"He was carrying something," said Garland. "Could you see what it was?"
"No. Sounded like a milk can or a tin trunk."
The light went on again in the next room, but the men moved away from the window, and Turkey heard no more than odd snatches of conversation which were not relevant to his affairs. Listening proving unprofitable, Turkey softly opened his door and carrying his boots went downstairs. Nobody seemed to be about. He went down a hall to a rear door and slid out into the night. Thence he picked his way through the litter of a back yard to the foot of the flight of steps which led to Mr. Braden's apartments, and leaving his boots at the bottom ascended with great care.
Turkey had identified the object which Mr. Braden had brought back with him as a typewriter in its carrying case. To Turkey it seemed mysterious. Why should Braden who had two perfectly good machines in his office below, go out the back way and bring in a machine from an old shed? It was funny. But he had made up his mind to find out all he could about Braden and his doings, and to start at once. Braden had been playing a crooked game right along. If Turkey could catch him in anything—get something on him—it might help to save the ranch. If not that, it would help him to play even. He put his eye to the crack of the door.
He saw Braden and Godfrey French. They were at a table on which stood a typewriter, and Braden appeared to be signing some legal documents. They were talking, but Turkey could not distinguish words. Presently French rose, folded up some papers and put them in an inner pocket. Braden went with him to the door which was the ordinary entrance to the apartment, and gave upon a hall and flight of stairs leading down to the office.
Turkey went down the outside stairs and put on his boots. He was disappointed in not being able to over-hear their conversation, but he had heard a good deal that night.
What would he do?
Miss Jean, spick and span in a cool dress of wash fabric, took a critical survey of herself in the mirror, and adjusted a wide shade hat at exactly the right angle. Then, taking a bright tin pan she sallied forth into the afternoon sun. Her course led her back of the house, through the orchard, and finally to a garden patch a couple of acres in extent. There, by a strange coincidence, Chetwood was working among the plants. At sight of her he paused, straightened his back and leaned upon his hoe.
"Oh, areyouhere?" said Miss Jean in tones of extreme surprise. Chetwood looked down at his feet, tapped his head and finally pinched himself.
"Rather," he announced gravely. "At least my mortal body seems to be."
"Don't let me interrupt you," said Miss Jean. "I came to pick peas."
"I'll help you."
"I don't require help, thanks."
"You might get thorns in your fingers."
"Peas haven't thorns!" said Miss Jean scathingly. "You ought to know that by this time."
"Observation has taught me that in this world one finds thorns in the most unexpected places. Even roses—fragrant, blushing roses—"
"Don't be absurd!"
"Then let me help you pick peas."
"But the garden needs hoeing."
"The bally thing always needs hoeing," Chetwood commented with deep resentment. "It has an insatiable desire to be tickled with a hoe. What a world it would be if weeds would die as easily as plants, and plants thrive as carelessly as weeds. Bright thought, what?"
"Nonsense!" said Miss Jean.
"Oh, I say! It's really profound."
"It's profoundly silly. You had better stick to the hoe."
"My back is broken."
"Well," Miss Jean relented, "you may help me if you like."
On either side of tall vines trained on brush they began to pick the big, fat Telephones. Now and then, in the tangle of the vines, their fingers touched, as both reached for the same pod.
"This beats hoeing," Chetwood announced.
"I'm afraid you're lazy."
"I am. I always was. But to help a girl, especially a pret—"
"If you are going to be silly I shall go to the other end of the row."
"'O stay,' the young man said, 'and rest thy weary head up—'"
Miss Jean promptly picked up the pan and marched to the other end of the row. Chetwood followed her.
"Theyarebetter here," he said. "It's a genuine pleasure to pick such peas together." Miss Jean did not reply. "Don't you like to pick peas with me?"
"When you talk sensibly I don't object. There, the pan's full. Thanks very much."
"And now we'll shell them."
"I'll take them to the house to shell."
"Please don't. Here is shade, running water, the company of an industrious young man. You can't overlook a combination like that—if you have a heart."
"Itisnice shade," Miss Jean admitted.
They sat in it, the pan piled with peas between them, and began to shell. Miss Jean's hand diving for a pea, encountered Chetwood's and was held fast.
"Mr. Chetwood!"
Without relinquishing his prize that gentleman set the pan aside and with considerable agility seated himself beside Miss Jean.
"My full name is Eustace William Fitzroy Chetwood. I prefer the second. William is a respectable name. Do you know what it means?"
"I didn't know it meant anything."
"Oh, yes; it means 'Bill.' I answer beautifully to 'Bill.'"
"Will—"
"'Bill'!"
"Will you please let go my hand?"
"'What we have we hold' is a good motto. It seems a sound system to hold what I have."
Miss Jean sighed. "Then of course I can't shell peas, and you won't have any for supper."
"Hang supper! Jean, darling, how long are you going to keep me in suspense?"
"I'm not keeping you at all; and you mustn't call me 'darling.'"
"Are you going to keep me waiting seven years, as Rebecca kept Joseph?"
"It wasn't Rebecca or Joseph."
"Well, it doesn't matter; I had the waiting part of it right. I can feel the strain telling on me, and when I look into your eyes—like this—"
Here Miss Jean shut her eyes. Chetwood being human did the natural thing. Miss Jean wrenched her hand away and rubbed her cheek.
"How dare you!" she demanded with really first-class indignation.
"I don't know; but like Warren Hastings, I am astonished at my own moderation. I should have kissed you before. And I am going to kiss you again."
Though the prospect did not seem to dismay Miss Jean, she removed herself swiftly to a distance of several feet, and further consolidated her position by placing the pan of peas between them.
"Shell peas—Eustace!" she said. Chetwood ground a set of perfect teeth.
"You want to drive me crazy, I see that," he said. "You're too dangerous to be running around loose. You need a firm hand—like mine. Now—"
What followed was very bad for the peas. Some minutes later Miss Jean, raising hands to a flushed face and sadly tilted hat, regarded them in dismay.
"Now see what you've done!"
Chetwood grinned. "Will you carry sweet peas?" he asked. "If we are married early in September—"
"September!" Miss Jean gasped. "I couldn't think of such a thing, Bil—ly!"
"You can when you get used to it," Chetwood assured her. "Like getting into hot water, you know."
"It may be a good deal like it," Miss Jean observed reflectively.
"Eh! Oh, I didn't mean that."
"I know you didn't, but it might be true, all the same. We can't be married for a long time."
"Why can't we?" the lover demanded.
"For a number of perfectly good reasons," Jean replied, a grave little pucker coming upon her forehead.
"Wrinkles!" cried Chetwood. "But I'll love you just as much when—"
"Well, goodness knows, I've enough worries without getting married."
"Cynic!"
"Maybe, but I hope I have some horse sense. Now to start with, Billy—and please don't be offended—I'd like you to make good, more or less, before I marry you."
