CHAPTER SIXWhen King Howden awoke next morning it was with a feeling that he was beginning life in a new world. The feeling was deepened when he looked out through the small window and saw the pools of water left by the night's rain glistening in the bright sunlight. He had not slept well—during the earlier part of the night he had not slept at all. There had been much to think about, much that was perplexing and disquieting. And yet, as he looked from his window at the new morning and saw half a mile away the huts and white tents of The Town flooded with sunlight, he was conscious not so much of the disappointments that the week had brought him, as he was of the new determination, the high resolve with which he looked into the future.When his mind went back to his brother—as it did frequently—the memory struck pain to his heart, but he was not melancholy. The loneliness he felt caused him to straighten his shoulders and prepare himself to square away before the task that lay before him. What that task was he could only vaguely define as yet. But he was beginning to understand that there was a man's work here—and a big man's work it was—awaiting the coming of someone to do it. The fact had dawned upon him slowly, but the first glimmerings of light were visible just the same. He was coming to see that a new country, even a small, half-enclosed valley-district such as this one, would become what the vital energies of its men made it. He had not as yet had any clear vision of what the country would be in years to come, when little towns and villages would spring up here and there along the railway, when hundreds of men and women and their families would rush in, hopeful that they might build again—and strongly build—though their old lives in other lands had crumbled into ruins. He had no concrete, complete conception of what lay ahead. He had nothing but the vague hopes, the uncertain dreams, the fleeting fancies that had come to him often during the past summer—only now they were more vivid.To the events of the night before he gave little or no thought—at least, to the events that had brought him into conflict with Bill McCartney. In fact, in his new mood he wondered how he could have come so near to losing his temper over an affair that didn't amount to anything after all. He had been in Cheney's before, but not often. As he thought it over he quietly determined that the less he had to do with Cheney the better. His determination was stiffened as he remembered the group of men he had seen there the night before. It startled him to think how near they had come to witnessing what might easily have been a tragedy, because one of them was bent upon settling a dispute in his own ill-chosen way; and out of all his thinking about these things there grew up within him the clear understanding that only upon order and good judgment could men hope to build for the future in a new community.In all his wondering about these things—and much of it was very vague wondering—there was only one element of a personal kind. He confessed to himself now for the first time that Cherry McBain was as nearly indispensable to him as anyone in his life had ever been. And now with the birth of a new hope he did what any man would have done under the circumstances—he threw his whole soul into a resolve that in the game of life he was playing now, the prize was the heart of Cherry McBain. Perhaps it was this thought that helped to make the world a good place for him to live in, and the future something to set store by.It was something of this nature at any rate that he confided to his sole companion in the shack, old mongrel Sal, who had stood for some time looking up into his face, her shaggy body performing all kinds of contortions in vain attempts to attract her master's attention. Suddenly he sat down on the side of his bed and grasping her two ears with his hands drew her head between his knees and looked into her eyes."Sal, you old cuss, you," he said, shaking her head, "there's something I'm going to tell you."He put his face down until his cheek was resting against the side of her head and murmured something very quietly. Then he straightened up and with his two hands closed the dog's mouth, holding it shut a moment with one hand round her muzzle.Something in the mood that had come upon King caused him to look critically round the single room that made up the interior of his shack. One golden shaft of sunlight fell from the small window to the floor, but the light it gave revealed a condition that, for some reason or other, he had never been more than vaguely conscious of before. The place was indescribably dirty. His few days' absence from the place had given it a heavy, musty smell that was anything but pleasant. A litter of odd bits of clothing and old papers lay where he had thrown them probably weeks before. The heavy grey blankets on the bunk which he had built into one corner of the shack had not been washed for months—they had not even been spread out to the sun. The table that stood near the window was covered with unwashed tin plates and cups, dirty knives, forks and spoons. A bit of bread, dried hard, and some butter that had turned to grease in the sun's rays lay where he had left them when he went out on his last trip. Grey ashes covered the floor beside the rusted sheet-iron stove.King had once regarded this as belonging essentially to the only place he knew as home. It had been perfectly natural, and far from revolting. It had been even cosy. But in his present mood he found it disquieting. He could not help wondering to himself how Cherry McBain's senses would react, if she were suddenly ushered into the place.He sprang up and threw open the door. The fresh Sunday morning air swept in with its fragrance borne from the balm-o'-gileads that stood near his door shaking their shining leaves in the bright sunlight. As he drew himself up and lifted his chest his huge frame almost filled the doorway. With a word to Sal he went out and made his way leisurely towards the roughly-made stable that stood among the willows skirting the ridge. The desire to put his shack into a presentable condition was superseded by a yearning to roam lazily about the place for a while and indulge his fancies for the future. It was a day to be free and forgetful of duties, and after the crowded week he felt the need of a rest. The general clean-up which he promised himself he would give to his shack could wait—as it had waited during long months before he became conscious of any such need. In the meantime he would feed his horse and then stroll down to the town for some provisions.When he returned to the shack he made himself a breakfast of oatmeal and fried bacon. The meal was frugal but sufficient to supply his needs for the time being, and he decided to postpone his jaunt to town until late in the day. He wanted to take a walk over his land and think over his plans for the coming year.King had a real affection for the place he had chosen. He had filed his claim long before there was any competition in the field and had secured what he considered a choice location within easy distance of wood and water. The soil was very rich, and the ridge with its clumps of poplars offered an excellent spot for building. From in front of his shack he could see not only The Town, but beyond it to the blue hills rising to the east and extending southward in a half circle forming one rim of the valley. Between these two ranges lay a wide plain spread out under the blue sky, fertile, well watered and pleasantly wooded. It was not the kind of country King had been accustomed to hearing called "a man's land" in the rugged interior of British Columbia, where he had spent eight of the ten years since he had come west. It was quieter—milder—softer, maybe—and of coloring less vivid. And yet it was a man's country, too, a country with a challenge for anyone who cared to hear it.It was well on in the afternoon when King got back from his tramp over his land. For a few minutes he sat down upon the door-step and rested before starting for The Town to get something to eat. Sal lay down near him, panting lazily in the shade of the poplars. When he was about to go the dog gave a sharp little bark and stood up quickly with her ears pointed in the direction of the ridge-trail leading to town.King got up and looked down the trail.Soon there emerged from behind the clump of willows the figure of a man coming towards him. King sat down again and waited. In a few moments he recognized the figure as that of Lush Currie. As the latter approached him King regarded him with a questioning air. There was something in Currie's face that he could not quite understand. He offered to bring out a bench for a seat, but Lush protested quite sincerely and sat down on the grass under the poplars. When Currie had rolled himself a fresh cigarette and lighted it he lifted his eyes to King and looked at him squarely for the first time."I'm gettin' out," he said abruptly.King did not reply at first, but Currie's silence prompted him to ask what he meant."Just that," said Currie. "I'm goin' outside to-morrow—an' I'll not be back."It was no unusual thing for a member of a railway construction gang to pack up his belongings and leave for the outside. King was at a loss to know the exact significance of Currie's announcement."Before I went I wanted to see you," he continued, "an' to tell you I'm right sorry about last night."There was something so direct and sincere in the way Currie expressed himself that King felt his heart warming towards the man in spite of his recollections from the night before."An' that's the reason I'm gettin' out," he said a little stiffly. "Howden, you came in on a bad mess last night—just about as bad as it could 'a' been. If it hadn't 'a' been for you I'd 'a' been lookin' for a place to hide to-day—waitin' for night to come on so I could walk around without bein' scared."King moved a little impatiently. He didn't wish to have his interference on Currie's behalf made so much of."For three years I've been with Old Silent's outfit," Currie went on. "You know what it means for a man to hitch up with his gang. You stay—that's all there is to it. I never did go lookin' for trouble. An' I never went gunnin' before. I got that thing when I left home back east—I thought I'd mebbe need it. I never had trouble with Old Silent—nor with any of his men. There was a few fights—mostly with boys from other camps—but they were all on the square. This man McCartney was the first man who ever tried anything like that. He's a four-flusher—I know that—an' I could a' trimmed him, too—only now—I can't. There won't be another chance for me."He paused for a moment while he drew meditatively at his cigarette."I lost my head—an' I drew on him. There wasn't room there to fight—an' it was his size