It was a relief to load the sled, and when that was done they set off in the hide traces across the ice with the snow whirling about them. It was arduous work apart from the hauling of the load, for the ice was rough and broken, and covered for the most part with softening snow. They had only gum-boots with soft hide moccasins under them, for snow-shoes are only used in Eastern Canada, and it takes one a long while to learn to walk on them. Sometimes they sank almost knee-deep, sometimes they slipped and scrambled on uncovered ledges, but they pushed on with the sled bouncing and sliding unevenly behind them until the afternoon had almost gone.

Then they set up the saturated tent behind a hummock, and crouched inside it upon a ground sheet while Charly boiled a kettle on the little oil blast stove, and the wind that screamed about it hurled the snow upon the straining canvas. It, however, stood the buffeting, and when they had eaten a very simple meal Charly put the stove out and the darkness was only broken down when one of them struck a match to light his pipe. They had only a strip of rubber sheeting between them and the snow, for the water had got into the sleeping bags, and their clothes dried upon them with the heat of their bodies. They said nothing for awhile, and Wyllard was half-asleep when Charly spoke.

"I've been thinking about that boat," he said. "Though I don't know that we could have done it, we ought to have tried to pull her out."

"Why?" asked Wyllard. "She'd have been all to pieces, anyway."

"I'm figuring it out like this. If Dampier wasn't up in the shrouds when we made the landing he'd sent somebody. We could see him up against the sky, but we'd be much less clear to him low down with the ice and the surf about us. Besides, it was snowing quite fast then. Well, I don't know what Dampier saw, but I guess he'd have made out that we hadn't hauled the boat up, anyway. The trouble is that with the wind freshening and it getting thick he'd have to thrash the schooner out and lie to until it cleared. When he runs in again it's quite likely that he'll find the boat and an oar or two. Seems to me that's going to worry him considerable."

Wyllard, drowsy as he was getting, agreed with this view of the matter. He realised that it would have been quite impossible for Dampier to have sent them any assistance, and it was merely a question whether they should retrace their steps to the edge of the ice next morning and make him some signal. Against this there was the strong probability that he would not run in if the gale and snow continued, and the fact that it was desirable to make the beach as soon as possible in case the ice broke up before they reached it. What was rather more to the purpose, he was quietly determined on pushing on.

"It can't be helped," he said simply. "We'll start for the beach as soon as it's daylight."

Charly made no answer, and the brawny, dark-skinned Siwash, who spoke English reasonably well, only grunted. Unless it seemed necessary, he seldom said anything at all. Bred to the sea, and living on the seal and salmon, as he had done, an additional hazard or two or an extra strain on his tough body did not count for much with him. He had been accustomed to sleep wet through with icy water, and crouch for hours with numbed hands clenched on the steering-paddle while the long sea canoe scudded furiously over the big combers before bitter gale or driving snow. Wyllard, who rolled over, pulled a wet sleeping-bag across him, and after that there was silence in the little rocking tent.

In the meanwhile, Charly's deductions had been proved correct, for when the breeze freshened Dampier climbed into the shrouds. He had noticed the ominous blackness to windward, and knew what it meant, which was why he had hauled a reef in the schooner's mainsail down, and now kept her out a little from the ice. As the light faded he found it very difficult to see the boat against the white wash of the seas that recoiled from the ice, but when the snow was whirling about him he decided that she was in some peril unless her crew could pull her round the point. It was evident that this would be a difficult matter, though he had only an occasional glimpse of her now. He waved an arm to the helmsman, who understood that he was to run the schooner in; there was a rattle of blocks as the booms swung out, and as the Selache sped away before the rapidly freshening breeze it seemed to Dampier that he saw the boat hurled upon the ice. Then a blinding haze of snow shut out everything, and he came down with a run.

He stood for several minutes gazing forward grim in face beside the wheel, but he could see nothing except the filmy whiteness and the tops of the seas that had steadily been getting steeper. The schooner was driving furiously down upon the ice, but it was evident to him that to send Wyllard any assistance was utterly beyond his power. He could have hove the schooner to while he got the bigger boat over, and two men might have pulled her towards the ice with the breeze astern of them, but it was perfectly clear that they could neither have made a landing nor have pulled her back again. It was also, though this appeared of less consequence, uncertain whether he and the other man could have brought the schooner round or have got more sail off her, which would, as he recognised, very soon have to be done. Still, he stood on while the snow grew thicker until they heard the wash of the sea upon the ice close to lee of them, and then it was a hard-clenched hand he raised in sign to the helmsman.

"On the wind. Haul lee sheets!" he said.

She came round a little, heading off the ice, and when she drove away with the foam seething white beneath one depressed rail and the spray whirling high about her plunging bows, there was a curious tense look in the white men's faces as they gazed into the thickening white haze to lee of her.

They thrashed her out until Dampier decided that there was sufficient water between him and the ice, and then stripped most of the sail off her, and she lay to until next morning, when they once more got sail on her and ran in again. The breeze had fallen a little, it was rather clearer, and they picked up the point, though it had somewhat changed its shape. Then they got a boat over, and the two men who went off in her found a few broken planks, a couple of oars, and Charly's cap washing up and down in the surf. They had very little doubt as to what that meant.



CHAPTER XXV.

NEWS OF DISASTER.

When the boat reached the schooner Dampier went off with one of the men, and contrived to make a landing on the ice with difficulty only to find it covered with a trackless sheet of slushy snow. Though he floundered shorewards a mile or two there was nothing except the shattered boat to suggest what had befallen Wyllard and his companions, but the skipper, who retraced his steps with a heavy heart, had little doubt in his mind. After that he waited two days, until a strong breeze blew him off the ice, which was rapidly breaking up, and then stood out for open water, where he hove the Selache to for a week or so. Then he proceeded northwards to the inlet fixed upon.

He was convinced that this was useless, but as the opening was almost clear of ice he sailed the schooner in, and spent a week or two scouring the surrounding country. He found it a desolation, still partly covered with slushy snow, out of which ridges of volcanic rock rose here and there. On two of these spots a couple of days' march from the schooner, he made a depot of provisions, and raised a beacon of piled-up stones beside them. At times when it was clear he could see the top of a great range high up against the Western sky, but those times were rare. For the most part, the wilderness was swept by rain or wrapped in clammy fog.

There was, however, no sign of Wyllard, and at length Dampier, coming back jaded and dejected from another fruitless search, after the time agreed upon had expired, shut himself up alone for a couple of hours in the little cabin. He was certain now that Wyllard and his companions had been drowned while attempting to make a landing on the ice, since they would have joined him at the inlet as arranged had this not been the case. The distance was by no means great, and there were no Russian settlements on that part of the coast. He sat very still, with a clenched hand upon the little table, and a set face, balancing conjecture against conjecture, and then regretfully decided that there was only one course open to him. It was dark when he went up on deck again, but the men were sitting smoking about the windlass forward.

"You can heave some of that cable in, boys," he said. "We'll clear out for Vancouver at sun-up."

They said nothing, but they shipped the levers, and Dampier went back to the cabin, for the clank of the windlass and the ringing of the cable jarred upon him.

Early next morning the Selache stood out to sea, and once they had left the fog and rain which hung about the coast behind, she carried fine weather with her across the Pacific. On reaching Vancouver, Dampier had some trouble with the authorities, to whom it was necessary to report the drowning of three of his crew, but he was more fortunate than he expected, and after placing the schooner in the hands of a broker for sale, he left the city one evening on the Atlantic train. Three days later, he was driving across the prairie towards the Hastings homestead, and, as it happened, its inmates were sitting together in the big general room after supper, when the waggon he had hired swung into sight over the crest of a rise.

It was a still, hot evening, and as the windows were open wide a faint beat of hoofs came up across the tall wheat and dusty prairie before the waggon topped the rise. Hastings, who lay in a cane chair near the window, with his pipe in his hand, looked up as he heard it.

"Somebody driving in," he said. "I shouldn't be astonished if it's Gregory. He talked about coming over the last time I saw him."

"If he wants to talk about a deal in wheat, he can stay away," said Mrs. Hastings with a certain dryness. "If all one hears is true, he has lost quite a few of Harry's dollars on the market lately."

Hastings looked somewhat troubled at this. "I'd sooner think it was his own dollars he'd thrown away."

"That's quite out of the question. He hasn't any."

"Well," said Hastings, with an air of reflection, "I'll get Sproatly to make inquiries. He'll probably be along with Winifred this evening, and if he finds that Gregory is getting in rather deep I'll have a word or two with him. Anyway, I can't have him wasting Harry's money, and I have some right to protest as one of the executors."

Agatha started at the last word. It had an ominous ring, and she fancied that Hastings had noticed the effect it had on her, for he seemed to glance at her curiously. Turning from him, she rose and walked quietly towards the window.

The wheat stretched across the foreground, tall and darkly green, and beyond it the white grass ran back to the rise, which cut sharp against a red and smoky glow. The sun had dipped some little time ago, and already there was a wonderful exhilarating coolness in the air. Somehow the sight reminded her of another evening, when she had looked out across the prairie from a seat at Wyllard's table, almost a year ago.

