And even as Gabe Smith spoke those words Hugh Hurley was sitting in his office in The Town, looking through his little window to where the valley lay smiling under the late afternoon sun. He was troubled in spirit—more troubled than he had been for a long time. Less than an hour had elapsed since an unwelcome visitor had come to town. But already the visitor's name was scrawled in the big registry book where claims were officially recorded. The claim was an extensive one in the hills that rose to the south of The Town, some ten or fifteen miles away—and the name on the record was the name of Bill McCartney.Besides Hugh Hurley there was but one other person in that sleepy little town, more sleepy and settled, it seemed, than ever—whose spirit was not all calm. McCartney had stepped out of Cheney's place and was standing in the street by himself, rolling a cigarette in a leisurely manner that was contentment itself. He lifted his eyes for a moment and caught sight of Anne coming towards him. What was almost a frown passed quickly across his face, but was immediately replaced by a look of amusement, feigned or genuine it would have been impossible to say, and he continued to roll his cigarette without the slightest indication that he knew of the girl's approach.Anne came up to him without as much as a moment's pause and stood directly in front of him."What are you doin' in town?" she asked.McCartney grunted and ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper."Conductin' a revival meetin', Anne," he said, folding the paper into place. "Why?""Wherever you are there's somethin' dirty gettin' under way, if it ain't already done—that's why," Anne replied.McCartney's face still grinned, but his heart was not in the smile with which he turned to her."Anne," he said, "you're a female—consequence is you can say what you please. It ain't nice to say it, but I wish you was a man.""Lord!" Anne replied, "ain't I wished the same thing about three million times in two years. An' the wishes are all crowdin' each other right now, Bill."She walked away and McCartney struck a match and touched it to his cigarette without speaking a word.CHAPTER FOURTEENGabe Smith's one concern after he had discovered his oversight, was to do everything in his power to minimize the consequences. He went at once in search of Keith McBain. The old contractor was out on the grade looking over the ground in the hope that operations might be got under way again first thing in the morning.Gabe lost no time in unburdening his mind. He gave the packet at once to Keith McBain and then, as briefly and as pointedly as possible, explained to him what King had feared when he made the papers out, and what his plan had been in case anything of an unexpected nature should occur.Keith McBain took the papers, and opening them, looked through them slowly and quietly, while Gabe told his story. Had Gabe not been accustomed to the ways of his old boss he might have felt crestfallen at the apparent lack of effect which his spirited exposition produced in Old Silent. It is doubtful whether in Gabe's whole life he had ever been so excited—his piping voice was thinner and higher than ever. But when he had finished, Keith McBain failed to respond by so much as a single word. For some minutes he continued to look at the roughly-drawn maps that King had made. He seemed to be reading the specifications over and over again to himself. But Gabe, for all that he was excited, had not failed to catch the look of concern that grew in Keith McBain's face as he lingered over the papers.When the old contractor spoke at last his face was more serious than it had ever been before, so far as Gabe Smith's memory served him, and his words came only with difficulty."You can leave these with me, Gabe," he said, folding the papers again very slowly and allowing his eyes to wander off along the narrowing perspective of the right-of-way as he spoke.Keith McBain's mind had turned towards things that were beyond Gabe Smith's ken, and conversation was at an end.Gabe turned and took his way alone back to the camp, but as he was leaving the right-of-way he looked behind him to see what had become of his old boss. He was far up the right-of-way, picking his way carefully along, his hands clasped behind his back, never casting a look behind him.It was very late that evening when Keith McBain returned to the cabin and sat down to the supper that Cherry had prepared for him. And as he ate he was very silent. At last, when he had finished eating, he spoke, and his voice was very low and quiet."Cherry, my girl," he said, "come over here."Cherry left the couch where she had been sitting and hurried to her father, ready to serve him, as she thought, with something she had forgotten to place on the table. Her face expressed what was in her mind."No—there's nothing I want, girl," he said, with a little wave of his hand. "Just stand beside me here."Cherry came close to his chair and laid her hand across her father's shoulders. He put his arm about her and drew her close to him, where he held her for a moment without speaking. Then he raised his face to her and Cherry saw that his eyes were shining in the light from the lamp—there were tears in them."What is it, father?" she asked, and placed a hand very tenderly on his forehead.For answer he drew her down until she was on her knees beside his chair, and then with one arm about her shoulders and one hand upon her cheek he looked into her face."Cherry, girl," he said in a whisper that had a touch of great tenderness in it, "you had a good mother.""Yes," she replied, and tried to smile at him."Your father—" he began, and then stopped."Yes?"He bent low above her and kissed her hair. "Your father loves you, girl," he spoke at last, with tears in his voice as he spoke."Not more than I love him," Cherry replied, with a brave effort to make her voice cheerful."That's it, girl," he replied. "And we're going to stand—together?"Never before had he spoken thus from his heart to her. Cherry tried to speak, but her voice would not come. She put her two arms about his neck and drawing his head down upon her shoulder gave up the struggle to keep back the tears.For a long time they remained thus in each other's arms, until at last there was a stirring in the room where King lay, and Cherry got up. Before she left her father she pressed his head close to her, and leaning over, kissed him on the cheek. Then she hurried away to answer King's call.Keith McBain got up, and putting on his hat, went out alone to look about the camp before turning in for the night. Just before he started back for the cabin he went to the corral and looked over his team. He patted their flanks and sides and rubbed their necks affectionately, and then spoke to the corral foreman."I'll want the little team first thing in the morning," he said, and went out again.When he returned to the cabin Cherry was standing in the doorway."I'll be going to town first thing in the morning," he said, as he went into the cabin with her."Father—please—"There was pleading in her voice, the meaning of which Keith McBain could not mistake."No," he said quickly, "there'll be nothing this time to trouble you—this time or any other time. That's all past, my girl."Cherry would have kissed her father again had he not turned away too quickly and gone to his room.The next morning Keith McBain was early on the grade and stayed long enough to see that the work was going on very much as usual. McCartney had come back to camp during the night and was in his place as foreman when the men took their accustomed places. Old Silent slipped away and was not seen again during the day.Late that night he drove into camp, gave his team over to the care of the corral foreman and went to his cabin without a word to any of the men. His only word was to Cherry, to enquire—somewhat more eagerly than usual, she thought—concerning King's condition. Then he ate his supper and went to bed.During the days that followed, Cherry watched her father with growing anxiety. The care that was necessary to give King was growing less each day—so rapid was his recovery, and her mind was more free to dwell upon other things. It had become quite clear to her that a change was coming over her father, though she could not account for it. Sometimes she found him unusually cheerful; he became even talkative at times—especially when he sat with King in the evenings after the day's work was done. On such occasions, when her father's spirits were light, her own joy scarcely knew limits.But as a rule, he was silent, even morose at times. He ate his meals without speaking. He spent his evenings alone outside, where he sat near the doorway and smoked incessantly, until it was so dark he could not see. Often he left the cabin soon after supper and went off walking by himself along the right-of-way, or into the hills, coming back late, and apparently very tired. Something was weighing very heavily upon his mind every minute of the day. Sometimes at night, long after he had gone to bed, Cherry heard him coughing and tossing about restlessly, unable to go to sleep.King, as he grew daily stronger, talked with Cherry about her father. He had not failed to notice the change that had come over him, and was almost as anxious about him as Cherry herself was. The last conversation of any length that he had had with Keith McBain was on the first afternoon that King had walked from his room to the chair that Cherry had placed for him outside under the tamaracs. Once before, while he was still lying in bed, he had asked the old man about the claim in the hills. Keith McBain had dismissed the subject at once by assuring him in the fewest possible words that everything was all right. But when he came down from the grade and found King sitting outside in the warm sunlight, and looking very much as he had always looked, he had taken a seat near him, lighted his pipe leisurely—and had told King the whole truth about the affair. King had received the news without comment, and Keith McBain, after lingering a while, had left and gone back to where the men were at work on the grade.Then followed a week during which virtually nothing was said, except what passed between Cherry and King, and a word of quiet greeting now and then when the old man came in to eat his meals.But during the week King Howden and Cherry McBain faced together the strange problem that life had set before them, not knowing exactly what was hidden behind the silent bearing of the man who was at the centre of it, conscious only of the fact that they were pleased