that counted. Now I'm not going back. I couldn't stay round camp with him on the job. An', besides—I ain't got the nerve any more—I'd be thinkin' all the time of last night."When he ceased talking King asked him why he couldn't stay in the valley and go on the land."No, Howden," he replied, "that's not my line. I'm goin' west. There's more railroadin' out there an' the world's big enough for two of us. I'll go west an' look round a bit. But there's one thing I want you to remember, Howden." He got up as he spoke and King closed the door and prepared to start down the trail. "Bill McCartney's fight is over with me—him an' me don't come together again here—but you an' him will, an' don't forget it. He's a dirty dog—he'll bite when you're not lookin'—but he's not afraid to bite just the same. What's more—he'll go on bitin' unless he gets whipped. Then he'll stop—he'll get out then just like me."The two men went off together down the trail, and as King walked along in silence he felt the optimism and the buoyancy that had filled him during the earlier part of the day struggling against the melancholy that had haunted him strangely for months. It was not his nature to change his mood quickly, but the warning that Currie had sounded brought upon him the full consciousness that he had an enemy who would never be quiet until he himself had brought him to subjection by nothing but brute strength. He was not afraid, but he had hoped that in the days to come he would only have to take up the struggle that men wage against nature in their efforts to make a living. The thought of having to fight it out with Bill McCartney before he could have any peace weighed upon him in a way that made him feel impatient with himself. He made up his mind, however, that he would never fight until the occasion arose that demanded it—then he would see it through to the bitter end. The thought steadied him as he walked along the trail, and his voice became more cheerful as he chatted with Currie.* * * * *In the lodging house old man Rubble was discussing the affair of the night before with a half dozen of the men of his own party. Word had gone round that Lush Currie had decided to leave, and it was generally agreed that he was doing the only thing reasonable under the circumstances. The real point of interest was the relationship between King Howden and Bill McCartney. As the latter, with a number of Keith McBain's men had just left for camp, there was no reason for postponing a discussion that had been held up during the day, merely because the presence of Bill McCartney made any reference to the question a little difficult. Now that McCartney had gone, the question was raised at once and the discussion had become very spirited. One thing puzzled them all. Why had King Howden not taken the challenge when it was given to him and finished the fight right there? The challenge had certainly been offensive enough to have justified any man's accepting it at once. And King would never again get an opportunity to fight McCartney when the latter was just finishing one struggle. The advantage had lain all with King, and to tell the truth, the men were not a little disappointed that he had failed to go in when the conditions were so much in his favor. It was something more to increase the wondering they had already felt concerning King Howden."There's only one way to reason it out," said old man Rubble, after various opinions had been expressed. "The fact is Howden don't want to mix in with Bill at all. No one ever saw Howden do anything yet. He's just a big, raw, overgrown boy. He never did fight and I guess he never will if he can get out of it."Someone in the group murmured a word of protest."Well," said Rubble, "I'm willing to wait till I find out. But I'm telling you right now that no man in any gang I've ever been with would have let Bill McCartney get away with it. If King Howden's got any stomach—and if he's got anything in it—he'd 'a' hit Bill McCartney on the jaw before he could have got the words out. I may be wrong, but—Howden's no good!"But Rubble was not allowed to dismiss the affair so summarily. There was a somewhat thin voice that finally broke the long silence that followed Rubble's words. Old Gabe Smith, who had been a silent spectator during the events of the night before and had given silent audience to all the discussion of the day, ventured a remark or two that he was inclined to think had a bearing on the subject."An' what I would say is this," he observed in his most philosophical manner, after he had given due notice that he intended to speak on the question, "an' I have a feelin' that I'm not far wrong—what I would say is—if anybody here is takin' Mister Rubble's view of the matter—an' he's a right to his own opinion—he'd better not make up his mind for a little while—not just yet. An' I'll tell you why. In the first place we know that when Bill McCartney first met Currie it wasn't quite what you'd want to call reglar. He got Lush—but he got him foul. An' that ain't the way a good man gets anybody. An' then—in the second place—that affair last night was a little off color—Lush couldn't do anything there—he hadn't room. But—" and Gabe pointed the stem of his pipe at Rubble to emphasize his words, "we haven't seen this boy Howden at work yet.""That's just it, Gabe," Rubble interrupted, "and we never will.""Just a minute, now," Gabe persisted. "We haven't seen him workin' yet—but we may—we may. An' I'm goin' to wait long enough to give the boy a chance before I say my last word.""Lord, Gabe, didn't he have a chance last night?""Well, Mister Rubble," Gabe replied with great deliberateness, "there might be a difference of opinion on that point. You would say he had—I would say that we don't know exactly. If we give him a few weeks longer, Mister Rubble, we'll both know pretty well which one of us is right. But in my opinion this boy Howden is no coward—he may have acted a bit strange—but he's not a coward—not to my way of thinkin'—just yet."Gabe was sitting with his back to the doorway as he spoke and did not see the figure that was standing there while he was engrossed in making his opinion quite plain to Rubble. The other men, however, forgot to listen to Gabe's exposition and were staring uneasily at King Howden, who had appeared while the old man was talking and had stopped suddenly on hearing his own name. When Gabe had finished, he turned confusedly to discover the cause of the change that was so evident in the faces of the men, and met the gaze that fell upon him from eyes that were cold and unwavering. Then he saw the face grow serious and the lines of his lips tighten. The next moment he seemed conscious most of the stillness that had fallen upon the group of men who filled the room. His attempt to relieve his own embarrassment as well as that of the men was a little awkward, but he felt it was better than nothing."No harm meant, Howden, my boy," he said, and his voice was steady and quiet, "but we were talkin' about you.""I guess it's all right, Gabe," said King, and he took a step into the room."You heard what I said?" the old man asked."That ain't troubling me any," King replied, "—not any at all."But even as he spoke, his face revealed the struggle that was going on within him. He was not concerned over the words that he had heard from Gabe Smith. He knew, however, that someone had spoken words that had prompted Gabe to make a reply; and it rankled in his heart that he should come to be looked upon as a coward by anyone.He went to a chair standing back against the wall and sat down. The conversation dragged along without interest, old man Rubble doing his best to carry it into one field after another without success until he finally gave up in despair and went out. Before long the others followed him, all except Gabe Smith, who remained alone with King."I'm an older man than you," he began when they were left alone, "—older by nearly thirty years. An' I've had some chances to look around in the past thirty years. An' I'm goin' to tell you right here some things you've got to know. I've watched you—an' I like you. An' when a man likes another he wants him to get along."King's smile expressed the gratitude he felt. "I watched that business last night in Cheney's—an' I want to tell you what I think. It wasn't your fight to begin with—Lush and McCartney had been layin' for each other for quite a little while. They had to settle it one way or the other. It ain't settled yet—-an' what's worse you've got yourself in for a part of that settlement, too."King leaned forward a little and looked at Gabe. "It's been settled—between them two," he said gravely."How settled?""Lush won't be goin' back to work any more. He's goin' out to-morrow.""He's leavin', then—for sure?""Yes. He walked up to see me this afternoon an'—he says he can't stay here."Gabe puckered his lips and was silent a moment. "Then—that means," he said very thoughtfully, "—that means he's handed it over to you."King made no reply."You've got to take it up from last night," Gabe remarked again, and again King remained silent. Gabe was silent, too, for a long time, and when he spoke his words were so sudden and direct that King was startled. "Why didn't you finish it last night?"King turned round slightly to meet Anne, who came into the room and greeted him. He waited until she left before he spoke."Gabe," he said at last, "it's been clear between us up to now, hasn't it?"Gabe nodded his head slowly without a word."I want it to be clear—right on—from now till the end. I wanted to settle it—an' I guess I could, too." His voice was quiet, but no man could have doubted King's confidence in himself. "But there was a man once who said just what Bill McCartney called me last night—an' I killed him."It was Gabe's turn to be startled. He took his pipe from his mouth quickly and looked at King with consternation on his face."You—you killed him, boy?""It seems like I did," King replied slowly. "I never can tell exactly. Something came up in me—something blinded me—an' I struck. When they lifted him up I knew I killed him—I was sure—because I meant to—that's what I tried to do. They told me afterwards—they told me he came round again—he was alive. But I couldn't believe it—he was my brother." King looked out the open doorway for a moment. "I've wondered about that a lot," he said after a long silence. "I think I've prayed about it, too—but I can't get it just right. That's why I left—that's why I came here. I wanted to get away from it—and start in new. I wanted to—to make that right with myself."Gabe Smith seemed puzzled to understand clearly what King was saying to him."Last night," continued King, "it came back again. I thought I was strong enough, but I guess I ain't. When he called me that—it all came back. I went blind again—and I wanted to kill Bill McCartney—only