Early that afternoon King arrived, and Anne went back to town with him. Cherry stood on the trail at the end of the pathway leading from the cabin, and watched them until they were out of sight. She was on the point of turning back again to the cabin when she caught sight of her father coming towards her."Well, girl," said Keith McBain when he had joined her, "the work's over. We begin moving the outfit to-morrow."Cherry had been expecting the announcement every day for the past week, but when it actually came at last it found her sad in the thought of leaving the spot where all that had ever mattered much in her life—save the death of her mother—had occurred."I can get ready any time, father," she replied. "But—I'll hate to leave my trees—and my cabin—and my hills."The old man looked down at his daughter and smiled. Then he put his arm about her and the two went off down the pathway together.CHAPTER SIXTEENThe next day Keith McBain's men began to break up the old camp. By night the first wagons were loaded and ready for the trail in the morning. McBain's decision to store his outfit in The Town rather than take it to the end-of-the-steel, met with the men's approval. It meant a shorter haul, and it meant a foregathering of the men from farther up the line, including Rubble's gang, as a sort of final wind-up of the season's activities. In three days there was nothing left of the old camp, except a few walls and foundations—and the little log cabin in the shelter of the tamaracs. Keith McBain had acceded to his daughter's wish to remain "just another day," and had allowed his men, under the supervision of McCartney and Gabe Smith, to go ahead and complete the task of putting the outfit under cover and preparing winter shelter for the horses.When Cherry and her father arrived just a day after the last freight team, the place had already begun to take on a holiday appearance. They were met by Hugh Hurley, who took them at once to his cottage, where he insisted upon their staying until McBain could have a cabin of his own erected. Leaving Cherry with Mrs. Hurley, Old Silent went out to see what had been accomplished by his men. Scarcely an hour's work had been done, under either old Gabe or McCartney, towards storing the equipment, and half the men were already showing the effects of frequent visits to Cheney's. Gabe was the first to meet McBain when he arrived, and at once he confessed that scarcely a thing had been accomplished. The old contractor laid his plans carefully and with quiet deliberation. He had a long talk with Hugh Hurley, and together the two visited King Howden in his shack on the ridge, where the three talked late into the night.Next morning Keith McBain was out at daybreak rounding up his gang and getting them ready for the day's work. He found nearly half of them unable to report for duty, but the others responded readily, and were soon at work hauling timbers and clearing spaces for the erection of the corrals. When they were well under way McBain went to Hurley's office, where he found King Howden, and bringing him out, put him in charge of the men.Until noon the work went along quite smoothly, and Keith McBain watched King with approval growing in his heart. Noon, however, brought the discovery to McCartney, and to those who had not responded to McBain's call, that the work was apparently proceeding successfully without them. For an hour or so there were petty councils here and there, in MacMurray's and Cheney's places particularly, and one by one the men stepped away and went to work, though many of them took their directions from King with ill enough grace. Keith McBain and Hugh Hurley watched the process from the latter's office, and smiled to themselves at what they saw. Before night a scant half dozen were all that remained aloof from the operations—these and Bill McCartney, who had stayed discreetly apart all day.Nightfall found Cheney's place crowded to the door. There was a feeling of expectancy in the air and the men gathered quickly and fell to discussing the events of the day. But discussion led nowhere. There seemed to be general disagreement on almost every point that was raised. McCartney stood back from the crowd with a smile fixed on his face, apparently enjoying the discomfiture and allowing the men to develop their differences as they wished. What he wanted just now was disorganization and confusion—the more of it the better. Any organization must of necessity centre round Keith McBain, who was the sole embodiment of authority of any kind in the place. When disorder had broken McBain's control McCartney's moment would arrive. And he was confident that the card he would play was sufficiently high to win the game.The men were not altogether blind to the strangely quiescent attitude that McCartney had so suddenly assumed. Late that night, when the discussion was at its highest, someone suddenly turned upon him."Ain't you in on this, Bill McCartney?" asked one of the men who had been a participant in more than one heated argument during the evening."Sure, I'm in on it," he replied, "but I'm not talkin' just now.""Not talkin' just now? Hell, when are you goin' to do your talkin'?"By this time the men had turned their attention to McCartney, and stood waiting for his reply."Well, boys," he said, with a sneer, "I'll begin talkin' when I'm good and ready to talk."There was a moment's silence and then, almost in an instant, the confusion of voices was as great as ever.When the general hubbub was at its highest Tom Rickard edged his way towards McCartney and touched him on the shoulder. In a moment the two were back against the wall where they could talk without being overheard."You're playin' a fool's game, Bill," Rickard said in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper. "You're lettin' go when you could speak one word and the boys would back you up to a man."McCartney looked at Rickard a moment with a puzzled expression. He seemed to be trying to settle with himself whether or not Rickard was to be trusted. At last he smiled, a little patronizingly, and laid a hand upon Rickard's shoulder."Tom," he said, quietly, "you'd better let me play this hand the way I want to. I could get them to-night—I know that—but I want them later on. I've got something to say—and when the time comes I'm goin' to say it—don't worry. But there's something to be done first."He paused and gave Rickard another searching glance."Are you still playin' this game with me?" he asked pointedly.Rickard looked about him quickly. Then he moved close to McCartney and put out his hand. McCartney took it and nudged him gently with his elbow."Come outside—it's gettin' close in here."They went out without attracting any special attention, and when they had closed the door behind them McCartney turned towards the river. They walked the full length of the street without speaking, stopping only once to take a glance through the window at MacMurray's, where a crowd of men were gathered in the front room. When they stood at last on the bank of the river, McCartney nodded his head towards Hurley's office, standing back a short way from the street. There was a light in the window."Old Hugh is workin' late," he said, with a grunt of sarcasm.Rickard followed McCartney along the bank, until they came to the space the men had cleared in the brush during the day. A half dozen large timbers had already been hauled to the site of the new corral, and the first four had been squared and fitted together to make the foundation. A little farther down a cut had been made in the steep clay banks that ordinarily rose some fifteen feet above the water in the river, to provide a passage-way for the horses going to water. From where they stood they could see the lantern in the hands of the corral foreman, as he went about taking a last look at the horses before retiring for the night. Besides the stamping of the horses' feet on the ground, there was not a sound except the running of the water in the stream below them, now swollen from the rains of the past couple of weeks.McCartney sat down quietly on one of the timbers and beckoned Rickard to a place beside him."This looks like a bit of deep plottin'," McCartney said when Rickard was seated. "Well, forget the melodrama, Tom. It may look stagey, but I'm real serious—an' I'm goin' to be real careful, too."MacMurray's door opened, letting out a flood of light, and McCartney ceased speaking till the door was closed."You were with me on one bit of business a few weeks ago, Tom," he continued. "I've got no kick comin'—you did all you could, an' we came pretty near to gettin' away with it at that. If the old man could 'a' been kept in town another day we'd 'a' swung the thing good. It wouldn't 'a' mattered a damn whether he ever came back.""And we'd 'a' done it, too, if it hadn't been for just one thing—Anne handed the old man an ace—an' he bobbed up in camp about twenty-four hours too soon. And Anne's goin' to queer this deal right through unless we can keep her out. Now, listen to me. I know that girl—just between us, I knew her before I ever came here—an' I can tell you right now what she's goin' to do. No use goin' into cases—but I know. Anne's got to be put away—nothin' rough, y'understand——"The sound of someone approaching from behind them caused McCartney to cease speaking and get up. The corral foreman was returning to MacMurray's."Come on," McCartney whispered quickly, and led the way, with Rickard following closely behind him. They did not exchange a word until they had gone some distance up the street in the direction of Cheney's. The presence of a number of men in the street made further conversation impossible, and they entered Cheney's place, where McCartney sought at once to make amends for his previous aloofness during the evening by inviting the men to come up and "have one on him."In Hurley's office the three men, Keith McBain, King Howden and Hugh Hurley himself, sat late that night reviewing the events of the day and considering their possible bearing on the immediate future. For the benefit of Hugh Hurley, Keith McBain had gone to some length in tracing the course of events during the past few weeks."But what's his idea—what's his plan?" asked Hurley, after McBain had completed his account.Keith McBain was silent a moment before he replied."Bill McCartney wants more—more than I can tell you, Hurley—he wants——"King saw the struggle that the old man was having and came at once to his relief."I guess he wants all he can get," he broke in. "There's only one thing to do now, Mr. Hurley—we can't have him round this place—he's got to get out."Hurley smiled."You're beginning to talk business, King," replied Hurley. "If you believe what you say—you ought to be able to go where your faith leads you."King looked at him questioningly."I mean that McCartney will stay here till he's put out," the old man continued."That's what I mean," King replied quickly.Hurley's smile broadened. "I can't put the duffer out.""I didn't expect you could," King responded."Can you?"King had asked himself the same question scores of times and had made his own reply. He expressed it now as he had expressed it to himself every time the question had arisen in his own mind."Bill McCartney and King Howden can't live in the same place this winter," he said, looking straight into Hurley's eyes. "And I ain't going away."When they had finished talking the three men shook hands quietly. They had entered into a covenant on behalf of a few hundred serious men and women who had set their faces months before towards the setting sun and had followed the trail over the hills and into the little valley, where lay the only hopes that life had still to offer them—the hidden valley at the rainbow's end.And two of those three men slept as men sleep who are without care and are content with the day that is done. But Keith McBain could not sleep for the thought of the price he had already paid and the price that he was even yet to pay for his own folly.The week that followed was one of unceasing labor and careful vigilance on the part of Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain. King went forward with the work he had been given to do by Keith McBain, and paid not the slightest heed to petty obstructions that were being thrown in his way every day by men who, though pretending to serve