"In what way?"
"Well, I'd like you to have a ranch of your own."
"Any special one?"
"Don't joke about it," Jean reproved him. "You'll find it serious enough. As you haven't any money now you can't buy a ranch. And so you'll have to homestead."
Chetwood stared at her for a moment and gulped. "I keep forgetting I'm a hired man. Go on."
"It's doing you good. You're getting a knowledge of ranching. I think you know almost enough now to take up a homestead."
"But," Chetwood objected, "I'd have to live on the blinking thing in a beastly, lonely shack."
"Plenty of good men have lived in lonely shacks."
"I didn't mean that. I meant that I shouldn't see you more than perhaps four or five times a week. Now—"
"You may not see me at all. I'll tell you why, presently. Anyway, I wouldn't let you waste your time. I'm serious. You see, Billy—" here Miss Jean blushed—"you'd be working on your homestead for—forus."
"Oh, Lord!" said Chetwood. "That is—I mean—yes, of course. Inspiring thought and all that sort of thing, what? But how much nicer it would be if I were able to look forward to seeing you in our humble door as I came home weary from my daily toil, with—er—roses and honeysuckle and all that sort of thing clambering about don't you know, and the sweet odor of—of—"
"Of what, Billy?" Miss Jean prompted softly, in her eyes the expression of one who gazes upon a fair mental picture. "Of what, Billy?"
"Of pies," Chetwood replied raptly. "Ah! Um!"
"Of wha—a—t!" Miss Jean cried, coming out of her reverie with a start.
"Of pies cooking," Chetwood repeated. "Nice, juicy pies."
"Pies—bah!" Miss Jean ejaculated.
"Say not so," Chetwood responded. "I admire pie. The land of my birth, I sadly admit, is deficient in pie. But here I adopt the customs of the country. I am what might be called a pie—oneer—"
"Ugh! Awful!" Miss Jean shuddered.
"Now I thought that quite bright."
"That's the saddest part of it."
"My word, what a—er—slam! Strange that you should feel such a sincere affection for—"
"I don't know whether I do or not!"
"Then, Miss Mackay," Chetwood demanded, "what is the meaning of your conduct?"
Miss Jean bit her lip, blushed, and finally decided to laugh. "I was getting sentimental for a moment," she confessed. "Your little word picture had me going. And all the time you were fooling. That's dangerous, young man."
"No, on my word I wasn't," Chetwood protested. "I meant it. Only I got stuck for a word, and I just happened to think of—pie."
"I'm glad you did," Jean admitted. "What I like about you is that you're cheerful all the time. Angus sulks like a—a mule. So does Turkey. Oh, I do, too. We all do. But you always have a smile and a joke, though sometimes they're awful."
"Both of 'em?"
"The smiles are all right," Jean admitted. "But do you know, I've never seen you serious about anything. And it seems to me that a man who has a—well, a real purpose in life should be—now and then."
"Perhaps I never had one."
"Well, now you've got me."
"Eh! By Jove, so I have. I'll live in a shack if you say so, but I'd rather stay on here a bit. I'm learning all the time."
"That brings me to another reason. There may be no 'here' to stay on at—so far as we are concerned."
She told him the situation briefly. "And so, you see, we may not have a ranch at all. Then Angus would go away and take up land, and I might go with him."
"So would I if he'd have me. It would be rather jolly."
"Nonsense!" said Jean. "Making a new ranch isn't fun; it's hard work. And then, on top of it all, what do you think Angus is going to do?"
"Wring old Braden's neck, I hope."
"He's going to get married!"
"Hooray!" cried Chetwood. "Nail the flag to the mast! Derry walls and no surrender! Give hostages—er—I mean that's the spirit. Also an example. Let's follow it. What's sauce for the Mackay gander ought to be sauce for—er—"
"I'm not a goose," she pouted prettily.
"Duck!" Chetwood suggested.
"Don't be silly. It's a different proposition entirely."
"Why?" Jean did not reply. "Why, Jean?"
"Because Angus can look after himself—and a wife."
Chetwood's perennially cheerful expression sobered. "That's rather a hard one. I'm not quite helpless, really."
"I'm sorry," Jean said simply. "But I meant just what I said. The country is new to you and you're new to the country, and we can't be married till you find yourself. It wouldn't be fair to either of us. I'm putting it up to you to make good, Billy."
Chetwood nodded soberly, but his eyes smiled.
"I'll make good," he said. "I'll go and see this Judge Riley—about a homestead. And now, Jean darling, will you oblige me by the size of that pretty little third finger."
"You are not to spend any money on rings. Keep it for the homestead."
"Oh da—er—I mean high heaven hates a piker. Can't allow you to go ringless. It's not done, really. I'm going to have my own way. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple, little ring, costing, say, fifty pounds—"
"Fifty pounds!" Jean gasped. "Two hundred and fifty dollars! Why, I couldn't—"
"Does sound more in dollars. Tell you what I'll do. I have a ring at home. It belonged to my mother. I'll send for it if you don't mind."
"I should be proud of your mother's ring," said Jean.
"I think," said Chetwood, "that she would be proud to have you wear it."
"Billy," said Jean, "that's just the nicest thing you ever said—or ever will say."
Faith and Angus were to be married at Faith's ranch. There was small preparation, to the scandal of Mrs. Foley.
"Sure I niver thought to see ye go off this way, wid no style about ye!" she mourned. "Foour min have I tuk, hopin' th' bether an' gettin' th' worse, but annyways ivery time they was lashin's to ate an' dhrink, an' all the folks there we knowed an' plenty we didn't. But here ye're fixin' for nobody at all."
"Well, there won't be anybody," Faith replied. "It's to be a very quiet wedding."
"Ye may say that," Mrs. Foley agreed. "All th' differ' bechune it an' a death-bed will be a docther an' a nurse."
"Oh it's not as bad as that, Mary," Faith laughed. "I really prefer it that way."
"Bein' a woman mesilf, I know ye're lyin'," Mrs. Foley returned uncompromisingly. "'Tis not the nacher iv us to dispinse wid frills in annything."
Faith laughed, stifling a sigh. She had had her dreams. But she was quite content. Mrs. Foley ran on:
"Sure, thin, iver since ye was a little tot I've been thinkin' that some day I'd see ye comin' up th' aisle in a big church on yer blessed father's arrum, all in white wid a big bookay an' veil an' orange blossoms an' all; an' th' organist tearin' th' bowils out iv th' organ whiles, an' th' choir rippin' loose; an' a foine fat bishop or th' loikes, wid a grand voice rowlin' th' solemn words out in his chist. An' aftherwards atin' an' dhrinkin' an speechifyin', an' showers iv rice an' shoes an' white ribbon be th' yarrd. Thim's th' things I t'ought f'r to see. An' instid iv that, ye will stand up in privut in a shack in a neck iv woods, an' have th' words said over ye by a dom', wryneck, Gospel George iv a heretic pulpit-poundher, that's dhruv out in a buckboord dhrawed be a foundhered harrse, to do th' job loike a plumber comes. Well, God's will be done. An' mebbe yer second weddin' will be diff'rent. Though they's never th' peachbloom on th' second they is on th' first, worse luck."
