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Jim thought her tone was just a little strained and that her colour went somewhat suddenly.
“I haven’t the slightest idea! He didn’t show up to-night at home; yet he has been aching for this little affair since he received your invitation.”
“Oh, I––I hardly think so, Jim. He is not the man to ache much over this kind of thing. You don’t suppose anything serious could have happened?” she asked with a show of anxiety.
“I don’t. But I’m sure only something serious would keep him away. However,––what’s the good of worrying!––Phil can look out for himself pretty good.”
“Yes,––I daresay!” she said absently, staring at the dancers as they glided round in the next room.
Jim put his hand on her arm and moved her round to him.
“Eileen,––what is it that is troubling you? You are not so terribly interested in Phil as all that,––are you?”
She roused herself.
“Me? Oh dear no! Not any more than I am in Sol Hanson, in Mr. Todd, in––in Jim Langford,” she bantered. “Why should I? I know him only in the most casual of casual ways.”
“Have you seen him since he was invited here?” Jim asked bluntly.
“Ye-yes!––just for a moment in the smithy the day he took sick. I thought,––oh Jim!––I thought possibly he might have misunderstood something––something that happened there at that time,––but––ah well!––anyway, it doesn’t matter now.
“He does not say very much at any time, does he, Jim? He’s a queer fellow.”
“Ay!” said Jim drily, “and you’re a queer little fellow yourself, Eileen,––eh!”
“Do you know anything of him before he came to210Vernock?” she inquired suddenly, with a change of tone.
“Practically nothing! He has kept that a sealed book, and it is none of my affairs; but I do know that since he came here he has been the real stuff, and that is good enough for Jim Langford.”
She smiled.
“Oh you men! You stand by your pals to the very last ditch; while a woman will desert her woman friend at the first one.
“Never mind! Let us forget Mr. Ralston meantime.
“Did you hear the news, Jim?––the great news! Daddy,––my own daddy has been offered the portfolio of Minister of Agriculture on the new Cabinet. He will be the Honourable John Royce Pederstone. And this his first session in Parliament too! Isn’t it great?”
“Je––hosephat!” Jim jumped up. “And I never heard a thing.”
“I don’t wonder at that, Jim. Dad only got the wire an hour ago making the definite offer.”
“By jingo!––I must go and give him my congratulations. Here’s the Mayor looking for you, Eileen. I’ll leave you to him. I must find your dad.”
And while the reception at John Royce Pederstone’s was at its height, Phil Ralston was trudging the hills alone, coming over the ranges from Lumby, a village which lay several miles distant, where he had gone by stage direct from the smithy. He walked in the melancholy enjoyment of his own thoughts. It did him good––and he knew it––to get off in this way when things were not going to his liking. It gave him an opportunity to review himself in the cold blood of retrospect, without interference; and it gave him time quietly to review the conduct of others about him; a chance to decide whether he was right or wrong in the211position he had assumed; a chance to plan his future course from what had already taken place.
It was a crisp, frosty night, with a deep blue velvet dome of cloudless sky overhead, with star-diamonds that flashed and twinkled with ever varying colours, until a crescent moon, shaped like the whip of an orange, rose up over the hills to the east, cold, luminous and silvery, and paled the lesser twinkling lights into insignificance and ultimate obscurity.
As Phil topped the last hill overlooking Vernock, his head was high and so were his spirits, for he had made up his mind that come what might he would pursue his way calmly and earnestly to the end as he thought fit, and, if Eileen Pederstone cared to betray his secret, he would meet that difficulty as he had met others.
He looked down into the town before him, but its usual fairy-like aspect was absent, for the town fathers were beginning to get frugal and did not use their electricity on the main streets when the moon was up or when the snow was lying. Only the smaller lights of the dwelling houses gave out any signs of life.
He dropped gradually down, then across an orchard and on to the main highway leading to Vernock.
As he was passing the town jail, his attention was attracted by an unusual commotion there. Voices were gabbling noisily and quite a crowd was gathered at the main entrance. He hurried over. The first man he ran against was Langford, who accosted Phil in a rush of Doric, which at once informed him that something serious must be wrong.
