As Angus drove homeward he was at first unable to adjust himself to actuality. He had given up all hope of retaining the ranch. The wrench of loss had been over. But now the ranch was his again, subject to the debt already existing, to keep if he chose.
But he realized that it would be folly to retain it as a ranch, to refuse a proposition which McGinity had just made amounting to a fifty-fifty partnership with the Airline in the project of a townsite. Again, no matter what his individual preference, he must think of others. In reality, his own individual interest in the ranch amounted to but one-third. Sooner or later there must be a division—an adjustment of shares between Jean, Turkey and himself. In justice to them he could not refuse an offer which promised more than he could ever hope to make or receive for the ranch as a ranch.
And so the ranch, as a ranch, was done. Its broad fields and pastures and broad stretches of timbered levels would be broken up, surveyed into building lots, pegged out with stakes, gridironed with embryonic streets. For a while it would lie raw, unsightly, ruined as a ranch, unmade as a town. And then people would come in. Shacks would spring up, stores with false fronts, all sorts of makeshifts which accompany construction days. Later would come permanence, better buildings, churches, schools, gardens, sidewalks. Where the Ranch had been would stand the Town. It was Progress, the history of the West since the first steel road adventured among the ancient buffalo trails. The old order was changing, but he, though young, was more of the old order than the new, because he had been bred in the former.
Faith touched his arm lightly.
"Tell me I'm awake. It seems like a dream."
He put his arm around her and she snuggled in the crook of it, leaning comfortably against his shoulder. He pulled the team to a walk.
"Now say it yourself."
"Say what? Howdidyou know I wanted to say something? But it's nothing particular. It's just—everything!"
"It's sure a surprise to me. Why, only yesterday I hinted to Chetwood that it was doubtful if he could support a wife—and to-day he bids in my whole ranch." He laughed, but with little mirth, for the sense of obligation lay heavy on him.
"I wonder if Jean knew?"
"I don't think so. Why, she wanted him to homestead—said he'd have to make good before she'd marry him."
"Jean is so practical!" sighed his wife. "Now I'd never have said anything like that toyou. I'm glad that Braden didn't get the ranch. Odious beast!" Angus chuckled. "Well, heis!"
"Easily! I never happened to think of that particular descriptive phrase, though."
"I don't want to hearyourdescriptive phrases. He's a horrible man. I shudder when he looks at me. He—he seems to be thinking evil things about me—plotting—Oh, I don't know. Did you see his face when he saw that he would be overbidden? It turned white, and thengreen. Oh, you may laugh! Isawit."
"It was a jolt for him. He had it working like an oiled lock up to then. Some day I will play even with him."
"He didn't accomplish his end. He's beneath your notice."
"No man who tried to hand me what he did is beneath my notice," he said grimly. "Yes, I'll settle with him some day."
"I thought I might see your brother at the sale."
"No, he wouldn't go near it. I'll be glad when I can hand him over his share to do what he likes with."
"It's odd that I've never seen him. Why don't you make it up with him, Angus?"
Angus' mouth tightened grimly. "Make it up! Now, I'll tell you something, Faith, which you must never repeat, even to Jean: I believe he is in cahoots with Braden."
"Oh, surely not!" she cried, and when he told her the grounds of his belief she was unconvinced. "There's some mistake, Angus."
"It's not on my part. I'm through with him—except to give him his share. He shall have that, to the last cent. He shall not say I did not play fair with him."
"You would play fair with every one," she told him. "I know that."
His arm tightened for an instant by way of acknowledgment. But he found her words only just. To the best of his ability he had tried to play fair all his life. On that score he could not reproach himself at all.
They drove up to the ranch, and at the sound of wheels Jean ran out. She had been waiting, regretting that she had not accompanied them, anxious to know the worst and have it over.
"Well, dear!" said Faith tantalizingly.
"You know what. Who bought the ranch? Was it Braden?"
"No," Faith replied, "it was a young man named Chetwood."
"Wha-a-t!" cried Jean in tones which left no doubt of her utter amazement. "Oh, stop joking! This is serious."
"He bought it," Angus assured her.
"But—but hecouldn't!" Jean exclaimed incredulously. "Angus, you know he couldn't. Why he'sbroke! He's working for you forwages."
"Just what the old sheriff said," Angus laughed. "But it's straight, Jean. He bid the ranch in for twenty-four thousand."
"But where did he get the money?"
"I don't know. But he had it."
"Then," Jean flashed, "I'll never speak to him again—never! To buy the ranch, your ranch, our ranch—at a sale! Oh, the miserable, contemptible—"
"Hi, hold on!" Angus interrupted. "You don't understand. He didn't buy it for himself; he bought it in for us—to save it. He's a white man, all right, Jean."
"I don't care what he bought the ranch for!" Jean cried. "And he'snota white man. He's a sneak. He deceived me. He said his remittance had stopped. He let me make a fool of myself advising him to homestead and get a place of his own, and work hard, so that—so that—"
"So that you could be married!" Angus chuckled.
"Ye—yes," Jean confessed, and her brother roared. "Oh, you think it funny, do you? Well,hewon't. I never want to see him. Iwon'tsee him."
"But, Jean dear, listen," Faith put in, for she saw that to Jean there was nothing humorous in the situation. The girl was deeply offended, bitterly angry.
"I don't want to listen," Jean snapped. "I don't want to be rude, Faith, but he—heliedto me. He led me to believe that he was poor, that he hadn't a dollar. He was playing with me, amusing himself, laughing at me when I was—oh, I can't talk about it!"
"Oh, shucks, old girl!" said Angus. "You're going into the air about nothing. You ought to be glad he isn't broke."
"Ought I?" Jean retorted. "Well, I'm not. He wasn't straight with me, he wasn't fair. He talked about a little cottage, and wanted me to marry him right away, and—and—"
"And share his poverty," Angus grinned. "Weren't you game, sis?"
"Angus!" Faith warned. But Jean's cheeks flamed.
"No, I wasn't," she replied bitterly. "I told him he would have to make good first, if you want to know, not because I didn't love him, poor as I thought he was, but because I thought it would make him work in earnest. Can you understand that, Angus Mackay? Do you think, after telling him that, I'd marry him now that he has money? I'd ratherdie! And—and I half believe I want to."
With which tragic ultimatum Miss Jean turned and fled. Angus gaped after her and at his wife.
"Well, of all darn fool girls—" he exclaimed.
"You don't understand. You made it worse."
"Why, what did I—"
"Never mind now. I'll talk to her after a while, but in her place I'd feel much the same. I only hope she will get over it."
