THE HEART OF CHERRY MCBAIN (continued 2)

They walked over to the corner where the men were playing cards. On the far side of the table was Lush Currie, the pile of chips before him indicating that he had held a few good hands during the evening. As McCartney took his place at the table, Currie hesitated for a moment and acted as if he wanted to withdraw from the game. McCartney received his pile of chips and arranged them in three little piles under his right hand, then scanned the faces of the men before him.

For men who take life as it comes, one day at a time and little thought of the morrow, poker is the game of games. It matters little whether it is played in the Far North where men take fortunes from the beds of frozen creeks, or on the quieter and less rugged frontiers where they build the nation's highways at a dollar a day and three square meals always in sight. In one case the stakes are for thousands, with a jack-pot sometimes growing into six figures. In the other the limits are set by the meagre earnings of a season of some six months or so between the spring and the freeze-up. One man risks a fortune he may retrieve in a single month of good luck with his shovel and pan. The other lays a wager that will take him a whole season to pay if he comes off loser. But in any case, whatever the circumstances, the game is the same, and the men are the same—playing the game for the game's sake and despising nothing so much as a poor loser—unless it be a crooked winner.

For the first half hour or so the game that McCartney had just taken a hand in went along very quietly—like the first rounds of a match with the boxers sparring for an opening. The cards having been cut, the deal fell to the man on McCartney's left. The round found them all without openers and the pack was dealt again. This time Lush Currie opened the game and the others stayed.

"Cards?" said the dealer, who was Dan Martin, of Rubble's gang.

He came to Currie and looked at him questioningly.

"This is good enough for me," replied Currie and left his cards where he had put them face downwards on the table before him.

When Martin came to McCartney the latter drew three cards, glanced at them and laying them down smiled across the table at Anne. Currie made a small bet which was raised by the next man. Then they waited for McCartney. He picked up his cards, glanced at them again—and tossed them to one side. Dan Martin seemed about to raise the bet, but on second thought decided to let it stand. The next man followed McCartney's example and with three men in the game Currie called and won with three queens.

"Pretty easy pickin', Currie," he said.

"Why didn't you stay, then?" asked Martin. "I didn't tell you to get out."

"I might 'a' stayed at that," McCartney replied.

The next two games were won on a pair of aces and two pairs, respectively. The cards then went to the man on McCartney's left and he dealt. McCartney picked up his cards one by one as they came to him and arranged them in his hand.

"Comin' like trained pigs!" he said. "What'd I tell you, Anne? You're my luck—just see this thing through an' I'll split the loot."

There was nothing contagious in his pleasantries. Though he appeared in high spirits, his hilarity was so obviously artificial that no one paid any particular attention to him—except, perhaps, Lush Currie, who glanced back at Anne with his cards still in his hand. Then, as if a thought suddenly struck him, he closed his hands quickly over his cards and laid them down.

The girl, on her part, did not even so much as look up—either at McCartney or at Currie. She appeared too busy with her own thoughts and was unaware of the suspicions that were being entertained regarding her.

When the round was completed McCartney drew the chips towards him and reached for the deck—he had won on a show-down with three fives and a pair of jacks. It was his deal.

"Now then, you're comin' to me, see?" he cried as he slipped the cards one by one from the pack and slid them to the players. "That makes first blood—an' the night's young!"

For a few moments there was silence while the players looked at their cards. This time Currie opened high and the others stayed. They took their draws and settled down. No one bet until it came round to McCartney.

"I'll just kick 'er along a little bit," he said, and put in his chips.

Two players threw their cards away, leaving Currie, McCartney and two others in the game. It was Currie's turn to bet. He picked up one card that had been dealt to him in the draw and was about to look at it. As he did so he hesitated and looked across the table. McCartney's eyes were on Anne. Something in the latter's face made Currie postpone his bet for a moment.

"Anne," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "you're sittin' too close to me. It ain't lucky—an' I don't like it."

His voice betrayed excitement and the girl was not slow to catch the implication.

"Say, Lush Currie—look here," she protested, "what are you tryin' to tell me?"

"Nothin' only what I said," Currie replied. "Don't sit behind me in this game."

His voice was shaking as he spoke and he fingered his cards nervously.

"Sit round here, Anne," said McCartney, his voice full of sarcasm. "He's jealous—he doesn't like you lookin' at me so often."

McCartney's efforts to make a joke of the whole affair were pathetically inadequate, and served only to heighten Currie's suspicion. But the girl stood up and faced McCartney with a look that was as cold as it was direct.

"Say, Bill McCartney," she remarked in a voice that was cutting in its deliberateness, "does Lush Currie think I'm tippin' you off to his hand? Well, listen to me. I've been lookin' a whole long time for the kind of man I'd do that for an'—you—ain't—him."

McCartney's expression changed suddenly.

"What the hell are you anyhow?" he asked, with a sneer, and turned to Currie. "Your bet, Currie."

For answer Currie threw his cards into the centre of the table and got up from his chair.

"This game can go on without me," he said, and he moved his chair back and walked away from the group.

A couple of the players put out restraining hands and tried to persuade him to go on with the game. Cheney came forward and invited him to take a drink, but Currie was obstinate.

"I don't sit in to no game with a——"

The epithet he used brought McCartney to his feet. He pushed his chair to one side with his foot and stepped towards Currie.

"You ain't big enough to say that to me," he said, tossing his cigarette to one side.

The men showed no desire to interfere. The history of Currie's previous encounter had gone the rounds and left them all hoping that Currie might some day have an opportunity to meet his man fairly and have it out. They had little respect for Currie, whose untimely accusations against Anne were, they felt sure, not only out of place but without foundation. The girl's rebuff had rung true and no one doubted her—though they were convinced that Bill McCartney would have used any advantage, had it been offered to him.

They stood back to give room to the two men who occupied a space near the centre of the floor. They liked a fight and they wanted to see the much-talked-of foreman in action.

McCartney bore down steadily on Currie, who relied upon his quick, cat-like movements as his sole means of defending himself against the towering strength of his opponent. But wherever Currie went McCartney followed relentlessly, taking the short quick jabs of his antagonist without showing the slightest uneasiness. He displayed the full confidence of one who knows that if he can get his man into a corner he can end the fight in a few seconds. But that was precisely what Currie avoided. He danced about McCartney and landed light blows almost at will. Finally the big fellow began to show signs of ugly temper and quickened his advance in an effort to get within fair striking distance. As he came close Currie crouched near the door and then leaped and sent his foot out in a vicious kick that barely missed McCartney's chin. As it was, the foreman took the full force of the blow on his neck and for a few seconds staggered backwards, shaking his head savagely and blinking his eyes as if to clear his sight. Had Currie followed up his advantage at once the affair might have been ended right there. But while he hesitated McCartney recovered sufficiently to size up the situation afresh.

He stood for a few moments looking at Currie, his face twisted into a smile. Those who saw that smile began to feel pity for the smaller man who had put up a good fight and a plucky one. There was a look in Currie's face too, that seemed to reveal for the first time his failing confidence in the outcome.

"It's going to be stiff travellin' for Lush from now on," murmured one of the men to Cheney in a voice that was barely audible.

McCartney, who was near enough to the speaker to overhear the remark, seemed about to speak, but he shut his teeth hard and went towards Currie crouching in an attitude of cautious defence. His face was the face of an animal.

Suddenly Cheney pushed his way forward, a look of consternation on his face as he watched Currie vainly shifting his position in a last effort to get out of the way and gain the open space in the middle of the floor.

"Ain't someone goin' to stop this before it's gone too far?" he muttered to one of the men.

No one made reply.

There was a quick, sharp cry as Anne came out of the semi-darkness of one corner and rushed forward in a frantic effort to get between the two men.

"Stop—for God's sake! Oh, you damned fools!" she cried, struggling vainly to break the grip of a couple of men who held her back. Then she was pushed gently into her place in the corner, where she sat down on the bench and covered her face with her hands.

Currie was now in a narrow space between the door and the table at which only a few minutes before they had been playing poker. Twice he made a quick move to get out, and twice McCartney caught him before he was well started and drove him back. In another moment it would all be over.

Then something happened which no one among the onlookers seemed altogether for the moment to understand. Currie crouched low as if preparing for another spring—but everyone knew it would be a hopeless attempt. Suddenly he straightened up—his hand came quickly from behind him and shot towards McCartney—but not for a blow.

