed bridge of tamarac poles that had been thrown into place by the advance parties of railway workers."I have never gone farther than this," said Cherry, when they had come to the centre of the bridge. "I often ride out in the evenings and stand here for a while before going back. Some day I am going on to town, just to see what sort of place you have.""This is the White Pine," said King. "I have crossed it often higher up. It gets very nasty after two or three days' rain."Suddenly a flash of lightning reminded them that the storm was approaching. While they talked they had all but forgotten the black clouds rolling up from the east. Cherry got up at once upon the stout log that ran along the side of the bridge to keep the poles in place, and putting one foot into the stirrup drew herself up lightly into the saddle. When she was seated she turned and looked at King."We shall ride out again some time," she said, and gave him her hand.He closed his big hand over her fingers for a moment without speaking. When he was about to turn away she clung still to his hand and looked at him very earnestly."Why don't you sometimes talk a little?" she asked.The abruptness with which she asked the question brought the slow smile back to King's face."I'm not good at talking," he replied. "Besides—I like to hear you talk."King had not ventured before in their short acquaintance to offer a compliment. He did not mean to compliment her now. He was speaking his mind simply, directly, sincerely.She regarded him strangely for a moment in silence."Sometimes," she said at last, "sometimes I think—"She paused a moment and then withdrew her hand suddenly and wheeling her horse about went off at a gallop down the trail, leaving him gazing after her in wonderment.When she had passed out of sight he looked once at the clouds before getting into the saddle and then, getting up, he gave a sharp whistle that brought Sal bounding to him, and set off along the trail that led to town. Behind him the storm was coming up rapidly."It's you for it now," he said to his horse as he leaned forward and stroked the warm neck.Only once after that did his voice break the silence of the long ride. The first drops of rain brought him suddenly out of his dreaming."If you could only talk!" he said to himself, and his voice was full of impatience.But King Howden was no talker.CHAPTER FIVEThe town was in a state of excitement that was not altogether new. In fact, the few score of permanent residents in the place always looked to Saturday night to furnish some little change from the humdrum existence of the week. There is nothing very stirring about sitting in a village—even if it is an outpost of civilization a hundred and twenty-five miles from anywhere—with nothing to do from day to day except to greet the newcomers who arrive from the outside to begin their search for land. But when a couple of red-coated men wearing blue breeches striped on either side with gold, their heads covered with wide-brimmed Stetsons, their feet stoutly booted and spurred—when two such men ride in from over the Saskatchewan border and go clanking down the one street in the place a certain amount of shuffling is almost inevitable.Nor was the flutter of excitement due to any fear that the "Mounties" were on business bent. Since the jurisdiction of the famous riders of the plains did not extend any farther than the border, their sudden appearance set no one guessing as to who, among the men of the town, was being entertained, a criminal unawares. The place had served as a week-end retreat for the men of the force before, and all such occasions had turned out more or less eventful.No previous arrangement had been made that would have explained the sudden influx of men who came into town from all over the district to spend the week-end together. But small groups had begun to arrive before the sun had set—some of the settlers had come in during the day from their shacks on lonely homesteads and made a fair-sized reception committee to greet the later arrivals. There were men there from Rubble's survey gang, and a dozen or more from the camp of Keith McBain.That they should make their rendezvous late in the evening at Mike Cheney's was only natural. There was MacMurray's lodging house, of course, that stood at the end of the street near the river, but no one came to town to eat. Cheney's place stood at the other end of the street—discreetly apart. And those who came and went exercised considerable discretion and talked very little when others were in hearing.Mike Cheney himself treated his business very philosophically. In a man's country where men were in the habit of taking life none too seriously, there must needs be some place to foregather—so he thought—on the days when the rain drove everyone indoors, and on nights when the rest of the town had gone to bed. Furthermore, there was need of a place of last call for the men on their way to the railway camps or the homesteads. Besides, what were men to do in the winter, with the thermometer dancing back and forth between thirty and forty degrees below zero, if they had to depend solely upon bad tea and weak coffee? Mike declared, and to all intents and purposes he believed, that he served the community in proportion as he was successful in dispensing conviviality among its members. It didn't occur to him to feel abashed that a few held him and his business in abhorrence. Nor did it worry him that he was conducting his business without legal sanction. It would have caused him as much trouble to win the regard of such as held him in contempt as to procure an official document setting the seal of the government's approval on his business. He was content to give little or no heed to either.And so, without any special announcement, and without any invitation, the visitors took their way, when it was late enough, to the large room at the back of Mike Cheney's place, where they knew they would be made heartily welcome. And to tell the truth, a welcome of some kind was something the men felt the need of. Rain had begun to fall quite heavily—what had looked like a mere thunder shower when it appeared first in the north-east, had steadied down to an all-night rain. And certainly MacMurray's lodging house offered no cheer. No one, furthermore, even cast his eyes a second time in the direction of the two large log buildings the government had erected for immigrants without shelter.The room at the back of Cheney's place was blue with smoke that rendered almost useless the large kerosene lamp that hung from the ceiling. In one corner of the room a small group were already well into a game of poker. Though the stakes were of necessity low—for what can men do on a dollar a day?—the interest in the game was sufficiently high to attract a half dozen spectators who watched the play in silence and smoked incessantly.In another corner three or four land-seekers were exchanging opinions of the fine points of the law governing the rights of the "squatter," and the rather intricate regulations that made provision for what is known as "jumping" a claim.In the corner farthest from the door where Mike Cheney stood at the service of his customers, Big Bill McCartney was listening to what one of the red-coated visitors had to say about the effect of solitude on a man's nerves. The subject was one that evidently appealed strongly to one of MacDougall's men, whose mood was rather too jovial for so early in the evening and whose literary instincts prompted him to attempt the metrical flights of the lines beginning,"I am monarch of all I survey."McCartney pushed him back on the bench where he had been sitting and turned to hear something that Cheney was offering to the discussion."There's another thing about this country," said Mike, leaning towards McCartney and the red-coat. "It's a-gettin' to some of the boys in a way they never expected."He paused a moment to wipe up a little water from the table with his cloth."Now there was old Bob Nason—he was before your time here, Bill. He was one of the first to come in here when the trail was opened into the valley. There was a good fellow for you—an' a good man too. No better ever put foot on the ground. Saw him heave a barrel of salt into the back end of his wagon—just like that."Mike used appropriate gestures to show how easily the thing had been done."I'd like to have seen you an' him together, Bill," he went on, and a broad smile accompanied his remarks. "Could 'a' give you about all you could handle, Bill, if size counts for anything. Anyhow—poor old Bob came in here one night—it was a night like this—only there was a regular howlin' wind and the rain was heavy. I hears a poundin' at the door—I was all alone—an' I gets up and opens it. An' there stands Old Bob—feet bare—shirt gone—head bare—pants all in rags—an' mud an' water—it was awful!"He paused in an effort, evidently, to call the picture more vividly to mind."An' I says, 'Bob, what's wrong?' An' then I knew right away what it was—from the grin he gave me. But I says, 'Come in an' get something'. An' poor old Bob comes in an' sits down an' starts cryin' like a baby. An' I says, 'Bob, you're lookin' bad,' but he wouldn't talk. I sat with him all night an' the next day we sent him out with a couple of boys that was totin' freight."For a moment Mike paused while he turned to pick up an empty glass and look at it."My God," he said, looking into the glass, "to think of old Bob losin' his head out there—just for the sake of someone to talk to. I'll never forget it.""It'll get to anyone if he's only left alone long enough," commented the policeman, and he went on to tell of a similar case that had come under his observation in the West."There's just one thing this country needs right now, Mike—an' it needs it bad," McCartney offered by way of supplementing what had just been said. As he spoke he held a lighted match in his hand ready to apply to a cigarette he had just rolled."You mean—" Cheney waited.For a moment McCartney was silent while he applied the match to his cigarette."I mean—"The door opened suddenly and a girl stepped into the room."