"Of course she will. Rot! She fooled herself about Chetwood, same as I did. Go and make her behave sensibly."
"You don't know a blessed thing about girls," his wife told him.
"Well, I'll bet if you let the two of them get together they'll make it up. She'll go for him red-headed for five minutes, then it'll be over."
But Faith vetoed this simple plan. She saw that Jean's pride had been deeply hurt. When Chetwood appeared, later, he met the surprise of his young life. He did not see Jean. Faith took the matter into her own hands.
"But—but, hang it," he exclaimed when the situation was made clear to him, "it's all a beastly, rotten misunderstanding. I mean to say it's all wrong. Jean—why, bless the girl, I never dreamed of offending her."
"But you've done it. Do you mind answering one or two questions?"
"I'll tell you anything," Chetwood replied with fervor.
"Well—they may be impertinent. Have you much money? And is it yours, or—remittances?"
"'Much money' is rather a relative term. But I have enough to live on, and it is mine."
"Then what on earth made you work as a ranch hand?"
"Jean did. She had a strong prejudice against remittance men, and she classed me as one of them. I was an idler, and she rather despised me. Of course she didn't tell me so, but I could see how the land lay. So I made up my mind to remove that objection, anyway. The best place to do it seemed to be where she could see me working, and I really wanted to know something about ranching. Struck me as a good joke, being paid for what I was perfectly willing to pay for myself. Then I thought I might as well live up to the part and really throw myself on my own resources, which I did. I've been living on my wages. But of course I had to have some adequate explanation. I couldn't tell Angus I wanted to live on the ranch to make love to his sister. Now, could I? So I merely let it be understood that my remittances had stopped. May not have been exactly cricket, but I can't see that I'm very much to blame. If I could see Jean—"
"Not now. She refused to marry you till you were in a position to support a wife. That's the bitter part of it."
"But Iamable to support one."
"Yes, but don't you see having refused to marry you until you had made a little money she won't put herself in the position of doing so now for fear you or somebody might think the money had something to do with it."
Chetwood took his bewildered head in his hands.
"O, my sainted Aunt Jemima!" he murmured. "In the picturesque language of the country this sure beats—er—I mean it's a bit too thick for me. She didn't approve of me because I was an idler and presumably a remittance man. Very well. I cut off my income and became a hired man. Then she wouldn't marry me because I was. Now she won't see me or speak to me because I'm not. Kind lady, having been a girl yourself, will you please tell me what I am to do about it?"
Faith laughed at his woebegone countenance. "The whole trouble is that you weren't frank with her. What was play to you—a good joke—was the most serious thing in life to her. While she was considering and planning in earnest for the future you were laughing at her. Perhaps a man can't appreciate it; but a woman finds such things hard to forgive."
"I'll apologize," Chetwood said. "I'll eat crow. Mrs. Angus, like an angel, do help me with the future Lady Chet—er—I mean—"
"What!" Faith cried.
"Oh, Lord!" Chetwood ejaculated, "there go the beans. Nothing, nothing! I don't know what I'm saying, really!"
"Don't you dare to deceive me!" Faith admonished sternly. "Lady Chetwood! What do you mean?"
"But it's not my fault," the luckless young man protested. "I can't help it. It's hereditary. When the old boy died—"
"What old boy?"
"My uncle, Sir Eustace. I was named after him. And I couldn't helpthat."
"Do you mean to tell me," Faith accused him severely, "that on top of all your deceptions you have a title? Oh, Jean will never forgive this!"
"But it's not much of a title," its owner palliated. "It's just a little old one. Nothing gaudy about it, like these new brewers'. It's considered quite respectable, really, at home, and nobody objects. It—it runs in the family, like red hair or—er—insanity."
"Insanity!" Faith gasped. "Good heavens, is therethat? Oh, poor Jean! That explains—"
"No, no!" Chetwood protested desperately. "I didn't mean that. Quite the contrary. Not a trace. Why, dash it all, there isn't even genius!"
Whereat, with a wild shriek, Faith collapsed weakly in her chair and laughed until she wept. "Oh, oh, oh!" she gasped feebly, wiping her eyes, "this is lovely—I mean it's awful. Mr. Chetwood—I mean Sir Eustace—"
"'Bill!'" the object of her mirth amended. "Poor Bill. Poor old Bill! Dear, kind, pretty lady, have a heart!"
"A heart! If it gets any more shocks like this—But what am I to tell Jean? Here's a poor country girl and a noble knight—"
"Don't rub it in. You see Sir Eustace was alive when I came over here. When I heard of his death I said nothing to anybody, because there are a lot of silly asses who seem to think a title makes some difference in a man. And then I was afraid some beastly newspaper would print some rot about my working as a ranch hand."
"Well, I don't know what's to be done about it," Faith admitted; "but I do know that now isn't the time for you to see Jean. Really, I think the best thing you can do is to go away for a week or two."
Outwardly, life on the Mackay ranch settled back to its old groove. Work went on as usual. Angus entered into an agreement with McGinity which relieved him from present money worries. But the actual railway construction would take time, and meanwhile, next season, he could take off another crop.
Already the summer was done, the days shortening, the evenings growing cool. Birds were full-grown and strong of wing. Fogs hung in the mornings, to be dispelled by the sun slanting a little to southward. The days were clear, warm, windless. In the lake, trees and mountain ranges were reflected with the accuracy of a mirror. On these shadows, as perfect upside down as right side up, Faith expended photographic film prodigally.
Chetwood had returned to the ranch, but Jean had refused to restore the status quo. She treated him with formal politeness, avoiding him skilfully, taking care that he should not see her alone. Mrs. Foley, now in complete charge of the ranch kitchen, commented thereon.
"What's th' racket bechune yez?" she asked bluntly. "Ye act like ye was feared to be wid th' lad alone. An' a while ago I felt it me duty as a fellow-woman to cough, or dhrop a broom—"
"Nonsense!" Jean interrupted tartly.
"Well, a dacint lad he is—f'r a sassenach—fair-spoken, wid a smile, an' a pleasant word f'r th' likes iv me, an' always a josh on th' tip iv his tongue."
Jean sniffed.
"Havin' buried four min, I know their ways," Mrs. Foley continued. "Whin a man's eyes rest on a woman wishful, like a hungry dog's on a green bone, that's thrue love."
"I'm not a bone!" Jean snapped.
"I am not makin' no cracks at th' build iv yez," Mrs. Foley assured her. "A foine, well-growed shlip iv a gyurl ye are; an' a swate arrumful—"
"Mrs. Foley!" Jean cried, cheeks afire.
