"But you were there. That made it equal."

"No," said Harding. "I'd been near knocked out with the sandbag and could hardly keep my feet. Besides, I'd my employers' money in the valise, and it was my business to take care of it."

Mrs. Keith made a sign of agreement. "I beg your pardon. You were right."

"Blake got after the first thief like a panther. He was so quick I didn't quite see what happened, but the man reeled half-way across the street before he fell, and when his partner saw Blake coming for him he ran. Then, when the trouble was over, a patrol came along, and he and Blake helped me back to my hotel. Knowing I had the money, he'd got uneasy when I was late." Harding paused and looked meaningly at his companion. "Later I was asked to believe that the man who went for those two toughs with no weapon but his fists ran away under fire. The thing didn't seem possible."

"And so you trust Blake, in spite of his story?"

"The North-West is a hard country in winter and I may find myself in a tight place before I've finished my search," Harding answered with grave quietness. "But if that happens I'll have a partner I can trust my life to beside me. What's more, Mrs. Harding, who's a judge of character, feels I'm safe with him."

Mrs. Keith was moved; his respect for his wife's judgment and his faith in his comrade appealed to her.

"Though my opinion of Blake is not generally held, I believe you are right," she said. "And now tell me something about your journey."

While they talked, Millicent and Blake sat in the sunshine on the slope of the hill. Beneath them a wide landscape stretched away towards the Ottawa valley, the road to the lonely North, and the girl, who had never left the confines of civilization, felt a longing to see the trackless wilds. The distance drew her.

"Your way lies up yonder," she said. "I suppose you are thinking about it. Are you looking forward to the trip?"

"Not so much as Harding is," Blake replied. "He's a bit of an enthusiast, and I've been in the country before. It's a singularly rough one, and I anticipate our meeting with more hardships than dollars."

"Which doesn't seem to daunt you."

"No," said Blake; "not to a great extent. Hardship is not a novelty to me, and I don't think I'm avaricious. The fact is, I'm a good deal better at spending than gathering."

"It's undoubtedly easier," the girl rejoined. "But while I like Mr. Harding I shouldn't consider him a type of the romantic adventurer."

"You're right in a sense and wrong in another. Harding's out for dollars, and I believe he'll get them if they're to be had. He'll avoid adventures so far as he can, but if there's trouble to be faced, it won't stop him. Then he has left a safe employment, broken up his home, and set off on this long journey for the sake of a woman who is trying to hold out on a very few dollars in a couple of poor rooms until his return. He's taking risks which I believe may be serious in order that she may have a brighter and fuller life. Is there no romance in this?"

What Blake said about his comrade's devotion to his wife appealed to the girl. Marriage had apparently not lessened his tender thought for her, and Millicent wondered whether she was capable of inspiring such a feeling. She had found life hard, and so far had shrunk from the few men who had cultivated her acquaintance. Indeed, she felt contaminated as she remembered the advances made by one.

"On the face of it, looking for openings in the paint business doesn't seem to be a very risky matter," she suggested.

"It depends a good deal on how it's done," Blake answered with a laugh. "With Harding, a business opening is a comprehensive term."

Millicent mused for a moment or two. She liked Blake and he improved upon acquaintance. He had a whimsical humour and a dash of reckless gallantry. It was not to his credit that he had frequented her father's house, and he was supposed to be in disgrace, but she had cause to know that he was compassionate and chivalrous.

"Though you have not been with us long, we shall be duller when you have gone," she told him.

"Well," he said, "in a sense that's nice to hear, but it's with mixed feelings one leaves friends behind." His tone grew serious. "I've lost some good ones."

"I can imagine your making others easily, but haven't you retained one or two? I think, for instance, you could count on Mrs. Keith."

"Ah!" he said, "I owe a good deal to her. A little charity, such as she shows, goes a very long way."

Millicent did not answer, and he watched her as she sat looking out into the distance with grave brown eyes. Her face was gentle; he thought there was pity for him in it and felt strongly drawn to her, but he remembered that he was a man with a tainted name and must travel a lonely road. She was conscious of his scrutiny, but took no offence at it.

"Perhaps we had better change our place," she said by and by. "The sun is rather strong now the wind has gone."

Some of the others joined them, and soon afterwards they walked down the winding road to the city; when they sat outside the hotel after dinner Blake asked Harding if he had enjoyed the afternoon.

"I did," said Harding with earnestness. "I'd only one regret; that Mrs. Harding wasn't here to share it with me. Your friends are charming ladies of a stamp Marianna and I so far haven't had much chance to meet." Then his face grew very resolute as he added: "But she shall have her opportunity. If things go right with us she'll get her share of all that's best in life—and, with that at stake, we have to make things right."

Two days later Harding got some letters he had been waiting for, and as there was now nothing to keep them in Montreal, Blake said good-bye to Mrs. Keith next morning. Though she was gracious to him he felt a strong sense of disappointment at finding her alone, but when he was going out he met Millicent in the hall. She wore her hat and the flush of colour in her face indicated that she had been walking fast.

"I'm glad I didn't miss you, but I had an errand to do," she said. "You are going now; by the Vancouver express?"

"Yes," said Blake, stopping beside a pillar; "I was feeling rather gloomy until I saw you. Harding's at the station, and it's depressing to set off on a long journey feeling that nobody minds your going."

"Mrs. Keith will mind," said Millicent. "I'm sure she was very friendly and gave you her good wishes."

Blake looked at her with a smile. "Somehow they didn't seem enough. I think I wanted yours."

She coloured, but met his glance. "Then," she said, "you have them. I haven't forgotten what happened one evening in London, and I wish you a safe journey and success."

"Thank you," he answered with feeling. "It will be something to remember that you have wished me well." Then as his eyes rested upon her he forgot that he was a marked man. She looked very fresh and desirable; there was a hint of regret and pity in her face and a trace of shyness in her manner. "I suppose I can't ask you to think of me now and then; it would be too much," he went on. "But won't you give me something of yours, some trifle to keep as a memento."

Millicent hesitated and then took a tiny bunch of flowers from the lace at the neck of her white dress. "Will these do?" she asked, and added with a smile: "They won't last very long."

"They will last a long time, well taken care of, but what you said had a sting. Did you mean that you wouldn't give me anything more enduring?"

"No," she said shyly, "not that altogether. I think I meant that they would last as long as you might care to remember our acquaintance."

Blake bowed. "My memory's good. When I come back I will show you your gift as a token."

"But I shall be in England then."

"I bore that in mind. It is not very far off, and I'm a wanderer."

"Well," she said with faint confusion, "unless you hurry you will miss your train. Good-bye and good fortune!"

He took the hand she gave him and held it a moment. "I wonder whether your last wish will ever be realized, If so, I shall come to thank you, even in England."

Then he turned and went out with hurried steps, wondering what had led him to break through the reserve he had prudently determined to maintain. What he had said might mean nothing, but it might mean much. He had seen Millicent Graham for a few minutes in her father's house, and afterwards met her every day during the week spent in Montreal, but brief as their friendship had been, he had yielded to her charm. Had he been free to seek her love he would eagerly have done so, but he was not free. He was an outcast, engaged in a desperate attempt to repair his fortune. Miss Graham knew this, and had probably taken his remarks for what they were worth as a piece of sentimental gallantry, but something in her manner suggested a doubt and the trouble was that he did not wish her to regard them in this light. It looked as if he had made a fool of himself, but he had promised to show her the flowers again some day, and he carefully placed them in his pocket book.

The train was ready to start when he found Harding impatiently waiting him on the platform and a few moments later the long cars were swiftly rolling west.



CHAPTER VII

MRS. CHUDLEIGH GATHERS INFORMATION

It was a fine morning when Mrs. Keith sat on the saloon deck of a river boat steaming with the ebb tide down the St. Lawrence. The terraced heights of Quebec had faded astern; ahead a blaze of sunshine rested on the river, up which a big liner with crowded decks and her smoke-trail staining the clear blue sky moved majestically. To starboard dark pinewoods, with here and there a sawmill stack, were faintly marked upon the lofty bank; to port rose rugged hills with wooden villages at their feet. The light wind that rippled the blue water was pleasantly cool, and Mrs. Keith, laying down the book she had been reading, looked about with languid enjoyment.

"I suppose I'm neglecting my opportunities, but this is very delightful and I don't think they have anything finer than the river in Canada," she said. "Its width impresses one; the French villages with their church spires are so picturesque—I wonder how many churches there are in this part of the country. One sees them everywhere."

"You were urged to see the Ontario forests and the prairie," Millicent remarked.

"One cannot do everything, and I'm not insatiable. I'm getting too old to stand the shaking in the hot and dusty cars, and I can't accustom myself to going to bed in public, without undressing. No doubt, it's a matter of prejudice, but I've been used to more room for taking my clothes off than they give you behind the flapping curtain."

Millicent laughed as she remembered their experiences during a journey on a crowded express.