their old boss, were really actuated by the designs of which McCartney was the maker and the inspirer.No one was unaware of McCartney's intriguing. Signs of it were in evidence everywhere. In spite of King's endeavors to hold his men together and secure concerted effort, there were little breaks and hindrances that temporarily offset his best attempts to direct the work along effective lines. Especially active among those who sided with McCartney was Tom Rickard, who had joined the gang of men under King's direction with no other object whatever than the frustration of all efforts to produce harmony among the men.Towards the end of the week, however, the division between the two sides, represented by McCartney's supporters on the one hand, and on the other by the men who were still faithful to Keith McBain and took kindly to King's methods, was so marked than an open break seemed imminent. The threatening attitude of the opposition to King was so apparent that many of his men grew impatient with his quiet forbearance.To make matters worse, the weather, that had been so unfavorable for almost a month, had turned from bad to worse. The river had risen so that the men were no longer able to get logs for building purposes from the opposite side of the stream, and were forced to make long hauls through wet brush and over rain-soaked ground, until their spirits were tested almost to the limit of endurance.McCartney was as much a student of conditions as he was an intriguer, and was not slow to recognize that, given a little more work under conditions that were nearly impossible, the break that he so ardently desired was inevitable. He stood to one side, or walked about with a smirk on his face that expressed only too well his confidence in the outcome.At one point, however, his calculations failed. Friday night found the work almost completed. In spite of all obstacles, the end of another day would see all the horses under cover and housed in buildings that would provide comfortable quarters during the weeks that lay between the closing of construction work and the opening of the tie-camps—for neither Hurley nor King would admit for a moment that the camps in the hills would not be running. They did not know how it was to be done, but they did not allow themselves to entertain the slightest doubt that the claim now registered in the name of McCartney would yet be worked without his permission or assistance.Keith McBain was not nearly so sanguine. He knew—as no one else knew, except King and Cherry—that McCartney still held his high card and would play it when the time was ripe. What the results would be he could not guess—he could see nothing but chaos and disintegration ahead. King clung to the hope—it was a sort of blind faith with him—that somewhere, somehow, Keith McBain's fears would prove to be groundless. Cherry was cheerful, even hopeful, though none knew whether her high spirits were genuine or feigned. She drew some comfort, at least, from the knowledge that, if McCartney had a card to play, so had she—and she would play it when the moment was most opportune.But to all this McCartney was apparently blind. He had one desire, one aim so single and so unshakeable that he could see nothing else. His mind was bent upon winning the game at all costs—or, losing it, to work such havoc in the place that no one would stay. It was all a bit of frontier politics, with all the ruthlessness and much of the intrigue and petty conspiracy that mark the game of politics as it was played, just over the hills, in the well-dressed, highly organized society that these men had left in the hope of gaining a new freedom from the restraints of their old life.Sooner or later the break was bound to come—and McCartney had timed it to suit his own convenience. Saturday morning Tom Rickard turned out with the men as usual, and drove the team he had been driving all week. King had left the scene of operations and had walked slowly down the narrow trail worn by the logs that had been dragged out of the woods during the week. He had gone a little more than half way towards the point where the trail branched off in several directions at once and lost itself in the woods. Rickard and a companion were just emerging from the cover of the trees, bringing out two bits of timber bound together at one end with a heavy logging chain. Suddenly Rickard's team stopped with a jerk. The logs had slipped into an awkward position, wedged between two stout poplars that held them as in a vice.King came up to them and looked for a moment at the muddle without speaking. Had Rickard showed the slightest good judgment he would never have allowed himself to get into the tangle. King knew that—but he stopped the words that were on his lips. Turning to Rickard's companion he directed him to make use of his cant-hook and dislodge the timbers. His request was made in a quiet tone and without anything offensive in his manner, and he stepped away from the men and started round to the other side of the horses to watch the work.As he did so he heard Rickard muttering something that was meant for his companion, though he did not conceal the fact that he cared very little whether King heard it or not.King stopped and came back."Just now, Rickard, this is a one man's job," he said. "You get that straight."Rickard's mouth curled up into a sneer. He seemed on the point of making a reply, but he looked at King's face and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously without speaking.King then turned to Rickard's companion and stood by until the logs were cleared. Then he gave Rickard orders to go ahead. Letting loose a string of oaths, Rickard struck the horses with the knotted ends of the lines, and continued lashing them as he drove them at a mad pace down the trail and round the corner to where the men were working.King stood in the trail and watched Rickard abusing his team until the blood was hot in his veins. He made a quick start to overtake him—and then suddenly checked himself. Stepping back a little among the trees he waited.In a few minutes Rickard returned for another load. King waited until he came opposite him in the trail, and then stepped out. Rickard's companion had not come back as yet and he was alone."Whoa!" King said to the horses, and he stepped before them in the trail.Then he faced Rickard."Tie up here a minute," he said, indicating with his hand a tree conveniently near, to which the team could be made secure.Rickard looked at King quickly and again gave a shrug of contempt."Rickard," King said, "that won't get you anywhere. Tie up—here!""I will—like——"Rickard never finished his sentence. King was beside him with one step and had seized him by the shoulder."Rickard!" he said, sharply.Rickard looked at him for a moment, and then going to the heads of the horses, led his team over to the tree and made them fast."Go in there," King commanded, and pointed into the woods in the direction of the river.Rickard did not turn to look this time, but picked his way through the underbrush, with King close at his heels. When they came within a yard or two of the bank of the river King spoke again."This will do," he said. "I'm going to talk to you for about one minute, and I want you to listen."All the quietness had vanished both from King's voice and from his manner. He was shaking with passion and his face was almost white. He laid one hand on Rickard's shoulder and closed his fingers in a vice-like grip."Ten minutes ago, Rickard," he said, "by God, I'd have killed you. Just now, you dirty whelp—I'll give you about thirty seconds to make up your mind to get out. Leave that team where it is and get back out of the way till this job's done. If you're in town by Monday night I'll take my own way of putting you out. A little better than two days—that's enough time to square up and hit the trail. Are you ready?"Rickard squirmed under King's hand, but King pulled him up suddenly."Are you ready?" he repeated.Rickard nodded."Then move!"King waited until he had gone a few yards before he followed him. They had not retraced more than half the distance they had come when they heard a great splash in the river behind them. They turned at once and looked back. A large section of the river bank, undermined by the action of the water, had fallen and had taken away the very ground on which they had been standing only a moment before.King paused in silent contemplation of how petty, after all, are the things that vex us most. Only a moment did he allow his mind to wander from the business he had in hand; then he faced Rickard again, and without a word the two went off together.King took the team back and gave it into the keeping of one of the men. He never left Rickard's side, however, until he had seen him safely away from the workers. Then he returned and went on with his work.That evening the task was completed and King, after taking supper at MacMurray's and chatting a moment with Anne, walked over to Hurley's to talk with Cherry a little before he went to his shack. All day his mind had reverted time and time again to the incident with Rickard, and more especially to what seemed like a miraculous escape from what might have meant death to both. Now that the work was over and his mind was free, the whole affair came back upon him with renewed freshness. He told it all to Cherry and Mrs. Hurley, and when he had finished, Cherry, who had listened throughout without speaking a word, turned a serious face to King and put her hand upon his arm."It looks almost—as if God himself were helping us," she said.She did not speak fervently, nor with any emotion. Her voice was quiet and her tone matter-of-fact. And yet King was struck by the simplicity of her manner. She evidently believed implicitly in what she had said—and King found himself impelled to share somewhat in her faith.It was the last thought that lingered in his mind that night before he went to sleep to the sound of the rain falling upon the roof of his shack.Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain sat together in the land office very late that night. No one in town was in any mood for going to bed, and the sounds that came from Cheney's and MacMurray's bore ample evidence to the fact that the men were apparently preparing to make a night of it. Old Gabe Smith dropped in when it was very late and stayed long enough to observe, among other things, that if the rain didn't soon cease in the hills the water in the river would be over the top of the bank.After Gabe had gone, the two men decided upon taking a walk down to the river to look at the rising water. What they saw when they got there struck fear into their hearts at once. Since it had grown dark the stream had risen a full foot, and was now rushing with terrific force around the bend, about the outer angle of which clustered the huts and cabins of the little town. Already the current had swept away large portions of the high bank, in which there was no rock or stone of any account to offer any resistance to the enormous weight of water that swept down like a vicious cataract out of the hills."Look yonder," Hurley said, suddenly.Keith McBain turned to look in the direction indicated. Further up stream a little shack stood, with one corner already projecting over the edge of the bank. In a few hours at most the ground upon which it stood would be swept away and the shack with it.Without losing a moment they hurried back to MacMurray's and called out the men who had not yet retired for the night. In less than five minutes, more than a score were at work, and before another half hour had passed, the shack had been moved back upon safe ground.By the time the excitement was over there was not a man left in either MacMurray's or Cheney's. Everyone was out, either to help or look on. Keith McBain had left and gone back with Hurley to the office when the immediate danger was past. They were not in the crowd when Gabe Smith came running excitedly to the men to announce that the bank was falling away just above the place where the corral and equipment sheds had been built during the week.At once the men hurried toward the corral. For a few minutes there was much excited and aimless running about on the part of the men, without any organization, and without any plan. Soon, however, there emerged certain unfailing indications that a part