CHAPTER III

30

He took it from her with reluctance, pushed his arms into it and drew it over his head and shoulders.

“Thank you!” he said in a quiet voice. “I was sick and in prison––I was anhungered––I was thirsty––I was naked. I don’t know exactly how it goes,” he apologised, “but it is something like that and it certainly does apply to you, miss.”

His mood changed. He turned up part of the sleeve of the sweater and put it to his lips.

Eileen’s face took on a flood of colour despite herself.

A smile flitted across the unshaven face of the man, disclosing his regular, clean teeth.

Eileen drew herself up stiffly.

She went to the door and opened it to allow him to pass out of her life as he had come into it. But as he turned to go, he started back at a sound in the dark.

The tall, athletic figure of a man loomed up, blocked the way and stepped into the kitchen beside them.

Eileen gasped and clutched at her bosom in terror.

“Mr. Brenchfield,” she cried in sudden anger, “what do you mean? You––you have been watching. I didn’t think you were a spy, although after all, possibly I did, for I intentionally held back the man you are after.”

Brenchfield ignored her remark and pointed with his finger at the fugitive, who came forward, his eyes staring as if he were seeing an apparition.

“Great God,––you!” exclaimed the young man. Then with a catching sound in his throat, he sprang at the burly, well-fed man before him.

Brenchfield was taken completely by surprise. He staggered against the side of the door, as thin claw-like fingers found his throat and tried to stop the vital air. The fingers closed on his windpipe too tightly for comfort.

31

Eileen cried out and tried to go between, but she was thrust aside.

The men swayed together, then Brenchfield’s hands went up, catching the other by the wrists in a firm hold. There was a momentary struggle, the runaway’s grip was broken and he was flung to the floor.

Brenchfield turned to Eileen.

“Miss Pederstone, have you gone crazy trying to hide this man? Don’t you know he is a runaway; a dangerous convict? The police––blind fools––didn’t tumble to your nervousness, but I caught on. I knew you had him hidden in the wood-box.”

The hunted man rose slowly from the floor and staggered forward, gasping for breath. He gave Brenchfield a look of loathing.

“Graham,” he said brokenly, “may the good God forgive you, for I never shall.”

He threw out his thin arms and looked at them, while tears of impotence came into his eyes. He clenched his hands and grit his teeth. “And may the devil, your friend, protect you,” he continued threateningly, “when these grow strong again.”

Brenchfield looked him over with indifference.

“My good fellow, you’ll excuse me! You have wheels in your head. I don’t know you from a hedge-fence. Damn it!” he suddenly flared angrily, “I don’t want to know you. Get out; quick! before I help you along, or put you in the hands of your friends down the hill who are so anxious to renew your acquaintance.”

The young man stared fearlessly into the eyes of Graham Brenchfield, wealthy rancher, cattleman, grain merchant and worthy Mayor of Vernock. Then his lips parted in a strange smile, as he threw up his head.

He turned to Eileen.

32

“Guess I’vegotto go now. I have my marching orders.”

“Come on;––enough of this––git!” put in Brenchfield roughly, stepping up in a threatening manner.

The fugitive ignored the interruption.

“Good-bye, Miss––Miss Pederstone––and, remember this from a convict who doesn’t count:––as surely as there is a wolf-note in some violins, so surely is there a wolf-note in some men. Strike the wolf-note and you set the devils in hell jumping.”

In the next moment he passed out at the door and down the dusty highway leading to Vernock.

Graham Brenchfield stood looking after him until the night shut him out.

Eileen Pederstone stared in front of her with eyes that saw no outward thing.

At last Brenchfield broke the silence.

“It was rather unwise––foolish––harbouring such a man as that; and your father from home.”

“Yes?” queried Eileen, with a slow intonation of resentment.

“Unprotected as you were!”

“We girls would have little need for protection if you men were all as gentlemanly as he was. He seemed to be an old acquaintance of yours. Who is he?”

Brenchfield shrugged his shoulders.

“Pshaw!––that kind would claim acquaintance with the very devil himself. You don’t suppose I ever met him before. He is a dangerous criminal escaped from Ukalla.”