"Well, glory be, an' what else is a gyurl's waist an' a man's arrum for?" Mrs. Foley demanded practically. "Sure, I am no quince-mouthed owld maid, talkin' wide iv phwat ivery woman—maid, wife, an' widdy—knows. I misdoubt, f'r all yer high head, ye're in love wid th' lad. Then why don't ye let love take its coorse?"
"I'm not in love with him," Jean declared. "I don't want to see him. I wish he'd go away."
"An' if he did ye'd be afther cryin' thim purty brown eyes out."
"I wouldnot!" Jean asseverated. "He's nothing to me—less than nothing."
"Well, well, God knows our hearts," Mrs. Foley commented piously. "Foour min I've buried, an' I know their ways."
"You might have another husband if you liked," Jean told her by way of counter-attack.
"Ye mane th' big Swede," Mrs. Foley responded calmly, "Maybe I could. But I've had no luck keepin' min, an' he might not last either, though him bein' phwat he is it might not matther. Still an' all, buryin' husbands is onsettlin' to a woman."
"But Gus is so healthy!" Jean giggled.
"So was me poor b'ys that's gone," Mrs. Foley sighed. "They was that healthy it hurt 'em. Health makes f'r divilmint, an' divilmint shortens a man's days. I'm tellin' ye, ut's th' scrawny little divils that ain't healthy enough to enj'y life that nawthin' shakes loose from ut. But rip-roarin', full-blooded b'ys, like thim I had, they leaves a woman lorn."
"Were your husbandsallIrish?" Jean asked.
"They wor," Mrs. Foley replied, "if Galway, Wicklow, Clare an' Down breed Irishmin, God rest thim!"
"Well, Gus is a good worker. He's been with us for years."
"But ye could fire him when ye liked," Mrs. Foley pointed out. "A husband an' a hired man is cats of diff'rent stripes. But they tell me this lad of yours has money. Then why is he workin' as a hired man onless f'r love of ye, tell me that?"
"I can't help his feelings," Jean returned.
"No, but ye might soothe thim, instid iv playin' cat-an'-mouse—"
"I'm not!" Jean cried. "And I wish you wouldn't talk about him any more."
The net result was that, feeling herself under Mrs. Foley's skeptical eye, she treated the unfortunate Chetwood more distantly than ever. Faith observed, but said nothing, waiting for an opportune moment which was slow in coming.
Since her wedding Faith's ranch had been abandoned. She had removed some of her personal belongings, but the furniture remained. She was aware, now, of the worthlessness of the place. The reasons which had impelled Godfrey French to purchase, whatever they were, were not operative with his children. If Braden had been behind that offer it was improbable that it would be renewed by him. The place was dead horse.
Nevertheless, Faith held a fondness for it, principally sentimental. Occasionally she rode over to see that all was in order. She had an idea that, if the Mackay ranch was cut up, they might live there, and she had a wish, of which she had not yet spoken to her husband, to spend a week or two there alone with him before the winter. And so one day she paid a visit to her property.
Though the day was warm the interior struck chill. She threw the doors open and raised the blinds, letting in the air and sun. Then, taking a book, she moved a rocker to the front veranda, and basked in the sun. For a time she admired the mountains sharply defined, gulch, shoulder and summit, in the clear air, but speedily she became lost in her own thoughts.
A sudden, thudding detonation broke her reverie and brought her upright in her chair. It rumbled into the hills, caught by the rocks, flung across gorges and back in a maze of echoes, diminishing and dying in the far ranges. For a startled instant she wondered what it could be, and then she knew that it was powder—a blast.
The shot seemed near, not more than a mile distant. It was either on her land or very near it, in the vicinity of the foot of the round mountain which projected from the foot of the range. While she puzzled, another shot came. Yes, undoubtedly that was where it was. But who could be using powder on her property?
She made up her mind to find out what was going on. She locked the doors, and mounting her pony took as straight a line as she could in the direction of the blasts.
There were no more shots, but she rode on, and presently came to what seemed to be a new trail leading upward beside the shoulder of the round hill aforesaid. Her pony scrambled up the rough going, walled on either side by brush. Then she emerged upon a bench a few acres in extent, above which the hill rose steeply. There stood a couple of tents. The brush had been cut away, and earth and stones stripped from the mountain side, leaving a new, raw wound. Fragments of gray country rock, split and driven by the force which had ripped them loose, lay around. By the face thus exposed half a dozen men were at work. Closer at hand two men conversed. As she pulled up her pony they saw her.
For a moment they stared at her. She rode forward.
"I—I hope I'm not in the way," she began, feeling the words inadequate. "I was down at the ranch and heard the blasts. I am Miss—I mean I am Mrs. Mackay." She was not yet accustomed to the latter designation.
"My name is Garland," said the younger of the two. "This is Mr. Poole."
Mr. Poole murmured unintelligibly. Then both waited. A hammer man began to strike. The measured clang punctuated the stillness.
"I thought I would ride up and see what was going on," Faith explained.
"We're doing a little development work."
"Oh," Faith said, and hesitated for an instant. "But—but this is my land."
"Your land!" Garland and Poole were plainly surprised. They exchanged glances. In them was quick suspicion, unspoken question, speculation.
"Where would your line run?" Garland asked.
But Faith could not tell him. Godfrey French had indicated in general terms where her boundaries lay, but she had never followed them. She could only repeat her conviction. Again the men exchanged glances.
"I'm afraid you'll have to see Braden about that," Garland told her. "This is his property—or he thinks it is. We're working for him."
"But what are you working at? What are you doing?"
"We're opening up a prospect—what's going to be a mine."
"A mine! What kind of a mine?"
"A coal mine," Garland replied, "and a good one, too. I guess this little mountain is mostly coal. We're just clearing off the face, but you can see the seam if you like."
Coal! Faith stared at the wound in the hillside. She could see a dark belt, the "seam" of which Garland had spoken, partially exposed. There, overlain by soil and worthless rock, screened by tree and brush, was the stored fertility of some bygone age, the compression of the growth of a young world, potential heat, light, power.
"This isn't much more than outcrop," Garland was saying, "but it's good coal. Braden will make a clean-up on this when the railway comes through—that is if it is his." His eyes met Poole's, and again there was the unspoken query, the speculation.
"But I'm sure it isn't," said Faith. "That is, I'm almost sure."
"It would be a good thing to be sure about," Garland told her.
"I think my husband will be able to tell you," said Faith.