"Getting up is worse," she said. "However, they told us it was very pretty and generally cool at Saguenay. Then you'll have somebody to talk to, as Mrs. Chudleigh is coming. But didn't she make up her mind rather suddenly?"

"I thought so, since she didn't speak of going until I sent you for the tickets. Still, Sedgwick was sent to Ottawa, where she doesn't know anybody, which may have had something to do with it."

Millicent, who looked very pretty in her light summer dress as she leaned back in a deckchair, did not reply. Sun and wind had brought a fine warm colour into her face, but her brown eyes were grave, for there was a point upon which she must try to form a correct judgment and she distrusted her inexperience. She was young and had a natural love of pleasure, as well as a certain longing for excitement and a willingness to take a risk which she had inherited from her gambling father. Mrs. Keith had prevented her indulging these tendencies, and the girl, thrust for the most part into the society of older people, suffered at times from a feeling of depressing monotony.

Then she had met Captain Sedgwick, who paid her rather marked attention, at Quebec, and at first had been attracted by the handsome soldier and flattered by his singling her out among women of higher station and maturer beauty; but the attraction did not last long. There was a vein of sound sense in Millicent, and when she tested Sedgwick by it, he did not ring true, and when Mrs. Chudleigh openly claimed him as her property she acquiesced. Afterwards she met Blake on board the steamer and the gratitude and admiration which a chivalrous act of his had roused suddenly revived. Moreover she was sorry for him and felt that he had been unjustly blamed, while, though it was generally hidden by his careless manner, she thought she saw in him a strong sincerity. Now she wondered whether she was foolish in letting her thoughts dwell on him, and if he would soon forget her. Recalling his words when he said good-bye she knew he had been stirred, but before this she had been conscious of a certain restraint in his manner which had only broken down at the last moment. By and by Mrs. Keith disturbed her reflections.

"It looks as if we were to be favoured with Mrs. Chudleigh's society," she remarked with ironical amusement. "Mine appears to have become more valuable during the last few days."

Millicent saw Mrs. Chudleigh moving towards them, followed by a steward carrying a folding chair and a maid who brought a book, a bunch of flowers, an ornamental leather bag, and several other odds and ends. Mrs. Chudleigh was elaborately attired, but the large plumed hat and dress cut in the extreme of the current fashion became her. She made a stately progress along the deck with her burdened attendants in her train, and it took a few minutes to arrange her belongings to her satisfaction. Then she sank into the big chair with marked grace of movement and smiled at Mrs. Keith.

"A delightful morning. I ought to have been writing letters, but the sunshine brought me out."

Mrs. Keith agreed and Mrs. Chudleigh went on: "I have enjoyed this visit greatly and find Canada a most interesting country. In fact, I wish I could stay another month or two, but, of course, when one has duties."

As Mrs. Chudleigh had neither husband nor children, Margaret Keith wondered what her duties were, unless she considered the taking a part in a round of social amusements as such.

"After all," she remarked, "I imagine that one doesn't see very much of the real Canada from the Frontenac or a big hotel in Montreal."

"True," said Mrs. Chudleigh. "I must confess that I didn't come out to study the country, though I'm charmed with all I've seen. I'm afraid I belong to a frivolous set and find a change refreshing. Then several old friends of mine were going to take a part in the celebrations at Quebec—Captain Sedgwick among others."

"Is Captain Sedgwick a very old friend?" Mrs. Keith asked, willing to give the other the lead she seemed to wish for.

"Oh, yes; I met him first as a subaltern in India, when he was very raw and troubled by a seriousness he has since grown out of, but I thought he would make his mark."

Mrs. Keith pondered the explanation. She could not imagine her companion's patronizing a callow young lieutenant, but this was not important. Admitting that a hint might have been intended for Millicent's benefit, Mrs. Chudleigh's boldness in laying claim to the man by suggesting that she had come out for his sake was puzzling. It was not in good taste, but although Mrs. Chudleigh's position was assured, there was something of the audacity of the adventuress about her. Margaret Keith, however, had no admiration for Sedgwick, whom she thought of as second-rate, and she was glad to believe that Millicent did not wish to dispute the woman's right to him.

"Are you going home soon?" she asked.

"Before long, I think. There is a round of visits I have promised to make and I may stay some time with the Fosters in Shropshire near Colonel Challoner's place. I believe he is a friend of yours."

"He is. Have you met him?"

"Once; I found him charming. A very fine, old-fashioned gentleman, and I understand a famous soldier. Somebody told me he never quite got over his nephew's disgrace and seemed to think it reflected upon the whole family. Very foolish, of course, but one can admire his sense of honour."

Mrs. Keith began to understand why her companion had sought her. She wished to speak about Richard Blake and Mrs. Keith was forced to acquiesce, since he had been seen in her company.

"I suppose you know the nephew was in Montreal," she said.

"To tell the truth, I do. I saw him talking to Bertram Challoner, whom I met in London, and the family likeness struck me. Then I saw his name in the hotel register."

"No doubt you studied him after that. What opinion did you form?"

Mrs. Chudleigh gave her a look of thoughtful candour. "I was puzzled and interested. I don't know him, but he did not look the man to run away."

"He is not," Mrs. Keith declared. "I knew him as a boy, and even then he was marked by reckless daring. What's more, I noticed very little change in him."

"It's strange." Mrs. Chudleigh's tone was sympathetically grave. "I feel much as you do. After all, it may have been one of the affairs about which the truth never quite comes out."

"What do you wish to suggest by that?"

"Nothing in particular; I've no means of forming an accurate conclusion. But the regimental honour was threatened and a scapegoat needed. A mistake may have been made by somebody of greater importance. One hears of some curious things."

"That's true," Mrs. Keith drily agreed. "I believe in Dick Blake, but it must be admitted that he made no defence."

Mrs. Chudleigh pondered this. "One meets men capable of making a great sacrifice, though they're by no means numerous. I suppose Colonel Challoner really felt it a heavy blow?"

"Those who know him can't doubt it, though he never speaks of the matter."

"It must have been a shock. Apart from whatever affection he had for his nephew, there was, in a sense, the stigma reflected upon himself—an old man who has bravely won distinction and retains some influence! I'm told he has friends in administrative circles and that his opinion on Indian subjects still carries weight."

"I believe so," said Mrs. Keith. "He certainly holds his opinions firmly, and was once looked upon as an authority on frontier defence. Indeed, he gave up his command because he could not get some drastic change which events subsequently proved needful adopted. His honesty is remembered by men who hold him in esteem."

"All you have said bears out my impression of him. I must renew our acquaintance when I am in Shropshire. Are you staying here long?"

Mrs. Keith was glad to change the subject, but while they talked a steward appeared with a letter for Millicent, which he explained had been sent on board the steamer at Quebec. As the girl laid down the opened envelope Mrs. Chudleigh recognized Sedgwick's writing and her face grew contemptuously hard. Then she laughed and started a different topic, which she continued for a time. When she went away, Mrs. Keith turned to Millicent.

"I wonder whether I have told her too much, though it's hard to see what use she can make of it. Innocent or not, Dick Blake is a favourite of mine and when I speak of him I'm apt to be unguarded. Of course, it's obvious that she joined us on purpose to talk about him."

"One would have imagined it was Captain Sedgwick. She dragged him in rather pointedly."

"Oh! no. That was by the way, and perhaps intended to put me off the scent. She's a scheming woman."

"But she has not learned much from you."

"She has learned two things," Mrs. Keith answered thoughtfully. "First, that I don't believe Dick Blake failed in his duty; and, secondly, that Colonel Challoner has some influence. I think she was particularly interested in the latter point. I've been incautious and let my tongue run away with me."

Then she took up her book while Millicent read her letter. Though young and to some extent inexperienced, her judgment was generally sound, and she had come to see how Sedgwick really regarded her. She had pleased his eye, and he was a man who would boldly grasp at what delighted him, but love would not be permitted to interfere with his ambitions. He wrote in a tone of forced and insincere sentiment, and his words brought a blush into Millicent's face as well as a rather bitter smile into her eyes. By and by she tore the sheet into pieces and dropped them over the steamer's rail. That affair was ended.

As the fragments of paper fluttered astern Mrs. Keith looked up. "You are treating somebody's letter very unceremoniously."

"Perhaps I am," said Millicent. "It's from Captain Sedgwick."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Keith. "Has he anything of interest to say?"

"He mentions that he is going back to Africa sooner than he expected because the officer above him has suffered so much from the climate that he has asked to be relieved of his post. Captain Sedgwick believes this will give him a chance of advancement."

"Then I've no doubt he'll make the most of it. I suppose he doesn't waste much pity on his unfortunate chief? The man's personal interest stands first with him."

"Isn't that the usual thing with men?"