In the meanwhile, a waggon was drawing nearer down the long slope of the rise, and the beat of hoofs which grew steadily louder in a sharp staccato made the memories clearer. She had heard Dampier riding in the night Wyllard had received his summons, and now she wondered who the approaching stranger was, and what his business could be. She did not know why, but she scarcely thought it was Gregory.

Presently Hastings looked round again. "It's the team Bramfield hires out at the settlement," he said. "None of our friends would get him to drive them in. There seems to be two men in the waggon. Bramfield will be one. I can't make out the other."

Mrs. Hastings, who was evidently becoming curious about the unexpected guest, walked forward in turn, and they stood watching the waggon until Agatha made a little abrupt movement.

"It's Captain Dampier," she said.

Then she stood tensely still, with lips slightly parted, and a strained look in her eyes, while Hastings gazed at the waggon for another moment or two.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was harsh, "it's Dampier. The other man's surely Bramfield. Harry's not with him."

Once more he glanced at Agatha, who turned away, and sat down in the nearest chair. She said nothing, and there was an oppressive silence, through which the beat of hoofs and rattle of wheels rang more distinctly.

In another few minutes Dampier came in, while his companion drove off to the stables. He shook hands with Agatha and Mrs. Hastings diffidently.

"You remember me?" he said.

"Of course," said Mrs. Hastings, with a trace of sharpness. "Where's Harry?"

The skipper spread a hard hand out, and sat down heavily.

"That," he said, "is what I have to tell you. He asked me to."

"He asked you to?" said Agatha, and though her voice was strained there was relief in it.

The skipper made a little gesture, which seemed to beseech her patience.

"Yes," he said, "if—anything went wrong—he told me I was to come here to Mrs. Hastings."

Agatha turned her head away, but Mrs. Hastings saw the laces which hung beneath her neck sharply rise and fall.

"Then," she said, "something has gone wrong?"

"About as wrong as it could," and Dampier quietly met her gaze. "Wyllard and two other men are drowned."

He broke off abruptly, and Mrs. Hastings fancied she saw Agatha shiver, but in another moment or two the girl turned slowly round with a drawn white face. It was, however, Hastings who spoke, almost sternly.

"Go on," he said.

"I'm to tell you all?"

This time it was Agatha who broke in.

"Yes," she said with a curious quietness that struck the rest as being strained and unnatural, "you must tell us all."

Dampier, who appeared to shrink from his task, commenced awkwardly, but he gained coherence and force of expression as he proceeded. At least, he made them understand something of the grim resolution which had animated Wyllard. He pictured, in terse seaman's words, the little schooner plunging to windward over long phalanxes of icy seas, or crawling white with snow through the blinding fog. His companions saw the big combers tumbling ready to break short upon the dipping bows out of the dark, and half-frozen men struggling for dear life with folds of madly thrashing sail. The pictures were, however, necessarily somewhat blurred and hazy, for after all only an epic poet could fittingly describe the things that must be done and borne at sea, and epic poets—it is, perhaps, a pity—are not bred in the forecastle. When he reached the last scene he gained almost dramatic power, and Agatha's face grew strangely white and tense. She saw the dim figures pulling in the flying spray beneath the wall of ice.

"We ran her in," he added, "with the snow blinding us. It was working up for a heavy blow, and as we'd have to beat her out we couldn't take sail off her. We stood on until we heard the sea along the edge of the ice, and then there was nothing to do but jam her on the wind and thrash her clear. There was only a plank or two of the boat, an oar, and Charly's cap, when we came back again!"

"After all, though the boat was smashed, they might have got out," Hastings suggested.

"Well," said Dampier simply, "it didn't seem likely. The ice was sharp and ragged, and there was a long wash of sea. A man's not tough enough to stand much of that kind of hammering."

Agatha's face grew a little whiter, but Dampier, who had paused, went on again.

"Anyway," he said, "they didn't turn up at the inlet as we'd fixed, and that decided the thing. If Wyllard had been alive, he surely would have done."

"Isn't it just possible that he might have fallen into the hands of the Russians?" asked Hastings.

"I naturally thought of that, but so far as the chart shows there isn't a settlement within leagues of the spot. Besides, supposing the Russians had got him, how could I have helped him? They'd have sent him off in the first place to one of the bigger settlements in the South, and if the authorities couldn't have connected him with any illegal sealing they'd no doubt have managed to send him across to Japan by and bye. In that case, he'd have got home without any trouble."

He paused, and it was significant that he turned to Agatha with a little deprecatory gesture.

"No," he added, "there was nothing I could do."

It was evident that Agatha acquitted him, but she asked a question.

"Captain Dampier," she said, "had you any expectation of finding those three men when you sailed the second time?"

"No," said the bronzed sailorman, with an impressive quietness, "I hadn't any, and I don't think Wyllard had either. Still, he meant to make quite certain." He spread a hard hand out forcibly. "He felt he had to."

He gazed at Agatha, and saw comprehension in her eyes.

"Yes," she said, "and when you have said that, as you have done, you could have said very little more of any man."

Then she turned her head away from them, and once more there was for a few moments a heavy silence in the room. It cost the girl a painful effort to sit still, apparently unmoved, but there was strength in her, and she would not betray her distress. She felt that the latter must be quietly grappled with. It was almost overwhelming, horribly acute, but there was mingled with it a faint consolatory thrill of pride, for it was clear that the man who had loved her had done a splendid thing. He had given all that had been given him—and she knew she would never forget that phrase of his—willingly, and it seemed to her that the gifts he had been entrusted with were rare and precious ones—steadfast, unflinching courage, compassion, and the fine sense of honour which had sent him out on that forlorn hope. He had gone down, unyielding and undismayed—she felt curiously sure of that—amidst the blinding snow, but this was his vindication which had crowned him with immortal laurels.

Then Mrs. Hastings rose, and set food before Dampier, while by and bye Sproatly and Winifred arrived and were told the story. After that Dampier, who seemed to be a man of tact, stood up. He had already, when asked by Mrs. Hastings, promised to stay with them a day or two.

"Well," he said, "it seems to me you'll naturally want to talk over things. If you'll excuse me, I'll take a stroll across the prairie."

He went out, and Hastings who lighted his pipe lay back in his chair and looked at the rest.

"Harry's friends are numerous, but we're, perhaps, the nearest, and, as Dampier said, we have to consider things," he said. "To begin with, there's a certain possibility that he has escaped, after all."

He saw the little abrupt movement that Agatha made, and went on rather more quickly.

"Gregory, of course, has control at the Range until we have proof of Harry's death, though the latter made a proviso that if there was no word of the party within eighteen months after he had sailed, or within six months of the time Dampier had landed him, we could assume it, after which the will he handed me would take effect," he added. "This, it is evident, leaves Gregory in charge for some months yet, but it seems to me it's our duty to see he doesn't fling away Harry's property. I've reasons for believing that he has been doing it lately."

He looked at Sproatly, who sat silent a moment or two.

"I'm rather awkwardly placed," the latter said at length. "You see, there's no doubt that I'm indebted to Gregory."

Winifred turned to him with impatience in her eyes. "Then," she said severely, "you certainly shouldn't have been, and it ought to be quite clear that nobody wishes you to do anything that would hurt him." She looked at Hastings. "In case the will takes effect, who does the property go to?"

Hastings appeared embarrassed. "That," he objected, "is a thing I'm not warranted in telling you in the meanwhile."

A suggestive gleam crept into Winifred's eyes, but it vanished and her manner became authoritative when she turned back to Sproatly.

"Jim," she said, "you will tell Mr. Hastings all you know."

Sproatly made a gesture of resignation. "After all," he admitted, "I think it's necessary. Gregory, as I've told you already, put up a big mortgage on his place, and in view of the price of wheat and the state of his crop, it's evident that he must have had some difficulty in meeting the interest, unless—and one or two things suggest this—he paid it with Harry's money. Of course, as Harry gave him a share, there's no reason why he shouldn't do this so long as he does not overdraw that share. There's no doubt, however, that he has lost a good deal of money on the wheat market."

"Has he lost any of Harry's?" Mrs. Hastings asked.

Sproatly hesitated. "I'm afraid it's practically certain."

Then Winifred broke in. "Yes," she said, "he has lost a great deal. Hamilton knows almost everything that's going on, and I got it out of him. He's a friend of Wyllard's, and seems very vexed with Gregory."

The others said nothing for a moment or two, and then Mrs. Hastings spoke again.

"In a general way," she said, "most of us don't keep much in the bank, and that expedition must have cost Harry a good deal. How would Gregory get hold of the money before harvest?"

"Edmonds, who holds his mortgage, would let him have it," said Sproatly.

"But wouldn't he be afraid of Gregory not being able to pay if the market went against him?"

Sproatly looked very thoughtful. "The arrangement Wyllard made with Gregory would, perhaps, give Edmonds a claim upon the Range if Gregory borrowed any money in his name. I almost think that's what he's scheming for. The man's cunning enough for anything. I don't like him."

Then Hastings stood up with an air of resolution. "Yes," he said, "I'm most afraid you're quite correct. Anyway, I'll drive over in a day or two and have a talk with Gregory."