then I remembered, and it took the heart out of me.""Listen, boy," said Gabe. "Some day you are goin' to forget that—all of it. Some day you are goin' out to fight—an' to fight clean—and to win, and I'll tell you why. There's some of us countin' on you, and you've got to make good—that's why."King got up and going over to the old man gripped his shoulder in his large powerful hand and looked down into his face."You're the first man ever said it to me like that," he said very gravely, and his lips were tight as he spoke, "and I think—I think you can count on me from now on."Gabe Smith gave him his hand and smiled.CHAPTER SEVENOld man Hurley sat in his office alone and looked out of the single window which the place boasted. No other window was necessary, however, for it gave a clear view of the west over the whole expanse of valley-plain that was his one concern. It was his one concern in a business way, for he had been sent in as Dominion Land Agent just as soon as the new district had begun to attract settlers, and he was the sole member of the new community upon whom the dignity of governmental office of any kind rested. But it was his chief concern morally as well, for he felt the full weight of the responsibility that was his to carry the new adventure in settlement to a gratifying and successful issue.The dignity of office rested gracefully upon Hugh Hurley. Genial and affable at the same time that he was business-like and practical, he was an unfailing source of healthy optimism and unshaken confidence in the future. He was not unaware of the stubborn difficulties that invariably attend the building up of any new settlement. But he had vision and was possessed of a spirit of idealism that read something of romance into everything he did.In the thick of daily routine, in the midst of a confusion of maps and blue-prints and surveyor's reports and governmental rules and regulations, in his daily meeting with newcomers who had as yet suffered no disillusionment, and with disgruntled "old-timers" who had been in the district for as long as six months or even longer, in the thousand and one matters of detail that try the patience of any conscientious servant of the public, Hugh Hurley constantly cherished a vision. It was of a great fertile valley, flanked on either side by rising blue hills, teeming with an eager-hearted, virile population devoted to the soil, and standing as one more outpost of empire, one more living monument to high endeavour.In the occasional hour of leisure that came to him during the day and afforded him an opportunity of sitting before his window, he gave his imagination free rein and allowed it to wander unchecked. Then it was that he saw the broad fields of grain swaying in the golden sun. He saw men moving about over ploughed fields with the rich, brown mould turned up to the light. He heard the singing of women and the happy laughter of children. He heard the ringing of the bells and the busy hum of life in little towns and villages that were as yet unborn. He saw the hillsides, now virgin and wild under the afternoon sun, blocked and squared and trimmed by the hands of busy workers. He saw a valley full-mantled and smiling, and mottled with shadows thrown down from drifting clouds. And all Hugh Hurley's energies were devoted to making his dreams come true.But dreams are only dreams, after all. And to-day, as the old man sat before his window, he was worried. Winding down the dusty trail about a quarter of a mile away came a long line of men in foreign attire, long-skirted coats drawn in tightly at the belt, trouser-legs tucked into long boots, and round caps that fitted closely to the head. They were the Russian Doukhobors returning from an expedition in search of land. While they were still at a considerable distance he could hear the solemn, almost weird chanting of their hymn as they marched along in single file. Hurley had seen them before in similar guise and he had always been struck by the romance, the other-worldness of the picture they presented. To-day, however, the romance was not there. His mind was occupied with something more actual, more immediate. These men, and their wives and children too, would have to live during the next eight or ten months, most of which would be trying months of fiercely cold weather, and they were without resources of any kind. What new settlers in the valley, except that the Doukhobors' reliance on the Almighty to furnish them with food and shelter was as complete as it was pathetic. Hugh Hurley knew that he must immediately constitute himself the elected agent of Heaven itself for these people of a blind faith—and for the others a practical provider of means whereby the winter could be met and passed without regrets.He was waiting now for Keith McBain, with whom he had discussed the problem, and from whom he hoped he might get some practical suggestions.Keith had promised, at their last meeting to see him as soon as he had made some investigations on his own part. Only half an hour ago he had seen the old contractor come to town. But Keith McBain's first place of call—as it was also his last—was Mike Cheney's, and Hugh Hurley knew that he could only wait till the old man was ready to come.One thing that had given Hurley cause for anxiety was the fact that during the week a number of the younger homesteaders had bidden the place good-bye, and had left for the outside, where they were going to remain until it was time to go on the land again in the spring. Hurley knew what that meant. A little more of the same kind of thing and the movement would become general. The result would mean hardship and even suffering for the few who remained isolated from the outside during the long months of winter.Two young fellows entered the open doorway behind Hurley and he turned to greet them."Hello, boys," he said cheerfully as he got up and went to meet them. "You're looking good—homesteading evidently sets a man up, eh?"They smiled and shook hands."We're sure feelin' good," said one of them, "but we've had enough of homesteadin' for a little while—it gets on your nerves. We're goin' out for the winter.""Going out for the winter?" Hurley exclaimed with a smile. "No—no, you're not—you're going to stay here this winter—and help out.""Help out—at what?""Sit down there and smoke while I tell you a story."When they were seated Hurley began."This reminds me of an argument I heard once between a pioneer preacher and a member of his congregation. This preacher was holding forth on hell, and after the service he met up with one of his freethinking brethren who didn't believe in hell, or heaven, either. 'So you don't believe in hell,' said the preacher. 'Well, mister, I'll tell you how I size it up. I'm betting on hell—an' I'm betting for two reasons. In the first place it's a good hunch—and in the second place I'm plum scared not to. It's like this,' he said. 'You say there ain't no hell an' you put your money on that hand. You just have to draw one card to find out. I say there is a hell an' I'm playin' that hand. An' I draw one. All right. You draw your card an' you turn it up. If you've played the right hunch what do you win? Nothin'. If there ain't no hell or heaven you're no better off even if you ain't worse off. You're just where you were. But if you're playing the wrong hunch an' you turn up your card an' find there's a sure 'nough hell—you're stuck. Ain't that right? You stand to win nothin' an' lose everything. Now look at me. I say there is a hell an' I draw an' turn up. If I don't make it—I don't lose anything anyhow. I'm no better off—but I'm sure no worse off. But if I turn up an' find there is a sure 'nough hell—I win, because that's my hunch an' I'm ready to play it, see? I stand to lose nothing an' there's just about one chance in two that I'll clean up with eternal life in the stakes. Any old way you look at it I got you beat—ain't that right? I'm bettin' on hell till the cows come home!'"Hurley went and stood for a moment before the window and looked out across the valley."The point is this, boys," he said at last, turning quickly and looking at the two sturdy young fellows before him, "you and I and the rest of these people here"—he waved his hand towards the window—"have come into this valley because we believed in it. We're playing a kind of a hunch, boys, that the place is a good place to live in, an' when a man does what we've done he's playing pretty heavily. If we throw up the game now, we lose. That's all there is to it. And not only do we lose but these people around us lose too—and lose heavily. We've got to play the game through against hard luck and wait for the next spring before we begin to take our winnings.""But we've got to live, Mr. Hurley," one of the men protested."Live—yes—and I've been working on that. And I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll grub-stake the whole caboodle of you for six months, beginning the middle of October, and I'll pay you a dollar a day for every day's work you put in if you hang on."The men looked doubtful but were interested. "That looks all right," one of them offered, "but—""But nothing," interrupted Hurley. "I'll do what I say and I can make money on it too. I couldn't pay one man a dollar a day for a forenoon just now, but listen—this country's got to produce something if it's going to live, and it might as well start in this year as next. And when the rush comes in here next spring—and it's coming strong—there'll be a crowd of people here I hear about it every time the mail comes in. This town will be five times as big in a month. The man who's on the ground with his eyes open will take the winnings. The railway will be in before July, and the towns will be springing up and business will start and we'll be a part of the world we've just left before we know it. And that's only one side of it. You boys have registered your claims here and started improvements because you want to live here sometime. If it's going to be a fit place to live in we don't want any set-backs. Start to stampede for the outside now and by the time you get back you'll be where you were when you first landed here. That's not my idea. I'm going to stay right here and get ready for the big rush."All at once they were aware of someone entering the office, and turned to find Keith McBain coming through the doorway. The young fellows got up at once and with a word to Hurley, promising to drop in the next day, left the office."Do you know what I've done?" said Hurley as soon as they had gone.Keith McBain merely waited for a reply."I've promised those two boys work for the winter at a dollar a day and three square meals. I had to do it, Keith—they're good men, both of them, and they were on their way out for the winter. We can't let these men go. We've got to give them something to do and hold them