"No use telling us," Garland replied. "Braden's the man for him to see. And—well, our instructions are not to allow anybody on the ground."
"No trespassing," Poole corroborated.
"But if this is my property—"
"That's the point—ifit is."
"I think it is. And until I know it isn't I have a right to come here, and so has my husband."
Garland shrugged his shoulders. "I'm only telling you our instructions. I may as well tell you Braden wouldn't want your husband coming here. They're not friends, I guess. You'd better tell him to keep away."
"My husband will go where he likes without asking Mr. Braden's permission."
"We're working for Braden," said Garland, "and what he says goes. We don't want any trouble with anybody, but we're going to carry out our instructions."
"I'll tell my husband," Faith returned. "Good-bye."
Garland and Poole watched her out of sight and stared at each other.
"Now what do you think of that?" the former asked.
"Darned if I know. She seemed sure. But Braden ought to know what he's about."
"Heoughtto," Garland admitted. "He sold her father whatever land she has. He owns a whole bunch of it around here." He was silent for a moment. "I wonder if he's putting something over; I wonder if shedoesown this, and Braden has framed something on her?"
"Her deed would show what she owns."
"That's so. But if Braden is putting something over and we can get onto it, we could make him come through. This thing is going to be worth having a share in."
"How are we going to get onto it?"
"I don't know," Garland admitted, "but you never can tell what will turn up."
"Suppose young Mackay comes horning in here. He'd come on the prod."
"This bunch can handle him," Garland said with confidence. "That big Swede that's using the hammer is a bad actor. I'll give him a pointer about Mackay."
Faith rode homeward at an unwonted pace. She had always regarded that mountain, supposed to be worthless, as part of her property. Godfrey French, she now remembered more clearly, had once indicated it as within her boundaries. Now that it was valuable, it appeared that Braden claimed it. It might be true, but it was strange.
Her husband met her as she clattered up to the corrals. It was his habit to lift her from the saddle. For a moment he held her above his head as if she had been a child, kissed her and set her on her feet gently. His eyes went to the pony's sweating coat.
"Just finding out that old Doughnuts can travel when he has to?" The pony owed his name to that far-off episode of their first meeting.
"I was in a hurry. Did I ride him too hard?"
"No, did him good." He loosened the cinches, stripped off saddle and bridle and dismissed Doughnuts with a friendly slap for a luxurious roll. "What was the hurry, old girl? Has somebody been breaking into Dry Lodge?"
"No, no; all right there. But Angus, such a strange thing has happened. They've found coal in that round mountain!"
"Coal!" he exclaimed.
Swiftly, words tumbling over one another so that much had to be repeated, she related her experiences. As she spoke, mentioning the names of Garland, of Poole, and finally of Braden, she saw his face cloud and darken. The frank, genial lights of love and laughter left his eyes; they became hard, brooding, watchful.
"Well," she asked, "what do you think? Isn't that my property—ourproperty?"
"I supposed so from what you told me, but I never knew where your lines ran. How did you know your boundaries?"
"I didn't really know them, I'm afraid. Uncle Godfrey just generally indicated where they were, from the house. But I know he said that hill was inside them."
"Your deeds would show; but Judge Riley has sent them away to be registered. I don't remember the description in them."
"But couldn't we find the corner-posts if the land was surveyed?"
"Perhaps it wasn't surveyed. Surveys are usually up to the purchaser. Your land is part of a larger block owned by Braden. I think he owns land on both sides of it. He got it for about fifty cents an acre, and he got the Tetreau place for next to nothing. The description in the deed would give a starting point, then so many chains that way and so many another, and it would work out to the acreage, but no actual survey may have been made."
In fact the only means of determining the actual boundaries were the deeds themselves, which were temporarily inaccessible.
"I'll go over the ground to-morrow anyway," Angus said, "and look for a line. And I'll see what these fellows are doing."
"Oh, I forgot! This Garland told me nobody was to be allowed on the ground. Those were his instructions."
"They were, were they. It's easy to give instructions. I believe Garland and Poole had something to do with my ditch. They're just the sort Braden could hire to do a thing like that. And now they're in charge of this coal prospect! There's something queer about it. I wonder if that was why your uncle was trying to buy you out?"
"Why," she exclaimed, startled, "surely you don't think he knew of this coal! Oh, he couldn't!"
"It looks to me like a reasonable explanation."
"But if it is my land, how can Mr. Braden say it's his?"
"I don't know," Angus replied, "but I do know that Braden will do anything he thinks he can get away with."
Early the following morning Angus and Rennie rode away. The latter, to Angus' surprise, was wearing a gun.
"What do you want that for?" Angus asked.
"I don't know," Rennie replied, "but I know if I need her she's going to be there. This claim-jumpin' is as risky as foolin' with another man's wife. You never can tell."
"But we're not going to jump them."
"All right. But maybe they'll take a notion to jump us. I don't aim to be crowded by no dam' rock-gang like Braden 'd hire for a job he thought there might be trouble about."
They found the boundaries of the old Tetreau holding without difficulty, and with these for a base began to prospect for others. After a long search they found what appeared to be an old line which had been cut through brush, but new growth had almost choked it.
"She was run a long time ago," Rennie decided. "Longer 'n when your wife's pa bought all this scenery. It looks to me like she might be the line of the block Braden owns."
"We can take a sight and see where the line hits the mountain," Angus suggested.
They took a rough sight, with stakes set as nearly as possible in the center of the old line, and they found that the line, produced, would strike to the northwest of the round mountain. Therefore if this line was the northwestern boundary of Faith's land, it would include the coal deposit claimed by Braden.
"Braden skins his hand mighty close before he puts down a bet," said Rennie. "If he's openin' up a prospect, he's likely organized to back her. My tumtum is to wait till you get them deeds back and then have a survey made, or, anyway, see Riley."
"We can go and have a look at what they're doing, and hear what they have to say. I like Braden's nerve, giving orders to keep people off. What the devil does he think this country is? If there wasn't something crooked about the thing he wouldn't mind who took a look at it. I'm going to have a look, anyway."
They rode toward the mountain, eventually striking into the trail which Faith had followed on the preceding day. As they approached they could hear the sounds of work in progress, and suddenly they came upon a man planting posts. A roll of wire lay on the ground. The man stepped into the trail.
"Hold on," he said. "You can't go any further."
"Is that so?" said Rennie. "The trail looks like it went some farther."
"Well,youdon't," the other retorted. "Them's orders."
"Whose orders?" Angus asked, crowding forward.
"The boss'—Braden."