"Mary! what a thing to say!" Faith cried. "There will never be a second wedding for me."
"Ye say so—knowin' nawthin'," Mrs. Foley responded. "All wimmin say so before they're first married, knowin' nawthin' iv marriage; an' half iv thim swear it to thimselves before they've been married a year, knowin' too much. But sure 'tis th' nacher iv us to take chances, or we'd niver marry at all. An' f'r why should a young widdy woman like yerself go lonely all yer days?"
"Heavens, Mary, stop it!" Faith shuddered. "Talking like that before I'm married at all. I'm not a widow; I won't be a widow."
"I'm wan foour times," Mrs. Foley observed. "An' I've knowed thim that wud have give their sowls to be wan just wanst. Ye niver can tell."
"To judge by Angus' looks I won't be a widow for a long time," Faith laughed.
Mrs. Foley shook her head sagely. "Nor ye can't tell about that. Sthrong th' lad is, but he's voylent, an' voylent min come to quick ends."
"Violent? Nonsense! He never loses his temper."
"All min lose their timpers," Mrs. Foley asserted; "an' th' quoiter th' man th' bigger divil he is whin he starts. Thim kind is th' worst. It's not f'r nawthin' he carries that harrd face."
"His face isn't hard," Faith contradicted indignantly.
Mrs. Foley waved her hand. "I was speakin' in parables, loike. I'm not meanin' it's bad-lookin' he is, but he's harrd. He's th' kind that niver forgives wrong or slight, an' it wud shtrain him awful to forgive th' same. They's a divil lives deep down in him, I'm tellin' ye, that's best left asleep."
"Bosh!" said Faith.
"Ye say that, bein' ign'rant iv min," Mrs. Foley told her gravely. "I believe he loves ye thrue, an' ut's little th' life iv a man wud be worth who should speak a light word iv ye, or lay a hand on ye in other than respect, if he knew it. But take ye heed, my gyurl, niver to rouse that sleepin' divil an' have him peep at ye through the eyes of yer man. Niver, as ye value yer station as a wife, give him annything to forgive in ye as a wife. Forgive it he might, but forget it he niver would."
Faith, her smooth cheeks aflame, drew herself up haughtily. "You have no right to speak to me like that."
"I am takin' th' right," Mrs. Foley replied steadily. "Do I not know ye for what ye are—a little lady born an' bred, pure-minded an' high-minded? Ye blush whin an old woman that's seen th' rough iv ut calls a spade a spade. I wud tear th' eyes out iv man or woman that spoke ill of ye. But ye are a woman, an' women will be women, and min min, foriver an' a day."
"You have never spoken to me so before. Why do you do it now?"
"Bekase ye are about to take a man," Mrs. Foley replied. "A colleen is her own woman, wid none but herself to gyard an' care for; but a wife is her man's woman, an' besides herself she must gyard an' care for her man an' his love for her. The wise wife will gyard herself closer nor whin she was a maid, an' she will gyard her man closer nor his mother."
"Angus may trust me," Faith said proudly, "as I trust him."
"An' well f'r both iv ye," said Mrs. Foley, "if as ye say now in yer youth ye do till ye have grandchilder." She wound a great arm around Faith and drew her to her ample bosom. "There, there, gyurl iv me heart! Forgive th' rough tongue iv an owld woman wid a long, harrd road behind her. Th' lad is a rale man, if iver I saw wan. An' as f'r th' divil in him, I wouldn' give a snap iv me thumb for a man widout wan."
Whereat Faith, being motherless and in spite of her independence lonely as well, cried a little and so did Mrs. Foley, and both enjoyed it very much.
The wedding took place a few days later. Kathleen French was the only one of her family present. Turkey would not come, sending Jean an excuse. Faith had never even seen him.
There was no wedding trip. But after a few days at the Mackay ranch Angus began to arrange excursions. So far as he could see, it was now merely a matter of weeks till the place had another owner, probably Braden. He had done his best, and he was more or less resigned to the inevitable. With the resignation a load of worry dropped from his shoulders. Later he must make a fresh start, but now he would enjoy the present.
With Faith he took long rides into the foothills, along faint, old trails first beaten by the feet of the long-vanished elk, through deep timber where towering, seal-brown trunks shot fifty feet in the air without a limb and met in dense, needle-foliage above, and the horses' feet fell without sound; beside creeks fed by the hoary, old glaciers which far away glinted gray, and ridged, and fissured, relics of the ancient ice-cap which once overlay and over-rode the land. To Faith these trips were a novelty, opening a fresh world new and wonderful. Incidentally they showed her husband to advantage, in a new light and her trust in him strengthened.
In such surroundings Angus was at home, adequate, competent. His knowledge of them amazed Faith, though there was nothing at all wonderful about it, since he had lived in the open all his life and consorted with men who had done likewise. His camps were always comfortable and sheltered. He constructed deep beds in which one sank luxuriously. Rain or shine he was a wizard with a fire and a frying pan, building browned and feathery bannocks in a minimum of time, the doughgods he mixed were marvels, his mulligan a thing to dream of. All was accomplished without hurry and without fuss. She saw the results without quite appreciating the method.
Another thing which impressed her was his apparent ability to make the horses comprehend his wishes. When he spoke to them he seldom raised his voice. When trouble developed he was infinitely patient; when punishment was necessary he inflicted it without temper. Faith saw no signs of the "divil" of which Mrs. Foley had spoken. If he existed at all he dwelt deep, in the dungeons of the man's being, securely chained.
It was natural that she should take pride in her husband's physique. His body was hard, lean, in the condition of an athlete's in training. Her fingers pressing his forearm made scarcely an impression. Once, as he bent to heave out of the way fallen timber which blocked the trail, she placed her hands upon his back. He turned his head.
"Lift!" she said, and beneath her hands she felt the long, pliant muscles spring and tauten and harden. On another occasion a bowlder had fallen upon the trail, partially embedding itself. It was possible to go around, but he would not. Finally he worried out the rock and rolled it down the hillside.
"Heavy?" she queried.
"Pretty heavy. The trouble was I couldn't get hold of it."
"Do you know how strong you are?" she questioned.
"Why, no," he admitted. "That is, I don't know just what I can lift, if that is what you mean, nor what I could pack for say a mile if I had to. There's a good deal of knack in that sort of thing—balance and distribution of weight, and the development of a certain set of muscles by keeping at it. There are men who can pack five hundred on a short portage. I've heard of eight hundred—but I don't know."