to face it together.King regained strength very rapidly and was soon able to take short walks in the afternoons and evenings. He never went alone, except when Cherry went riding. Then he strolled slowly along the little path that led into the hills, the path down which he had come with Cherry on that afternoon when he had found her picking berries and had come back to supper with her.On one of these little strolls he had gone as far as the pool beside which he had knelt with her for a drink of fresh water. Once again he knelt down, and placing his hands upon a small boulder, leaned forward and took a drink. Again he paused in the act of getting up and looked at the reflection in the water. His face was thin and his cheek showed pale under the tan. And yet he was gloriously conscious of returning vigor. The fresh air, fragrant with the sweetness of the pine woods, filled him with new strength at every breath, and his very blood was riotous to be in action again and take up the challenge of life in a young man's land.And yet there was one lingering regret. The days that were just coming to a close had been days of sweet companionship with Cherry. Now those days were almost at an end. In less than a week he would get into his saddle again and ride away, with nothing but a memory to carry with him into the days that lay before him.He sat down on a fallen timber that lay close to the pool and afforded a natural resting-place, well-shaded and conveniently near the path. In the woods behind him he heard Sal leaping and rushing about, giving chase to an imaginary rabbit, or barking a reply to a saucy jay. Already the birds were beginning to flock. A few score descended like a rush of wind and filled the branches of a near-by poplar that had already taken on its autumn colors and stood like a yellow flame against the dark background of evergreens. It was a day—and it was the time of year—when youth grows pensive and the melancholy of the year creeps into the veins of one.For a long time King sat and gave himself over to the season's food. How long he sat he did not know. He had lost, for the time being, his sense of passing hours. But he was awakened suddenly by the sound of someone coming, and the next moment Cherry appeared and came running down the pathway towards him."Isn't it funny," she said, sitting down beside him on the log, "but when I came back and found you gone, I knew at once you would be here. It seems the very place for such a day. Isn't it glorious?""I think I'd like to be getting better for a long time," King replied. "Don't you think you could have someone hit me on the head again—just hard enough to lay me out for a few days and give me a long time to get over it?"Cherry laughed."No—I want to see you like yourself again," she replied. "You look more like yourself to-day than you have yet."She leaned towards him and scrutinized his face."And you're beginning to get a little color back, too," she commented in a very matter-of-fact tone."Oh, I'm feeling fit—ready for the mail any day now," he replied. "And I guess I'll be going back to it soon—about the end of the week.""Three more days," Cherry mused."It isn't long, is it?" he asked."No," Cherry replied, and the conversation seemed to have come to an end.At last King leaned forward a little and looked into the little pool of water at their feet."If I could talk," he said, as if he were thinking aloud, "if I could only talk a little—I'd tell you that you have been very kind to me since—""Don't talk about that, King," she said quickly. "I have done nothing."King was silent again for a moment."I guess I'm no talker, at all," he said."You do very well sometimes—when you're delirious," she replied, laughing.King was no longer proof against her playful mood. And yet when he got up, and taking her hand in his, announced that it was already time for her to go back to the cabin if there was to be any supper for her father, she got to her feet reluctantly enough and walked away with King in a strange mood, and very silent.After supper that night Keith McBain called his daughter to him where he was sitting in his accustomed place, just outside the doorway. In a moment Cherry entered the cabin again and donned a light jacket."Father wants me to walk with him a little," she said to King. "We'll be back again soon."King went to the doorway and watched the two as they walked away from the cottage, Cherry leaning upon her father's arm. When they had disappeared he sat down and allowed his mind to wander at will over the events of the weeks that were now coming to a close. He was more anxious than ever, now that his plans in regard to the timber claim in the hills had been frustrated, to get back as soon as he was able to ride, and talk things over with Hugh Hurley.It was quite dark by the time Cherry and her father returned to the cabin. King noticed at once the serious expression on Cherry's face and the complete absence of any sign of the playful mood she displayed before going out with her father. She appeared not to notice King where he was sitting a few feet from the doorway, and walked into the cabin without saying a word.Keith McBain, however, remained outside, and drawing a chair towards King, sat down beside him and began to talk at once."You are just about well again, Howden," he said, moving a little closer in order that he might be able to see King's face in the darkness. "The girl tells me that you will be leaving us in a few days now—about the end of the week.""I think so, sir," King replied. "I have wanted to tell you how much I owe——""Tut, tut, man—that's nothing!" the old man broke in. "No—we all do such things—any of us when the need comes. You may have to take me in some time—who knows?""If the time ever comes——" King began."I know, I know," he interrupted again. "That's partly why I want to talk to you. Howden, you're a young man yet—about——""Just past twenty-eight, sir," King interjected."Twenty-eight—aye. I didn't think you were so old even as that. Still that's young enough for one of your experience."He paused for a moment, during which he seemed to be thinking very hard."There was something I have thought lately I'd like to tell you," he went on at last. "I want to tell you because I think you can listen with a man's ears and understand with a man's heart. Men don't go through life as a rule, Howden, without carrying a few secrets along with them. The most of us have memories that we'd gladly forget—if we could. All of us have our secrets—things we never tell, even to our best friends. And there's nothing wrong with that—it would be wrong if we told it. The world is a pretty fair sort, my boy, and life is worth living, in spite of the wrongs we do. It isn't such a bad rule, I've found, to keep your mouth shut—if opening it is going to cause trouble for anyone."He was silent for a while, as if he wished the truth of his statement to sink deep into King's mind."But there are times when it's best to speak out," he went on. "A little trouble sometimes saves a deal more later on. And that's the point I'm coming to. There was a time in my life when I had no secret. I went about my work every day and had little to worry me besides the day's work as it came. But I grew ambitious. When you see a man that's over-ambitious you can count on trouble lying somewhere waiting for him. There are too many ambitious men in the world, Howden, to make it easy for anyone to be ambitious and be happy. There were two of us—a man I thought was a friend—and I'm not often fooled in men—and myself. When we found things were going too slow to satisfy us we went west to the mines for one season and staked some claims. We stayed the winter in a little mining town that didn't live long enough to get a name for itself. There isn't a man on the ground now. But for one season it was a lively place. Another man joined us after we'd been there a short time and the three of us went prospecting together. We were out for weeks on one trip without any luck, until we gave up and started back to camp. When men have tramped for weeks together through blizzards, and broken fresh trails against howling winds, they're either going to be great friends, or they're going to break. I was the oldest—the other two were young and better able to stand it than I was. And it wasn't long before I began to feel as if I was in the way. The grub was getting low, too, and hungry men are not good companions on the road. Last day out from camp the impossible happened. After going for weeks without luck of any kind we ran upon it when we were least expecting it. The fact is, Howden, I ran upon it. I found it—and I claimed it for my own, for the other two had told me they couldn't hold back for me any longer and had gone on. That night I got into camp—they had got in early in the day. There was a lot of drinking going on, and about midnight there was a fight."Keith McBain placed his hand over his eyes for a moment and then ran his fingers slowly across his forehead."I never knew exactly what happened. All I remember was some shots and a man lying on the floor. I had a gun in my hand—and it was smoking. The thought of what I had done sobered me at once, and my first fear was for my wife and girl. Had it not been for them, Howden, I swear I'd have given myself up right there. But I couldn't do that. I asked the other man—the man I thought was my friend—you may as well know who—it was big Bill McCartney—I asked him to get me out of it. At first he argued with me, but at last I persuaded him and he helped me get away. In a few days he joined me again and we came back. Then one night I made a bargain with him. The affair was to remain a secret between us and he was to take the claim and get what he could from it. He went west again and I took to the construction—and have lived the life of the damned ever since. I told my wife—and she died. Then McCartney came back. Now he wants everything. He knows he has my life in his hands—and he's going to make me pay. I made him foreman. He's not satisfied with that. He wanted the claim in the hills—and got it. Sometimes I have been glad he did get it. I have been afraid to stand before that man, Howden—the only man I have ever been afraid of. And I'm not afraid for myself either. But the girl there—he wants her—has wanted her for a long time, and says he's going to get her. To-night I told her the whole story—just as I've told it to you. And she says if the price has to be paid—she'll pay it. That's Cherry, my boy. The hour has come for me, Howden. We can't run camp very late this year. The weather's been bad. When