“He told me so,” put in Eileen, as if tired of the interview, “and he seemed quite annoyed when I refused to believe thedangerous criminalpart.”

“But the police tell me heis. It was only for your sake that I let him go.”

33

Brenchfield tried to turn her to the seriousness of her misdemeanour. “For the sake of your good name, you had no right admitting him. You know what Vernock is like for gossip. You know the construction likely to be placed on your action.”

Eileen drew herself up haughtily.

“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Brenchfield! When did you earn the right to catechise Eileen Pederstone?”

He changed suddenly and his peculiarly strong and handsome face softened.

“I am sorry. I did not mean it in that way, Eileen. And this is no time to speak, but––but I hope––some day–––”

The girl held up her hand, and he stopped.

He was tall, full-chested and tremendously athletic of figure and poise, with dark eyes that fascinated rather than attracted and a bearing of confidence begotten of five years of triumphal success in business ventures and real-estate transactions; a man to whom men would look in a crisis; a man whom most men obeyed instinctively and one to whom women felt drawn although deep down in their hearts they were strangely afraid of him.

He held Eileen with his eyes.

“There is something I wish to ask you some day, Eileen. May I?”

“Nothing serious, I hope, Mr. Brenchfield?” she returned lightly, for she at least had never acknowledged any submission to those searching eyes of his. “And please remember, it is past midnight. My father isn’t here.”

“Serious!––yes!” he returned, ignoring her admonition, “but some day will do.”

“It is an old story;––some day may never come, good sir!”

He smiled indulgently.

34

Eileen, despite her apparent unconcern, placed her hand over her heart as if to stay a fluttering there.

Mayor Brenchfield was a young man, a successful man; to many women he would have been considered a desirable man.

He professed friendship with Eileen’s father. He put business her father’s way. He was of the same political leanings. He had met Eileen on many occasions. Brenchfield was a tremendously energetic man; he seemed to be everywhere at once.

Eileen, like other women, could not help admiring him for his forceful handling of other men, for his keen business acumen, for his almost wizardly success.

He had many qualities that appealed strongly to the romantic in her youthful nature; but, girl-like, she had not stopped at any time to analyse the feelings he engendered in her.

And now, up there on the hill, in the chill of the night air, under the stars that hung so low and prominently that one felt one might almost reach up and pluck them from the heavens,––now there came a sudden dread.

It was this inexplicable dread that set her heart athrob.

Brenchfield took her hand from her bosom and patted it gently.

His touch annoyed her. She drew away imperiously, and she shivered.

“Why, little woman!––you are cold and it is very late. How thoughtless of me! Good night, Eileen!”

“Good night!” she returned wearily, closing the door.

The moment he heard the bolts shoot home, Brenchfield’s whole nature changed. An oath came to his lips. He crushed his hat down on his head, leapt the fence and rushed headlong by the short cut down through the orchards––townward.

35

At the Kenora Hotel corner his low whistle brought two men from the saloon.

The three conversed together earnestly for a few moments, then they separated to different positions in the shadows but commanding a full view of the road leading down the hill from the east of the Main Street of Vernock.

But of all this Eileen Pederstone––alone in the little bungalow up on the hill––was blissfully ignorant.

36CHAPTER IIIAt Pederstone’s Forge

Pederstone the blacksmith––or, to give him his full name which he insisted on at all times, John Royce Pederstone––was busy on his anvil, turning a horse shoe. His sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders and his lithe muscles slipped and rippled under his white skin in a rhythm of harmony. His broad chest was bare as his arms, and his chubby apple-red cheeks shone with perspiration which oozed from his every pore. He was singing to himself in happy unconcern about his being a jovial monk contented with his lot. Two horses were tied inside the shop waiting to be shod, chafing and pawing in their impatience.

Pederstone’s right-hand man, Sol Hanson, a great chunk of a bachelor Swede, was at the back door swearing volubly because an iron tire refused to fit the wooden rim of a cart wheel to his satisfaction.