"Braden be damned!" said Angus. "Get out of the way. Give me the trail, you, or I'll ride plum' over you!" As he spoke he touched his horse with the heel, and the guardian of the trail gave ground, cursing, but followed them as they rode out on the bench and into the presence of a group of three—Braden, Garland and Poole.
Angus halted, and without paying the least attention to them, took in his surroundings. Then he shifted his gaze to the trio, eying them in a silence which was broken by Mr. Braden.
"What do you want here?" he demanded, in a voice which he endeavored to make stern.
"To see what you're doing on what I think is my wife's property."
Mr. Braden laughed.
"Your wife's property! Not much. Her land—if you mean what I sold to her father—lies east of here. This is mine. I bought it from the government fifteen years ago."
Mr. Braden's tone was loud, assertive. But his eyes, after a moment, shifted away from Angus' steady stare.
"You're lying!" the latter said.
"Lying, am I?" Braden snarled. "You'd better be careful what you say, young man. This is my land, and I have the grant. Your wife has her deeds, hasn't she? Take a look at them before you come here shooting off your mouth."
Obviously, that was the thing to do.
"Why were you and French trying to buy my wife's property?" Angus bluffed.
"I don't know anything about French," Mr. Braden asserted, "but I never tried to buy your wife's property. It has nothing to do with this. I gave the deeds of what I sold her father, to French, as his agent. I don't know whether he tried to buy it from her or not, and I don't care."
Angus felt that he was up against a blank wall. The deeds alone would settle the question conclusively. But possibly Braden held the erroneous idea that the deeds had been lost or destroyed. He knew that French had held them unregistered. He might think that Faith could not produce evidence of ownership.
"In case you have any doubt about it," Angus said, "I may tell you that French gave the deeds to my wife before he died."
But Mr. Braden merely grinned. "Well, read them," he said. "And keep off my property after this."
"You seem fairly anxious about that," Angus retorted. "You're trying to put something over, Braden, and I give you notice to be careful. I've had my satisfy of your dirty work."
"And I give you notice to keep off my property," Mr. Braden snarled. "You get off now, or I'll have my men throw you off!"
Angus laughed, his temper beginning to stir.
"Tell 'em to go to it!" he challenged. "You old crook, you've been trying to get me ever since I was a kid. You thought you'd get my ranch, and you came mighty near it. I'll play even with you some day, and with the bunch you hired last summer to blow my ditch. Do you get that, Garland, and you, Poole?"
"I don't know what you mean?" Garland returned.
"I never done nothing to you," Mr. Poole declared nervously.
Angus eyed them grimly. "It's lucky for both of you I'm not sure," he said.
But the dispute had attracted the attention of the workmen. They rested on their tools, watching, listening curiously. The presence of these reserves gave Mr. Braden heart.
"Get out of here!" he shouted, his voice shrill with nervous rage. "Get off my property, and stay off! Talk about your ranch! Yours? Bah! Bought in by a remittance man that's chasing your sister! Hi, boys! run these fellows out!"
The men started forward, and Angus recognized the leader as the big Swede who had once been handled so roughly by Gavin French. But Mr. Braden's taunt, his reference to Chetwood and Jean, had cut deep. Suddenly his temper, already smouldering hotly, burst into flame. He left his saddle with a vaulting spring, and as he touched the ground leaped for Mr. Braden. His hand shot out and fastened upon his shoulder.
Mr. Braden uttered a cry like the squeal of a rat beneath an owl's claws. Angus jerked him forward, and drew back his right fist. But something, perhaps the age or lack of condition of the man, restrained him. "You old skunk!" he gritted; and releasing the shoulder opened his right hand and swung it wide, stiff-armed. His palm cracked against Mr. Braden's cheek and ear with a report like a pistol, knocking him flat.
But the man who had followed them from the trail sprang upon Angus from behind, trying for the small of the back with his knees. The shock drove Angus into Garland. The three became a locked mass. Suddenly it disintegrated. Garland staggered back, his hands to his face. The guardian of the trail, torn from his hold, was lifted and hurled upon the earth. Poole, stooping as Angus freed himself, caught up a rock. Garland, his face covered with blood, was reaching beneath his coat.
"Drop that rock!" Rennie roared. "Nick Garland, h'ist your hands!" Gun in hand he menaced the oncoming rush of men. "Keep back there!" he rasped. "Drop them mucksticks! You big Swede with that hammer, I got my eye on you. Hands up, the bunch! Sky 'em. Now—freeze!"
The commotion was suddenly stilled. The little man on the horse dominated the situation. His gun menaced, controlled.
Mr. Braden quavered shrill denunciation.
"I'll have you arrested!" he threatened, his hand to his injured cheek. "Assault! Trespass! Threatening with deadly weapons! We'll see what the law has to say about this!"
"Well, don't overlook this here little statute I got in my hand," Rennie warned him. "This is one law you can't make work crooked for you."
Garland cursed, shaking his fist. "If you want gun law you'll get it!" he threatened.
"I will, hey!" Rennie retorted. "I been wise some time to that shoulder gun you pack under your coat, and I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll get down off'n this cayuse and put up both hands empty and let you get your hands on your gun butt. And then I'll bust your arm while you're drawin'! How'd that suit you, you dam' four-flush?"
But Garland did not see fit to accept the challenge. Rennie eyed him with contempt. "I guess bushwhackin' 's about your limit," he said; "and I dunno' 's you pack the nerve forthat. Come on, Angus, let's go!"
When they were down the trail and riding side by side Rennie shook his head.
"Now maybe you see how handy a gun can come in. But all that didn't do no good. Your wife either owns the property or she don't, and the way Braden talked, he seemed to be mighty sure about it. If I was you I'd go and see Judge Riley."
Angus did so the next day.
"If you had come in yesterday instead of going off half-cocked," the judge told him severely, "I could have shown you the deeds. They came back some days ago. The only thing to do is to get Barnes or somebody to make a survey and see what its boundaries are."
Angus hunted up Barnes, the local surveyor, and drove him out to Faith's ranch. The place of beginning named in the deed was with reference to the eastern corner of the large block owned by Braden. Thence Barnes ran his line west until according to the wording of the deed he reached the spot which should be the easterly corner of Faith's property. Planting a post there he continued to work west. Reaching the spot which according to the description was the southwest corner, he turned off his angle to work north. Angus peered through the instrument, noting where the cross-hairs notched upon the landscape.
"Are you sure this is right?" he asked.
"Of course I'm sure," Barnes replied somewhat tartly. "If you think I don't know my business you can get somebody else."