"No—no, sir," said Currie, his breath coming short and labored, "no—you can't—you can't get me—like that. Get back—I'll get you—sure as God—I'll bore you. Now—get back."

McCartney sprang back and looked at Currie who had covered him. He knew—they all knew—that Lush Currie was fool enough to shoot if it came to a show-down. And no man can trust a gun in the hands of a fool. The big foreman turned in mute appeal to one of the mounted policemen who stood near.

Suddenly the door opened and King Howden stepped into the room, took off his hat, shook the rain from it, and then looked around him. His mind, usually slow at taking in a situation, seemed to react quickly to what he saw on this occasion. He took a step farther down the room and rubbed his eyes quickly with one hand as if the light bothered him. Then he looked again at the men and turned to Currie, who was crouching near him. Something like a smile played upon his face as he stepped to Currie and extended his hand.

"You ain't clear on some things, I guess," he said, in a voice that was unusually stern and direct. "This ain't a gunning country."

Without another word he stepped deliberately to where Currie stood, and taking the gun from him, opened it and having emptied it into his hand, returned it. Turning round, his eyes fell upon Anne, who had got up again and was coming forward.

"Anne," he said, "you better be getting along home."

There was a note in his voice that the girl had never heard before. This man was not the King Howden she had talked to often during the summer. She drew her cloak about her shoulders and went out.

Then King looked at Bill McCartney. He was standing back against the table behind which Mike Cheney had stood earlier in the evening when there had been customers to serve. King had been cool and deliberate—now he felt the old demon rising in him and he struggled to gain control of himself. He realized now that he hated this man, though he could scarcely have told why. With a supreme effort he mastered his rising temper and stood regarding McCartney in silence. The latter, however, realizing that Currie was now at his mercy, and mastered by an uncontrollable desire to end the affair to his advantage, stepped deliberately in the direction of Currie who was cowering near the door.

"Stand back!" he roared, and the words were meant more for King than for the two or three men who made weak attempts to restrain him.

King, recognizing that McCartney was speaking to him, stepped deliberately between the two men.

"You'd better leave," he said, glancing behind him, and even as he spoke Currie opened the door and slipped out.

King was about to follow but turned as McCartney's voice came to him, muttering something he only half heard.

"You're not talking to me, are you?" he said.

McCartney bellowed his reply: "I'm talkin' to you, you son of a dog!"

King moved slowly towards McCartney. He faced the big foreman for a moment, his arms rigid at his sides. Suddenly McCartney's hand shot out and King stepped back just in time to avoid the full force of a blow that, as it was, glanced from his cheek. Slowly King's two hands came up and closed in a convulsive grip. While the men waited breathlessly he stood trembling from the struggle that was going on within him—then he wheeled quickly and going to the door, opened it, and went out.

In the darkness, King, without any thought of picking his way through the mud and water, hurried round the corner of Cheney's place and started down the roadway to where his horse stood tethered in front of old man Hurley's office. Only once did he pause. Just as he stepped into the street a great burst of loud laughter came to him from behind the door he had just closed. He knew what it meant and for a moment his grip upon himself weakened. He wanted to go back—he wanted to fight. For a moment he hesitated. Then his mind was clear again and he went on. All the way down the street, however, he could not help wondering how long he would have to wait.

Then he got up into the saddle and went off along the muddy trail that led west about half a mile to where his little shack stood upon a low ridge that ran in upon his land.

CHAPTER SIX

When King Howden awoke next morning it was with a feeling that he was beginning life in a new world. The feeling was deepened when he looked out through the small window and saw the pools of water left by the night's rain glistening in the bright sunlight. He had not slept well—during the earlier part of the night he had not slept at all. There had been much to think about, much that was perplexing and disquieting. And yet, as he looked from his window at the new morning and saw half a mile away the huts and white tents of The Town flooded with sunlight, he was conscious not so much of the disappointments that the week had brought him, as he was of the new determination, the high resolve with which he looked into the future.

When his mind went back to his brother—as it did frequently—the memory struck pain to his heart, but he was not melancholy. The loneliness he felt caused him to straighten his shoulders and prepare himself to square away before the task that lay before him. What that task was he could only vaguely define as yet. But he was beginning to understand that there was a man's work here—and a big man's work it was—awaiting the coming of someone to do it. The fact had dawned upon him slowly, but the first glimmerings of light were visible just the same. He was coming to see that a new country, even a small, half-enclosed valley-district such as this one, would become what the vital energies of its men made it. He had not as yet had any clear vision of what the country would be in years to come, when little towns and villages would spring up here and there along the railway, when hundreds of men and women and their families would rush in, hopeful that they might build again—and strongly build—though their old lives in other lands had crumbled into ruins. He had no concrete, complete conception of what lay ahead. He had nothing but the vague hopes, the uncertain dreams, the fleeting fancies that had come to him often during the past summer—only now they were more vivid.

To the events of the night before he gave little or no thought—at least, to the events that had brought him into conflict with Bill McCartney. In fact, in his new mood he wondered how he could have come so near to losing his temper over an affair that didn't amount to anything after all. He had been in Cheney's before, but not often. As he thought it over he quietly determined that the less he had to do with Cheney the better. His determination was stiffened as he remembered the group of men he had seen there the night before. It startled him to think how near they had come to witnessing what might easily have been a tragedy, because one of them was bent upon settling a dispute in his own ill-chosen way; and out of all his thinking about these things there grew up within him the clear understanding that only upon order and good judgment could men hope to build for the future in a new community.

In all his wondering about these things—and much of it was very vague wondering—there was only one element of a personal kind. He confessed to himself now for the first time that Cherry McBain was as nearly indispensable to him as anyone in his life had ever been. And now with the birth of a new hope he did what any man would have done under the circumstances—he threw his whole soul into a resolve that in the game of life he was playing now, the prize was the heart of Cherry McBain. Perhaps it was this thought that helped to make the world a good place for him to live in, and the future something to set store by.

It was something of this nature at any rate that he confided to his sole companion in the shack, old mongrel Sal, who had stood for some time looking up into his face, her shaggy body performing all kinds of contortions in vain attempts to attract her master's attention. Suddenly he sat down on the side of his bed and grasping her two ears with his hands drew her head between his knees and looked into her eyes.

"Sal, you old cuss, you," he said, shaking her head, "there's something I'm going to tell you."

He put his face down until his cheek was resting against the side of her head and murmured something very quietly. Then he straightened up and with his two hands closed the dog's mouth, holding it shut a moment with one hand round her muzzle.

Something in the mood that had come upon King caused him to look critically round the single room that made up the interior of his shack. One golden shaft of sunlight fell from the small window to the floor, but the light it gave revealed a condition that, for some reason or other, he had never been more than vaguely conscious of before. The place was indescribably dirty. His few days' absence from the place had given it a heavy, musty smell that was anything but pleasant. A litter of odd bits of clothing and old papers lay where he had thrown them probably weeks before. The heavy grey blankets on the bunk which he had built into one corner of the shack had not been washed for months—they had not even been spread out to the sun. The table that stood near the window was covered with unwashed tin plates and cups, dirty knives, forks and spoons. A bit of bread, dried hard, and some butter that had turned to grease in the sun's rays lay where he had left them when he went out on his last trip. Grey ashes covered the floor beside the rusted sheet-iron stove.

King had once regarded this as belonging essentially to the only place he knew as home. It had been perfectly natural, and far from revolting. It had been even cosy. But in his present mood he found it disquieting. He could not help wondering to himself how Cherry McBain's senses would react, if she were suddenly ushered into the place.

He sprang up and threw open the door. The fresh Sunday morning air swept in with its fragrance borne from the balm-o'-gileads that stood near his door shaking their shining leaves in the bright sunlight. As he drew himself up and lifted his chest his huge frame almost filled the doorway. With a word to Sal he went out and made his way leisurely towards the roughly-made stable that stood among the willows skirting the ridge. The desire to put his shack into a presentable condition was superseded by a yearning to roam lazily about the place for a while and indulge his fancies for the future. It was a day to be free and forgetful of duties, and after the crowded week he felt the need of a rest. The general clean-up which he promised himself he would give to his shack could wait—as it had waited during long months before he became conscious of any such need. In the meantime he would feed his horse and then stroll down to the town for some provisions.

When he returned to the shack he made himself a breakfast of oatmeal and fried bacon. The meal was frugal but sufficient to supply his needs for the time being, and he decided to postpone his jaunt to town until late in the day. He wanted to take a walk over his land and think over his plans for the coming year.