Horseshoes, ploughs, harrows, iron gates and cart and buggy wheels of all kinds were lying about in disorderly profusion.

The noonday sun was pouring in aslant at the front door, while at the back door, away from Hanson, a Russian wolf-hound was stretched out lazily gnawing at a bone which it held between its fore paws.

The furnace fire was blazing, and Pederstone’s anvil was ringing merrily, when suddenly the melodious sounds were interrupted by a deep growl and then a yelp of pain from the hound as it sprang away from the spurred37boot of a great, rough, yet handsome figure of a man of the cowboy type, who came striding in, legs apart, dressed in sheepskin chaps.

“Say, Ped!––ain’t you got that hoss o’ mine shod? Can’t wait all day in this burg!”

The smith stopped suddenly and glared at the newcomer.

“None of that Ped stuff, you untamed Indian! Mr. Royce Pederstone to you and your kind; and, if you don’t like it and can’t wait your turn, take your cayuse out of here and tie her up at the back of the hotel for an hour or two. You’re not half drunk enough yet to be going back to Redmans Creek.”

“All right, Mister-Royce-Pederstone––but I ain’t Indian, and don’t you forgit it. The fact that I git all the booze I like from Charlie Mac settles that in this burg.”

It was a sore point with the newcomer, for at least three-quarters of him was white, and part of it first-class white at that.

He took off his hat.

“Ever see an Indian with hair like that?”

He pushed a tousled head of flaring red hair under the blacksmith’s nose. He struck his chest dramatically with his fist.

“Donald McTavish McGregor, that’s my name. And I’m off to take your advice, but you can keep the mare till she’s shod.”

He swaggered out.

At the door he had to side-step––much to his disgust––to get out of the way of one, Ben Todd, who was not in the habit of making way for anyone but a lady. Todd was the Editor and Manager of theVernock and District Advertiser, the man behind most of the political moves in the Valley. He was a hunchback, with a brain that38always seemed to have a “hunch” before any other brain in the country started to wake up.

“Hullo, John!” shouted Todd.

“Fine day, Ben!” returned Pederstone.

“See the Government’s turned down the new Irrigation Scheme!”

“What?” shouted Pederstone. “The mean pikers!”

“Guess it’s about time we had a new Government, John!”

“Yes!––or at least a new member for the Valley,” returned the smith.

“Well,––there’s truth in that, too. And, as you’re President of the Association, why don’t you get the boys to change their man? The one we’ve got has been too long on the job. Seems to think he’s in for life.”

“The trouble is, Ben,––who could we get that would be an improvement?”

“Why not have a try at it yourself, John, at the coming election?” suggested the editor as a feeler.

“What!––me?” exclaimed the smith in surprise, viewing the serious look on the face of the bearded hunchback.

“Sure!––why not?”

“It isn’t a question of why not,” laughed Royce Pederstone, “but rather one of WHY.”

“Because we want you,” returned the editor. “You’re one of us, and you know what this Valley requires better than any other.”

Royce Pederstone was silent.

“Would you run if we put you up?” pursued Ben Todd.

“Might,” grinned the smith, “but I won’t say where I’d run to.”

“But straight goods?”

“No, siree! Not for me! A bit of ranching and39my work here in the shop keeps me busy enough. In fact, I’ve been thinking lately that I would like to give up this strenuous labour in the smithy.”

Ben Todd was about to pursue the subject further when they were interrupted by the approach of a horse, which pulled up abruptly at the front door. A beautiful, full-blooded mare, of tremendous proportions, reared high in the air, then dropped to a stand-still as docile as a lamb.

Mayor Brenchfield, groomed to perfection in leggings and riding breeches, slid to the ground, thrust his reins through a hitching ring and stepped inside, thus providing the third side of an interesting triangle for conversation.

They had been talking for some fifteen minutes, when the conversation veered to the subject that had been uppermost in everyone’s mind in the neighbourhood of Vernock for many weeks past.

“I see the Assizes have got through with their work at last,” put in Ben Todd.

Brenchfield’s eyebrows moved slightly.

“Yes?”