“Where ha’e ye been, man? I’ve been pryin’ for ye everywhere.”
“Walking!” answered Phil shortly. “What’s the matter?”
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“Matter! De’il tak’ it,––I thocht the whole toon kent by this time. I thocht maybe ye were efter them.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” exclaimed Phil as the truth dawned on him.
“Ay,––ye may weel say it! What did I tell ye? Didna I say they’d never face trial? The eight o’ them broke awa’ three or four hours ago. It was real nicely planned.
“Ye see the airshaft there! It runs richt into the top o’ the wall and ventilates the prison where the men sleep. There was ootside collusion, of coorse. Standin’ on a horse, I guess they threw a rope into the airshaft from the ootside and it slid richt doon to the passageway, inside. They say one of the prisoners was a good hand at pickin’ locks and that he did them a’ wi’ a hairpin. Maybe he did. But they got oot o’ their cells anyway, climbed the rope one at a time, crawled up the airshaft and out. Just look at that airshaft––it would hold a half a dozen men at a time nearly. They might as well have left an open door for them as have that contraption,––no wire protection over the ends, nothing but hinged lids that anyone can raise at any time.”
“And they’re gone?” asked Phil helplessly.
“Gone,––ay! good and gone! Like as no’ they’re ‘ower the border’ by this time, like ’a’ the blue bonnets’ in the song.
“They had horses waitin’ for them.”
“But, land sakes, Jim!––where the deuce were the jailers, the police, all this time?” asked Phil.
Jim laughed.
“Where did ye expect them to be? Chief Palmer was at Royce Pederstone’s reception. Howden––well, it seems Howden had a date on with one of the Kenora waitresses. Ryans, the jailer, says everything was quiet. He happened to open an unused cell, where he kept his brooms and things, and, when he was inside somebody213slammed the door on him and locked him in. A trump-up from beginning to ending, and too thin to keep a draught out even. Phil, it sure would make one’s stomach turn; politics, justice, protection, the whole thing would seem to be a farce from start to finish, and we are parties to it ourselves, aiding and abetting it; too weak or else too lazy to issue even a mild protest.”
“And what is being done now? Who put you on to it?”
“Oh,––that youngster Smiler, as usual. He knows everything that goes on. The wee deevil came up to Pederstone’s. They wouldn’t let him in, but he shot through the door and made for me. Brenchfield was standing by and saw the dumb show, and understood it quicker than I did, for he was off like a greyhound, and so was Palmer.
“Before I got down here, he had his own pursuit gang working and they were away, hot-foot, after the runaways,––perhaps.”
“Well,––I guess that ends it,” lamented Phil.
“I guess it just does,” agreed Jim. “Palmer leading the chase, and Brenchfield at his ear telling him how to do it before he set out. Gee, man!––I wish we had been in it, though. There would have been hell apopping for somebody, for I’m just in the mood.”
“But didn’t Brenchfield go, too?”
“Not so far as I know! He was here, got them started after much pow-powing with Palmer; then someone came for him and he went off again in a hurry. One of the gang, no doubt! Damn them!”
“Oh, oh, oh,––Jim Langford!” interrupted a well-known, melodious voice at Jim’s elbow.
Jim and Phil turned quickly to the speaker.
It was Eileen Pederstone, wrapped up snugly in a warm, fur coat. Apparently she was alone.
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“Great Scot, lassie!––what are you doing here?”
“Good evening, gentlemen!” she said politely.
Phil returned her salutation, with a very uneasy feeling inside.
“Little ladies should be sleeping in their beds,” put in Jim in a tone of admonition.
“I wouldn’t mind if I were now,” she returned. “I just couldn’t resist coming down here when I heard of the breakaway from jail, and so many of the men felt they had to rush off from our place.
“I coaxed daddy to bring me down. I lost him somewhere in the crowd half an hour ago.”
“Ugh-huh!––and what else?” inquired Jim.
“Well, I am positively sick of having my dad for a member of parliament. I never seem to have him to myself for five minutes on end. I don’t know where he has gone to, I’m tired and,––and I’m looking for some big, strong man to see me home up the hill. Would you mind, Jim?”