After that they separated, for Hastings strolled away to join Dampier, and Sproatly and Winifred walked out on to the prairie. When they had left the house the man turned to his companion.

"Why did you insist upon me telling them what I did?" he asked.

"Oh!" said Winifred, "I had several reasons. For one thing, when I first came out feeling very forlorn and friendless, it was Wyllard who sent me to the elevator, and they really treat me very decently."

"They?" said Sproatly with resentment in his face. "If you mean Hamilton, it seems to me that he treats you with an excess of decency that there's no occasion for."

Winifred laughed. "In any case, he doesn't drive me out here every two or three weeks, though"—and she glanced at her companion provocatively—"he once or twice suggested that he would like to."

"I suppose you pointed out his presumption?"

"No," said Winifred with an air of reflection, "I didn't go quite so far as that. After all, the man is my employer; I had to handle him tactfully."

"He won't be your employer a week after the implement people open their new depot," said Sproatly resolutely. "Anyway, we're getting away from the subject. Have you any more reasons for concerning yourself about what Gregory does with Wyllard's property?"

"I've one; I suppose you don't know who he has left at least a part of it to?"

Sproatly started as an idea crept into his mind.

"I wonder if you're right?" he said.

"I feel reasonably sure of it," and Winifred smiled. "In fact, that's partly why I don't want Gregory to throw any more of Wyllard's money away. In the meanwhile, you have done all I expect from you."

"Then Hastings is to go on with the thing?"

"Hastings," Winifred assured him, "will fail—just as you would. This is a matter which requires to be handled delicately—and effectively."

"Then who is going to undertake it?"

Winifred laughed. "Oh," she said, "a woman, naturally. I'm going back by and bye to have a word or two with Mrs. Hastings."



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE RESCUE.

Winifred's views were shortly proved correct, for Hastings, who drove over to the Range a day or two after her visit, came back rather disturbed in temper after what he described as a very unsatisfactory interview with Hawtrey.

"I couldn't make the man hear reason," he informed his wife. "In fact, he practically told me that the thing was no concern of mine. I assured him that it concerned me directly as one of the executors of Harry's will, and I'm afraid I afterwards indulged in a few personalities. I expect that blamed mortgage broker has got a very strong hold on him."

Mrs. Hastings looked reflective. "You have never told me anything about the will."

"If I haven't, it wasn't for want of prompting," said Hastings drily. "Still, the will was sealed, and handed me by Harry on the express understanding that it was not to be opened until we had proof that he was dead or the six months mentioned had expired. If he turned up it would, of course, be handed back to him. He made me promise solemnly that I would not offer the least hint as to its provisions to anybody."

Mrs. Hastings made a gesture of resignation. "In that case I suppose I must be content, but he might have made an exception of—me. Anyway, I think I see how we can put what appears to be a little necessary pressure upon Gregory." Then she turned again to her husband rather abruptly. "After all, is it worth while for me to trouble about the thing?"

Hastings was taken off his guard. "Yes," he said decidedly, "if you can put any pressure on Gregory I guess it would be very desirable to do it as soon as possible."

"Then you think that Harry may turn up, after all?"

"I do," said Hastings gravely; "I don't know why. In any case it's highly desirable—for several reasons—that Gregory shouldn't fling his property away."

Mrs. Hastings smiled. "Well," she said, "I'll think over it. I'll probably get Agatha to see what she can do in the first place."

She saw a trace of uncertainty in her husband's face, which was, however, what she had expected.

"As you like," he said. "Something must be done, but on the whole I'd rather you didn't trouble Agatha about the matter; it would be wiser."

Mrs. Hastings asked no more questions. She fancied she understood the situation, and she had Agatha's interests at heart, for she had grown very fond of the girl. There was certainly one slight difficulty in the way of what she meant to do, but she determined to disregard it, though she admitted that it might cause Agatha some embarrassment afterwards. During the afternoon she found the latter alone, and sat down beside her.

"My dear," she said, "I wonder if I may ask whether you are quite convinced that Harry's dead?"

She felt that the question was necessary, though it seemed rather a cruel one, and she saw signs of tension in the girl's expression.

"No," said the latter very quietly; "I can't quite bring myself to believe it."

"Then, since you heard what Sproatly said, you would be willing to do anything that appeared possible to prevent Gregory throwing Harry's dollars away?"

"Yes," said Agatha, "I have been thinking about it." A little sparkle of disdainful anger crept into her eyes. "Gregory seems to have been acting shamefully."

"Then as he won't listen to Allen, we must get Sally to impress that fact on him."

"Sally?" said Agatha in evident astonishment.

Mrs. Hastings smiled. "I don't think you understand Sally as well as I do. Of course, like the rest of us, she falls a long way short of perfection, and—though it's a difficult subject—there's no doubt that her conduct in leading Gregory on while he was still engaged to you was hardly quite correct. After all, however, you owe her something for that."

"It isn't very hard to forgive her for it," said Agatha quietly.

"Well, I want you to realise Sally. Right or wrong, she's fond of the man. Of course, I've told you this already, but I must try to make it clear how that fact bears upon the business in hand. Sally certainly fought for him, and there's no doubt that one could find fault with several things she did; but the point is that she's evidently determined on making the most of him now she has got him. In some respects, at least, she's absolutely straight—one hundred cents to the dollar is what Allen says of her—and although you might perhaps not have expected this, I believe it would hurt her horribly to feel that Gregory was squandering money that didn't strictly belong to him."

"Then you mean to make her understand what he is doing?"

"No," said Mrs. Hastings; "I want you to do it. I've reasons for believing that your influence would go further with her than mine. For one thing, I fancy she is feeling rather ashamed of herself."

Agatha looked thoughtful. She had certainly not credited Sally with possessing any fine sense of honour, but she was willing to accept her companion's assurance.

"The situation," she pointed out, "is rather a delicate one. You wish to expose Gregory's conduct to the girl he is going to marry, though, as you admit, the explanation will probably be painful to her. Can't you understand that the course suggested is a particularly difficult and repugnant one—to me?"

"I've no doubt of it," said Mrs. Hastings. "Still, I think it must be adopted—for several reasons. In the first place, I fancy that if we can pull Gregory up now we will save him from involving himself irretrievably. After all, perhaps, you owe him the effort. Then I think that we all owe something to Harry, and we can, at least, endeavour to carry his wishes out. He laid down what was to be done with his possessions in a will, and he never could have anticipated Gregory dissipating them as he is doing."

The last reason, as she had foreseen, proved irresistible to Agatha, and she made a sign of concurrence.

"If you will drive me over I will do what I can," she said.

Now she had succeeded Mrs. Hastings lost no time, and they set out for the Creightons' homestead next day, while soon after they reached it she tactfully contrived that Sally should be left alone with Agatha. They stood outside the house together when the latter turned to her companion.

"Sally," she said, "there is something that I must tell you."

Sally glanced at her face, and then walked quietly forward until the log barn hid them from the house. Then she sat down upon a pile of straw in its shadow and signed to Agatha that she should take a place beside her.

"Now," she said sharply, "you can go on; it's about Gregory?"

Agatha, who found it very difficult to begin, though she had been well primed by Hastings on the previous evening, sat down amidst the straw, and looked about her for a moment or two. It was a hot afternoon, dazzlingly bright, and almost breathlessly still. In front of her the dark green wheat rolled waist-high, and beyond it the vast sweep of whitened grass rolled back to the sky-line flooded with light. Far away a team and a waggon slowly moved across it, but that was the only sign of life, and no sound from the house reached them to break the heavy stillness.

Then she nerved herself to the effort, and spoke quietly for several minutes before she glanced at her companion. It was very evident that the latter had understood all that she had said, for she sat very still with a hard, set face.

"Oh!" she said, "if I'd thought you'd come to tell me this because you were vexed with me, I'd know what to do."

This was what Agatha had dreaded. It certainly looked as if she had come to triumph over her rival's humiliation, but Sally made it clear that she acquitted her of that intention.

"Still," she said, "I know that wasn't the reason, and I'm not mad with—you. It hurts"—and she made a little abrupt movement—"but I know it's true." Then she turned to Agatha suddenly. "Why did you do it?"

"I thought you might save Gregory, if I told you."



"That was all?" and Sally looked at her with incredulous eyes.

"No," said Agatha simply, "that was only part. It did not seem right that Gregory should go against Wyllard's wishes, and gamble the Range away on the wheat market."

She admitted it without hesitation, for she realised now exactly what had animated her to seek this painful interview. She was fighting Wyllard's battle, and that fact sustained her.

Sally winced. "Yes," she said, "I guess you had to tell me. He was fond of you. One could be proud of that. Harry Wyllard never did anything low down and mean."

Agatha did not resent her candour. Although this was a thing she would scarcely have credited a little while ago, she saw that the girl felt the contrast between her lover's character and that of the man whose place he had taken, and regretted it. Then Agatha's eyes grew a trifle hazy.

"Wyllard, they think, is dead," she said, in a low, strained voice. "You have Gregory still."

Sally looked at her with unveiled compassion, and Agatha did not shrink from it.

