THE HEART OF CHERRY MCBAIN (continued 3)

She decided to abandon the trip to The Town and to return to camp, there to match her wits against those of McCartney, and hope for the best. The decision quickly made was suddenly shaken by the fear that her father might even now be on the road. As she thought of him attempting to cross the White Pine alone with only his team to take care of him, she shrank with fear. She recalled the nights during the summer when his team had brought him safely home, though he himself had never known anything about it until he awoke the next morning. But good fortune cannot bring a man through everything, and Cherry knew her father could never cross the White Pine in its present condition and under the heavy darkness that hid everything within a few feet.

Turning her horse's head back she rode again up the slope of the ridge and dismounted when she was about half way to the crest. Here she found a fallen log in the shelter of a closely grown clump of trees and sat down. She was far enough from the river to hear quite easily other sounds than the rushing of the water. Above her the trees brushed back and forth in the wind, with boughs rustling and creaking and moaning in the darkness. The sound from the river was like the low, steady washing of a distant surf. Cherry sat and strained her ears for the least noise from the other side of the bridge. Time after time she started up at what she thought was the striking of a hoof or the scraping of a wheel upon a stone. Once she got to her feet suddenly, her heart thumping with expectancy. She was sure she had heard her father's voice in a gruff word of command to his team. But although she stood with breath held and ears strained for the slightest sound, none came, and she sat down again, feeling that she might have been dreaming.

When she at last arose to take the trail back to the camp it was past midnight. Nothing had come of her long wait and she felt it would be useless to remain longer. No one would have allowed even Keith McBain to leave town on such a night and at an hour that would make the trip to camp doubly hazardous.

But as she went over the top of the ridge and rode along the trail she had come over earlier in the night she began to estimate the difficulty of the problem that awaited her if her fears concerning McCartney's designs had any foundation in fact.

She knew the hour must come sooner or later when McCartney would give up his policy of quiet waiting. She knew something of his determination and recklessness of consequences. She knew he would strike when he thought the moment most opportune. And she was not blind to the fact that the moment was perhaps at hand. He would carry out his threat some time—why should he not do so to-night?

Cherry McBain had never been afraid of Bill McCartney; she had usually managed to meet him when the other men were around, or when her father was near, and she had successfully avoided anything but the most casual passages between them. Her chief security had lain in the fact that she had always been on the best of terms with the men of her father's camp. She liked them and she knew they liked her. But she did not fail to recognize that McCartney's chief concern during the last few weeks had been to win for himself the regard of the men and make them his followers. That he had won a small group through the fear he had inspired by his display of brute strength Cherry well knew. Just how far he had been successful among the more independent men of the camp she did not know. Gabe Smith had often spoken to her about it, and had assured her of the loyalty of the great majority of them, but she knew that Gabe's judgment on such things was not always to be relied upon. It was this uncertainty that made her afraid. She was actually afraid for herself. Without the active support of the men in her father's camp she would be powerless against a man of McCartney's temper, to say nothing of his size, and she dreaded the moment when he would step up and demand that she should do her part to make good her father's bargain.

She knew at any rate what the future held for her if the worst came to the worst. She would fight as long as she had strength left in her body and wit in her mind. If she failed at last it would be for her father's sake, at least, and she would harbour no regrets and cherish no grudge. Suddenly, as she rode along in deep thought, she was awakened from her dreaming by the sight of a red flare in the clouded night-sky. It appeared directly ahead of her, a large spot of ruby light glowing against the low clouds. She knew what it meant only too well, but the fear of what its full meaning might be sent a chill to her heart as she looked at it. Then she gave her horse a sharp cut with her quirt and he was off at a mad gallop along the muddy trail.

The caution she had exercised in picking her way along through the darkness was suddenly forgotten. The horse would have to do the best it could to find a footing and keep the trail. One thought only occupied her mind. The camp was on fire and she must save it, if she could cover the distance in time.

About half an hour of the maddest riding she had ever done brought her to the edge of the camp where the trail left the grade and emerged from the bushes beside the corral. In the middle of the camp the men were dancing about the flaming remnants of what had been the cook camp. It had been nothing but a frame of logs and canvas, and had gone up like so much dry kindling in a few minutes. What she saw was nothing more than a heap of burning debris, about which the men were running and shouting like beings half-crazed.

At first Cherry stood at a distance, scarcely knowing what to do. Three workless days had produced the kind of results that she had long since learned to expect in construction camps. With McCartney on the ground she knew the results were inevitable. The men were nearly all drunk and many of them scarcely seemed to know what they were doing.

All at once she saw the swaggering form of McCartney in the light from the fire. The sight maddened her and with a flash of her quirt she sent her horse flying into the crowd, pulling him back suddenly almost upon his haunches at the very edge of the fire.

Her sudden appearance like an apparition out of the night struck surprise into the hearts of the men. They fell back, some of them with terror on their faces as she struck, first on one side, then on the other, at a couple who approached her in threatening attitude.

"Get to your bunks, you!" she cried in a voice that all could hear and in a tone that none could mistake.

Moving quickly about, she called to a half dozen men whom she knew best and liked, among them Gabe Smith.

"Stay here for a little while," she said after she had got them together. "Look round at the store and the corral and the bunkhouse to make sure there is no more danger of fire. Gabe, you take charge for to-night, and get these men to help. Make the others go to bed."

In half an hour the camp was in a state of comparative quiet. Nothing was left of the cook-camp but a heap of embers smouldering in the rain which was still falling steadily. Cherry found Gabe in the bunkhouse patiently arguing with three or four of the men who had ill-temperedly protested against going to bed at the command of anyone, much less that of a woman. She called him out to her.

"Let them sit up if they like, Gabe," she said with a smile. "The less trouble the better. Two or three of you had better stay round till daylight anyhow. I'm going to the cabin. I'll take my horse along and tether him under the tamaracs. If anything happens let me know. I'll lie down. The lamp will be lit, and I'll be ready to come out at once if you need me. Some one must go to town in the morning."

Gabe came up to her as she was about to leave.

"There's one thing, my girl," he said. "You'd better not leave your door unlocked. I can knock—"

"Don't be silly, Gabe," she interrupted quickly. "I'm not afraid."

"Well, take this," he said, drawing a revolver from his pocket and holding it towards her.

"Why, Gabe," she exclaimed, laughing at him, "what in the world are you going to do with that?"

"Nothing, I hope," he replied a little sheepishly. "Lush Currie left it with me as a kind of remembrance and I've been keeping it by me."

"But you'd never use it, Gabe?"

"No," he replied with a slow smile as he slipped it back again into his pocket, "but it does give a man a comfortable feeling to have it on him, in case."

She bade him good-night cheerfully and rode off towards the cabin. Although she had been amused at what she thought was an unnecessary precaution for Gabe Smith to take, she could not help admitting to herself that she shared somewhat in the feeling of comfort which the old fellow protested was his chief reason for carrying the weapon. She regretted, moreover, that she had not asked him concerning the whereabouts of McCartney. He had disappeared suddenly when she had come upon the scene. The first glimpse she had had of him was the last, and she felt a little uneasiness at not knowing where he had gone. It had come to her mind frequently during her conversation with Gabe that she should ask him to find McCartney and keep an eye on him, but she did not wish the old man to know what was in her mind. As she rode into the tamaracs, however, and tethered her horse in a sheltered spot, she wished with all her heart that she had given at least a hint of her fears to Gabe. But perhaps he had already guessed at them for himself—there was a little comfort in the hope that he had done so; and with this thought in her mind she entered the cabin.

When she had lighted her lamp she looked about her to assure herself that everything was just as she had left it. Then she smiled to herself as she remembered that she had probably never done such a thing before. She was actually nervous and the discovery really amused her.

Quickly she removed her wet garments, and having dressed again in warm, dry clothing, she lowered the light and, drawing a heavy cover about her, lay down on the couch and dropped to sleep almost instantly.

CHAPTER TEN

Cherry awoke with a start and sat up quickly, blinking her eyes in the dim light and struggling to regain control of her senses. Something had frightened her out of a heavy sleep. Now that she was awake she thought she remembered a sensation of a cold breath of air on her cheek. Suddenly her eyes fell upon a shadowy form standing beside the door. At first she was not sure but that she had been dreaming. Gradually her mind cleared, however, and she sprang to her feet as she recognized the face of Bill McCartney looking at her from where he stood with his hand still upon the door-latch.