the break-up comes, there will be plans to lay for next year. McCartney will speak—there will be words—there are always words when we talk business. But this will be the last. A man's life is nothing—he can take me, but—God in heaven—there's a limit!"He got up from his chair and stood a moment before King. Then he extended his hand and King took it."We shall speak of this again, Howden," he said. "Now that there's nothing between us we can talk without being afraid. There'll be plans to talk over—and I'd like to talk them over with you."He turned and went into the cabin without giving King a chance to speak, and King sat down again and went over in his own mind the details of the story Keith McBain had told him.It must have been an hour later—King did not know how long he had been there alone—when he heard Cherry's step in the cabin, and lifting his eyes, saw her standing in the doorway."You must go to bed," she said, and her voice betrayed the fact that she had been weeping.He looked at her a moment without speaking. Then he got up and turned towards her."Come out a minute, Cherry," he said, very softly.She stepped down, and coming to where he stood, waited for him to speak. Taking her arm he led her off a short distance along the path, where they had walked together only a few hours before. Neither of them spoke until they had reached a point in the pathway from which only the light of the cabin was visible through the heavy, low-hanging branches of the trees.Then King stopped and faced her, with his two hands resting on her shoulders."Your father has told me the whole story, Cherry," he said.Cherry's head dropped and her shoulders shook under King's hands."I didn't think it was so bad," she sobbed."Cherry," he said abruptly, and in a voice so commanding that it was almost harsh.The sobbing ceased suddenly and Cherry looked up expectantly."It ain't so bad," he said in a gentler voice."But what——" she began."I don't know," he replied quickly. "One thing at a time, I guess—that's enough to think about.""But I can't let father——""Wait," King interrupted again. "McCartney's bad—bad clean through. Some time—sooner or later—a bad man makes a mistake. I think Bill McCartney's mistake is about due. He's made one bad mistake already—maybe more—but one, anyhow.""What has he done?" Cherry asked.King, for once, found it easy to talk."He has made up his mind he'll have you," he replied quickly. "But he's made a mistake. I'm going to have you, Cherry!"She took a step away from him and regarded him seriously for a moment."There'll be some things to settle first," he went on. "But when they're settled—I'm coming."For a while Cherry allowed her mind to return to the doubts that had lurked there for many days. She wanted to ask King the question that had been in her mind ever since the evening she had ridden into town in the dusk. Then she heard King's voice again—slow, resolute, and touched with deep emotion."Just now," he said, "I'd like to kiss you—but I'll wait—I'll wait till I deserve it more. Cherry McBain, I'm going to fight for you."He drew her towards him and looked long into her eyes. Then he turned her about and started towards the cabin. Together they walked in silence until they were within a few feet of the door, and then Cherry paused and turned to King."King Howden," she said, looking up at him, "you're—you're stupid!"Before King could make reply she threw her arms suddenly around his neck and kissed him once impulsively, passionately, and then fled into the cabin.After a while King Howden, wondering a great deal about his own stupidity, passed into the cabin and went to bed.CHAPTER FIFTEENOctober set in as no other October had done within the memory of Keith McBain."It does nothing but rain in this country from the looks of things," he said to old Gabe Smith, who was going over the works with his old boss. "There's nothing for us but an early close—we may as well shut down at once. Last night the sun set clear and—look at it now."It was late afternoon and the whole sky was heavy. The sun had broken through the clouds in the west, but behind the clouds the sky was red. The breeze that rustled in the poplars was chill—even cold—and carried the yellow leaves before it, or lifted them from the ground in little eddying gusts that whirled sharply in the open for a moment and then lost themselves in the closer branches of the shrubbery."We've had frost nearly every night this week," Gabe offered by way of corroborating what Keith McBain had said. "A little more and there'll be no workin' with the slushers at all."McBain walked a short distance in silence and then turned back towards the camp."No use going any farther," he remarked at last, as if he were talking to himself. "This job's about done, anyhow, and the next move will be clear up to the valley—just north of town. Might as well hustle up the bit that's left here and move the outfit into town for the winter. It'll give us an early start for the spring, anyhow."It required all of two weeks to complete what was still left of the work Keith McBain had contracted for at that point in the right-of-way where his camp had stood for the months of August and September. With good weather conditions it would have been completed in three or four days. But every morning found the ground that had been wet the day before frozen into a hard crust that made work impossible until noon. The work dragged along at a rate that would have tried the patience of anyone. It kept Keith McBain in a state of ill-temper from which, during the whole of the two weeks, he never recovered.During those two weeks, however, the men who worked for Keith McBain were conscious of a change in the old contractor's manner that pleased some quite as much as it displeased others. In September it had been freely admitted by all that the old man was losing his grip. His power was going. His commands were not always obeyed, and no one retreated before his outbursts of profanity as they had once done.But now—Old Silent was back on the job, loved and hated as before, driving his men recklessly in their labors and sparing himself as little as he spared his men, building from day to day, as conditions permitted, as if the whole responsibility of constructing a great national transcontinental highway rested upon his shoulders alone. The change was so complete, and so sudden, too, that the men marvelled. At first they observed it individually and thought it over quietly, without offering any comment. Later they began to discuss it in groups. Soon it became the chief topic of conversation.Under ordinary circumstances little consideration would have been given to Keith McBain's return to his former habits. The men would have observed it, mentioned it casually, perhaps, and with smiles on their faces—and gone back to their work. But the circumstances under which the change had taken place were not ordinary. No man in the camp—not even McCartney—could account for it. The explanation was hidden behind Old Silent's grey, inscrutable countenance. As a matter of fact, the discussions in which the men engaged during the long, chilly evenings were not prompted solely—nor in the main—by any desire to find the explanation.No one would have spoken at any length on the subject had it not been for the fact that among the men working for Keith McBain were a number who for some time had refused to admit that Keith McBain was recovering from his long period of inefficiency and weak management. When they were finally forced to admit what was so obvious that no one could remain blind to it, they became violent in their dislike for his harsh methods and intolerant moods. When they could no longer discredit him they began to denounce him. The group was a formidable element in camp—and was led ostensibly by McCartney, who doubtless saw one of his fondest hopes declining.One incident that occurred during those two weeks marked the turning point in all the discussions that were going on. The night had been cold, with rain and a little snow, the first of the season. The morning was wet, and underfoot the ground was slushy. The men had risen at the usual time and gone to breakfast at the sound of the gong. When breakfast was almost over, but before any man had yet risen from the table, Keith McBain appeared in the doorway of the cook-camp and ordered the men out as usual. No word was spoken in reply and McBain, after waiting a moment in the doorway of the camp, went out to prepare for the day's work. No sooner had he disappeared than protests broke loose from fully half the men at once. They appealed to McCartney, and leaving the table, went off in a surly mood to the bunk house, confident that, if anything could be done, McCartney would do it. McBain himself was already out on the grade, and McCartney strode over boldly to apprise him of the temper of the men.Not more than three of the men heard the interview between Old Silent and his foreman. But all three heard alike—and the reports that all three brought in concerning what they had seen were sufficiently similar to leave no one in doubt as to their being, in the main, correct. McCartney's first word had brought Keith McBain down on him like a hurricane, before which the foreman had capitulated, even cringed, and had asked the old boss to speak to the men himself.And Keith McBain had spoken to the men, with the result that only two in the whole camp refused to go to work. These he promptly handed over to the time-keeper, who gave them their time, and Keith McBain personally supervised their departure from camp before he went back to his men on the grade.From that time forward there was no doubting that the old railroad boss was still to be seriously reckoned with by any man who questioned his ability to look after his own affairs. From that time forward, moreover, the question was not so much one of whether Keith McBain was as strong a man as Bill McCartney. It was rather a question of which of the two men they were prepared to follow. For McCartney had sworn in the presence of everyone that night that he was going to break Keith McBain, and do it so completely that—well, they were to watch him and they would see for themselves.That night the camp was split into two factions. The division had been creeping in for months. It was now complete. On one side were the men who had succumbed to McCartney's loud boastings, and had found in certain dark hints that he had given concerning the old contractor's past, good food for fattening an old-time grudge. On the other side were the men who hated McCartney as much as they