King had a real affection for the place he had chosen. He had filed his claim long before there was any competition in the field and had secured what he considered a choice location within easy distance of wood and water. The soil was very rich, and the ridge with its clumps of poplars offered an excellent spot for building. From in front of his shack he could see not only The Town, but beyond it to the blue hills rising to the east and extending southward in a half circle forming one rim of the valley. Between these two ranges lay a wide plain spread out under the blue sky, fertile, well watered and pleasantly wooded. It was not the kind of country King had been accustomed to hearing called "a man's land" in the rugged interior of British Columbia, where he had spent eight of the ten years since he had come west. It was quieter—milder—softer, maybe—and of coloring less vivid. And yet it was a man's country, too, a country with a challenge for anyone who cared to hear it.

It was well on in the afternoon when King got back from his tramp over his land. For a few minutes he sat down upon the door-step and rested before starting for The Town to get something to eat. Sal lay down near him, panting lazily in the shade of the poplars. When he was about to go the dog gave a sharp little bark and stood up quickly with her ears pointed in the direction of the ridge-trail leading to town.

King got up and looked down the trail.

Soon there emerged from behind the clump of willows the figure of a man coming towards him. King sat down again and waited. In a few moments he recognized the figure as that of Lush Currie. As the latter approached him King regarded him with a questioning air. There was something in Currie's face that he could not quite understand. He offered to bring out a bench for a seat, but Lush protested quite sincerely and sat down on the grass under the poplars. When Currie had rolled himself a fresh cigarette and lighted it he lifted his eyes to King and looked at him squarely for the first time.

"I'm gettin' out," he said abruptly.

King did not reply at first, but Currie's silence prompted him to ask what he meant.

"Just that," said Currie. "I'm goin' outside to-morrow—an' I'll not be back."

It was no unusual thing for a member of a railway construction gang to pack up his belongings and leave for the outside. King was at a loss to know the exact significance of Currie's announcement.

"Before I went I wanted to see you," he continued, "an' to tell you I'm right sorry about last night."

There was something so direct and sincere in the way Currie expressed himself that King felt his heart warming towards the man in spite of his recollections from the night before.

"An' that's the reason I'm gettin' out," he said a little stiffly. "Howden, you came in on a bad mess last night—just about as bad as it could 'a' been. If it hadn't 'a' been for you I'd 'a' been lookin' for a place to hide to-day—waitin' for night to come on so I could walk around without bein' scared."

King moved a little impatiently. He didn't wish to have his interference on Currie's behalf made so much of.

"For three years I've been with Old Silent's outfit," Currie went on. "You know what it means for a man to hitch up with his gang. You stay—that's all there is to it. I never did go lookin' for trouble. An' I never went gunnin' before. I got that thing when I left home back east—I thought I'd mebbe need it. I never had trouble with Old Silent—nor with any of his men. There was a few fights—mostly with boys from other camps—but they were all on the square. This man McCartney was the first man who ever tried anything like that. He's a four-flusher—I know that—an' I could a' trimmed him, too—only now—I can't. There won't be another chance for me."

He paused for a moment while he drew meditatively at his cigarette.

"I lost my head—an' I drew on him. There wasn't room there to fight—an' it was his size that counted. Now I'm not going back. I couldn't stay round camp with him on the job. An', besides—I ain't got the nerve any more—I'd be thinkin' all the time of last night."

When he ceased talking King asked him why he couldn't stay in the valley and go on the land.

"No, Howden," he replied, "that's not my line. I'm goin' west. There's more railroadin' out there an' the world's big enough for two of us. I'll go west an' look round a bit. But there's one thing I want you to remember, Howden." He got up as he spoke and King closed the door and prepared to start down the trail. "Bill McCartney's fight is over with me—him an' me don't come together again here—but you an' him will, an' don't forget it. He's a dirty dog—he'll bite when you're not lookin'—but he's not afraid to bite just the same. What's more—he'll go on bitin' unless he gets whipped. Then he'll stop—he'll get out then just like me."

The two men went off together down the trail, and as King walked along in silence he felt the optimism and the buoyancy that had filled him during the earlier part of the day struggling against the melancholy that had haunted him strangely for months. It was not his nature to change his mood quickly, but the warning that Currie had sounded brought upon him the full consciousness that he had an enemy who would never be quiet until he himself had brought him to subjection by nothing but brute strength. He was not afraid, but he had hoped that in the days to come he would only have to take up the struggle that men wage against nature in their efforts to make a living. The thought of having to fight it out with Bill McCartney before he could have any peace weighed upon him in a way that made him feel impatient with himself. He made up his mind, however, that he would never fight until the occasion arose that demanded it—then he would see it through to the bitter end. The thought steadied him as he walked along the trail, and his voice became more cheerful as he chatted with Currie.

* * * * *

In the lodging house old man Rubble was discussing the affair of the night before with a half dozen of the men of his own party. Word had gone round that Lush Currie had decided to leave, and it was generally agreed that he was doing the only thing reasonable under the circumstances. The real point of interest was the relationship between King Howden and Bill McCartney. As the latter, with a number of Keith McBain's men had just left for camp, there was no reason for postponing a discussion that had been held up during the day, merely because the presence of Bill McCartney made any reference to the question a little difficult. Now that McCartney had gone, the question was raised at once and the discussion had become very spirited. One thing puzzled them all. Why had King Howden not taken the challenge when it was given to him and finished the fight right there? The challenge had certainly been offensive enough to have justified any man's accepting it at once. And King would never again get an opportunity to fight McCartney when the latter was just finishing one struggle. The advantage had lain all with King, and to tell the truth, the men were not a little disappointed that he had failed to go in when the conditions were so much in his favor. It was something more to increase the wondering they had already felt concerning King Howden.

"There's only one way to reason it out," said old man Rubble, after various opinions had been expressed. "The fact is Howden don't want to mix in with Bill at all. No one ever saw Howden do anything yet. He's just a big, raw, overgrown boy. He never did fight and I guess he never will if he can get out of it."

Someone in the group murmured a word of protest.

"Well," said Rubble, "I'm willing to wait till I find out. But I'm telling you right now that no man in any gang I've ever been with would have let Bill McCartney get away with it. If King Howden's got any stomach—and if he's got anything in it—he'd 'a' hit Bill McCartney on the jaw before he could have got the words out. I may be wrong, but—Howden's no good!"

But Rubble was not allowed to dismiss the affair so summarily. There was a somewhat thin voice that finally broke the long silence that followed Rubble's words. Old Gabe Smith, who had been a silent spectator during the events of the night before and had given silent audience to all the discussion of the day, ventured a remark or two that he was inclined to think had a bearing on the subject.

"An' what I would say is this," he observed in his most philosophical manner, after he had given due notice that he intended to speak on the question, "an' I have a feelin' that I'm not far wrong—what I would say is—if anybody here is takin' Mister Rubble's view of the matter—an' he's a right to his own opinion—he'd better not make up his mind for a little while—not just yet. An' I'll tell you why. In the first place we know that when Bill McCartney first met Currie it wasn't quite what you'd want to call reglar. He got Lush—but he got him foul. An' that ain't the way a good man gets anybody. An' then—in the second place—that affair last night was a little off color—Lush couldn't do anything there—he hadn't room. But—" and Gabe pointed the stem of his pipe at Rubble to emphasize his words, "we haven't seen this boy Howden at work yet."

"That's just it, Gabe," Rubble interrupted, "and we never will."

"Just a minute, now," Gabe persisted. "We haven't seen him workin' yet—but we may—we may. An' I'm goin' to wait long enough to give the boy a chance before I say my last word."

"Lord, Gabe, didn't he have a chance last night?"

"Well, Mister Rubble," Gabe replied with great deliberateness, "there might be a difference of opinion on that point. You would say he had—I would say that we don't know exactly. If we give him a few weeks longer, Mister Rubble, we'll both know pretty well which one of us is right. But in my opinion this boy Howden is no coward—he may have acted a bit strange—but he's not a coward—not to my way of thinkin'—just yet."

Gabe was sitting with his back to the doorway as he spoke and did not see the figure that was standing there while he was engrossed in making his opinion quite plain to Rubble. The other men, however, forgot to listen to Gabe's exposition and were staring uneasily at King Howden, who had appeared while the old man was talking and had stopped suddenly on hearing his own name. When Gabe had finished, he turned confusedly to discover the cause of the change that was so evident in the faces of the men, and met the gaze that fell upon him from eyes that were cold and unwavering. Then he saw the face grow serious and the lines of his lips tighten. The next moment he seemed conscious most of the stillness that had fallen upon the group of men who filled the room. His attempt to relieve his own embarrassment as well as that of the men was a little awkward, but he felt it was better than nothing.