"Yes," she said, with a simplicity that became her, "and Gregory must have someone to—take care of him. I must do it if I can."

There was no doubt that Agatha was stirred. This half-taught girl's quiet acceptance of the burden that many women must carry once more made her almost ashamed.

"We will leave it to you," she said.

Then it became evident that there was another side to Sally's character, for her manner changed, and the suggestive hardness crept back into her eyes.

"Well," she said, "I'd most been expecting something of this kind when I heard that man Edmonds was going to the Range. He has got a pull on Gregory, but he's surely not going to feel quite happy when I get hold of him."

She rose in another moment, and, saying nothing further, walked back towards the house, in front of which they came upon Mrs. Hastings. Sally looked at the latter significantly.

"I'm going over to the Range after supper," she said.

Mrs. Hastings drove away with Agatha, and said very little to her during the journey, but an hour after they had reached the homestead she slipped quietly into the girl's room, and found her lying in a big chair, sobbing bitterly. She sat down close beside her, and laid a hand upon her shoulder.

"I don't think Sally could have said anything to trouble you like this," she said.

It was a moment or two before Agatha turned a wet, white face towards her, and saw gentle sympathy in her eyes. There was, she felt, no cause for reticence.

"No," she said, "it was the contrast between us. She has Gregory."

Mrs. Hastings made a sign of comprehension. "And you have lost Harry—but I think you have not lost him altogether. We do not know that he is dead—but even if it is so, it was all that was finest in him he offered you. It is yours still."

She broke off, and sat silent a moment or two before she went on again.

"My dear, it is, perhaps, cold comfort, and I am not sure that I can make what I feel quite clear. Still, Harry was only human, and it is almost inevitable that, had it all turned out differently, he would have said and done things that would have offended you. Now he has left you a purged and stainless memory—one I think which must come very near to the reality. The man who went up there—for an idea, a fantastic point of honour—sloughed off every taint of the baseness that hampers most of us in doing it. It was a man changed and uplifted above all petty things by a high chivalrous purpose, who made that last grim journey."

Agatha realised the truth of this. Already Wyllard's memory had become etherealised, and she treasured it as a very fine and precious thing. Still, though he now wore immortal laurels, that would not content her when all her human nature cried out for his bodily presence. She wanted him, as she had grown to love him, in the warm, erring flesh, and the vague, splendid vision was cold and far remote. There was a barrier greater than that of crashing ice and bitter water between them.

"Oh!" she said. "I have felt that. I try to feel it always—but just now it's not enough."

Then she turned her face away with a bitter sob, and Mrs. Hastings who stooped and kissed her went out quietly. She knew what had come about, and that the girl had broken down at last, after months of strain.

In the meanwhile, it happened that Edmonds, the mortgage broker, drove over to the Range, and found Hawtrey waiting him in Wyllard's room. It was early in the evening, and he could see the hired men busy outside tossing prairie hay from the waggons into the great barn. They were half-naked and grimed with dust, but Hawtrey, who was dressed in store clothes, had evidently taken no share in their labours. When Edmonds came in he turned to him with anxiety in his face.

"Well?" he said sharply.

"Market's a little stiffer," said Edmonds.

He sat down and stretched out his hand towards the cigar-box on the table, while Hawtrey waited until he had picked one out with very evident impatience.

"Still moving up?" he asked.

Edmonds nodded. "It's the other folks' last stand," he said. "With the wheat ripening as it's doing, the flood that will pour in before the next two months are out will sweep them off the market. I was half afraid from your note that this little rally had some weight with you, and that as one result of it you meant to cover now."

"That," admitted Hawtrey, "was in my mind."

"Then," said his companion, "it's a pity."

Hawtrey leaned upon the table with hesitation in his face and attitude. He had neither the courage nor the steadfastness to make a gambler, and every fluctuation of the market swayed him to and fro. He had a good deal of wheat to deliver by and bye, and, for prices had fallen steadily until a week or two ago, he could still secure a very desirable margin if he bought in against his sales now. Unfortunately, however, he had once or twice lost heavily in an unexpected rally, and he greatly desired to recoup himself. Then, he had decided, nothing would tempt him to take part in another deal.

"If I hold on and the market stiffens further I'll be awkwardly fixed," he said. "Wyllard made a will, and in a few months I'll have to hand everything over to his executors. There would naturally be unpleasantness over a serious shortage."

Edmonds smiled. He had handled his man cleverly, and had now a reasonably secure hold upon him and the Range, but he was far from satisfied. If Hawtrey made a further loss he would in all probability become irretrievably involved.

"Then," he pointed out, "there's every reason why you should try to get straight."

Hawtrey admitted it. "Of course," he said. "You feel sure I could do it by holding on?"

His companion seldom answered a question of this kind. It was apt to lead to unpleasantness afterwards.

"Well," he said, "Beeman, and Oliphant, and Barstow are operating for a fall. One would fancy that you were safe in doing what they do. When men of their weight sell forward figures go down."

This was correct, as far as it went, but Edmonds was quite aware that the gentlemen alluded to usually played a very deep and obscure game. He had also reasons for believing that they were doing it now. It was, however, evident that his companion's hesitation was vanishing.

"It's a big hazard, but I feel greatly tempted to hang on," he said.

Edmonds, who disregarded this, sat smoking quietly. Since he was tolerably certain as to what the result would be, he felt it was now desirable to let Hawtrey decide for himself, in which case it would be impossible for the latter to reproach him afterwards. Wheat, it seemed very probable, would fall still further when the harvest commenced, but he had reasons for believing that the market would rally first. In that case Hawtrey, who had sold forward largely, would fall altogether into his hands, and he looked forward with very pleasurable anticipation to enforcing his claim upon the Range. In the meanwhile he was unobtrusively watching his companion's face, and it had become evident that in another moment or two Hawtrey would adopt the course suggested, when there was a rattle of wheels outside. Edmonds, who saw a broncho team and a waggon appear from behind the barn, realised that he must decide the matter now.

"As I want to reach Lander's before it's dark I'll have to get on," he said carelessly. "If you'll give me a letter to the broker, I'll send it on to him."

Next moment a clear voice rose up somewhere outside. "I guess you needn't worry," it said, "I'll go right in."

Then, while Gregory started, Sally walked into the room.

Edmonds was disconcerted, but he made her a little inclination, and then sat down again, quietly determined to wait, for he fancied there was hostility in the swift glance she flashed at him.

"That's quite a smart team you were driving, Miss Creighton," he said.

Sally, who disregarded this, turned to Hawtrey.

"What's he doing here?" she asked.

"He came over on a little matter of business," said Hawtrey.

"You have been selling wheat again?"

Hawtrey looked embarrassed, for her manner was not conciliatory. "Well," he admitted, "I have sold some."

"Wheat you haven't got?"

Hawtrey did not answer, and Sally sat down. Her manner suggested that she meant to thoroughly investigate the matter, and Edmonds, who would have greatly preferred to get rid of her, decided that as this appeared impossible he would appeal to her cupidity. The Creightons were somewhat grasping folks, and he had heard of her engagement to Hawtrey.

"If you will permit me I'll try to explain," he said. "We'll say that you have reason for believing that wheat will go down and you tell a broker to sell it forward at a price a little below the actual one. If other people do the same it drops faster, and before you have to deliver you can buy it in at less than you sold it at. A good many dollars can be picked up that way."

"It looks easy," Sally admitted, with something in her manner which led him to fancy he might win her over. "Of course, prices have been falling. Gregory has been selling down?"

"He has. In fact, there's already a big margin to his credit," said Edmonds unsuspectingly.

"That is, if he bought in now he'd have cleared—several thousand dollars?"

Edmonds told her exactly how much, and then started in sudden consternation with rage in his heart, for she turned to Hawtrey imperiously.

"Then you'll write your broker to buy in right away," she said.

There was an awkward silence, during which the two men looked at one another until Edmonds spoke.

"Are you wise in suggesting this, Miss Creighton?" he asked.

Sally laughed harshly. "Oh yes," she said, "it's a sure thing. And I don't suggest. I tell him to get it done."

She turned again to Hawtrey, who sat very still looking at her with a flush in his face. "Take your pen and give him that letter to the broker now."

There was this in her favour that Hawtrey was to some extent relieved by her persistence. He had not the nerve to make a successful speculator, and he had already felt uneasy about the hazard he would incur by waiting. Besides, although prices had slightly advanced, he could still secure a reasonable margin if he covered his sales. In any case, he did as she bade him, and in another minute or two he handed Edmonds an envelope.

The latter, who rose, took it from him quietly, for he was one who could face defeat.

"Well," he said, with a gesture of resignation, "I'll send the thing on. If Miss Creighton will excuse me, I'll tell your man to get out my waggon."

Then he went out, and Sally turned to Hawtrey with the colour in her cheeks and a flash in her eyes.

"It's Harry Wyllard's money," she said.



CHAPTER XXVII.

IN THE WILDERNESS.