of the gang, at any rate, were under direction. Gabe Smith was probably the first to observe it, and his suspicions were confirmed when he saw McCartney's huge frame moving among the men. There was organization, but designed to frustrate all efforts to save the buildings, rather than to assist.Gabe left the crowd of men, who were already wrangling among themselves, and hurried to find Keith McBain. He had his hand upon the door of the office and was about to open it, when he felt himself seized by the shoulder and hurled back so violently that he stumbled and fell to the ground.He looked up and saw McCartney standing over him."Stay out of the way, you old crust," McCartney said, "an' you won't get hurt."In a moment the office door was opened and Hurley was standing in the lighted doorway, with McBain behind him."What's wrong?" demanded Hurley.For reply McCartney stepped into the office, pushing Hurley before him, and closed the door behind him."This ain't an old man's town—that's what's wrong," he said.Hurley expressed his astonishment."Well, but—an old man can live here as well as anywhere else, can't he?" he protested."All depends," McCartney replied, smiling cynically. "We'll settle that some other time. Just now I have business with Keith McBain.""It's time to settle," he said, looking at McBain who, for a moment, seemed beaten in the struggle that was raging within him.Suddenly he stood up and looked at McCartney, his eyes burning with the fierce hate that was in his soul. When he spoke his voice seemed a little uncertain, as if he were struggling to keep back the tears from his eyes. But almost immediately he mastered himself and spoke deliberately enough, if not quietly."What is it, McCartney?" he asked."Gabe Smith was here to announce to you that the new buildings an' the outfit is all goin' down stream before daybreak unless they're moved," McCartney replied."And is nothing going to be done?" asked McBain."That's just what I'm here for," returned McCartney. "It'll be done if you're ready to come through.""Well—what will settle it?" Keith McBain asked in a voice that had almost a touch of weariness in it."We've talked about all that before—there's no change," McCartney replied.Hurley looked from one man to the other in bewilderment."And if I refuse?" asked McBain."You're wastin' time," McCartney snapped.Keith McBain raised his voice a little, but spoke with much the same deliberateness as before."For two years, McCartney, I've been in hell expecting this time to arrive any day. I'm past that now. I've settled it—and I'm going to see it to the end. Don't think you can frighten me—I'm old, but—I'll pay."The words seemed to strike McCartney almost dumb."You'll pay?" he asked."Yes—go ahead—tell all you know!""By God, then, you will pay," McCartney exclaimed, and throwing the door open, went out.Hurley stepped over and, closing the door, turned to McBain."What is this—this bargain, Keith?" he asked."For two years he has kept a secret that has held me bound to him—because I have been afraid to die.""Die?" Hurley exclaimed."Hugh—I have killed a man."For a moment they stood in silence and did not look at each other. Then Keith McBain moved wearily towards the door. Before he went out he turned and looked back at Hurley."Hugh," he said, quietly, "look after the men—I'm going to the girl."Then he opened the door slowly and went out.McCartney stood alone in the darkness by the river and waited for Rickard, whose form was faintly visible a few yards up the river. When Rickard had joined him, McCartney caught him by the arm."Well?" he asked."All smooth," Rickard replied."Nothin' rough?" McCartney prompted."I said—all smooth," Rickard returned, a little impatiently.They walked together to within a few yards of the men and stood looking at them. McCartney's group were in the majority, and stood near the corral. Some distance back the others stood about in small groups, talking angrily among themselves.A bit of the bank dropped away and fell with a dull splash into the water.McCartney put a cigarette into his mouth and applied a match leisurely."I ain't much on religion, Rick," he said, jocularly, "but the Almighty sure looks friendly to-night."CHAPTER SEVENTEENKing awoke with a start. He had been sleeping very soundly, and at first, after he had opened his eyes, he had difficulty in bringing his senses to bear directly on what had disturbed him. The faint grey dawn was already at the window. Somewhere there had been a thumping and—the sound of a voice that, even to his sleep-fogged consciousness, was vaguely familiar.For a moment he waited, sitting up in his bunk and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Suddenly the thumping was repeated—someone was at the door. Then he heard his name called and the sound of the voice brought him to his senses at once. It was the voice of Cherry McBain.In an instant he was at the door."What's wrong?" he asked excitedly.Cherry's voice was full of alarm. "Get dressed quickly, King," she replied. "We want you."King hurried into his clothes, and going to the door again shot the wooden bar back from its socket and threw the door open. A very light drizzling rain was still falling, and Cherry shook the wet wrap from her head and shoulders as she stepped through the doorway. In his hurry King had not taken time to light the lamp, but even in the darkness he could see the expression of fear on her face. Without waiting to close the door he placed an arm about her shoulders and drew her towards him."Oh, King!" she cried, "it's come—it's come!"He did not need to ask what had come. He knew. Leading her gently to a seat he left her, and sitting down on the edge of his bunk, drew on his boots and laced them hurriedly. Then he got up quickly and throwing on his coat, took his hat and turned to Cherry."All right—I'm ready," he announced.Cherry got up from her seat and moved towards the door. She had not spoken while King was completing his preparations to go out, and he knew that she had been weeping silently.When she got as far as the open doorway she paused and turned to him."King—King—" she began, but her voice failed her.King stepped close to her and took her arm."Tell me about it as we go," he said.She moved towards him, and reaching up placed her hands on his shoulders. King looked down at her face, white and tense in the darkness."You must fight, King," she said, with an emphasis that to King seemed almost pathetic.He pressed her closer for reply."And you must win," she added.He smiled faintly. "I'm ready," he said.Her hands crept slowly about his neck, and King, with a suddenness that swept her off her feet, caught her to him and pressed a kiss upon her mouth, a kiss in which all the pent-up passion of weeks found expression at last.When he released her he stood with his arms about her for a brief moment, trembling before her."I don't deserve it," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "I guess I'll never deserve that—but I wanted to win first—to win for you."She leaned a little closer to him and then drew herself up and clung tightly with her arms about his neck."King," she said, breathlessly, "I love you—I love you!"Again he put his lips to hers quickly, passionately—and then put her back from him."We must get along down now," he said.Cherry drew her wrap around her and they went out together.A few minutes' walking brought them within sight of the town, apparently peaceful in the cold grey glimmer of light just breaking in the east. So quiet was it that King began to wonder if the disturbances of which Cherry had been telling him as they came along had not been settled. Then suddenly there arose a shout from the further side of the town, near the river, and King quickened his pace almost to a run, giving Cherry all she could do to keep up. At last his eagerness mastered him, and leaving Cherry with a last warning to go back to Hurley's cottage and not to stir until he should come for her, he left her and went off at a run in the direction of the shouting.What King saw when he reached the point in the street where it turned and ran along the bank of the river made him stand a moment aghast. Back against the trees the buildings stood, huddling together closely in the cold light of the early morning. The water in the river was almost level with the ground on which he was standing, and large sections of the bank had been swept away during the night, until the corral in which the horses were placed before King left town the night before, was now standing on the very brink of the flood.This was in itself enough to strike fear into King's heart, but the movements of the men were what concerned him most. Half-drunken still from their night's debauch they seemed to be rolling about in a kind of ridiculous orgy, stumbling and falling and scrambling to their feet again, shouting and cursing and grappling each other in frenzied disorder.A glance was enough for King to realize fully what was wrong. He could not see McCartney anywhere among the men, but Cherry had told him enough—if telling had been at all necessary. Back a little from the struggling mass stood six or eight men, looking on quietly and talking among themselves. King recognized them as some of his own men, upon whom he thought he could rely for support. In a moment he was standing in the middle of the group."What are you standing here for?" he asked. "Come on—get into it!"In a flash they were into the struggle, King leading them as they bored their way through in an effort to reach the corral. King's plan was clear in his own mind. Once with his back to the walls of the corral, he could call his men one by one about him, and having displaced their opponents, drive them off by united effort, break up their organization, and beat them into submission.The plan, easily enough conceived, was not so easily carried into effect. King's appearance, it is true, had raised the spirits of the men who were fighting together to settle the scores they had accumulated during weeks of growing hatred for McCartney and his crowd. But as their spirits rose, the determination of their opponents became more grim as they saw themselves faced with possible defeat where they had never dreamed of anything but an easy victory. The fight became more and more furious every minute. Whereas before King's coming they had fought without much bad temper and with little evidence of losing control of themselves, now they struck out madly and grappled with the fierceness of men in a battle where life and death depended upon the outcome. They had fought only with their fists before. Now sticks and clubs began to make their appearance as if by magic, and in many cases the fight was for the possession of weapons.Once King saw the flash of a knife between two men who were struggling near him. Turning quickly he struck the fellow who held it, sending him to the ground, where he sprawled clumsily in an effort to escape being trampled under the feet of the fighters. The knife had fallen to the ground, and King, placing his foot on it for a moment, waited while he beat back a struggling pair who were close to him. Then stooping quickly he picked up the knife and threw it into the river. No sooner had he thrown it away than the owner pushed his way towards King and accosted him for having attacked him. He was one of King's men.King pushed him back angrily."Let them start that," he cried in a voice that rose above the din. "Get in there!"He pointed to where a group of his men were now massed against their opponents and were driving them back slowly from the corral.Then his eyes shifted suddenly in a new direction. Pushing his way through the crowd towards King, was McCartney, his huge shoulders towering above the other men, his dark face serious and totally divested of its usual cynical smile. Not far behind him, on the outskirts of the crowd, stood Old Silent.King wasted no time on the men about him. If McCartney's anxiety to reach him were greater than his own, there was no indication of the fact in the eagerness with which King pressed towards him, pushing first one and then another out of the way as he went forward.When the two men faced each other at last they paused a moment, and their eyes met in a long look in which there was something more than mere hatred. In fact, an observer might have refused to believe that the look was