"No harm meant, Howden, my boy," he said, and his voice was steady and quiet, "but we were talkin' about you."

"I guess it's all right, Gabe," said King, and he took a step into the room.

"You heard what I said?" the old man asked.

"That ain't troubling me any," King replied, "—not any at all."

But even as he spoke, his face revealed the struggle that was going on within him. He was not concerned over the words that he had heard from Gabe Smith. He knew, however, that someone had spoken words that had prompted Gabe to make a reply; and it rankled in his heart that he should come to be looked upon as a coward by anyone.

He went to a chair standing back against the wall and sat down. The conversation dragged along without interest, old man Rubble doing his best to carry it into one field after another without success until he finally gave up in despair and went out. Before long the others followed him, all except Gabe Smith, who remained alone with King.

"I'm an older man than you," he began when they were left alone, "—older by nearly thirty years. An' I've had some chances to look around in the past thirty years. An' I'm goin' to tell you right here some things you've got to know. I've watched you—an' I like you. An' when a man likes another he wants him to get along."

King's smile expressed the gratitude he felt. "I watched that business last night in Cheney's—an' I want to tell you what I think. It wasn't your fight to begin with—Lush and McCartney had been layin' for each other for quite a little while. They had to settle it one way or the other. It ain't settled yet—-an' what's worse you've got yourself in for a part of that settlement, too."

King leaned forward a little and looked at Gabe. "It's been settled—between them two," he said gravely.

"How settled?"

"Lush won't be goin' back to work any more. He's goin' out to-morrow."

"He's leavin', then—for sure?"

"Yes. He walked up to see me this afternoon an'—he says he can't stay here."

Gabe puckered his lips and was silent a moment. "Then—that means," he said very thoughtfully, "—that means he's handed it over to you."

King made no reply.

"You've got to take it up from last night," Gabe remarked again, and again King remained silent. Gabe was silent, too, for a long time, and when he spoke his words were so sudden and direct that King was startled. "Why didn't you finish it last night?"

King turned round slightly to meet Anne, who came into the room and greeted him. He waited until she left before he spoke.

"Gabe," he said at last, "it's been clear between us up to now, hasn't it?"

Gabe nodded his head slowly without a word.

"I want it to be clear—right on—from now till the end. I wanted to settle it—an' I guess I could, too." His voice was quiet, but no man could have doubted King's confidence in himself. "But there was a man once who said just what Bill McCartney called me last night—an' I killed him."

It was Gabe's turn to be startled. He took his pipe from his mouth quickly and looked at King with consternation on his face.

"You—you killed him, boy?"

"It seems like I did," King replied slowly. "I never can tell exactly. Something came up in me—something blinded me—an' I struck. When they lifted him up I knew I killed him—I was sure—because I meant to—that's what I tried to do. They told me afterwards—they told me he came round again—he was alive. But I couldn't believe it—he was my brother." King looked out the open doorway for a moment. "I've wondered about that a lot," he said after a long silence. "I think I've prayed about it, too—but I can't get it just right. That's why I left—that's why I came here. I wanted to get away from it—and start in new. I wanted to—to make that right with myself."

Gabe Smith seemed puzzled to understand clearly what King was saying to him.

"Last night," continued King, "it came back again. I thought I was strong enough, but I guess I ain't. When he called me that—it all came back. I went blind again—and I wanted to kill Bill McCartney—only then I remembered, and it took the heart out of me."

"Listen, boy," said Gabe. "Some day you are goin' to forget that—all of it. Some day you are goin' out to fight—an' to fight clean—and to win, and I'll tell you why. There's some of us countin' on you, and you've got to make good—that's why."

King got up and going over to the old man gripped his shoulder in his large powerful hand and looked down into his face.

"You're the first man ever said it to me like that," he said very gravely, and his lips were tight as he spoke, "and I think—I think you can count on me from now on."

Gabe Smith gave him his hand and smiled.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Old man Hurley sat in his office alone and looked out of the single window which the place boasted. No other window was necessary, however, for it gave a clear view of the west over the whole expanse of valley-plain that was his one concern. It was his one concern in a business way, for he had been sent in as Dominion Land Agent just as soon as the new district had begun to attract settlers, and he was the sole member of the new community upon whom the dignity of governmental office of any kind rested. But it was his chief concern morally as well, for he felt the full weight of the responsibility that was his to carry the new adventure in settlement to a gratifying and successful issue.

The dignity of office rested gracefully upon Hugh Hurley. Genial and affable at the same time that he was business-like and practical, he was an unfailing source of healthy optimism and unshaken confidence in the future. He was not unaware of the stubborn difficulties that invariably attend the building up of any new settlement. But he had vision and was possessed of a spirit of idealism that read something of romance into everything he did.

In the thick of daily routine, in the midst of a confusion of maps and blue-prints and surveyor's reports and governmental rules and regulations, in his daily meeting with newcomers who had as yet suffered no disillusionment, and with disgruntled "old-timers" who had been in the district for as long as six months or even longer, in the thousand and one matters of detail that try the patience of any conscientious servant of the public, Hugh Hurley constantly cherished a vision. It was of a great fertile valley, flanked on either side by rising blue hills, teeming with an eager-hearted, virile population devoted to the soil, and standing as one more outpost of empire, one more living monument to high endeavour.

In the occasional hour of leisure that came to him during the day and afforded him an opportunity of sitting before his window, he gave his imagination free rein and allowed it to wander unchecked. Then it was that he saw the broad fields of grain swaying in the golden sun. He saw men moving about over ploughed fields with the rich, brown mould turned up to the light. He heard the singing of women and the happy laughter of children. He heard the ringing of the bells and the busy hum of life in little towns and villages that were as yet unborn. He saw the hillsides, now virgin and wild under the afternoon sun, blocked and squared and trimmed by the hands of busy workers. He saw a valley full-mantled and smiling, and mottled with shadows thrown down from drifting clouds. And all Hugh Hurley's energies were devoted to making his dreams come true.

But dreams are only dreams, after all. And to-day, as the old man sat before his window, he was worried. Winding down the dusty trail about a quarter of a mile away came a long line of men in foreign attire, long-skirted coats drawn in tightly at the belt, trouser-legs tucked into long boots, and round caps that fitted closely to the head. They were the Russian Doukhobors returning from an expedition in search of land. While they were still at a considerable distance he could hear the solemn, almost weird chanting of their hymn as they marched along in single file. Hurley had seen them before in similar guise and he had always been struck by the romance, the other-worldness of the picture they presented. To-day, however, the romance was not there. His mind was occupied with something more actual, more immediate. These men, and their wives and children too, would have to live during the next eight or ten months, most of which would be trying months of fiercely cold weather, and they were without resources of any kind. What new settlers in the valley, except that the Doukhobors' reliance on the Almighty to furnish them with food and shelter was as complete as it was pathetic. Hugh Hurley knew that he must immediately constitute himself the elected agent of Heaven itself for these people of a blind faith—and for the others a practical provider of means whereby the winter could be met and passed without regrets.

He was waiting now for Keith McBain, with whom he had discussed the problem, and from whom he hoped he might get some practical suggestions.

Keith had promised, at their last meeting to see him as soon as he had made some investigations on his own part. Only half an hour ago he had seen the old contractor come to town. But Keith McBain's first place of call—as it was also his last—was Mike Cheney's, and Hugh Hurley knew that he could only wait till the old man was ready to come.

One thing that had given Hurley cause for anxiety was the fact that during the week a number of the younger homesteaders had bidden the place good-bye, and had left for the outside, where they were going to remain until it was time to go on the land again in the spring. Hurley knew what that meant. A little more of the same kind of thing and the movement would become general. The result would mean hardship and even suffering for the few who remained isolated from the outside during the long months of winter.

Two young fellows entered the open doorway behind Hurley and he turned to greet them.

"Hello, boys," he said cheerfully as he got up and went to meet them. "You're looking good—homesteading evidently sets a man up, eh?"

They smiled and shook hands.

"We're sure feelin' good," said one of them, "but we've had enough of homesteadin' for a little while—it gets on your nerves. We're goin' out for the winter."