here till spring.""I've got it worked out," said Keith. "I was talking last week to McKenzie, and we can put in a camp just as soon as we can get a good location. They want a quarter to a half million ties for construction. There's a lot of stuff in there just south of the camp. All we've got to do is to go and find it and start right in. Any of your men here know anything about cruising?"As if by way of answer to this question King Howden rode up to the door and without getting down called for Hurley to bring out the mail bag. Hurley went to the door and invited him in. When King entered his eyes fell upon Keith McBain, and for a moment he paused and held out his hand. The old contractor's greeting was pleasant, and King went in and stood waiting for Hurley to speak."You did some work once in the lumber woods at the coast, King, didn't you?" Hurley asked him.King's look expressed mild surprise. "A little," he said."Done some timber-cruising?""About all I did for three years—summer and winter," he answered."Well, you'd better spend an extra day or two on your trip this time. You'd better wait over until to-morrow morning and get ready. Take enough grub—they'll fix you up at the lodging-house—and a couple of blankets, and get a good start in the morning. We'd like you to take the old trail into the hills and then work your way east to the right-of-way. You might aim at coming out pretty close to the end of the steel. Use your own judgment. Anyhow, we want you to get a good location for a tie-camp for the winter. We have a contract and want to open on it as soon as the frost comes. What do you think about it?""I guess I can do that, sir," King replied quietly. "The mail will be a couple of days late, but—""Never mind about that, King," Hurley interrupted. "The mail can afford to wait over. Just get ready to spend as much time as it will take to do it right."King turned and went out to set about his preparations for the trip into the hills.As he started hastily down the street he brushed against someone standing near the entrance to Hurley's office. Looking back, he recognized Tom Rickard, one of Keith McBain's men, lounging lazily against the wall only a few feet from the doorway. The circumstance held no special significance for him at the time, and yet he couldn't help wondering why Rickard was in town.In the office Hurley was standing before Keith McBain, who had remained perfectly silent during the interview with King. Hurley was regarding McBain seriously."What do you think of Howden?""He's a good boy," Keith remarked dryly."Couldn't he handle that camp for the winter—a little better than anyone around here?"McBain did not say anything for some time, but sat meditatively smoking his pipe. Finally he seemed to have reached a conclusion."He's a good boy, Hugh," he remarked slowly, "but he's got to be more than that before he can handle a gang of men in a bush. He's got to have the stomach!"Hurley went to his window and looked out. In his own mind he was turning over the possibility of getting King to prove himself worthy of the confidence he felt. He had heard the men talk of the affair with McCartney, and he knew pretty well what was in Keith McBain's mind.King's preparations were made quickly, and by supper time he was ready to take the trail next morning. He had yet to go back to his cabin for a couple of blankets, but he waited till later in the evening, and decided that he would spend the night in his shack and start from there early in the morning. He took supper at the lodging-house in company with Keith McBain, who was in one of his silent moods, having already spent too much time in the company of Mike Cheney during the afternoon. With them was Tom Rickard, as silent and uncommunicative as Keith McBain. From the knowledge that King had of the old contractor's ways he feared he was out on another of his lengthy visits to town. And King's mind went back immediately to Cherry, who was probably even then waiting anxiously for her father's return.The first hours of such a visit on the part of Keith McBain were usually spent in secret with Mike Cheney, and invariably produced a mood in which he refused to speak to anyone. When they sat down to the table, King asked him when he intended going back to camp. The old man offered not a word by way of reply, and the meal went forward without any further conversation between the two. Anne came and went frequently during the short half hour that King spent at the table, or stood a little back from him and offered a few words now and then which King responded to briefly but pleasantly enough. The two young fellows who had visited Hurley's office earlier in the afternoon to announce their intention of going out for the winter had eaten earlier in the evening, and had apparently spoken of their plans in Anne's hearing. She had something to say about it herself—but she waited till Keith McBain had gone out and disappeared up the street, followed by Tom Rickard. Then she spoke of the thing that was on her mind."They're sure in luck," she remarked as if she were thinking aloud. "This place gives me the blues. Talk about a dead place—this ain't no town, it's a graveyard! It's worse than that—it's a prayer-meetin' without the shoutin'!"King laughed quietly to himself, and Anne turned to him. "Honest, King, it ain't no place for white people to live. It's been all right this summer with everybody round and things movin' a little—but the winter—an everybody away—God, you don't know how I hate the idea."King got up from the table and went to the doorway. It had already begun to grow dusk and the air was cool and inviting. For a moment he stood looking into the street with its rambling houses and squat little cabins on either side."Anne," he said slowly, "some of us have to stay, I guess—stay here and see it through. It won't be easy—but it's the right thing to do—that's how I see it. Besides, it may be better than we think—wait and see."While he talked his eyes were still turned towards the street. He did not look at the girl until he was through. Then he turned to her and looked at her where she stood, leaning against the table. Her eyes were on his face, and her gaze was long and steady. He had a suspicion that there were tears ready to come—there was something deeper and more thoughtful in them than he had ever seen there before. He knew that the girl was lonely, and that she had no friends."Anne," he said slowly, in a voice that was kindness itself, "you ought to get out more—you ought to ride out a little. You ought to walk."She smiled and gave an impatient shrug to her shoulders."Walk—Lord!" Then she set about clearing the table and for a while both were silent. At last she set down a dish she held in her hand and came over to where King stood in the doorway."Haven't I walked?" she said in a voice that was tense with emotion. "Haven't I spent hours alone walking these trails up and down? That doesn't help any. I came in here because I wanted to get away by myself an' start all over again. Lord, I sure did it—I got away by myself all right. An' I got sick of it. Then I wanted to get out with people—honest-to-God-people that cared a little—no matter who. But where can I go? They think there's something wrong because I got into Mike's place the night of the scrap. They didn't like my way round here before that. Well, it's my way, isn't it? It's all I got. I don't owe anything—I'm square. But I want some one that will talk to me—an' talk right—not like a lot of these fellows want to talk. That's what I want."King put out his hand and took her arm. "I guess that's right, Anne," he said. "I've felt like that. We'll talk—you and I—talk together sometimes. And then maybe—" he began to think of the possibility of Anne coming to know Cherry McBain."I've been wantin' to talk to you often," she said, very quietly and very slowly. "But you seemed to pass me up like the rest of them. Only I liked you because you looked square. An' I was afraid to talk to you—because I wanted you to like me."For a moment King was silent as he weighed the full meaning of her words. He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm as she spoke, and there crept over him a strange feeling of fear. He liked the girl, he had the deepest sympathy for her, he would do anything in his power to make life more pleasant for her. And yet—he shrank slowly from her touch and was impatient to get away."I guess it'll be late enough when I get back," he said suddenly. "And I've got to make a good start for the hills to-morrow."He turned and looked at her for a moment, and then laid his hand on her shoulder. "We've got to face a lot of things in life, Anne," he said; "a whole lot of things. It ain't always easy—but it pays to face up."He stood before her in the doorway and looked directly into her face as he spoke. For a moment she returned the look and then suddenly bowed her head before him. Putting his arm about her shoulders he raised her head gently and looked at her."Anne, girl," he said slowly, "I'm coming to see you—if it would help any—when I get back. So long!"She looked at him squarely and he knew she understood him. The fear he had entertained only a moment before was gone now. He was confident that everything between them was just as he wanted it to be. In her heart was a deep yearning for companionship—in his, a feeling of great pity for the girl who was struggling against the demon of loneliness."King," she said at last, "you're right—and I like that."A sound of hoofs came suddenly from the trail only a few yards away. Anne stepped back quickly from the doorway and King turned to face Cherry McBain, who had brought her horse to a standstill and was already looking down at him from her place in the saddle. He was about to express his surprise, but the look she gave him caused the words to die on his lips."I'm looking for my father," she said in a voice that to King's ears sounded like the voice of a stranger.The sound of men's voices came from farther up the street, and looking out, King saw Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain leaving the land-office. Cherry saw the men at the same moment and without a word rode away to join her father. Just once King called after her, but received no reply. He watched them till all three had vanished in the direction of Hurley's little house that stood under the poplars at the end of the street. Then he stepped out and went off down the trail to where his horse was tethered outside Hurley's office.When he had mounted into his saddle he turned and looked back along the street. In the dusky frame of the lodging-house doorway he could see Anne still standing where he had left her. She waved her hand to him as he looked back at her, and he waved in reply as he drew his horse's head about and took the trail that led westward to his cabin.