"There are exceptions. Colonel Challoner, for instance, threw up his career when he found he was forced to act against his convictions, and I've a suspicion that another man I know made as great a sacrifice. However, Sedgwick will make every effort to get the vacant post, and I wonder whether he told Mrs. Chudleigh how matters stood. She may have had a letter before you did."

Millicent knew her employer's penetration, but did not understand the drift of her remarks.

"I dare say he wrote to her. She told us they were old friends. But why should it interest you?"

"It does," Mrs. Keith rejoined. "I have a habit of putting things together and drawing my conclusions, though, of course, I'm now and then mistaken. Whether I'm right or not in the present instance time will show, but I must try to watch the woman when we go home." Then she added sharply: "As you have torn it up, you don't mean to answer Sedgwick's letter?"

"No," said Millicent, with a trace of colour; "I don't think it needs a reply."

Mrs. Keith made a sign of agreement. "On the whole," she said pointedly, "I should imagine that to be a wise decision."

On reaching Saguenay, Mrs. Keith spent the first morning sitting outside her hotel. Rugged mountains with dark belts of pines straggling up their sides were spread about her, but she gave the wild grandeur of the landscape scanty attention as she consulted the engagement book in her hand. It contained a list of the friends she wished to entertain and the visits she had thought of making in England during the winter, and she wondered which could be shortened and whom she could put off, because it might be desirable to spend some time in Shropshire.

Margaret Keith was a strong-willed woman who had led a busy life, but now, when she had resolved to retire into the background and rest, it looked as if she might again be forced to take an active part in affairs. She had enjoyed her Canadian trip, but during the last week or two it had begun to lose its interest, and she was conscious of a call to be up and doing. She suspected Mrs. Chudleigh, she doubted Sedgwick, and she was disturbed by the way the unfortunate affair on the Indian frontier had cropped up again. Somehow, she felt Colonel Challoner's peace was threatened, which could not be permitted. For many years she had cherished a warm liking for him, and long ago, when he was a young lieutenant, she could have made him hers. Family arrangements, complicated by the interests of landed property, had, however, stood in the way. Challoner was not free to marry as he pleased; he had been taught that the desire of the individual must be subordinated to the welfare of the line, and when he first met Margaret Keith, who was beautiful then, it was too late for him to rebel. She let him go, but he had always had a place in her heart, and now they were firm and trusted friends.

During her stay at Saguenay, Mrs. Chudleigh made two or three attempts to extract some further information about the Challoners but without success, and one day, soon after she had left, Mrs. Keith sent Millicent for a list of steamer sailings.

"This place is very pretty, but we have been here some time and I'm beginning to think of home," she said.

"One of the Empresses sails next week," said Millicent, returning with the card. "Mr. Gordon told me this morning that Mrs. Chudleigh went in the Salmatian the day before he left Quebec."

"Did she?" Mrs. Keith rejoined. "Well, perhaps you had better write to the Montreal office about our berths." Then, for the call had grown clearer, she smiled as the girl went away, and added: "It might be wiser to keep the woman in sight."



CHAPTER VIII

THE PRAIRIE

A strong breeze swept the wide plain, blowing fine sand about, when Blake plodded beside the jaded Indian pony that drew his Red-river cart. It was loaded with preserved provisions, camp stores, and winter clothes, and he had bought it and the pony because that seemed cheaper than paying for transport. The settlement for which he was bound stands near the northern edge of the great sweep of grass which stretches across central Canada, and means of communication between it and the outer world were scarce. Harding, accordingly, had agreed to the purchase of the animal with the idea of selling it afterwards to one of the settlers.

Since leaving the railroad they had spent four days upon the trail, which sometimes ran plain before them, marked by dints of wheels among the wiry grass, and sometimes died away, leaving them at a loss in a wilderness of sand and short poplar scrub, through which Blake steered by compass. Now it was late in the afternoon and the men were tired of battling with the wind which buffeted their sunburned faces with sharp sand. They were crossing one of the high steppes of the middle prairie towards the belt of pines and muskegs which divides it from the barrens of the North. The broad stretch of fertile loam, where prosperous wooden towns are rising fast among the wheatfields, lay to the south of them, and the arid tract they journeyed through had so far no attraction for even the adventurous homestead pre-emptor.

They found it a bleak and cheerless country, crossed by the ravines of a few sluggish creeks, the water of which was unpleasant to drink, and dotted at long intervals by ponds bitter with alkali. In places, stunted poplar bluffs cut against the sky, but, for the most part, there was only a rolling waste of dingy grass. The trail was heavy, the wheels sank deep in sand as they climbed a low rise, and, to make things worse, the rounded, white-edged clouds which had scudded across the sky since morning were gathering in threatening masses. This had happened every afternoon, but now and then the cloud ranks had broken, to pour out a furious deluge and a blaze of lightning. Harding anxiously studied the sky.

"I guess we're up against another thunderstorm," he said. "My opinion of the mid-continental climate is singularly mean, but I'd put this strip of Canada near the limit. Our Texan northers are fierce when they come along, but here it blows all the time."

"We'll make camp, if you like; I don't feel very fresh," Blake replied.

"Not here," snapped Harding, "Where I stop I sleep, and I've no use for sheltering under the cart. Last time we tried it the pony stampeded and the wheel went over my foot. The tent's no good; you'd want a chain to stop its blowing away. We'll go on until we bring up to lee of a big, solid bluff."

"Very well," Blake agreed. "I daresay we ought to find one in the hollow we got a glimpse of from the last rise, but we haven't had to put up with much discomfort yet."

"It's a matter of opinion; you haven't limped forty miles on a bad foot, but I'm not complaining," Harding rejoined, "In fact, I've most been happy since we left the depot. It's something to feel that you have started; doing nothing takes the sand out of me."

Blake had once or twice suggested that his comrade should ride, but the pony was overburdened and Harding refused. He explained that they could not expect to sell it in a worn-out condition, but his partner suspected him of sympathy for the patient beast.

They crossed the ridge and seeing a wavy line of trees in the wide hollow, quickened their pace. The soil was firmer, the scrub the wheels crushed through was short, and the trail led smoothly down a slight descent. This was comforting, because half the sky was barred with leaden cloud and the parched grass gleamed beneath it lividly white, while the light that struck a ridge-top here and there had a sinister luridness. It was getting cold and the wind was dropping, which was not a favourable sign.

Pushing the cart through the softer places, dragging the jaded pony by the head, they hurried on and at length plunged through a creek with the trees close in front. A few minutes later they tethered the pony to lee of the cart and set up their tent. Then, while Blake was rummaging out provisions and Harding searching the bluff for dry sticks, they heard a beat of hoofs and a man rode up, leading a second horse. He got down and throwing a bundle off his saddle hobbled the beasts before he turned to Blake.

"From the south? You're for Sweetwater?" he said.

Blake told him he had guessed correctly, and asked how far they had still to go.

"You ought to make it in a day and a half," said the other. "I'll ride in with you; run a store and hotel there, but feel I want to get out on the prairie now and then, and as a horse was missing I went after him. A looker, isn't he?"

Blake admired the animal, and suggested that the stranger had better join them instead of cooking a separate supper. The fellow, who told them that his name was Gardner, had a good-humoured, sunburned face and an honest look. The prairie was now wrapped in inky gloom, and there was an impressive stillness except for the occasional rustle of a leaf, but when Harding came out of the bluff with a load of wood a puff of icy wind suddenly stirred the grass. The harsh rustle it made was followed by a deafening crash, and a jagged streak of lightning fell from the leaden clouds; then the air was filled with the roar of driving hail. It swept the wood, rending leaves and smashing twigs, while the men crouched inside the straining tent and a constant blaze of lightning flickered about the grass. By and by the thunder died away and the hail gave place to torrential rain, while the slender trees rocked in the blast and small branches drove past the tent. This lasted some minutes, after which the rain ceased suddenly and a fierce red light streamed along the saturated grass from the huge sinking sun. Harding, who had brought the wood into the tent, took it out and with the stranger's help soon made a fire.

It was getting dark, though a band of transcendental green still burned upon the prairie's western edge when they finished supper and, sitting round the fire, took out their pipes. The hobbled horses were quietly grazing near them.

"That's undoubtedly a fine animal," Blake remarked. "Is it yours?"

"No; it belongs to Clarke's Englishman."

"Who's he? It's a curious way to speak of a fellow."

"It fits him," said the other. "Guess he's Clarke's, hide and bones, and that's all there'll be when the doctor has done with him. He's a sucker the doctor taught farming and then sold land to."

"Then who's the doctor?" Harding inquired.

"That's not so easy to answer, but he's a man you want to be friends with if you stay near the settlement. Teaches farming to tenderfoot young Englishmen and Americans; finds them land and stock to start with, and makes a mighty good thing out of it. Goes to Montreal now and then, but whether it's to look up fresh suckers or on the jag is more than I know."

"We met a fellow called Clarke at the Windsor not long since. What's he like?"

Gardner described him and Harding said, "That's the man."