sympathized with Keith McBain, and generally speaking there was a strong affection for the old contractor in spite of his harsh manner. Night after night during those two weeks the breach between the two factions broadened, and on a half-dozen occasions threatened to end in a free fight.In the meantime King Howden rapidly recovered his normal condition. Twice he had gone to the end-of-the-steel for the mail, and had returned to town after his long trips in better spirits than when he had left. On each trip he managed to drop off at McBain's camp about meal-time, and spend an hour or more talking to Cherry and her father. But not once did the difficult position in which Keith McBain was placed come up for discussion. Nor did King Howden drop as much as a hint to Cherry that he still remembered the night when he had stood alone under the tamaracs and had made known his determination to win in the game he was playing with Bill McCartney.The third trip, however, was different from the others. Cherry had secretly been expecting King all day long. He arrived finally late in the afternoon, and with him Anne. Cherry received the girl with as much cordiality as she could command. The four took supper together and King went at once, leaving Anne with Cherry until he returned.That night Keith McBain retired early and left the two girls alone together. In spite of herself, Cherry found her heart warming towards Anne as the evening wore on."Don't you sometimes find it hard to be alone so much, Anne?" she asked, when their conversation had drifted into more or less personal channels.Anne's reply was at first non-committal."Ain't you alone, too?" she asked."Yes," Cherry replied, "and I feel—sometimes—as if I can't stand it any longer. But then—I have my father.""Yes," Anne responded, "it's different. An' when you ask me if I find it hard—I do. Sometimes—well, I just don't think about it. If I started thinkin' I'd go crazy. But thinkin' doesn't get you anywhere."They were both silent for some time, Cherry intent upon some sewing that she was doing, Anne sitting watching her across the table. At last Cherry made another effort."I hope you won't think it funny of me, Anne," she remarked, looking up at the girl and smiling, "but I have never known you by anything other than—just Anne. King never introduced us properly.""There's been mighty little time for introducin' anyone," Anne replied."Yes; but King has never even told me your name," Cherry continued.Anne was not quick to answer. "Reason is," she said slowly, after a long pause, "he didn't know it himself."Cherry's face expressed surprise."But I thought you and he were good friends," she remarked—and something of the old Eve was rising in her. She had been struggling all evening to keep it down, but now she found herself searching Anne's face for the slightest change of color or expression that would betray her feelings.The girl spoke very quietly. "We are—if you want to put it like that," she replied.There was a note in Anne's voice that was unmistakably cold, and Cherry reproached herself at once."Really, Anne," she said, and she turned her eyes away as she spoke; "I didn't mean to be personal. Please forgive me.""That's nothin'!" replied Anne quickly. "Fact is—when I came to the settlement I wanted nothin' better than to be left alone. When I hired with MacMurray he asked me my name an' I told him 'Anne'. If he'd asked what else—I'd 'a' lied to him. But he didn't. An' no one else ever asked till just now. I could lie about it—but I'm not goin' to. When I tell you—I'll tell you straight. Better leave it at that."Though Anne's voice was cold and without feeling, Cherry knew that at heart the girl was tender, even affectionate. When Anne got up from where she had been sitting and went to the window where she stood looking out into the night, Cherry set aside her sewing and followed her. For a moment she stood behind Anne, neither of them speaking a word.At last Cherry put her arms about her and held her in a warm, impulsive embrace."Anne," she said, "let's be friends. I'm alone—and so are you. But you're older than I am, and I want you to like me."Anne turned to her and looked at her very steadily for a long time before she spoke."Ain't you like the rest of them?" she asked.Cherry did not understand the question."What rest—who?" she asked in surprise."Oh, the whole bunch," Anne jerked out impatiently; "the women in the town. They don't like me—an' they go out o' the way to show it. God!—sometimes I hate to think I belong to them—but they ain't women.""Oh, yes, they are, Anne," Cherry replied, "but they don't understand, that's all.""Understand? Understand—nothin'! I was ready to like them before I understood them. When I got to understand them—I passed 'em up. One good thing—they ain't many—so it don't matter much.""Well, don't put me with them, Anne," Cherry returned.Anne did not reply at once, but when she did there was caution in her tone."Do you remember the first time you saw me?" she asked."Yes."Cherry had remembered—the memory of it had burned itself into her brain."Did you speak to me then as if you understood?" Anne questioned.Cherry remained silent."An' then for two days," Anne continued, "did you act like you understood and wanted to be friends?"Cherry could stand the questioning no longer."Anne, Anne," she pleaded, "don't talk like that. Let me tell you—can't you see what it all means, Anne—I love him—I was jealous.""Jealous?" Anne stood back from her in surprise."When I saw you standing——.""You mean King?" Anne asked her suddenly.Cherry nodded her head.At first Anne seemed about to laugh, but the smile died on her lips."Listen to me," she said. "Where'd you get that? If I was goin' to pick someone right now—I'd pick King Howden. But I ain't pickin' anyone, an' I'll tell you why. Now, you get this straight. In the first place he wouldn't stand for me, that's all there is to that. He never told me, because we never talked about it—but I don't have to be told. Anyhow, all that don't matter—it's nowhere with me. There's another reason—I ain't lookin' for a partner. I wasn't goin' to tell you this—but you might as well know."She paused a moment and looked at Cherry."D'you know," she continued meditatively, "I didn't want to make this trip down here this time. I wasn't comin', only King Howden told me to come an' get on talkin' terms with you. I didn't like you—but I came because he wanted me to. That's how much I like him, an' it's a whole lot. But I'm glad I came. I think I'll get to likin' you—I like you now—or I wouldn't tell you what I never told another soul in this part o' the world. The reason I ain't choosin' anythin' particular among the 'legible gents that's hangin' round is that I—I made a choice once. It was sure a bad one, but—I'm standin' by it.""You're not married, Anne?" exclaimed Cherry in surprise.Anne nodded in the affirmative."I was once, anyhow," she commented with a smile.Cherry could say nothing in reply—so complete was her surprise."Just now," Anne added, after a moment of silence, "I'm doin' what most women have to do sooner or later—I'm stayin' round to keep my old man from makin' an ass of himself. The most of 'em will do it if they're left alone.""Then he's here?" Cherry exclaimed with fresh surprise."Lord, yes—he's here," Anne replied.When Cherry did not reply Anne took her hands and looked long and steadily into her eyes."My name," she said slowly, "is Anne—Anne McCartney."For once Cherry checked herself before she put her thoughts into words. She drew Anne towards her and held her close for a long time in silence.In her heart was a riot of confused emotions. She could not resist the overwhelming satisfaction she felt upon learning at last that her suspicions concerning King were foolish and without foundation. She reproached herself inwardly for having entertained such fears. Then her self-reproach vanished before the supreme joy that came to her—he was still the man she had known him to be when first they rode together on the trail. It was only natural that the hatred she had for McCartney should now cause her some uneasiness in the presence of the woman who bore his name. In the end her heart went out in pity to the girl who was struggling through life with a burden such as she herself knew nothing of.It was this feeling that was strongest in her heart as she pressed Anne very close to her and kissed her. Anne sensed at once what was in Cherry's mind, and drew back."Don't start pityin' me," she said abruptly. "I did it—an' I did it with my eyes open. An' now that I've told you"—she put her fingers to her lips—"don't muss everything. You got that out o' me when I—I forgot myself."She spoke impatiently, but Cherry hurried to reassure her."You can trust me, Anne," she said."When it comes to that," Anne replied, "there's nobody like your own self. Still—I'm goin' to count on you—not a word."That night was the longest night Cherry McBain had ever known. So many questions chased each other through her mind that sleep was impossible. She felt herself the plaything of a score of different forces, at the mercy of cross-currents over which she had no control and against which it was useless for her to battle.One thing especially troubled her. Should she have told Anne all she knew about McCartney? She had hesitated because her father was so vitally involved. Besides, she didn't know what plans were in King's mind. When the first grey of the dawn came through her window she had come to a decision: she would tell Anne all about it in the morning.When they were alone together after they had eaten their breakfast, Cherry summoned all her courage and began her story. Anne stopped her before she had spoken a dozen words."You're not tellin' me a thing I don't know," she said. "Didn't I say I was here to keep Bill McCartney from playin' the damn fool? Well, he'll do that in spite of me—but I'm not goin' to let him make as big a fool of others as he has of me. Let's go and look at the horses."
And even as Gabe Smith spoke those words Hugh Hurley was sitting in his office in The Town, looking through his little window to where the valley lay smiling under the late afternoon sun. He was troubled in spirit—more troubled than he had been for a long time. Less than an hour had elapsed since an unwelcome visitor had come to town. But already the visitor's name was scrawled in the big registry book where claims were officially recorded. The claim was an extensive one in the hills that rose to the south of The Town, some ten or fifteen miles away—and the name on the record was the name of Bill McCartney.