“Loo Yick, the chink, is to hang.”

“You bet,––the yellow skunk! Imagine a fine girl like Lottie Mays being done to death by that; and every man that ever saw her just crazy for her.”

“Well!––Lottie and her kind take chances all the time. Somebody generally gets them in the finish,” put in Royce Pederstone. “She wasn’t content with her price, but stole his wad as well. The town would be better quit of the bunch.”

“Guess you’re right,” agreed Brenchfield. “But it does seem a pity we can’t cut down in the number of Chinamen we have in the Okanagan.”

“Yes!” put in Todd, “but you know who brought them40here. You fellows with the ranches, looking for cheap help, did it.”

He laughed. “And, by God, you got it with a vengeance; and all that goes with it. They’re likely to rout us out of house and land before they’re through with us. You will have onehigh-Utime getting them out,––believe me.”

“And Pierre Qu’appelle got sent down for ten years.”

“Guess that ends the wholesale thieving that has been going on around Vernock these last five years.”

“Hope so!” exclaimed the Mayor. “But you can’t always sometimes tell.”

“Pierre didn’t have the ghost of a chance; caught with the goods on him,” remarked Todd.

“Seems funny to me that he should play a lone game, though,” said Royce Pederstone.

“Not when you know the bunch he gangs with,” remarked Ben Todd. “They’re generally all in it, and one man takes the risk and the blame. He’ll get his share kept for him till he comes out again.

“Morrison of the O.K. Supply Company says he has had over seven thousand dollars’ worth of feed and flour stolen from his warehouses inside of six months. The Pioneer Traders never give out what they lose.”

“You, yourself, have lost quite a bit, haven’t you, Brenchfield?” put in Pederstone.

“Yes!––from time to time, but I could never lay my finger definitely on the shortage. My records have been faulty in the past, but I’m going to keep a better watch on it for the future.”

“Well!” returned the smith, “the fewer of Pierre Qu’appelle’s thieving kind we have in the community, the better for all of us.”

“We pretty nearly had a newcomer of the same brand when you were at Enderby, John.”

41

“So I heard! How did it finish, Ben? I heard they got him. How did they manage it?”

“Better ask the Mayor,” said the editor guardedly. “He ought to know how these things finish. Who was the man, Graham? How did the chase end?”

“Oh!” muttered Brenchfield, “it was some runaway from Ukalla. He landed in here under a freight train, and the detectives were riding in the caboose and he didn’t know it.”

Todd laughed.

“Pretty good copy! What else?”

“He gave them the slip. They got in touch with me later. We set off on a hunt. Found the fellow in a barn. But he got out at the skylight window and made a run for it.”

“The poor devil! He deserved to get away after that,” remarked the editor.

“Pretty nearly did, too! One of the detectives winged him on the B. X. Road,” lied the Mayor. “He beat us to it for a time. I went home to bed after a bit, but I heard later that they fell in with their man looking for food in Chinatown in the early morning. He led them another chase up over the high road and down the Kickwillie Loop to the lake. He got into a rowing boat and made out into the middle of the water. The detectives got into Murray’s gasoline launch and were soon within hailing distance of him. But the beggar was game, although he must have been half-dead by that time.

“When he saw it was all up, he took off the coat, or sweater, or whatever it was he was wearing, wrapped it round the little anchor in the boat, undid the rope and plumped the lot into the lake.”

“What on earth did he do that for?” asked Pederstone.

42

“Oh, I guess he got the clothes from someone up here and didn’t wish to implicate them.”

“By gosh! but he was game,” put in Ben Todd. “Darned if I wouldn’t like a shake of his hand for that!”

The editor turned, and his expression changed. He raised his hat.

“Eh,––excuse my language, Miss Pederstone. I,––I didn’t know you were there.”

The talk stopped abruptly, as Eileen Pederstone came forward into the centre of the shop.

“Hello, Eilie, dear!” cried her father. “Dinner time already? and my work miles ahead of me, while we gossips are going at it like old wives at market. Why,––what’s the matter, lass?”

The girl’s face showed pale in the light of the forge fire and her eyes were moist.