"Then I can't see what he was doing at the Windsor; an opium joint would have been more in his line."

"Does the fellow live at Sweetwater?" Blake asked.

"Has a farm, and runs it well, about three miles back, but he's away pretty often in the North and at a settlement on the edge of the bush country. Don't know what he does there, and they're a curious crowd; Dubokars, Russians of sorts, I guess."

Blake had seen the Dubokars in other parts of Canada and had found them an industrious people, leading, from religious convictions, a remarkably primitive life. There were, however, fanatics among them, and he understood that these now and then led their followers into outbreaks of emotional extravagance.

"They make good settlers, as a rule," he said. "But, as they don't speak English, how does the fellow get on with them?"

"Told me he was a philologist, when I asked him; then he allowed two or three of them were mystics and he was something in that line. He was a doctor once and got fired out of England for something he shouldn't have done. Anyhow, the Dubokars are like the rest of us, good, bad, and pretty mixed, and the crowd back of Sweetwater belong to the last. At first some of them didn't believe it was right to work horses and made the women drag the plough, and they'd one or two other habits that brought the North-West Police down on them. After that they've given no trouble, but they get on a jag of some kind now and then."

Blake nodded. He knew that the fanatic with untrained and unbalanced mind is liable under the influence of excitement to indulge in crude debauchery; but it was strange that a man of culture, such as Clarke appeared to be, should take a part in these excesses. He had, however, no interest in the fellow and turned the talk on to other matters, and when it got cold they went to sleep.

Starting early next morning, they reached Sweetwater after an uneventful journey and found it by no means an attractive place. South of it rolling prairie ran back, greyish white with withered grass, to the skyline; to the north straggling poplar bluffs and scattered Jack-pines crowned the summits of the ridges. A lake gleamed in a hollow, a slow creek wound across the foreground in a deep ravine, and here and there in the distance one could see an outlying farm. A row of houses followed the crest of the ravine, the side of which formed a dumping ground for domestic refuse. Some were built of small logs, and some of shiplap lumber which had cracked with exposure to the sun, but all had a neglected and poverty-stricken air. The land was poor and the settlement located too far from a market. With leaden thunderclouds hanging over it, the place looked as desolate as the sad-coloured waste.

Following the deeply-rutted street, which had a narrow, plank sidewalk, they reached the Imperial hotel; a somewhat pretentious, double-storeyed building of unpainted wood, with a verandah in front of it. Here Gardner took the pony from them and gave them a room which had no furniture except a chair and two rickety iron beds. Before he went out he indicated a printed list of the things they were not allowed to do. Harding studied it with a sardonic smile.

"I don't see much use in prohibiting folks from washing their clothes in the bedrooms when they don't give you any water," he remarked. "This place must be about the limit in the way of cheap hotels."

"It isn't cheap," said Blake; "I've seen the tariff, but on the whole I like the fellow who keeps it."

They found their supper better than they had reason to expect, and afterwards sat out on the verandah with the proprietor and one or two of the settlers who boarded at the hotel. The sun had set and now and then a heavy shower beat upon the shingled roof, but the western sky was clear and flushed with vivid crimson, towards which the prairie rolled away in varying tones of blue. Lights shone in the windows behind the verandah, and from one which stood open a hoarse voice drifted out, singing in a maudlin fashion snatches of an old music-hall ditty.

"It's that fool Benson—Clarke's Englishman," Gardner explained. "Found he'd got into my bed with his boots on after falling down in a muskeg. It's not the first time he's played that trick; when he gets worse than usual he makes straight for my room."

"Why do you give him the liquor?" Harding inquired.

"I don't," said Gardner drily. "He's a pretty regular customer, but he never gets too much at this hotel."

"And there isn't another."

"That's so," Gardner agreed, but he offered no explanation and Blake changed the subject.

"Unless you're fond of farming, life in these remote districts is trying," he remarked. "The loneliness and monotony are apt to break down men who are not used to it."

"Turns some of them crazy and kills off a few," agreed a farmer, who appeared to be well educated. "After all, worse things might happen to them."

"It's conceivable," said Blake. "But what particular things were you referring to?"

"I was thinking of men who go to the devil while they're alive. There's a fellow in this neighbourhood who's doing something of the kind."

"Rot!" exclaimed a thick voice, and a man's figure appeared against the light at the open window. "Devil'sh a myth; allegorolical gentleman, everybody knowsh. Hard word that—allegorolical. Bad word too, reminds you of things in the rivers down in Florida. Must be some in the creek here; seen them in my homestead."

"You go to bed," said Gardner sternly.

"Nosh a bit," replied the other. "Who you talking to?" He leaned forward in danger of falling through the window. "Lemme out."

"It's not all drink," Gardner explained. "He has something like shakes and ague now and then. Says he got it in India."

The other disappeared and a few moments afterwards reeled out of the door and held himself upright by one of the verandah posts.

"Now I'm here, don't let me interrupt," he said. "Nice place if this post would keep still."

Warned by a sign from Gardner, the others ignored him, and Harding remarked to the farmer, "You hadn't finished what you were saying when he disturbed you."

"I don't know that it was of much importance; speaking of degenerates, weren't we? We have a curious example of the neurotic here: a fellow who makes a good many dollars by victimizing farmers who are forced to borrow when they lose a crop, as well as young fools from England, and by way of amusement studies modern magic and indulges in refined debauchery. It strikes me as a particularly unhallowed combination."

"No sensible man has any use for hoodoo tricks and the folks who practise them," Harding said. "They're frauds from the start."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Benson broke in. "Not all tricks! Seen funny things in the East; thingsh decent men better leave alone."

Letting go the post, he lurched forward and as the light fell upon his face Blake started. He had been puzzled by something familiar in the voice, and now he knew the man, whom he had no wish to meet. He was too late in hitching his chair back into the shadow, for Benson had seen him and stopped with an excited cry.

"Blake of the sappers! Want to cut your old friendsh? Whatsh you doing here?"

"It's a mutual surprise, Benson," Blake replied, and the other, holding on by a chair back, smiled at him genially.

"Often wondered where you went to after you left Peshawur, old man. Though you got the sack for it, it wasn't your fault the ghazees broke our line that night. Said so to the Colonel—can see him now, sitting there, looking very sick and cut up, and Bolsover, acting adjutant, blinking like an owl."

"Be quiet!" Blake said in alarm, for the man had been a lieutenant of native infantry when they had met on the hill campaign.

Benson, however, was not to be deterred and addressed the rest: "This gentleman old friend of mine; never agreed with solemn old Colonel, but they wouldn't listen to me. Very black night in India; ghazees coming yelling up the hill; nothing would stop them. Rifles cracking, Nepalese comp'ny busy with the bayonet, and in the thick of it the bugle goes——"

Raising a hand to his mouth, he gave a shrill imitation of the call "Cease fire!" and then lost his balance and fell over the chair with a crash.

"Leave him to me," said Gardner, who seized the fallen man and with some difficulty lifted him to his feet. After he pushed him through the door there were sounds of a scuffle and two or three minutes later Gardner came back with a bruise upon his face.

"He's quiet now and the bartender will put him to bed," he said.

There was silence for the next few moments, for the group on the verandah had been impressed by the scene; then a man came up the steps. He was dressed in old brown overalls and carried a riding quirt, but Harding recognized him as the man they had met at the Windsor in Montreal.

"Have you got Benson here?" he asked.

"Sure," said Gardner. "He's left his mark on my cheek. Why don't you look after the fool? Anyhow, you must have come pretty quietly; I didn't hear you until you were half way up the steps."

"Light boots," Clarke answered, smiling; "I bought them from you. I don't know that I need hold myself responsible for Benson, but I found he wasn't in when I rode past his place and it struck me that he might get into trouble if he got on a jag."

He turned and nodded to Blake. "So you have come up here! I may see you to-morrow, but if Benson's all right I'm going home now."

He went into the hotel and soon afterwards they heard him leave by another door.



CHAPTER IX

CLARKE MAKES A SUGGESTION

At breakfast next morning Blake and Harding found the farmer, who had spent the night at the hotel, at their table and afterwards sat for a time on the verandah talking to him. When they mentioned their first objective point and asked if he could give them any directions for reaching it he looked thoughtful.

"I only know that it's remarkably rough country; thick pine bush on rolling ground, with some bad muskegs and small lakes," he said. "You would find things easier if you could hire an Indian or two and a canoe when you strike the river. The boys here seldom go up so far, but Clarke could help you if he liked. He's been north and knows the Indians."

"We're willing to pay him for any useful help," Harding replied.

"Be careful," said the farmer. "If you're on a prospecting trip, keep your secret close. There's another thing I might mention." He turned to Blake. "If you're a friend of Benson's, take him along with you."

"I suppose I am, in a way, though it's a long time since I met him. But why do you recommend our taking him?"