A bitter wind was blowing when Wyllard stood outside the little tent the morning after he had made a landing on the ice, watching the grey daylight break amidst a haze of sliding snow. He was to leeward of the straining canvas which partly sheltered him, but the raw cold struck through him to the bone, and he was stiff and sore from his exertions during the previous day. Most of his joints ached unpleasantly, and his clothing had not quite dried upon him with the warmth of his body. He was also conscious of a strong desire to crawl back into the tent and go to sleep again, but that was one it would clearly not be wise to indulge in, since they were, he fancied, still some distance off the beach, and the ice might commence to break up at any moment. It stretched away before him, seamed by fissures and serrated ridges here and there, for a few hundred yards, and then was lost in the sliding snow, and as he gazed at it all his physical nature shrank from the prospect of the journey through the frozen desolation.

Then with a little shiver he crawled back into the tent where his two companions were crouching beside the cooking lamp. The feeble light of its sputtering blue flame touched their faces which were graver than usual, but Charly turned and looked up as he came in.

"Wind's dropping," said Wyllard curtly. "We'll start as soon as you have made breakfast. We must try to reach the beach to-night."

Charly made no answer, though the dusky-skinned Siwash grunted, and in a few more minutes they silently commenced their meal. It was promptly finished, and they struck the tent, and packed it with their sleeping bags and provisions upon the sled, and then, taking up the traces, set out across the ice. The light had grown a little clearer now, and the snow was thinning, but it still whirled about them, and lay piled in drawn-out wreaths to lee of every hummock or ragged ridge. They floundered through them knee-deep, and in the softer places the weight upon the traces grew unpleasantly heavy. That, however, was not a thing any of them felt the least desire to complain of, and it was indeed a matter of regret to them that they were not harnessed to a heavier burden. There was a snow-wrapped desolation in front of them, and they had lost a number of small comforts and part of their provisions in making a landing. Whether the latter could by any means be replaced they did not know, and in the meanwhile it certainly did not seem very probable.

This was, however, an excellent reason for pushing on as fast as possible, and they stumbled and floundered forward until late in the afternoon, while the ice became more rugged and broken as they proceeded. The snow had ceased, but the drifts which stretched across their path were plentiful, and they were in the midst of one when it seemed to Wyllard who was leading that they were sinking much deeper than usual. The snow was over the top of his long boots, the sled seemed very heavy, and he could hear his comrades floundering savagely. Then there was a cry behind him, and he was jerked suddenly backwards for a pace or two until he flung himself down at full length clawing at the snow. After that he was drawn back no further, but the strain upon the trace became almost insupportable, and there was still a furious scuffling behind him.

In a moment or two, however, the strain slackened, and looking round he saw Charly waist-deep in the snow. The latter struggled out with difficulty holding on by the trace, but the sled had vanished, and it was with grave misgivings that Wyllard scrambled to his feet. Then, saying nothing, they hauled with all their might, and after a tense effort that left them gasping dragged the sled back into sight. Part of its load, however, had been left behind in the yawning hole.

Charly went back a pace or two cautiously until he once more sank to the waist, and they had some trouble in dragging him clear. Then he sat down on the sled, and Wyllard stood still looking at the holes in the snow.

"Did you feel anything under you?" he asked at length in a jarring voice.

"I didn't," said Charly simply. "It was only the trace saved me from dropping through altogether, but if I'd gone a little further I'd have been in the water. Kind of snow bridge over a crevice. We broke it up, and the sled fell through."

Wyllard turned and flung the tent, their sleeping bags, and the few packages which had not fallen out off the sled, after which he hastily opened one or two of them. His companions looked at them with apprehension in their eyes until he spoke again.

"The provisions may last a week or so, if we cut down rations," he said.

He could not remember afterwards if anybody suggested it, and he fancied that the same idea occurred to all of them at once, but in another moment or two they set about undoing the traces from the sled, and making them secure about their bodies. Then for half an hour they made perilous attempt after attempt to recover the lost provisions, and signally failed. The snow broke through continuously beneath the foremost man, but it did not break away altogether, and they could not tell what lay beneath it when they had drawn him out of the hole. When it became evident that the attempt was useless they held a brief council sitting on the sled.

"I guess we don't want to go back," said Charly. "It's quite likely we've crossed a good many of these crevices, and the snow's getting soft. Besides, Dampier will have hauled off and headed for the inlet by now."

He spoke quietly, though his face was grim, and then pausing a moment waved his hand. "It seems to me," he added, "we have got to fetch the inlet while the provisions last."

"Exactly," said Wyllard. "Since the chart shows a river between us and it, the sooner we start the better. If the thaw holds, the stream will break up the ice on it."

The Indian, who made no suggestion, grunted what appeared to be concurrence, and they silently set to work to reload the sled. That done, they took up the traces and floundered on again into the gathering dimness and a thin haze of driving snow. Darkness had fallen when they made camp again, and sat, worn-out and aching in every limb, about the sputtering lamp inside the little, straining tent. The meal they made was a very frugal one, and they lay down in the darkness after it, for half their store of oil had been left behind in the crevice. They said very little, for the second disaster had almost crushed the courage out of them, and it was very clear to all that it would only be by a strenuous effort they could reach the inlet before their provisions quite ran out. They slept, however, and rising in a stinging frost next morning set out again on the weary march, but it was slow travelling, and at noon they left the tent and poles behind.

"In another few days," said Wyllard, "we'll leave the sled."

They made the beach that afternoon, though the only sign of it was the fringe of more ragged ice and the white slope beyond the latter. A thin haze hung about them heavy with frosty rime, and they could not see more than a quarter of a mile ahead. When darkness fell they scraped out a hollow beneath what seemed to be a snow-covered rock, and sat upon their sleeping bags about the cooking lamp. Then, having eaten, they huddled close together with part of their aching bodies upon the sled in a bitter frost, but none of them slept much that night.

The morning broke clear and warmer, and Wyllard, climbing to the summit of the rock, had a brief glimpse of the serrated summits of a great white range that rose out of a dingy greyness to the west and south. It, however, faded like a vision while he watched it, and turning he looked out across the rolling wilderness that stretched away to the north. Nothing broke its gleaming monotony, and there was no sign of life anywhere in the vast expanse. By and bye it narrowed, and when he clambered down the haze was creeping in again.

They set out after breakfast, breaking through a thin crust of snow, which rendered the march almost insuperably difficult, and they had painfully made a league or two by the approach of night. The snow had grown softer, and the thawing surface would not bear the sled, which sunk in the slush beneath. Still, they floundered on for a while after darkness fell, and then lay down in a hollow, packed close together, while a fine rain poured down on them.

Somehow they slept, and, though this was more difficult, got upon their feet again when morning came, for of all the hard things the wanderer in rain-swept bush or frozen wilderness must bear there is none that tests his powers more than the bracing himself for another day of effort in the early dawn. Comfortless as the night's lair has been, the jaded body craves for such faint warmth as it afforded, and further rest, the brain is dull and heavy, and the aching limbs appear incapable of supporting the weight on them. Difficulties loom appallingly large in the faint creeping light, courage fails, and the will grows feeble. Wyllard and his companions felt all this, but it was clear to them that they could not dally, with their provisions running out, and staggering out of camp after a very scanty meal they hauled the sled through the slush they churned up for an hour or so. Then they stopped, gasping, the Indian slipped out of the traces, and Charly, who nodded, cast them loose from him.

"We've hauled that thing about far enough," he said.

Wyllard stood looking at them for a moment or two with a furrowed face and a hand that the frost had split tightly clenched. It was evident that they could haul the hampering load no further, and he was troubled by an almost insupportable weariness. Then he made a little unwilling sign of concurrence.

"In that case," he said, "you have to decide what you'll leave behind."

They discussed it for some minutes, partly because it furnished an excuse for sitting upon the sled, though none of them had much doubt as to the result of the council. It was unthinkable that they should sacrifice a scrap of the provisions. Then, when each man had lashed a light load upon his shoulders with a portion of the cut-up traces, they set out again, and it rained upon them heavily all that day.

During the four following days they were buffeted by a furious wind, but the temperature had risen, and the snow was melting fast, and splashing knee-deep through slush and water they made progress. While he stumbled along with the pack-straps galling his shoulders, Wyllard was conscious of little beyond the unceasing pain in his joints and the leaden heaviness of his limbs; but the recollection of that march haunted him like a horrible nightmare long afterwards, when each sensation and incident emerged from the haze of numbing misery. He remembered that he stormed at and almost fought with Charly, who lagged behind now and then in a fit of languid dejection, and that once he fell heavily, and was sensible of a certain half-conscious regret that he was still capable of going on when the Indian dragged him to his feet again. They rarely spoke to one another, and noticed nothing beyond the strip of white waste, through which uncovered brown patches commenced to break, immediately in front of them, except when they crossed some low elevation and looked down upon the stretch of dull grey water not far away on one hand. The breeze, at least, had swept the ice away, and that was reassuring, because it meant that Dampier would be at the inlet when they reached it, though now and then a horrible fear that their strength would fail them or their provisions run out first crept in.

Their faces had already grown gaunt and haggard, and each scanty meal had been further cut down to the smallest portion which would keep life and power of movement within them. Still, though the weight of it hampered him almost intolerably, Wyllard clung to the one rifle that they had saved from the disaster at the landing and a dozen cartridges. This was a folly which he and Charly had once virulent words about.