She pulled herself together.

“Nothing, daddy! I was just feeling sorry for that poor young fellow Mr. Brenchfield was telling about.”

“Tuts!” exclaimed Todd, “don’t waste your sorrow, Eileen. Why,––he wasn’t a young fellow. He was an old, grey-haired, cross-eyed, yellow-toothed, dirty, wizened-faced, knock-kneed specimen of a jailbird escaped from Ukalla. Look up the Advertiser Thursday, you’ll see.”

“Oh no, he wasn’t; he––he,––Mr. Brenchfield–––” Eileen stopped. “Didn’t I hear you say he was a young man, Mr. Brenchfield?” she asked, endeavouring to cover up her confusion, turning her big eyes full on the Mayor.

“Why, eh––yes! I did mention something about him being young,” gallantly agreed Brenchfield.

“Did––he––get––away?” inquired Eileen desperately.

Brenchfield busied himself adjusting his leggings. Eileen put her hand on his arm.

“Did he get away, Mr. Brenchfield?” she asked again.

43

“Better finish the yarn, Graham!” said Royce Pederstone. “Eilie is like others of her sex; you can’t shake her once she gets a grip.”

“Well!” resumed Brenchfield uneasily, “as far as I can learn the man jumped out of the rowing boat as the launch came up on him. He tried to swim for it. He evidently knew how to swim, too;––but he was weak as a kitten. The detectives played him. When he was thoroughly exhausted, they let him sink.”

“The beasts!” exclaimed Eileen, her body aquiver with sudden anger.

“Guess I had better stop this stuff!” said Brenchfield.

“No, no! Don’t mind me. Go on!”

“He came up––and they let him sink again. Next time he came up, they fished him out, because he might not have come up again.

“The fellow came to after a bit. You see, that kind won’t kill. So I guess he is now safely back home, in his little eiderdown bed, getting fed with chicken broth;––home in Ukalla jail, where he belongs.

“Little boys always get into trouble when they run away from home, eh, Ben!” laughed Brenchfield.

The coarse humour didn’t catch on.

Eileen Pederstone laid her basket on the smithy floor, threw a look of contempt into the youthful Mayor’s face and walked out with her head high.

“One for his nobs!” laughed Ben Todd. “And, damn it!––you cold-blooded alligator!––she served you rightly.”

44CHAPTER IVWayward Langford

While the foregoing was taking place in Pederstone’s smithy at Vernock, a scene of a different nature was being enacted in the Governor’s private office at Ukalla Prison.

Phil Ralston, somewhat refreshed from a scrubbing, a good sleep and two prison meals, had just been ushered into the presence of the man who held power almost of life and death over every unfortunate confined there.

Phil expected no mercy. His feelings were blunted by what he had already gone through, so the worst that might happen now did not worry him; for, when hope of relief entirely goes, what one has to face loses most of its terrors.

The well-fed, strong-jawed governor leaned over his desk and looked at his prisoner.

“Ay, Ralston! So you were a naughty boy and ran away!”

The young fellow did not reply.

“Look up, man! I’m not going to eat you.”

Ralston’s eyes met his calmly.

“Why did you run away?”

“Because my time was up, sir!”

“Of course it was! Hang it all!––that’s why I can’t understand your behaviour.”

The governor smiled in a manner that was meant to be reassuring––for, after all, he knew he had exceeded his limit and, if it were known, he might have difficulty in squaring himself.

45

“But you told me, sir, that I had still two weeks to serve.”

“What? I told you that? Why, man, you’re crazy. Wake up! You foolish fellow, don’t you know that the moment you made off, your discharge papers were lying on my desk all ready?”

“And youdidn’tsay I had two more weeks to serve?”

“No, damn it, no! How could I? Why, Johnston there had already been sent to the storage room for your belongings.

“Isn’t that so, Johnston?”

“Yes, sir!” nodded the chief jailer emphatically.

“Didn’t I tell you number three hundred and sixteen was due out that day?”

“Yes, sir! Remember distinctly, sir.”