"I hate to see a man go to pieces as Benson's doing, and Clarke's ruining the fellow. He must have got two or three thousand dollars out of him one way or another and isn't satisfied with that. Lent him money on mortgage to start a foolish stock-raising speculation and keeps him well supplied with drink. The fellow's weak, but he has his good points."

"But what's Clarke's object?"

"It isn't very clear, but a man who's seldom sober is easily robbed and Benson's place is worth something; Clarke sees it's properly farmed. However, you must use your judgment about anything he tells you; I've given you warning."

He went away and Blake sat silent for a time. Though they had not been intimate friends, he had known Benson when the latter was a wild young subaltern, and it did not seem fitting to leave him in the clutches of a man who was ruining him in health and fortune. He would sooner not have met the man at all, but since they had met, there was, so far as he could see, only one thing to be done.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to take Benson with us," he said to Harding.

The American looked doubtful. "We could do with another white man, but I guess your friend isn't the kind we want. He may give us trouble, and you can't count on much help from a whisky-tank. However, if you wish it, you can bring him."

Soon afterwards Benson came out from the dining-room. He was two or three years younger than Blake and had a muscular figure, but he looked shaky and his face was weak and marked by dissipation. Smiling in a deprecatory way, he lighted a cigar.

"I'm afraid I made a fool of myself last night," he said. "If I made any unfortunate allusions you must overlook them. You must have seen that I wasn't altogether responsible."

"I did," Blake answered drily. "If we are to remain friends, you had better understand that I can't tolerate any further mention of the matter you talked about."

"Sorry," said Benson, who gave him a keen glance. "Though I don't think you have much cause to be touchy about it, I'll try to remember."

"Then I'd like you to know my partner, Mr. Harding, who has agreed to a suggestion I'm going to make. We want you to come with us on a trip to the northern bush."

"Thanks," said Benson, who shook hands with Harding. "I wonder what use you think I would be?"

"To tell the truth, I haven't considered whether you would be of any use or not; but you had better come. The trip will brace you up, and you look as if you needed it."

Benson's face grew red. "Your intentions may be good, but you virtuous and respectable people sometimes show a meddlesome thoughtfulness which degenerates like myself resent. Besides, I suspect your offer has come too late."

"I don't think you have much reason for taunting me with being respectable," Blake rejoined with a grim smile. "Anyway, I want you to come with us."

Tilting his chair back, Benson looked heavily about. "When I was new to the country I often wished to go north. There are caribou and moose up yonder; great sights when the rivers break up in spring, and a sledge trip across the snow must be a thing to remember. The wilds draw you, but I'm afraid my nerve's not good enough. A man must be fit in every way to cross the timber belt."

"Then why aren't you fit? Why have you let that fellow Clarke suck the life and energy out of you, as well as rob you of your money?"

"You hit hard, but I expect I deserve it, and I'll try to explain." Benson indicated the desolate settlement with a gesture of weariness.

Ugly frame houses straggled, weather-scarred and dilapidated, along one side of the unpaved street, while unsightly refuse dumps disfigured the slopes of the ravine in front. There was no sign of activity, but two or three untidy loungers leaned against a rude shack with "Pool Room," painted on its dirty window. All round, the rolling prairie stretched back to the horizon, washed in dingy drab and grey. The prospect was dreary and depressing.

"This place," Benson resumed, "hasn't much to offer one in the way of relaxation, and, for a man used to something different, life at a lonely homestead soon loses its charm. Unless he's a keen farmer, he's apt to go to bits."

"Then why don't you quit?" Harding asked.

"Where could I go? A man with no profession except the one he hasn't the means to follow is not much use at home, and all my money is sunk in my place here. As things stand, I can't sell it." He turned to Blake. "I left the army because a financial disaster I wasn't responsible for stopped my allowance and I was in debt. Eventually about two thousand pounds were saved out of the wreck, and I came here with that feeling badly hipped, which was one reason why I took to whisky, and Clarke, who engaged to teach me farming, saw I got plenty of it. Now he has his hands on all that's mine, but he keeps me fairly supplied with cash, and it saves trouble to leave things to him."

When Benson stopped Blake made a sign of comprehension, for he knew that somewhat exceptional qualities are required of the man who undertakes the breaking of virgin prairie in the remoter districts. He must have unflinching courage and stubbornness and be able to dispense with all the comforts and amenities of civilized life. No interests are offered him beyond those connected with his task; for half the year he must toil unremittingly from dawn to dark, and depend upon his own resources through the long, bitter winter. For society he may have a hired hand and the loungers in the saloon of the nearest settlement, which is often a day's ride away, and they are not, as a rule, men of culture or pleasing manners. For the strong in mind and body it is nevertheless a healthful life, but Benson was not of sufficiently tough fibre.

"Now see here," said Harding. "I'm out for dollars, and this is a business trip, but Blake wants to take you and I'm agreeable. If you can stand for two or three months hard work in the open and very plain living, you'll feel yourself a match for Clarke when you get back. Though there's no reason why you should tell a stranger like myself how you stand if you'd sooner not, I know something of business and might see a way out of your difficulties."

Benson hesitated. He would have resented an attempt to use his troubles as a text for improving remarks, since he already knew his failings. What he desired was a means of escaping their consequences, and the American, whose tone was reassuringly matter of fact, seemed to offer it. He began an explanation and, with the help of a few leading questions, made his financial position fairly clear.

"Well," said Harding, "Clarke has certainly got a tight hold on you, but I guess it's possible to shake him off. As things stand, however, it seems to me he has most to gain from your death."

"He couldn't count on that; to do the fellow justice, he'd hardly go so far, but there's some truth in what you say." Benson looked disturbed and irresolute, but after a few moments he abruptly threw his cigar away and leaned forward with a decided air. "If you'll have me, I'll go with you."

"You're wise," Harding said quietly.

Shortly afterwards Benson left them and Harding said to Blake, "Now you had better go along and see if you can learn anything from Clarke about our road. He's a rogue, but that's no reason we shouldn't make him useful. If he can help us, pay him and be careful what you say. Remember that he was watching you at the Windsor, and I've a suspicion that he was standing in the shadow near the stairs when Benson talked last night."

Borrowing a saddle, Blake rode over to Clarke's homestead, which had a well-kept, prosperous look, and found its owner in a small room furnished as an office. Files of papers and a large map of the Western Provinces hung upon one wall; the floor was uncovered and a rusty stove stood in the middle of it, but Clarke was seated at a handsome American desk. He wore old overalls and the soil upon his boots suggested that he had been engaged in fall ploughing. As Benson came in he looked up and the light fell upon his face. It was deeply lined and of a curious dead colour, but while it bore a sensual stamp and something in it hinted at cruelty, it was, Blake felt, the face of a clever and determined man.

"Ah!" he said, "you have ridden over for a talk. Glad to see you. Have a cigar."

Blake, who took one, explained his errand and Clarke seemed to consider. Then he took out a small hand-drawn map and passed it to his visitor.

"I won't ask why you are going north, as I daresay it's a secret," he remarked. "However, though it's too valuable for me to lend it you, this will show you your way through the timber belt." He cleared the other end of the desk. "Sit here and make a note of the features of the country."

It took Blake some time, but he had been taught such work and did it carefully. When he had finished, Clarke resumed: "I'll give you a few directions, and you had better take them down, but you'll want a canoe and one or two Indians. I daresay I could enable you to get them, but I think the service is worth fifty dollars."

"I'd be glad to pay it when we come back," Blake answered cautiously. "It's possible that we mightn't find the Indians, and we might leave the water and strike overland."

"As you like," Clarke said with a smile. "I'll give you the directions before you go, but there's another matter I want to talk about." He fixed his eyes on Blake. "You are a nephew of Colonel Challoner's."

"I am, but I can't see what connexion this has——"

Clarke stopped him. "It's not an impertinence. Hear me out. You were a lieutenant of engineers and served in India, where you left the army."

"That is correct, but it's not a subject I'm disposed to talk about."

"So I imagined," Clarke said drily. "Still I would like to say that there is some reason for believing you to be a badly treated man. You have my sympathy."

"Thank you," said Blake. "I must remind you that I have given you no grounds for offering it."

"A painful subject! But are you content to quietly suffer injustice?"

"I don't admit an injustice. Besides, I don't see what you can know about the matter."

"A proper line to take with an outsider like myself; but I know you were turned out of the army for a fault you did not commit."

Blake's face set sternly. "It's hard to understand how you arrived at that flattering conclusion."

"I won't explain, but I'm convinced of its correctness," Clarke rejoined, watching him. "One would imagine that the most important matter is that you were driven out of a calling you liked and were sent here, ruined in repute and fortune. Are you satisfied with your lot? Haven't you the courage to insist upon being reinstated?"

"My reinstation would be difficult," Blake said curtly.