CHAPTER SIX
When King Howden awoke next morning it was with a feeling that he was beginning life in a new world. The feeling was deepened when he looked out through the small window and saw the pools of water left by the night's rain glistening in the bright sunlight. He had not slept well—during the earlier part of the night he had not slept at all. There had been much to think about, much that was perplexing and disquieting. And yet, as he looked from his window at the new morning and saw half a mile away the huts and white tents of The Town flooded with sunlight, he was conscious not so much of the disappointments that the week had brought him, as he was of the new determination, the high resolve with which he looked into the future.
When his mind went back to his brother—as it did frequently—the memory struck pain to his heart, but he was not melancholy. The loneliness he felt caused him to straighten his shoulders and prepare himself to square away before the task that lay before him. What that task was he could only vaguely define as yet. But he was beginning to understand that there was a man's work here—and a big man's work it was—awaiting the coming of someone to do it. The fact had dawned upon him slowly, but the first glimmerings of light were visible just the same. He was coming to see that a new country, even a small, half-enclosed valley-district such as this one, would become what the vital energies of its men made it. He had not as yet had any clear vision of what the country would be in years to come, when little towns and villages would spring up here and there along the railway, when hundreds of men and women and their families would rush in, hopeful that they might build again—and strongly build—though their old lives in other lands had crumbled into ruins. He had no concrete, complete conception of what lay ahead. He had nothing but the vague hopes, the uncertain dreams, the fleeting fancies that had come to him often during the past summer—only now they were more vivid.
To the events of the night before he gave little or no thought—at least, to the events that had brought him into conflict with Bill McCartney. In fact, in his new mood he wondered how he could have come so near to losing his temper over an affair that didn't amount to anything after all. He had been in Cheney's before, but not often. As he thought it over he quietly determined that the less he had to do with Cheney the better. His determination was stiffened as he remembered the group of men he had seen there the night before. It startled him to think how near they had come to witnessing what might easily have been a tragedy, because one of them was bent upon settling a dispute in his own ill-chosen way; and out of all his thinking about these things there grew up within him the clear understanding that only upon order and good judgment could men hope to build for the future in a new community.
In all his wondering about these things—and much of it was very vague wondering—there was only one element of a personal kind. He confessed to himself now for the first time that Cherry McBain was as nearly indispensable to him as anyone in his life had ever been. And now with the birth of a new hope he did what any man would have done under the circumstances—he threw his whole soul into a resolve that in the game of life he was playing now, the prize was the heart of Cherry McBain. Perhaps it was this thought that helped to make the world a good place for him to live in, and the future something to set store by.
It was something of this nature at any rate that he confided to his sole companion in the shack, old mongrel Sal, who had stood for some time looking up into his face, her shaggy body performing all kinds of contortions in vain attempts to attract her master's attention. Suddenly he sat down on the side of his bed and grasping her two ears with his hands drew her head between his knees and looked into her eyes.
"Sal, you old cuss, you," he said, shaking her head, "there's something I'm going to tell you."
He put his face down until his cheek was resting against the side of her head and murmured something very quietly. Then he straightened up and with his two hands closed the dog's mouth, holding it shut a moment with one hand round her muzzle.
Something in the mood that had come upon King caused him to look critically round the single room that made up the interior of his shack. One golden shaft of sunlight fell from the small window to the floor, but the light it gave revealed a condition that, for some reason or other, he had never been more than vaguely conscious of before. The place was indescribably dirty. His few days' absence from the place had given it a heavy, musty smell that was anything but pleasant. A litter of odd bits of clothing and old papers lay where he had thrown them probably weeks before. The heavy grey blankets on the bunk which he had built into one corner of the shack had not been washed for months—they had not even been spread out to the sun. The table that stood near the window was covered with unwashed tin plates and cups, dirty knives, forks and spoons. A bit of bread, dried hard, and some butter that had turned to grease in the sun's rays lay where he had left them when he went out on his last trip. Grey ashes covered the floor beside the rusted sheet-iron stove.
King had once regarded this as belonging essentially to the only place he knew as home. It had been perfectly natural, and far from revolting. It had been even cosy. But in his present mood he found it disquieting. He could not help wondering to himself how Cherry McBain's senses would react, if she were suddenly ushered into the place.
He sprang up and threw open the door. The fresh Sunday morning air swept in with its fragrance borne from the balm-o'-gileads that stood near his door shaking their shining leaves in the bright sunlight. As he drew himself up and lifted his chest his huge frame almost filled the doorway. With a word to Sal he went out and made his way leisurely towards the roughly-made stable that stood among the willows skirting the ridge. The desire to put his shack into a presentable condition was superseded by a yearning to roam lazily about the place for a while and indulge his fancies for the future. It was a day to be free and forgetful of duties, and after the crowded week he felt the need of a rest. The general clean-up which he promised himself he would give to his shack could wait—as it had waited during long months before he became conscious of any such need. In the meantime he would feed his horse and then stroll down to the town for some provisions.
When he returned to the shack he made himself a breakfast of oatmeal and fried bacon. The meal was frugal but sufficient to supply his needs for the time being, and he decided to postpone his jaunt to town until late in the day. He wanted to take a walk over his land and think over his plans for the coming year.
King had a real affection for the place he had chosen. He had filed his claim long before there was any competition in the field and had secured what he considered a choice location within easy distance of wood and water. The soil was very rich, and the ridge with its clumps of poplars offered an excellent spot for building. From in front of his shack he could see not only The Town, but beyond it to the blue hills rising to the east and extending southward in a half circle forming one rim of the valley. Between these two ranges lay a wide plain spread out under the blue sky, fertile, well watered and pleasantly wooded. It was not the kind of country King had been accustomed to hearing called "a man's land" in the rugged interior of British Columbia, where he had spent eight of the ten years since he had come west. It was quieter—milder—softer, maybe—and of coloring less vivid. And yet it was a man's country, too, a country with a challenge for anyone who cared to hear it.
It was well on in the afternoon when King got back from his tramp over his land. For a few minutes he sat down upon the door-step and rested before starting for The Town to get something to eat. Sal lay down near him, panting lazily in the shade of the poplars. When he was about to go the dog gave a sharp little bark and stood up quickly with her ears pointed in the direction of the ridge-trail leading to town.
King got up and looked down the trail.
Soon there emerged from behind the clump of willows the figure of a man coming towards him. King sat down again and waited. In a few moments he recognized the figure as that of Lush Currie. As the latter approached him King regarded him with a questioning air. There was something in Currie's face that he could not quite understand. He offered to bring out a bench for a seat, but Lush protested quite sincerely and sat down on the grass under the poplars. When Currie had rolled himself a fresh cigarette and lighted it he lifted his eyes to King and looked at him squarely for the first time.
"I'm gettin' out," he said abruptly.
King did not reply at first, but Currie's silence prompted him to ask what he meant.
"Just that," said Currie. "I'm goin' outside to-morrow—an' I'll not be back."
It was no unusual thing for a member of a railway construction gang to pack up his belongings and leave for the outside. King was at a loss to know the exact significance of Currie's announcement.
"Before I went I wanted to see you," he continued, "an' to tell you I'm right sorry about last night."
There was something so direct and sincere in the way Currie expressed himself that King felt his heart warming towards the man in spite of his recollections from the night before.
"An' that's the reason I'm gettin' out," he said a little stiffly. "Howden, you came in on a bad mess last night—just about as bad as it could 'a' been. If it hadn't 'a' been for you I'd 'a' been lookin' for a place to hide to-day—waitin' for night to come on so I could walk around without bein' scared."
King moved a little impatiently. He didn't wish to have his interference on Currie's behalf made so much of.
"For three years I've been with Old Silent's outfit," Currie went on. "You know what it means for a man to hitch up with his gang. You stay—that's all there is to it. I never did go lookin' for trouble. An' I never went gunnin' before. I got that thing when I left home back east—I thought I'd mebbe need it. I never had trouble with Old Silent—nor with any of his men. There was a few fights—mostly with boys from other camps—but they were all on the square. This man McCartney was the first man who ever tried anything like that. He's a four-flusher—I know that—an' I could a' trimmed him, too—only now—I can't. There won't be another chance for me."
He paused for a moment while he drew meditatively at his cigarette.
"I lost my head—an' I drew on him. There wasn't room there to fight—an' it was his size that counted. Now I'm not going back. I couldn't stay round camp with him on the job. An', besides—I ain't got the nerve any more—I'd be thinkin' all the time of last night."
When he ceased talking King asked him why he couldn't stay in the valley and go on the land.