Phil’s lip curled contemptuously, and, although he was in no mood for arguing under such conditions, he could not resist one more query.

“Why then did they go after me and bring me back, sir?”

“Why did they! Why do you think, you young fool? Do you imagine breaking out is the way to leave Ukalla Jail? What kind of an institution do you think we are running here? Do you fancy we are going to stand still to that kind of thing? What kind of respect have you for my good reputation anyway? You selfish bunch are all alike!

“Of course we went after you! Of course we brought you back, just to teach you manners, same as a school teacher calls back a scholar to shut the door he has left open.

“If you got your deserts you would be back there for a few months longer. If you don’t watch yourself when you get out, you’ll be back here again. Eh, Johnston!”

“Yes, sir! They generally do come back, sir,”46grunted that echo. “Seem to like us; can’t stay away, sir!”

“Now, Ralston! Here is your discharge. You’re free to go when you like. But Johnston will open the gate for you this time.”

In an overflow of weakness, Phil reeled at the unexpected news. He staggered against the Governor’s desk as he clutched at the paper.

That official smiled benignly. “Here is a present from the government, a cheque for fifty dollars for your faithful services––never absent, never late,” he grinned. “Johnston has your two grips in the hall with your stuff in them that they found in your shack at Carnaby.”

He held out his hand.

“Good-bye, Ralston! You’ve been a good lad here but for your one bad break fifteen months ago, and this one. Don’t come back.”

In half an hour, Philip Ralston was breathing the air of freedom in the inter-urban tram speeding toward Vancouver.

It was the spring of the year. His worldly wealth was fifty dollars. His clothes were some years behind the latest model, but they were decent enough, clean and serviceable.

He put up at a third-rate hotel on Cordova Street and spent one glorious week sleeping, eating, strolling the busy streets and lounging in the parks and on the beaches. He spoke to few, although he had of a necessity to listen to many. At the hotel in the evenings, several transients told him their story, hoping thereby to hear his own as a time-chaser, but Phil, true to the sobriquet he had earned at Ukalla, remained silent.

At the end of a week, after paying his bed and board, his fifty dollars had dwindled to thirty. He knew he could not afford to let it go much lower, otherwise the47detectives, who seemed forever spying on him, would be arresting him on a vagrancy charge. Vancouver was chuck-full of detectives, many of whom Phil knew by sight, while the others he sensed. And he loathed and abhorred their entire breed.

Too many were the stories he had heard from fellow prisoners at Ukalla, who had tried honestly to take up some definite occupation after leaving jail, only to be hounded from position to position by these interfering sleuths who fancied it their duty to inform the erstwhile employer that the man who was working for him was an ex-jailbird and consequently should have a keen eye kept on him for a while. The inevitable, of course, followed; for what employer could afford to have an ex-convict on his staff?

And so, Phil did not attempt to secure work in Vancouver. He had a horror of the rush and buzz of the city anyway.

Policemen were everywhere; on the sidewalks watching everybody and everything; at the street corners directing the traffic.

Self-consciousness made Phil feel guilty almost. These men gave him the creeps, innocent of all guilt though he was. His one desire was to get as far away from them and all things connected with them as was possible.

He sat on a seat in the park one afternoon, trying to decide his future.

He thought of Graham Brenchfield, now Mayor of Vernock, evidently wealthy beyond Phil’s wildest dreams. He remembered the old partnership pact and the five hundred dollars he paid for it––five years, a pool and a straight division of the profits. He put his hand in his pocket, took out his money and counted it over;––twenty-four dollars and fifteen cents.

48

He laughed. But his laugh was void of merriment, for he had vowed solemnly to himself in prison that some day he would get even with Graham Brenchfield. And, so far as Brenchfield was concerned, the iron was still in Phil Ralston’s soul.

As he sat there, the vision of an angel face came back to him; the picture of a girl of small frame, fairy-like, agile, bending over him as he lay faint and wounded on the floor of her little bungalow up on the hill overlooking Vernock. And it settled his mental uncertainty.