He would have left the house only that he was curious to learn where the other's suggestions led and how much he knew. There was a moment's silence, and then Clarke went on—

"A young man of ability, with means and influence behind him, has a choice of careers in England, and there's another point to be considered: you might wish to marry. That, of course, is out of the question now."

"It will, no doubt, remain so," Blake replied with the colour creeping into his set face.

"Then you have given up all idea of clearing yourself? The thing may be easier than you imagine if properly handled." Clarke paused and added significantly: "In fact I could show you a way in which the matter could be straightened out without causing serious trouble to anybody concerned; that is, if you are disposed to take me into your confidence."

Blake got up, filled with anger and uneasiness. He had no great faith in Harding's scheme; his life as a needy adventurer had its trials, and it had been cunningly hinted that he could change it when he liked, but he had no intention of doing so. This was an old resolve, but it was disconcerting to feel that an unscrupulous fellow was anxious to meddle with his affairs, for Clarke had obviously implied the possibility of putting some pressure upon Colonel Challoner. Blake shrank from the suggestion. It was not to be thought of.

"I have nothing more to say on the subject," he answered sternly. "It must be dropped."

Somewhat to his surprise, Clarke acquiesced good-humouredly, after a keen glance at him.

"As you wish," he said. "However, that needn't prevent my giving you the directions I promised, particularly as it may help me to earn fifty dollars. I believe Benson spent some time with you this morning; are you taking him?"

Blake started. He wondered how the man could have guessed, but he admitted that Benson was going.

"You may find him a drag, but that's your affair," said Clarke in a tone of indifference. "Now sit down and make a careful note of what I tell you."

Believing that the information might be of service, Blake did as he was told, and then took his leave. When he had gone, Clarke sat still for a time with a curious smile. Blake had firmly declined to be influenced by his hints, but Clarke had half expected this, and what he had learned about the young man's character cleared the ground.



CHAPTER X

BENSON GIVES TROUBLE

It was nearly dark when Blake and Harding led two packhorses through a thin spruce wood, with Benson lagging a short distance behind. They had spent some time crossing a wide stretch of rolling country, dotted with clumps of poplar and birch, which was still sparsely inhabited, and now they had reached the edge of the timber belt that cuts off the prairie from the desolate barrens. The spruces were gnarled and twisted by the wind, a number of them were dead, and many of the rest leaned unsymmetrically athwart each other. The straggling wood had no beauty and in the fading light wore a dreary, forbidding look. Fortunately, however, it was thin enough for the travellers to pick their way among the fallen branches and patches of muskeg, for the ground was marsh and their feet sank among the withered needles.

By and by Blake checked his pony and waited until Benson came up. The man moved with a slack heaviness and his face was worn and tense. He was tired with the journey, for excess had weakened him, and now the lust for drink which he had stubbornly fought against had grown overwhelming.

"I can go no faster. Push on and I'll follow your tracks," he said in a surly tone. "It takes time to get into condition, and I haven't walked much for several years."

"Neither have I," Harding answered cheerfully "I'm more used to riding in elevators and the street cars, but this sort of thing soon makes you fit."

"You're not troubled with my complaint," Benson rejoined, and when Blake started the pony deliberately dropped behind.

"He's in a black mood; we'll leave him to himself," Harding remarked. "So far he's braced up better than I expected, but when a man's been tanking steadily, it's pretty drastic to put him through the total deprivation cure."

"I wonder," Blake said thoughtfully, "whether it is a cure; we have both seen men who made some effort to save themselves go down. Though I'm a long way from being a philanthropist, I hate this waste of good material. Perhaps it's partly an economic objection, because I used to get savage in India when any of the Tommies' lives were thrown away by careless handling."

"It was your soldiers' business to be made use of, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Blake, frowning; "but there's a difference between that and the other thing. It's the needless waste of life and talent that annoys me. On the frontier, we spent men freely, which is the best word for it, because we tried to get something in return; a rebel hill fort seized, a raid turned back. If Benson had killed himself in breaking a horse or by an accident with a harvesting machine, one couldn't complain; but to see him do so with whisky is another matter."

Harding nodded. Blake was not given to serious conversation; indeed, he was rather casual, as a rule, but Harding, who was shrewd, saw beneath the surface a love of order, and what he thought of as constructive ability.

"I guess you're right, but your speaking of India, reminds me of something I want to mention. I've been thinking over what Clarke said to you. His game's obvious, and it might have been a profitable one. He wanted you to help him in squeezing Colonel Challoner."

"He knows now that he applied to the wrong man."

"That's so; it's my point. Suppose the fellow goes to work without you? It looks as if he'd learned enough to make him dangerous."

"He can do nothing. Let him trump up any plausible theory he likes; it won't stand for a moment after I deny it."

"True," said Harding gravely. "But if you were out of the way, he'd have a free hand. Since you wouldn't join him you're a serious obstacle."

Blake laughed. "I'm glad I am, and as I come of a healthy stock there's reason to believe I'll continue one."

Harding said nothing more, and they went on in silence through the gathering darkness The spruces were losing shape and getting blacker, though through openings here and there they could see a faint line of smoky red on the horizon. A cold wind wailed among the branches, and the thud of the tired horses' feet rang dully among the shadowy trunks. At length, reaching a strip of higher ground, the men pitched camp and turned out the hobbled horses to graze among the swamp grass that lined a muskeg. After supper they sat beside their fire, and by and by Benson took his pipe from his mouth.

"I've had enough of this, and I'm only a drag on you," he said. "Give me grub enough to see me through, and I'll start back for the settlement first thing in the morning."

"Don't be a fool," Blake said sharply. "You'll get harder and feel the march less every day. Are you willing to let Clarke get hold of you again?"

"I don't want to go. I'm driven; I can't help myself."

Blake felt sorry for him. He imagined that Benson had made a hard fight, but he was being beaten by his craving. Still, it seemed unwise to show any sympathy.

"You want to wallow like a hog for two or three days that you'll regret all your life," he said. "You have your chance of breaking free now. Be a man and take it. Hold out a little longer and you'll find it easier."

Benson regarded him with a mocking smile. "I'm inclined to think the jag you so feelingly allude to will last a week; that is, if I can raise dollars enough from Clarke to keep it up. You mayn't understand that I'm willing to barter all my future for it."

"Yes," said Harding grimly; "we understand all right. Yours is not a singular case; the trouble is that it's too common. But we'll quit talking about it. You can't go."

He was in no mood to handle the subject delicately; they were alone in the wilds and the situation made for candour. There was only one way in which they could help the man and he meant to take it. Benson turned to him angrily.

"Your permission's not required; I'm a free man."

"Are you?" Harding asked. "It strikes me as a very curious boast. Improving the occasion's a riling thing, but there was never a slave in Dixie tighter bound than you."

"That's an impertinence," Benson rejoined, flushing, as unsatisfied longing drove him to fury. "What business is it of yours to preach to me? Confound you! who are you? I tell you I won't have it. Give me food enough to last until I reach Sweetwater and let me go."

As he spoke a haughty ring crept into his voice and Blake was moved to compassion because he recognized it and found it ludicrous. Benson, who would not have used that tone in his normal state, belonged by right of birth to a ruling caste, and no doubt felt that he had been treated with indignity by a man of lower station. Harding, however, answered quietly—

"I am a paint factory drummer who has never had the opportunities you have enjoyed, but so long as we're up here in the wilds the only thing that counts is that we're men with the same weaknesses and feelings. Because that's so, and you're hard up against it, I and my partner mean to see you through."

"You can't unless I'm willing. Man, don't you realize that talking's of no use? The thing I'm driven by won't yield to words. What's more to the purpose, I didn't engage to go all the way with you. Now I've had enough, I'm going back to the settlement."

"Very well. You were right in claiming that there was no engagement of any kind. So far, we have found you in grub, but we're not bound to do so, and if you leave us, you must shift for yourself." Harding addressed Blake, who sat nearest the provisions. "You'll see that your friend doesn't touch those stores."

There was silence for a moment or two, and Benson, whose face was marked with baffled desire and scarcely controlled fury, glared at the others. Blake's expression was pitiful, but his lips were resolutely set; Harding's eyes were very keen and determined. Then Benson made a sign of resignation.

"It looks as if I were beaten. I may as well go to sleep."

He wrapped his blanket round him and lay down near the fire, and soon afterwards the others crept into the tent. Benson would be warm enough where he lay and they felt it a relief to get away from him.

Day was breaking when Blake rose and threw fresh wood on the fire, and as a bright flame leaped up, driving back the shadows, he saw that Benson was missing. This, however, did not disturb him, because the man had been restless and they had now and then heard him moving about at night. When the fire had burned up and he filled the kettle, without his seeing anything of his friend, he began to grow anxious and called loudly. There was no answer and he could hear no movement in the bush. The dark spruces had grown sharper in form; he could see some distance between the trunks, but everything was still. Then Harding came out of the tent.

"You had better look if the horses are there," he suggested.