Faith thought she had known Angus before marriage. But in the companionship of the trail and beside the evening fires beneath the stars she learned that her knowledge of him had been superficial. She found that the country rock of his reserve hid unsuspected veins of tenderness, of poesy and of melancholy. But though he possessed these softer veins—and she reflected that it should be her task to develop them—the man himself was essentially hard and grim. His outlook, when she came to know it, proved primitive, the code which governed him simple and ancient—the old, old code of loyalty to friends, and in the matter of reprisals eye for eye and tooth for tooth.
"But that is not right," she urged when he had set forth this latter belief. "We are told to return good for evil."
Angus smiled grimly. "We may be told to do so," he said, "and we are told to turn the other cheek to the smiter. That is all very well when the evil or the blow is unintentional, sort of by accident. But when a man does you harm on purpose, out of meanness, the best way to show him he has made a mistake is to get back at him hard."
"Which makes him hate you all the more."
"Maybe. But it makes him mighty careful what he does."
"But don't you see," she argued, "that if there were no such thing as forgiveness—if everybody paid back everybody for injuries in the same coin—the whole world would be at feud and at war. We should go back to savagery."
"And don't you see," he responded, "that if men knew they could get away with anything without a comeback the world wouldn't be much better. There are men and nations who are decent, and there are both who are not. These have to be kept down. If they ruled, it would be terrorism."
"There would be the law; there must be the law, of course. That would protect people."
"The law has too much red tape about it. In the old days things were better. Then a man packed his own law."
"The gun? A horrible state of affairs! Barbarism!"
"Well, it made men careful. Now you take Braden. With the help of the law he is going to get our ranch for a fraction of its value. I am not kicking about that. But he blew up my ditch. I don't mean he did it himself, but he framed it, though I can't prove it. If it wasn't for the law I would go and twist the truth out of him, and then I would settle with the men who did it. And then there's your ranch. I know it must be Braden who wants to buy that. I'd find out about that, too. There's something wrong. He's trying to put something over." His fist clenched suddenly. "The rotten crooks!" he growled. "They've got me. But let them try any dirty work onyou!"
Secretly, Faith worried a little about the future, the more because Angus seemed utterly careless of it. He had utterly refused to allow her to sell her ranch and apply the proceeds to satisfy Braden's claim. If he had any definite plans for the future he would not talk of them. With what money he would have from the sale of stock and various chattels there would be enough for a start elsewhere. But when and where and how that start should be made was up to Angus.
"Shouldn't we be making some definite plans?" she asked.
"I suppose we should," he admitted. "But I've always planned and worried, and the best I've made out of it all is to land in this mess. Now and then I've asked myself what was the use of it."
"But that's no state of mind for a man," she protested. "That's lie down and quit. You're not that sort, surely?"
"I didn't think I was," he said slowly. "I thought I had sand and staying power. But I'm tired. Lord, you don't know how tired I am—and sore! Every thought I've had for years has been for the old place. And now to lose it! It sort of upsets me—temporarily. I'm deliberately not thinking, nor planning. When the place is sold it will be different. Till then I'm going to loaf, body and mind, for all I'm worth."
Though she thoroughly disapproved of this state of mind, Faith said no more. Time drew on. And one night Angus announced that loafing was done.
"Now I'll get into the collar for another stretch of years," he said. "To-morrow we'll start back. I want to be at the sale, to see who will bid the place in."
"It will be like turning the knife, won't it?"
"Yes, but I can take my medicine. Then I'll sell off the stock, turn everything I can into cash, fix up you and Jean somewhere and go cruising."
"Cruising?"
"Prospecting for new ground somewhere. The farther away the better. I want a lot of land—cheap. I'm out to make a stake—to found a fortune for the Mackay family."
"You'll take me with you."
"No."
"Please!"
"Better not, old girl. I may have to cover a lot of ground before I find what I'm looking for, and the traveling will be rough. It's better for me to go alone."
Faith did not press. She recognized the truth of what he said. But she realized as they rode down out of the hills what a difference already his absence would make in her life.
Though Godfrey French's habits could not be called studious his private room was known as his "study," which possibly was as good as any other name. The furnishings of the room were of comfortable solidity. Since the room served as an office in which he transacted such business as he had, there was a desk with many pigeon holes, and backed against the wall stood a small safe.
Outside it was dark, and the rising wind was beginning to sigh with a promise of breeding weather. But in the study, lit by a shade lamp, its owner and Mr. Braden were comfortably seated. Beside them stood a small table bearing a decanter, a siphon and a box of cigars.
Mr. Braden helped himself to the whiskey. His drinking was strictly private, but he indulged rather more frequently than of old, and in larger doses. Somehow he seemed to require them. As for Godfrey French, he took his Scotch as he took his tea, as he had been taking it all his life, and with no more visible effect.
But as Mr. Braden looked at French he seemed to have aged in the last few weeks. The features seemed more prominent, the keen face leaner and more deeply lined, the cold, blue eyes more weary and more cynical.
"You look a little pulled down," Mr. Braden commented. "Perhaps a change would do you good."
"If I could change the last thirty years for the next thirty, it might," French agreed grimly.
"None of us get younger," said Mr. Braden. "I myself begin to feel the—er—burden of the years."
"You're not old. It's the burden of your fat."
"Ha-ha!" Mr. Braden laughed without much mirth. "But what seems to be the matter with you?"
"The life that is behind me," French replied. "You can't eat your cake and have it. But what the devil is the use of cake if you don't eat it? I've eaten my cake and enjoyed it, and I'm quite willing to pay when the times comes. All flesh is as grass, Braden—even such a quantity as yours."
Mr. Braden shifted uneasily. Like many men he found any reference to his ultimate extinction unpleasant.
"Oh, yes, yes, of course we must all pay our debt to nature. No hurry about it, though. We have a number of things to do first."
"We merely think we have," French returned. "It wouldn't matter in the least if we both snuffed out to-night."
"It would matter to me," Mr. Braden declared with evident sincerity.
"But to nobody else. Who would care a curse ifyoudied?"
Offhand, Mr. Braden could not answer this blunt question. French grinned at the expression of his face. "You don't like to face the inevitable, Braden. Well, since it is the inevitable it doesn't matter whether you like it or not." He tossed three fingers of straight liquor down his throat. A shade of color came into his lean cheeks and his eyes brightened. "Have you heard anything fresh lately?"
Mr. Braden shook his head. "Nothing authoritative. I know the Airline people are running trial lines east of here. I had a reply to my letter from the head of their real estate department—McKinley, as near as I could make out the signature—and he says just about half a page of nothing."
"He doesn't want to tip their hand."