——there's the answer," he concluded.Several of the men glanced up as the door closed and the girl came forward to where Cheney was standing on the corner. He greeted her quite casually."Hello, Anne," he said, "you sure picked a good night for strollin'. What's the idea?"For a moment she said nothing by way of reply as she shook the rain from the cloak that hung loosely about her shoulders. Then she looked round the room at the men."Nothin's the idea," she remarked. "It's my night off and—well, where can you go in this place. Slingin' grub's all right—ten hours a day—but you want a change, don't you? Give me a smoke."The request was addressed to McCartney, who proceeded at once to roll a cigarette while she looked on."Nobody in this town let's me in if they know I'm comin'," she remarked in a tone that carried not the slightest trace of regret. She wished simply to record the fact merely.And a fact it was, for Anne, who was the single waitress at the lodging-house, had been placed in a class by herself in the town, though not a man in it—or woman either—had any facts upon which to base their prejudice.For a moment only during the process of rolling the cigarette the eyes of McCartney and the girl met. No one in the room saw the exchange of glances and no one could have detected the slightest change of expression in either face.McCartney smiled oddly as he folded the edge of the cigarette paper into place and tapped the ends lightly against his hand."Shouldn't have any trouble findin' a little entertainment in this bunch," he observed.She regarded him coldly. "You didn't hear me sayin' anything about entertainment, did you?" she returned.Without making any immediate reply he gave her the cigarette and offered his own for a light."Tell you what, Anne," he said at last, "I've a hunch you've brought me luck to-night an' I'd like to sit in to a game. I'd like to know if the boys here play the kind of a game I'm used to. Come on over, Anne, an' look on."They walked over to the corner where the men were playing cards. On the far side of the table was Lush Currie, the pile of chips before him indicating that he had held a few good hands during the evening. As McCartney took his place at the table, Currie hesitated for a moment and acted as if he wanted to withdraw from the game. McCartney received his pile of chips and arranged them in three little piles under his right hand, then scanned the faces of the men before him.For men who take life as it comes, one day at a time and little thought of the morrow, poker is the game of games. It matters little whether it is played in the Far North where men take fortunes from the beds of frozen creeks, or on the quieter and less rugged frontiers where they build the nation's highways at a dollar a day and three square meals always in sight. In one case the stakes are for thousands, with a jack-pot sometimes growing into six figures. In the other the limits are set by the meagre earnings of a season of some six months or so between the spring and the freeze-up. One man risks a fortune he may retrieve in a single month of good luck with his shovel and pan. The other lays a wager that will take him a whole season to pay if he comes off loser. But in any case, whatever the circumstances, the game is the same, and the men are the same—playing the game for the game's sake and despising nothing so much as a poor loser—unless it be a crooked winner.For the first half hour or so the game that McCartney had just taken a hand in went along very quietly—like the first rounds of a match with the boxers sparring for an opening. The cards having been cut, the deal fell to the man on McCartney's left. The round found them all without openers and the pack was dealt again. This time Lush Currie opened the game and the others stayed."Cards?" said the dealer, who was Dan Martin, of Rubble's gang.He came to Currie and looked at him questioningly."This is good enough for me," replied Currie and left his cards where he had put them face downwards on the table before him.When Martin came to McCartney the latter drew three cards, glanced at them and laying them down smiled across the table at Anne. Currie made a small bet which was raised by the next man. Then they waited for McCartney. He picked up his cards, glanced at them again—and tossed them to one side. Dan Martin seemed about to raise the bet, but on second thought decided to let it stand. The next man followed McCartney's example and with three men in the game Currie called and won with three queens."Pretty easy pickin', Currie," he said."Why didn't you stay, then?" asked Martin. "I didn't tell you to get out.""I might 'a' stayed at that," McCartney replied.The next two games were won on a pair of aces and two pairs, respectively. The cards then went to the man on McCartney's left and he dealt. McCartney picked up his cards one by one as they came to him and arranged them in his hand."Comin' like trained pigs!" he said. "What'd I tell you, Anne? You're my luck—just see this thing through an' I'll split the loot."There was nothing contagious in his pleasantries. Though he appeared in high spirits, his hilarity was so obviously artificial that no one paid any particular attention to him—except, perhaps, Lush Currie, who glanced back at Anne with his cards still in his hand. Then, as if a thought suddenly struck him, he closed his hands quickly over his cards and laid them down.The girl, on her part, did not even so much as look up—either at McCartney or at Currie. She appeared too busy with her own thoughts and was unaware of the suspicions that were being entertained regarding her.When the round was completed McCartney drew the chips towards him and reached for the deck—he had won on a show-down with three fives and a pair of jacks. It was his deal."Now then, you're comin' to me, see?" he cried as he slipped the cards one by one from the pack and slid them to the players. "That makes first blood—an' the night's young!"For a few moments there was silence while the players looked at their cards. This time Currie opened high and the others stayed. They took their draws and settled down. No one bet until it came round to McCartney."I'll just kick 'er along a little bit," he said, and put in his chips.Two players threw their cards away, leaving Currie, McCartney and two others in the game. It was Currie's turn to bet. He picked up one card that had been dealt to him in the draw and was about to look at it. As he did so he hesitated and looked across the table. McCartney's eyes were on Anne. Something in the latter's face made Currie postpone his bet for a moment."Anne," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "you're sittin' too close to me. It ain't lucky—an' I don't like it."His voice betrayed excitement and the girl was not slow to catch the implication."Say, Lush Currie—look here," she protested, "what are you tryin' to tell me?""Nothin' only what I said," Currie replied. "Don't sit behind me in this game."His voice was shaking as he spoke and he fingered his cards nervously."Sit round here, Anne," said McCartney, his voice full of sarcasm. "He's jealous—he doesn't like you lookin' at me so often."McCartney's efforts to make a joke of the whole affair were pathetically inadequate, and served only to heighten Currie's suspicion. But the girl stood up and faced McCartney with a look that was as cold as it was direct."Say, Bill McCartney," she remarked in a voice that was cutting in its deliberateness, "does Lush Currie think I'm tippin' you off to his hand? Well, listen to me. I've been lookin' a whole long time for the kind of man I'd do that for an'—you—ain't—him."McCartney's expression changed suddenly."What the hell are you anyhow?" he asked, with a sneer, and turned to Currie. "Your bet, Currie."For answer Currie threw his cards into the centre of the table and got up from his chair."This game can go on without me," he said, and he moved his chair back and walked away from the group.A couple of the players put out restraining hands and tried to persuade him to go on with the game. Cheney came forward and invited him to take a drink, but Currie was obstinate."I don't sit in to no game with a——"The epithet he used brought McCartney to his feet. He pushed his chair to one side with his foot and stepped towards Currie."You ain't big enough to say that to me," he said, tossing his cigarette to one side.The men showed no desire to interfere. The history of Currie's previous encounter had gone the rounds and left them all hoping that Currie might some day have an opportunity to meet his man fairly and have it out. They had little respect for Currie, whose untimely accusations against Anne were, they felt sure, not only out of place but without foundation. The girl's rebuff had rung true and no one doubted her—though they were convinced that Bill McCartney would have used any advantage, had it been offered to him.They stood back to give room to the two men who occupied a space near the centre of the floor. They liked a fight and they wanted to see the much-talked-of foreman in action.McCartney bore down steadily on Currie, who relied upon his quick, cat-like movements as his sole means of defending himself against the towering strength of his opponent. But wherever Currie went McCartney followed relentlessly, taking the short quick jabs of his antagonist without showing the slightest uneasiness. He displayed the full confidence of one who knows that if he can get his man into a corner he can end the fight in a few seconds. But that was precisely what Currie avoided. He danced about McCartney and landed light blows almost at will. Finally the big fellow began to show signs of ugly temper and quickened his advance in an effort to get within fair striking distance. As he came close Currie crouched near the door and then leaped and sent his foot out in a vicious kick that barely missed McCartney's chin. As it was, the foreman took the full force of the blow on his neck and for a few seconds staggered backwards, shaking his head savagely and blinking his eyes as if to clear his sight. Had Currie followed up his advantage at once the affair might have been ended right there. But while he hesitated McCartney recovered sufficiently to size up the situation afresh.He stood for a few moments looking at Currie, his face twisted into a smile. Those who saw that smile began to feel pity for the smaller man who had put up a good fight and a plucky one. There was a look in Currie's face too, that seemed to reveal for the first time his failing confidence in the outcome."It's going to be stiff travellin' for Lush from now on," murmured one of the men to Cheney in a voice that was barely audible.McCartney, who was near enough to the speaker to overhear the remark, seemed about to speak, but he shut his teeth hard and went towards Currie crouching in an attitude of cautious defence. His face was the face of an animal.Suddenly Cheney pushed his way forward, a look of consternation on his face as he watched Currie vainly shifting his position in a last effort to get out of the way and gain the open space in the middle of the floor."Ain't someone goin' to stop this before it's gone too far?" he muttered to one of the men.No one made reply.There was a quick, sharp cry as Anne came out of the semi-darkness of one corner and rushed forward in a frantic