Blake failed to find them near the muskeg, but as the light got clearer he saw tracks leading through the bush. Following these for a distance, he came upon the Indian pony, still hobbled, but the other, a powerful range horse, had gone. Mounting the pony, he rode back to camp, where he found Harding looking grave.

"The fellow's gone and taken some provisions with him," he said. "He left this for us."

It was a strip of paper, apparently torn from a pocket-book, with a few lines written on it. Benson said he regretted having to leave them in such an unceremonious fashion, but they had given him no choice, and added that he would leave the horse, hobbled, at a spot about two days' ride away.

"He seems to think he's showing us some consideration in not riding the beast down to the settlement," Blake remarked with a dubious smile, feeling strongly annoyed with himself for not taking more precautions. With the cunning which the lust for drink breeds in its victims Benson had outwitted him by feigning acquiescence. "Anyhow," he added, "I'll have to go after him. We must have the horse, for one thing, but I suppose we'll lose four days. This is rough on you."

"Yes," agreed Harding, "you must get after him, but don't mind about me. The man's a friend of yours and I like him; he wasn't quite responsible last night. I wouldn't feel happy if we let him fall back into the clutches of that cunning brute. Now we'll get breakfast; you'll need it."

They made a hasty meal and during it Blake said, "If you don't mind waiting, I'll follow him half way to Sweetwater if necessary. You see I haven't much expectation of overtaking him before he leaves the horse. It's the faster beast and we don't know when he started."

"That's so," said Harding. "Still, you're tough, and I guess the first hard day's ride will be enough for your partner."

Five minutes later Blake was picking his way as fast as possible through the wood. It was a cool morning, and when he had gone a few miles the ground was fairly clear. By noon he was in more open country, where there were long stretches of grass, and after a short rest he pushed on fast. Bright sunshine flooded the waste that now stretched back to the south, sprinkled with clumps of bush that showed a shadowy blue in the distance. In those he passed the birch and poplar leaves glowed in flecks of vivid lemon among the white stems, but Blake rode hard, his eyes turned steadily on the misty skyline. It was only broken by clusters of small trees; nothing moved on the wilderness he pushed across.

He felt tired when evening came, but he must find water before he camped, and he pressed on. Benson was a weak fool, who would, no doubt, give them further trouble, but they had taken him in hand, and Blake had made up his mind to save him from the rogue who preyed upon his failings. It was getting late when he saw a faint trail of smoke curl up against the sky from a distant bluff, and on approaching it he checked the jaded pony. Later he dismounted and picketing the animal moved cautiously round the edge of the wood. Passing a projecting tongue of smaller brush, he saw, as he had expected, Benson sitting beside a fire, and stopped a moment to watch him. The man's face was weary, his pose was slack, and it was obvious that the life he had led had unfitted him for a long, hard ride. He looked forlorn and dejected, but he started as Blake moved forward and his eyes had an angry gleam.

"So you have overtaken me; I thought myself safe from you," he said.

"You were wrong," Blake replied. "If it had been needful, I'd have gone after you to Clarke's. But I'm hungry and I'll cook my supper at your fire." He glanced at the provisions scattered about. "You haven't had much of a meal."

"It's a long drink I want," said Benson, looking steadily at him.

Blake, who let this pass, prepared his supper and offered the other a portion.

"Try some of that," he said, indicating the light flapjacks fizzling among the pork in the frying-pan. "It strikes me as a good deal more tempting than the stuff you have been eating."

Benson thrust the food aside, and Blake finished it before he took out his pipe. "Now," he said, "you can go to sleep when you wish. I expect you're tired, and it's a long ride back to camp."

"You seem to count upon my going back with you," Benson remarked mockingly.

"I do; don't you mean to come?"

"Do you suppose it's likely after I've ridden all this way?"

Blake laid down his pipe and looked hard at the man. "You force me to take a line I'm not cut out for. Think a moment! You have land and stock worth a good deal of money which my partner believes can be saved from the rogue who's stealing it from you. You are a young man, and if you pull yourself together and pay off his claims, you can sell out and look for another opening wherever you like, but you know what will happen if you go on as you are doing a year or two longer. Have you no friends and relatives in England you owe something to? Is your life worth nothing, that you're willing to throw it away?"

"It's all true," Benson admitted moodily. "Do you think I can't see where I'm drifting? The trouble is that I've gone too far to stop."

"Try," said Blake. "It's very well worth while."

Benson was silent for a few moments, and then looked up with a curious expression. "You're wasting time, Dick. I've sunk too far. Go back in the morning and leave me to my fate."

"When I go back you are coming with me."

Benson's nerves were on edge and his self-control broke down. "Confound you!" he cried; "let me alone! You have reached the limit; once for all, I'll stand no more meddling."

"Very well," Blake answered quietly, "You have left me only one recourse, and you can't blame me for taking it."

"What's that?"

"Superior strength. You're a heavier man than I am and ought to be a match for me, but you have lost your nerve and grown soft and flabby with drink. It's your own doing, and now you have to take the consequences. If you compel me, I'll drag you back to camp with the pack lariat."

"Do you mean that?" Benson's face grew flushed and his eyes glittered.

"Try me and see."

Savage as he was, Benson realized that his companion was capable of making his promise good. The man looked hard and very muscular, and his expression was determined.

"This is insufferable!" he cried.

Blake coolly filled his pipe. "There's no other remedy. Before I go to sleep I'll picket the horses close beside me and if you steal away on foot during the night, I'll ride you down a few hours after daybreak. I think you understand me, and there's nothing more to be said."

He tried to talk about other matters and found it hard, for Benson, tormented by his craving, made no response. Darkness crept in about them and the prairie grew shadowy. The leaves in the bluff rustled in a faint, cold wind, and the smoke of the fire drifted round the men. For a while Benson sat moodily watching his companion, and then, wrapping his blanket round him, lay down and turned away his head. It was now very dark outside the flickering light of the fire, and by and by Blake, who felt the strain of the situation, strolled towards the horses and chose a resting-place beside their pickets.

Waking in the cold of daybreak, he saw Benson asleep, and made breakfast before he called him. They ate in silence and then Blake led up the pony.

"I think we'll make a start," he said as cheerfully as he could.

For a moment or two Benson hesitated, standing with hands clenched and baffled desire in his face, but Blake looked coolly resolute, and he mounted.



CHAPTER XI

HARDING GROWS SUSPICIOUS

Benson gave Blake no further trouble, and when they rode up to the camp, apparently on good terms with one another, Harding made no reference to what had occurred. He greeted them pleasantly and soon afterwards they sat down to a meal he had been cooking. When they had finished and lighted their pipes Benson said, "A remark was made the other night which struck me as quite warranted. It was pointed out that I had contributed nothing to the cost of this trip."

"It was very uncivil of Harding to mention it," Blake answered with a grin. "Still, you see, circumstances rather forced him."

"They did. You might have put it more harshly with truth. But I want to suggest that you let me take a share in your venture."

"Sorry," said Harding, "I can't agree to that."

Benson sat smoking in silence for the next minute or two. Then he said, "I think I understand and can't blame you. You haven't much cause for trusting me."

"I didn't mean——" Harding began, but Benson stopped him.

"I know. It's my weakness you're afraid of. However, you must let me pay my share of the provisions and any transport we may be able to get. That's all I insist on now; if you feel more confidence in me later, I may reopen the other question." He paused and added: "You are two very good fellows. I think I can promise not to play the fool again."

"Perhaps we'd better talk about something else," Blake suggested.

They broke camp early next morning, and Benson struggled manfully with his craving during the next week or two which they spent in pushing farther into the forest. It was a desolate waste of small, stunted trees, many of which were dead and stripped of half their branches, while wide belts had been scarred by fire. Harding found the unvarying sombre green of the needles strangely monotonous, but the ground was comparatively clear, and the party made progress until at length, when the country grew more broken, they fell in with three returning prospectors.

"If you'll trade your horses, we might make a deal," said one when they camped together. "You can't take them much farther—the country's too rough—and we could sell out to one of the farmers near the settlements."

Blake was glad to come to terms, and afterwards another of the men said, "We've been out two months on a general prospecting trip. It's the toughest country to get through I ever struck."

His worn and ragged appearance bore this out, and Harding asked: "Are there minerals up yonder? We're not in that line; it's a forest product we're looking for."

"We found indications of gold, copper, and one or two other metals, besides petroleum, but didn't see anything that looked worth taking up. Considering the cost of transport, you want to strike it pretty rich before what you find will pay as a business proposition."

"So I should imagine. Petroleum's a cheap product to handle when you're a long way from a market, isn't it?"

"Give us plenty of it and we'll make a market. It's an idea of mine that there's no part of this country that hasn't something worth working in it if you can get cheap fuel. Where the land's too poor for farming you often find minerals, and ore that won't pay for transport can be reduced on the spot, so long as you have natural resources that can be turned into power. With an oil well in good flow we'd soon start some profitable industry and put up a city that would bring a railroad in. Show our business men a good opening and you'll get the dollars, while there are folks across the frontier who have a mighty keen scent for oil."