"That's what I think, I know they are coming through here, and when they do it will kill this town, because they won't come within fifteen miles of it. Well, in a week or so I'll own the Mackay ranch, and be in shape to make them a definite townsite proposition whenever they do come. There isn't a better natural townsite anywhere."
"No hold-up," French warned. "They won't stand for it. Give them a good slice if they want it."
"I'll do that because I can't help myself. It's lucky I've been able to bring on the sale so soon. You were wrong in thinking it would stop the girl from marrying Mackay, though."
"I thought she would have more sense than to marry him under the circumstances."
"You've heard nothing about the—er—deeds since you gave them to her?" Mr. Braden asked.
"Nothing at all."
"Then I guess it's all right. When I sell out Mackay he'll get out of the district likely. Just as well. He might find out something if he stayed around here."
"He might," French agreed. "He suspects that we split up the biggest part of the price that Winton was supposed to pay for the land."
"He can't prove it."
"And possibly he suspects that you are responsible for his failure to get a new loan. He may even suspect that you had something to do with what happened to his water supply.
"No; but when a man begins to suspect he interprets things which otherwise would carry no meaning. So far he connects us only through the original transaction with Winton. If he knew the truth he'd probably twist your neck like a chicken's."
Mr. Braden moved that threatened part of his anatomy uneasily. "He wouldn't dare to attempt physical violence."
French laughed. "You don't know that young man, Braden, because you're a different breed. I know him, because I've seen his kind before. I made a mistake in quarreling with him."
"I'd like to see him beaten to a pulp," said Mr. Braden viciously, "but after all, it's the money we want. I'm having a devil of a time to keep my head above water, and you're broke."
"Yes, I'm broke," French admitted. "These things are the only chance I see of getting money. When a man reaches my age and faces poverty to which he is unaccustomed, he will do almost anything for money. I want to see the cities and some of the men I knew thirty years ago, before I die. For money to do that I'd give—give—I would—give—"
Something seemed to have gone wrong with Godfrey French's enunciation. It resembled nothing so much as a phonographic record with a running-down motor. He did not stammer, but the words came slowly and then blurred, as if his tongue had lost power. His face, on which a look of blank wonder had come, suddenly contorted, his hand caught at his breast, he threw his head back, chin up, mouth open, gasping.
"What's the matter?" Mr. Braden cried, startled at this sudden transformation. "Are you ill? What—"
"Get—" Godfrey French muttered indistinctly, "get—" He fell back in his chair, inert, sagging arms loose, his face gray, unconscious.
For an instant Mr. Braden stared at his associate horrified. It was as if he had been seized, struck down and throttled by an invisible hand which might claim another victim. Recovering, he poured a glass of liquor with a shaking hand, and shivered as the rim clinked against the unconscious man's teeth. He ran to the door.
"Help!" he shouted wildly to the echoing darkness of the hall. "Come, somebody! Help!"
His call was answered by Kathleen and young Larry.
"Your father!" Mr. Braden quavered. But Kathleen, pushing past him, ran to her father's side.
"He has a hypodermic somewhere," she said. "Look in his room, Larry, quick!" Young Larry bounded for the stairs. "He has had these attacks before, but this is the worst."
"I'll go for the doctor," Mr. Braden offered.
"Larry will go. Your horse isn't fast enough. I wish you'd stay here, if you don't mind. The other boys are out and I'm alone."
But in a moment Larry returned with a hypodermic syringe in its case and a vial of tablets. Kathleen dissolved one of the latter, and baring her father's arm administered the injection with a swiftness and steadiness which commanded Mr. Braden's admiration. "We'd better get him up to his room," she said.
Larry picked up his father's inert body and mounted the stairs. He laid him on his bed.
"I'll look after him now," Kathleen said. "You won't mind waiting till Larry comes back, Mr. Braden? And—ride, Larry!"
Mr. Braden returned to the study. In a few moments he heard the dancing rataplan of the hoofs of an eager, nervous horse, a curse from Larry, the hoof-beats clamored past, steadied to a drumming roar, and died in the distance. Evidently Larry was riding at a pace which probably meant a foundered horse.
Mr. Braden helped himself to a drink. Inadvertently he sat down in the chair which had held Godfrey French, and suddenly realizing that fact vacated it hastily. Outside the wind had increased to a gale, and with it was rain. The window was open and the drawn blind slatted to and fro. Mr. Braden selected another chair and sat down.
But in a moment he arose, went to the door and listened. Leaving it ajar he went to the desk and proceeded to pull out drawer after drawer, rooting among their contents. Not finding what he sought he turned to the safe. He stared at the impassive face of the dial, shook his head, half turned away, and then caught the handle and twisted it. To his amazement the bolts snicked back. Apparently whoever had closed the safe had neglected to turn the knob of the combination.
Mr. Braden burrowed in the safe's contents, and with an exclamation of satisfaction seized a packet of legal-looking documents bound by a rubber band. He stripped off the band and riffled the papers. Apparently he found what he sought, for he selected two documents, replacing the rest. Then, crossing the room to the light he opened the documents and proceeded to verify them by glancing at their signatures.
As he stood he fronted the window; and as he raised his eyes from the perusal the down blind bellied and lifted with a gust of wind. In the enlarged opening thus made Mr. Braden saw or thought he saw, a face. It was but the merest glimpse he had of it, white with the reflected light of the lamp. For an instant it stood out against the darkness, and then the blind dropped back into place, hiding it.
Hastily Mr. Braden shoved the papers in his pocket, while a gentle but clammy perspiration broke out upon his forehead. But had he actually seen a face, or was it some freak of vision? He went to the window, raised the blind and peeped out. It was pitch dark and raining hard, but across from him there was a glint of white, and in a moment he identified it as merely a painted post of a fence glistening in the rain. So that was the "face." Mr. Braden's heart resumed its normal action. He closed the safe, spun the combination, sat down and picking up a paper began to read.
It was more than an hour later when Dr. Wilkes arrived. He came alone, Larry having gone in search of his brothers. Mr. Braden listened to the sound of low voices, of footsteps coming and going on the floor above. Finally Wilkes came down.
"And how is the patient?" Mr. Braden asked.
"Gone out."
"Gone out? You don't mean—"
Dr. Wilkes nodded. Between him and Mr. Braden there was little cordiality.
"What was the—er—cause of death?"
"Valvular cardiac disease of long standing."
"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" Mr. Braden sorrowed, his hand involuntarily caressing the papers in his inside pocket. "You never can—or—that is in the midst of life we are in death. Why, only an hour or so ago he was planning for a trip abroad."
"He's on a longer trip," Wilkes said grimly.
But the pounding of hoofs outside indicated that Larry had found his brothers. In a moment he entered with Gavin and Gerald. Dr. Wilkes did not soften his reply to Gerald's quick question. They stared at him, stupefied. It seemed to Mr. Braden that he should express his sympathy.