effort to get between the two men."Stop—for God's sake! Oh, you damned fools!" she cried, struggling vainly to break the grip of a couple of men who held her back. Then she was pushed gently into her place in the corner, where she sat down on the bench and covered her face with her hands.Currie was now in a narrow space between the door and the table at which only a few minutes before they had been playing poker. Twice he made a quick move to get out, and twice McCartney caught him before he was well started and drove him back. In another moment it would all be over.Then something happened which no one among the onlookers seemed altogether for the moment to understand. Currie crouched low as if preparing for another spring—but everyone knew it would be a hopeless attempt. Suddenly he straightened up—his hand came quickly from behind him and shot towards McCartney—but not for a blow."No—no, sir," said Currie, his breath coming short and labored, "no—you can't—you can't get me—like that. Get back—I'll get you—sure as God—I'll bore you. Now—get back."McCartney sprang back and looked at Currie who had covered him. He knew—they all knew—that Lush Currie was fool enough to shoot if it came to a show-down. And no man can trust a gun in the hands of a fool. The big foreman turned in mute appeal to one of the mounted policemen who stood near.Suddenly the door opened and King Howden stepped into the room, took off his hat, shook the rain from it, and then looked around him. His mind, usually slow at taking in a situation, seemed to react quickly to what he saw on this occasion. He took a step farther down the room and rubbed his eyes quickly with one hand as if the light bothered him. Then he looked again at the men and turned to Currie, who was crouching near him. Something like a smile played upon his face as he stepped to Currie and extended his hand."You ain't clear on some things, I guess," he said, in a voice that was unusually stern and direct. "This ain't a gunning country."Without another word he stepped deliberately to where Currie stood, and taking the gun from him, opened it and having emptied it into his hand, returned it. Turning round, his eyes fell upon Anne, who had got up again and was coming forward."Anne," he said, "you better be getting along home."There was a note in his voice that the girl had never heard before. This man was not the King Howden she had talked to often during the summer. She drew her cloak about her shoulders and went out.Then King looked at Bill McCartney. He was standing back against the table behind which Mike Cheney had stood earlier in the evening when there had been customers to serve. King had been cool and deliberate—now he felt the old demon rising in him and he struggled to gain control of himself. He realized now that he hated this man, though he could scarcely have told why. With a supreme effort he mastered his rising temper and stood regarding McCartney in silence. The latter, however, realizing that Currie was now at his mercy, and mastered by an uncontrollable desire to end the affair to his advantage, stepped deliberately in the direction of Currie who was cowering near the door."Stand back!" he roared, and the words were meant more for King than for the two or three men who made weak attempts to restrain him.King, recognizing that McCartney was speaking to him, stepped deliberately between the two men."You'd better leave," he said, glancing behind him, and even as he spoke Currie opened the door and slipped out.King was about to follow but turned as McCartney's voice came to him, muttering something he only half heard."You're not talking to me, are you?" he said.McCartney bellowed his reply: "I'm talkin' to you, you son of a dog!"King moved slowly towards McCartney. He faced the big foreman for a moment, his arms rigid at his sides. Suddenly McCartney's hand shot out and King stepped back just in time to avoid the full force of a blow that, as it was, glanced from his cheek. Slowly King's two hands came up and closed in a convulsive grip. While the men waited breathlessly he stood trembling from the struggle that was going on within him—then he wheeled quickly and going to the door, opened it, and went out.In the darkness, King, without any thought of picking his way through the mud and water, hurried round the corner of Cheney's place and started down the roadway to where his horse stood tethered in front of old man Hurley's office. Only once did he pause. Just as he stepped into the street a great burst of loud laughter came to him from behind the door he had just closed. He knew what it meant and for a moment his grip upon himself weakened. He wanted to go back—he wanted to fight. For a moment he hesitated. Then his mind was clear again and he went on. All the way down the street, however, he could not help wondering how long he would have to wait.Then he got up into the saddle and went off along the muddy trail that led west about half a mile to where his little shack stood upon a low ridge that ran in upon his land.
CHAPTER THREE
In a country where women are seldom seen, the presence of a pretty girl of twenty-one is a matter worthy of record—even if she is the daughter of a railway construction boss. For Keith McBain, reticent, profane to a frankly amazing degree on those rare occasions when he did speak to his men, was a seasoned old man of his class. Silent and unapproachable—as is the manner of camp bosses—Keith McBain seemed at times the least human of them all. "Old Silent" the men called him, partly on account of an instinctive grudge they all bore him for his mode of hard dealing, and partly, too, on account of a kind of unreasoned affection which they cherished for him because of his rough-handed honesty and his indomitable will. When Old Silent spoke no man spoke back. Not that he was a man to fear physically—he was a small, dyspeptic, nervous man whom anyone of his deep-chested camp-followers could have brushed aside with one hand. It was rather the man's face that they feared, with its black piercing eyes that never shifted their glance when he spoke, and its black sardonic smile that made an impenetrable mask for a soul that no man had ever seen revealed. His men all feared him—some of them hated him—and yet they never left him, once their names had been placed on the pay-roll.
Once only in the memory of those who worked for him had the hope ever arisen that the old contractor's manner might soften and his hard face relax in the presence of the men. Just a year ago, nearly a hundred miles back along the line, Keith McBain had lost his wife after a long illness. She had lingered for weeks in a pathetic fight for life, and the old camp boss had watched by her bedside almost continuously, leaving the oversight of the work wholly in the hands of his foremen. Never had a gang of men worked so hard as those men had worked day after day while Old Silent was absent from his place, not only out of deference to the frail woman who was struggling gamely against too great odds, but out of sheer respect for their old boss whose burden of sorrow was daily growing heavier. And when at last the word came that the struggle was over, the men had sat about very late into the night and had spoken in whispers. Keith McBain had made the grave with his own hands, just off the right-of-way, and had marked the spot with a pile of stones and a rough-hewn cross. Then in the days that followed he had been more silent than ever, more unremitting in his dealing with the men, and, if possible, more profane. And yet every last one of his men could not help knowing that Keith McBain's heart was breaking. His light had burned late into the night—and every night—for months following the day that had brought him his great sorrow.
Cherry McBain had come unannounced into the camp. In fact the men had not known of her existence until she rode into camp one afternoon a couple of weeks before the death of Mrs. McBain. Only a few of the more fortunate among them had had a glimpse of her as she came up the trail escorted by McBain's timekeeper, who had gone out to meet her and bring her to the camp. But the few that had seen her knew at once that she was the daughter of the woman who was dying in Keith McBain's cabin—so striking was the resemblance between mother and daughter.
During the days that immediately followed her arrival Cherry was never seen abroad except late in the evenings when she walked out with her father and came back with her arms laden with wild flowers and fern. But when Keith McBain turned again to resume his duties after the darkest episode of his life had been closed, Cherry McBain wandered alone along the new grade or saddled her horse and explored the trails wherever they led in both directions from the camp.
Men who work a whole season in the woods or on a right-of-way, and at the end of the season fling their total earnings away in one hilarious week or two in the nearest city, are likely to classify women roughly and perhaps quickly, even if for ten months out of every twelve they never hear the sound of a woman's voice. They may sometimes make errors in their classifications, but not often. The first morning that Cherry McBain strolled along the edge of the works and paused here and there to watch the men as they swung their teams round in the ever moving circle that carried the earth away from both sides of the right-of-way to the centre where it was graded up into the first rough form of a road-bed—that morning the men registered their own judgments concerning the daughter of Old Silent. In her dark eyes there was the fearless look of her father, the look that pierced through the surface and saw through the veneer to what lay behind. In her smile there was the essence of her mother's gentle nature—a nature before which men down through the centuries have bowed in silent worship.
But there was something more, something that was her own. Men saw it in her lightning glance and in the quick toss she gave her head when she shook back her wind-blown, dark-brown hair. Not one of the men had been able to tell exactly what it was that was there, but all alike were convinced that while Keith McBain might command obedience in his men and squelch even his foreman with a look or an explosive word or two, he had no look that could have served him in a contest with the will of Cherry McBain.
It was six o'clock by the time King reached McBain's camp on his return trip. In the distance he saw the men leaving the grade and making their way towards the camp, the sound of their voices coming to him with heartening effect after his long silent trip, during which his mind had gone back irresistibly to the days when he and his brother had romped together as boys.