one of hate. There was grim resolve and unwavering determination to settle an account of long standing. But, for a moment at least, there arose in King's heart a feeling of something like admiration for the embodiment of sheer brute strength that stood before him. King did not pause long enough to ask what lingered in the look McCartney gave him. He saw only that the tense seriousness that had darkened the face of McCartney was gradually giving place to the old sneer that had always played about one corner of his mouth—and the sight stung him to madness. He thought of Cherry McBain—he thought of the man whose life for two years had been one long curse to him—he thought of the woman who had died of a broken heart—and he stepped quickly and struck out at the sneering face before him.The dawn in the east had spread upward from the horizon and filled the sky, still clouded, with a thin grey light. There was light enough, however, to make every movement easily discernible, and King watched his opponent from the beginning with an alertness that rendered him proof against any foul play. He was not going to be taken unawares, at any rate. If he were beaten it would be because he had matched himself against a better man.Gradually the other men fell away from them and left the ground clear. McCartney's men had been driven back and were beaten. But friend and foe alike came round to watch what they rightly guessed was to be the last scene in a play that had been running for many weeks. Keith McBain himself stood off to one side, his face ashen white, his eyes set immovably upon the men who were settling once and for all, he hoped, not only their own accounts, but his as well. Old Gabe Smith stood directly behind King, calling out words of encouragement in his little piping voice, and totally oblivious to the existence of anyone else in the world.For fully five minutes the two men walked cautiously about each other, striking out quickly but lightly, and stepping back immediately to recover themselves after each advance. Though the sneer never left McCartney's face, there was behind it a deep seriousness that expressed well the fact that he was fully conscious of the magnitude of the task before him. King's face was tense, set, terribly earnest.Only once was there any interference from the bystanders. Mike Cheney, who had been an interested spectator during the whole struggle, pushed his way to the inner part of the circle of men and voiced a feeble protest. The men near him laughed and jostled him out of the way. He was content to remain where he was, though he no doubt felt there was something incongruous in the fact that when he looked round he was standing next to Hugh Hurley.After some time had passed in which the men had remained wholly on the defensive, McCartney began to advance persistently against King, who stepped back out of reach whenever he found McCartney pressing him too closely. King's wary tactics were testing the patience of his opponent. With an agility that was surprising in a man of his size, he stepped about the enclosure, keeping just out of reach of McCartney, and starting forward, snapping out his left hand when an opportunity presented itself. His blows were not heavy, but he was reaching McCartney's face and body almost every time he struck. McCartney swung and lunged heavily every time he struck at King, but his blows were without control.Growing impatient at last with following King from place to place, he closed quickly and seized King about the body. This time, however, he had misjudged his man. As he came forward King stepped in and met him with a blow from the shoulder that struck McCartney on the chin. His full weight was behind the blow and McCartney's head went back from the force of it. Then his arms went round King and he hung on dazedly in an attempt to gain a little more time for recovery. But King was determined to make his recovery as difficult as possible. With McCartney's full weight bearing him down, he sent half a dozen quick, short blows to the body that made his opponent gasp for breath.But McCartney kept his hold and tightened it, so that King found himself in a grip that made striking impossible. It was just this situation that King had tried to avoid. He knew McCartney's strength was probably more than a match for his own, and he had hoped that he might be able to keep him at a distance. As he felt the powerful arms closing more and more tightly about him he struggled to break the hold. After a few moments, however, he knew that his efforts were in vain. McCartney had him in a grip that reduced his effectiveness and made any attempt to break it simply a waste of reserve strength. He locked his arms about McCartney's shoulders and threw his whole weight upon him. His change of tactics was so sudden that McCartney staggered for a moment under his weight, and in that moment King's foot shot out suddenly and the two men went to the ground together, locked in each other's arms. Once, twice, three times, they rolled over, each attempting to gain the advantage of position without success. Then suddenly they broke apart and scrambled to their feet again, crouching at opposite sides of the circle.For some seconds the men faced each other without attacking, both apparently taking advantage of even a brief breathing spell. Those who were anxious for McCartney's defeat began to express their impatience at King's failure to assume the aggressive. McCartney was plainly weakening under the punishment that King was inflicting. The fact that his aggressive tactics had not already brought the fight to an end had taken the heart out of McCartney. The face that during the earlier stages of the struggle had borne a sneer was now painfully serious.Even Hugh Hurley caught some of the excitement of the crowd as he saw that a well-directed aggressive on King's part would bring an end to the fight in a few minutes. Keith McBain's eyes were fixed upon King's face. Once or twice during the short lull in the struggle they exchanged glances. Keith McBain's heart sank within him, and he moved round to get closer to King. There was a look in King's eyes that he could not understand. When he found a place directly behind him he stepped in a little and put one hand on King's shoulder."Just a bit more, boy," he said, encouragingly. "He's nearly done."King seemed on the point of turning his head to reply, but just then McCartney started towards him. This time King took a half step towards him and met the rush without attempting to step aside. Both men struck at the same moment, and both blows went home. McCartney's rush was checked, but the full force of his rush was behind the blow that caught King on the point of the chin. For a moment King was almost overcome by a sickening dizziness that set the world spinning about him. His mind went suddenly back to the night in McBain's camp when he had been hit on the head, and there started within him a terrible fear that the darkness that had overcome him then was creeping upon him now and blotting out his senses. For fully a minute—it seemed an hour—he fought to keep his eyes open and his attention centred on McCartney. He threw his weight against him blindly and gripped him in sheer desperation. Gradually his legs steadied under him and his sight cleared. Still he clung to his man.Had McCartney had enough strength in reserve to deliver one more blow with any weight behind it, he could have finished the fight in another second. He knew as much himself, and he paused just a moment to muster what little strength he had left. Then he broke away suddenly and sent his right hand over as he stepped away. King's head went back and his arms went out before him helplessly.His men shouted to him in that one sickening moment when the sense of utter defeat was forcing itself upon him. Hurley and McBain called his name frantically, but he seemed not to hear them. He sank to the ground on one knee, holding himself as erect as possible in a last effort to meet the rush that he knew was bound to come.McCartney's men went wild with excitement. They called on him to bore in and finish it. Those behind stepped up and pushed him forward. When he didn't move they cursed him for a fool. But he stood swaying unsteadily, waiting, apparently, for King to fall to the ground.Behind King there was a sudden commotion in the crowd. Gabe Smith's thin voice was giving commands to the men to make way for him. He pushed his way to the front, leading behind him Cherry McBain."Fight—you—fight!" he cried at the top of his voice.King glanced quickly about at the sound of Gabe's voice and his eyes fell upon Cherry's face. Her look was one of pathos and appeal—but she was smiling.At once a change passed over King's countenance. Getting up he brushed his hand impatiently across his face and stepped towards McCartney. As he did so McCartney came forward and the two men met at the centre of the enclosure.From that moment neither man gave an inch of ground. Fighting furiously at close quarters they seemed both to have gained sudden strength and renewed powers of endurance. There was little attempt at defense, each man trying to inflict as much punishment as possible upon his opponent, and caring little how much he received himself.Fighting as they were, they could not hope to last much longer. The end came very suddenly. Stepping back quickly, King crouched a moment and waited for McCartney to advance. He had not a second to wait. When he saw him start he leaned far back and swung his right hand from his hip with all the strength he could command. The blow went straight and true, landing squarely on the side of McCartney's jaw, and the big foreman went down in a heap to the ground.For a moment King stood above him—but the struggle was over. Then the sickening sensation returned suddenly. He turned to Cherry, who was now at his side."Take—me—away," he said, giving her his hand.The next moment the arms of Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain were about him, and he staggered out of the crowd with Cherry and old Gabe leading the way before him.It was not until they had gone some distance that they noticed King beginning to limp badly. At every step he took his face winced with pain. Finally he asked them to let him stand for a minute."It's my foot," he said, in answer to Hurley's question. "My ankle—something happened when we fell—just wait a little—it'll be all right in a minute."After a moment's pause they started off again, but King found walking impossible. Keith McBain called a couple of men and they carried him to Hurley's cottage, where they laid him on a couch and left him in the care of Cherry and Mrs. Hurley.McBain and Hurley went off at once to the scene of the early morning struggle. Gabe lingered a little while with King, busying himself with such odd jobs as Cherry and Mrs. Hurley found for him.In a short time King had recovered sufficiently from the first ill-effects of his battle with McCartney to give some thought to what was going on outside.He called Gabe to him."Have they gone back—McBain and Hurley?" he asked.Gabe replied in the affirmative. "An' they'll handle it, too—don't you worry!" he added.King thought seriously for a moment."Gabe," he said.Gabe took the hand that King extended to him and waited."Get Anne—and bring her here," he said.Gabe went out at once and King looked at Cherry, who was standing above him, her hand resting lightly upon his head."I want to tell Anne," he said quietly. "I want her to know I didn't want to do this. I want her to understand—it had to come.""Then she told you, too?" Cherry asked.King nodded in reply. Then he reached up and took her hand."Come down here beside me," he said, and his face was very serious.Cherry knelt on the floor beside the couch."Cherry," he whispered, drawing her towards him, "I don't deserve it—but I want to kiss you."She leaned forward and King's arms went round her as their lips met.
Early that afternoon King arrived, and Anne went back to town with him. Cherry stood on the trail at the end of the pathway leading from the cabin, and watched them until they were out of sight. She was on the point of turning back again to the cabin when she caught sight of her father coming towards her.
"Well, girl," said Keith McBain when he had joined her, "the work's over. We begin moving the outfit to-morrow."