At the first sight of the intruder her heart seemed to stop beating and she faced him for a moment in silence. Then she stepped swiftly to the table and turned up the light. As she did so McCartney took his hand from the latch and turning his back to the door looked at her steadily, smiling and folding his arms.

"What do you want here?" Cherry asked in a voice that betrayed her nervousness in spite of her efforts to control herself.

McCartney remained silent, answering her only with a smile.

"What have you come here for at this time of night?" she asked again. Her voice was more steady now and she straightened up defiantly as she spoke. "Get out of here, or I'll have a dozen men——"

He took a step towards her and raised his hand for silence.

"Cherry," he said, "there ain't any use of you an' me disagreein'. You know that just as well as me. I come here now because I want to tell you something you ought to know for your own good. You don't let me talk to you like some others. I've got to take my own way of doin' things or I won't get them done at all, see? You go back there an' sit down. I'm goin' to talk an' I want you to listen."

He waited for Cherry to go back to the couch again, but she stood motionless by the table and looked at him for some time before she spoke. She knew she could gain nothing by rousing his anger. From the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice it was quite clear that he had been drinking. If she vexed him he might resort to ugly tactics in which she would be no match for him. Her only course was the one she had followed for weeks. She must fight for time in the hope that something might occur before she would have to admit defeat.

"I shall not sit down till you do," she said, pointing to a chair beside the door.

He looked behind him and then looked at her. What he saw in her face was enough to convince him that she was in earnest, at any rate, and he turned slowly, and going to the chair, sat down, taking his hat off as he did so and putting it on the floor beside him.

"Now, then," he said, as he looked up at her.

For reply Cherry moved the lamp to one side in order that it might not obstruct her view of McCartney from where she intended to sit, and going to the couch from which she had risen only a few minutes before, sat down and waited for him to speak.

"You ask me what brings me here so late," he began. "Don't you think that's a strange question to ask me? You an' me ain't talked much together lately, but when we had our last long talk together I thought you understood it clear enough. An' I don't think you're the kind that forgets easy, either."

Cherry gave a little shrug of impatience and looked away from him, letting her eyes rest upon the floor at her feet.

"You asked me what I want—what I came here for," he went on. "Well, what's the use of mixin' words? You know—an' I ain't goin' to tell you unless you've forgot. But listen to me, Cherry." He lowered his voice as he spoke. "Bill McCartney is the best friend you've got. An' he's the best friend Keith McBain's got. Your father's an old man, but he's a wise man an' he knows some things his daughter can't understand. You ain't got a better friend than me, an' the sooner you get that straight the better off you'll be."

He paused as Cherry looked at him with more impatience than before.

"You don't need to tell me all this," she said. "I've thought it all over a hundred times. I want to know what you have come here for to-night. The rest can wait for some other time."

The smile left his face as she spoke, and he seemed on the point of getting up from his chair. "Well," he began, in a voice that was pitched much higher than before, "I'm here to tell you this for one thing. There's a kind of arrangement between you an' me. You know all about that. There's goin' to be trouble for anyone who tries to spoil that arrangement. You understand?"

Cherry professed ignorance of the significance of his words.

"Don't tell me you don't know," he protested quickly. "I've got eyes to see with, an' if I hadn't there's lot's more that has, an' it ain't hard to find out what's goin' on. There's someone breakin' into my game an' he's got to get out an' stay out."

"Who?" Cherry asked in a voice that was almost coquettish.

"Who?" he blustered. "For God's sake—who?"

"Yes," she insisted, "who?"

"Howden—that's who."

She did not show the slightest disturbance, but laughed a little to herself as she looked again at the floor.

"No," she said, "you're wrong. King Howden and I are not even good friends any more."

He looked at her in surprise. "That ain't true," he said.

She raised her eyes quickly. "You have never known me to lie over anything," she replied. "You wouldn't expect me to lie over this."

He grunted to himself and regarded her strangely. "Then I'm goin' ahead with that in mind," he said. "Am I doin' right?"

"I can only speak for myself," she replied. "I don't know what's in King Howden's mind."

"I don't give a—" He checked himself in an effort, apparently, to be polite. "I don't worry about what's in his mind," he said. "I'll look after him, an' I'm goin' to settle with him myself."

He paused for some time and Cherry took advantage of the pause to draw about her shoulders the cover that lay on the couch where it had fallen when she had first got up.

"And is that all?" she asked.

"That's all on that—just now," he said. "There's just one more thing I want to say—just a little warnin' I want to give you. I don't want you interferin' with things in the camp. That's no place for you. You jumped in to-night where you wasn't wanted an' you got away with it—but it ain't goin' to happen again."

"But my father is away and—"

"That's just the point, now," he broke in. "If you just let things go along in their natural way nothin' will happen. Everybody knows Keith McBain ain't goin' to last for another year's contractin'. Nobody's goin' to take his place but the one that has a right to take it. That's me—all on account of our understandin'."

Cherry got to her feet, her arms rigid, her finger-nails biting into her palms.

"Keith McBain is still boss of this camp," she said, "and if you want to know it, his daughter, Cherry McBain, is still mistress of her own heart. It's time you knew that you can't frighten either of us."

She was fully aware of the hazardous game she was playing. So long as his conversation turned upon her alone she had been capable of keeping her impatience well under control. After all, he might tire of a game in which he was no match for a wary opponent. But when he mentioned her father's name she could stand it no longer. The blood of Old Silent was hot in her veins, and the fire that had flashed from his eyes was leaping now in her own. She recalled the numberless times when she had seen her father reduced to a pitiful meekness before a word from Bill McCartney. She had wept bitterly for the old man, broken in body and will by a man whose only title to recognition was brute force and the possession of a life secret. All the injustice of it came upon her like a flood. She would do no more weeping. She would cringe no more. She would fight, whatever the consequences, and bring her father to fight as well.

McCartney got up and looked at her with his customary sneer. "You talk that way because you don't know," he said slowly, "because he ain't here to stop you. But I ain't goin' to be foolish about it. When Keith McBain wants to fight Bill McCartney he's welcome. But he won't fight—because he can't fight. He's wanted bad an' he knows the right hunch to play. An' you ain't goin' to fight Bill McCartney neither, for Bill McCartney ain't goin' to fight you. He's goin' to love you!"

He left his place beside the chair and lurched unsteadily towards her. Leaving the couch quickly, Cherry moved till she got the table between herself and McCartney and then looked at him steadily. For some reason her fear, her nervousness was gone. She felt equal to any emergency, and quite capable of matching any move he should make. She made up her mind that if she could reach the door she would make a dash for the outside and call Gabe. But McCartney, dazed though he was from drinking, was sufficiently alert to anticipate any such move on her part, and was careful to keep possession of the side of the table nearest the door. After a couple of futile attempts on McCartney's part to reach Cherry, he stood for a moment and looked at her, leaning forward with both hands on the table.

"There ain't a bit o' use in this—an' you know it!" he declared, and for the first time since he had entered the cabin his look was sinister and threatening. "Do you want me to go out o' here?"

"I do—get out!" Cherry replied.

"If I get out, Keith McBain 'll pay. He knows that, if you don't."

"You can't frighten me—and you can't frighten him. Get out, I tell you!"

"If you mean that—" he straightened up as he spoke, as if he were about to leave.

"Get out, I tell you!"

Suddenly his manner changed. A smile of contempt curled one corner of his mouth.

"You damn little fool!" he sneered.

Seizing the lamp quickly he placed it on the chair behind him, and with one movement of his powerful arms he swept the table to one side and lurched clumsily towards her. Realizing that she could not escape, Cherry set herself to meet his rush. As he put out his arms to seize her she closed her hand and swung with all the weight of her body at his face. The blow went straight and quick, so quick that McCartney recoiled a little in surprise, and paused a moment to look at her. One moment was enough for Cherry. Before he could clearly understand what had happened she had darted for the door. Her hand was on the latch before he came to himself, and in another second she would have been out and away. But McCartney's heavy hands clutched her shoulders as she was on the point of opening the door, and she felt herself lifted bodily from the floor.

Setting her upon her feet at a safe distance from the door he turned her round, and raising her face, looked at her with a smile.

"Ain't you the little fool! I thought you had sense."

He stopped suddenly and his hold upon Cherry relaxed.

There was a sound of footsteps on the pathway outside. Cherry listened with indrawn breath—the footsteps were familiar. When they stopped before the door she turned quickly.

"Gabe! Gabe!" she called.