"Then," said Angus, "this survey won't take in that round mountain at all?"
"Not a foot of it," Barnes replied. "The line will run just by its east base."
And when the survey was completed it was evident that Faith's deeds gave her no title whatever to the land claimed by Mr. Braden. The deeds were conclusive; Barnes' survey accurate. Suspicions amounted to nothing.
The discovery of coal coming on top of sudden activity in railway survey filled the hills with prospectors, amateur and otherwise. But no further discoveries were made. Indeed, Mr. Braden's discovery had been made by accident, according to his own account of it, which was more or less along historic lines. He proceeded serenely with development. He spoke largely of potential output, refusing to consider tentative proposals. Later he might organize a company and offer shares to the public, but just then he preferred to keep the entire ownership himself. He became a personage of more local importance than ever, deferred to, his opinions quoted. In this notoriety he basked as in the sun. Almost daily he visited his prospect.
He was driving back to town one evening when he met Gerald French. Mr. Braden, who for reasons of his own had rather avoided these young men since their father's death, nodded pleasantly and would have passed on, but Gerald stopped and held up his hand.
"I'd like to have a little talk with you," he said.
"Can you come in to-morrow? I'm rather in a hurry. To-night I have to preside at a meeting."
"What I have to say won't take long," young French told him. "I want to come to a definite understanding with you about this coal property."
Mr. Braden, for reasons of his own, experienced a decidedly nervous feeling. "Huh!" he said. "An understanding! What do you mean?"
"You know damned well what I mean," Gerald replied. "You and my father were in this thing together. He had an interest—or was to have one. We expect to have the same interest. Is that clear enough for you?"
It could not be much clearer, but nevertheless Mr. Braden if not bewildered gave an excellent imitation of that state of mind.
"Your father's interest in my coal property!" he exclaimed. "There is some mistake. Your father had no interest."
"Oh, yes, he had," Gerald maintained.
"But I tell you you are mistaken," Mr. Braden protested. "I give you my absolute assurance that he had no interest whatever."
"Your assurance—hell!" Gerald sneered. "What do you take me for, anyway? Do you think I'm not wise to you?"
"If you have any evidence of your father's interest, produce it," Mr. Braden returned.
"So that's the ground you take, is it?" said Gerald. "Well, I guess you know I haven't any evidence that would hold. But all the same the two of you were partners in this deal. I know it, whether I can prove it or not. And what we want is to be let in on this on a fifty-fifty basis with you."
"You do, hey?" Mr. Braden replied sharply. "Well, you won't be. Your father had no interest at all. As it is, he owes me money, which—"
"Forget it!" Gerald interrupted. "He steered a lot of business your way, and I'll bet you broke better than even. As for the coal, I saw a sample of it on his desk months ago.Youweren't giving out samples. Then he was trying to buy the Winton property. Buy it? He couldn't have bought anything the way he was fixed at the time, and you know it. You were going to put up for it, and you know that, too."
"What has that to do with the coal?"
"It had something to do with it. I'm telling you that we want a slice, and we're going to have it—somehow."
"If you think I'm going to give away property to people who have no right to it, you're much mistaken," Mr. Braden stated emphatically. "If you can bring any evidence—"
"I told you I couldn't, because I think you know that already. And you probably know we are broke. Being broke, we're not going to be particular about how we get money."
"Are you threatening me?" Mr. Braden asked somewhat nervously.
"Call it what you like. You're pretty smooth, Braden, but you're also a hog; and you're a fool to hold out on us. You'll lose by it. Do you think I don't know where the money came from for a lot of things—for blowing Mackay's ditch for instance? Do you suppose I thought Garland was putting up himself?"
"Are you trying to blackmail me?" Mr. Braden demanded.
"No," Gerald replied. "I'm giving you a chance now to come through."
"You won't get any money from me," Mr. Braden declared. "I financed your father from time to time for reasons of—er—friendship, but I'm not going to do the like for you young men. If you want money, earn it like other people."
"That's your last word, is it?"
"Absolutely my last."
"All right," said Gerald. "Now go ahead, Braden, and be careful you don't bump into something hard."
Mr. Braden drove on. At first Gerald's words gave him considerable uneasiness, but as he thought them over he came to the comfortable conclusion that they were principally bluff. Gerald had admitted that he had no evidence of his father's interest. Also they were broke, as Mr. Braden knew very well. All they had was the ranch, which was mortgaged to the hilt, and the mortgage was far in arrears. Likely they would get out of the country, scatter and go to the devil individually.
He had seen no more of Angus Mackay, though he knew that the latter had had a survey made. There could be no collusion between Mackay and the French boys, to embarrass him. The latter were all more or less hostile to Mackay, and especially Blake.
So Mr. Braden drove home, had supper, presided at his meeting and sought his own apartments. There, having lighted his lamp, he opened his little safe and, taking out a bundle of papers, returned with them to the light. By rights, the papers which he had abstracted from the safe of Godfrey French should have been on top of the bundle; but they were not. He stripped off the rubber band which bound the bundle, and ran through it rapidly. He could not find what he sought.
Mr. Braden sat up straight, his eyes widening in an expression which bore a strong family resemblance to fear. Once more, with fingers which shook a little, he went through the papers. Nothing! And yet he had a distinct recollection of snapping that rubber band around them.
Catching up the lamp he set it beside the safe and went through its contents. His movements became more hurried, more nervous as his search progressed. But at the end of it, when he had gone through the contents of the safe half a dozen times, it was absolutely certain that his search was in vain. He rose to his feet, but sat down because something seemed to have happened to the stiffening of his knees.
"My God!" he said aloud, "they're gone!"
It appeared to be a shocking discovery. He had found the safe locked, but somebody must have had access thereto. He felt for the key which hung behind the safe, and found it. Nobody, to his knowledge, knew of that hiding place; but somebody must have known of it. Naturally, he thought of Gerald French. But if French had gone through his safe, he would have dropped some hint of it during their interview.
A new thought struck him. Was anything else missing? Engrossed in the search for those particular papers he had not thought of that. He had no schedule of the safe's contents, but he had an excellent memory. Once more he went through the papers on the floor, and at last he straightened up from his task with a full-sized oath.
"Nick Garland!" he muttered. "That envelope is gone, too!"