Cherry had been expecting the announcement every day for the past week, but when it actually came at last it found her sad in the thought of leaving the spot where all that had ever mattered much in her life—save the death of her mother—had occurred.
"I can get ready any time, father," she replied. "But—I'll hate to leave my trees—and my cabin—and my hills."
The old man looked down at his daughter and smiled. Then he put his arm about her and the two went off down the pathway together.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next day Keith McBain's men began to break up the old camp. By night the first wagons were loaded and ready for the trail in the morning. McBain's decision to store his outfit in The Town rather than take it to the end-of-the-steel, met with the men's approval. It meant a shorter haul, and it meant a foregathering of the men from farther up the line, including Rubble's gang, as a sort of final wind-up of the season's activities. In three days there was nothing left of the old camp, except a few walls and foundations—and the little log cabin in the shelter of the tamaracs. Keith McBain had acceded to his daughter's wish to remain "just another day," and had allowed his men, under the supervision of McCartney and Gabe Smith, to go ahead and complete the task of putting the outfit under cover and preparing winter shelter for the horses.
When Cherry and her father arrived just a day after the last freight team, the place had already begun to take on a holiday appearance. They were met by Hugh Hurley, who took them at once to his cottage, where he insisted upon their staying until McBain could have a cabin of his own erected. Leaving Cherry with Mrs. Hurley, Old Silent went out to see what had been accomplished by his men. Scarcely an hour's work had been done, under either old Gabe or McCartney, towards storing the equipment, and half the men were already showing the effects of frequent visits to Cheney's. Gabe was the first to meet McBain when he arrived, and at once he confessed that scarcely a thing had been accomplished. The old contractor laid his plans carefully and with quiet deliberation. He had a long talk with Hugh Hurley, and together the two visited King Howden in his shack on the ridge, where the three talked late into the night.
Next morning Keith McBain was out at daybreak rounding up his gang and getting them ready for the day's work. He found nearly half of them unable to report for duty, but the others responded readily, and were soon at work hauling timbers and clearing spaces for the erection of the corrals. When they were well under way McBain went to Hurley's office, where he found King Howden, and bringing him out, put him in charge of the men.
Until noon the work went along quite smoothly, and Keith McBain watched King with approval growing in his heart. Noon, however, brought the discovery to McCartney, and to those who had not responded to McBain's call, that the work was apparently proceeding successfully without them. For an hour or so there were petty councils here and there, in MacMurray's and Cheney's places particularly, and one by one the men stepped away and went to work, though many of them took their directions from King with ill enough grace. Keith McBain and Hugh Hurley watched the process from the latter's office, and smiled to themselves at what they saw. Before night a scant half dozen were all that remained aloof from the operations—these and Bill McCartney, who had stayed discreetly apart all day.
Nightfall found Cheney's place crowded to the door. There was a feeling of expectancy in the air and the men gathered quickly and fell to discussing the events of the day. But discussion led nowhere. There seemed to be general disagreement on almost every point that was raised. McCartney stood back from the crowd with a smile fixed on his face, apparently enjoying the discomfiture and allowing the men to develop their differences as they wished. What he wanted just now was disorganization and confusion—the more of it the better. Any organization must of necessity centre round Keith McBain, who was the sole embodiment of authority of any kind in the place. When disorder had broken McBain's control McCartney's moment would arrive. And he was confident that the card he would play was sufficiently high to win the game.
The men were not altogether blind to the strangely quiescent attitude that McCartney had so suddenly assumed. Late that night, when the discussion was at its highest, someone suddenly turned upon him.
"Ain't you in on this, Bill McCartney?" asked one of the men who had been a participant in more than one heated argument during the evening.
"Sure, I'm in on it," he replied, "but I'm not talkin' just now."
"Not talkin' just now? Hell, when are you goin' to do your talkin'?"
By this time the men had turned their attention to McCartney, and stood waiting for his reply.
"Well, boys," he said, with a sneer, "I'll begin talkin' when I'm good and ready to talk."
There was a moment's silence and then, almost in an instant, the confusion of voices was as great as ever.
When the general hubbub was at its highest Tom Rickard edged his way towards McCartney and touched him on the shoulder. In a moment the two were back against the wall where they could talk without being overheard.
"You're playin' a fool's game, Bill," Rickard said in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper. "You're lettin' go when you could speak one word and the boys would back you up to a man."
McCartney looked at Rickard a moment with a puzzled expression. He seemed to be trying to settle with himself whether or not Rickard was to be trusted. At last he smiled, a little patronizingly, and laid a hand upon Rickard's shoulder.
"Tom," he said, quietly, "you'd better let me play this hand the way I want to. I could get them to-night—I know that—but I want them later on. I've got something to say—and when the time comes I'm goin' to say it—don't worry. But there's something to be done first."
He paused and gave Rickard another searching glance.
"Are you still playin' this game with me?" he asked pointedly.
Rickard looked about him quickly. Then he moved close to McCartney and put out his hand. McCartney took it and nudged him gently with his elbow.
"Come outside—it's gettin' close in here."
They went out without attracting any special attention, and when they had closed the door behind them McCartney turned towards the river. They walked the full length of the street without speaking, stopping only once to take a glance through the window at MacMurray's, where a crowd of men were gathered in the front room. When they stood at last on the bank of the river, McCartney nodded his head towards Hurley's office, standing back a short way from the street. There was a light in the window.
"Old Hugh is workin' late," he said, with a grunt of sarcasm.
Rickard followed McCartney along the bank, until they came to the space the men had cleared in the brush during the day. A half dozen large timbers had already been hauled to the site of the new corral, and the first four had been squared and fitted together to make the foundation. A little farther down a cut had been made in the steep clay banks that ordinarily rose some fifteen feet above the water in the river, to provide a passage-way for the horses going to water. From where they stood they could see the lantern in the hands of the corral foreman, as he went about taking a last look at the horses before retiring for the night. Besides the stamping of the horses' feet on the ground, there was not a sound except the running of the water in the stream below them, now swollen from the rains of the past couple of weeks.
McCartney sat down quietly on one of the timbers and beckoned Rickard to a place beside him.
"This looks like a bit of deep plottin'," McCartney said when Rickard was seated. "Well, forget the melodrama, Tom. It may look stagey, but I'm real serious—an' I'm goin' to be real careful, too."
MacMurray's door opened, letting out a flood of light, and McCartney ceased speaking till the door was closed.
"You were with me on one bit of business a few weeks ago, Tom," he continued. "I've got no kick comin'—you did all you could, an' we came pretty near to gettin' away with it at that. If the old man could 'a' been kept in town another day we'd 'a' swung the thing good. It wouldn't 'a' mattered a damn whether he ever came back."
"And we'd 'a' done it, too, if it hadn't been for just one thing—Anne handed the old man an ace—an' he bobbed up in camp about twenty-four hours too soon. And Anne's goin' to queer this deal right through unless we can keep her out. Now, listen to me. I know that girl—just between us, I knew her before I ever came here—an' I can tell you right now what she's goin' to do. No use goin' into cases—but I know. Anne's got to be put away—nothin' rough, y'understand——"
The sound of someone approaching from behind them caused McCartney to cease speaking and get up. The corral foreman was returning to MacMurray's.
"Come on," McCartney whispered quickly, and led the way, with Rickard following closely behind him. They did not exchange a word until they had gone some distance up the street in the direction of Cheney's. The presence of a number of men in the street made further conversation impossible, and they entered Cheney's place, where McCartney sought at once to make amends for his previous aloofness during the evening by inviting the men to come up and "have one on him."
In Hurley's office the three men, Keith McBain, King Howden and Hugh Hurley himself, sat late that night reviewing the events of the day and considering their possible bearing on the immediate future. For the benefit of Hugh Hurley, Keith McBain had gone to some length in tracing the course of events during the past few weeks.
"But what's his idea—what's his plan?" asked Hurley, after McBain had completed his account.
Keith McBain was silent a moment before he replied.
"Bill McCartney wants more—more than I can tell you, Hurley—he wants——"
King saw the struggle that the old man was having and came at once to his relief.
"I guess he wants all he can get," he broke in. "There's only one thing to do now, Mr. Hurley—we can't have him round this place—he's got to get out."
Hurley smiled.
"You're beginning to talk business, King," replied Hurley. "If you believe what you say—you ought to be able to go where your faith leads you."
King looked at him questioningly.
"I mean that McCartney will stay here till he's put out," the old man continued.
"That's what I mean," King replied quickly.
Hurley's smile broadened. "I can't put the duffer out."
"I didn't expect you could," King responded.
"Can you?"
King had asked himself the same question scores of times and had made his own reply. He expressed it now as he had expressed it to himself every time the question had arisen in his own mind.
"Bill McCartney and King Howden can't live in the same place this winter," he said, looking straight into Hurley's eyes. "And I ain't going away."
When they had finished talking the three men shook hands quietly. They had entered into a covenant on behalf of a few hundred serious men and women who had set their faces months before towards the setting sun and had followed the trail over the hills and into the little valley, where lay the only hopes that life had still to offer them—the hidden valley at the rainbow's end.
And two of those three men slept as men sleep who are without care and are content with the day that is done. But Keith McBain could not sleep for the thought of the price he had already paid and the price that he was even yet to pay for his own folly.
The week that followed was one of unceasing labor and careful vigilance on the part of Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain. King went forward with the work he had been given to do by Keith McBain, and paid not the slightest heed to petty obstructions that were being thrown in his way every day by men who, though pretending to serve their old boss, were really actuated by the designs of which McCartney was the maker and the inspirer.