"My dear boys," he said, "I assure you that I feel for you in this dark hour. Providence in its inscrutable wisdom has seen fit—"
But Gavin interrupted him.
"Cut it out!" he growled. "We don't want any stuff like that fromyou!"
Shortly afterward Mr. Braden found himself driving homeward. The rain had turned the road into mud, and was still coming down. It drove though the lap-robe, wetted his knees and trickled down the back of his neck. He was thoroughly uncomfortable. Nevertheless he reflected that Providence in its inscrutable wisdom sometimes arranged things well. Once more his hands pressed the papers in his pocket. Arriving at his apartments he placed them in an old-fashioned iron safe which was operated by a key instead of a combination. There were two keys. One Mr. Braden carried with others on a ring. The other hung upon a single nail driven into the wall immediately behind and concealed by the safe itself. As it was dark there and as the safe was very close to the wall, it seemed a very secure hiding place. On this occasion Mr. Braden used the latter key, because he had changed his wet garments and left his key-ring with them.
But Mr. Braden's trust in Providence might have lessened—or increased—had he known that outside, chinning himself against the window-sill which he had just managed to reach from the rickety steps, hung Turkey Mackay; and that, further, the said Turkey had been a witness to the manner in which the papers had come into the possession of Mr. Braden.
When Faith and Angus got back to the ranch Godfrey French's funeral was over. Faith did not pretend to be specially grieved.
"But of course I must go and see Kathleen," she said.
She went alone, for Angus would not go. He held no particular ill-feeling toward Godfrey French, but as French had held it toward him he thought it best to stay away. When Faith had gone he pottered about the house, stables and sheds, taking an inventory, estimating the value of the things he could sell, deciding where they could be sold to the best advantage. There were the tools, implements, rigs, cut crops, horses and stock on the range. He jotted down a rough estimate and frowned at the result. Still it was the best he could do.
Chetwood appeared. "Busy?" he queried.
"I've just been figuring up what I can sell and what I can get for it."
"You haven't sold anything yet?"
"No, I'll hold off till the place itself is sold."
"Somebody might bid it up to a good figure."
"Nobody is apt to bid. Nobody here with enough loose money. No, Braden'll get the place, I guess."
"Old blighter!" Chetwood grunted. "But you never can tell. 'The best-laid schemes of mice and men' and all that sort of thing. Let's talk of something else—something I want to talk about."
"Fire away," said Angus.
"Jean and I are thinking of getting married," Chetwood told him bluntly.
"The devil you are!" Angus exclaimed. He was not exactly surprised at the news, but at the time of its announcement.
"I like you," Angus admitted, "but I don't know a great deal about you. You're working for wages which aren't very large. They won't keep two."
"No more they will," Chetwood replied. "Jean suggests that I take up a homestead." Angus shook his head. "You don't like the idea? No more do I. I shan't do it."
"Have you any idea what you will do? I gathered that you lost what money you had in some fool investment. You never told me what it was."
"I don't look on it as totally lost," Chetwood responded. "It may be all right some day. One thing I'll promise you, old man, I won't marry Jean till I have something definite to go on."
"Good boy!" Angus approved. "That's sense. I'm going to look up a bunch of land in one of the new districts. When I find what I want Jean will come and live with us, of course. Then we might make some arrangement—if you want to buck the ranching game."
When Chetwood had gone, presumably to find Jean, Angus was restless. He liked Chetwood, but the Lord alone knew when the latter would be in shape to support a wife unless somebody helped him. He would have to do that. The fancy took him to walk around the ranch for a last look as owner. As he walked a hundred recollections crowded upon him. Here there had been a good crop in one year; there a failure in another. Here was the place where he had first held the handles of a plow. This was where a team had run away with a mower. He arrived at the gate and looked back over the fields. To-day they were his; to-morrow in all likelihood they would belong to Braden.
Looking up the road he saw a light rig with two men. One of them was standing up in it, apparently surveying his surroundings through a pair of field glasses. Presently he sat down and the team came on. By the gate the driver pulled up and nodded.
"Afternoon!" he said. He was a thickset, deeply tanned man of middle age, with a shrewd, blue eye. He wore a suit which, though old, was of excellently cut tweed, and his trousers were shoved into nailed cruisers. His companion was younger, stout, round-faced and more carefully dressed, but he, too, possessed a shrewd eye. Neither looked like a rancher, and both were strangers to Angus. Between them rested an instrument of some sort, hooded, which looked like a level.
"Nice ranch, this," said the driver, "Yours?"
"Yes."
"For sale?"
"Yes," Angus told him grimly.
"How much have you got here?" the second stranger asked. Angus told him. "En bloc?"
"Yes."
"What do you hold it at?"
"I don't hold it at anything. It will be sold to-morrow by public sale under a mortgage."
The two men exchanged glances and eyed Angus with curiosity.
"Who holds the mortgage?" the younger man asked.
"Isaac J. Braden."
"Braden, hey! Isn't that the fellow—" He spoke swiftly in an undertone to his companion, who nodded. "We've heard of him. Local big bug, isn't he? What's the amount against the property?" He whistled when Angus told him. "Why didn't you get a loan somewhere and pay him off?"
"Because I couldn't. Nobody would lend. The loan companies' appraisers—well, they shied off."
"Braden fixed them, did he?" the other deduced. "Knocked the loan, hey? Knocked you as a borrower! Shoved you to the wall. Thinks he'll bid the place in. Anybody else want it? No—or you'd have made some deal."
"That's about the size of it," Angus admitted, surprised at the swift accuracy of these deductions.
"Will it leave you stranded?"
"Nearly. Not quite."
"Folks depending on you?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you tell me to mind my own darn business?"
"I came near it," Angus admitted; "but you look as if you know enough to do that without being told."
The stout man chuckled. "I think I do, myself. If I had known of this place before I'd have made you some sort of an offer for it. As it is, I'll go to that sale to-morrow. Good day. Drive on, Floyd."
Angus watched them drive away and turned back to the house. It seemed that Braden might have opposition, and apart from financial reasons he was glad of it. The strangers did not look like ranchers. Speculators, likely. Anyway, it had not taken the stout fellow long to size Braden up. But if he could have overheard the conversation between the two strangers as they drove away he would have been more surprised at the accuracy of their mental workings.
"Things like that," the man called Floyd observed jerking his head backward, "always get my goat. I'll bet that young fellow's got the raw end of some dirty deal. He's taking a bitter dose of medicine. You can see it in his face."
"And I can make a pretty fair guess what it is," the other responded. "This fellow Braden has been trying to get information about our construction plans. He hinted that he had some sort of a townsite proposition to make to us, and if that place back there is it I give him credit for a good eye. He doesn't seem to have been very particular about how he went to work to get hold of it himself."
"What are you going to do about it, Mac?"