Besides Hugh Hurley there was but one other person in that sleepy little town, more sleepy and settled, it seemed, than ever—whose spirit was not all calm. McCartney had stepped out of Cheney's place and was standing in the street by himself, rolling a cigarette in a leisurely manner that was contentment itself. He lifted his eyes for a moment and caught sight of Anne coming towards him. What was almost a frown passed quickly across his face, but was immediately replaced by a look of amusement, feigned or genuine it would have been impossible to say, and he continued to roll his cigarette without the slightest indication that he knew of the girl's approach.
Anne came up to him without as much as a moment's pause and stood directly in front of him.
"What are you doin' in town?" she asked.
McCartney grunted and ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper.
"Conductin' a revival meetin', Anne," he said, folding the paper into place. "Why?"
"Wherever you are there's somethin' dirty gettin' under way, if it ain't already done—that's why," Anne replied.
McCartney's face still grinned, but his heart was not in the smile with which he turned to her.
"Anne," he said, "you're a female—consequence is you can say what you please. It ain't nice to say it, but I wish you was a man."
"Lord!" Anne replied, "ain't I wished the same thing about three million times in two years. An' the wishes are all crowdin' each other right now, Bill."
She walked away and McCartney struck a match and touched it to his cigarette without speaking a word.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gabe Smith's one concern after he had discovered his oversight, was to do everything in his power to minimize the consequences. He went at once in search of Keith McBain. The old contractor was out on the grade looking over the ground in the hope that operations might be got under way again first thing in the morning.
Gabe lost no time in unburdening his mind. He gave the packet at once to Keith McBain and then, as briefly and as pointedly as possible, explained to him what King had feared when he made the papers out, and what his plan had been in case anything of an unexpected nature should occur.
Keith McBain took the papers, and opening them, looked through them slowly and quietly, while Gabe told his story. Had Gabe not been accustomed to the ways of his old boss he might have felt crestfallen at the apparent lack of effect which his spirited exposition produced in Old Silent. It is doubtful whether in Gabe's whole life he had ever been so excited—his piping voice was thinner and higher than ever. But when he had finished, Keith McBain failed to respond by so much as a single word. For some minutes he continued to look at the roughly-drawn maps that King had made. He seemed to be reading the specifications over and over again to himself. But Gabe, for all that he was excited, had not failed to catch the look of concern that grew in Keith McBain's face as he lingered over the papers.
When the old contractor spoke at last his face was more serious than it had ever been before, so far as Gabe Smith's memory served him, and his words came only with difficulty.
"You can leave these with me, Gabe," he said, folding the papers again very slowly and allowing his eyes to wander off along the narrowing perspective of the right-of-way as he spoke.
Keith McBain's mind had turned towards things that were beyond Gabe Smith's ken, and conversation was at an end.
Gabe turned and took his way alone back to the camp, but as he was leaving the right-of-way he looked behind him to see what had become of his old boss. He was far up the right-of-way, picking his way carefully along, his hands clasped behind his back, never casting a look behind him.
It was very late that evening when Keith McBain returned to the cabin and sat down to the supper that Cherry had prepared for him. And as he ate he was very silent. At last, when he had finished eating, he spoke, and his voice was very low and quiet.
"Cherry, my girl," he said, "come over here."
Cherry left the couch where she had been sitting and hurried to her father, ready to serve him, as she thought, with something she had forgotten to place on the table. Her face expressed what was in her mind.
"No—there's nothing I want, girl," he said, with a little wave of his hand. "Just stand beside me here."
Cherry came close to his chair and laid her hand across her father's shoulders. He put his arm about her and drew her close to him, where he held her for a moment without speaking. Then he raised his face to her and Cherry saw that his eyes were shining in the light from the lamp—there were tears in them.
"What is it, father?" she asked, and placed a hand very tenderly on his forehead.
For answer he drew her down until she was on her knees beside his chair, and then with one arm about her shoulders and one hand upon her cheek he looked into her face.
"Cherry, girl," he said in a whisper that had a touch of great tenderness in it, "you had a good mother."
"Yes," she replied, and tried to smile at him.
"Your father—" he began, and then stopped.
"Yes?"
He bent low above her and kissed her hair. "Your father loves you, girl," he spoke at last, with tears in his voice as he spoke.
"Not more than I love him," Cherry replied, with a brave effort to make her voice cheerful.
"That's it, girl," he replied. "And we're going to stand—together?"
Never before had he spoken thus from his heart to her. Cherry tried to speak, but her voice would not come. She put her two arms about his neck and drawing his head down upon her shoulder gave up the struggle to keep back the tears.
For a long time they remained thus in each other's arms, until at last there was a stirring in the room where King lay, and Cherry got up. Before she left her father she pressed his head close to her, and leaning over, kissed him on the cheek. Then she hurried away to answer King's call.
Keith McBain got up, and putting on his hat, went out alone to look about the camp before turning in for the night. Just before he started back for the cabin he went to the corral and looked over his team. He patted their flanks and sides and rubbed their necks affectionately, and then spoke to the corral foreman.
"I'll want the little team first thing in the morning," he said, and went out again.
When he returned to the cabin Cherry was standing in the doorway.
"I'll be going to town first thing in the morning," he said, as he went into the cabin with her.
"Father—please—"
There was pleading in her voice, the meaning of which Keith McBain could not mistake.
"No," he said quickly, "there'll be nothing this time to trouble you—this time or any other time. That's all past, my girl."
Cherry would have kissed her father again had he not turned away too quickly and gone to his room.
The next morning Keith McBain was early on the grade and stayed long enough to see that the work was going on very much as usual. McCartney had come back to camp during the night and was in his place as foreman when the men took their accustomed places. Old Silent slipped away and was not seen again during the day.
Late that night he drove into camp, gave his team over to the care of the corral foreman and went to his cabin without a word to any of the men. His only word was to Cherry, to enquire—somewhat more eagerly than usual, she thought—concerning King's condition. Then he ate his supper and went to bed.
During the days that followed, Cherry watched her father with growing anxiety. The care that was necessary to give King was growing less each day—so rapid was his recovery, and her mind was more free to dwell upon other things. It had become quite clear to her that a change was coming over her father, though she could not account for it. Sometimes she found him unusually cheerful; he became even talkative at times—especially when he sat with King in the evenings after the day's work was done. On such occasions, when her father's spirits were light, her own joy scarcely knew limits.
But as a rule, he was silent, even morose at times. He ate his meals without speaking. He spent his evenings alone outside, where he sat near the doorway and smoked incessantly, until it was so dark he could not see. Often he left the cabin soon after supper and went off walking by himself along the right-of-way, or into the hills, coming back late, and apparently very tired. Something was weighing very heavily upon his mind every minute of the day. Sometimes at night, long after he had gone to bed, Cherry heard him coughing and tossing about restlessly, unable to go to sleep.
King, as he grew daily stronger, talked with Cherry about her father. He had not failed to notice the change that had come over him, and was almost as anxious about him as Cherry herself was. The last conversation of any length that he had had with Keith McBain was on the first afternoon that King had walked from his room to the chair that Cherry had placed for him outside under the tamaracs. Once before, while he was still lying in bed, he had asked the old man about the claim in the hills. Keith McBain had dismissed the subject at once by assuring him in the fewest possible words that everything was all right. But when he came down from the grade and found King sitting outside in the warm sunlight, and looking very much as he had always looked, he had taken a seat near him, lighted his pipe leisurely—and had told King the whole truth about the affair. King had received the news without comment, and Keith McBain, after lingering a while, had left and gone back to where the men were at work on the grade.
Then followed a week during which virtually nothing was said, except what passed between Cherry and King, and a word of quiet greeting now and then when the old man came in to eat his meals.
But during the week King Howden and Cherry McBain faced together the strange problem that life had set before them, not knowing exactly what was hidden behind the silent bearing of the man who was at the centre of it, conscious only of the fact that they were pleased to face it together.
King regained strength very rapidly and was soon able to take short walks in the afternoons and evenings. He never went alone, except when Cherry went riding. Then he strolled slowly along the little path that led into the hills, the path down which he had come with Cherry on that afternoon when he had found her picking berries and had come back to supper with her.
On one of these little strolls he had gone as far as the pool beside which he had knelt with her for a drink of fresh water. Once again he knelt down, and placing his hands upon a small boulder, leaned forward and took a drink. Again he paused in the act of getting up and looked at the reflection in the water. His face was thin and his cheek showed pale under the tan. And yet he was gloriously conscious of returning vigor. The fresh air, fragrant with the sweetness of the pine woods, filled him with new strength at every breath, and his very blood was riotous to be in action again and take up the challenge of life in a young man's land.
And yet there was one lingering regret. The days that were just coming to a close had been days of sweet companionship with Cherry. Now those days were almost at an end. In less than a week he would get into his saddle again and ride away, with nothing but a memory to carry with him into the days that lay before him.
He sat down on a fallen timber that lay close to the pool and afforded a natural resting-place, well-shaded and conveniently near the path. In the woods behind him he heard Sal leaping and rushing about, giving chase to an imaginary rabbit, or barking a reply to a saucy jay. Already the birds were beginning to flock. A few score descended like a rush of wind and filled the branches of a near-by poplar that had already taken on its autumn colors and stood like a yellow flame against the dark background of evergreens. It was a day—and it was the time of year—when youth grows pensive and the melancholy of the year creeps into the veins of one.
For a long time King sat and gave himself over to the season's food. How long he sat he did not know. He had lost, for the time being, his sense of passing hours. But he was awakened suddenly by the sound of someone coming, and the next moment Cherry appeared and came running down the pathway towards him.
"Isn't it funny," she said, sitting down beside him on the log, "but when I came back and found you gone, I knew at once you would be here. It seems the very place for such a day. Isn't it glorious?"
"I think I'd like to be getting better for a long time," King replied. "Don't you think you could have someone hit me on the head again—just hard enough to lay me out for a few days and give me a long time to get over it?"
Cherry laughed.
"No—I want to see you like yourself again," she replied. "You look more like yourself to-day than you have yet."
She leaned towards him and scrutinized his face.
"And you're beginning to get a little color back, too," she commented in a very matter-of-fact tone.
"Oh, I'm feeling fit—ready for the mail any day now," he replied. "And I guess I'll be going back to it soon—about the end of the week."
"Three more days," Cherry mused.
"It isn't long, is it?" he asked.
"No," Cherry replied, and the conversation seemed to have come to an end.
At last King leaned forward a little and looked into the little pool of water at their feet.
"If I could talk," he said, as if he were thinking aloud, "if I could only talk a little—I'd tell you that you have been very kind to me since—"
"Don't talk about that, King," she said quickly. "I have done nothing."
King was silent again for a moment.
"I guess I'm no talker, at all," he said.
"You do very well sometimes—when you're delirious," she replied, laughing.
King was no longer proof against her playful mood. And yet when he got up, and taking her hand in his, announced that it was already time for her to go back to the cabin if there was to be any supper for her father, she got to her feet reluctantly enough and walked away with King in a strange mood, and very silent.
After supper that night Keith McBain called his daughter to him where he was sitting in his accustomed place, just outside the doorway. In a moment Cherry entered the cabin again and donned a light jacket.
"Father wants me to walk with him a little," she said to King. "We'll be back again soon."
King went to the doorway and watched the two as they walked away from the cottage, Cherry leaning upon her father's arm. When they had disappeared he sat down and allowed his mind to wander at will over the events of the weeks that were now coming to a close. He was more anxious than ever, now that his plans in regard to the timber claim in the hills had been frustrated, to get back as soon as he was able to ride, and talk things over with Hugh Hurley.
It was quite dark by the time Cherry and her father returned to the cabin. King noticed at once the serious expression on Cherry's face and the complete absence of any sign of the playful mood she displayed before going out with her father. She appeared not to notice King where he was sitting a few feet from the doorway, and walked into the cabin without saying a word.
Keith McBain, however, remained outside, and drawing a chair towards King, sat down beside him and began to talk at once.
"You are just about well again, Howden," he said, moving a little closer in order that he might be able to see King's face in the darkness. "The girl tells me that you will be leaving us in a few days now—about the end of the week."
"I think so, sir," King replied. "I have wanted to tell you how much I owe——"
"Tut, tut, man—that's nothing!" the old man broke in. "No—we all do such things—any of us when the need comes. You may have to take me in some time—who knows?"
"If the time ever comes——" King began.
"I know, I know," he interrupted again. "That's partly why I want to talk to you. Howden, you're a young man yet—about——"
"Just past twenty-eight, sir," King interjected.
"Twenty-eight—aye. I didn't think you were so old even as that. Still that's young enough for one of your experience."
He paused for a moment, during which he seemed to be thinking very hard.
"There was something I have thought lately I'd like to tell you," he went on at last. "I want to tell you because I think you can listen with a man's ears and understand with a man's heart. Men don't go through life as a rule, Howden, without carrying a few secrets along with them. The most of us have memories that we'd gladly forget—if we could. All of us have our secrets—things we never tell, even to our best friends. And there's nothing wrong with that—it would be wrong if we told it. The world is a pretty fair sort, my boy, and life is worth living, in spite of the wrongs we do. It isn't such a bad rule, I've found, to keep your mouth shut—if opening it is going to cause trouble for anyone."
He was silent for a while, as if he wished the truth of his statement to sink deep into King's mind.
"But there are times when it's best to speak out," he went on. "A little trouble sometimes saves a deal more later on. And that's the point I'm coming to. There was a time in my life when I had no secret. I went about my work every day and had little to worry me besides the day's work as it came. But I grew ambitious. When you see a man that's over-ambitious you can count on trouble lying somewhere waiting for him. There are too many ambitious men in the world, Howden, to make it easy for anyone to be ambitious and be happy. There were two of us—a man I thought was a friend—and I'm not often fooled in men—and myself. When we found things were going too slow to satisfy us we went west to the mines for one season and staked some claims. We stayed the winter in a little mining town that didn't live long enough to get a name for itself. There isn't a man on the ground now. But for one season it was a lively place. Another man joined us after we'd been there a short time and the three of us went prospecting together. We were out for weeks on one trip without any luck, until we gave up and started back to camp. When men have tramped for weeks together through blizzards, and broken fresh trails against howling winds, they're either going to be great friends, or they're going to break. I was the oldest—the other two were young and better able to stand it than I was. And it wasn't long before I began to feel as if I was in the way. The grub was getting low, too, and hungry men are not good companions on the road. Last day out from camp the impossible happened. After going for weeks without luck of any kind we ran upon it when we were least expecting it. The fact is, Howden, I ran upon it. I found it—and I claimed it for my own, for the other two had told me they couldn't hold back for me any longer and had gone on. That night I got into camp—they had got in early in the day. There was a lot of drinking going on, and about midnight there was a fight."
Keith McBain placed his hand over his eyes for a moment and then ran his fingers slowly across his forehead.
"I never knew exactly what happened. All I remember was some shots and a man lying on the floor. I had a gun in my hand—and it was smoking. The thought of what I had done sobered me at once, and my first fear was for my wife and girl. Had it not been for them, Howden, I swear I'd have given myself up right there. But I couldn't do that. I asked the other man—the man I thought was my friend—you may as well know who—it was big Bill McCartney—I asked him to get me out of it. At first he argued with me, but at last I persuaded him and he helped me get away. In a few days he joined me again and we came back. Then one night I made a bargain with him. The affair was to remain a secret between us and he was to take the claim and get what he could from it. He went west again and I took to the construction—and have lived the life of the damned ever since. I told my wife—and she died. Then McCartney came back. Now he wants everything. He knows he has my life in his hands—and he's going to make me pay. I made him foreman. He's not satisfied with that. He wanted the claim in the hills—and got it. Sometimes I have been glad he did get it. I have been afraid to stand before that man, Howden—the only man I have ever been afraid of. And I'm not afraid for myself either. But the girl there—he wants her—has wanted her for a long time, and says he's going to get her. To-night I told her the whole story—just as I've told it to you. And she says if the price has to be paid—she'll pay it. That's Cherry, my boy. The hour has come for me, Howden. We can't run camp very late this year. The weather's been bad. When the break-up comes, there will be plans to lay for next year. McCartney will speak—there will be words—there are always words when we talk business. But this will be the last. A man's life is nothing—he can take me, but—God in heaven—there's a limit!"
He got up from his chair and stood a moment before King. Then he extended his hand and King took it.
"We shall speak of this again, Howden," he said. "Now that there's nothing between us we can talk without being afraid. There'll be plans to talk over—and I'd like to talk them over with you."
He turned and went into the cabin without giving King a chance to speak, and King sat down again and went over in his own mind the details of the story Keith McBain had told him.
It must have been an hour later—King did not know how long he had been there alone—when he heard Cherry's step in the cabin, and lifting his eyes, saw her standing in the doorway.
"You must go to bed," she said, and her voice betrayed the fact that she had been weeping.
He looked at her a moment without speaking. Then he got up and turned towards her.
"Come out a minute, Cherry," he said, very softly.
She stepped down, and coming to where he stood, waited for him to speak. Taking her arm he led her off a short distance along the path, where they had walked together only a few hours before. Neither of them spoke until they had reached a point in the pathway from which only the light of the cabin was visible through the heavy, low-hanging branches of the trees.
Then King stopped and faced her, with his two hands resting on her shoulders.
"Your father has told me the whole story, Cherry," he said.
Cherry's head dropped and her shoulders shook under King's hands.
"I didn't think it was so bad," she sobbed.
"Cherry," he said abruptly, and in a voice so commanding that it was almost harsh.
The sobbing ceased suddenly and Cherry looked up expectantly.
"It ain't so bad," he said in a gentler voice.
"But what——" she began.
"I don't know," he replied quickly. "One thing at a time, I guess—that's enough to think about."
"But I can't let father——"
"Wait," King interrupted again. "McCartney's bad—bad clean through. Some time—sooner or later—a bad man makes a mistake. I think Bill McCartney's mistake is about due. He's made one bad mistake already—maybe more—but one, anyhow."
"What has he done?" Cherry asked.
King, for once, found it easy to talk.
"He has made up his mind he'll have you," he replied quickly. "But he's made a mistake. I'm going to have you, Cherry!"
She took a step away from him and regarded him seriously for a moment.
"There'll be some things to settle first," he went on. "But when they're settled—I'm coming."
For a while Cherry allowed her mind to return to the doubts that had lurked there for many days. She wanted to ask King the question that had been in her mind ever since the evening she had ridden into town in the dusk. Then she heard King's voice again—slow, resolute, and touched with deep emotion.
"Just now," he said, "I'd like to kiss you—but I'll wait—I'll wait till I deserve it more. Cherry McBain, I'm going to fight for you."
He drew her towards him and looked long into her eyes. Then he turned her about and started towards the cabin. Together they walked in silence until they were within a few feet of the door, and then Cherry paused and turned to King.
"King Howden," she said, looking up at him, "you're—you're stupid!"
Before King could make reply she threw her arms suddenly around his neck and kissed him once impulsively, passionately, and then fled into the cabin.
After a while King Howden, wondering a great deal about his own stupidity, passed into the cabin and went to bed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
October set in as no other October had done within the memory of Keith McBain.
"It does nothing but rain in this country from the looks of things," he said to old Gabe Smith, who was going over the works with his old boss. "There's nothing for us but an early close—we may as well shut down at once. Last night the sun set clear and—look at it now."
It was late afternoon and the whole sky was heavy. The sun had broken through the clouds in the west, but behind the clouds the sky was red. The breeze that rustled in the poplars was chill—even cold—and carried the yellow leaves before it, or lifted them from the ground in little eddying gusts that whirled sharply in the open for a moment and then lost themselves in the closer branches of the shrubbery.
"We've had frost nearly every night this week," Gabe offered by way of corroborating what Keith McBain had said. "A little more and there'll be no workin' with the slushers at all."
McBain walked a short distance in silence and then turned back towards the camp.
"No use going any farther," he remarked at last, as if he were talking to himself. "This job's about done, anyhow, and the next move will be clear up to the valley—just north of town. Might as well hustle up the bit that's left here and move the outfit into town for the winter. It'll give us an early start for the spring, anyhow."
It required all of two weeks to complete what was still left of the work Keith McBain had contracted for at that point in the right-of-way where his camp had stood for the months of August and September. With good weather conditions it would have been completed in three or four days. But every morning found the ground that had been wet the day before frozen into a hard crust that made work impossible until noon. The work dragged along at a rate that would have tried the patience of anyone. It kept Keith McBain in a state of ill-temper from which, during the whole of the two weeks, he never recovered.
During those two weeks, however, the men who worked for Keith McBain were conscious of a change in the old contractor's manner that pleased some quite as much as it displeased others. In September it had been freely admitted by all that the old man was losing his grip. His power was going. His commands were not always obeyed, and no one retreated before his outbursts of profanity as they had once done.
But now—Old Silent was back on the job, loved and hated as before, driving his men recklessly in their labors and sparing himself as little as he spared his men, building from day to day, as conditions permitted, as if the whole responsibility of constructing a great national transcontinental highway rested upon his shoulders alone. The change was so complete, and so sudden, too, that the men marvelled. At first they observed it individually and thought it over quietly, without offering any comment. Later they began to discuss it in groups. Soon it became the chief topic of conversation.
Under ordinary circumstances little consideration would have been given to Keith McBain's return to his former habits. The men would have observed it, mentioned it casually, perhaps, and with smiles on their faces—and gone back to their work. But the circumstances under which the change had taken place were not ordinary. No man in the camp—not even McCartney—could account for it. The explanation was hidden behind Old Silent's grey, inscrutable countenance. As a matter of fact, the discussions in which the men engaged during the long, chilly evenings were not prompted solely—nor in the main—by any desire to find the explanation.
No one would have spoken at any length on the subject had it not been for the fact that among the men working for Keith McBain were a number who for some time had refused to admit that Keith McBain was recovering from his long period of inefficiency and weak management. When they were finally forced to admit what was so obvious that no one could remain blind to it, they became violent in their dislike for his harsh methods and intolerant moods. When they could no longer discredit him they began to denounce him. The group was a formidable element in camp—and was led ostensibly by McCartney, who doubtless saw one of his fondest hopes declining.
One incident that occurred during those two weeks marked the turning point in all the discussions that were going on. The night had been cold, with rain and a little snow, the first of the season. The morning was wet, and underfoot the ground was slushy. The men had risen at the usual time and gone to breakfast at the sound of the gong. When breakfast was almost over, but before any man had yet risen from the table, Keith McBain appeared in the doorway of the cook-camp and ordered the men out as usual. No word was spoken in reply and McBain, after waiting a moment in the doorway of the camp, went out to prepare for the day's work. No sooner had he disappeared than protests broke loose from fully half the men at once. They appealed to McCartney, and leaving the table, went off in a surly mood to the bunk house, confident that, if anything could be done, McCartney would do it. McBain himself was already out on the grade, and McCartney strode over boldly to apprise him of the temper of the men.
Not more than three of the men heard the interview between Old Silent and his foreman. But all three heard alike—and the reports that all three brought in concerning what they had seen were sufficiently similar to leave no one in doubt as to their being, in the main, correct. McCartney's first word had brought Keith McBain down on him like a hurricane, before which the foreman had capitulated, even cringed, and had asked the old boss to speak to the men himself.
And Keith McBain had spoken to the men, with the result that only two in the whole camp refused to go to work. These he promptly handed over to the time-keeper, who gave them their time, and Keith McBain personally supervised their departure from camp before he went back to his men on the grade.
From that time forward there was no doubting that the old railroad boss was still to be seriously reckoned with by any man who questioned his ability to look after his own affairs. From that time forward, moreover, the question was not so much one of whether Keith McBain was as strong a man as Bill McCartney. It was rather a question of which of the two men they were prepared to follow. For McCartney had sworn in the presence of everyone that night that he was going to break Keith McBain, and do it so completely that—well, they were to watch him and they would see for themselves.
That night the camp was split into two factions. The division had been creeping in for months. It was now complete. On one side were the men who had succumbed to McCartney's loud boastings, and had found in certain dark hints that he had given concerning the old contractor's past, good food for fattening an old-time grudge. On the other side were the men who hated McCartney as much as they sympathized with Keith McBain, and generally speaking there was a strong affection for the old contractor in spite of his harsh manner. Night after night during those two weeks the breach between the two factions broadened, and on a half-dozen occasions threatened to end in a free fight.
In the meantime King Howden rapidly recovered his normal condition. Twice he had gone to the end-of-the-steel for the mail, and had returned to town after his long trips in better spirits than when he had left. On each trip he managed to drop off at McBain's camp about meal-time, and spend an hour or more talking to Cherry and her father. But not once did the difficult position in which Keith McBain was placed come up for discussion. Nor did King Howden drop as much as a hint to Cherry that he still remembered the night when he had stood alone under the tamaracs and had made known his determination to win in the game he was playing with Bill McCartney.
The third trip, however, was different from the others. Cherry had secretly been expecting King all day long. He arrived finally late in the afternoon, and with him Anne. Cherry received the girl with as much cordiality as she could command. The four took supper together and King went at once, leaving Anne with Cherry until he returned.
That night Keith McBain retired early and left the two girls alone together. In spite of herself, Cherry found her heart warming towards Anne as the evening wore on.
"Don't you sometimes find it hard to be alone so much, Anne?" she asked, when their conversation had drifted into more or less personal channels.
Anne's reply was at first non-committal.
"Ain't you alone, too?" she asked.
"Yes," Cherry replied, "and I feel—sometimes—as if I can't stand it any longer. But then—I have my father."
"Yes," Anne responded, "it's different. An' when you ask me if I find it hard—I do. Sometimes—well, I just don't think about it. If I started thinkin' I'd go crazy. But thinkin' doesn't get you anywhere."
They were both silent for some time, Cherry intent upon some sewing that she was doing, Anne sitting watching her across the table. At last Cherry made another effort.
"I hope you won't think it funny of me, Anne," she remarked, looking up at the girl and smiling, "but I have never known you by anything other than—just Anne. King never introduced us properly."
"There's been mighty little time for introducin' anyone," Anne replied.
"Yes; but King has never even told me your name," Cherry continued.
Anne was not quick to answer. "Reason is," she said slowly, after a long pause, "he didn't know it himself."
Cherry's face expressed surprise.
"But I thought you and he were good friends," she remarked—and something of the old Eve was rising in her. She had been struggling all evening to keep it down, but now she found herself searching Anne's face for the slightest change of color or expression that would betray her feelings.
The girl spoke very quietly. "We are—if you want to put it like that," she replied.
There was a note in Anne's voice that was unmistakably cold, and Cherry reproached herself at once.
"Really, Anne," she said, and she turned her eyes away as she spoke; "I didn't mean to be personal. Please forgive me."
"That's nothin'!" replied Anne quickly. "Fact is—when I came to the settlement I wanted nothin' better than to be left alone. When I hired with MacMurray he asked me my name an' I told him 'Anne'. If he'd asked what else—I'd 'a' lied to him. But he didn't. An' no one else ever asked till just now. I could lie about it—but I'm not goin' to. When I tell you—I'll tell you straight. Better leave it at that."
Though Anne's voice was cold and without feeling, Cherry knew that at heart the girl was tender, even affectionate. When Anne got up from where she had been sitting and went to the window where she stood looking out into the night, Cherry set aside her sewing and followed her. For a moment she stood behind Anne, neither of them speaking a word.
At last Cherry put her arms about her and held her in a warm, impulsive embrace.
"Anne," she said, "let's be friends. I'm alone—and so are you. But you're older than I am, and I want you to like me."
Anne turned to her and looked at her very steadily for a long time before she spoke.
"Ain't you like the rest of them?" she asked.
Cherry did not understand the question.
"What rest—who?" she asked in surprise.
"Oh, the whole bunch," Anne jerked out impatiently; "the women in the town. They don't like me—an' they go out o' the way to show it. God!—sometimes I hate to think I belong to them—but they ain't women."
"Oh, yes, they are, Anne," Cherry replied, "but they don't understand, that's all."
"Understand? Understand—nothin'! I was ready to like them before I understood them. When I got to understand them—I passed 'em up. One good thing—they ain't many—so it don't matter much."
"Well, don't put me with them, Anne," Cherry returned.
Anne did not reply at once, but when she did there was caution in her tone.
"Do you remember the first time you saw me?" she asked.
"Yes."
Cherry had remembered—the memory of it had burned itself into her brain.
"Did you speak to me then as if you understood?" Anne questioned.
Cherry remained silent.
"An' then for two days," Anne continued, "did you act like you understood and wanted to be friends?"
Cherry could stand the questioning no longer.
"Anne, Anne," she pleaded, "don't talk like that. Let me tell you—can't you see what it all means, Anne—I love him—I was jealous."
"Jealous?" Anne stood back from her in surprise.
"When I saw you standing——."
"You mean King?" Anne asked her suddenly.
Cherry nodded her head.
At first Anne seemed about to laugh, but the smile died on her lips.
"Listen to me," she said. "Where'd you get that? If I was goin' to pick someone right now—I'd pick King Howden. But I ain't pickin' anyone, an' I'll tell you why. Now, you get this straight. In the first place he wouldn't stand for me, that's all there is to that. He never told me, because we never talked about it—but I don't have to be told. Anyhow, all that don't matter—it's nowhere with me. There's another reason—I ain't lookin' for a partner. I wasn't goin' to tell you this—but you might as well know."
She paused a moment and looked at Cherry.
"D'you know," she continued meditatively, "I didn't want to make this trip down here this time. I wasn't comin', only King Howden told me to come an' get on talkin' terms with you. I didn't like you—but I came because he wanted me to. That's how much I like him, an' it's a whole lot. But I'm glad I came. I think I'll get to likin' you—I like you now—or I wouldn't tell you what I never told another soul in this part o' the world. The reason I ain't choosin' anythin' particular among the 'legible gents that's hangin' round is that I—I made a choice once. It was sure a bad one, but—I'm standin' by it."
"You're not married, Anne?" exclaimed Cherry in surprise.
Anne nodded in the affirmative.
"I was once, anyhow," she commented with a smile.
Cherry could say nothing in reply—so complete was her surprise.
"Just now," Anne added, after a moment of silence, "I'm doin' what most women have to do sooner or later—I'm stayin' round to keep my old man from makin' an ass of himself. The most of 'em will do it if they're left alone."
"Then he's here?" Cherry exclaimed with fresh surprise.
"Lord, yes—he's here," Anne replied.
When Cherry did not reply Anne took her hands and looked long and steadily into her eyes.
"My name," she said slowly, "is Anne—Anne McCartney."
For once Cherry checked herself before she put her thoughts into words. She drew Anne towards her and held her close for a long time in silence.
In her heart was a riot of confused emotions. She could not resist the overwhelming satisfaction she felt upon learning at last that her suspicions concerning King were foolish and without foundation. She reproached herself inwardly for having entertained such fears. Then her self-reproach vanished before the supreme joy that came to her—he was still the man she had known him to be when first they rode together on the trail. It was only natural that the hatred she had for McCartney should now cause her some uneasiness in the presence of the woman who bore his name. In the end her heart went out in pity to the girl who was struggling through life with a burden such as she herself knew nothing of.
It was this feeling that was strongest in her heart as she pressed Anne very close to her and kissed her. Anne sensed at once what was in Cherry's mind, and drew back.
"Don't start pityin' me," she said abruptly. "I did it—an' I did it with my eyes open. An' now that I've told you"—she put her fingers to her lips—"don't muss everything. You got that out o' me when I—I forgot myself."
She spoke impatiently, but Cherry hurried to reassure her.
"You can trust me, Anne," she said.
"When it comes to that," Anne replied, "there's nobody like your own self. Still—I'm goin' to count on you—not a word."
That night was the longest night Cherry McBain had ever known. So many questions chased each other through her mind that sleep was impossible. She felt herself the plaything of a score of different forces, at the mercy of cross-currents over which she had no control and against which it was useless for her to battle.
One thing especially troubled her. Should she have told Anne all she knew about McCartney? She had hesitated because her father was so vitally involved. Besides, she didn't know what plans were in King's mind. When the first grey of the dawn came through her window she had come to a decision: she would tell Anne all about it in the morning.
When they were alone together after they had eaten their breakfast, Cherry summoned all her courage and began her story. Anne stopped her before she had spoken a dozen words.
"You're not tellin' me a thing I don't know," she said. "Didn't I say I was here to keep Bill McCartney from playin' the damn fool? Well, he'll do that in spite of me—but I'm not goin' to let him make as big a fool of others as he has of me. Let's go and look at the horses."