He would go back there! It was a free and bracing life in that beautiful Valley, and, God knows! that was what he required after five years of confinement. He could pick up his strength while at work on the farms, or among the orchards, or on the cattle ranges. Lots of things he could do there!

No one would know him,––no one had seen him before but she and Brenchfield. She would never recognise him––shaved and clean––for the broken, ragged wretch whom she had befriended. As for Brenchfield––he would know Phil anywhere, in any disguise, but Phil knew how to close his mouth tighter than a clam.

Besides, there was the settlement to be made between Brenchfield and himself.

Yes!––Vernock was the place of all places for Phil Ralston.

He went back to the hotel, dressed himself in the best clothes he had, paid his score and packed his grips. And that night he was speeding eastward.

On the following afternoon he landed at the comparatively busy little ranching town of Vernock, where he had decided to try out his fortune.

He left his grips at the station and sauntered down the Main Street. There were few people about at the time and all were evidently too intent on their own particular49business to pay much attention to a new arrival. He passed a commodious-looking hotel, built of wood, typically western in style, with hitching posts at the side of the road, a broad sidewalk and a few steps up to a wide veranda which led into an airy and busy saloon.

For want of anything better to occupy his attention, Phil strolled in. He called for a glass of beer at the bar. While waiting service, he took in his surroundings.

Several men were lounging at the bar talking loudly, smoking, spitting carelessly and drinking. At a table, near the window, a long-legged, somewhat wistful-looking young man, with prominent front teeth and a heavy mop of auburn hair, was sitting in front of a glass of liquor, gazing lazily into the vacant roadway. From an adjoining room off the saloon rough voices rose every now and again in argument over a poker game which was in progress there between a number of men who appeared to be in off some of the neighbouring ranches.

As Phil surveyed the scene, a man galloped up to the hotel entrance, tossed his reins over his horse’s head and jingled loudly into the saloon. He was clean-cut, dark-skinned and red-haired, and walked with a swinging gait. He shouted the time of day to the bar-tender, as he kept on into the inner room where the card game was in progress.

Phil guessed him for the foreman of the cattlemen inside and conjectured that he had been giving them some instructions regarding their departure, but passed the incident from his mind as quickly as it had cropped up: and he was still slowly refreshing himself when half a dozen rough-looking men tumbled out of the card-room.

“Come on fellows! Drinks all round, Mack! Don’t miss a damned man in the room. Everybody’s havin’ one on me.”

The speaker hitched up his trousers, blew out a mouthful50of chewing tobacco and waved his arm invitingly.

The counter loungers gathered round in expectation, as the proprietor and his assistant busied themselves filling the welcome order.

“Hi, Wayward!” he continued, shouting over to the long-legged man sitting by the window. “What-ya drinkin’?”

There was no answer.

“Oh, hell!––he’s up in the clouds. Take him over a Scotch and soda, Pete.”

Phil looked up in time to intercept a wink between the speaker and one of his gang.

“Hello, stranger! Just blowed in?”

“Yes!” answered Phil. “I am just off the train.”

“Stayin’ long?”

“Possibly!”

“All right,––what’s your poison? It’s my deal and your shout.”

“Nothing for me, thanks!” replied Phil. “I’ve all I require here.”

The broad-shouldered, clean-limbed fellow came over closer to Phil.

“Say, young man,––’tain’t often Don McGregor stands drinks all round, but when he does ’tain’t good for the health to turn him down. You’ve got to have one on me, or you and me ain’t goin’ to be friendly,––see.”

Phil looked him over good-naturedly and smiled.

“Oh, all right; let her go!” he answered. “I’ll have a small lemonade.”

“What?” exploded the man who called himself Don McGregor.

A shout of laughter came from everyone in the bar-room.

“Didn’t you ask me to name my drink?” put in Phil.

“Sure!”

51

“Well––I’ve named it.”

“No, you ain’t! Lemonade ain’t a drink: it’s a bath.”

More merriment greeted the sally.

Phil flushed but held down his rising temper. He had had five years’ experience of self-effacement which stood him in good stead now.

“You’re not trying to pick a quarrel with me?” he inquired quietly.