“No, indeed, Eileen! I would be glad to do so,––but unfortunately I have promised Thompson, the Government Agent, to stay here in charge till he gets back. But Phil here will see you home, and be delighted to do so. Eh, Phil?”
“Why––why, certainly! Only too pleased!” said Phil, although he could have punched Jim’s head for putting him in such a predicament. He half hoped that Eileen Pederstone would find an excuse, but instead, she accepted the proffered service without demur.
They started off immediately. Neither spoke for a hundred yards or so, for a constraint seemed to be holding both back; the one did not know of anything fitting to say, and the other had so much to say that she was at a loss to know how or where to begin.
Womanlike, Eileen was first to break the silence.
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“I was sorry, Mr. Ralston, that you were too busy to come to our place to-night––or, I should say, last night, for it is morning now.”
“I wasn’t exactly too busy,” returned Phil frankly. “I walked the hills for the good of my health, and I enjoyed myself splendidly.”
“Oh!––I thought––I thought you would be sure to come, if only for daddy’s sake,––unless something serious would prevent you,” said the young lady slowly.
It was dark and impossible for either one to see the other clearly, so they had to be guided by the voice alone.
“Yes,––I guess probably I should have come, but–––”
Eileen interrupted him.
“Mr. Ralston,––don’t let us fence any more. That’s what everybody does nowadays. It isn’t honest. Can’t we be honest?”
“Of course we can, Miss Pederstone! I am glad you put it so plainly. Now, if you had been in my shoes,––would you have come?”
“Oh, please don’t put it that way. We have gone through too much for that. We know too much of each other for argument.”
“You mean, you know too much about me,” corrected Phil, a little bitterly.
“Yes!––and, believe me or not as you will, I never thought, I never guessed––until––until I saw you that afternoon in the smithy, tired-out, begrimed, your hair awry and your clothes loose about you––I never dreamed that you––that you––that–––”
“That I was the escaped convict you befriended!”
Eileen put her hand on his arm.
“Mr. Ralston,––why do you have to be so callous; why are you so severe with yourself?”
There was a touch of irony in the short laugh Phil gave.
“One can’t afford to be otherwise with one’s self,”216he retorted. “It is a privilege one is permitted to take.”
“It is a privilege you have no right to take and––and I am so sorry if I hurt your feelings that afternoon. I did not think for a second how you might misconstrue my behaviour, although––although I could see it all afterwards. Won’t you please understand me? I was so surprised, so taken aback,––the picture returned to me so suddenly––that I could not think properly. I just had to run out into the open and away, in order to pull myself together.”
Phil walked along by her side, up the hill, without answering.
“Won’t you believe me?” she pleaded.
“I can never forget that you were kind to me when I needed it most.”
“Then you believe me,” she reiterated, “and you will believe that I shall never, never, never tell anyone your secret?”
The moon sailed out behind the clouds, and Phil looked down and saw a pale, earnest face searching his.
“Yes!––I do believe you,” he answered. “I could not do anything else now.”
“Thanks ever so much!” Eileen smiled.
And with that smile, the ache that had been at Phil’s heart for some days took wings and flew away to the Land of Delusion from whence it came.
“May I ask just one little question before we bury that small bit of the past?” Eileen asked.
“Yes!––what is it?”
“Does anyone else up here know that you are the same person who––who was recaptured that night?”
“Yes!––one other knows.”
“Jim Langford?”
“No, not Jim––although I think I may have to tell him some day. It is awkward at times.”
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“Your secret would be safe with him.”
“I know it would.”
“If it isn’t Jim who knows, it can be only one other,” she reasoned, “Mayor Brenchfield.”
“Yes!”
“Is he likely to betray you?”
“He would if he felt free to do it;––but as things stand, he daren’t.”
“Oh!”
That simple little word which can mean so many things, was Eileen’s answer.
She sighed, then she brightened up again.
“Well!––that has been got rid of, anyway.”
On climbing the steepest part of the hill road, she questioned Phil once more.