The door opened quickly and old Gabe stood in the doorway and blinked wonderingly as he looked into the cabin.

"Put this man out, Gabe!" Cherry said, quickly, breaking away from McCartney, whose whole attention was now on the old man who had come to take a hand in an affair that he had thought peculiarly his own.

Gabe continued to blink uncertainly, and seemed to have difficulty in finding anything to say. But the next moment the old man showed a surprising quickness of movement. If he had not moved quickly McCartney would have been upon him. Stepping back suddenly through the open doorway into the darkness outside he avoided the kick that the big foreman aimed at him. But before McCartney could recover himself to close the door, Gabe had leaped back into the light again, only this time he was prepared to take the aggressive.

In his right hand he held Lush Currie's "remembrance," the light from the lamp glinting on the polished steel. Gabe's hand shook so perceptibly that, in spite of the critical situation all three were facing, Cherry had all she could do to keep from laughing. But if Gabe's hand shook, his eyes were steady and it was Gabe's eye that McCartney watched.

"Now, Bill," he said in a voice that expressed grim determination even if it was a little thin, "you git out—an' move damn quick!"

Cherry watched the men closely for a moment while McCartney stood as if rooted to the spot from sheer surprise at the old man's nerve. That moment was like an hour to Cherry. She did not think Gabe would actually carry out what he threatened if his commands were not obeyed to the last syllable, but there was a note in his voice that was new to her. It meant simply that Gabe Smith would stand for no trifling.

The next moment, however, brought relief. McCartney moved round towards the door and Gabe circled away from it very cautiously. By the time McCartney had reached the doorway Cherry was ready to laugh at the whole performance. When he turned sulkily and stepped quickly out, followed by Gabe, who waited a moment in the doorway before he came back into the cabin and closed the door again behind him, she did laugh.

Gabe stood and looked at her in silence and surprise until she was through laughing, and then sat down.

"Gabe, you dear old silly!" she said, going over to him. "You might have hit me—or even yourself if you had put that thing off!"

Gabe made no reply. He was too serious, too much occupied, perhaps, with the importance of the thing he had done and the things it would probably lead to in the very near future.

The new day had already begun to dawn when Gabe finally stole quietly out of the cabin and took his way down the path. He had left Cherry sleeping soundly and was himself very weary after his night's vigil. But he knew a full day awaited him, and he was determined to face it with as much courage as his old heart could muster.

Countless times that night he had prayed inwardly for help from somewhere. Even now, as he plodded wearily from the cabin to the trail, he was muttering something to himself that might have passed for a petition to the Heavenly Powers.

And as if in answer to his prayerful mutterings, there came trudging heavily towards him round the bend in the trail just where it left the trees and entered the camp, a man leading a horse by the bridle rein and followed by a tired-looked dog.

"King, boy!" cried Gabe, and could say no more.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

King's first enquiry was concerning Cherry. For reasons which were perhaps his own, Gabe made no reference to what had occurred in the cabin during the night, and after briefly assuring him that she was all right, hastened to ask King where he had been and how he had come to put in an appearance so unexpectedly.

King, in his turn, simply smiled at the old man's curiosity, and asked Gabe to get him something to eat at once. Gabe met the request by pointing to the pile of smoking ashes that now lay where the cook-camp had stood. King made no effort to conceal his surprise. As a result of Currie's warning of the night before, he was prepared to meet difficulty on arriving at the camp. He had not lived for the best part of his life in camps without knowing something of what a man of McCartney's type could do if he were given a free hand with a gang of men. He was prepared to find the men carousing and perhaps fighting among themselves. He expected to find the camp in a state of general excitement. But the heap of smouldering ashes was a concrete result that he scarcely expected.

He looked for a few moments at the smoke rising from the ashes and then turned to Gabe with a questioning look in his eyes. Gabe's reply was brief but effective.

"Bill McCartney," he said.

When King had questioned him fully and had learned all the details of the trouble that had culminated in the burning of the cook-camp, he went with Gabe to the camp-store and awakened the timekeeper, who opened the door very warily at first, until he was satisfied that the early morning visitors had no design upon his person, nor any upon his stores either except what might be expected of two very hungry men.

And for the next two hours or more the two men held council seated upon a couple of packing boxes, and laid their plans for the day. Nor were the plans easy to make. There were many things to be done at once if the work that Bill McCartney had started was to be undone before it was too late. They went carefully over the names of the camp-followers, using the pass-book of the timekeeper for a guide, and divided the men roughly into two groups, one composed of those to whom they could appeal for assistance and the other of the men who had probably been won over to the side of McCartney. This task was not a difficult one, but it was not so easy to organize their dozen or so of picked men so that they could effectively do the work that would have to be done during the day.

In the first place Keith McBain must be brought from town. Both King and Gabe were firmly of the opinion that Keith's presence would at once bring the men to their senses. They believed, moreover, that McCartney would back down when called upon to face Old Silent. King determined that they should wait until the afternoon, with the hope that the old contractor might come back of his own accord. In case he did not put in an appearance, King decided that he should go himself to town while there was yet light enough to make travelling easy. The rain had stopped during the night, and although the sky was still heavy the clouds were showing signs of breaking.

In the event of King having to go finally for Keith McBain, the care of the camp was to be left in the hands of old Gabe and the few men they had picked to help him. King insisted upon special provision being made to the end that no harm should befall Cherry, and that the cabin among the tamaracs should be left unmolested.

By the time they had perfected their plans and were ready to go out to put them into effect, the sun was already well above the horizon, and when they stepped out of the narrow doorway it was under a sky in which ragged edges of clouds were torn apart and changed to silver where the long shafts had broken through. The day was dawning full of promise at any rate, and both men felt its influence strike them as they turned and walked down the trail.

As matters turned out, the day passed so quietly that both King and Gabe were surprised. During the morning scarcely anyone stirred in camp, most of the men making good their opportunity to sleep off the effects of the night before. Three times King strolled off in the direction of the cabin to watch for the first indication that Cherry was moving about. Not until it was noon, however, did he see the smoke rising from the pipe that served as a chimney and stuck out from under the roof at one end of the cabin.

His first impulse was to go down and see Cherry at once. He wanted to talk to her about the affairs of the camp, and he hoped he might have an opportunity to explain the misunderstanding that existed between them. On second thought, however, he decided to get Gabe to go with him and to confine whatever conversation they might have to the business they had in hand.

Accordingly the two men went to the cabin together early in the afternoon to acquaint Cherry of the plans they had laid. She was standing outside among the tamaracs when they arrived. King noticed that her greeting, while courteous, was without any enthusiasm. They went into the house and sat down.

"We have some help, Cherry," Gabe said when they had seated themselves.

"So I see," she responded without concern.

Gabe, however, was probably unaware of any change in Cherry's manner. The change was meant for King and it was not lost upon him. He sat silently listening to Gabe and Cherry while they discussed plans.

Only once did Cherry show anything of her usual manner, and that was when Gabe mentioned the fact that King was about to start for town to get her father.

"I was just getting ready to do that myself," she protested.

"I think King had better go," Gabe insisted. "Of course, if you would like to go along—."

"Oh, no," she replied, "it isn't necessary. Besides you might need some more help here, Gabe."

She smiled at the recollection of what had occurred the night before.

"Yes—we might need you here," Gabe mused, as if he were talking to himself. "I was just thinkin' that things were so quiet now that perhaps I could get along alone."

"No, Gabe," said Cherry, "one will be enough to go for father. I'll stay in the camp."

A few minutes later when the two men were walking down the pathway towards the camp Gabe looked oddly at King.

"There's something gone the matter with that girl," he said. "She ain't like she always is."

"Perhaps it's—her father," King suggested, but Gabe made no immediate response to the suggestion.

"No, it ain't her father," he said after a few minutes. "She was as much worried over her father last night as she is to-day. There's something else."

King did not offer any further suggestions and the two walked along in silence for some little distance. At last Gabe stopped abruptly.

"Now I come to think of it," he said suddenly, "what the devil was wrong with you? You ain't seen her for days and yet you sat there all that time without speakin' a word."

The smile that started to King's face vanished suddenly. "Gabe, there's little chance for us to understand a woman," he said slowly. "I never could—they were always strange to me."

"I ain't thinkin' just now about her ways," Gabe replied with a directness that he never achieved except when he was very excited or very much in earnest. "It's you—your way ain't what it always is."

"I guess you're right, Gabe," King replied. "There's been something—just a misunderstanding—that's all."