When he came to where the path led from the trail to McBain's cabin he turned abruptly, and getting down from the saddle allowed his horse to follow him while he made his way on foot along the narrow path. The little cabin was built of logs and stood well back from the trail, in the protecting shade of a clump of tamaracs.
Keith McBain was sitting by the doorway, his pipe in his mouth, his eyes turned to the hills that rose up, scraggly and covered with fallen and charred timbers, to the south of the cabin.
King's first feeling was one of pity. The old man who sat there smoking his pipe and musing was a broken man, and every line on his face showed it. There was in his eyes the look of a man whose power of will was almost gone. There was a look of fear in them, a fear lest he should reveal his weakness to others. He had an odd trick of glancing quickly about him as if he wished to assure himself that no one was coming upon him unannounced. His mouth was tight-lipped, his face covered with a short-clipped beard that once had been black but now showed gray and pale against the bloodless cheeks.
And yet, for all the face showed of weakness, King was at once struck by the intensity and the unswerving directness of his gaze when Keith McBain turned to look at him. At first there seemed to be a shadow of suspicion in the grizzled old face, but King could not help observing the slow change to something almost kindly that showed deep in the old man's eyes as he got up and extended his hand.
"Come and sit down," he said. "The girl told me you were coming. She's off somewhere in the hills after berries—come and sit down."
When they had talked a little King was so much moved by the note of pathos that crept into the voice of Keith McBain that he determined at once to share with him the news that he had received only the night before. Evidently Old Silent was in a pensive mood, and King inwardly longed for someone to whom he could speak concerning what had lain heavily on his heart all day.
For a long time after King had spoken, Keith McBain sat without uttering a word.
"Aye, boy, you've suffered a great loss," he said at last, and his gaze was straight before him towards the hill-tops in the distance. As he continued he seemed to be talking to himself rather than to King. "It's hard for men to know what a thing like this means until they have tasted it themselves. For years I have gone out in the morning with men when the light was scarce showing through the swamp and have come in again at night tired after the work of the day to sleep—and make ready for the next day. And I've watched them—all ready for the 'roll out' when the call came at daybreak. And I've marvelled at their punctuality—and their willingness. And then a day would come when one of them wouldn't be in his place. He'd heard the call but couldn't go out. And later—perhaps a few days just—he didn't hear it—and the rest of us were quieter for a while—a little less given to talking; and then things went on very much as usual and we forgot. It's very good to forget."
King was pleased with the complete freedom from restraint that now marked the old man's manner. He talked well, with the merest trace of Scotch accent recognizable in the way he rolled his r's. He paused a moment and King made no attempt to interrupt. Finally he began again.
"Aye—it's good to forget—when you can. But there are times when a man can't forget—not altogether. You and I know that, my boy—we know it too well. And we won't talk about it either—except to mention it in passing. And in passing I want to say that I am very sorry. Where's the use trying to say more—a man can't."
He tapped his pipe gently against his hand and went leisurely about the task of filling it again.
"A straight man—and a clean man," he said gently, "is a rare enough article. As men go, I haven't seen many that could answer to that description. The world is full of good women, my boy—I've seen a few they told me weren't straight and weren't clean, but I've never known any such myself—though I've known a lot of women, too. But the men I've known—"
He paused as if in contemplation of how he should express most effectively what was on his mind. In the interval of silence there was a sound of excited voices and hurried footsteps coming down the path towards the cabin. Looking up King recognized the two men approaching as the camp cook and his assistant. Their differences had apparently reached a head, and they were coming to thresh the matter out before the boss.
In an instant Keith McBain was himself again. Leaping up before the men had come within speaking distance he met them in the pathway and fell upon them with a flow of profanity that not only reduced the two to impotent silence but sent them back along the pathway and up the trail to the camp, the picture of mute dejection and defeat.
When the old contractor returned and took his seat again, he lighted his pipe in bad mood and puffed at it vigorously without speaking a word. It required only a glance at his face to realize that a change had come over him. Keith McBain was Old Silent again and nothing would bring him out of his surly mood.
King got up slowly and started down the footpath that led to the hills back of the cabin. Somewhere back in the shambles of pitched timbers and broken tree-trunks was Cherry McBain. When he came finally to where the path was so dimly marked that he could follow it no farther he climbed to the top of a little knoll and looked in every direction along the face of the hill to see if Cherry were anywhere in sight. Finally, when he had looked for some time in vain, he called and waited until the echoes died away in silence. There was no reply. Getting down from the knoll he scrambled further up the hill. He had seen a patch of grey ground away to the west where the fires of the year before had swept the hills clear of vegetation. In ten minutes he emerged from the cover of the evergreens and looked across the tangled mass of half-burned and fallen timbers. The climb had not been an easy one, and it was only with slight hope that he gave his call again and stood tense and motionless as he listened for a reply. From every side the echoes came back and gradually died away in faint waves that finally settled into stillness. He was about to turn back again and make for the camp, but just once more he called and waited.
Almost immediately and from a surprisingly short distance away Cherry's voice came clear to him across the patch of grey. Turning at once in the direction of the voice he looked and saw her waving her hand to him. In a few moments he was beside her, where she was seated on the ground picking twigs and leaves out of the small pail of berries she held in her lap. She looked up at him and laughed roguishly, then offered him a large red berry which she held up to him between stained finger and thumb.
"Didn't you hear me call the first time?" he asked her.
She dropped her eyes and seemed very intent upon rolling the berries about in a vain search for more leaves. He waited for her answer. Ordinarily he would not have asked the question seriously. Even now he had no thought of accusing her. When she finally spoke he was at a loss to know what was in her mind.
"I—heard—you," she said, very slowly, and the tone of her voice was strange to King.
He waited, not knowing what to say in return, and hoping, too, that she might say something without his prompting her. When he saw that she was not going to speak, he asked another question as directly as he had asked the first.
"Why didn't you answer?"
The next moment he wished with all his heart that he had not spoken. The look she gave him was one in which appeal and disappointment were so deeply mingled that he cursed himself inwardly for his own clumsiness.
"Don't ask me why," she said. Then as she saw the grave look in King's eyes she got up and placed her hand on his arm. "Oh, it has nothing to do with you," she said in a voice that was all softness. "I—I didn't know at first that—that it was you."
Suddenly her manner changed.
"Let's go down now," she said quickly, picking up her pail of berries. "We're going to have tea."
Almost as she spoke the words she was off down the hill at a pace that made King exert himself to keep up with her. She ran along the smooth round timbers and leaped from one to another of the fallen logs so lightly and gracefully that King was put to it to save himself from being completely outstripped. She carried her berries in one hand and her hat in the other, and her hair, blown loose by the breeze, shone in the sunlight—transparent gold against a mass of black.
As he watched her, something of the wonder of their first meeting came back to him. He had never seen a girl so lithe, so wild, so beautiful. There was exultation in her every movement, and her laugh rippled musically as she leaped and climbed and ran along over the most difficult ground. Sometimes she looked back at him as if to make sure that he was following, and he saw her face radiant with life and youth. Once she waited till he came up to her before venturing along a dizzy bit of footing that required care in passing. When he came to her she placed her hand in his and together they went on.
From the look she gave him he scarcely knew whether she wanted help herself or wished to help him. But the clasp of her hand was so firm, so throbbing with vitality, that he wished he might still hold those fingers closed within his own after they had come to level footing. The thought of it sent the blood coursing through his veins, and an impulse started up within him—an impulse that came out of the very depths of his being and made him forget for the time being everything in the world except this moment on a wild hillside with beauty and grace and youth within his reach.
When they reached the evergreens Cherry bounded ahead and left him to follow. The ground was level and soft underfoot and carpeted with cones and needles. Once she stopped suddenly in a little space open to the sky, and stooping down picked a wildflower and held it up to him.
"Not often you find them growing in a place so sheltered as this," she remarked as she gave him the flower.
He took it and looked from the flower, pure, white and soft, to her face. Unconsciously his gaze shifted to her throat, as pure and white and soft as the flower he held in his hand. Then she turned quickly and hurried off again into the cover of the evergreens.
Once she stopped so suddenly and turned so unexpectedly to meet him that he had almost run into her before he could check himself. Then as he stood in questioning attitude she shook her hair back from her face and with a ripple of a laugh was away again before he could speak.