"Going out for the winter?" Hurley exclaimed with a smile. "No—no, you're not—you're going to stay here this winter—and help out."

"Help out—at what?"

"Sit down there and smoke while I tell you a story."

When they were seated Hurley began.

"This reminds me of an argument I heard once between a pioneer preacher and a member of his congregation. This preacher was holding forth on hell, and after the service he met up with one of his freethinking brethren who didn't believe in hell, or heaven, either. 'So you don't believe in hell,' said the preacher. 'Well, mister, I'll tell you how I size it up. I'm betting on hell—an' I'm betting for two reasons. In the first place it's a good hunch—and in the second place I'm plum scared not to. It's like this,' he said. 'You say there ain't no hell an' you put your money on that hand. You just have to draw one card to find out. I say there is a hell an' I'm playin' that hand. An' I draw one. All right. You draw your card an' you turn it up. If you've played the right hunch what do you win? Nothin'. If there ain't no hell or heaven you're no better off even if you ain't worse off. You're just where you were. But if you're playing the wrong hunch an' you turn up your card an' find there's a sure 'nough hell—you're stuck. Ain't that right? You stand to win nothin' an' lose everything. Now look at me. I say there is a hell an' I draw an' turn up. If I don't make it—I don't lose anything anyhow. I'm no better off—but I'm sure no worse off. But if I turn up an' find there is a sure 'nough hell—I win, because that's my hunch an' I'm ready to play it, see? I stand to lose nothing an' there's just about one chance in two that I'll clean up with eternal life in the stakes. Any old way you look at it I got you beat—ain't that right? I'm bettin' on hell till the cows come home!'"

Hurley went and stood for a moment before the window and looked out across the valley.

"The point is this, boys," he said at last, turning quickly and looking at the two sturdy young fellows before him, "you and I and the rest of these people here"—he waved his hand towards the window—"have come into this valley because we believed in it. We're playing a kind of a hunch, boys, that the place is a good place to live in, an' when a man does what we've done he's playing pretty heavily. If we throw up the game now, we lose. That's all there is to it. And not only do we lose but these people around us lose too—and lose heavily. We've got to play the game through against hard luck and wait for the next spring before we begin to take our winnings."

"But we've got to live, Mr. Hurley," one of the men protested.

"Live—yes—and I've been working on that. And I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll grub-stake the whole caboodle of you for six months, beginning the middle of October, and I'll pay you a dollar a day for every day's work you put in if you hang on."

The men looked doubtful but were interested. "That looks all right," one of them offered, "but—"

"But nothing," interrupted Hurley. "I'll do what I say and I can make money on it too. I couldn't pay one man a dollar a day for a forenoon just now, but listen—this country's got to produce something if it's going to live, and it might as well start in this year as next. And when the rush comes in here next spring—and it's coming strong—there'll be a crowd of people here I hear about it every time the mail comes in. This town will be five times as big in a month. The man who's on the ground with his eyes open will take the winnings. The railway will be in before July, and the towns will be springing up and business will start and we'll be a part of the world we've just left before we know it. And that's only one side of it. You boys have registered your claims here and started improvements because you want to live here sometime. If it's going to be a fit place to live in we don't want any set-backs. Start to stampede for the outside now and by the time you get back you'll be where you were when you first landed here. That's not my idea. I'm going to stay right here and get ready for the big rush."

All at once they were aware of someone entering the office, and turned to find Keith McBain coming through the doorway. The young fellows got up at once and with a word to Hurley, promising to drop in the next day, left the office.

"Do you know what I've done?" said Hurley as soon as they had gone.

Keith McBain merely waited for a reply.

"I've promised those two boys work for the winter at a dollar a day and three square meals. I had to do it, Keith—they're good men, both of them, and they were on their way out for the winter. We can't let these men go. We've got to give them something to do and hold them here till spring."

"I've got it worked out," said Keith. "I was talking last week to McKenzie, and we can put in a camp just as soon as we can get a good location. They want a quarter to a half million ties for construction. There's a lot of stuff in there just south of the camp. All we've got to do is to go and find it and start right in. Any of your men here know anything about cruising?"

As if by way of answer to this question King Howden rode up to the door and without getting down called for Hurley to bring out the mail bag. Hurley went to the door and invited him in. When King entered his eyes fell upon Keith McBain, and for a moment he paused and held out his hand. The old contractor's greeting was pleasant, and King went in and stood waiting for Hurley to speak.

"You did some work once in the lumber woods at the coast, King, didn't you?" Hurley asked him.

King's look expressed mild surprise. "A little," he said.

"Done some timber-cruising?"

"About all I did for three years—summer and winter," he answered.

"Well, you'd better spend an extra day or two on your trip this time. You'd better wait over until to-morrow morning and get ready. Take enough grub—they'll fix you up at the lodging-house—and a couple of blankets, and get a good start in the morning. We'd like you to take the old trail into the hills and then work your way east to the right-of-way. You might aim at coming out pretty close to the end of the steel. Use your own judgment. Anyhow, we want you to get a good location for a tie-camp for the winter. We have a contract and want to open on it as soon as the frost comes. What do you think about it?"

"I guess I can do that, sir," King replied quietly. "The mail will be a couple of days late, but—"

"Never mind about that, King," Hurley interrupted. "The mail can afford to wait over. Just get ready to spend as much time as it will take to do it right."

King turned and went out to set about his preparations for the trip into the hills.

As he started hastily down the street he brushed against someone standing near the entrance to Hurley's office. Looking back, he recognized Tom Rickard, one of Keith McBain's men, lounging lazily against the wall only a few feet from the doorway. The circumstance held no special significance for him at the time, and yet he couldn't help wondering why Rickard was in town.

In the office Hurley was standing before Keith McBain, who had remained perfectly silent during the interview with King. Hurley was regarding McBain seriously.

"What do you think of Howden?"

"He's a good boy," Keith remarked dryly.

"Couldn't he handle that camp for the winter—a little better than anyone around here?"

McBain did not say anything for some time, but sat meditatively smoking his pipe. Finally he seemed to have reached a conclusion.

"He's a good boy, Hugh," he remarked slowly, "but he's got to be more than that before he can handle a gang of men in a bush. He's got to have the stomach!"

Hurley went to his window and looked out. In his own mind he was turning over the possibility of getting King to prove himself worthy of the confidence he felt. He had heard the men talk of the affair with McCartney, and he knew pretty well what was in Keith McBain's mind.

King's preparations were made quickly, and by supper time he was ready to take the trail next morning. He had yet to go back to his cabin for a couple of blankets, but he waited till later in the evening, and decided that he would spend the night in his shack and start from there early in the morning. He took supper at the lodging-house in company with Keith McBain, who was in one of his silent moods, having already spent too much time in the company of Mike Cheney during the afternoon. With them was Tom Rickard, as silent and uncommunicative as Keith McBain. From the knowledge that King had of the old contractor's ways he feared he was out on another of his lengthy visits to town. And King's mind went back immediately to Cherry, who was probably even then waiting anxiously for her father's return.

The first hours of such a visit on the part of Keith McBain were usually spent in secret with Mike Cheney, and invariably produced a mood in which he refused to speak to anyone. When they sat down to the table, King asked him when he intended going back to camp. The old man offered not a word by way of reply, and the meal went forward without any further conversation between the two. Anne came and went frequently during the short half hour that King spent at the table, or stood a little back from him and offered a few words now and then which King responded to briefly but pleasantly enough. The two young fellows who had visited Hurley's office earlier in the afternoon to announce their intention of going out for the winter had eaten earlier in the evening, and had apparently spoken of their plans in Anne's hearing. She had something to say about it herself—but she waited till Keith McBain had gone out and disappeared up the street, followed by Tom Rickard. Then she spoke of the thing that was on her mind.

"They're sure in luck," she remarked as if she were thinking aloud. "This place gives me the blues. Talk about a dead place—this ain't no town, it's a graveyard! It's worse than that—it's a prayer-meetin' without the shoutin'!"

King laughed quietly to himself, and Anne turned to him. "Honest, King, it ain't no place for white people to live. It's been all right this summer with everybody round and things movin' a little—but the winter—an everybody away—God, you don't know how I hate the idea."

King got up from the table and went to the doorway. It had already begun to grow dusk and the air was cool and inviting. For a moment he stood looking into the street with its rambling houses and squat little cabins on either side.

"Anne," he said slowly, "some of us have to stay, I guess—stay here and see it through. It won't be easy—but it's the right thing to do—that's how I see it. Besides, it may be better than we think—wait and see."