Gabe whistled to himself—a very long, low whistle.

Dinner was served in camp that day very much as usual, with the exception that tables had to be set in the bunk-house. The supply of dishes was not all that might have been desired, but the cook's ingenuity and the exigencies of the occasion in which there was at least a little humour, did much to make the dinner hour almost as pleasant as it had ever been. The supply of eatables was ample, with plenty still to spare in the store. And although nothing was said about it there was a tacit recognition, and it was pretty general too, that the men had King to thank for the fact that the first meal served since the burning of the cook-camp was ample and well-ordered, even if it did come two hours late.

It was the middle of the afternoon before King got away. With anything like good luck in travelling he hoped he might reach town before dusk and if the roads were in a condition that made his return possible that night he would be on his way back again by dawn the next day. He hoped that he might be able to return again that night.

His hopes were not encouraged, however, as he rode along. The trail was in bad shape and the rivers had not yet begun to go down. A wish he had entertained when he set out, that he might perhaps meet Keith McBain somewhere along the way, changed quickly to a fear lest the old man should have set out by himself and have met disaster on the way. For he knew that if the old contractor's home-coming on this occasion was anything like it had been on other occasions, there was only one chance in a thousand that he would get through.

There was still more than an hour of daylight left when he reached the White Pine River. The water had risen until now it was running over the bridge in the middle where the logs that had been thrown across for main supports sagged most. The bridge itself, however, was still intact. The embankments that had been thrown up at either end were still visible and appeared to offer good footing, although King knew that the submerged roadway leading away from the bridgehead on either side was washed away by the current. The only question that gave him any concern was whether or not the poles that did service for the bridge planking were still in their places. So far as he could see not one of them had moved out of place. Altogether he felt sure that the crossing was worth trying at any rate. The distance was not great, and if the worst should happen he was confident of his ability to bring himself safely to shore somewhere down stream. The attempt to cross was not to be made recklessly, at any rate, and getting down from his horse King made as careful a survey of the conditions as he could on foot. When he had looked the place over thoroughly and considered the different emergencies that might arise and what he should do to meet each, he got back again into the saddle, and turning his horse towards the bridge-head urged him forward gently.

The horse stepped down very cautiously into the water, proceeded a few yards—and then stopped. The water was almost up to animal's flanks now and was rushing past in a dizzy whirl that made the horse tremble in every muscle and limb. The dog was still standing with two front paws in the water, whining and yelping. For a moment King waited to reconsider what he had planned. He felt almost like turning back and taking the affairs of the camp arbitrarily into his own hands until Keith McBain turned up of his own accord. But in that moment of hesitation something happened that decided the whole question for him at once.

Above the rushing of the water he heard the sound of wheels striking against stones, and looking up he saw Keith McBain's horses coming on the run towards him, the buckboard jumping along behind them and rocking from side to side in the trail—empty. When the team came to the opposite side of the stream, King shouted to them and they stopped suddenly, but not before they had plunged half way to the bridge-head and stood in the deepest part of the current on the other side of the bridge. For a moment only, they stood and looked at King and then wheeling about, and carried by the weight of the flood, plunged back again out of the water and into the poplars that stood at the side of the trail. There they were brought to a standstill in a tangle of branches and underbrush.

All thought of turning back was now impossible for King. Somewhere along the trail that lay ahead Keith McBain was probably lying injured at least, perhaps unconscious, possibly dead. A word to his horse and they plunged into the stream, at first quickly, then more carefully as the water became deeper. Once or twice when the footing became uncertain King got ready to dismount and hold to the horn of the saddle with one hand while the horse brought him to safety, but he realized that his own weight helped the horse to keep its feet. Then suddenly the ground seemed to give way under them, and he swung his leg over and slipped into the water. Just as he did so the horse gave a mad plunge forward and King had all he could do to keep his hold upon the saddle. But in that one leap the animal found fresh footing and the next moment was standing upon the bridge-head with King beside him.

King looked back just in time to see Sal jump into the water and come paddling towards him. But the current was too much for the dog. In spite of King's whistling and calling to her by way of encouragement, she was carried downstream past the embankment and King watched her with grave doubts rising in his mind. Where the stream took a quick turn to the right King lost sight of the dog among partly submerged tree-trunks, but in a moment he heard her bark echoing through the woods and before long she was standing on the trail beside him, shaking herself and yelping at him.

The next stage of the crossing was no less uncertain, but King walked ahead and led his horse, trying every pole with his foot to see that it was secure before he went forward. At the middle of the bridge the water was almost to his knees and the force of the current was so great that King marvelled that the bridge held against it.

When he came at last to the end of the bridge he sent the horse in and walked along beside him with his hand on the horn of the saddle. The passage proved easier than before and presented no special difficulty.

Having shaken the water from his clothes, King left his horse standing in the trail and went to extricate Keith McBain's team from the woods. The task was not so difficult as he had anticipated, for although the horses were excited and nervous they seemed almost exhausted and allowed King to move about them without showing any ill temper. In less than fifteen minutes he had unhitched them and led them out upon the trail, where he tethered them securely in a sheltered place under cover of a clump of poplars. Then he brought the badly shaken buckboard out and left it standing beside the trail.

This done, he adjusted the girths of his own horse, and getting into the saddle went off at a gallop. There was still almost an hour of daylight left in which to find Keith McBain, bring him back, and recross the White Pine. The knowledge that he might have to go most of the way to town before he should find the old man, and the fact that Keith McBain was in all probability lying in a helpless condition with body battered and bones broken, made King urge his horse forward as fast as the slippery trail would allow.

Fortunately, however, he had not far to go. Mounting a little hill that he remembered quite well from having stood there in the evening to get a glimpse of the valley below with its little stream of water and its wild meadows, King thought he heard the sound of voices. When he got to the top of the hill and looked down, he was surprised to see the figure of a girl standing in the middle of the trail and waving to him. It was Anne.

In a moment he was beside her and was following her on foot to where Keith McBain was lying upon the ground.

"Is he hurt?" King asked at once as he looked at the old man.

"Not much—nothing serious, I think," Anne replied.

Keith McBain turned his head and looked at King at the sound of a new voice. He seemed on the point of speaking but simply shook his head a little, and then with a great deal of effort propped himself up on one elbow and regarded King very thoughtfully.

"It's me—King Howden—Mr. McBain," King said.

"I know—that's all right," was the reply. "Get me out of here—I've got to get back—I've got to get to the camp—and I've got to get back to my girl."

He dropped his eyes as if he were looking himself over. Then he looked at King again.

"Is she all right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir—everything's all right," King replied; "only we must get you back."

"Everything?" the old man asked, coming suddenly to himself again, speaking in his sharp, direct way. "Who asked about everything? What the hell do I care about everything? I want to know about my girl."

"She's all right, Mr. McBain," King assured him again.

"That's right, eh? Howden, don't lie to me!"

King smiled and put his arm under the old man to raise him to a more comfortable position.

"Where's McCartney?" he asked as soon as King had made him comfortable.

"He's at the camp, sir," King said, and he guessed something of what was passing in Keith McBain's mind.

"Then get me out of here—I've got to get back there. I've been too long away—altogether too long. But something happened—the dirty crooks. Here—get me up."

King and Anne got him to his feet and helped him out to the trail, where he stood for a moment and looked about him.

"What's wrong here?" he asked when he had looked round at the roadway and the woods. "Where's my team? Didn't I leave them here a minute ago? Where are they? Anne, bring the team."

Anne looked at King. "He doesn't know what's happened to him," she said.

"I've got the team waiting for you down the trail a little," King replied. "You'll have to get up here and ride."

Without murmuring he allowed himself to be lifted into the saddle. King, with Anne walking beside him, helped him to keep his seat, and together the three went back the way King had just come.

Only twice did Keith McBain speak a word along the way. Once he addressed Anne. "You're a good girl, Anne," he said.

A little later he leaned and touched King's shoulder. "My boy," he said, nodding his head towards Anne, "she got me out of this."

And in the meantime Anne was recounting for King the circumstances that had led her to bring Keith McBain away from town.