“Do you intend making blacksmithing your life’s business?”
“Why? Isn’t it a good calling?”
“Oh, yes! My dad was a blacksmith for the most of his life. But I think you are intended for something different, something bigger than that. You have had more education, for one thing, than my dear old daddy had.”
Phil laughed.
“That is quite flattering––but your dad has my education beaten a thousand miles by his experience and shrewdness. I guess I shall have to keep to blacksmithing until I get some money ahead and until that ‘something different’ that you speak of, turns up.”
“I should dearly love to see you and Jim in partnership. You would make a great team, for you never quarrel.”
“Is that the secret of successful business partnership?”
“I think it is an important one of them.”
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“I daresay you are right,” said Phil. “But what are we to do?”
“What do others do? Look at the men without brains, without even business ability, who have made money––heaps of it––buying and selling land right in this Valley, in this town, and who started in without a dollar. Why,––I could name them by the score;––Fraser & Somerville; McWilliams; Peter Brixton; McIntyre & Anderson, and even that good-for-nothing, Rattlesnake Dalton;––why, the town swarms with them. If they can do it, what could not two smart men, honest, with up-to-date business methods, do? Property has been changing owners hand-over-fist lately and I know it is merely the beginning. Next year property will move faster than ever; money for investment is pouring in; the people are flocking westward; values are rising; the ranches are producing more than ever; prices are improving; irrigation schemes are afoot;––why, it simply cannot be held back. Dad, Mayor Brenchfield, Ben Todd,––they are all anticipating it.”
Phil almost gasped at Eileen’s enthusiasm.
“They are the monied land-owners, the vested interests,” he put in. “It suits them to anticipate.”
“And, believe me, they will realise,” retorted Eileen.
“Almost thou persuadest me to be a real estate agent,” he bantered.
“Well,––one thing I do know; no man ever got very far ahead working for the other fellow. If a man isn’t worth more to himself than he is to someone else, you can bet that someone else is not going to employ him.”
“You talk as if you had worked it all out, Miss Pederstone.”
“I have, too!” she went on. “If you are holding down a job at a fair price, it ought to be a sufficient indication to you that you should be at it on your own account.”
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Eileen’s ardour set a spark aglow in Phil, but, manlike, he was prone to ignore it and even to argue against her conclusions.
“You must pardon me if I have said too much,” apologised Eileen at last, “only, only I have tried to speak for your own good, and Jim’s, for there is so much good in Jim that just wants elbow room;––and besides, knowing what I know, I should like so much to seeyoumake good.”
“I haven’t any fear at all of the ultimate ‘making good,’” replied Phil. “I have always known that it would come sooner or later. It has never been merely a hope with me, it has been an inward knowledge since I was quite a little chap.”
“Why then, that knowledge, backed by your every endeavour, cannot fail to realise great success for you. It is fear of failure that kills so many successful ventures before their birth. Without fear––which is at best a cowardly bugaboo, the world would be heaven.”
“Well,––heaven is where the devil isn’t,” said Phil, “so fear must be the very devil himself.”
“Fear is the only devil I know,” asserted Eileen.
“I am afraid I have the misfortune to be acquainted with quite a lot of other little devils,” he laughed.
They crossed the road together, along the west-end of Mayor Brenchfield’s local ranch and town house, which was divided from the new Royce Pederstone property by the big house and grounds which that eccentric Englishman, Percival DeRue Hannington, had bought for himself and now occupied in lordly bachelordom.
Several of Brenchfield’s stables and out-houses were situated quite close to the roadway.
In passing, Phil observed a faint light in one of these, which swung as if in the hands of someone moving about.
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As they continued along, he fancied he heard the sound of voices, one of which rose and fell as if in anger.
His momentary curiosity caused him to stop conversing and to listen more intently.
One of the voices rose again; there was the distinct sound of the crack of a whip, followed by a high-pitched throaty articulation as of an animal in pain. It sounded so helpless and piteous, that Eileen drew herself up nervously and shuddered. She gripped at Phil’s arm.