As King followed her an unpleasant thought came suddenly to him. There was one thing he had always dreaded in women. He had never been quite unconscious of the subtle power they exerted—but he had always been suspicious of their motives. There was something so free, so healthful, so simple in Cherry's manner that he was almost disarmed of suspicion. And yet she was so coy, so wilful, so roguish that instinctively he felt himself assuming the defensive—a defensive, too, against himself and the impulses that arose within him and clamored for expression.
Suddenly she stopped and looked down at a small pool of cool fresh water fed from a little spring that bubbled out of the earth just a few yards away. A half dozen large stones lay touching the edge of the water, and before King realized what she was about, she had dropped her berries and hat and was on her knees with her two hands resting on a small boulder, her lips touching the surface of the water. As he looked at her he could not help thinking what a child she was—and how very much older he was. Nor could he think it any less when in a moment she raised her head and glanced up at him with a rare flush in her cheeks.
"Oh, this is good," she cried. "Look—there's a stone for you!"
He smiled slowly, but her spirit was irresistible. He got down beside her, his hands upon a boulder almost touching the stone upon which she was leaning for support.
When they had both drunk from the pool, instead of getting up immediately, they remained where they were, their hands upon the boulders, their eyes fixed upon the smooth surface of the water beneath them. For a moment only they looked, a moment in which both felt a power like a spell that held them gazing into the far depths that lay mirrored in the quiet pool. They were gazing like two children deep down into the depths of the blue skies reflected far below where the white clouds floated beyond the downward pointing tops of evergreens.
All at once, however, King glanced at the face of the girl where it was smiling up at him from the water—and in a moment he was conscious of a change. Though her face was smiling it was grave too, grave even as his, and he knew that in the look each gave the other there were depths that were more unfathomable than the skies—the depths of life itself in all its mystery and serious meaning.
They got up and walked off down the path towards the cabin, strangely silent, both of them. As they emerged from the cover of the woods and came within sight of the cabin only a few yards ahead of them, Cherry stopped and laid her hand quickly upon King's arm. King glanced at her, and then turned in the direction indicated by her eyes. A man was just leaving the doorway of the cabin where old Keith McBain was still sitting. It was McCartney.
For a moment Cherry stood silently watching him, her hand still upon King's arm. Then she started slowly towards the cabin, her eyes still following the movements of the big foreman as he walked down the path that led from the cabin to the camp.
"You wanted to know why I didn't answer when first you called me to-day," she said, almost in a whisper. "Well—I wasn't sure that it was you—I thought it might be him."
There came into her eyes a look of appeal which changed quickly to the look that King had seen there the night before when she had asked him if he could fight. She seemed on the point of speaking, but with an impatient toss of her head she hurried down the pathway, King following closely behind her.
CHAPTER FOUR
In another hour King was ready to take the trail again. Beside him stood Cherry, her own black horse waiting only a few yards away.
A dark cloud had risen in the north-east, and King glanced quickly about him at the skies and at the trees rustling noisily in the little breeze that had sprung up.
"It's like rain," he warned her quietly. "Perhaps you'd better not go this time."
The faintest suspicion of a frown passed quickly over her face, but that was all the reply his warning drew from her. Before he could help her she had stepped upon a low-cut stump and had sprung lightly into the saddle.
Keith McBain watched them from his seat near the doorway.
"I'll be looking for you early, my girl," he said.
"I'll be back before it begins to rain," she replied, and turning her horse about started towards the trail.
King got up at once, pausing a moment to bid the old man good-bye before he followed Cherry.
"Look after yourself," the old fellow replied, "and come in next trip. It'll be dull for you now—and we'd be glad to see you."
"I'll come," King replied. "I'd like to come—and I'd like to hear you talk again."
"And send that girl of mine back before she gets too far away," the old fellow called to King who had already started down the pathway.
The clouds that were gathering behind them as they rode westward seemed to hasten the coming of the darkness, although the sun was just setting when they started. Far up the right-of-way, along which the trail ran for a little distance, the western sky was a blaze of glory between the rows of tall trees that stood back from the grade on either side. Once or twice as they rode along King turned in his saddle to look again at the storm clouds gathering in the east. There was little fear of their being overtaken by the storm—it was still a long way off and was coming up very slowly. And yet King wondered that the girl should be so keen upon taking a ride when at any moment the dark bank of heavy thunder clouds might suddenly rush up and force her to ride back through a drenching rain, to say nothing of the thunder and lightning. But such a possibility apparently never entered the mind of Cherry McBain, or if it did she never showed the least concern about it. She urged her horse forward at a steady pace that made King hurry to keep up. Not till they had covered the whole length of the trail lying along the right-of-way and had gone some distance beyond where it turned into the woods and started up the hill did she draw rein. Then she brought her horse slowly to a walk and turned to look behind her. She had not spoken since she left the cabin, and as King drew up with her he ventured to ask if she didn't think she had gone far enough. The look she gave him by way of reply was enough to make him wish he had not spoken.
"Are you really so anxious to have me go back?" she asked.
It was King's turn to look at her in surprise. There was something more than surprise in his voice, however, when he spoke.
"I guess I must have said what wasn't in my mind to say," he replied very quietly. "I don't think you got me quite right there."
Suddenly she brought her horse to a standstill and slipped out of the saddle to the ground.
"Get down and walk for a little while," she said, looking about her as she spoke. "The rain is a long way off yet and I'm not afraid."
King responded by getting down at once. He stood for a moment with the bridle in his hand and waited for her to come up to him. Then they walked slowly side by side along the trail. For a few minutes they proceeded in silence, King waiting for her to begin.
"I was afraid you might want to send me back," she began at last, "and I didn't want to go. I wanted to talk to you. I want to tell you about my father. You saw him to-night, and you know there is something wrong—you couldn't help knowing that as well as I do."
She was not asking a question. She was merely stating a fact in which she confidently expected King's concurrence. The pause was not to give him an opportunity of replying. She wished only to collect her thoughts, to marshal the parts of the story she was about to tell him.
"My father is a railway construction contractor," she went on after she had walked a few yards without speaking. "The men love him—and they hate him—both at the same time. He's generous and he's straight, and he's good—but he's hard in his dealings and he crushes everyone who opposes him. For years he has taken railway contracts and worked in the woods. I was born in a mining camp out west, where my father was prospecting. When I began to grow up I was allowed to spend only a few weeks each summer in camp with him and mother. The rest of the summer I spent with my aunt in Winnipeg, where I went to school. But I never liked it. I always wanted to be with them in the camp. I loved the life and I loved the men and their rough ways. Most of all, I loved my father—my mother was very quiet and very sweet, but my father and I have always been chums."
She paused a moment to pick up a small stick from the road which she sent whirling along the trail ahead of her.
"One day something happened. My mother told me what she knew about it and my father knows that she told me, but he has never spoken to me about it. Two years ago he left my mother and me in the city and went to the coast with some others to look for gold. One of the men was Bill McCartney, who was a teamster for my father during the previous summer. In the spring they came back unexpectedly. Father had written us to tell us that he had made a good strike, but when he came back there was a change. McCartney was with him, and one night they sat all night long and there were loud words between them. In the morning my father told us that he had lost everything and that McCartney was going back to the coast again. He told mother something that made her cry, but he said, 'A bargain is a bargain—and I count this a good bargain.' Those are the only words I ever heard him speak about the affair. McCartney left that night. After that my mother grew sick—and she never got better. Later I came to camp to be with her, and one night she told me that she was dying—she said her heart was breaking—breaking for my father. She told me that some day McCartney would be back—that she hoped she might die before he came. She died last summer and McCartney came back just a few weeks later."
The muscles in King's arms grew rigid and his hands clenched fiercely as his mind rested upon the fragmentary story that Cherry McBain had told him. Instinctively he felt that Bill McCartney had been in some way the cause of the death of Keith McBain's wife.