No one was unaware of McCartney's intriguing. Signs of it were in evidence everywhere. In spite of King's endeavors to hold his men together and secure concerted effort, there were little breaks and hindrances that temporarily offset his best attempts to direct the work along effective lines. Especially active among those who sided with McCartney was Tom Rickard, who had joined the gang of men under King's direction with no other object whatever than the frustration of all efforts to produce harmony among the men.
Towards the end of the week, however, the division between the two sides, represented by McCartney's supporters on the one hand, and on the other by the men who were still faithful to Keith McBain and took kindly to King's methods, was so marked than an open break seemed imminent. The threatening attitude of the opposition to King was so apparent that many of his men grew impatient with his quiet forbearance.
To make matters worse, the weather, that had been so unfavorable for almost a month, had turned from bad to worse. The river had risen so that the men were no longer able to get logs for building purposes from the opposite side of the stream, and were forced to make long hauls through wet brush and over rain-soaked ground, until their spirits were tested almost to the limit of endurance.
McCartney was as much a student of conditions as he was an intriguer, and was not slow to recognize that, given a little more work under conditions that were nearly impossible, the break that he so ardently desired was inevitable. He stood to one side, or walked about with a smirk on his face that expressed only too well his confidence in the outcome.
At one point, however, his calculations failed. Friday night found the work almost completed. In spite of all obstacles, the end of another day would see all the horses under cover and housed in buildings that would provide comfortable quarters during the weeks that lay between the closing of construction work and the opening of the tie-camps—for neither Hurley nor King would admit for a moment that the camps in the hills would not be running. They did not know how it was to be done, but they did not allow themselves to entertain the slightest doubt that the claim now registered in the name of McCartney would yet be worked without his permission or assistance.
Keith McBain was not nearly so sanguine. He knew—as no one else knew, except King and Cherry—that McCartney still held his high card and would play it when the time was ripe. What the results would be he could not guess—he could see nothing but chaos and disintegration ahead. King clung to the hope—it was a sort of blind faith with him—that somewhere, somehow, Keith McBain's fears would prove to be groundless. Cherry was cheerful, even hopeful, though none knew whether her high spirits were genuine or feigned. She drew some comfort, at least, from the knowledge that, if McCartney had a card to play, so had she—and she would play it when the moment was most opportune.
But to all this McCartney was apparently blind. He had one desire, one aim so single and so unshakeable that he could see nothing else. His mind was bent upon winning the game at all costs—or, losing it, to work such havoc in the place that no one would stay. It was all a bit of frontier politics, with all the ruthlessness and much of the intrigue and petty conspiracy that mark the game of politics as it was played, just over the hills, in the well-dressed, highly organized society that these men had left in the hope of gaining a new freedom from the restraints of their old life.
Sooner or later the break was bound to come—and McCartney had timed it to suit his own convenience. Saturday morning Tom Rickard turned out with the men as usual, and drove the team he had been driving all week. King had left the scene of operations and had walked slowly down the narrow trail worn by the logs that had been dragged out of the woods during the week. He had gone a little more than half way towards the point where the trail branched off in several directions at once and lost itself in the woods. Rickard and a companion were just emerging from the cover of the trees, bringing out two bits of timber bound together at one end with a heavy logging chain. Suddenly Rickard's team stopped with a jerk. The logs had slipped into an awkward position, wedged between two stout poplars that held them as in a vice.
King came up to them and looked for a moment at the muddle without speaking. Had Rickard showed the slightest good judgment he would never have allowed himself to get into the tangle. King knew that—but he stopped the words that were on his lips. Turning to Rickard's companion he directed him to make use of his cant-hook and dislodge the timbers. His request was made in a quiet tone and without anything offensive in his manner, and he stepped away from the men and started round to the other side of the horses to watch the work.
As he did so he heard Rickard muttering something that was meant for his companion, though he did not conceal the fact that he cared very little whether King heard it or not.
King stopped and came back.
"Just now, Rickard, this is a one man's job," he said. "You get that straight."
Rickard's mouth curled up into a sneer. He seemed on the point of making a reply, but he looked at King's face and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously without speaking.
King then turned to Rickard's companion and stood by until the logs were cleared. Then he gave Rickard orders to go ahead. Letting loose a string of oaths, Rickard struck the horses with the knotted ends of the lines, and continued lashing them as he drove them at a mad pace down the trail and round the corner to where the men were working.
King stood in the trail and watched Rickard abusing his team until the blood was hot in his veins. He made a quick start to overtake him—and then suddenly checked himself. Stepping back a little among the trees he waited.
In a few minutes Rickard returned for another load. King waited until he came opposite him in the trail, and then stepped out. Rickard's companion had not come back as yet and he was alone.
"Whoa!" King said to the horses, and he stepped before them in the trail.
Then he faced Rickard.
"Tie up here a minute," he said, indicating with his hand a tree conveniently near, to which the team could be made secure.
Rickard looked at King quickly and again gave a shrug of contempt.
"Rickard," King said, "that won't get you anywhere. Tie up—here!"
"I will—like——"
Rickard never finished his sentence. King was beside him with one step and had seized him by the shoulder.
"Rickard!" he said, sharply.
Rickard looked at him for a moment, and then going to the heads of the horses, led his team over to the tree and made them fast.
"Go in there," King commanded, and pointed into the woods in the direction of the river.
Rickard did not turn to look this time, but picked his way through the underbrush, with King close at his heels. When they came within a yard or two of the bank of the river King spoke again.
"This will do," he said. "I'm going to talk to you for about one minute, and I want you to listen."
All the quietness had vanished both from King's voice and from his manner. He was shaking with passion and his face was almost white. He laid one hand on Rickard's shoulder and closed his fingers in a vice-like grip.
"Ten minutes ago, Rickard," he said, "by God, I'd have killed you. Just now, you dirty whelp—I'll give you about thirty seconds to make up your mind to get out. Leave that team where it is and get back out of the way till this job's done. If you're in town by Monday night I'll take my own way of putting you out. A little better than two days—that's enough time to square up and hit the trail. Are you ready?"
Rickard squirmed under King's hand, but King pulled him up suddenly.
"Are you ready?" he repeated.
Rickard nodded.
"Then move!"
King waited until he had gone a few yards before he followed him. They had not retraced more than half the distance they had come when they heard a great splash in the river behind them. They turned at once and looked back. A large section of the river bank, undermined by the action of the water, had fallen and had taken away the very ground on which they had been standing only a moment before.
King paused in silent contemplation of how petty, after all, are the things that vex us most. Only a moment did he allow his mind to wander from the business he had in hand; then he faced Rickard again, and without a word the two went off together.
King took the team back and gave it into the keeping of one of the men. He never left Rickard's side, however, until he had seen him safely away from the workers. Then he returned and went on with his work.
That evening the task was completed and King, after taking supper at MacMurray's and chatting a moment with Anne, walked over to Hurley's to talk with Cherry a little before he went to his shack. All day his mind had reverted time and time again to the incident with Rickard, and more especially to what seemed like a miraculous escape from what might have meant death to both. Now that the work was over and his mind was free, the whole affair came back upon him with renewed freshness. He told it all to Cherry and Mrs. Hurley, and when he had finished, Cherry, who had listened throughout without speaking a word, turned a serious face to King and put her hand upon his arm.
"It looks almost—as if God himself were helping us," she said.
She did not speak fervently, nor with any emotion. Her voice was quiet and her tone matter-of-fact. And yet King was struck by the simplicity of her manner. She evidently believed implicitly in what she had said—and King found himself impelled to share somewhat in her faith.
It was the last thought that lingered in his mind that night before he went to sleep to the sound of the rain falling upon the roof of his shack.
Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain sat together in the land office very late that night. No one in town was in any mood for going to bed, and the sounds that came from Cheney's and MacMurray's bore ample evidence to the fact that the men were apparently preparing to make a night of it. Old Gabe Smith dropped in when it was very late and stayed long enough to observe, among other things, that if the rain didn't soon cease in the hills the water in the river would be over the top of the bank.
After Gabe had gone, the two men decided upon taking a walk down to the river to look at the rising water. What they saw when they got there struck fear into their hearts at once. Since it had grown dark the stream had risen a full foot, and was now rushing with terrific force around the bend, about the outer angle of which clustered the huts and cabins of the little town. Already the current had swept away large portions of the high bank, in which there was no rock or stone of any account to offer any resistance to the enormous weight of water that swept down like a vicious cataract out of the hills.
"Look yonder," Hurley said, suddenly.
Keith McBain turned to look in the direction indicated. Further up stream a little shack stood, with one corner already projecting over the edge of the bank. In a few hours at most the ground upon which it stood would be swept away and the shack with it.
Without losing a moment they hurried back to MacMurray's and called out the men who had not yet retired for the night. In less than five minutes, more than a score were at work, and before another half hour had passed, the shack had been moved back upon safe ground.
By the time the excitement was over there was not a man left in either MacMurray's or Cheney's. Everyone was out, either to help or look on. Keith McBain had left and gone back with Hurley to the office when the immediate danger was past. They were not in the crowd when Gabe Smith came running excitedly to the men to announce that the bank was falling away just above the place where the corral and equipment sheds had been built during the week.
At once the men hurried toward the corral. For a few minutes there was much excited and aimless running about on the part of the men, without any organization, and without any plan. Soon, however, there emerged certain unfailing indications that a part of the gang, at any rate, were under direction. Gabe Smith was probably the first to observe it, and his suspicions were confirmed when he saw McCartney's huge frame moving among the men. There was organization, but designed to frustrate all efforts to save the buildings, rather than to assist.