"No, Howden," he replied, "that's not my line. I'm goin' west. There's more railroadin' out there an' the world's big enough for two of us. I'll go west an' look round a bit. But there's one thing I want you to remember, Howden." He got up as he spoke and King closed the door and prepared to start down the trail. "Bill McCartney's fight is over with me—him an' me don't come together again here—but you an' him will, an' don't forget it. He's a dirty dog—he'll bite when you're not lookin'—but he's not afraid to bite just the same. What's more—he'll go on bitin' unless he gets whipped. Then he'll stop—he'll get out then just like me."
The two men went off together down the trail, and as King walked along in silence he felt the optimism and the buoyancy that had filled him during the earlier part of the day struggling against the melancholy that had haunted him strangely for months. It was not his nature to change his mood quickly, but the warning that Currie had sounded brought upon him the full consciousness that he had an enemy who would never be quiet until he himself had brought him to subjection by nothing but brute strength. He was not afraid, but he had hoped that in the days to come he would only have to take up the struggle that men wage against nature in their efforts to make a living. The thought of having to fight it out with Bill McCartney before he could have any peace weighed upon him in a way that made him feel impatient with himself. He made up his mind, however, that he would never fight until the occasion arose that demanded it—then he would see it through to the bitter end. The thought steadied him as he walked along the trail, and his voice became more cheerful as he chatted with Currie.
* * * * *
In the lodging house old man Rubble was discussing the affair of the night before with a half dozen of the men of his own party. Word had gone round that Lush Currie had decided to leave, and it was generally agreed that he was doing the only thing reasonable under the circumstances. The real point of interest was the relationship between King Howden and Bill McCartney. As the latter, with a number of Keith McBain's men had just left for camp, there was no reason for postponing a discussion that had been held up during the day, merely because the presence of Bill McCartney made any reference to the question a little difficult. Now that McCartney had gone, the question was raised at once and the discussion had become very spirited. One thing puzzled them all. Why had King Howden not taken the challenge when it was given to him and finished the fight right there? The challenge had certainly been offensive enough to have justified any man's accepting it at once. And King would never again get an opportunity to fight McCartney when the latter was just finishing one struggle. The advantage had lain all with King, and to tell the truth, the men were not a little disappointed that he had failed to go in when the conditions were so much in his favor. It was something more to increase the wondering they had already felt concerning King Howden.
"There's only one way to reason it out," said old man Rubble, after various opinions had been expressed. "The fact is Howden don't want to mix in with Bill at all. No one ever saw Howden do anything yet. He's just a big, raw, overgrown boy. He never did fight and I guess he never will if he can get out of it."
Someone in the group murmured a word of protest.
"Well," said Rubble, "I'm willing to wait till I find out. But I'm telling you right now that no man in any gang I've ever been with would have let Bill McCartney get away with it. If King Howden's got any stomach—and if he's got anything in it—he'd 'a' hit Bill McCartney on the jaw before he could have got the words out. I may be wrong, but—Howden's no good!"
But Rubble was not allowed to dismiss the affair so summarily. There was a somewhat thin voice that finally broke the long silence that followed Rubble's words. Old Gabe Smith, who had been a silent spectator during the events of the night before and had given silent audience to all the discussion of the day, ventured a remark or two that he was inclined to think had a bearing on the subject.
"An' what I would say is this," he observed in his most philosophical manner, after he had given due notice that he intended to speak on the question, "an' I have a feelin' that I'm not far wrong—what I would say is—if anybody here is takin' Mister Rubble's view of the matter—an' he's a right to his own opinion—he'd better not make up his mind for a little while—not just yet. An' I'll tell you why. In the first place we know that when Bill McCartney first met Currie it wasn't quite what you'd want to call reglar. He got Lush—but he got him foul. An' that ain't the way a good man gets anybody. An' then—in the second place—that affair last night was a little off color—Lush couldn't do anything there—he hadn't room. But—" and Gabe pointed the stem of his pipe at Rubble to emphasize his words, "we haven't seen this boy Howden at work yet."
"That's just it, Gabe," Rubble interrupted, "and we never will."
"Just a minute, now," Gabe persisted. "We haven't seen him workin' yet—but we may—we may. An' I'm goin' to wait long enough to give the boy a chance before I say my last word."
"Lord, Gabe, didn't he have a chance last night?"
"Well, Mister Rubble," Gabe replied with great deliberateness, "there might be a difference of opinion on that point. You would say he had—I would say that we don't know exactly. If we give him a few weeks longer, Mister Rubble, we'll both know pretty well which one of us is right. But in my opinion this boy Howden is no coward—he may have acted a bit strange—but he's not a coward—not to my way of thinkin'—just yet."
Gabe was sitting with his back to the doorway as he spoke and did not see the figure that was standing there while he was engrossed in making his opinion quite plain to Rubble. The other men, however, forgot to listen to Gabe's exposition and were staring uneasily at King Howden, who had appeared while the old man was talking and had stopped suddenly on hearing his own name. When Gabe had finished, he turned confusedly to discover the cause of the change that was so evident in the faces of the men, and met the gaze that fell upon him from eyes that were cold and unwavering. Then he saw the face grow serious and the lines of his lips tighten. The next moment he seemed conscious most of the stillness that had fallen upon the group of men who filled the room. His attempt to relieve his own embarrassment as well as that of the men was a little awkward, but he felt it was better than nothing.
"No harm meant, Howden, my boy," he said, and his voice was steady and quiet, "but we were talkin' about you."
"I guess it's all right, Gabe," said King, and he took a step into the room.
"You heard what I said?" the old man asked.
"That ain't troubling me any," King replied, "—not any at all."
But even as he spoke, his face revealed the struggle that was going on within him. He was not concerned over the words that he had heard from Gabe Smith. He knew, however, that someone had spoken words that had prompted Gabe to make a reply; and it rankled in his heart that he should come to be looked upon as a coward by anyone.
He went to a chair standing back against the wall and sat down. The conversation dragged along without interest, old man Rubble doing his best to carry it into one field after another without success until he finally gave up in despair and went out. Before long the others followed him, all except Gabe Smith, who remained alone with King.
"I'm an older man than you," he began when they were left alone, "—older by nearly thirty years. An' I've had some chances to look around in the past thirty years. An' I'm goin' to tell you right here some things you've got to know. I've watched you—an' I like you. An' when a man likes another he wants him to get along."
King's smile expressed the gratitude he felt. "I watched that business last night in Cheney's—an' I want to tell you what I think. It wasn't your fight to begin with—Lush and McCartney had been layin' for each other for quite a little while. They had to settle it one way or the other. It ain't settled yet—-an' what's worse you've got yourself in for a part of that settlement, too."
King leaned forward a little and looked at Gabe. "It's been settled—between them two," he said gravely.
"How settled?"
"Lush won't be goin' back to work any more. He's goin' out to-morrow."
"He's leavin', then—for sure?"
"Yes. He walked up to see me this afternoon an'—he says he can't stay here."
Gabe puckered his lips and was silent a moment. "Then—that means," he said very thoughtfully, "—that means he's handed it over to you."
King made no reply.
"You've got to take it up from last night," Gabe remarked again, and again King remained silent. Gabe was silent, too, for a long time, and when he spoke his words were so sudden and direct that King was startled. "Why didn't you finish it last night?"
King turned round slightly to meet Anne, who came into the room and greeted him. He waited until she left before he spoke.
"Gabe," he said at last, "it's been clear between us up to now, hasn't it?"
Gabe nodded his head slowly without a word.
"I want it to be clear—right on—from now till the end. I wanted to settle it—an' I guess I could, too." His voice was quiet, but no man could have doubted King's confidence in himself. "But there was a man once who said just what Bill McCartney called me last night—an' I killed him."
It was Gabe's turn to be startled. He took his pipe from his mouth quickly and looked at King with consternation on his face.
"You—you killed him, boy?"
"It seems like I did," King replied slowly. "I never can tell exactly. Something came up in me—something blinded me—an' I struck. When they lifted him up I knew I killed him—I was sure—because I meant to—that's what I tried to do. They told me afterwards—they told me he came round again—he was alive. But I couldn't believe it—he was my brother." King looked out the open doorway for a moment. "I've wondered about that a lot," he said after a long silence. "I think I've prayed about it, too—but I can't get it just right. That's why I left—that's why I came here. I wanted to get away from it—and start in new. I wanted to—to make that right with myself."
Gabe Smith seemed puzzled to understand clearly what King was saying to him.
"Last night," continued King, "it came back again. I thought I was strong enough, but I guess I ain't. When he called me that—it all came back. I went blind again—and I wanted to kill Bill McCartney—only then I remembered, and it took the heart out of me."