"There's something crooked about it," she told King. "That scrub Rickard came to town the same day. He's been hangin' round ever since—keepin' Old Silent under his eye. But the old fellow seemed to catch on that he was not goin' to have his little time all alone, and he came to me last night and says, 'Anne, I want to go back in the morning. No matter what happens,' he said, 'no matter what I say about it, take me back, will you? Promise that!' I promised and he took my hand. Then he went out. Late last night Mike Cheney and Rickard brought him in and put him to bed. When I went to wake him this morning I couldn't get him to answer. I opened the door and he was lyin'—dead to the world. I didn't say anything to the house. I just worked him out of it myself and when he came back a little I went out and got the team. Old Hurley came and helped me till we got started away. Hurley didn't like the idea, but I told him what he'd told me the night before, and he didn't say anything against it. We slipped out without anyone knowin' about it and was gettin' on great until we come to high water back there under the hill where you found us. The team had been skittish all the way, but the high water put them up in the air, and I just couldn't hold 'em and look after the old man too. It might 'a' been all right at that, but we hit something in the road and he rolled out. I did everything I could, but the team was runnin' their fool heads off and I couldn't stop 'em. So I got over the seat and dropped off behind and let them go. Then I went back and found him lyin' beside the trail. I thought he was dead, for, honest to God, he looked it. But I rolled him over and got him lyin' out flat and was workin' over him when I heard you comin'. That's all there is to it."

It had already begun to grow dusk when they came to the White Pine crossing. Leaving Keith McBain in Anne's care for the time being, King busied himself with preparations for getting to the other side. Though he had been gone only a little more than an hour he was gratified to find that the water had receded considerably—as is the way with mountain streams where the source is only a few miles off—and the surface of the bridge was almost clear.

Quickly hitching the team to the buckboard, King gave the reins to Anne and told her to get up on the seat. Then, helping Keith McBain to dismount, he led him to a place where he could sit down and wait. Mounting his own horse, he took hold of a short tethering rope fastened to the bit of one of McBain's team, and led the way with emphatic warnings to the girl to hang on. The passage was not a difficult one for King, although it had now grown dusk. His horse managed to keep his feet in the current, though once or twice he seemed to have all he could do. For Anne the crossing must have been almost nerve-shattering—but she never spoke a word until they were safely across. Then she got down from the seat and stepped up to where King was tethering the team. She looked at her dripping clothes and then at the stream rushing past in the thickening darkness.

"Are you goin' back there again?" she asked.

King grunted an affirmative.

"Go ahead—I'll do the prayin'," she replied.

A few minutes later King was beside Keith McBain, helping him into the saddle. When he got him up he bound him securely to the seat and tied his feet so that they could not come out of the stirrups. Then he sent the horse in and walked alongside, his hand on the saddle horn. The crossing was made without accident of any kind and in a few minutes they were ready for the road, Anne mounted in the saddle, and King seated in the buckboard with Keith McBain beside him. At a sharp whistle from King, Sal started from the bushes beside the trail and all set off together.

A couple of hours later, as they drove through the camp on the way to Keith McBain's cabin, King noticed two dark figures on horseback riding into camp from the opposite direction. As they passed him he looked them over very carefully. Though it was too dark to see clearly who the men were, King's mind naturally reverted to the two riders he had seen in the hills early in the morning of the day before.

And right there he decided that Anne had been sent by heaven in a time of need. He would send her back next day with full instructions to old man Hurley to register the claim in the hills—if necessary under Anne's signature.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Five minutes later King and Anne stood before the door of the cabin, one on each side of Keith McBain. The door was closed, but there was a light within and the sound of someone talking. King was about to knock when the old man put his hand out abruptly and pressing the latch pushed the door open.

"Cherry, girl!" he called.

In a moment Cherry was facing them, with her hands out to her father, the form of old Gabe Smith crowding into the doorway beside her. Gabe apparently did not see that Keith McBain was not alone, and expressed his eagerness to assist his old boss.

"Wait, sir," he said, moving Cherry to one side as he came forward, "I'll give you a hand."

"Get out of the way," commanded Keith McBain in a voice that was very much like his own. "I don't need your help."

Gabe had seen King and Anne and had already stepped back into the cabin with Cherry. The old contractor lifted his chest, steadied himself a little, and then shook his shoulders impatiently to be rid of the support that Anne and King were giving him. Then he stepped resolutely up and entered the doorway. For a moment he hesitated and looked straight before him into the room, and then walked deliberately towards the couch. King and Anne stood just inside the doorway and watched him as he made his way uncertainly across the floor. Cherry was beside him all the way, offering to help him, but he gave her not the slightest heed. When at last he reached the couch he turned and was in the act of seating himself when his legs seemed to give way under him and he collapsed in a heap. They lifted him quietly and laid him on the couch. For a long time he was silent and no one in the room spoke. Finally he looked about him until his eyes fell upon his daughter, and he held out his hand to her.

"A little water, girl," he said, quite clearly, and when she put the cup to his lips he gulped a mouthful nervously and then pushed it away. "There—that'll do, my girl—let me lie down for a little."

He relaxed completely when they had set him back, and in a few moments went off in a sound sleep. Scarcely a word had been spoken by any member of the group, but as soon as they realized that the old man had fallen asleep Gabe and King withdrew quietly, leaving Anne with Cherry.

As soon as King had heard Gabe's report on what had occurred during his absence he outlined in brief form what he believed to be McCartney's plan to register a timber claim in the hills and set up a camp for the winter. For the first time he felt it was necessary to reveal to Gabe the secrets that lay behind McCartney's power and the objectives which he knew McCartney was aiming to achieve. The old man listened intently and surprise grew in his face as he heard what King had to relate. The circumstances made it very clear to Gabe that King must stay in camp for a couple of days at any rate, or until such time as Keith McBain could resume control of affairs. That Anne should be sent back early in the morning with instructions to Hurley seemed at once the most feasible, and the most easily executed plan they could adopt. Accordingly, after turning the horses over to the care of the corral foreman, they went at once to the store where they knew they would probably be alone, where King, with the help of roughly-sketched maps and memoranda he had made during his trip in the hills, drew up detailed information which Anne should place in the hands of Hurley.

When the information was complete and all the instructions carefully worked out, King took Gabe with him to make the rounds of the camp before laying plans for the night. The strenuous life of the past week, with its days and many of its nights crowded with activity, was beginning to tell on King, and he was hoping that he might be able to steal a few hours' rest before anything further cropped up to claim his attention.

The camp was in darkness. A solitary light shone from the window of the large bunkhouse where the men had eaten their meals during the day. King, with Gabe following closely behind him, went first to the corral to see that the horses had not been neglected. They found the foreman sitting on a bale of pressed hay, smoking quietly by himself. He had attended personally to the comfort of King's horse and Keith McBain's team, and seemed pleased when King looked his approval.

"They don't look bad at all," King remarked, running his hand over the flank of one of McBain's team.

"Huh—they're all right," the foreman replied. "They don't do enough to hurt them. No—but here's a couple that looks about all in."

He led King and Gabe to two horses that stood together munching lazily at the wisp of dry hay that the foreman had placed before them.

"Them horses are too tired to eat," he said, as he went between them and stroked their coats still matted with rain and sweat.

King looked the horses over in silence. He did not have to be told the reason for their condition. When Gabe turned to him with questioning look, King nodded. After they had gone the rounds of the corral and had found everything in good order they left and went out again to learn, if possible, what mood the men were in.

They had not gone more than a dozen steps when the door of the large bunkhouse opened and a flood of light fell from the open doorway upon the wet ground immediately in front. Someone appeared in the doorway for a moment and threw a bottle that fell against a pile of stones a few yards away. At the sound of the breaking glass old Gabe grunted.

"They're at it again to-night," he said with grim emphasis.

"I guess we'll have to go in and look round anyhow," King replied quietly.

As he spoke the sound of laughter came from the bunkhouse, and the voices of two or three men speaking very loudly.

King and Gabe paused when they came to the door and listened for a moment to what was going on within. There was the usual round of noisy conversation without the slightest indication of dissension of any kind, and King was of two minds whether he should go in at all, or turn back and go to the store, at the back of which he had a cot prepared for a night's rest. While he hesitated, however, Gabe stepped forward and opened the door, and the next moment King followed him into the bunkhouse.

Their coming created no surprise. They were greeted casually and with no show of concern. At the end of the open space that ran the length of the bunkhouse from the door to the other end, one of the camp hands, a mere boy, was just beginning a song for the entertainment of the men, who were lounging about on benches and in the bunks, some of them already half asleep.