Now, some years before, Garland had secured money from Mr. Braden on a promissory note, apparently endorsed by a well-to-do but somewhat illiterate rancher. When the note matured Garland was unable to meet it, and Mr. Braden intimated that he would have recourse to the liability of the endorser. Whereupon Garland, in a panic, had admitted that he himself had reproduced the rancher's painful scrawl. Mr. Braden secured his signature to a statement to that effect, and filed it away with the note. Eventually Garland paid or worked out the face of the note, but Mr. Braden kept it and the confession as well; Garland for obvious reasons being unable to insist upon their delivery. Now the envelope containing that old note and the signed statement had disappeared. The inference, to Mr. Braden, required no elaborate reasoning.
Mr. Braden's reasoning which fixed the responsibility on Garland, was perfectly logical; but his conclusion was entirely wrong. The missing documents were in the possession, not of Garland, but of Turkey Mackay. Turkey, on the night when he had seen Mr. Braden take certain papers from French's safe, had gone to that ranch to see young Larry about a horse. What he had seen, which included the fatal seizure of Godfrey French, had put his errand entirely out of his head. The papers which Braden had taken, he reasoned, must be important. The French boys would sure raise blazes if they knew of it. Hence, he had followed Braden home, debating the feasibility of holding him up and taking the papers by force, but had decided against it. Reaching town he had scurried around to the rear of Mr. Braden's apartments, and when the light went on had chinned himself up to the window and seen him place papers, which must be those in question, in the little safe; and he had also observed where Mr. Braden had secured the key.
Thereafter he merely awaited a favorable opportunity to investigate the safe. There must be private papers in it which Braden would be sorry to lose. A skunk like that would have a lot of stuff he wouldn't want people to know about. Therefore, Turkey constructed a short ladder which, under cover of night, he concealed beneath a pile of old lumber in the rear of Mr. Braden's office. He found his opportunity in the night of the meeting at which Mr. Braden presided. It was a public meeting, and Turkey, looking in at the door of the hall, noted Mr. Braden on the platform. It was exactly what he had been looking for. The night was cloudy, dark, with a spatter of rain. Turkey made tracks for his shack, and securing a short bit of steel which bore a strong family resemblance to a jimmy, and a flashlight, hastened to the rear of Mr. Braden's building, erected his ladder, forced the window, found the key without difficulty and opened the safe.
At first he found the safe's contents disappointing. The old accounts and letters which he scanned hastily, seemed innocent, and what books there were contained no record of crime. The first item of interest was an envelope endorsed with Garland's name. This Turkey opened and read the contents. Grinning to himself he put them in his pocket. Anyway, he now had something on Garland. Searching further, he found what seemed to be a conveyance in duplicate from Braden to Sewell Winton. Turkey frowned, puzzled. Sewell Winton? That was the name of Angus' wife's father. Then those deeds should be in her possession. What was Braden doing with them?
Suddenly Turkey thought of the night he had seen Braden and French together in that very room, poring over documents which French had taken away. French was Angus' wife's uncle, and had bought the property she had lived on for her father, Turkey had heard. Now French had taken documents away; and Braden had stolen two documents from French's safe. Here were two documents which, though he could not identify them, were connected more or less with both men. Unless he could find others bearing directly on French, these must be the ones.
Having reached this conclusion with the simple logic of a savage working out a trail, Turkey placed the deeds in his pocket and continued his search; but he found nothing more connected with French, nor were there any other papers which looked suspicious. And so Turkey reluctantly closed the safe, replaced the key where he had found it, reflecting that it might come in handy again, and departed as he had come.
When he reached his shack he got into his bunk as being a position favorable to profound thought, but went to sleep before he thought of anything. In the morning breakfast absorbed his mental faculties until it was consumed. Then he lit a smoke and read all the papers through.
Those connected with Garland were obvious enough, self-explanatory, but he did not know just what to do with them. If he made them public he would have to account for his possession of them. That would not do. He would keep them for a while and see what turned up.
But the deeds were a different matter. They represented ownership, and so should be in the hands of his sister-in-law whom he had never seen. Why hadn't Braden or French given her these deeds? Why had Braden swiped them from French? The girl had been living on the land, so that she knew it belonged to her. Maybe, now that French was dead, that old skunk Braden was going to pretend that he never sold her father the place at all. But from what he, Turkey, knew of the old Tetreau lay-out, it wasn't worth going to much trouble about.
Suddenly Turkey whistled softly and swore to himself. He must be a bonehead! Braden wanted to get hold of that land because it was near his coal. Sure! That was it. The darn, old crook, trying to hold out on a girl after he'd made a strike like that on his own land! Why, the blanked, double-dashed old hog! Angus' wife must have the deeds at once, or Braden might put something over on her. It wouldn't do to trust the mail or any one else. He hated to go to the ranch, but he must give them to her himself.
Turkey thereupon saddled his blue mare and clattered away. The mare was in high spirits, the morning cool, and youth and good health surged in Turkey's veins. As he rode he sang classics of the old frontier which for excellent reasons have never been embalmed in type. Within a couple of miles of his destination the road dipped down to a wooden flat, crossed a creek and mounted a steep grade. Turkey, walking the blue mare, was half way up when a horse and rider appeared at the top. To his amazement they bore down on him at a run, and to his greater amazement the rider was a girl. For anybody to run a horse down that grade was to tempt Providence. But in a moment he realized that the horse was running away.
The girl had given up trying to hold him, and was letting him run. The animal, a powerful bay, had the bit, and his eyes showed white. His rider was sitting still, holding the horn with one hand, trying to adjust her body to the thumping jar of the downhill run. She was staying with it gamely, and though her face was white her mouth was set. She was a complete stranger to Turkey.
The latter was not foolish enough to endeavor to stop a runaway head on, on a grade. He wheeled his mare in to the bank, giving right-of-way.
"Stay with it!" he yelled. "I'll get you at the bottom!" And as the big bay thundered past he regained the road and sent the mare down after the runaway at a pace which even he considered risky.
He reached the bottom some fifty yards behind the bay, and for the first time called on the real speed of the mare. She overhauled rapidly, but as he drew nearly level and reached for the rein, the bay swerved, abandoned the road and took to the brush. But the blue mare was accustomed to hard riding after wild, long-legged steers up and down brush-covered coulees. She stuck to the bay, through an undergrowth that slashed and whipped, and once more brought Turkey level. This time he got a hold, and dragged the bay to a halt.
"Th—thank you!" the girl murmured, and swayed a little, catching the horn with both hands. "I—I think I'll get down, for a minute."
"Sure!" Turkey agreed, but as he saw how she slid from the saddle he leaped down and caught her.
"I'll be all right in a minute. I must have been frightened. It's so silly of me."