"What I should do," the other replied, frowning thoughtfully, "is to make a dicker with Braden to take over the land at a reasonable profit, after he had bid it in for the amount of his dinky mortgage. That's my plain duty to my employers, the Northern Airline, Mountain Section, for which they pay me a salary, large it is true, but small in comparison with my talents."
Floyd grinned. "Yes, I know youshoulddo that. But whatareyou going to do?"
"Well," the man called Mac admitted, "I do hate to see a shark get away with anything but the hook. Besides, it looks to me as if Braden, if he got hold of the property would try to double-cross us. I'll bet he'd hold us up for some fancy price. So it's my duty to see he doesn't get a chance. The property is just about what we want. There's room for a good, little town. With that creek, a natural gravity water system could be put in. No trouble about drainage. You can get power, too. A subsidiary company formed to handle that end would pay well in a few years when the place got going. Ah, it's a bird of a proposition—too good to take any chances on."
"That's your end," Floyd nodded. "We go ahead and find the grades and put 'em in, and you fat office guys come along and clean up. Well, Healey's notes are all right so far. Easy construction through here. I'll send young Davis in right away and let him run a trial line east, for Broderick to tie into."
"Don't be in a hurry," the other responded. "Trouble with you roughneck engineers, you think all there is to a railroad is building it. You wait till I pick up what I want. I could fix it with Braden, but he'd get the profit, and that young fellow back there would go broke, as he said. I think I'll try to fix it sohegets the profit. I'll just bid the place in over Braden, and the young fellow will get any surplus over the mortgage claim. It will be just as cheap for us."
"And the trouble with you," said the chief of Northern Airline construction to its chief right-of-way and natural resources man, "is that you're mushy about men in hard luck. I know some corporations you wouldn't last with as long as a pint of red-eye in a Swede rock gang."
"You're such a hard-hearted guy yourself!" sneered Mac, his round face reddening perceptibly. "No bowels of compassion. Practical man! Dam' hypocrite! Yah! you make me sick!"
Mr. Floyd also reddened perceptibly. "Oh, well, I've been in hard luck myself," he said.
"So've I," his friend admitted. "I know what the gaff feels like. Well—stir up those horses. We've got a long way to go."
The sale was to take place at noon in the sheriff's office. After breakfast Angus went down to the corrals. Faith followed him.
"I'd like to go with you to the sale."
"Why?" he asked.
"I'd just like to be with you."
He stared at her for a moment. In his life this solicitude, almost maternal, was a new thing.
"Why, old girl, I believe you think I can't stand the gaff. But if you like, we'll take our medicine together."
Toward noon they entered the sheriff's office. Braden was already there with his lawyer, Parks, talking with the sheriff. Presently entered the two strangers with whom Angus had talked the day before. The stout man smiled and nodded, with a quick appraising glance at Faith. Then came Judge Riley, and with him, to Angus' surprise, was Chetwood.
"'Under and by virtue of the power of sale contained in a certain mortgage bearing date—and made between—'"
The sheriff's voice droned on. Angus paid scanty attention. Now that he was there "to stand the gaff" his feelings were almost impersonal.
"What am I offered for this property?" the sheriff having stated the conditions of sale was getting down to business.
"Ten thousand dollars." This from Mr. Braden. The amount was slightly more than his mortgage claim.
"Ten thousand dollars I am offered. Ten thousand. Are there any other offers? If not—" The sheriff paused, sweeping the room with his eye. Braden, looking at Angus, permitted himself a grin. "If not, then—"
"Twelve thousand." It was the stout man, Mac. Having uttered the two words he resumed a conversation with his friend.
"Twelve thousand?" the sheriff repeated. "Was that right sir? You bid twelve thousand, Mr.—er—"
"McGinity," the stout man supplied.
"Twelve thousand I am offered. Any other offers?"
"Thirteen," said Mr. Braden.
"Fourteen," said McGinity on the heels of Braden's voice.
Faith whispered, "Who is he?"
"I don't know. He was out at the ranch yesterday. I think he'll run Braden up."
Braden whispered to his lawyer, who shook his head.
"Fifteen thousand."
"Sixteen."
Mr. Braden frowned, hesitated and went over to Mr. McGinity.
"We seem to be opposing each other," he observed.
"Does seem like it."
"Perhaps we could reach an understanding—privately. As it stands, we are running the price up."
"I can stand it so far," said Mr. McGinity.
"But we are cutting into each other. If you have reached your top figure I will give you five hundred on it."
"I haven't any top figure—except the value of the property to me."
"You have bid all the property is worth."
Mr. McGinity grinned. "Then naturally you won't bid any more," said he.
"I have—er—sentimental reasons for desiring this property. You won't enter into any arrangement?"
"Not just now."
"Very well," said Mr. Braden. "Sixteen thousand, five hundred, Mr. Sheriff."
"Seventeen," said Mr. McGinity, idly creasing his hat.
Again Mr. Braden conferred with Parks. He raised the bid five hundred, and again the stranger tilted it. The latter did so nonchalantly. Between bids he conversed with his friend. But when Mr. Braden had bid nineteen thousand, five hundred, he shot it to twenty-one thousand.
Though the perspiration stood upon Mr. Braden's brow, his pedal extremities began to suffer from cold. He had not expected any opposition. The conditions of sale were stringent, as he had intended them to be, with a view of choking off others; but just then, though few knew it, certain unfortunate speculations had strained his credit very badly. Twenty-one thousand was a large sum, more than he could count on with certainty unless he had time to raise more on the security of the property itself, even though part of it was his mortgage claim. But he wanted the property very badly—needed it, in fact. Who the deuce was this McGinity?
And then, suddenly, he saw light. "McGinity" was the translation of certain hieroglyphics appended to letters he had received from the Northern Airline. He had translated them into "McKinley," but with considerable doubt. So his competitor for possession of the Mackay ranch was the Airline itself!
So that was what he was up against! Mackay, somehow, must have gotten wind of his intentions, and himself entered into negotiations with the railway; and these must have reached a definite point.
It was a difficult situation for Mr. Braden. He saw his dream of carving up a choice townsite—of seeing it grow in value by leaps and bounds—go glimmering. He hated to drop out. But what was the use of going on? McGinity would bid up to whatever he thought the proposition worth, and not a dollar more. More than that, if he, Braden, overtopped that figure, they would let him keep the land, and they would make a townsite elsewhere. Mr. Braden was under no delusions. He had known landowners who had held the mistaken belief that a strong corporation could be forced to adopt a certain location for a townsite merely because it was the best. The said landowners still owned the land, but it was not a town.
"Twenty-one thousand!" the sheriff repeated. "Any advance? A very valuable property, gentlemen." He looked at Mr. Braden. That gentleman sadly shook his head. No, he was out of it. "Then," said the sheriff, "if there is no higher bid, I—"
"Twenty-two thousand!"