“Me? Not on your life! I ain’t pickin’ scraps with the likes of you. But, for God’s sake, man,––name a man-sized drink and be quick. The bunch is all waitin’.”

Phil immediately changed his tactics.

“Thanks!” he answered. “I’ll have a Scotch.”

“That’s talkin’.”

The bar-tender came over with a bottle in his hand. “Say when!” he remarked to Phil.

“Keep a-going,” put in Phil. “Up,––up!”

McGregor stood and gaped.

“That’s ’nough!” said Phil easily, as the liquor was brimming over.

The bar-tender pushed along a glass of water. Phil pushed it back.

At a draught he emptied the liquor down his throat. It burned like red-hot coals, for he was unused to it, but he would have drunk it down if it had cremated him.

McGregor had made a miscalculation and he appeared slightly crestfallen as he turned from Phil and talked volubly to his comrades.

While they conversed, McGregor backed gradually, as if by accident, until he was almost touching Phil. Finally he got the heel of his boot squarely on Phil’s toe, and he kept it there, pressing harder and harder every second, still talking loudly to those around him and apparently all oblivious of his action.

Even then Phil had no definite notion that it was not52merely the clumsy accident of a half-intoxicated cowboy.

At last he poked the man in the back.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but when you are finished with my foot I should like to have it.”

“What’n the––Oh!” exclaimed the red-haired man, grinding his full weight on Phil’s toe as he got off. “Was I standin’ on you? Hope I didn’t hurt you!” he grinned maliciously.

The pain was excruciating, but still Phil forebore with an effort, accepting the man’s half-cocked apology.

Suddenly a new diversion appeared in the shape of a half-witted boy of about twelve years of age, who slouched in evidently on the look-out for any cigar ends that might be lying about the floor.

The boy was clad raggedly and wore a perpetual grin.

“Hullo, Smiler!” cried one of the men. “Come and have a drink.”

The boy shook his head and backed away.

McGregor made a grab at him and caught him by the coat collar. He pulled the frightened youngster to the counter and, picking up a bottle of whisky, thrust it under the lad’s nose.

“Here, kid;––big drink! Ginger-beer;––good stuff!”

The boy caught the bottle in his hands, tilted it and took a gulp. Then he coughed and spluttered, and spat it out, almost dropping the bottle as McGregor, laughing hilariously, laid hold of it.

“Come on, Smiler!––you got to finish this. Say, Stitchy,––let’s make him drunk. Here!––you hold him.”

The boy made that inarticulate cry which dumb people make when seized suddenly with fear.

Only then did it strike Phil Ralston that the lad was dumb, as well as half-witted.

The man whom McGregor addressed as Stitchy caught the boy and held him securely by the arms, tilting his head53backward until he was unable to move. McGregor brought the bottle and was on the point of forcing the helpless Smiler to open his mouth, when the bottle was sent flying out of his hands and he staggered back against the counter from a blow on the side of the face from Phil’s fist.

“Leave the boy alone!” he cried angrily, his face pale as he laboured to stifle his excitement.

He had refrained from interfering as long as he could, well knowing his present physical weakness and what a mix-up might mean to him if the police happened along, but this ill-treatment was a little more than he could stand, despite all possible consequences.

The moment Smiler was released, the boy ran to the door and away.

Meantime, McGregor pulled himself together and began to laugh as if from his stomach.

“I guess that means a scrap,” he grunted.

“Not that I know of,” put in Phil. “But I like to see fair play. The youngster wasn’t hurting you.”

For answer McGregor unbuckled his belt and handed it to his friend called Stitchy, spitting noisily on the saw-dusted floor.

The hotel proprietor jumped over the counter and interfered.

“There’s going to be no rough-house here. If you fools want to fight get out on the back lot where there’s plenty of room. Come on,––out you go! The whole caboodle of you!”

He and his assistant––both burly men––cleared the bar.

Phil was among the last to leave, and, in a faint hope of avoiding trouble, he turned aside, but McGregor sprang after him and laid hold.

“Not by a damn-sight!” he cried. “Here, stick them up!”

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