"There was something more," she said, suddenly breaking in upon his musing. "When McCartney came back my father made him foreman of the camp and ever since then the control of the work has been gradually passing out of father's hands. To make matters worse, father has been drinking until his very mind is going. Some day, I am afraid, he will drink himself to death. And it is not all on account of the loss of my mother. There is something else. The bargain he made with McCartney did not work out satisfactorily. The claim turned out badly and McCartney came back dissatisfied. And now—though he has never said so openly—he has plans of a different kind. Once he met me alone on the trail—he had followed me without my knowing it—and when he tried to be pleasant to me in his own way, I told him to leave me. He grinned and took me by the arm and then—I struck him with my hand across the face. His expression never changed, but he warned me never to do that again—and he spoke of my father. The next day father came to me—his voice broken—his face haggard; he hadn't slept all night. And he told me not to make McCartney angry. He told me to stay away from him—go back to the city—anything, but to keep out of his way and give him no cause for anger. I told my father that I would not leave him—and I won't. But I can't go anywhere without that man shadowing me. I can't speak to one of the men but he comes and forces his attentions upon me, though he knows that I hate him. One thing—he has never offered to touch me again, and I have never had the heart to tell him what I think. I am always thinking of what may happen—and I can see the fear in my father's eyes."
She came a little closer to King and laid her hand on his arm.
"Some day," she said slowly, and her breast rose and fell fitfully as she spoke, "some day he will not wait any longer. I shall have to make my choice. Either I shall smile on him and accept his attentions—or I shall send him away and bring upon myself the complete ruin of a life that is already broken beyond hope of repair."
A faint rumbling of distant thunder caused them both to stop and look behind them.
"It is something new for me to be afraid. I never was afraid before—only there has been a change—a change that I don't like because I don't know how to meet it. The men in the camp have always been good to me. My mother was good to them and they liked her—and I have tried to be good to them. I have always thought they liked me too. But there are some—we meet them once in a while—who can't stand good treatment. They weren't born for it. And McCartney has got a few of that kind with him."
They had come to a ridge overlooking a valley, a sort of ravine, through which a small stream picked its straggling course between the hills. Dusk had already set in and the stream was only faintly visible.
Without announcing her intentions, Cherry dropped her bridle-rein and left her horse standing on the trail while she led the way to a knoll that commanded a better view of the ravine. For a long time she stood looking to the westward where only a faint arc of light was still left low upon the horizon. Her hat was in her hand and the quiet breeze that came from the east blew a few loose locks of her dark hair about her face. King gazed at her intently, and thought of McCartney.
He had picked up a stout tamarac stick on his way to the knoll. It was almost as thick as his wrist and was sound and dry. Without speaking a word and without twitching a muscle of his face he slowly bent the stick in his two hands until it began to snap. Then he twisted it until the frayed ends parted and he held the two ragged bits of stick in his hands. These he flung into a clump of bushes on the slope below.
Cherry looked at him quietly.
"No," she said slowly, "not that—not that. Some day it may have to come—some day I may call you—but not yet."
King smiled gravely.
"I told you last night about my brother, Dick," he said. "Well—Dick is dead."
"King!"
She had never before called him by his first name.
"Yes—I had a letter last night. It was waiting for me when I got down. But that's all gone now—it's past and settled. But this other thing—it has mixed me some. I didn't think I'd ever want to hit a man again. And I'm not looking for McCartney—not for any man," he said, and his eyes turned to the spot where he had thrown the broken stick. "But no man ever found me running—and Bill McCartney won't."
Cherry laid one hand on his arm and looked at him.
"He has gone to town with a lot of men to-night," she said. "They often ride in on Saturday night—that's why we have been able to ride and talk together. He will be there when you get to town—and all day to-morrow. And listen—I'm not afraid—not afraid for you, nor for me. But I don't want you to meet him yet."
King's reply came quietly and with great deliberation.
"I've been in that town since the first tent was pitched," he observed in a voice that was even and showed no excitement. "I've watched it grow up—and I've gone pretty much where I liked. I guess I'll go on in about the same way."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of that," Cherry replied. "I've told you I'm not afraid for you—and not for myself. But if the break should come—"
"I guess you don't need to worry about that," King remarked. "There won't be any break between me and McCartney—not till there's a reason for it."
Cherry went back again to the trail and taking the bridle-rein in her hand led the way down towards the river. King followed her until they came to the roughly-made bridge that spanned the little stream, a hurriedly constructed bridge of tamarac poles that had been thrown into place by the advance parties of railway workers.
"I have never gone farther than this," said Cherry, when they had come to the centre of the bridge. "I often ride out in the evenings and stand here for a while before going back. Some day I am going on to town, just to see what sort of place you have."
"This is the White Pine," said King. "I have crossed it often higher up. It gets very nasty after two or three days' rain."
Suddenly a flash of lightning reminded them that the storm was approaching. While they talked they had all but forgotten the black clouds rolling up from the east. Cherry got up at once upon the stout log that ran along the side of the bridge to keep the poles in place, and putting one foot into the stirrup drew herself up lightly into the saddle. When she was seated she turned and looked at King.
"We shall ride out again some time," she said, and gave him her hand.
He closed his big hand over her fingers for a moment without speaking. When he was about to turn away she clung still to his hand and looked at him very earnestly.
"Why don't you sometimes talk a little?" she asked.
The abruptness with which she asked the question brought the slow smile back to King's face.
"I'm not good at talking," he replied. "Besides—I like to hear you talk."
King had not ventured before in their short acquaintance to offer a compliment. He did not mean to compliment her now. He was speaking his mind simply, directly, sincerely.
She regarded him strangely for a moment in silence.
"Sometimes," she said at last, "sometimes I think—"
She paused a moment and then withdrew her hand suddenly and wheeling her horse about went off at a gallop down the trail, leaving him gazing after her in wonderment.
When she had passed out of sight he looked once at the clouds before getting into the saddle and then, getting up, he gave a sharp whistle that brought Sal bounding to him, and set off along the trail that led to town. Behind him the storm was coming up rapidly.
"It's you for it now," he said to his horse as he leaned forward and stroked the warm neck.
Only once after that did his voice break the silence of the long ride. The first drops of rain brought him suddenly out of his dreaming.
"If you could only talk!" he said to himself, and his voice was full of impatience.
But King Howden was no talker.
CHAPTER FIVE
The town was in a state of excitement that was not altogether new. In fact, the few score of permanent residents in the place always looked to Saturday night to furnish some little change from the humdrum existence of the week. There is nothing very stirring about sitting in a village—even if it is an outpost of civilization a hundred and twenty-five miles from anywhere—with nothing to do from day to day except to greet the newcomers who arrive from the outside to begin their search for land. But when a couple of red-coated men wearing blue breeches striped on either side with gold, their heads covered with wide-brimmed Stetsons, their feet stoutly booted and spurred—when two such men ride in from over the Saskatchewan border and go clanking down the one street in the place a certain amount of shuffling is almost inevitable.
Nor was the flutter of excitement due to any fear that the "Mounties" were on business bent. Since the jurisdiction of the famous riders of the plains did not extend any farther than the border, their sudden appearance set no one guessing as to who, among the men of the town, was being entertained, a criminal unawares. The place had served as a week-end retreat for the men of the force before, and all such occasions had turned out more or less eventful.
No previous arrangement had been made that would have explained the sudden influx of men who came into town from all over the district to spend the week-end together. But small groups had begun to arrive before the sun had set—some of the settlers had come in during the day from their shacks on lonely homesteads and made a fair-sized reception committee to greet the later arrivals. There were men there from Rubble's survey gang, and a dozen or more from the camp of Keith McBain.
That they should make their rendezvous late in the evening at Mike Cheney's was only natural. There was MacMurray's lodging house, of course, that stood at the end of the street near the river, but no one came to town to eat. Cheney's place stood at the other end of the street—discreetly apart. And those who came and went exercised considerable discretion and talked very little when others were in hearing.
Mike Cheney himself treated his business very philosophically. In a man's country where men were in the habit of taking life none too seriously, there must needs be some place to foregather—so he thought—on the days when the rain drove everyone indoors, and on nights when the rest of the town had gone to bed. Furthermore, there was need of a place of last call for the men on their way to the railway camps or the homesteads. Besides, what were men to do in the winter, with the thermometer dancing back and forth between thirty and forty degrees below zero, if they had to depend solely upon bad tea and weak coffee? Mike declared, and to all intents and purposes he believed, that he served the community in proportion as he was successful in dispensing conviviality among its members. It didn't occur to him to feel abashed that a few held him and his business in abhorrence. Nor did it worry him that he was conducting his business without legal sanction. It would have caused him as much trouble to win the regard of such as held him in contempt as to procure an official document setting the seal of the government's approval on his business. He was content to give little or no heed to either.