It was Chetwood, and the effect was explosive. Mr. Braden stared, open-mouthed. McGinity and Floyd turned and eyed him. Faith gasped, clutching Angus' arm.
"Why—why," she whispered, "how can he—you told me he had lost all his money!"
"So he told me. He must be running some sort of a blazer. Only, of course, it won't go. It's foolish of him to try."
The sheriff seemed to share Angus' view. Mr. Braden whispered to him. He frowned.
"You know the conditions of sale, young man?"
"I heard you state them."
"You are able to meet them?"
"May I point out," said Chetwood, "that you have not asked that question of any previous bidder. Why favor me?"
"Well—er—you see—" the sheriff was slightly embarrassed—"I understand that you are working for Mr. Mackay."
"Quite so. And what of it?"
"A man who can pay twenty-two thousand for a ranch doesn't often work on it as a hired man," the sheriff pointed out.
"It is absolutely none of your business, official or private, for whom, or for what, or at what I work," Chetwood retorted. "I make that bid, and I demand that you receive it."
Faith laughed softly. Angus stared at his hired man.
"I may tell you, Mr. Sheriff," the court voice of Judge Riley filled the room, "that this gentleman is quite able to meet the conditions of sale in any offer he may make."
"Twenty-three thousand," said Mr. McGinity experimentally.
"Twenty-four," Chetwood returned.
Mr. McGinity turned to his friend. "Now what the devil is up? I've raised Braden out. Who's this young fellow? And what's this about his working for Mackay?"
"I'm an engineer and an honest man," Floyd returned. "This is your end, Mac. But if I were doing it, I'd get together with those boys, now that the old cuss is out of it."
"I always said you had too much brains for an engineer," Mr. McGinity retorted. He crossed the room to Angus and bowed to Faith.
"Suppose you tell me what the idea is?" he said. "Is this young fellow bidding for you?"
"You know as much about it as I do," Angus confessed, and beckoned to Chetwood. "What are you up to, anyway?" he demanded of the latter. "I thought you were broke. You told me so."
"I told you my income had stopped—temporarily," Chetwood replied. "So it had. If you had ever said a word about money troubles I would have fixed them like a shot, but you never even mentioned 'em. So now I'm going to buy the ranch in."
"How high will you go?" Mr. McGinity asked. "Hold on, now—wait a minute. I represent the Northern Airline, which is going to build through here, and this property is valuable to us. I'm prepared to go fairly high myself to get it. That means that we are prepared to pay the owner a good price. Now, instead of crazy bidding, can't we come to an arrangement?"
"Have you any connection with Braden?" Chetwood asked.
"Hell, no!" Mr. McGinity replied. "Didn't you just see me raise him out? And I can raiseyouout, young man, if you won't act sensibly, unless you have a mighty big roll back of you."
"Oh, no, you can't," Chetwood replied cheerfully. He drew McGinity to one side. "Because, you see," he explained, "I'm really bidding the property in for Mackay, though he doesn't know it. So, you see, I never have to put up real money at all, except enough to satisfy old Braden's claim, and technically satisfy the conditions of sale. I buy the property, hand stage money to Mackay, he hands it back to me—and there you are! The only real money is what Braden gets."
"And suppose Mackay doesn't come through," Mr. McGinity speculated wisely. "Suppose I forced you up—away up—and Mackay found that as a result his ranch had brought a top-notch price which he was entitled to most of; and suppose he stood pat and insisted on receiving it. Where would you get off at then?"
Chetwood laughed. "Braden might do that. Mackay isn't that kind. We're friends, and I'm going to marry his sister. Raise away, if you feel like it."
Mr. McGinity's eyes twinkled. "Not on your life," he said. "The combination is too many for me." The sheriff impatiently claimed recognition. "I'm through, Mr. Sheriff. The last bid is good as far as I'm concerned."
The sheriff looked at Mr. Braden, who shook his head. And thus the Mackay ranch came into the nominal possession of Chetwood.
Angus, throttling his pride, held out his hand.
"You've got a good ranch," he said. "I'm glad it's you. If you marry Jean it will be staying in the family, anyway. I'll be moving out as soon—"
"You'll be doing nothing of the kind," Chetwood told him. "Do you think I'm such a dashed cad as that? I'm buying the ranch for you, of course. You can pay me what I'll pay Braden, when you like, and if you never feel like it nobody will worry."
Angus stared at him dazedly. For the first time in years his eyes were misty; but his innate pride still held.
"It's good of you," he said. "Oh, it'sdamnedgood of you, but—I can't stand for it."
"Afraid you'll jolly well have to, my boy," Chetwood grinned cheerfully. "You can't help yourself, you know."
"But I can't allow—"
"Don't I tell you, you'll have to. Don't be such a bally ass, or strike me pink if I don't punch your beastly head here and now! Can't you take a little help from a friend who would take it from you? Mrs. Angus, for heaven's sake make this lunatic listen to reason!"
Faith laughed happily. "He wouldn't letmehelp him," she said. "Give him time, Mr. Chetwood."
As Chetwood waited to comply with the necessary formalities Mr. McGinity touched him on the arm.
"I want to make a proposition to whoever owns that land—you or Mackay," he said. "I'd rather make it to you, because I can see you know more about business than he does. The Airline isn't any philanthropic institution, of course, but we'll play fair with you and Mackay."
"Thanks very much," said Chetwood, a twinkle in his eye.
"Oh, I mean it," Mr. McGinity assured him. "You seem a pretty bright young fellow. If you haven't got too much money to take a good job, I can place you in my department."
"But you see," Chetwood returned, "I've already got a job with your company."
"What?" cried Mr. McGinity. "What kind of a con game is this? What department are you in?"
"I'm a director. Did you ever hear of Sir Eustace Chetwood?"
Mr. McGinity gasped. "Are you trying to kid me? Sir Eustace Chetwood was one of our English directors, but he's dead. And he was about eighty years old."
"Quite right," Chetwood nodded. "He died a few months ago, and by virtue of the shares in your corporation which he left to me, I was elected to fill his place. I'm his nephew, you see. As to the title, it's hereditary, and I can't help it."
"Sir Eustace Chetwood!" gasped Mr. McGinity. "Good Lord!"
"Well, I'm not using either title at present," Chetwood grinned. "Just keep it dark, like a good fellow. I don't want to be plagued by a lot of blighters who can't see me at all as a thirty-dollar ranch hand. My real friends are just beginning to call me 'Bill'—and I like it. I say, Mr. McGinity, if you should ever call me 'Bill,' I'd call you 'Mac'."
"Is that so, Bill?" said Mr. McGinity, who was a gentlemen of easy adjustments.
"It are so, Mac!" Chetwood laughed. "See you later about that proposition. Remember, you are to play fair."