Gabe left the crowd of men, who were already wrangling among themselves, and hurried to find Keith McBain. He had his hand upon the door of the office and was about to open it, when he felt himself seized by the shoulder and hurled back so violently that he stumbled and fell to the ground.
He looked up and saw McCartney standing over him.
"Stay out of the way, you old crust," McCartney said, "an' you won't get hurt."
In a moment the office door was opened and Hurley was standing in the lighted doorway, with McBain behind him.
"What's wrong?" demanded Hurley.
For reply McCartney stepped into the office, pushing Hurley before him, and closed the door behind him.
"This ain't an old man's town—that's what's wrong," he said.
Hurley expressed his astonishment.
"Well, but—an old man can live here as well as anywhere else, can't he?" he protested.
"All depends," McCartney replied, smiling cynically. "We'll settle that some other time. Just now I have business with Keith McBain."
"It's time to settle," he said, looking at McBain who, for a moment, seemed beaten in the struggle that was raging within him.
Suddenly he stood up and looked at McCartney, his eyes burning with the fierce hate that was in his soul. When he spoke his voice seemed a little uncertain, as if he were struggling to keep back the tears from his eyes. But almost immediately he mastered himself and spoke deliberately enough, if not quietly.
"What is it, McCartney?" he asked.
"Gabe Smith was here to announce to you that the new buildings an' the outfit is all goin' down stream before daybreak unless they're moved," McCartney replied.
"And is nothing going to be done?" asked McBain.
"That's just what I'm here for," returned McCartney. "It'll be done if you're ready to come through."
"Well—what will settle it?" Keith McBain asked in a voice that had almost a touch of weariness in it.
"We've talked about all that before—there's no change," McCartney replied.
Hurley looked from one man to the other in bewilderment.
"And if I refuse?" asked McBain.
"You're wastin' time," McCartney snapped.
Keith McBain raised his voice a little, but spoke with much the same deliberateness as before.
"For two years, McCartney, I've been in hell expecting this time to arrive any day. I'm past that now. I've settled it—and I'm going to see it to the end. Don't think you can frighten me—I'm old, but—I'll pay."
The words seemed to strike McCartney almost dumb.
"You'll pay?" he asked.
"Yes—go ahead—tell all you know!"
"By God, then, you will pay," McCartney exclaimed, and throwing the door open, went out.
Hurley stepped over and, closing the door, turned to McBain.
"What is this—this bargain, Keith?" he asked.
"For two years he has kept a secret that has held me bound to him—because I have been afraid to die."
"Die?" Hurley exclaimed.
"Hugh—I have killed a man."
For a moment they stood in silence and did not look at each other. Then Keith McBain moved wearily towards the door. Before he went out he turned and looked back at Hurley.
"Hugh," he said, quietly, "look after the men—I'm going to the girl."
Then he opened the door slowly and went out.
McCartney stood alone in the darkness by the river and waited for Rickard, whose form was faintly visible a few yards up the river. When Rickard had joined him, McCartney caught him by the arm.
"Well?" he asked.
"All smooth," Rickard replied.
"Nothin' rough?" McCartney prompted.
"I said—all smooth," Rickard returned, a little impatiently.
They walked together to within a few yards of the men and stood looking at them. McCartney's group were in the majority, and stood near the corral. Some distance back the others stood about in small groups, talking angrily among themselves.
A bit of the bank dropped away and fell with a dull splash into the water.
McCartney put a cigarette into his mouth and applied a match leisurely.
"I ain't much on religion, Rick," he said, jocularly, "but the Almighty sure looks friendly to-night."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
King awoke with a start. He had been sleeping very soundly, and at first, after he had opened his eyes, he had difficulty in bringing his senses to bear directly on what had disturbed him. The faint grey dawn was already at the window. Somewhere there had been a thumping and—the sound of a voice that, even to his sleep-fogged consciousness, was vaguely familiar.
For a moment he waited, sitting up in his bunk and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Suddenly the thumping was repeated—someone was at the door. Then he heard his name called and the sound of the voice brought him to his senses at once. It was the voice of Cherry McBain.
In an instant he was at the door.
"What's wrong?" he asked excitedly.
Cherry's voice was full of alarm. "Get dressed quickly, King," she replied. "We want you."
King hurried into his clothes, and going to the door again shot the wooden bar back from its socket and threw the door open. A very light drizzling rain was still falling, and Cherry shook the wet wrap from her head and shoulders as she stepped through the doorway. In his hurry King had not taken time to light the lamp, but even in the darkness he could see the expression of fear on her face. Without waiting to close the door he placed an arm about her shoulders and drew her towards him.
"Oh, King!" she cried, "it's come—it's come!"
He did not need to ask what had come. He knew. Leading her gently to a seat he left her, and sitting down on the edge of his bunk, drew on his boots and laced them hurriedly. Then he got up quickly and throwing on his coat, took his hat and turned to Cherry.
"All right—I'm ready," he announced.
Cherry got up from her seat and moved towards the door. She had not spoken while King was completing his preparations to go out, and he knew that she had been weeping silently.
When she got as far as the open doorway she paused and turned to him.
"King—King—" she began, but her voice failed her.
King stepped close to her and took her arm.
"Tell me about it as we go," he said.
She moved towards him, and reaching up placed her hands on his shoulders. King looked down at her face, white and tense in the darkness.
"You must fight, King," she said, with an emphasis that to King seemed almost pathetic.
He pressed her closer for reply.
"And you must win," she added.
He smiled faintly. "I'm ready," he said.
Her hands crept slowly about his neck, and King, with a suddenness that swept her off her feet, caught her to him and pressed a kiss upon her mouth, a kiss in which all the pent-up passion of weeks found expression at last.
When he released her he stood with his arms about her for a brief moment, trembling before her.
"I don't deserve it," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "I guess I'll never deserve that—but I wanted to win first—to win for you."
She leaned a little closer to him and then drew herself up and clung tightly with her arms about his neck.
"King," she said, breathlessly, "I love you—I love you!"
Again he put his lips to hers quickly, passionately—and then put her back from him.
"We must get along down now," he said.
Cherry drew her wrap around her and they went out together.
A few minutes' walking brought them within sight of the town, apparently peaceful in the cold grey glimmer of light just breaking in the east. So quiet was it that King began to wonder if the disturbances of which Cherry had been telling him as they came along had not been settled. Then suddenly there arose a shout from the further side of the town, near the river, and King quickened his pace almost to a run, giving Cherry all she could do to keep up. At last his eagerness mastered him, and leaving Cherry with a last warning to go back to Hurley's cottage and not to stir until he should come for her, he left her and went off at a run in the direction of the shouting.
What King saw when he reached the point in the street where it turned and ran along the bank of the river made him stand a moment aghast. Back against the trees the buildings stood, huddling together closely in the cold light of the early morning. The water in the river was almost level with the ground on which he was standing, and large sections of the bank had been swept away during the night, until the corral in which the horses were placed before King left town the night before, was now standing on the very brink of the flood.
This was in itself enough to strike fear into King's heart, but the movements of the men were what concerned him most. Half-drunken still from their night's debauch they seemed to be rolling about in a kind of ridiculous orgy, stumbling and falling and scrambling to their feet again, shouting and cursing and grappling each other in frenzied disorder.
A glance was enough for King to realize fully what was wrong. He could not see McCartney anywhere among the men, but Cherry had told him enough—if telling had been at all necessary. Back a little from the struggling mass stood six or eight men, looking on quietly and talking among themselves. King recognized them as some of his own men, upon whom he thought he could rely for support. In a moment he was standing in the middle of the group.
"What are you standing here for?" he asked. "Come on—get into it!"
In a flash they were into the struggle, King leading them as they bored their way through in an effort to reach the corral. King's plan was clear in his own mind. Once with his back to the walls of the corral, he could call his men one by one about him, and having displaced their opponents, drive them off by united effort, break up their organization, and beat them into submission.
The plan, easily enough conceived, was not so easily carried into effect. King's appearance, it is true, had raised the spirits of the men who were fighting together to settle the scores they had accumulated during weeks of growing hatred for McCartney and his crowd. But as their spirits rose, the determination of their opponents became more grim as they saw themselves faced with possible defeat where they had never dreamed of anything but an easy victory. The fight became more and more furious every minute. Whereas before King's coming they had fought without much bad temper and with little evidence of losing control of themselves, now they struck out madly and grappled with the fierceness of men in a battle where life and death depended upon the outcome. They had fought only with their fists before. Now sticks and clubs began to make their appearance as if by magic, and in many cases the fight was for the possession of weapons.
Once King saw the flash of a knife between two men who were struggling near him. Turning quickly he struck the fellow who held it, sending him to the ground, where he sprawled clumsily in an effort to escape being trampled under the feet of the fighters. The knife had fallen to the ground, and King, placing his foot on it for a moment, waited while he beat back a struggling pair who were close to him. Then stooping quickly he picked up the knife and threw it into the river. No sooner had he thrown it away than the owner pushed his way towards King and accosted him for having attacked him. He was one of King's men.
King pushed him back angrily.
"Let them start that," he cried in a voice that rose above the din. "Get in there!"
He pointed to where a group of his men were now massed against their opponents and were driving them back slowly from the corral.
Then his eyes shifted suddenly in a new direction. Pushing his way through the crowd towards King, was McCartney, his huge shoulders towering above the other men, his dark face serious and totally divested of its usual cynical smile. Not far behind him, on the outskirts of the crowd, stood Old Silent.
King wasted no time on the men about him. If McCartney's anxiety to reach him were greater than his own, there was no indication of the fact in the eagerness with which King pressed towards him, pushing first one and then another out of the way as he went forward.