While he talked his eyes were still turned towards the street. He did not look at the girl until he was through. Then he turned to her and looked at her where she stood, leaning against the table. Her eyes were on his face, and her gaze was long and steady. He had a suspicion that there were tears ready to come—there was something deeper and more thoughtful in them than he had ever seen there before. He knew that the girl was lonely, and that she had no friends.

"Anne," he said slowly, in a voice that was kindness itself, "you ought to get out more—you ought to ride out a little. You ought to walk."

She smiled and gave an impatient shrug to her shoulders.

"Walk—Lord!" Then she set about clearing the table and for a while both were silent. At last she set down a dish she held in her hand and came over to where King stood in the doorway.

"Haven't I walked?" she said in a voice that was tense with emotion. "Haven't I spent hours alone walking these trails up and down? That doesn't help any. I came in here because I wanted to get away by myself an' start all over again. Lord, I sure did it—I got away by myself all right. An' I got sick of it. Then I wanted to get out with people—honest-to-God-people that cared a little—no matter who. But where can I go? They think there's something wrong because I got into Mike's place the night of the scrap. They didn't like my way round here before that. Well, it's my way, isn't it? It's all I got. I don't owe anything—I'm square. But I want some one that will talk to me—an' talk right—not like a lot of these fellows want to talk. That's what I want."

King put out his hand and took her arm. "I guess that's right, Anne," he said. "I've felt like that. We'll talk—you and I—talk together sometimes. And then maybe—" he began to think of the possibility of Anne coming to know Cherry McBain.

"I've been wantin' to talk to you often," she said, very quietly and very slowly. "But you seemed to pass me up like the rest of them. Only I liked you because you looked square. An' I was afraid to talk to you—because I wanted you to like me."

For a moment King was silent as he weighed the full meaning of her words. He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm as she spoke, and there crept over him a strange feeling of fear. He liked the girl, he had the deepest sympathy for her, he would do anything in his power to make life more pleasant for her. And yet—he shrank slowly from her touch and was impatient to get away.

"I guess it'll be late enough when I get back," he said suddenly. "And I've got to make a good start for the hills to-morrow."

He turned and looked at her for a moment, and then laid his hand on her shoulder. "We've got to face a lot of things in life, Anne," he said; "a whole lot of things. It ain't always easy—but it pays to face up."

He stood before her in the doorway and looked directly into her face as he spoke. For a moment she returned the look and then suddenly bowed her head before him. Putting his arm about her shoulders he raised her head gently and looked at her.

"Anne, girl," he said slowly, "I'm coming to see you—if it would help any—when I get back. So long!"

She looked at him squarely and he knew she understood him. The fear he had entertained only a moment before was gone now. He was confident that everything between them was just as he wanted it to be. In her heart was a deep yearning for companionship—in his, a feeling of great pity for the girl who was struggling against the demon of loneliness.

"King," she said at last, "you're right—and I like that."

A sound of hoofs came suddenly from the trail only a few yards away. Anne stepped back quickly from the doorway and King turned to face Cherry McBain, who had brought her horse to a standstill and was already looking down at him from her place in the saddle. He was about to express his surprise, but the look she gave him caused the words to die on his lips.

"I'm looking for my father," she said in a voice that to King's ears sounded like the voice of a stranger.

The sound of men's voices came from farther up the street, and looking out, King saw Hugh Hurley and Keith McBain leaving the land-office. Cherry saw the men at the same moment and without a word rode away to join her father. Just once King called after her, but received no reply. He watched them till all three had vanished in the direction of Hurley's little house that stood under the poplars at the end of the street. Then he stepped out and went off down the trail to where his horse was tethered outside Hurley's office.

When he had mounted into his saddle he turned and looked back along the street. In the dusky frame of the lodging-house doorway he could see Anne still standing where he had left her. She waved her hand to him as he looked back at her, and he waved in reply as he drew his horse's head about and took the trail that led westward to his cabin.

CHAPTER EIGHT

King Howden was at a loss to understand himself that night. Into a few short days had been crowded more emotion, more stirring experience than he had ever known before. The very fact that there had been nothing spectacular, nothing especially thrilling, in what had occurred only made the effects more far-reaching and real. A change had come over him that was the result of forces working so deeply within him that he knew life from this time forward was to mean something different, something more serious than it had ever meant to him.

When he arrived at his cabin, after putting his horse away for the night and making a few final preparations for an early start in the morning, he found his bunk strangely uninviting. His mind, was unusually busy turning over and over a host of thoughts that crowded upon one another in a confusion that made sleep impossible. He went to the doorway of his shack, and sitting on the doorstep drew his dog down beside him and tried to think himself clear of the confusion. He recalled the night he had learned of his brother's death—it seemed as if a year had gone since that night, instead of a week. His imagination dwelt upon Cherry McBain as she looked that night when she rode beside him on the trail. His heart bounded again as he saw her standing before him on the little bridge over the White Pine—and he felt again, as he had felt a hundred times since, the ecstasy of that moment when Cherry had asked him for his help against a man he already hated. He smiled at the recollection of his meeting with McCartney in Cheney's place. Then his heart froze as he thought of what had happened only within the last hour.

As he sat alone on the doorstep the night came down on the hills and the valley, but King had no thought of the passing hours. His mind was on the sudden appearance of Cherry McBain, like an apparition out of the dusk, and the coldly accusing note in her voice when she had spoken.

"She couldn't think—" he murmured to himself and then stopped.

He wondered that he had not gone off to find her—to follow her and explain it all. And then it occurred to him that words—his words particularly—were helpless things after all. Even if he had gone and found her, and spoken to her, what would his words have done? And yet—he clung fiercely to a hope—the hope that had so lately been born in him.

"She can't think I'm wrong," he went on. "She can't—I couldn't stand that. I've been trying—I'm not right all through, but I'm not wrong like that. She's got to believe me."

And then it came upon him—came with crystal clearness—that the heart of Cherry McBain could be won and held only by a man that was not afraid of himself, a man who had a task so great that it overshadowed petty problems and made them insignificant by comparison. And so King Howden renewed the covenant he had made with himself only a few days before, that his place in life was something more than the small circle drawn about his narrow existence, with its little weaknesses and discouragements and failures. Only this time the covenant was made sacred because a man's love for a woman had set its seal on it.

By the first streak of dawn King was already well along the trail. He wanted to reach the top of the hills by sunrise, and with a climb of some five or six miles before him he urged his horse forward at a good pace. From the low-lying levels of the grassy plain and the deep meadows, to the first rolling uplands he mounted while the dawn was still gray, and from the uplands to the hills and down through the valleys that lay between. The old trail had not been used much during the latter part of the summer owing to the steadily decreasing distance that now lay between the new settlement and the end of the steel. On either side and in the centre of the trail where ran the narrow ridge between the two tracks, the grass was high and drenched the horse's legs with dew.

And as he mounted higher, the coming of the new day broke upon him like a benediction, so that his very soul sang with the joy of the open sky and the rolling hills, the free trail and the throbbing pulse of youth. When he reached the top of the first upstanding hill he emerged from the fringe of trees that lined the crest just in time to see the sun pushing its way above the horizon. In the valley that lay before him the morning mist was stretched low and motionless. On the hillside opposite, where the sun's rays had not yet found their way, the trees were hidden in the half-dusk like ghosts waiting for some voice to waken them. The trail that led before him lost itself under cover of the white shroud, and over all was poured the rich glory of the rising sun. King took off his hat and looked long and silently. Then facing northward he dismounted and, taking the bridle rein in one hand, left the trail and plunged into the woods.

Early that night he found a circle of tamaracs beside a little stream of cold water and decided to put up for the night. The day had been a long one, and had proven very heavy, but he had succeeded in his quest and was content with the results of his efforts. He was very tired, and after removing the saddle and pack from his horse he found a grassy plot not far away and tethered him for the night. Then he prepared a little smudge at the edge of the plot and returned to his camp. When he had eaten his supper he unstrapped his blankets and tossed them in a loose roll upon the soft ground where it was covered with brown needles and dry cones. Then he rolled himself a cigarette and smoked it in silence while he thought over the results of his day's cruising.

The sun had already gone down when he got up and went again to make sure that his horse had received all the attention necessary for the night. When he had satisfied himself that everything was as it should be, and had partly smothered the smudge in order that its usefulness might last well through the night, he turned back up the hill again to roll in for the night. A passing mood caused him to circle about so that he came out on a small elevation, clear of trees, that stood back from his camp.