"Have you done much prospecting?" Harding asked.

The other smiled. "Whenever I can get dollars enough for an outfit I go off on the trail. There's a fascination in the thing that gets hold of you—you can't tell what you may strike and the prizes are big. However, I allow that after seven or eight years of it I'm poorer than when I started at the game."

Blake made a sign of comprehension. He knew the sanguine nature of the Westerner and his belief in the richness of his country, and he had felt the call of the wilderness. There was, in truth, a fascination in the silent waste that drew the adventurous into its rugged fastnesses, and that a number of them did not come back seldom deterred the others.

"We want to get as far north as the timber limit, if we can," he said. "I understand there are no Hudson's Bay factories near our line, but we were told we might find some Stony Indians."

"There's one bunch of them," the prospector replied. "They ramble about after fish and furs, but they've a kind of base-camp where a few generally stop. They're a mean crowd and often short of food, but if they've been lucky you might get supplies. Now and then they put up a lot of dried fish and kill some caribou."

He told Blake roughly where the Indian encampment lay, and after talking for a while they went to sleep. Next morning the prospectors, who took the horses, started for the south, while Blake's party pushed on north with loads that severely tried their strength. After a few days' laborious march they reached a stream and found a few Indians who were willing to take them some distance down it. It was a relief to get rid of the heavy packs and rest while the canoe glided smoothly through the straggling forest, and the labour of hauling her across the numerous portages was light compared with the toil of the march. Blake, however, had misgivings; they were making swift progress northwards, but it would be different when they came back. Rivers and lakes would be frozen then, which might make travelling easier, if they could pick up the hand sledges they had cached, but there was a limit to the provisions they could transport, and unless fresh supplies could be obtained they would have a long distance to traverse on scanty rations in the rigours of the Arctic winter.

After a day or two the Indians, who were going no farther, landed them and they entered a belt of very broken country across which they must push to reach a larger stream. The ground was rocky, pierced by ravines, and covered with clumps of small trees. There were stony tracts they painfully picked their way across, steep ridges to be clambered over, and belts of quaggy muskeg they must skirt, and the day's march grew rapidly shorter. Benson, however, gave them no trouble; the man was getting hard and was generally cheerful, while when he had an occasional fit of moroseness as he fought with the longing that tormented him they left him alone. Still at times they were daunted by the rugged sternness of the region they were steadily pushing through, and the thought of the long return journey troubled them.

One night when it was raining they sat beside their fire in a desolate gorge. A cold wind swept between the thin spruce trunks that loomed vaguely out of the surrounding gloom as the red glare leaped up, and wisps of acrid smoke drifted about the camp. There was a lake up the hollow, and now and then the wild and mournful cry of a loon rang out. The men were tired and somewhat dejected as they sat about the blaze with their damp blankets round them, but by and by Blake, who had been feeling drowsy, looked up.

"What was that?" he asked.

The others could hear nothing but the sound of running water and the wail of the wind. Since leaving the Indians they had seen no sign of life and believed they were crossing uninhabited wilds. Blake could not tell what had suddenly roused his attention, but in former days he had developed his perceptive faculties by close night watching on the Indian frontier, where any relaxing of his vigilance might have cost his life. Something, he thought, was moving in the bush and he felt uneasy. Then he rose as a stick cracked, and Harding called out as a shadowy figure appeared on the edge of the light. Blake laughed, but his uneasiness did not desert him when he recognized Clarke. The fellow was not to be trusted and had come upon them in a startling manner. Moving coolly forward, he sat down by the fire.

"I suppose you were surprised to see me," he remarked.

"That's so," Harding answered and added nothing further, while Benson, whose face wore a curious strained expression, did not speak.

"Well," said Clarke, who filled his pipe, "I daresay I made a rather dramatic entrance, falling upon you, so to speak, out of the dark."

"I've a suspicion that you enjoy that kind of thing," Harding rejoined. "You're a man with the dramatic feeling; guess you find it useful now and then."

Clarke's eyes twinkled, but it was not with wholesome humour. They were keen, but he looked old and forbidding as he sat with the smoke blowing about him and the ruddy firelight on his face.

"There's some truth in your remark and I take it as a compliment, but my arrival's easily explained. I saw your fire in the distance and curiosity brought me along."

"What are you doing up here?"

"Going on a visit to my friends the Stonies. Though it's a long way, I look them up now and then."

"From what I've heard of them they don't seem a very attractive lot," Blake interposed. "But we haven't offered you any supper. Benson, you might put on the frying-pan."

"No thanks," said Clarke. "I'm camped with two half-breeds a little way back. The Stonies, as you remark, are not a polished set, but we're on pretty good terms and it's their primitiveness that makes them interesting. You can learn things civilized folk don't know much about from these people."

"In my opinion it's knowledge that's not worth much to a white man," Harding remarked contemptuously. "Guess you mean the secrets of their medicine-men? What isn't gross superstition is trickery."

"There you are wrong. They have some tricks, rather clever ones, though that's not unusual with the professors of a more advanced occultism; but living, as they do, in direct contact with Nature in her most savage mood, they have found clues to things that we regard as mysteries. Anyhow, they have discovered a few effective remedies that aren't generally known yet to medical science."

He spoke with some warmth and had the look of a genuine enthusiast, but Harding laughed.

"Medical science hasn't much to say in favour of hoodoo practices, so far as I know. But I understand you are a doctor."

"I was pretty well known in London."

"Then," said Harding bluntly, "what brought you to Sweetwater?"

"If you haven't heard, I may as well tell you, because the thing isn't a secret at the settlement." Clarke turned and his eyes rested on Blake. "I'm by no means the only man who has come to Canada under a cloud. There was a famous police-court affair I figured in, and though nothing was proved against me my practice afterwards fell to bits. As a matter of fact, I was absolutely innocent of the offence I was charged with. I had acted without much caution out of pity and laid myself open to an attack that was meant to cover the escape of the real criminal."

Blake, who thought he spoke the truth, felt some sympathy, but Clarke went on: "In a few weeks I was without patients or friends; driven out from the profession I loved and in which I was beginning to make my mark. It was a blow I never altogether recovered from, and the generous impulse which got me into trouble was the last I yielded to."

His face changed, growing hard and malevolent, and Blake now felt strangely repelled. It looked as if the man had been soured by his misfortunes and turned into an outlaw who found a vindictive pleasure in making such reprisals as he found possible upon society at large. This conclusion was borne out by what Blake had learned at the settlement.

Nobody made any comment, and there was silence for a few minutes while the smoke whirled about the group and the drips from the dark boughs above fell upon the brands. Then Clarke asked Benson a question or two and afterwards talked casually with the others until he rose to go.

"I shall start at daybreak and your way lies to the east of mine," he said. "You'll find travelling easier when the snow comes; I wish you good luck."

Though the loneliness of the wilds had now and then weighed upon them, they felt relieved when he left, and soon afterwards Benson went to sleep, but Blake and Harding continued talking for a time.

"That's a man I have no use for," the American remarked. "I suppose it struck you that he made no attempt to get your friend back?"

"I noticed it. He may have thought it wouldn't succeed and didn't wish to show his hand. Benson already looks a different man; I saw the fellow studying him."

"He could have drawn him away by the sight of a whisky flask or a hint of a jag in camp. My opinion is that he didn't want him."

"That's curious," said Blake. "He seems to have stuck to Benson pretty closely, no doubt with the object of fleecing him, and you think he's not altogether ruined yet."

"If what he told me is correct, there are still some pickings left on him."

"I don't suppose the explanation is that Clarke has some conscience and feels he has robbed him enough."

Harding laughed. "He has as much pity as a hungry wolf; in fact, to my mind, he's the more dangerous brute, because I've a feeling that he delights in doing harm. There's something cruel about the man; getting fired out of his profession must have warped his nature. Then there was another point that struck me; why's he going so far to stay with those Indians?"

"It's puzzling," Blake said thoughtfully. "He hinted that he was interested in their superstitions, and I think there was some truth in it. Meddling with these things seems to have a fascination for neurotic people, and as the fellow's a sensualist he may find some form of indulgence that wouldn't be tolerated near the settlements. All this, however, doesn't quite seem to account for the thing."

"I've another idea," said Harding. "Clarke's known as a crank and takes advantage of it to cover his doings. At first, I thought of the whisky trade, but taking up prohibited liquor would hardly be worth his while, though I daresay he has some with him to be used for gaining his Indian friends' good will. He's on the trail of something and it's probably minerals. What the prospector told us suggested it to me."

"You may be right. Anyway, it doesn't seem to concern us."

"Well," said Harding gravely, "I'm troubled about his leaving Benson alone, when one could have understood his trying to take him away. The fellow had some good reason—I wish I knew."