When the two men faced each other at last they paused a moment, and their eyes met in a long look in which there was something more than mere hatred. In fact, an observer might have refused to believe that the look was one of hate. There was grim resolve and unwavering determination to settle an account of long standing. But, for a moment at least, there arose in King's heart a feeling of something like admiration for the embodiment of sheer brute strength that stood before him. King did not pause long enough to ask what lingered in the look McCartney gave him. He saw only that the tense seriousness that had darkened the face of McCartney was gradually giving place to the old sneer that had always played about one corner of his mouth—and the sight stung him to madness. He thought of Cherry McBain—he thought of the man whose life for two years had been one long curse to him—he thought of the woman who had died of a broken heart—and he stepped quickly and struck out at the sneering face before him.
The dawn in the east had spread upward from the horizon and filled the sky, still clouded, with a thin grey light. There was light enough, however, to make every movement easily discernible, and King watched his opponent from the beginning with an alertness that rendered him proof against any foul play. He was not going to be taken unawares, at any rate. If he were beaten it would be because he had matched himself against a better man.
Gradually the other men fell away from them and left the ground clear. McCartney's men had been driven back and were beaten. But friend and foe alike came round to watch what they rightly guessed was to be the last scene in a play that had been running for many weeks. Keith McBain himself stood off to one side, his face ashen white, his eyes set immovably upon the men who were settling once and for all, he hoped, not only their own accounts, but his as well. Old Gabe Smith stood directly behind King, calling out words of encouragement in his little piping voice, and totally oblivious to the existence of anyone else in the world.
For fully five minutes the two men walked cautiously about each other, striking out quickly but lightly, and stepping back immediately to recover themselves after each advance. Though the sneer never left McCartney's face, there was behind it a deep seriousness that expressed well the fact that he was fully conscious of the magnitude of the task before him. King's face was tense, set, terribly earnest.
Only once was there any interference from the bystanders. Mike Cheney, who had been an interested spectator during the whole struggle, pushed his way to the inner part of the circle of men and voiced a feeble protest. The men near him laughed and jostled him out of the way. He was content to remain where he was, though he no doubt felt there was something incongruous in the fact that when he looked round he was standing next to Hugh Hurley.
After some time had passed in which the men had remained wholly on the defensive, McCartney began to advance persistently against King, who stepped back out of reach whenever he found McCartney pressing him too closely. King's wary tactics were testing the patience of his opponent. With an agility that was surprising in a man of his size, he stepped about the enclosure, keeping just out of reach of McCartney, and starting forward, snapping out his left hand when an opportunity presented itself. His blows were not heavy, but he was reaching McCartney's face and body almost every time he struck. McCartney swung and lunged heavily every time he struck at King, but his blows were without control.
Growing impatient at last with following King from place to place, he closed quickly and seized King about the body. This time, however, he had misjudged his man. As he came forward King stepped in and met him with a blow from the shoulder that struck McCartney on the chin. His full weight was behind the blow and McCartney's head went back from the force of it. Then his arms went round King and he hung on dazedly in an attempt to gain a little more time for recovery. But King was determined to make his recovery as difficult as possible. With McCartney's full weight bearing him down, he sent half a dozen quick, short blows to the body that made his opponent gasp for breath.
But McCartney kept his hold and tightened it, so that King found himself in a grip that made striking impossible. It was just this situation that King had tried to avoid. He knew McCartney's strength was probably more than a match for his own, and he had hoped that he might be able to keep him at a distance. As he felt the powerful arms closing more and more tightly about him he struggled to break the hold. After a few moments, however, he knew that his efforts were in vain. McCartney had him in a grip that reduced his effectiveness and made any attempt to break it simply a waste of reserve strength. He locked his arms about McCartney's shoulders and threw his whole weight upon him. His change of tactics was so sudden that McCartney staggered for a moment under his weight, and in that moment King's foot shot out suddenly and the two men went to the ground together, locked in each other's arms. Once, twice, three times, they rolled over, each attempting to gain the advantage of position without success. Then suddenly they broke apart and scrambled to their feet again, crouching at opposite sides of the circle.
For some seconds the men faced each other without attacking, both apparently taking advantage of even a brief breathing spell. Those who were anxious for McCartney's defeat began to express their impatience at King's failure to assume the aggressive. McCartney was plainly weakening under the punishment that King was inflicting. The fact that his aggressive tactics had not already brought the fight to an end had taken the heart out of McCartney. The face that during the earlier stages of the struggle had borne a sneer was now painfully serious.
Even Hugh Hurley caught some of the excitement of the crowd as he saw that a well-directed aggressive on King's part would bring an end to the fight in a few minutes. Keith McBain's eyes were fixed upon King's face. Once or twice during the short lull in the struggle they exchanged glances. Keith McBain's heart sank within him, and he moved round to get closer to King. There was a look in King's eyes that he could not understand. When he found a place directly behind him he stepped in a little and put one hand on King's shoulder.
"Just a bit more, boy," he said, encouragingly. "He's nearly done."
King seemed on the point of turning his head to reply, but just then McCartney started towards him. This time King took a half step towards him and met the rush without attempting to step aside. Both men struck at the same moment, and both blows went home. McCartney's rush was checked, but the full force of his rush was behind the blow that caught King on the point of the chin. For a moment King was almost overcome by a sickening dizziness that set the world spinning about him. His mind went suddenly back to the night in McBain's camp when he had been hit on the head, and there started within him a terrible fear that the darkness that had overcome him then was creeping upon him now and blotting out his senses. For fully a minute—it seemed an hour—he fought to keep his eyes open and his attention centred on McCartney. He threw his weight against him blindly and gripped him in sheer desperation. Gradually his legs steadied under him and his sight cleared. Still he clung to his man.
Had McCartney had enough strength in reserve to deliver one more blow with any weight behind it, he could have finished the fight in another second. He knew as much himself, and he paused just a moment to muster what little strength he had left. Then he broke away suddenly and sent his right hand over as he stepped away. King's head went back and his arms went out before him helplessly.
His men shouted to him in that one sickening moment when the sense of utter defeat was forcing itself upon him. Hurley and McBain called his name frantically, but he seemed not to hear them. He sank to the ground on one knee, holding himself as erect as possible in a last effort to meet the rush that he knew was bound to come.
McCartney's men went wild with excitement. They called on him to bore in and finish it. Those behind stepped up and pushed him forward. When he didn't move they cursed him for a fool. But he stood swaying unsteadily, waiting, apparently, for King to fall to the ground.
Behind King there was a sudden commotion in the crowd. Gabe Smith's thin voice was giving commands to the men to make way for him. He pushed his way to the front, leading behind him Cherry McBain.
"Fight—you—fight!" he cried at the top of his voice.
King glanced quickly about at the sound of Gabe's voice and his eyes fell upon Cherry's face. Her look was one of pathos and appeal—but she was smiling.
At once a change passed over King's countenance. Getting up he brushed his hand impatiently across his face and stepped towards McCartney. As he did so McCartney came forward and the two men met at the centre of the enclosure.
From that moment neither man gave an inch of ground. Fighting furiously at close quarters they seemed both to have gained sudden strength and renewed powers of endurance. There was little attempt at defense, each man trying to inflict as much punishment as possible upon his opponent, and caring little how much he received himself.
Fighting as they were, they could not hope to last much longer. The end came very suddenly. Stepping back quickly, King crouched a moment and waited for McCartney to advance. He had not a second to wait. When he saw him start he leaned far back and swung his right hand from his hip with all the strength he could command. The blow went straight and true, landing squarely on the side of McCartney's jaw, and the big foreman went down in a heap to the ground.
For a moment King stood above him—but the struggle was over. Then the sickening sensation returned suddenly. He turned to Cherry, who was now at his side.
"Take—me—away," he said, giving her his hand.
The next moment the arms of Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain were about him, and he staggered out of the crowd with Cherry and old Gabe leading the way before him.
It was not until they had gone some distance that they noticed King beginning to limp badly. At every step he took his face winced with pain. Finally he asked them to let him stand for a minute.
"It's my foot," he said, in answer to Hurley's question. "My ankle—something happened when we fell—just wait a little—it'll be all right in a minute."
After a moment's pause they started off again, but King found walking impossible. Keith McBain called a couple of men and they carried him to Hurley's cottage, where they laid him on a couch and left him in the care of Cherry and Mrs. Hurley.
McBain and Hurley went off at once to the scene of the early morning struggle. Gabe lingered a little while with King, busying himself with such odd jobs as Cherry and Mrs. Hurley found for him.
In a short time King had recovered sufficiently from the first ill-effects of his battle with McCartney to give some thought to what was going on outside.
He called Gabe to him.
"Have they gone back—McBain and Hurley?" he asked.
Gabe replied in the affirmative. "An' they'll handle it, too—don't you worry!" he added.
King thought seriously for a moment.
"Gabe," he said.
Gabe took the hand that King extended to him and waited.
"Get Anne—and bring her here," he said.
Gabe went out at once and King looked at Cherry, who was standing above him, her hand resting lightly upon his head.
"I want to tell Anne," he said quietly. "I want her to know I didn't want to do this. I want her to understand—it had to come."
"Then she told you, too?" Cherry asked.
King nodded in reply. Then he reached up and took her hand.
"Come down here beside me," he said, and his face was very serious.
Cherry knelt on the floor beside the couch.
"Cherry," he whispered, drawing her towards him, "I don't deserve it—but I want to kiss you."
She leaned forward and King's arms went round her as their lips met.