When he had reached the top of the hill he could see clear away to the west over the broad valley where lay the town and his own little cabin that he had left early that morning. He thought he could make out the place, off to the north, where lay the right-of-way and Keith McBain's construction camp. Then as his eyes swept the intervening space something arrested his attention.

Everywhere were the slow-forming mists of the early evening. But down there to the right—it couldn't be more than a mile away—there was something that was not mist, though it was difficult to make it out, even at so short a distance, with the shadows already beginning to deepen in the lower places. What he saw was a slowly rising thin column of smoke, and his heart beat faster as he began to realize slowly what it might mean. Someone was down there making a camp for the night. There was no reason in the world for anyone wandering through the hills at such a time—unless it was the same reason that had brought King Howden himself there. It was not easy to explain, but he was not slow in coming to a decision to act. Merely as a matter of self-defence he determined that he should at least guard against being discovered.

He hurried down the hill, sliding, leaping, and running by turns, and came in a few seconds to the edge of the little meadow where his horse was standing in the comfortable protection of the cloud of smoke rising from the smudge.

"You poor old cuss," he said regretfully, "you'll have to use your tail to keep the mosquitoes off to-night. No more smoke, if they eat you alive."

With that he kicked the smudge-pile vigorously, scattering it over the ground and leaving the embers smoking feebly where they lay in the grass. Then he went carefully from one spot to another and stamped out the last traces of the fire. Going back to the spot he had chosen for the night he left Sal on guard with a word of warning not to follow him, and set off again in the direction in which he had discovered the smoke. He had no intention of attempting to satisfy his curiosity by spying on strangers. He wanted to be reasonably sure that he himself was not being spied upon—that was all.

And so he moved about cautiously and waited patiently for the first sound that would announce the approach of anyone. When it was very late and he had heard nothing to alarm him, he returned, confident that he would not be molested, and rolling himself in his blankets, pillowed his head on the saddle and went to sleep.

The next morning he was awake at dawn, and without waiting to prepare breakfast, he clambered up the hill behind his camping place and sat down to watch for the first signs of life in the camp below. And as he sat and waited he worked out in his own mind, now fresh from the night's sound sleep under the open sky, what was at least a tentative explanation of the new circumstance that had so suddenly forced itself into his plans. He remembered now, with a new sense of its possible significance, the unexpected arrival in town of Cherry McBain late in the evening. Why had she come for her father? Then he recalled the fact that Keith McBain had not come to town alone. Was there any special significance in the presence of Tom Rickard in town at the same time? There was nothing in Keith McBain's silence that was unusual to one who knew him, but King felt that the old contractor had been more than ordinarily silent and perhaps a little ill-natured. He could not help thinking that something was brewing behind it all and, right or wrong, his conviction was that the camp down there a mile or so away had some connection with it all.

Suddenly he was aware of a column of white smoke rising out of the trees. The traveller was apparently making ready for an early start. King sat watching the smoke for nearly an hour before anything happened to which he could attach any special importance. Then the figures of two men appeared suddenly in the open space beside the trees. They were leading a couple of horses. He got to his feet as he saw them and then squatted down suddenly and drew Sal towards him, lest she should catch a glimpse of the strangers and set up an alarm.

The figures were headed southward, in the direction from which King had come the day before. For several minutes he watched them without moving from his place. Then as they disappeared from view behind the shoulder of a hill he scrambled down the slope to his camp and went about leisurely to prepare his breakfast. If the strangers were on a similar errand to his own he was well ahead of them. Before evening he would have completed his cruising in the hills and with ordinary good luck would reach the end of the steel by night-fall. When he had breakfasted he completed a few preparations necessary for the day's trip and was on his way again at sunrise.

Late in the afternoon he emerged upon the trail about half-way between McBain's camp and the end of the steel. The air was heavy with a promise of rain in it. For the last mile or so he had followed a creek in which only a small stream of water trickled over the stones, and now, the wearisome part of the day's work done, he sat down upon a log at the side of the road and sized up the work he had done during the last two days in the hills. The timber was there for the purposes that Hurley and Keith McBain sought, the supply was more than their needs called for, and he had found an admirable site for a camp.

It was with a feeling of great satisfaction, therefore, that he finally got into the saddle and started for the end-of-the-steel.

Late that evening King strolled leisurely in the direction of the railway siding where stood a long line of cars that served as sleeping quarters for the men who were attached to the bridge gang. For a month or more they had been busy replacing the old temporary bridge by a more permanent structure. From a distance he had heard the voices of the men chatting and laughing among themselves. The two days spent alone in the hills had awakened in him afresh the desire to be with men and hear them talk.

He came upon them at an interesting moment. Two men of the gang were matched in a wrestling bout, the others standing round watching the contest closely. King waited at some distance until the affair was over before he made his presence known. Then he stepped forward and entered the circle of men. Good nature pervaded the group, and King was the recipient of pleasant greetings from all sides. On the opposite side of the circle stood Larkin, Keith McBain's freighter.

"Hey, you outsiders—Larkin and Howden," called one of the men; "you fellows can't sit in on this game for nothin'. Give us a little action. Even money that Howden can put Larkin on his back in three minutes."

"Any takers?" asked Larkin, during the pause that followed this outburst.

Almost immediately came a dozen responses, whether from lack of confidence in King's ability or from sheer desire for sport.

King felt himself pushed out into the centre of the circle, where he stood smiling and looking at Larkin.

"Get in, Larkin," cried a voice. "No time now for lettin' your blood freeze in your veins. I'm backin' you to win and by —— you've got to step lively."

Larkin was smiling as he got up, but the smile gave place to a look of deadly earnestness as he leaped suddenly at King in an effort to overcome him at one rush. King was still smiling as he braced himself and received the full force of Larkin's rush without yielding more than half a step. Then as Larkin bent low to get a hold, King caught him quickly about the waist and, lifting him off his feet, held him for a moment while he kicked and lurched helplessly in an effort to free himself. In another second he had Larkin on the ground with his shoulders pinned down.

The whole thing had not occupied a minute, and there was not a man in the group that did not express his surprise at the sudden and unexpected outcome of the encounter. King, on his part, felt a strange new thrill of pleasure as he got up and looked round at the men. At no time during his little set-to with Larkin had he doubted his ability to take care of himself, but the sharp action, though momentary, had exhilarated him and he was conscious of the renewed vigor that had come to him during the two days wandering in the hills.

Back in the group of men stood one big fellow, a Spaniard of powerful build and hasty temper, whom no one in the gang had ever pretended to know. There was a look in his eyes now, however, that attracted and even amused King. Someone else apparently saw that look at the same moment.

"You, Spain," came a voice. "Feelin' pretty strong? Get in there and stack up. You and Howden mate up pretty close."

"Go on—get in, Spain," came from another quarter, and at once the big Spaniard, serious and struggling to control his excitement, became the centre of interest. With a deal of urging, they finally got him to step out—not very reluctantly, it seemed, for he came towards King rather eagerly.

"I don't know, young fellow," he said seriously as he came forward. "By golly, I t'ink I lika try dat for once anyhow."

He advanced warily and tried to get his huge arms about King's body. King, however, avoided him by moving back a step at a time about the enclosure until the look of seriousness in the Spaniard's face became one of impatience, and King knew that the moment had arrived when he must close with his antagonist and fight it out. His decision had barely been made, however, when the Spaniard made a quick movement towards him and King had to leap to one side quickly to avoid the powerful arms that came out to encircle him. The movement left him slightly in the rear and to one side of his opponent, and stepping in quickly he sent his arm forward and upward, and laying his hand on the back of the Spaniard's neck brought his head down with a snap. In another ten seconds he had doubled him up and thrown him on the ground.

When the Spaniard got to his feet his black eyes were flashing angrily, and he was muttering incoherently as he looked at King. The latter, however, was smiling with such genuine good nature that at last the fire died in the black eyes and the big fellow began to smile at his own defeat.

"By golly, young fellow," he said, "I lika know dat little treek, jus' once."

King found a place for himself in the circle of men and moved quietly to the outside where he would be less in evidence. The centre of the circle was taken almost immediately by a couple of men who had come out to prove their prowess at "squaw-wrestling."

While the interest in the match was at its height, King felt someone touch his arm, and looking round, found himself face to face with Lush Currie, who, with one finger on his lips as a signal for silence, was beckoning King to come out of the crowd and follow him. King withdrew at once without attracting any attention, and followed Currie until he came up with him just a few yards off on the roadway.