"Listen, boy," said Gabe. "Some day you are goin' to forget that—all of it. Some day you are goin' out to fight—an' to fight clean—and to win, and I'll tell you why. There's some of us countin' on you, and you've got to make good—that's why."
King got up and going over to the old man gripped his shoulder in his large powerful hand and looked down into his face.
"You're the first man ever said it to me like that," he said very gravely, and his lips were tight as he spoke, "and I think—I think you can count on me from now on."
Gabe Smith gave him his hand and smiled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Old man Hurley sat in his office alone and looked out of the single window which the place boasted. No other window was necessary, however, for it gave a clear view of the west over the whole expanse of valley-plain that was his one concern. It was his one concern in a business way, for he had been sent in as Dominion Land Agent just as soon as the new district had begun to attract settlers, and he was the sole member of the new community upon whom the dignity of governmental office of any kind rested. But it was his chief concern morally as well, for he felt the full weight of the responsibility that was his to carry the new adventure in settlement to a gratifying and successful issue.
The dignity of office rested gracefully upon Hugh Hurley. Genial and affable at the same time that he was business-like and practical, he was an unfailing source of healthy optimism and unshaken confidence in the future. He was not unaware of the stubborn difficulties that invariably attend the building up of any new settlement. But he had vision and was possessed of a spirit of idealism that read something of romance into everything he did.
In the thick of daily routine, in the midst of a confusion of maps and blue-prints and surveyor's reports and governmental rules and regulations, in his daily meeting with newcomers who had as yet suffered no disillusionment, and with disgruntled "old-timers" who had been in the district for as long as six months or even longer, in the thousand and one matters of detail that try the patience of any conscientious servant of the public, Hugh Hurley constantly cherished a vision. It was of a great fertile valley, flanked on either side by rising blue hills, teeming with an eager-hearted, virile population devoted to the soil, and standing as one more outpost of empire, one more living monument to high endeavour.
In the occasional hour of leisure that came to him during the day and afforded him an opportunity of sitting before his window, he gave his imagination free rein and allowed it to wander unchecked. Then it was that he saw the broad fields of grain swaying in the golden sun. He saw men moving about over ploughed fields with the rich, brown mould turned up to the light. He heard the singing of women and the happy laughter of children. He heard the ringing of the bells and the busy hum of life in little towns and villages that were as yet unborn. He saw the hillsides, now virgin and wild under the afternoon sun, blocked and squared and trimmed by the hands of busy workers. He saw a valley full-mantled and smiling, and mottled with shadows thrown down from drifting clouds. And all Hugh Hurley's energies were devoted to making his dreams come true.
But dreams are only dreams, after all. And to-day, as the old man sat before his window, he was worried. Winding down the dusty trail about a quarter of a mile away came a long line of men in foreign attire, long-skirted coats drawn in tightly at the belt, trouser-legs tucked into long boots, and round caps that fitted closely to the head. They were the Russian Doukhobors returning from an expedition in search of land. While they were still at a considerable distance he could hear the solemn, almost weird chanting of their hymn as they marched along in single file. Hurley had seen them before in similar guise and he had always been struck by the romance, the other-worldness of the picture they presented. To-day, however, the romance was not there. His mind was occupied with something more actual, more immediate. These men, and their wives and children too, would have to live during the next eight or ten months, most of which would be trying months of fiercely cold weather, and they were without resources of any kind. What new settlers in the valley, except that the Doukhobors' reliance on the Almighty to furnish them with food and shelter was as complete as it was pathetic. Hugh Hurley knew that he must immediately constitute himself the elected agent of Heaven itself for these people of a blind faith—and for the others a practical provider of means whereby the winter could be met and passed without regrets.
He was waiting now for Keith McBain, with whom he had discussed the problem, and from whom he hoped he might get some practical suggestions.
Keith had promised, at their last meeting to see him as soon as he had made some investigations on his own part. Only half an hour ago he had seen the old contractor come to town. But Keith McBain's first place of call—as it was also his last—was Mike Cheney's, and Hugh Hurley knew that he could only wait till the old man was ready to come.
One thing that had given Hurley cause for anxiety was the fact that during the week a number of the younger homesteaders had bidden the place good-bye, and had left for the outside, where they were going to remain until it was time to go on the land again in the spring. Hurley knew what that meant. A little more of the same kind of thing and the movement would become general. The result would mean hardship and even suffering for the few who remained isolated from the outside during the long months of winter.
Two young fellows entered the open doorway behind Hurley and he turned to greet them.
"Hello, boys," he said cheerfully as he got up and went to meet them. "You're looking good—homesteading evidently sets a man up, eh?"
They smiled and shook hands.
"We're sure feelin' good," said one of them, "but we've had enough of homesteadin' for a little while—it gets on your nerves. We're goin' out for the winter."
"Going out for the winter?" Hurley exclaimed with a smile. "No—no, you're not—you're going to stay here this winter—and help out."
"Help out—at what?"
"Sit down there and smoke while I tell you a story."
When they were seated Hurley began.
"This reminds me of an argument I heard once between a pioneer preacher and a member of his congregation. This preacher was holding forth on hell, and after the service he met up with one of his freethinking brethren who didn't believe in hell, or heaven, either. 'So you don't believe in hell,' said the preacher. 'Well, mister, I'll tell you how I size it up. I'm betting on hell—an' I'm betting for two reasons. In the first place it's a good hunch—and in the second place I'm plum scared not to. It's like this,' he said. 'You say there ain't no hell an' you put your money on that hand. You just have to draw one card to find out. I say there is a hell an' I'm playin' that hand. An' I draw one. All right. You draw your card an' you turn it up. If you've played the right hunch what do you win? Nothin'. If there ain't no hell or heaven you're no better off even if you ain't worse off. You're just where you were. But if you're playing the wrong hunch an' you turn up your card an' find there's a sure 'nough hell—you're stuck. Ain't that right? You stand to win nothin' an' lose everything. Now look at me. I say there is a hell an' I draw an' turn up. If I don't make it—I don't lose anything anyhow. I'm no better off—but I'm sure no worse off. But if I turn up an' find there is a sure 'nough hell—I win, because that's my hunch an' I'm ready to play it, see? I stand to lose nothing an' there's just about one chance in two that I'll clean up with eternal life in the stakes. Any old way you look at it I got you beat—ain't that right? I'm bettin' on hell till the cows come home!'"
Hurley went and stood for a moment before the window and looked out across the valley.
"The point is this, boys," he said at last, turning quickly and looking at the two sturdy young fellows before him, "you and I and the rest of these people here"—he waved his hand towards the window—"have come into this valley because we believed in it. We're playing a kind of a hunch, boys, that the place is a good place to live in, an' when a man does what we've done he's playing pretty heavily. If we throw up the game now, we lose. That's all there is to it. And not only do we lose but these people around us lose too—and lose heavily. We've got to play the game through against hard luck and wait for the next spring before we begin to take our winnings."
"But we've got to live, Mr. Hurley," one of the men protested.
"Live—yes—and I've been working on that. And I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll grub-stake the whole caboodle of you for six months, beginning the middle of October, and I'll pay you a dollar a day for every day's work you put in if you hang on."
The men looked doubtful but were interested. "That looks all right," one of them offered, "but—"
"But nothing," interrupted Hurley. "I'll do what I say and I can make money on it too. I couldn't pay one man a dollar a day for a forenoon just now, but listen—this country's got to produce something if it's going to live, and it might as well start in this year as next. And when the rush comes in here next spring—and it's coming strong—there'll be a crowd of people here I hear about it every time the mail comes in. This town will be five times as big in a month. The man who's on the ground with his eyes open will take the winnings. The railway will be in before July, and the towns will be springing up and business will start and we'll be a part of the world we've just left before we know it. And that's only one side of it. You boys have registered your claims here and started improvements because you want to live here sometime. If it's going to be a fit place to live in we don't want any set-backs. Start to stampede for the outside now and by the time you get back you'll be where you were when you first landed here. That's not my idea. I'm going to stay right here and get ready for the big rush."
All at once they were aware of someone entering the office, and turned to find Keith McBain coming through the doorway. The young fellows got up at once and with a word to Hurley, promising to drop in the next day, left the office.
"Do you know what I've done?" said Hurley as soon as they had gone.
Keith McBain merely waited for a reply.
"I've promised those two boys work for the winter at a dollar a day and three square meals. I had to do it, Keith—they're good men, both of them, and they were on their way out for the winter. We can't let these men go. We've got to give them something to do and hold them here till spring."
"I've got it worked out," said Keith. "I was talking last week to McKenzie, and we can put in a camp just as soon as we can get a good location. They want a quarter to a half million ties for construction. There's a lot of stuff in there just south of the camp. All we've got to do is to go and find it and start right in. Any of your men here know anything about cruising?"
As if by way of answer to this question King Howden rode up to the door and without getting down called for Hurley to bring out the mail bag. Hurley went to the door and invited him in. When King entered his eyes fell upon Keith McBain, and for a moment he paused and held out his hand. The old contractor's greeting was pleasant, and King went in and stood waiting for Hurley to speak.
"You did some work once in the lumber woods at the coast, King, didn't you?" Hurley asked him.
King's look expressed mild surprise. "A little," he said.
"Done some timber-cruising?"
"About all I did for three years—summer and winter," he answered.
"Well, you'd better spend an extra day or two on your trip this time. You'd better wait over until to-morrow morning and get ready. Take enough grub—they'll fix you up at the lodging-house—and a couple of blankets, and get a good start in the morning. We'd like you to take the old trail into the hills and then work your way east to the right-of-way. You might aim at coming out pretty close to the end of the steel. Use your own judgment. Anyhow, we want you to get a good location for a tie-camp for the winter. We have a contract and want to open on it as soon as the frost comes. What do you think about it?"
"I guess I can do that, sir," King replied quietly. "The mail will be a couple of days late, but—"
"Never mind about that, King," Hurley interrupted. "The mail can afford to wait over. Just get ready to spend as much time as it will take to do it right."
King turned and went out to set about his preparations for the trip into the hills.
As he started hastily down the street he brushed against someone standing near the entrance to Hurley's office. Looking back, he recognized Tom Rickard, one of Keith McBain's men, lounging lazily against the wall only a few feet from the doorway. The circumstance held no special significance for him at the time, and yet he couldn't help wondering why Rickard was in town.
In the office Hurley was standing before Keith McBain, who had remained perfectly silent during the interview with King. Hurley was regarding McBain seriously.
"What do you think of Howden?"
"He's a good boy," Keith remarked dryly.
"Couldn't he handle that camp for the winter—a little better than anyone around here?"
McBain did not say anything for some time, but sat meditatively smoking his pipe. Finally he seemed to have reached a conclusion.
"He's a good boy, Hugh," he remarked slowly, "but he's got to be more than that before he can handle a gang of men in a bush. He's got to have the stomach!"
Hurley went to his window and looked out. In his own mind he was turning over the possibility of getting King to prove himself worthy of the confidence he felt. He had heard the men talk of the affair with McCartney, and he knew pretty well what was in Keith McBain's mind.
King's preparations were made quickly, and by supper time he was ready to take the trail next morning. He had yet to go back to his cabin for a couple of blankets, but he waited till later in the evening, and decided that he would spend the night in his shack and start from there early in the morning. He took supper at the lodging-house in company with Keith McBain, who was in one of his silent moods, having already spent too much time in the company of Mike Cheney during the afternoon. With them was Tom Rickard, as silent and uncommunicative as Keith McBain. From the knowledge that King had of the old contractor's ways he feared he was out on another of his lengthy visits to town. And King's mind went back immediately to Cherry, who was probably even then waiting anxiously for her father's return.
The first hours of such a visit on the part of Keith McBain were usually spent in secret with Mike Cheney, and invariably produced a mood in which he refused to speak to anyone. When they sat down to the table, King asked him when he intended going back to camp. The old man offered not a word by way of reply, and the meal went forward without any further conversation between the two. Anne came and went frequently during the short half hour that King spent at the table, or stood a little back from him and offered a few words now and then which King responded to briefly but pleasantly enough. The two young fellows who had visited Hurley's office earlier in the afternoon to announce their intention of going out for the winter had eaten earlier in the evening, and had apparently spoken of their plans in Anne's hearing. She had something to say about it herself—but she waited till Keith McBain had gone out and disappeared up the street, followed by Tom Rickard. Then she spoke of the thing that was on her mind.
"They're sure in luck," she remarked as if she were thinking aloud. "This place gives me the blues. Talk about a dead place—this ain't no town, it's a graveyard! It's worse than that—it's a prayer-meetin' without the shoutin'!"
King laughed quietly to himself, and Anne turned to him. "Honest, King, it ain't no place for white people to live. It's been all right this summer with everybody round and things movin' a little—but the winter—an everybody away—God, you don't know how I hate the idea."
King got up from the table and went to the doorway. It had already begun to grow dusk and the air was cool and inviting. For a moment he stood looking into the street with its rambling houses and squat little cabins on either side.
"Anne," he said slowly, "some of us have to stay, I guess—stay here and see it through. It won't be easy—but it's the right thing to do—that's how I see it. Besides, it may be better than we think—wait and see."
While he talked his eyes were still turned towards the street. He did not look at the girl until he was through. Then he turned to her and looked at her where she stood, leaning against the table. Her eyes were on his face, and her gaze was long and steady. He had a suspicion that there were tears ready to come—there was something deeper and more thoughtful in them than he had ever seen there before. He knew that the girl was lonely, and that she had no friends.
"Anne," he said slowly, in a voice that was kindness itself, "you ought to get out more—you ought to ride out a little. You ought to walk."
She smiled and gave an impatient shrug to her shoulders.
"Walk—Lord!" Then she set about clearing the table and for a while both were silent. At last she set down a dish she held in her hand and came over to where King stood in the doorway.
"Haven't I walked?" she said in a voice that was tense with emotion. "Haven't I spent hours alone walking these trails up and down? That doesn't help any. I came in here because I wanted to get away by myself an' start all over again. Lord, I sure did it—I got away by myself all right. An' I got sick of it. Then I wanted to get out with people—honest-to-God-people that cared a little—no matter who. But where can I go? They think there's something wrong because I got into Mike's place the night of the scrap. They didn't like my way round here before that. Well, it's my way, isn't it? It's all I got. I don't owe anything—I'm square. But I want some one that will talk to me—an' talk right—not like a lot of these fellows want to talk. That's what I want."
King put out his hand and took her arm. "I guess that's right, Anne," he said. "I've felt like that. We'll talk—you and I—talk together sometimes. And then maybe—" he began to think of the possibility of Anne coming to know Cherry McBain.
"I've been wantin' to talk to you often," she said, very quietly and very slowly. "But you seemed to pass me up like the rest of them. Only I liked you because you looked square. An' I was afraid to talk to you—because I wanted you to like me."
For a moment King was silent as he weighed the full meaning of her words. He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm as she spoke, and there crept over him a strange feeling of fear. He liked the girl, he had the deepest sympathy for her, he would do anything in his power to make life more pleasant for her. And yet—he shrank slowly from her touch and was impatient to get away.
"I guess it'll be late enough when I get back," he said suddenly. "And I've got to make a good start for the hills to-morrow."
He turned and looked at her for a moment, and then laid his hand on her shoulder. "We've got to face a lot of things in life, Anne," he said; "a whole lot of things. It ain't always easy—but it pays to face up."
He stood before her in the doorway and looked directly into her face as he spoke. For a moment she returned the look and then suddenly bowed her head before him. Putting his arm about her shoulders he raised her head gently and looked at her.
"Anne, girl," he said slowly, "I'm coming to see you—if it would help any—when I get back. So long!"
She looked at him squarely and he knew she understood him. The fear he had entertained only a moment before was gone now. He was confident that everything between them was just as he wanted it to be. In her heart was a deep yearning for companionship—in his, a feeling of great pity for the girl who was struggling against the demon of loneliness.
"King," she said at last, "you're right—and I like that."
A sound of hoofs came suddenly from the trail only a few yards away. Anne stepped back quickly from the doorway and King turned to face Cherry McBain, who had brought her horse to a standstill and was already looking down at him from her place in the saddle. He was about to express his surprise, but the look she gave him caused the words to die on his lips.
"I'm looking for my father," she said in a voice that to King's ears sounded like the voice of a stranger.
The sound of men's voices came from farther up the street, and looking out, King saw Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain leaving the land-office. Cherry saw the men at the same moment and without a word rode away to join her father. Just once King called after her, but received no reply. He watched them till all three had vanished in the direction of Hurley's little house that stood under the poplars at the end of the street. Then he stepped out and went off down the trail to where his horse was tethered outside Hurley's office.
When he had mounted into his saddle he turned and looked back along the street. In the dusky frame of the lodging-house doorway he could see Anne still standing where he had left her. She waved her hand to him as he looked back at her, and he waved in reply as he drew his horse's head about and took the trail that led westward to his cabin.