She sat down on the grass, and Turkey tied the bay to a sapling. This done he regarded the girl furtively, deciding that though not exactly pretty, she was mighty easy to look at. Blue eyes, fair hair, nice skin, tall and well-built. He hoped she wouldn't faint. That would be—well, it would be embarrassing. He wouldn't know what the—that is he would be helpless.
"I'm not going to faint," she said as if in answer to his thought. "I'm just shaken up."
Turkey nodded. A run down hill jolts even a hardened puncher at times. Girls were complicated machines—soft, too. Shaking up wasn't good for 'em. But in a moment the color began to come back to her cheeks.
"There," she said, "I feel better. I want to thank you really, now."
"That's all right," said Turkey. "I couldn't stop him on the grade; he'd have gone over, likely. What started him?"
"A piece of newspaper blew off the sides of the road under his feet. I couldn't hold him at all."
Turkey feebly expressed his opinion of people who dropped paper beside a road, the feebleness being due to the sex of his unknown companion.
The girl regarded him closely.
"You remind me of somebody," she said, "but I don't think I've ever seen you before."
"My name is Mackay," Turkey vouchsafed, and waited for a similar confidence which did not come.
"Mackay!" the girl exclaimed. Her eyes were veiled for a moment. When she again looked him in the face their expression had altered.
"Are you the Mr. Mackay who has a ranch somewhere near here?"
"That's my brother, Angus," Turkey replied.
"What a really Scotch name! Yours should be Donald, or Duncan, or Murdoch?"
"Worse than that," Turkey grinned. "Torquil. But most people call me 'Turkey.'"
"May I call you 'Turkey'?"
"If—if you like," Turkey stammered.
"Well, I do like. And I likeyou, Turkey."
"Huh!" said Turkey.
"Really and truly I do. Don't you like me?"
"I don't know you," the startled Turkey responded defensively.
"Oh, Turkey! what a speech! But wouldn't you like to know me better?"
Gosh! was this darn girl trying to be fresh, to flirt with him.
"I—I hadn't thought about it," he stammered.
"Oh, worse and worse! I want you to like me, and I want you to come and see me. I'm going to live here—in this district—for a while."
Turkey cast a longing eye at the blue mare. He would feel much safer in the saddle.
"Will you pay me a visit, Turkey—a nice, long visit. I'll make you comfy, really I will. I'd love to."
This was a holy fright.
"I'm mighty busy just now," he replied.
"You mean you won't. That's not nice."
"Well, maybe I'll drop around some time," Turkey relented.
"I'll look forward to it. And you know, Turkey dear"—Turkey jumped—"in the brave days of old when brave knights rescued ladies they were sometimes rewarded. Would you mind very much if I kissed you?"
Turkey backed hastily toward the faithful blue mare. This girl was crazy, and that was all there was to it. She shouldn't be out alone. A crazy girl, plum' bugs on men! A devil of a note! And it was his luck to get into a jackpot like that!
"You—you'd better not," he said desperately. "It wouldn't be right, anyway. I—I got consumption."
This amazing female laughed.
"Please let me kiss you, Turkey!"
"Not by a—I mean, no chance!" Turkey replied emphatically. "If you feel able to ride I'll go along with you to wherever you're going."
The girl rose obediently. But as Turkey turned to the horses two strong, rounded arms clasped him and warm lips pressed a kiss upon his cheek. Disengaged, he staggered back.
"It wasn't so bad, was it?" the girl laughed. "You won't be so shy next time." She drew a fringed buckskin glove from her left hand, and to Turkey's utter horror he beheld the dull gleam of gold upon the third finger.
A wedding ring! Oh Lord! Somebody's crazy wife. Suppose the husband showed up and found a kissing match going on!
"Turkey dear," said the crazy wife, "you haven't asked me who I am."
"Well, who are you?" said Turkey. Likely she would claim to be Joan of Arc or Pocahontas, and she would be calling him old Cap. Smith next.
"I am Faith Mackay, Angus' wife!"
"What!" Turkey gasped.
Faith laughed, her eyes dancing.
"I know you'll forgive me, Turkey. But you were so funny, and so be-yewtifully shy! You wouldn't come to our wedding, and I never saw you, and so I couldn't resist having a little fun with you."
Turkey grinned shamefacedly. "I thought you were crazy," he admitted.
"Yes, I thought you did. But I'm not—even if I did want to kiss you."
"You can do it again if you like," Turkey suggested with sudden enthusiasm.
"Perhaps I shall when you come to pay me that long visit."
Turkey frowned. "I guess you don't know how things are. Angus—"
"Now, Turkey, listen to me: The whole trouble with you Mackays is that you are too stiff-necked to get together and talk over your differences frankly. Angus has his faults, but his good qualities outweigh them. He's aman, Turkey, and I'm proud of him."
"Oh, he's a man, all right," Turkey admitted frankly. "I never said he wasn't. He's a darn good man; but all the same he's a darn hard man for me to get along with. But it's funny. I was going to the ranch to-day to seeyou."
"That was nice of you."
"I didn't mean it that way. I wanted to give you the deeds to your land."
"My deeds? But I have them."
"Are you sure?" Turkey exclaimed.
"Of course I'm sure. My uncle gave them to me before he died."
Turkey was crestfallen. She ought to know. Then what the dickens was the junk he had in his pocket? He produced the deeds and handed them to her.
"Well, all I know is that these look like deeds to your father. I thought you ought to have 'em, so I brought 'em along."
She regarded the papers with a puzzled frown.
"Why they seem just the same as the others. Why should there be two sets of deeds?"
"Search me," Turkey admitted. "They're the same, are they?"
"I think so. I mean theylookthe same, signatures and all." She read the description of the property. "A thousand acres. Yes, that's the same. Oh, wait! 'Beginning at a point ... and thence westerly—'" Her forehead wrinkled in an effort of recollection. "Why, Turkey, theyaren't! I mean it's the same number of acres, but this puts my east corner further west. I'm almost sure—Oh!"
"What's the matter?" Turkey asked, for she was staring wide-eyed.
"Oh, don't you see—but of course you wouldn't because you don't know—but if these deeds are real—I mean if they are the real deeds—I own the land which Mr. Braden claims—the coal land!"
The comment which burst from the lips of the startled Turkey went unreproved.
"Where did you get these?" Faith demanded.
Turkey told her the truth. When he had concluded Faith sat silent, thinking.
"Well," she said at last, "there are several things I don't understand. But one thing is clear enough: You must come back to the ranch, and you and Angus must be friends again. I'm going to insist on that. No more misunderstandings. We all owe you a great deal, Turkey. And I'm going to kiss you again."