At length they came one evening to a river which flowed across their path, and lay down beside it, feeling that the end was not far away. Except in the eddies and shallows, the ice had broken up, and the stream swirled by between in raging flood, thick with heavy masses which it had brought down from its higher reaches. They crashed upon the gleaming spurs that here and there projected from the half-thawn fringe, and smashed with a harsh crackling among the boulders, and there was no doubt as to what would befall the stoutest swimmer who might attempt the passage. So far as Wyllard afterwards remembered, none of them said anything when they lay down among the wet stones, but with the first of the daylight they started up stream. The river was not a large one, and it seemed just possible that they might find a means of crossing higher up, though they afterwards admitted that this was a good deal more than they expected.

During the afternoon the ground rose sharply, and the stream flowed out of a deep ravine which they followed. The rocks, as far as Wyllard could remember, were of volcanic origin, and some of them had crumbled into heaps of ragged debris. The slope of the ravine became a talus it was almost impossible to scramble along, and they were forced back upon the boulders and the half-thawn ice in the slacker pools.

Still, they made some progress, and when evening drew near found a little clearer space between rock and river. The Indian had in the meanwhile wrenched his foot or knee, and when at length they stopped to make camp among the rocks it was some little time before he overtook them. Then he said that he had found the slot of some animal which he fancied had gone up the ravine. What the beast was he did not seem to know, but he assured them that it was, at least, large enough to eat, and that appeared to be of the most importance then. He would not, however, take the rifle. Nothing would compel him to drag himself another rod that night, he said, and the others, who had noticed how he limped, accepted his statement. He sat down among the stones with an expressionless face, and Charly decided that it was Wyllard's part to try to pick up the trail.

"You could beat me every time at trailing or shooting when we went ashore on the American side, and I'm not sorry to let it go at that now," he said.

Wyllard smiled very grimly, "And I've carried this rifle a week on top of my other load. You can't shoot when you're dead played out."

Then they called in the Indian and left it to him, and saying nothing he gravely pointed to Wyllard.

Charly grinned for the first time in several days.

"Well," he said, "in this case I guess I've no objections to let it be as he suggests."

Wyllard, who said nothing further, took up the rifle and strode very wearily out of camp. There was, he fancied, scarcely an hour's daylight left, and already the dimness seemed a little more marked down in the hollow. He, however, found the slot again, and as there was a wall of rock on one side of him up which he did not think a beast of any kind could scramble he pushed on up stream beside the ice. There was nothing except this to guide him, but he was a little surprised to feel that his perceptions which had been dull and dazed the last few days were growing clearer. He noticed the different sounds the river made, and picked out the sharp crackle of ice among the stones, though he had hitherto only been conscious of a hoarse, pulsating roar. The rocks also took distinctive shapes instead of looming in blurred masses before his heavy eyes, and he found himself gazing with strained attention into each strip of deeper shadow. Still, though he walked cautiously, there was no sign of any life in the ravine. He was horribly weary, and now and then he set his lips as he stumbled noisily among the stones, but he pushed on beside the water while the deep hollow grew dimmer and more shadowy.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE UNEXPECTED.

By and bye Wyllard felt a troublesome dizziness creeping over him, and he sat down upon a boulder with the rifle across his knees. He had eaten very little during the last few days, which had been spent in arduous exertion, and now the leaden weariness which he had fought against since morning threatened to overcome him. In addition to this, he was oppressed by a black dejection, which, though his mind had never been clearer, reacted upon his failing physical powers, for it was now unpleasantly evident that he and his companions could not reach the inlet while their provisions held out. There was no longer any doubt that he had involved them in disaster, and the knowledge that he had done so was very bitter.

He sat still awhile with haggard face and set lips, gazing up the ravine, for, although he scarcely fancied that either of the others had expected anything else, he shrank from going back as empty-handed as when he had left them. The light was getting very dim, but he could still see the ice fringe upon the pool in front of him, and a mass of rock that rose black against the creeping dusk not very far away. Beyond it on the one side there seemed to be a waste of stones amidst which a few wreaths of snow still gleamed lividly. Then a wall of rock scarcely distinguishable in the shadow shut in the hollow.

The latter was filled with the hoarse roar of the river and the sharp crash and crackle of stream-driven ice, but by and bye the worn-out man started as he caught another faint sound which suggested the clink of a displaced stone. His hands closed hard upon the rifle, but he sat very still, listening with strained attention until he heard the sound again. Then a thrill ran through him, for he was quite certain of its meaning. A stone had rolled over higher up the gorge, and he rose and moved forward cautiously, keeping the detached rock between him and the upper portion of the ravine. Once or twice a stone clattered noisily beneath his feet, and he stopped for a moment or two, wondering with tense anxiety whether the sound could be heard at any distance through the roar of the river. This was a very much grimmer business than crawling through the long grass for a shot at the prairie antelope, when in case of success it had scarcely seemed worth while to pack the tough and stringy venison back to the homestead.

By and bye he heard the clatter of a displaced stone again, and this time it was so distinct and near that it puzzled him. The wild creatures of the waste were, he knew, always alert, and their perception of an approaching danger was wonderful. It seemed strange, since he had heard it, that the beast he was creeping in upon could apparently not hear him, but he realised that he must face the hazard of its doing so, for in another few minutes it would be too dark to shoot. He had almost reached the rock by this time, and he shifted his grasp on the rifle, holding it thrust forward in front of him while crouching low he looked down for a spot on which to set his foot each time he moved. It would, he knew, be useless to go any further if a stone turned over now. None did, however, and he crept, strung up to highest tension, into the deeper gloom behind the rock.

A little pool ran in close beneath the latter from the river, but it was covered with ice and slushy snow, and treading very cautiously he crept across it, and held his breath as he moved out from behind the stone. Then he stopped suddenly, for a man stood face to face with him scarcely a stone's throw away. His fur-clad figure cut sharply against a gleaming bank of snow, and he held a gun in his hand. Though the light had almost gone, it was evident to Wyllard that he was a white man.

They stood very still for several seconds gazing at one another, and then the stranger dropped the butt of his weapon and called out sharply. Wyllard, who failed to understand him, did not move, and he spoke again. What he said was still unintelligible, but Wyllard, who had fallen in with a few Germans from Minnesota on the prairie, fancied that he recognised the language. He made a sign that it was still beyond his comprehension, and the stranger tried again. This time it was French he spoke.

"You can come forward, comrade," he said.

He did not seem to be hostile, and Wyllard, who tossed his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, moved out to meet him a pace or two.

"You are Russian?" he said, in the language the other had used, for French of a kind is freely spoken in parts of Canada.

The man laughed. "That afterwards," he answered. "It is said so. My name is Overweg—Albrecht Overweg. As to you, it appears you do not understand Russian."

Wyllard drew a little nearer, and sat down upon a boulder. Now the tension had somewhat slackened his weariness had once more become almost insupportable, and he felt that he might need his strength and senses. In the meanwhile he was somewhat bewildered by the encounter, for it was certainly astonishing to fall in with a man who spoke three civilised languages and wore spectacles in that desolate wilderness.

"No," he said, "it is almost the first time I have heard it."

"Ah," said the other, "there is a certain significance in that admission, my friend. It is permissible to inquire where you have come from, and what you are doing here?"

Wyllard, who had no desire to give him any information upon the latter point, pointed towards the east.

"That is where I come from. As to my business, at the moment you will excuse me. It is perhaps not a rudeness to ask what is yours?"

The stranger laughed. "Caution, it seems, is necessary; and to the east, where you have pointed, there is only the sea. I will, however, tell you my business. It is the science, and not"—he seemed to add this with a certain significance—"in any way connected with the administration of the country."

Wyllard was conscious of a vast relief on hearing this, but as he was not quite sure that he could believe it, he felt that prudence was still advisable. In any case, he could not let the stranger go away until he had learned whether there were any more white men with him. He sat still, thinking rather hard for a moment or two.

"You have a camp somewhere near?" he asked at length.

"Certainly," said the other. "You will come back with me, or shall I come to yours?"

"There are several of you?"

"Besides myself, two Kamtchadales."

"Then," said Wyllard, "I will come with you. I have left two comrades a little further down the ravine. Will you wait until I bring them?"

The stranger made a sign of assent, and sitting down upon a ledge of rock took out a cigar. Wyllard now felt more sure of him, since it was evident that had he meditated any treachery he would naturally have preferred him to make the visit unattended. In any case, it seemed likely that he would have something to eat in his camp.

Wyllard plodded back down the ravine, and when he reappeared with the others Overweg was still sitting there in the gathering darkness. He greeted them with a wave of his hand, and rising, silently led the way up the hollow until they came into sight of a little tent that glimmered beneath a rock. There was a light inside it, and two dusky figures were silhouetted against the canvas. When the party reached it, Overweg drew the flap back, and the light shone upon his face as he signed them to enter. Wyllard standing still a moment looked at him steadily, and then seeing the little smile in his eyes quietly went in.