King and Gabe sat down on the edge of one of the bunks and listened to the high falsetto that piped through the whole length of twelve or fifteen verses that reeked with tragedy. During the song King looked about him quietly at the men. In the faces of most of them he could trace the effects of two or three days' debauch. But they all seemed quiet and gave no indication of bad temper. In fact when the boy came to the last line of his song and spoke the words in the time-honored manner that camp singers have of ending a song, the applause that broke from the men was so generous and their comments so good-natured that King could not help feeling his sense of security returning. He was confident that he had nothing to fear from these men if they were left alone. With the exception of three or four, who looked as if they had been drinking a little too freely during the evening, the men had sobered up and were almost normal again.

King got up and walked the full length of the open space between the bunks and sat down on a bench near a group of men who were playing cards. He spoke to no one except to return the greetings he received here and there as he passed among the men, and when he had sat down he rolled himself a cigarette and watched the game in silence. Gabe was still sitting near the door talking to some of the men.

Gradually, as King sat watching the game, he became conscious of a change in the atmosphere of general good nature that had pervaded the bunkhouse. The conversation grew noisy and he thought he heard his own name mentioned once or twice in a hoarse whisper. He did not even turn his head, however, until he felt someone's hand on his shoulder and looked round to see Gabe leaning over him. The old fellow indicated by a shake of his head that he was ready to go, and King got up to follow him.

Immediately there was a disturbance behind him, and he turned to see three of the men struggling with a fourth. When they had succeeded in pushing him back into his bunk one of them turned to King with a laugh.

"Your life ain't worth mor'n a bob-tailed flush round here, Howden," he said, "an' I'm givin' you odds at that."

King looked at the man in the bunk. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Don't you bother about him, Howden," said another, "he's drunk, an' he don't like you, but——"

"He just got in from the road," interrupted the first speaker, "an' he ain't had much to eat. A couple o' drinks was enough to put him out."

For a moment the hum of conversation ceased and the men looked out from their bunks with expectancy in their faces. And in that moment the door opened and Bill McCartney stepped in.

King looked at him from the other end of the long aisle. For some time McCartney apparently didn't see him. Suddenly their eyes met and King noticed that McCartney swayed unsteadily, and putting out his hand laid it upon the edge of a bunk for support.

Someone standing close to King muttered in a half whisper:

"Look out, Howden, he's drunk, an' he's ugly, an' he's goin' to get you if he can."

But King continued looking at McCartney without speaking a word. Gabe tugged a moment at King's arm, but King moved him gently to one side. His whole attention was centred on McCartney, who had taken his hand from the bunk and was doing his best to stand erect and return King's gaze. Once he took a couple of steps towards King, but his knees wobbled and he was forced to put a hand out again to keep himself from falling. Then he looked at King with a sneer on his lips.

"What the hell—are you doin'—here?" he asked, in a voice that was thick and unsteady.

King did not reply.

"It won't do you no good—comin' round here—interferin' between Keith McBain an' me," McCartney went on. "That's my affair an' you keep out."

Still King did not offer to say a word.

But someone else spoke up from behind King.

"Go on back to your bunk, Bill," said the voice. "You're too drunk to talk that way to-night."

"Drunk?" sneered Bill McCartney, and for a moment he seemed suddenly to sober up. "Well, I'll tell you this. I may be drunk but I know what brings this son of a dog here where he ain't wanted—an' he knows. He's payin' a visit—a reg'lar visit."

King's frame straightened up and his jaw set firmly.

"But he's welcome, he can have her," McCartney continued. "He can ask her who was with her last night—ask Gabe there."

King took a half dozen steps towards McCartney and thrust his face close. Conversation had ceased and a deathly silence had come over the place. Every man there had looked forward to the time when these two should meet and settle accounts. The fact that McCartney was clearly under the influence of liquor gave some cause for regret but, on the other hand, they felt that if McCartney was going to play the game at all it was strictly his own affair, and it was his business to come prepared for a show-down whenever and wherever the occasion arose.

"You don't give me a chance," King said very slowly and in a tone of genuine regret. "You talk to me like that because you're drunk. But you won't talk like that where I am, even if you are drunk. Some day you'll be sober, and I'm going to ask you about this. Then you'll have to eat what you said. But I'm going to wait. Just now I'm going to throw you out."

Even as he spoke, he stepped deliberately towards McCartney, and the latter lurched heavily to meet him, aiming a blow with his huge fist as he came. The blow was badly directed and King parried it without effort. The next moment he had McCartney round the waist and had lifted him bodily from the floor.

"Open the door, Gabe," he ordered, and as Gabe swung the door open King half carried, half pushed his struggling burden into the open doorway and with a final effort, into which he put all his strength, he lifted the drunken foreman and threw him out into the darkness, where he stumbled and fell clumsily to the ground.

King stood for a moment and watched him while he scrambled awkwardly to his feet and stood cursing. He would have come back at King almost immediately had it not been for a couple of the men who edged their way out quickly past King and led McCartney away in the darkness to his own quarters, cursing and shouting threats as he went.

Then King turned and looked behind him at the men.

"I guess we'll be going on back, Gabe," he said quietly. "There won't be any more trouble to-night."

Together the two men left the bunkhouse and started off down the trail towards the store.

When they had reached the door King stopped and looked once round the camp, where it lay in pitch darkness.

"Go on in, Gabe," he said to the old man. "I'm going to take a walk over to the cabin and see that everything is all right."

Gabe hesitated at the thought of letting King go away alone, but knowing his protests would be quite useless, he entered the store and King went off.

At first King found it difficult to make up his mind to go directly to the cabin. In his heart of hearts he yearned for one look at Cherry. But he knew Cherry's disposition. He knew that she had resolved upon a course of action in her future relations with him that he might just as well save himself the trouble of trying to change. And yet he wanted to hear her voice again; he wanted to speak to her and explain. He wondered if Anne might not have already said something that would make it easy for him to attempt to restore himself to Cherry's confidence.

And so, as he strolled along in the darkness, his mind was divided as to what he should do. By the time he had come to within a dozen yards of the cabin he had decided to allow his course of action to grow out of the dictates of the moment. One step at a time, he thought to himself, and started off again towards the cabin.

The light still shone from the cabin window, and the thought came to King that he might creep up and perhaps get a glimpse of Cherry through the window. But before he had covered half the distance he became instinctively aware of the presence of someone behind him. At first he had only a vague presentiment such as comes often to one moving about alone at night. But soon the feeling took complete possession of him, and he turned to see if he might not catch sight of someone following him. His first thought naturally was of McCartney, but he realized on second thought that McCartney was at that moment in no condition to justify the suspicion.

As a precautionary measure he walked back slowly along the pathway. He had gone not more than a dozen yards, however, when he stopped suddenly where the pathway was obscured by a clump of bushes that hung over from one side. Directly in front of him a form was moving towards him out of the darkness. When it had come within three yards of him it stopped and King thought he recognized the newcomer as one of the two riders whom he had met coming into camp earlier in the evening.

There was a quick movement that King could scarcely discern in the darkness, and he threw up his arms instinctively to ward off an attack. He was too late, however. Something struck him heavily upon the head and for a few moments he swayed dizzily with his hands upon his face, his teeth clenched in a struggle to beat back by sheer will-power a flood of horrible darkness that threatened to engulf his senses. For one brief moment he thought how utterly ridiculous it was that his legs should tremble so uncertainly under him, and that the world about him should seem to be moving in a dizzy circle. Then suddenly the realization came to him that he was in danger of losing the fight, and he redoubled his efforts to shake himself free from a power that clutched him like some black monster battling for his overthrow. He was vaguely conscious of something warm creeping down his cheek—like a great bead of sweat. He put his hand slowly to his head and ran his fingers through his hair. The sensation turned him sick.

In one last remaining moment of consciousness he realized that the struggle was going against him, and he summoned all the energy and power of will that was left him in an effort to reach the cabin before giving up. The noises in his ears became suddenly more deafening—he found it impossible to place his feet where they should go—his knees became sickeningly weak—then he stumbled over nothing and put his hands out blindly before him as he fell.

In a moment it was as if all the darkness that brooded over the world had crowded into one brain and blotted out the last ray of light.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

King awoke and looked round him. There had been a sound of a door closing somewhere and voices coming to him across a great distance. He remembered the passing of a cool breeze across his cheek with the fresh scent of wet pine in it.