And so, without any special announcement, and without any invitation, the visitors took their way, when it was late enough, to the large room at the back of Mike Cheney's place, where they knew they would be made heartily welcome. And to tell the truth, a welcome of some kind was something the men felt the need of. Rain had begun to fall quite heavily—what had looked like a mere thunder shower when it appeared first in the north-east, had steadied down to an all-night rain. And certainly MacMurray's lodging house offered no cheer. No one, furthermore, even cast his eyes a second time in the direction of the two large log buildings the government had erected for immigrants without shelter.
The room at the back of Cheney's place was blue with smoke that rendered almost useless the large kerosene lamp that hung from the ceiling. In one corner of the room a small group were already well into a game of poker. Though the stakes were of necessity low—for what can men do on a dollar a day?—the interest in the game was sufficiently high to attract a half dozen spectators who watched the play in silence and smoked incessantly.
In another corner three or four land-seekers were exchanging opinions of the fine points of the law governing the rights of the "squatter," and the rather intricate regulations that made provision for what is known as "jumping" a claim.
In the corner farthest from the door where Mike Cheney stood at the service of his customers, Big Bill McCartney was listening to what one of the red-coated visitors had to say about the effect of solitude on a man's nerves. The subject was one that evidently appealed strongly to one of MacDougall's men, whose mood was rather too jovial for so early in the evening and whose literary instincts prompted him to attempt the metrical flights of the lines beginning,
"I am monarch of all I survey."
"I am monarch of all I survey."
"I am monarch of all I survey."
McCartney pushed him back on the bench where he had been sitting and turned to hear something that Cheney was offering to the discussion.
"There's another thing about this country," said Mike, leaning towards McCartney and the red-coat. "It's a-gettin' to some of the boys in a way they never expected."
He paused a moment to wipe up a little water from the table with his cloth.
"Now there was old Bob Nason—he was before your time here, Bill. He was one of the first to come in here when the trail was opened into the valley. There was a good fellow for you—an' a good man too. No better ever put foot on the ground. Saw him heave a barrel of salt into the back end of his wagon—just like that."
Mike used appropriate gestures to show how easily the thing had been done.
"I'd like to have seen you an' him together, Bill," he went on, and a broad smile accompanied his remarks. "Could 'a' give you about all you could handle, Bill, if size counts for anything. Anyhow—poor old Bob came in here one night—it was a night like this—only there was a regular howlin' wind and the rain was heavy. I hears a poundin' at the door—I was all alone—an' I gets up and opens it. An' there stands Old Bob—feet bare—shirt gone—head bare—pants all in rags—an' mud an' water—it was awful!"
He paused in an effort, evidently, to call the picture more vividly to mind.
"An' I says, 'Bob, what's wrong?' An' then I knew right away what it was—from the grin he gave me. But I says, 'Come in an' get something'. An' poor old Bob comes in an' sits down an' starts cryin' like a baby. An' I says, 'Bob, you're lookin' bad,' but he wouldn't talk. I sat with him all night an' the next day we sent him out with a couple of boys that was totin' freight."
For a moment Mike paused while he turned to pick up an empty glass and look at it.
"My God," he said, looking into the glass, "to think of old Bob losin' his head out there—just for the sake of someone to talk to. I'll never forget it."
"It'll get to anyone if he's only left alone long enough," commented the policeman, and he went on to tell of a similar case that had come under his observation in the West.
"There's just one thing this country needs right now, Mike—an' it needs it bad," McCartney offered by way of supplementing what had just been said. As he spoke he held a lighted match in his hand ready to apply to a cigarette he had just rolled.
"You mean—" Cheney waited.
For a moment McCartney was silent while he applied the match to his cigarette.
"I mean—"
The door opened suddenly and a girl stepped into the room.
"——there's the answer," he concluded.
Several of the men glanced up as the door closed and the girl came forward to where Cheney was standing on the corner. He greeted her quite casually.
"Hello, Anne," he said, "you sure picked a good night for strollin'. What's the idea?"
For a moment she said nothing by way of reply as she shook the rain from the cloak that hung loosely about her shoulders. Then she looked round the room at the men.
"Nothin's the idea," she remarked. "It's my night off and—well, where can you go in this place. Slingin' grub's all right—ten hours a day—but you want a change, don't you? Give me a smoke."
The request was addressed to McCartney, who proceeded at once to roll a cigarette while she looked on.
"Nobody in this town let's me in if they know I'm comin'," she remarked in a tone that carried not the slightest trace of regret. She wished simply to record the fact merely.
And a fact it was, for Anne, who was the single waitress at the lodging-house, had been placed in a class by herself in the town, though not a man in it—or woman either—had any facts upon which to base their prejudice.
For a moment only during the process of rolling the cigarette the eyes of McCartney and the girl met. No one in the room saw the exchange of glances and no one could have detected the slightest change of expression in either face.
McCartney smiled oddly as he folded the edge of the cigarette paper into place and tapped the ends lightly against his hand.
"Shouldn't have any trouble findin' a little entertainment in this bunch," he observed.
She regarded him coldly. "You didn't hear me sayin' anything about entertainment, did you?" she returned.
Without making any immediate reply he gave her the cigarette and offered his own for a light.
"Tell you what, Anne," he said at last, "I've a hunch you've brought me luck to-night an' I'd like to sit in to a game. I'd like to know if the boys here play the kind of a game I'm used to. Come on over, Anne, an' look on."
They walked over to the corner where the men were playing cards. On the far side of the table was Lush Currie, the pile of chips before him indicating that he had held a few good hands during the evening. As McCartney took his place at the table, Currie hesitated for a moment and acted as if he wanted to withdraw from the game. McCartney received his pile of chips and arranged them in three little piles under his right hand, then scanned the faces of the men before him.
For men who take life as it comes, one day at a time and little thought of the morrow, poker is the game of games. It matters little whether it is played in the Far North where men take fortunes from the beds of frozen creeks, or on the quieter and less rugged frontiers where they build the nation's highways at a dollar a day and three square meals always in sight. In one case the stakes are for thousands, with a jack-pot sometimes growing into six figures. In the other the limits are set by the meagre earnings of a season of some six months or so between the spring and the freeze-up. One man risks a fortune he may retrieve in a single month of good luck with his shovel and pan. The other lays a wager that will take him a whole season to pay if he comes off loser. But in any case, whatever the circumstances, the game is the same, and the men are the same—playing the game for the game's sake and despising nothing so much as a poor loser—unless it be a crooked winner.
For the first half hour or so the game that McCartney had just taken a hand in went along very quietly—like the first rounds of a match with the boxers sparring for an opening. The cards having been cut, the deal fell to the man on McCartney's left. The round found them all without openers and the pack was dealt again. This time Lush Currie opened the game and the others stayed.
"Cards?" said the dealer, who was Dan Martin, of Rubble's gang.
He came to Currie and looked at him questioningly.
"This is good enough for me," replied Currie and left his cards where he had put them face downwards on the table before him.
When Martin came to McCartney the latter drew three cards, glanced at them and laying them down smiled across the table at Anne. Currie made a small bet which was raised by the next man. Then they waited for McCartney. He picked up his cards, glanced at them again—and tossed them to one side. Dan Martin seemed about to raise the bet, but on second thought decided to let it stand. The next man followed McCartney's example and with three men in the game Currie called and won with three queens.
"Pretty easy pickin', Currie," he said.
"Why didn't you stay, then?" asked Martin. "I didn't tell you to get out."
"I might 'a' stayed at that," McCartney replied.
The next two games were won on a pair of aces and two pairs, respectively. The cards then went to the man on McCartney's left and he dealt. McCartney picked up his cards one by one as they came to him and arranged them in his hand.
"Comin' like trained pigs!" he said. "What'd I tell you, Anne? You're my luck—just see this thing through an' I'll split the loot."
There was nothing contagious in his pleasantries. Though he appeared in high spirits, his hilarity was so obviously artificial that no one paid any particular attention to him—except, perhaps, Lush Currie, who glanced back at Anne with his cards still in his hand. Then, as if a thought suddenly struck him, he closed his hands quickly over his cards and laid them down.
The girl, on her part, did not even so much as look up—either at McCartney or at Currie. She appeared too busy with her own thoughts and was unaware of the suspicions that were being entertained regarding her.
When the round was completed McCartney drew the chips towards him and reached for the deck—he had won on a show-down with three fives and a pair of jacks. It was his deal.
"Now then, you're comin' to me, see?" he cried as he slipped the cards one by one from the pack and slid them to the players. "That makes first blood—an' the night's young!"
For a few moments there was silence while the players looked at their cards. This time Currie opened high and the others stayed. They took their draws and settled down. No one bet until it came round to McCartney.
"I'll just kick 'er along a little bit," he said, and put in his chips.
Two players threw their cards away, leaving Currie, McCartney and two others in the game. It was Currie's turn to bet. He picked up one card that had been dealt to him in the draw and was about to look at it. As he did so he hesitated and looked across the table. McCartney's eyes were on Anne. Something in the latter's face made Currie postpone his bet for a moment.
"Anne," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "you're sittin' too close to me. It ain't lucky—an' I don't like it."
His voice betrayed excitement and the girl was not slow to catch the implication.
"Say, Lush Currie—look here," she protested, "what are you tryin' to tell me?"
"Nothin' only what I said," Currie replied. "Don't sit behind me in this game."
His voice was shaking as he spoke and he fingered his cards nervously.
"Sit round here, Anne," said McCartney, his voice full of sarcasm. "He's jealous—he doesn't like you lookin' at me so often."
McCartney's efforts to make a joke of the whole affair were pathetically inadequate, and served only to heighten Currie's suspicion. But the girl stood up and faced McCartney with a look that was as cold as it was direct.
"Say, Bill McCartney," she remarked in a voice that was cutting in its deliberateness, "does Lush Currie think I'm tippin' you off to his hand? Well, listen to me. I've been lookin' a whole long time for the kind of man I'd do that for an'—you—ain't—him."
McCartney's expression changed suddenly.
"What the hell are you anyhow?" he asked, with a sneer, and turned to Currie. "Your bet, Currie."
For answer Currie threw his cards into the centre of the table and got up from his chair.
"This game can go on without me," he said, and he moved his chair back and walked away from the group.
A couple of the players put out restraining hands and tried to persuade him to go on with the game. Cheney came forward and invited him to take a drink, but Currie was obstinate.
"I don't sit in to no game with a——"
The epithet he used brought McCartney to his feet. He pushed his chair to one side with his foot and stepped towards Currie.
"You ain't big enough to say that to me," he said, tossing his cigarette to one side.
The men showed no desire to interfere. The history of Currie's previous encounter had gone the rounds and left them all hoping that Currie might some day have an opportunity to meet his man fairly and have it out. They had little respect for Currie, whose untimely accusations against Anne were, they felt sure, not only out of place but without foundation. The girl's rebuff had rung true and no one doubted her—though they were convinced that Bill McCartney would have used any advantage, had it been offered to him.
They stood back to give room to the two men who occupied a space near the centre of the floor. They liked a fight and they wanted to see the much-talked-of foreman in action.
McCartney bore down steadily on Currie, who relied upon his quick, cat-like movements as his sole means of defending himself against the towering strength of his opponent. But wherever Currie went McCartney followed relentlessly, taking the short quick jabs of his antagonist without showing the slightest uneasiness. He displayed the full confidence of one who knows that if he can get his man into a corner he can end the fight in a few seconds. But that was precisely what Currie avoided. He danced about McCartney and landed light blows almost at will. Finally the big fellow began to show signs of ugly temper and quickened his advance in an effort to get within fair striking distance. As he came close Currie crouched near the door and then leaped and sent his foot out in a vicious kick that barely missed McCartney's chin. As it was, the foreman took the full force of the blow on his neck and for a few seconds staggered backwards, shaking his head savagely and blinking his eyes as if to clear his sight. Had Currie followed up his advantage at once the affair might have been ended right there. But while he hesitated McCartney recovered sufficiently to size up the situation afresh.
He stood for a few moments looking at Currie, his face twisted into a smile. Those who saw that smile began to feel pity for the smaller man who had put up a good fight and a plucky one. There was a look in Currie's face too, that seemed to reveal for the first time his failing confidence in the outcome.
"It's going to be stiff travellin' for Lush from now on," murmured one of the men to Cheney in a voice that was barely audible.
McCartney, who was near enough to the speaker to overhear the remark, seemed about to speak, but he shut his teeth hard and went towards Currie crouching in an attitude of cautious defence. His face was the face of an animal.
Suddenly Cheney pushed his way forward, a look of consternation on his face as he watched Currie vainly shifting his position in a last effort to get out of the way and gain the open space in the middle of the floor.
"Ain't someone goin' to stop this before it's gone too far?" he muttered to one of the men.
No one made reply.
There was a quick, sharp cry as Anne came out of the semi-darkness of one corner and rushed forward in a frantic effort to get between the two men.
"Stop—for God's sake! Oh, you damned fools!" she cried, struggling vainly to break the grip of a couple of men who held her back. Then she was pushed gently into her place in the corner, where she sat down on the bench and covered her face with her hands.
Currie was now in a narrow space between the door and the table at which only a few minutes before they had been playing poker. Twice he made a quick move to get out, and twice McCartney caught him before he was well started and drove him back. In another moment it would all be over.
Then something happened which no one among the onlookers seemed altogether for the moment to understand. Currie crouched low as if preparing for another spring—but everyone knew it would be a hopeless attempt. Suddenly he straightened up—his hand came quickly from behind him and shot towards McCartney—but not for a blow.
"No—no, sir," said Currie, his breath coming short and labored, "no—you can't—you can't get me—like that. Get back—I'll get you—sure as God—I'll bore you. Now—get back."
McCartney sprang back and looked at Currie who had covered him. He knew—they all knew—that Lush Currie was fool enough to shoot if it came to a show-down. And no man can trust a gun in the hands of a fool. The big foreman turned in mute appeal to one of the mounted policemen who stood near.
Suddenly the door opened and King Howden stepped into the room, took off his hat, shook the rain from it, and then looked around him. His mind, usually slow at taking in a situation, seemed to react quickly to what he saw on this occasion. He took a step farther down the room and rubbed his eyes quickly with one hand as if the light bothered him. Then he looked again at the men and turned to Currie, who was crouching near him. Something like a smile played upon his face as he stepped to Currie and extended his hand.
"You ain't clear on some things, I guess," he said, in a voice that was unusually stern and direct. "This ain't a gunning country."
Without another word he stepped deliberately to where Currie stood, and taking the gun from him, opened it and having emptied it into his hand, returned it. Turning round, his eyes fell upon Anne, who had got up again and was coming forward.
"Anne," he said, "you better be getting along home."
There was a note in his voice that the girl had never heard before. This man was not the King Howden she had talked to often during the summer. She drew her cloak about her shoulders and went out.
Then King looked at Bill McCartney. He was standing back against the table behind which Mike Cheney had stood earlier in the evening when there had been customers to serve. King had been cool and deliberate—now he felt the old demon rising in him and he struggled to gain control of himself. He realized now that he hated this man, though he could scarcely have told why. With a supreme effort he mastered his rising temper and stood regarding McCartney in silence. The latter, however, realizing that Currie was now at his mercy, and mastered by an uncontrollable desire to end the affair to his advantage, stepped deliberately in the direction of Currie who was cowering near the door.
"Stand back!" he roared, and the words were meant more for King than for the two or three men who made weak attempts to restrain him.
King, recognizing that McCartney was speaking to him, stepped deliberately between the two men.
"You'd better leave," he said, glancing behind him, and even as he spoke Currie opened the door and slipped out.
King was about to follow but turned as McCartney's voice came to him, muttering something he only half heard.
"You're not talking to me, are you?" he said.
McCartney bellowed his reply: "I'm talkin' to you, you son of a dog!"
King moved slowly towards McCartney. He faced the big foreman for a moment, his arms rigid at his sides. Suddenly McCartney's hand shot out and King stepped back just in time to avoid the full force of a blow that, as it was, glanced from his cheek. Slowly King's two hands came up and closed in a convulsive grip. While the men waited breathlessly he stood trembling from the struggle that was going on within him—then he wheeled quickly and going to the door, opened it, and went out.
In the darkness, King, without any thought of picking his way through the mud and water, hurried round the corner of Cheney's place and started down the roadway to where his horse stood tethered in front of old man Hurley's office. Only once did he pause. Just as he stepped into the street a great burst of loud laughter came to him from behind the door he had just closed. He knew what it meant and for a moment his grip upon himself weakened. He wanted to go back—he wanted to fight. For a moment he hesitated. Then his mind was clear again and he went on. All the way down the street, however, he could not help wondering how long he would have to wait.
Then he got up into the saddle and went off along the muddy trail that led west about half a mile to where his little shack stood upon a low ridge that ran in upon his land.