After that Overweg called to one of the Kamtchadales, who came in and busied himself about the cooking lamp, while his guests sat down with a sense of luxurious content among the skins that were spread upon the ground sheet. After the raw cold outside the tent was very snug and warm. They said little, however, and Overweg made no attempt at conversation until the Kamtchadale laid out a meal, when he watched them with a smile while they ate voraciously. He had stripped his furs off, and sat with his knees drawn up on one of the skins, a little, plump, round-faced man, with tow-coloured hair, and eyes that gleamed shrewdly behind his spectacles.

"Shall I open another can?" he asked at length.

"No," said Wyllard. "We owe you thanks enough already. Provisions are evidently plentiful with you."

Overweg nodded. "I have a base camp two or three days' journey back," he said. "It is possible that I shall make a depot. We brought our stores up from the south with dog sleds before the snow grew soft, but it is necessary for me to push on further. My business, you understand, is the scientific survey; to report upon the natural resources of the country."

He paused, and his manner changed a little when he went on again. "I have," he added, "to this extent taken you into my confidence, and I invite an equal candour. Two things are evident. You have made a long journey, and your French is not that one hears in Paris."

"First of all," said Wyllard, "I must ask again are you a Russian?"

Overweg spread his hands out with a little whimsical gesture. "My name, which I have told you, is not Sclavonic, and it may be admitted that I was born in Bavaria. In the meanwhile, it is true that I have been sent on a mission by the Russian Government."

"I wonder," said Wyllard reflectively, "how far you consider your duty towards your employers goes."

Overweg's eyes twinkled. "It covers all that can be ascertained about the geological structure and the fauna of the country, especially the fauna that produce marketable furs. At present I am not convinced that it goes very much further."

It was clear to Wyllard that he was to a large extent in this man's hands already, since he could not reach the inlet without provisions, and Overweg could, if he thought fit, send back a messenger to the Russian authorities. He was one who could think quickly and make a momentous decision, and he realised that if he could not win the man's sympathy there must be open hostility between them. It seemed possible that he might obviate any necessity for the latter.

"In that case I think I may tell you what has brought me here," he said. "If you have travelled much in Kamchatka you can, perhaps, help me. To begin with, I sailed from Vancouver, in Canada, going on for a year ago."

It took him some time to make his errand clear, and then Overweg looked at him in a rather curious fashion.

"It is," he said, "a tale that in these days one finds some little difficulty in believing. Still, it must be admitted that I am acquainted with one fact which appears to substantiate it."

Then as he saw the blood rise to Wyllard's forehead he broke off with a little soft laugh.

"My friend," he added, "is it permitted to offer you my felicitations? The men who would attempt a thing of this kind are, I think, singularly rare."

"The fact?" said Wyllard, impatiently.

"There is a Kamtchadale in my base camp who told me of a place where a white man was buried some distance to the west of us. He spoke of a second white man, but nobody, I understand, knows what became of him."

Wyllard straightened himself suddenly. "You will send for that Kamtchadale?"

"Assuredly. The tale you have told me has stirred my curiosity. As my path lies west up the river valley, we can, if it pleases you, go on for a while together."

Wyllard, who thanked him, turned to Charly with a faint sigh of relief.

"It seems that we shall not bring those men back, but I think we may find out where they lie," he said. Charly made no comment, for this was the most he had expected, and a few minutes later there was silence in the little tent when the men lay down to sleep among the skins.

They started at sunrise next morning, and followed the river slowly by easy stages until the man sent back to Overweg's base camp overtook them with another Kamtchadale. Then they pushed on still further inland, and it was a week later when one evening their guide led them up to a little pile of stones upon a lonely ridge of rock. There were two letters very rudely cut on one of them, and Wyllard, who stooped down beside it, took off his cap when he rose.

"There's no doubt that Jake Leslie lies here," he said, and looked at Overweg. "Your man is sure it was only one white man who buried him?"

Overweg spoke to the Kamtchadale, who answered him.

"There was only one white man," he said. "It seems he went inland afterwards—at least a year ago."

Then Wyllard turned to Charly, and his face was very grave. "That makes it certain that two of them have died. There was one left, and he may be dead by this time." He spread his hands out with a forceful gesture. "If one only knew!"

Charly made no answer. He was not a man of education or much imagination, but like others of his kind he had alternately borne many privations in the wilderness, logging, prospecting, trail-cutting about the remoter mines, and at sea. As one result of this there crept into his mind some recognition of what the outcast who lay at rest beside their feet had had to face—the infinite toil of the march, the black despair, the blinding snow, and Arctic frost. He met his leader's gaze with a look of comprehending sympathy.

By what grim efforts and primitive devices their comrade, had clung to life so long as he had done it seemed very probable that they would never know, but they clearly realised that though some might call it an illegal raid, or even piracy, it was a work of mercy this outlaw who had borne so much had undertaken when he was cast away. In the word to swing the boats over and face the roaring surf in the darkness of the night he had heard the clear call of duty, and had fearlessly obeyed. His obedience had cost him much, but as the man who had come so far to search for him looked down upon the little pile of stones that had been raised above his bones in the desolate wilderness, there awoke within him a sure recognition of the fact that this was not the end. That, at least, was unthinkable. His comrade, sloughing off the half-frozen, suffering flesh, had gone on to join the immortals—with his duty done.

It was with a warmth at his heart and a slight haziness in his eyes that Wyllard turned away at length, but when he put on his fur cap again he was more determined than ever to carry out the search. There were many perils and difficulties to be faced, but he felt that he must not flinch.

"One man went inland," he said to Overweg. "I must go that way, too."

The little spectacled scientist looked at him curiously.

"Ah," he said, "the road your comrade travelled is a hard one. You have seen what it leads to."

Then Wyllard did what is in the case of such men as he was a somewhat unusual thing, for he gave another a glimpse of the feelings he generally kept hidden deep in him.

"No," he said, quietly, "the hard road leads further—where we do not know—but one feels that the full knowledge will not bring sorrow when it is some day given to those who have the courage to follow."

Overweg spread his hands out. "It is not the view of the materialists, but it is conceivable that the materialists may be wrong. In this case, however, it is the concrete and practical we have to grapple with, my friend. You say you are going inland to search for that man, and for awhile I go that way, but though I have my base camp there is the question of provisions if you come with me."

They discussed the matter until Wyllard suggested that he could replace any provisions his companion supplied him with from the schooner, to which Overweg agreed, and they afterwards decided to send the Siwash and one of the Kamtchadales on to the inlet with a letter to Dampier. The two started next day when they found a place where the river was with difficulty fordable, and the rest pushed on slowly into a broken and rising country seamed with belts of thin forest here and there. They held westwards for another week, and then one evening made their camp among a few stunted and straggling firs. The temperature had risen in the day-time, but the nights were cold, and when they had eaten their evening meal they were glad of the shelter of the tent. A small fire of resinous branches was sinking into a faintly glowing mass close outside of it.

The flap was, however, drawn back, and Wyllard, who lay facing the opening, could see a triangular patch of dim blue sky with a sharp sickle moon hanging low above a black fir branch. The night was clear and still, but now and then there was a faint elfin sighing among the stunted trees that died away again. He was then, while still determined, moodily discouraged, for they had seen no sign of human life during the journey, and his reason told him that he might search for years before he found the bones of the last survivor of the party. Still, he meant to search while Overweg was willing to supply him with provisions.

By and bye he saw Charly sharply raise his head and gaze towards the opening.

"Did you hear anything outside?" he asked.

"It would be the Kamtchadales," said Wyllard.

"They went back a mile or two to lay some traps."

"Then," said Wyllard, decisively, "it couldn't have been anything."

Charly did not appear satisfied, and it seemed to Wyllard that Overweg was also listening, but there was deep stillness outside now, and he dismissed the matter from his mind. A few minutes later it, however, seemed to him that a shadowy form appeared out of the gloom among the firs and faded into it again. This struck him as very curious, since if it had been one of the Kamtchadales he would have walked straight into camp, but he said nothing to his companions, and there was silence for a while until Charly rose softly to his feet.

"Get out as quietly as you can," he said, as he slipped by Wyllard, who crept after him to the entrance.

When he reached it his companion's voice rang out with a startling vehemence.

"Stop right now!" he cried, and after a pause, "Nobody's going to hurt you. Walk right ahead."

Then Wyllard felt his heart beat furiously, for a dusky, half-seen figure materialised out of the gloom, and grew into sharper form as it drew nearer to the sinking fire. The thing was wholly unexpected, almost incredible, but it was clear that the man could understand English, and his face was white. In another moment Wyllard's last doubt vanished, and he sprang forward with a gasp.

"Lewson—Tom Lewson," he said.

Then Charly thrust the man inside the tent, and when somebody lighted a lamp he sat down stupidly and looked at them. His face was gaunt and furrowed, and almost blackened by exposure to the frost, his hair was long, and tattered garments of greasy skins hung about him. There was also something that suggested bewildered incredulity in his eyes.

"It's real?" he said, slowly and haltingly. "You have come at last?"

They assured him that this was the case, and for a moment or two the man's face worked and he made a hoarse sound in his throat.

"Lord," he said, "if I'm dreaming I don't want to wake."

Charly leaned forward and smote him on the shoulder.

"Shall I hit you like I did that afternoon in the Thompson House on the Vancouver water front?" he asked.

Then the certainty of the thing seemed to dawn upon the man, for he quivered, and his eyes half closed. After that he straightened himself with an effort.

"I should have known, and I think I did," he said. "Something seemed to tell me that you would come for us when you could."

Wyllard's face flushed, but he said nothing, and it was Charly who asked the next question.

"The others are dead?"

Lewson made a little expressive gesture. "Hopkins was drowned in a crevice of the ice. I buried Leslie back yonder."

He broke off abruptly, as though speech cost him an effort, and Wyllard turned to Overweg.

"This is the last of the men I was looking for," he said.

Overweg quietly nodded. "Then you have my felicitations—but it might be advisable if you did not tell me too much," he said. "Afterwards I may be questioned by those in authority."



CHAPTER XXIX.

CAST AWAY.

Tom Lewson had been an hour in camp before he commenced the story of his wanderings, and at first he spoke slowly and falteringly, lying propped up on one elbow, with the lamplight on his worn face.

"We broke an oar coming off the beach that night, and it kind of crippled us," he said. "Twice she nearly went back again in the surf, and I don't quite know how we pulled her off. Anyway, one of us was busy heaving out the water that broke into her. It was Jake, I think, and he seemed kind of silly. Once we saw a boat hove up on a sea, but we lost her in the spray, and a long while after we saw the schooner. Just then a comber that broke on board most hove us over, and when we had dodged the next two there wasn't a sign of her. After that we knew that we were done, and we just tried to keep her head-to and ease her to the seas."

He stopped a moment, and looked round at the others with troubled eyes, as though trying to marshal uncertain memories, for this was a simple sailorman, who contented himself with the baldest narrative. Still, two of those who heard him could fill in the things he had not mentioned—the mad lurching of the half-swamped boat, the tense struggle with the oars each time a big frothing comber forged out of the darkness, and the savage desperation of the drenched and half-frozen men cast away with the roaring surf to lee of them and their enemies watching upon the hammered beach.

"It blew hard that night," he added. "Somehow she lived through it, but there wasn't a sign of the island when morning came. Nothing but the combers and the flying haze. Guess the wind must have shifted a few points and drove us by the end of it. Then we found Jake had his head laid open by a sealing club. The sea was getting longer, and as we were too played out to hold her to it we got her away before it, and somehow she didn't roll over. I think it was next day, though it might have been longer, when we fetched another island. She just washed up on it, and one of the others pulled me out. There wasn't a sign of anybody on the beach, but there were plenty of skinned holluschackie seals on the slope behind it, and that was fortunate for us."

"You struck nobody on the island?" enquired Wyllard.

"We didn't," said Lewson simply. "The Russians must have sent a vessel to take off the killers after the last drive of the season a day or two before, for the holluschackie were quite fresh, and perhaps it was blowing hard and the surf getting steep, for they'd left quite a few of their things behind them. Anyway, that was how we figured it. We found the shacks the killers lived in, and we made out that winter in one of them."

It occurred to Wyllard that this was a thing very few men except sealers could have done had they been cast ashore without stores or tools to face the awful winter of the north.

"How did you get through?" he asked.

"Well," said Lewson, "we had a rifle, and the ca'tridges weren't spoilt. The killers hadn't taken their cooking outfit, and by and bye we got a walrus in an open lane among the ice. They'd left some gear behind them, but we were most of two days cutting and heaving the beast out with a parbuckle under him. There was no trouble about things keeping in that frost. Besides, we'd the holluschackie blubber to burn, and there was a half-empty bag or two of stores in one of the shacks. No, we hadn't any great trouble in making out."

"You had to stay there until the ice broke up?" said Charly.

"And after. The boat was gone, and we couldn't get away. She broke up in the surf, and we burned what we saved of her. At last a schooner came along, and we hid out across the island until she'd gone away. It was blowing fresh, and hazy, and she just shoved a new gang of killers ashore. There was an Okotsk Russian with them, but he made no trouble for us. He was white, anyway, and it kind of seemed to me he didn't like one of the other men who got hurt that night on the beach."

"Then some of them did get badly hurt?" Wyllard broke in.

Lewson laughed, a little, almost silent laugh, which nevertheless sounded strangely grim.

"Well," he said, "from what that Russian told us—and we got to understand each other by and bye—one of the killers had his ribs broke, and it seems that another would go lame for life. Besides, among other things, there was a white man got his face quite smashed. I saw him after with his nose flattened way out to starboard, and one eye canted. He was a boss of some kind. They called him Smirnoff."

Overweg looked up sharply. "Ah," he said, "Smirnoff. A man with an unsavoury name. I have heard of him."

"Anyway," Lewson went on, "we killed seals all the open season with that Russian, and I've no fault to find with him. In fact, I figure if he could have fixed it he'd have left us on the island that winter, but when a schooner came to take the killers off and collect the skins Smirnoff was on board of her. That"—and an ominous gleam crept into Lewson's eyes—"was the real beginning of the trouble."

"He had us hauled up before him—guess the other man had to tell him who we were—and when I wouldn't answer he slashed me with a sled-dog-whip across the face."

Lewson clenched a lean brown fist. "Yes," he added, hoarsely, "I was whipped—but they should have tied my hands first. It was not my fault I didn't have that man's life. It was most a minute before three of them pulled me off him, and he was considerably worse to look at then."

There was silence for a minute or two, and Wyllard, who felt his own face grow a trifle warm, saw the suggestive hardness in Charly's eyes. Lewson was gazing out into the darkness, but the veins were swollen on his forehead and his whole body had stiffened. Then he spread his hands out.

"We'll let that go. I can't think of it. They put us on board the schooner, and by and bye she ran into a creek on the coast. We were to be sent somewhere to be dealt with, and we knew what that meant, with what they had against us. Well, they went ashore to collect some skins from the Kamtchadales, and at night we cut the boat adrift. We got off in the darkness, and if they followed they never trailed us. Guess they figured we couldn't make out through the winter that was coming on."

So far the story had been more or less connected and comprehensible. It laid no great tax on Wyllard's credulity, and, indeed, all that Lewson described had come about very much as Dampier had once or twice suggested; but it seemed an almost impossible thing that the three men should have survived during the years that followed. Lewson, as it happened, never made that matter very clear. He sat silent for almost a minute before he went on again.

"We hauled the boat out, and hid her among the rocks, and after that we fell in with some Kamtchadales going north," he said. "They took us along, I don't know how far, but they were trapping for furs, and by and bye—I think it was months after—we got away from them. Then we fell in with another crowd, and went on further north with them. They were Koriaks, and we lived with them a long while—a winter and a summer anyway. It was more, perhaps—I can't remember."

He broke off with a vague gesture, and sat looking at the others vacantly with his lean face furrowed.

"We must have been with them two years—but I don't quite know. It was all the same up yonder—ever so far to the north."

It seemed to Wyllard that he had seldom heard anything more expressive in its way than this sailorman's brief and fragmentary description of his life in the wilderness. He had heard from steam whaler skippers a little about the tundra that fringes the Polar Sea, the vast desolation frozen hard in summer a few inches below the surface, on which nothing beyond the mosses ever grew. It was easy to understand the brain-crushing sameness and monotony of an existence chequered only by times of dire scarcity on those lonely shores.

"How did you live?" he asked.

"There were the birds in summer, and fish in the rivers. In winter we killed things in the lanes in the ice, though there were weeks when we lay about the blubber lamp in the pits. They made pits and put a roof on them. I don't know why we stayed there, but Jake had always a notion that we might get across to Alaska—somehow. We were way out on the ice one day when Jim fell into a crevice, and we couldn't get him out."

He broke off, and sat still awhile as one dreaming. "I can't put things together, but at last we came south, Jake and I, and struck the Kamtchadales again. We could talk to them, and one of them told us about a schooner lying in an inlet by a settlement. The Russians had brought her there from the islands, and she must have been a sealer. Jake figured it was just possible we might run away with her and push across for the Aleutians or Alaska."

Charly looked up suddenly. "She—was—a sealer—Hayson's Seminole. I was in Victoria when we heard that the Russians had seized her."

Wyllard turned to Overweg, who nodded when he asked a question in French.

"Yes," he said, "I believe the vessel lies in the inlet still. They have used her now and then. It is understood that they were warranted in seizing her, but I think there was some diplomatic pressure brought to bear on them, for they sent her crew home."

Then Lewson went on again. "Food was scarce that season, and we got most nothing in the traps," he said. "Besides, there were Russians out prospecting, and that headed us off. We figured that some of the Kamtchadales who traded skins to the settlements would put them on our trail. When we went to look for the boat she'd gone, but we hadn't much notion of getting off in her, though another time—I don't remember when—we gave two Kamtchadales messages we'd cut on slips of wood. Sometimes the schooners stood in along the coast."

Wyllard nodded. "Dunton of the Cypress got your message," he said. "He was in difficulties then, but he afterwards sent it me."

"Well," said Lewson, "there isn't much more to it. We hung about the beach awhile, and then went north before the winter. Jake played out on the trail. By and bye he had to let up, and in a day or two I buried him."