When King had joined him he walked along in silence for a short distance, expecting Currie to speak.

"I just came from up the line," said Currie at last. "I didn't know you were here—where'd you come from?"

King hesitated a moment before he replied. The glimpses he had caught early that morning of the two men in the hills set him thinking during the day, and he was determined to be careful.

"I came from town," he said in reply to Currie's question.

"Yes—but—but when?"

"To-day. Got here in time for supper."

"Got here to-night? You didn't come from McBain's camp to-day?"

King's reply was ready. "No—I took another way this time. But what—"

"I think you'd better put back," Currie broke in. "McCartney's got somethin' movin'. Old Silent's in town—been there for three days now—probably livin' at Cheney's. The girl went up but came back this morning without him. I don't know what's doin', but Gabe says Bill's got some of Cheney's firewater an' there's goin' to be trouble. Gabe was wishin' to-day you'd come along. He expected you back when the girl came and when you didn't turn up he was worried. He says the girl's worried too."

They walked some distance before King made any comment. At last he turned off in the direction of the corral where he had put his horse for the night.

"I guess I'll be gettin' along back," he said quietly.

Lush Currie stood and watched him until he had vanished in the darkness. And even as he stood there, the rain that had been threatening all day began to fall slowly.

CHAPTER NINE

Cherry McBain stood in the open doorway of the cabin and looked out at the heavy grey skies and the gathering darkness. The air carried a chill reminder that summer was coming very rapidly to a close. All day long there had been a cold wind and scudding clouds that drifted low about the hill tops, and hurried before a fitful eastern breeze that carried dashes of mist and thin rain with it.

Now that evening had come the wind had gone down, but the drizzling rain was falling steadily and monotonously, as it does when it sets in for a long downpour. Though it was still early evening it was almost dusk, especially among the heavy-limbed tamaracs where the cabin stood. Cherry had lighted the lamp very early in an effort to bring some little cheer to the place, for the heavy unbroken gloom of the skies, now growing dark with the coming night, had filled her with a sense of loneliness from which she could not free herself.

It was not merely the fact that she was twenty-one and that the day had been a dull one, though perhaps a girl of Cherry McBain's temperament needs no other excuse for being melancholy. She was lonely, more indescribably lonely than she had ever been in her life before. The distance from happiness to despair is often a very short one indeed, and Cherry had gone from one to the other in what, to her, was an incredibly short time. The latter weeks of the summer just coming to a close had been the most supremely happy time of her life. But the last two or three days had been like long dreary months to her. It seemed as if she had been given but one short glimpse of bright hope only to be plunged again into deepest darkness. At first it was wounded pride that gave her pain. She loved King Howden—what hurt her most was the fact that she loved him still in spite of herself. Now that she recalled the way she had spoken to King, and then recalled what she had seen when she came unexpectedly upon Anne and King standing together in the deeper dusk of the doorway—she bit her lip and clenched her hands in anger at herself that she should have allowed herself to be such a fool.

It was this wounded pride of hers that had unsettled her so that she was unable to play her wonted part when she had finally tried to make her father come back to her. He had met her suggestion with a stormy outburst—worse than any he had ever brought upon her before—and she had broken miserably before it, and had left him and ridden back to the camp alone. What did it matter that she had walked up and down the crooked street of The Town for two days with as firm a step and as erect a bearing as ever? What did it matter that she had tossed her head proudly and passed Anne without so much as a word of recognition whenever the two met? What did it matter that she had ridden into camp with the same air of indifference that she had always carried? Others might not know—and she vowed they would not know—but she knew that she had suffered a double defeat, and it hurt.

But Cherry McBain was not one to forget her duty even in the hour of keenest disappointment. Her sense of defeat had been partly relieved during the day in the time-honored way that women have of relieving their feelings. Now as she stood in the doorway of her cabin and looked out at the grey world, she was the victim of a feeling that she had never really experienced before. She was afraid.

During the day she had spoken with old Gabe Smith, who had come to get news from her of her father. A change had come over the camp during the past few days, the nature of which had made Gabe very anxious to have Keith McBain back again and asserting his old control. He did not have to tell Cherry that Bill McCartney was the cause of all the unrest he had reported to her. She knew the meaning of it better than Gabe. Cherry longed for her father's return. She even upbraided herself for having left town without him.

But even as she prayed for his coming, strange doubts arose in her mind concerning her father's power to combat the hostile forces of which McCartney was not only the director but the creator as well. She knew, in short, as others doubtless knew, that Keith McBain was a broken man. His power to break a man's will by a look or a word was almost gone, and none knew it so well as his own daughter.

And yet she wanted him back. After all, she had always relied upon him in critical moments in the past; it had come to be a habit with her. Besides, there was no one else to whom she could turn. Old Gabe Smith was kind and good, and would always help to the extent of his ability, but after all he was of no more use than any other camp follower when a crisis had to be met.

While she stood wondering what best to do she saw Gabe himself coming down the pathway towards her. All at once her mind was made up. With a word or two to Gabe she went back into the cabin and dressed herself preparatory to going out. In a few minutes she was back again in the doorway waiting for Gabe, who reappeared presently in the pathway leading Cherry's horse behind him, saddled and bridled, ready for the road. She allowed Gabe to help her into the saddle, and then, leaving him to blow out the light and close the door, she set off to the trail and headed for The Town. This time she was determined that her father's will should be no match for her own. She would have her way with him, no matter what he said, and he would return to camp with her and give commands.

No one saw her as she rode through the camp, no one, at least, spoke to her, and in a couple of minutes she was safely through with nothing before her but a long stretch of winding trail already wet from the rain. She went forward with great caution though she knew every foot of the trail she was traversing, and urged her horse only in the higher stretches where the road was sandy and still dry. The footing was very uncertain in spots, and on account of the increasing intensity of the darkness she was forced to rely almost wholly upon the instincts of her horse to guide her. Fortunately there was but one trail, and that one was flanked on either side by bushes and trees and fallen logs that made an effective barrier against her wandering from the beaten way.

One thing that caused her some concern as she rode along was the fact that the little creeks she had crossed countless times before, had crossed scarcely twelve hours since, as a matter of fact, had swollen considerably during the day. Every time she attempted a fording she did so with an increasing sense of surprise at the swirling of the water about her horse's legs. She knew it had been raining in the hills during the day, and she had expected some little change in the size of the streams, but nothing so formidable as the turbulent rushing of these little creeks had presented itself to her imagination. They were actually vicious, she thought to herself, and once when the water reached her foot and her horse stopped a moment and leaned against the current before he went on, she was more than a little anxious for the outcome of her mission. She experienced a strange thrill of something like fear, too, as she looked down at the water beneath her, black under the darkness of the night, and swirling and rushing crazily onward in headlong haste.

She had been on the way for nearly three hours when she came at last to the little ridge overlooking White Pine river. It was the prospect of having to make this crossing that gave her most concern. From the top of the ridge she could see nothing in the pitchy blackness of the night. Cautiously she urged her horse down the gentle slope of the ridge towards the river. She began to wonder whether the little bridge of poles had been swept out by the current. If the water had not risen above the level of the bridge there was no reason why a perfectly safe crossing could not be made. With the instinct born of long contact with the world out-of-doors she strove to measure the distance she had gone since she left the ridge crest. The bridge was some distance off yet, probably fifteen or twenty yards, when all at once she thought she heard the sound of water running about her horse's fore-feet. She urged him forward a little, and found herself standing some ten yards or so from the bridge with the water rushing just beneath her. Dimly in the darkness she could make out the form of the bridge. It was still in its place with the water rushing past at either end, though it had not gone over it as yet.

For a moment she stopped and faced the situation, and the new problems it presented to her. She had no doubt that she could cross the bridge quite safely and finish her trip successfully. But if it continued to rain during the night, there would be no getting back again. With the camp cut off from them, she and her father would simply have to wait until the rain ceased and the rivers went down sufficiently to allow a safe passage before they could think of returning. But that was like enlisting Providence on the side of the devil, for she knew it would be simply playing into the hands of McCartney to leave the camp in his charge, perhaps for days, while the wet weather made it impossible for the men to work on the grade. Though she did not know what she could do if she were alone at the camp, she felt intuitively that while her father was away her duty was to fill the place he had left, if she could do nothing but stand as a sort of symbol of the leadership which her father had embodied.