Raising himself on his elbow he turned his head and took a quick survey of the room in which he was lying. Across the room the door was partly ajar—above him the window was wide open, letting in a flood of morning light. He tried to remember what had occurred—his head was very heavy and his temples throbbed with pain—he became dizzy, and the arm with which he supported himself became suddenly weak. He lay back again heavily upon the cot. For a moment he lay with his eyes closed, struggling to beat off the sense of utter forgetfulness that crept into his brain.

Something touched his elbow and he turned his head slightly on the pillow and opened his eyes again. Sal was there, her two front paws upon the patch-quilt that covered him, her eyes shining and her ears pricked forward in eager concern. King lifted a hand wearily and placed it upon the dog's paws, in response to which Sal emitted an anxious whine that ended in something like a bark.

Immediately the door was pushed wide open, and Gabe Smith stepped into the room. He was in his shirt-sleeves, but his hat was on his head and his pipe in his hand, ready, apparently, for action of whatever kind the occasion might prompt.

He moved over to the side of the cot and looked down at King with an odd smile, half of pity and half of amusement, lighting his old face.

"Tryin' to kick off?" he asked in an attempt to appear cheerful, "or are you jist tryin' to scare the rest of us to death?"

King's smile was too faint to be very assuring, and Gabe leaned down and looked more closely into his face.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

For reply King put one of his hands to his head and sighed heavily. He seemed to be on the point of speaking, but finding the effort too great turned his head away impatiently and relaxed wearily against the pillows.

Without speaking another word Gabe left the room and returned in a few moments with Cherry. He remained standing by the door while the girl stepped over to the cot and laid her hand gently on King's forehead. At the touch of her hand he turned his head slowly again towards them and opened his eyes. He looked bewildered.

"You're here with us in the cabin," Cherry said, quietly. Then she got up quickly and left the room. When she came back she carried a jug of fresh water from the spring, and a white cup. Filling the cup quickly, she placed one hand under King's head and put the water to his lips.

He drank till the cup was quite empty and then lay back again upon the pillows and closed his eyes. Cherry looked at him with a strange fear gripping her heart. His face was pale and drawn, with a bright red spot flaming on each cheek. His brow was hot when she laid her hand on it, and his arms lying powerless upon the bed-cover were burning to the touch. She did not know whether he was asleep or not—he lay so still.

Getting up, she poured some water she had just taken from the spring into a dish that stood on a small table in one corner of the room. She dipped a clean bit of white cloth in the water and wrung it dry. Then she stepped again to the side of the cot, and brushing the hair back gently from King's forehead, laid the cold cloth on his brow.

For a moment she stood with her hand lying lightly upon the cloth and looking into King's face. Gabe came closer and stood looking down at them, extending one of his hands towards Sal, who was moving restlessly about and pawing at Gabe's knees to get his attention.

Slowly King opened his eyes. He looked at them a moment in silence.

"Would you like some more water?" Cherry asked him.

He nodded his head slightly and Gabe filled the cup and handed it to Cherry. This time he drank more slowly and was satisfied when he had taken but half of what was in the cup.

"I guess I'm—I'm worrying you," he said, and his voice was scarcely more than a hoarse whisper. "Sorry—but I'll be all right—soon. It's my head—I must have been hit—hit hard. I remember—I tried not to go down—but I—I had to go."

Cherry brushed her hand lightly across his hair.

"But you mustn't talk, King," she said quietly. "You must be quiet for a while."

He smiled up at her.

"Don't bother about me," he said. "I'll be better—right away."

His whole body seemed to relax suddenly as he ceased speaking, and he closed his eyes again. Cherry remained crouching upon one knee beside the cot, her eyes upon his face, one of her hands still under his head, where she had placed it when she helped him to drink, the other hand on the coverlet, her fingers touching his arm.

Half consciously she allowed her hand to creep down until her fingers were pressing lightly against the pulse in his wrist. It was very fast, but quite strong. Even after she had ceased to observe the pulse-beat she allowed her fingers to remain half circling his stout wrist. Then she moved her hand over his and caught his fingers in her own. She glanced behind her—old Gabe had gone out of the room. For one long moment she allowed her hand to rest upon his, and then her fingers tightened slowly and her head bowed towards him.

His lips moved, and Cherry listened breathlessly for any word he might speak.

"I'll go back—stay here—Anne," he muttered. "Here you—Sal—come here. Steady up—you fool."

His voice trailed off into incoherent mutterings. Then he lay still and his breathing became even, though Cherry, in spite of her inexperience, knew that it was very quick and weak.

Once more she removed the cloth from his head, and washing it in cold water, replaced it again and pressed it down softly with her fingers.

Then she went out to where old Gabe Smith was standing in the doorway of the cabin. For a long time they stood together in silence, their eyes turned towards the trail where it came out of cover of the shrubbery and entered the camp.

"There's no use looking for her yet," said Cherry.

"No, she'll do well if she gets here much before supper," Gabe replied.

Cherry and Gabe were thinking of the same thing—they had been thinking of it for hours. Not long after King had stumbled and fallen unconscious in the darkness near Keith McBain's cabin, Gabe had started out to learn, if possible, what was delaying his return. When he came to the cabin and found that King had not been there, a hurried search was made, in which both Anne and Cherry assisted, and in a very short time they came across King's form lying a few feet from the beaten pathway, all but hidden among the grass and low brush into which he had fallen.

At first they had feared the very worst. He seemed to show no signs of life whatever. They got him into the cabin as quickly as possible, however, and Cherry's cot was made ready to receive him. When they had laid him down and bathed his head and face with cool water, old Gabe placed his hand close upon King's breast, while the two girls waited, fear and hope struggling for mastery in their hearts. At last Gabe drew a deep breath and nodded in the affirmative.

At once both girls hurried to perform a dozen small tasks, while Gabe removed King's outer clothing and got him into bed. Then for an hour or more Cherry and Anne, with a gentleness that was native to them and went a long way towards supplying what they wanted in the way of experience, carefully washed the clots of blood from his hair and cleaned the wound that gaped viciously within a few inches of his left temple. When they had bathed the wound thoroughly and dressed it to the best of their ability, they were relieved to find him breathing quite audibly. His pulse was easily perceptible, and once or twice he had sighed deeply, like one coming out of a long sleep.

King's condition did not cease to cause them anxiety, however, and all three admitted their own helplessness in the face of serious developments.

It was Anne who spoke the first words that gave shape to their wondering. "We've got to get the company doctor," she said. "I'm goin' to the end-of-the-line. You can stay here and look after things."

She asked no help in preparing for the trip. A little after midnight she was off alone on Cherry's horse on a trail more than half hidden in darkness, a trail, moreover, that she had never travelled before. After all, she told herself, there was only one trail and it ended at the supply camp.

The hours of waiting that followed passed very slowly. Cherry had given her father all the attention he required and had left him sleeping soundly, with the hope that the morning would find him ready, as usual, to get up and go about the regular duties of the camp. During the hours that were left between Anne's departure and daybreak Cherry watched by King's side, placing cold cloths upon his fevered brow and bathing his wrists and arms in cold water from the spring. Gabe had stayed with her, dozing for a couple of hours on the couch, where he was ready to answer her call in case she wanted his assistance.

When the sun was well up Keith McBain had got up from his bed much as he had done every morning for years. After eating his breakfast and looking in for a brief moment upon King, he had left the cabin without a word to anyone, except Gabe Smith, whom he told to stay by Cherry during the day and see that she got some rest. During the early hours of the morning he had not once come back to the cabin, nor sent anyone to make inquiries. As many men as could be used on the grade in work that could be done in spite of the wet ground, were sent out under a foreman to go about their tasks in the usual manner. He himself had remained behind, with a score of men and a couple of teams, to repair the damage that had been done the night before. Though there would be at most only a few weeks during which there could be any use for a cook camp, Keith McBain went about the work of putting up a new camp with the same cool determination and matter-of-fact oversight that he would have given to the building of a camp that was to last for the whole summer. Before he had been on the ground an hour the men were swinging along at their work as evenly and as regularly as the parts of a machine.

McCartney failed to put in an appearance at all during the day—but Old Silent never made the slightest reference to the fact.

As it turned out, it was already quite dark by the time Anne returned, seated in a buckboard, with the company doctor. The horse that she had ridden away on trotted along behind them, where they had tethered it to the rear axle.

Keith McBain met them at the door and greeted the doctor with a handshake and a smile that seemed for the moment to transform his stern grey face, lighting it up with a rare sympathy and a kindliness that seldom found expression in his work-a-day life.