Ever suspicious where Brenchfield or any of his followers were concerned, and quickly roused to anger at the slightest abuse shown to any of the lower creation, Phil acted on the impulse of the moment.
“Please stay here for a second, Eil––Miss Pederstone. I am going over to see what is doing there.”
He turned, vaulted the fence, and bending low he crept cautiously over to the barn. At the window, he rose slowly upright and peered inside.
The horror of what he saw there remained focussed on his mind ever afterwards; and always when he turned to that picture in the album of his memory, his gorge rose and a murderlust that could hardly be stifled filled his entire being.
He darted to the door of the barn. It was unfastened. He flung it open and rushed inside, throwing himself with mad fury on Brenchfield, who had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up. He had a long whip in his hand, poised high in the air, and was about to continue his devilish cruelty.
The Mayor swung round and, before Phil got to him, the downward stroke of the whip caught the latter across the head and shoulders. He staggered for the fraction of a second, then closed with his adversary, catching the right arm that held the whip and, turning it smartly over his shoulder in a trick Jim Langford had taught him,221had Brenchfield groaning with the pain of the strain on his elbow. He relaxed his fingers and the whip dropped to the strawed floor.
Phil released his hold, whirled round and shot his right fist full in the face of his opponent. His left hand followed, sending Brenchfield backward. Recovering quickly, the Mayor came back at Phil, cursing roundly. But strong and heavy as he was, he was no match now for the sturdy, young blacksmith before him. And it was not very many minutes before he knew it.
They fought around the stable like wild cats. Time and again Brenchfield got in on Phil, but for every time he did Phil got in on him half a dozen. The heavier man’s breath began to give out. His face was cut and bleeding and his vision was becoming more and more faulty as time went on.
“Skookum!” he cried furiously. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Brain this fool with the lantern, can’t you?”
But his henchman, Skookum, had already perceived how the fight was going and his discretion proved much greater than his valour. He dropped the lantern and darted out at the door. As good luck would have it, the lantern fell right-end up and, after wobbling precariously on its rim, sat upright in the corner, blinked, then continued to shed a fitful light over the scene.
Phil, with anger unabated, darted in on Brenchfield, smashing at him right and left. The latter tottered. Phil sprang in and clutched at his throat. Both went forcibly to the ground, with Brenchfield undermost. Phil gripped and squeezed and shook with almost ferocious brutality, until the Mayor’s struggles became less and less violent, and finally ceased. And after that, Phil’s grip did not relax, for that murderlust, which he had read222of and heard of but had never before understood, was on him.
Had it not been for a quiet, pleading voice and a little hand that slipped over his and along his fingers, pushing its way between his and the soft throat of his adversary, the sunlight would have gone out of his life for all time.
“Please, Phil,––please!” she cried. “Don’t! Phil––you would not kill him! You must not,––for my sake, for my sake! He isn’t worth it. Phil, Phil,––let him go!”
And the murderlust––as it had done so often before at the gentle but all powerful pleading of God’s women––shrank back, dwindled down, then faded into its native oblivion.
Phil’s fingers relaxed and he rose slowly, working his hands convulsively, then pushing his wet hair back from his forehead, as he looked first down at the gasping figure of his hated adversary and then in open-eyed amazement at Eileen.
“Thanks!” he said, very quietly.
“Why did you do that?” she said. “What has he done?”
For answer, Phil caught her by the arm and turned her about-face.
A bundle of rags was trussed against the post of one of the stalls. Phil lifted the lantern from the ground and held it up.
“Oh!––oh, dear God!” she wailed piteously, running forward with hands outstretched. “Quick, Phil!––loose the ropes. The hound!––oh, the miserable, foul hound!” she continued.
Phil drew a pocket knife and slashed the ropes that held poor, little, half-unconscious Smiler.
They set the boy gently in a corner; and slowly, in response to crooning words and loving hands that stroked223his dirty, wet brow, he came to; and what a great smile he had for Eileen as she laid her tear-stained cheek against the cold, twisted face.
Phil turned as Brenchfield was slowly rising on his arm. He went over and picked up the whip.
“What are you going to do?” anxiously cried Eileen.
“Just three!” said Phil, “for the three he gave that poor, helpless little devil. Say ‘No’ and I won’t.”
It was a challenge.
For answer, Eileen hid her face among Smiler’s rags. And three times, with all the force of a young blacksmith’s arm behind it, that whip rose and fell across the shoulders of Vernock’s Mayor, ere it was broken with a snap and tossed by Phil among the straw.
A little later and Smiler was on his feet, little the worse.
Eileen led him outside.
Phil and Brenchfield were then alone.
“Damn you, for an interloping jail-breaker! I’ll fix you for this before you’re much older,” growled the Mayor.
“Damn all you like,” answered Phil, “but one word of any kind from you of what has happened here to-night and you are the man who will be trying to break jail. Keep your mouth shut, and we are square on what has happened. Say as much as a word and––well,––it’s up to you.”
“Oh, you go to hell!” exclaimed Brenchfield.
224CHAPTER XVIIWayward Langford’s Grand Highland Fling
Jim Langford did not make an appearance until breakfast time that morning, and then there was dirt on his clothes, fire in his eyes and venom on his tongue.
“What do you know?” asked Phil as soon as they were alone.
“Know? What did I tell you, man? Darn them for the four-flushing hypocrites that they are. An hour ago Palmer came trotting back quite calmly with his crew.
“‘The bunch got away on us, across the Line,’ he whimpered.
“A put-up game from start to finish! Oh, don’t let me talk about it, Phil. It makes me positively crazy. For ten cents I’d go and shoot up the town.”
Phil tried to get Jim to sit down and eat, but it was useless, for Jim kept walking Mrs. Clunie’s dining-room like something in a cage.
Knowing the danger of the mood, Phil kept a wise silence and, much as he disliked it, he had to leave his angry chum and get along to his work.
At the smithy, things were little better. Sol Hanson had, in a roundabout way, gathered that Smiler had been abused, and, in some inexplicable manner, had arrived at the truth, that Brenchfield was responsible for it. Sol was vowing vengeance in no uncertain tones.
“What you know about it, Phil?”
“Guess he’s just been in a scrap with some other kids,” answered Phil in an off-hand way.
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“Scrap nothing! You just about as dumb as Smiler. All the same, some day I kill that big blow-hard Brenchfield. Maybe he Mayor; maybe he got all kinds of money. Dirty son-of-a-gun, that’s all! I know him,––see! Next time he tie Sol Hanson up, by gar!––I finish him. He what you call,––all cackle, no egg.”
Phil laughed.
“All right!––you laugh away. Some day I get drunk––good and drunk––just for fun to break his big fat neck. You watch me,––see!”
“Forget it, Sol! You can’t afford to do that kind of thing now. You’re a married man, you know.”
“Sure I am,” he answered proudly. “And my Betty, she says, ‘Go to it!’ Anybody hurt Smiler, hurt Betty,––see! Anybody hurt my Betty,––well,––by gar!––he only hurt her one time,––that’s all.”
Truly Phil had his hands full, and when he got back home he met with further disquieting news, Jim Langford, with his horse, and a cheque he had just received that day in payment for some of his dime novels, was off on the rampage.
For the three days following, Phil tried hard, but could find no trace of his chum.
On the fourth day news reached him that Jim was out on the race-track, a mile from town, racing a band of Indians for their horses. He hurried over, and got there just in time to see the last horse added to the lot, tethered to a fence, that Jim had already won. The moment Jim set eyes on Phil, he put spurs to his mare, vaulted the fence right on to the highway, and set off full tear for Vernock, leaving his live winnings behind him without a thought.
This foolish act was characteristic of Jim, and it suited the Indians splendidly. The losers at once started out to claim their horses. But Phil got there first, strung226the animals together, pushed his way boldly through the protesting crowd and trotted nine horses back with him to town. He stabled the lot in Mrs. Clunie’s spacious barn, then set out on foot to search for Jim once more.
He did not have far to go, for on passing through the Recreation Park he came on a scene that he positively refused to disturb. Instead, he dropped on his hands and knees, and stalked stealthily behind the trees and among the bushes until he could both see and hear all that was going on.
Jim’s horse, with its reins trailing, was cropping grass close by.
Jim was seated on the grassy bank near the creek, where the clear water wimpled and gurgled over the white, rounded stones. Around Jim, in easy attitudes but with eyes wide and gaping mouths, squatted some twenty-five or thirty boys of varying ages and of varying colours and nationalities, but all of a kin when it came to appreciation of the universal language––the language of an exciting story.
Jim was reading to them from one of his most bloody dime novels, and the wonderful elocution he possessed never displayed itself with greater zest. His wavy, reddish-brown hair swept his forehead becomingly; his face, thin, keen and full of cultured intelligence, betrayed every emotion as he declaimed; and his long arms and tapering fingers moved in a ceaseless rhythm of gesticulation.
It was the same old stuff:––
“‘Hal, the boy rider of the Western plains, stood on the brink of the chasm: behind him, three thousand feet of sheer precipice to the seething, boiling waters and jagged rocks below;––before him, the onrushing bandits.
“‘Black Dan, outstripping the others, sprang on Hal, mouthing fearful oaths. With astounding agility, Hal stepped aside, caught Dan by the middle, and, swinging227him high over his head, sent him hurtling, with ear-splitting shrieks, down, sheer down to his doom.
“‘This staggered Dan’s followers for a second, until Cross-eyed Dick, jibing his comrades for their cowardice, next rushed in upon our dauntless hero. Hal drew his dagger from his belt and bravely awaited the onslaught. When Cross-eyed Dick was within a few yards of him, he raised his arm and threw his dagger deftly and with terrific force, burying it to the hilt in the train-robber’s windpipe. With a clotted gurgle––blood spurting from his mortal wound––Hal’s assailant still came rushing on. He staggered on the brink for a moment, then––without another sound––he toppled over and joined his dead leader who was lying, a beaten pulp, among the boulders, far below.’”
On and on Jim went, making the hackneyed, original; the ridiculous, feasible; the impossible, real; until even Phil hated to pull himself away from the scene, to await a more convenient season for his endeavours to bring Jim back to himself.
If ever there was poetry in a “Deadwood Dick,” thought Phil, surely it was then.
Feeling that Jim was in harmless company for the time being, Phil left him, intending to round him up later.
An hour afterwards he returned to Mrs. Clunie’s to have a look at the horses he had stabled. To his great surprise and annoyance he found the place empty of all but his own and Mrs. Clunie’s animals. Surmising that the half-breeds had “put one over on him” he started down town, hot foot and hot of head. He took the back way through Chinatown, as he knew Jim had a habit of frequenting the most unusual places when on the rampage.
His journey, for a time, proved without adventure.
Had he taken the way of Main Street, or further over228still, toward the poorer class of shacks and dwellings, it might have been more interesting for him, for Jim’s insatiable love of a change was being indulged to its full and he was busy making quite a good fellow of himself with all the orphans and poverty-stricken widows he could find.
It was he, and not the half-breeds, who had taken his horses from Mrs. Clunie’s barn. What he did with them after he took them was not clear to himself then, for his memory merely served him in flashes. But all of it returned to him later, in startling realism.
He found himself on top of a wagon-load of sacked potatoes, driving a good team of heavy horses townward, with his own mare leisurely ambling behind, unhitched––following him as a dog would.
He had no use for sacked potatoes at that particular moment, so he bethought himself how best to get rid of them. As usual, he set about to do a good turn where it was most needed.
From one end of the little country town to the other he went, stopping at the door of every family he knew of where the produce would prove of value, and off he unloaded one, or two, or three sacks, as he thought they might be required; refusing to betray the source of supply further than that they were a gift which the Lord was providing.
It was thus that Phil finally found him, and quite unabashed was that lanky, dust-browned individual.
“Can you no’ let a man be?” he remonstrated. “When I’m playin’ the deevil, you admonish me, and when I’m tryin’ to do a good turn, you’re beside me, silent and stern as a marble monument.
“Man, Phil, ye mak’ me feel like the immortal Robert Louis Stevenson must have felt when he wrote ‘My Shadow.’”
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“I never heard of it,” said Phil.
“What? Never heard of it! May the Lord in his bounteous mercy forgive ye for your astounding ignorance. No time like the present, Philly, laddie;––no time like the present. Listen!––and never dare ye tell me again that ye never heard it,––for it’s your twin brother.”
And there, in that back street, beside the potato wagon, he burst into melody in as clear and rich a baritone voice as Phil had ever heard.
Jim was a born minstrel.
From beginning to end, he sang that never-dying, baby melody of the master-craftsman, Robert Louis Stevenson, with a feeling true to every word of it and emphasising particularly the parts which he fancied applied especially to Phil.
“I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,And what can be the use of it is more than I can see.He’s very, very like me from the heels up to the head,And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed.The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow,Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow,For he sometimes shoots up taller, like an India rubber ball,And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.“He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see,I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me.One morning, bright and early, before the sun was up,I rose and found the shining dew on every butter-cupBut my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-headHad stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.”
There were few people about when Jim began his singing, but a considerable crowd was gathered long before he finished.
Suddenly a little fair-haired girl came up to him with230a show of bashfulness. He put his hand on her curls.
“What is’t?” he asked. “Tell me;––ye need never be feart for me.”
“Please––please, sir,––that was a nice song and mother says would you sing it to us at our social to––to-night?”
“Sing it,––of course I’ll sing it. Just you tell your Uncle Jim where to come, and I’ll be there. What social is it, bairnie?”
“Please––it’s the Salvation Army.”
“Oh-h!” groaned Jim, clutching at his forelock. But he held manfully to his contract. “What time would ye like me to be there, lassie?”
“Mother says, please nine o’clock.”
“Nine o’clock at the barracks! Right you are! I’ll be there, and I’ll sing ‘My Shadow.’”
“Please––and what is your name?” she inquired, in a business-like way.
“My name!––let me see,––oh, ay! Uncle Jim,––just plain Uncle Jim!”
“And you’ll come sure?” she asked.
“Yes, bairnie!––I’ll come sure.”
The little girl ran off, evidently highly pleased at the addition she had made to the programme for their social meeting.
Phil gripped Jim by the arm.
“Yes, shadow dearie!” said the big fellow whimsically, “what is’t?”
“Aren’t you going to cut this stuff out, Jim?”
“What? Man alive, do ye want to make a mock o’ me? Me!––cut it out and this just the first week. You managed that once, Phil, to my eternal disgrace. Don’t ye know that when I start, it means a month on the calendar––and has always meant that and always will mean–––”
“No, it won’t,” put in Phil. “Not if I know it!”
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“But, Phil, the folks expect it. Ye could never disappoint the people.”
“Disappoint be-damned! Are you going to quit this right now, or not?”
“Man, ye shouldna put it like that to me,” expostulated Jim, swaying slightly as he threw his arm round by way of emphasis.
Phil held out his hand to him.
“All right, Jim! I’m sorry. Good-bye! Good-bye for good!”
Almost a haunted look came into the bloodshot eyes of the big fellow.
“Phil,––Phil,––ye don’t mean that? Ye wouldna throw me doon?”
“But I do mean it. I thought you and I were going to make a good partnership some day.”
“And aren’t we?”
“Not this way! Good heavens, Jim!––what’s the matter with you, anyway? Haven’t you got the courage to stand a little disappointment now and again without flying to this? You can’t go on being a fool all your life.
“I tell you, I came here to make good. I am making good and I’m going to make better. So can you, if you get down to it. We can turn this town round our thumbs, if we go to it together. If you haven’t the grit to quit this damnable foolishness––then I’m through with you for keeps and I’m going to find somebody with sense to go at it with me. If I can’t, then I’m going to go at it alone.”
With bent head, Jim stood in silence under the tirade.
“Where did you get this rig?” asked Phil, referring to the team and wagon.
Jim shook his head.
“What did you do with the horses you took from Mrs. Clunie’s barn?”