"The roads must be bad," he remarked, after they had exchanged greetings, and then, when the doctor had removed his coat and looked questioningly at him, "He's in there. The girl's with him."

The doctor, a young, energetic chap, whose manner was efficiency itself, went at once into the room that Keith McBain had indicated. No sooner was he gone than Anne stepped quickly to the old man and took him eagerly by the arm.

"How is he?" she said.

Keith McBain shook his head doubtfully.

"He may be some better," he replied. "He has slept all day, except now and then when he asked for a drink. He talks all right when he's awake, but——"

Cherry came out of the room and closed the door after her. Her face showed clearly the effects of what she had been through in the last few days, but no one could see the slightest indication that she was ready to give up. The light in her dark eyes shone stronger and more steady than ever. She had entered a conflict of which, for the time being at least, she felt herself the centre. The little world she had built for herself, and in which she had lived so long without giving more than a passing thought to the evil forces that were moving about her, was now in a state of chaos and disorder. She could no longer say to herself, as she had done so often before, that time would show the way. She knew enough of McCartney's designs (he had revealed enough to her himself) to know that unless something was done at once a very short time would bring disaster upon her father—of what nature and by what means she had ceased trying to imagine—and she knew not what misfortune upon herself.

And this conflict was supplemented by another, no less keen, that was being fought with her own heart as a battleground. In the room she had just left lay the man in whom, for the first time in her life, and for reasons she could not understand, she had imposed her fullest confidence in the face of impending disaster. But he was more than a protector. She had realized more keenly than ever, while she watched beside his cot, that a heart-hunger had seized her that only this big boy of a man could satisfy. She prayed for his recovery, for his own sake and for her father's sake—but passionately for the sake of the woman that she was.

And now as she stood by the door she had just closed and looked at Anne, who was talking to her father, she felt as one who has awakened from a happy dream. In her pride she could not think of showing any but the most casual regard for Anne; but in her riotous young heart she almost hated her. Even as these thoughts flashed across her mind she saw her father place an arm about Anne's shoulders.

"Anne," he said quietly, "you've done your part, girl. But you've got to get some rest now. Cherry—make her go to bed as soon as she has had a bite to eat."

For the next hour there were few words spoken. Keith McBain sat by himself apart and smoked incessantly. Occasionally the doctor opened the door of the room in which he was working and asked for something to be brought him. But the request was made without any exchange of words beyond what was absolutely essential. Even when Gabe Smith entered after seeing that the horses had received the attention they required, there was little more than a questioning look or two and an exchange of glances.

When after a long time the doctor finally came out of the room the expression on his face was so reassuring as to change the mood of every one of them instantly. Keith McBain was the first to speak. He got up quickly, taking his pipe from his mouth as he stepped briskly towards the doctor.

"Well," he said, "what's the verdict?"

The doctor smiled.

"If the same thing had happened to me, Mr. McBain," the doctor replied, "my light would have gone out for good. But this boy, Howden—he'll be out again for the mail in a week, if he gets anything like careful handling in the meantime. There are some men in the world that you can't kill—and he seems to be one of them. But give me something to eat. I can talk better on a full stomach."

The conversation turned into another channel and finally followed a course that was of interest only to the men.

The doctor did not stay long after he had eaten his supper, but he gave his directions very specifically to Cherry. The patient had to be kept where he was for a few days, and Cherry herself would have to give him all the attention possible. He was not to talk nor become excited. The dressings were explained thoroughly, and all the details of the treatment he was to receive were gone into briefly but pointedly. And then—the doctor was gone, and they were alone again.

The next morning Anne left for town. For reasons which Cherry could not explain she had been strangely drawn to the girl during the two nights they had spent together in the cabin. Fears and hopes that are shared in common are powerful factors in shaping human lives and moulding human sympathies. And Cherry had actually come to look upon Anne with something like pity.

It was this feeling that prompted her to ride a little distance with her—this and her father's suggestion that she should go along to keep the girl company as well as to get into the air a little herself.

Their conversation had never turned to King Howden, except when they had referred to his condition. It was all the more surprising to Cherry, then, when, after a long silence during which they had been riding slowly and lost in their own thoughts, Anne spoke very quietly and with some feeling concerning King.

"I'm goin' back to town because there's nothin' else to it for me," she said. "If I had my own way—I'd stay by that boy till he was ready to come back."

Cherry was startled at the girl's words and her face expressed something of what she felt. Anne glanced at her and hastened to continue.

"Oh, don't get me wrong on that," she said apologetically. "I know you'll do what's right—do it better than I could."

"I don't misunderstand you," Cherry replied, and to herself she wished Anne's words could have meant something different from the meaning she had taken from them.

"He's right," Anne continued, without more than a glance to satisfy Cherry; "he's right—an' that's sayin' something. I'm older than you—though twenty-five ought to be young enough for anyone—but I've seen a few men—an' a mighty lot of what passes for men—an' I'll tell you this, when you find a man that's on the level you can't help wantin' to keep him round. But—Lord, Anne's gettin' sentimental."

She broke off suddenly and gave her rein a shake, and the next moment was off along the trail with Cherry following at an easy, loping gait behind her.

They rode thus in silence until they came to the bridge over the White Pine. The water had gone down almost as suddenly as it had risen, and the crossing presented no difficulty whatever. Cherry waited till Anne had got safely over to the other side, and then, after an exchange of farewells, turned back towards the camp.

Cherry's mind was busy every moment of the ride home that morning. Anne was a strange girl, behind whose jaunty manner, she felt sure, were hidden heart-breaks and disappointments that the outside world knew nothing of. Cherry had talked with her only a very little, had never really come to know her at all, in fact—and had never thought of her as anything more than just Anne, the girl in MacMurray's lodging-house. And yet, in her presence, Cherry felt a subtle power—the power that comes from long and hard experience, that made it difficult even to talk much.

But always, as Cherry thought about her, there arose in the background an image of King Howden standing in the open doorway of the lodging-house with his arm about the girl, all but hidden in the gathering dusk. And somehow she could not resist the thought that Anne's words fully confirmed what she had first feared that evening when she rode so unexpectedly to MacMurray's door. The single hope to which she had clung in moments of depression, when disaster seemed about to break upon her world, was fast slipping away from her and she was being left to fight the battle alone.

And yet——

Late that afternoon Cherry took King's clothes from his room with the intention of hanging them outside for an hour before laying them away until he should be able to wear them again. It was a small service and an insignificant one, and yet she lingered over the task affectionately, shaking the dust from them and spreading them out flat upon the table, to smooth away the wrinkles. Gabe Smith, grown garrulous again because of renewed hopes of King's early recovery, was watching the process from beside the doorway.

"Don't you think you're some tender with that coat?" he asked. "Shake it well—there's a sight o' dust in that old jacket!"

For reply she threw the coat towards him.

"Here, Gabe," she remarked dryly, "why sit there and watch me do the dirty work?"

As he put out his hands to receive the coat something fell from one of the pockets. Cherry stooped to pick it up and then held it towards Gabe. It was a small bundle of folded papers. Gabe took it, and at the first glance his old face almost went white.

"My God!" he whispered hoarsely.

"Why, Gabe, what's wrong?" Cherry asked.

"I forgot," he said, looking at the papers in his hand. "It's the location—the timber claim. And McCartney—McCartney's been away from camp since—I don't know. We're beat."

And even as Gabe Smith spoke those words Hugh Hurley was sitting in his office in The Town, looking through his little window to where the valley lay smiling under the late afternoon sun. He was troubled in spirit—more troubled than he had been for a long time. Less than an hour had elapsed since an unwelcome visitor had come to town. But already the visitor's name was scrawled in the big registry book where claims were officially recorded. The claim was an extensive one in the hills that rose to the south of The Town, some ten or fifteen miles away—and the name on the record was the name of Bill McCartney.

Besides Hugh Hurley there was but one other person in that sleepy little town, more sleepy and settled, it seemed, than ever—whose spirit was not all calm. McCartney had stepped out of Cheney's place and was standing in the street by himself, rolling a cigarette in a leisurely manner that was contentment itself. He lifted his eyes for a moment and caught sight of Anne coming towards him. What was almost a frown passed quickly across his face, but was immediately replaced by a look of amusement, feigned or genuine it would have been impossible to say, and he continued to roll his cigarette without the slightest indication that he knew of the girl's approach.

Anne came up to him without as much as a moment's pause and stood directly in front of him.

"What are you doin' in town?" she asked.

McCartney grunted and ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper.