He spread his hands out, and his voice grew hoarse. "After that it didn't seem to matter what became of me, but I kept the trail somehow, and found I couldn't stay up yonder. That's why I started south with some of them before the summer came. Now I'm here—talking English—talking with white men—but it doesn't seem the same as it should have been—without the others."

He broke off, and said no more that night, but Wyllard translated part of his story for the benefit of Overweg. The latter made a little expressive gesture.

"The thing, it seems incredible," he commented. "This man, who has so little to tell, knows things which would make a trained explorer famous."

"It generally happens that way," said Wyllard with a dry smile. "The men who know can't tell."

Overweg made a sign of assent, and then changed the subject.

"What will you do now?"

"Start for the inlet where we expect to find the schooner at sunrise. I want to say"—and Wyllard hesitated—"that you have laid an obligation on me which I can never repay; but I can, at least, replace the provisions you have supplied me with."

"That goes for nothing," said the other with a smile. "I have, however, drawn upon my base camp rather heavily, and should be glad of any stores from the schooner that you could let me have. The difficulty is that I do not wish to go too far towards the beach."

They arranged a rendezvous a day or two's march from the inlet, and in another half-hour all of them were fast asleep.

When the first of the daylight came Wyllard set off with his two companions, and since it was evident that Dampier must have now lain in the inlet awaiting them a considerable time, they marched fast for several days. Then to their consternation they came upon the Siwash lying beside a river badly lame. It appeared that in climbing a slippery ridge of rock the knee he had injured had given way, and he had fallen some distance heavily, after which the Kamtchadale finding him helpless had disappeared with most of the provisions. None of the party ever learned what had become of him, but they realised in the meanwhile that the situation was now a rather serious one. Charly, who looked at Wyllard when he had heard the Indian's story, explained it concisely.

"I'm worrying about the boat we left on the edge of the ice," he said. "I've had a notion all along it was going to make trouble. Dampier would see the wreckage when he ran in, and I guess it would only mean one thing to him. He'd make quite certain he was right when he didn't find us at the inlet." He paused and pointed towards the distant sea. "You have got to push right on with Lewson as fast as you can while I try to bring the Siwash along."

Wyllard started in the next few minutes, and afterwards never quite forgot the strain and stress of that arduous march. The journey he had made with Overweg had been difficult enough, but they had then, at least, traversed rising ground from which most of the melting snow had drained away. Now, however, as they approached the more level littoral there were wide tracts of mire and swamp to be painfully floundered through, while every ravine and hollow was swept by a frothing torrent, and they had often to search for hours for a place where it was possible to cross. To make things worse, they were drenched with bitter rain half the time, and trails of dingy mist obscured their path, but they toiled on stubbornly through every obstacle, though it was only by the tensest effort that Wyllard kept pace with his companion. The gaunt, long-haired Lewson seemed proof against physical weariness, and there was seldom any change in the expression of his grim, lined face. Now and then Wyllard felt a curious shrinking as he glanced at it, for its fixed look suggested what this man had borne in the awful solitudes of the frozen north.

Slowly, with infinite toil, they crossed the weary leagues, lying at night with a single skin between them and the soil, for they travelled light; and Wyllard was limping painfully with his boots worn off his feet, when at length one morning they came into sight of a low promontory which rose against a stretch of grey, lifeless sea. His heart throbbed fast as he realised that behind it lay the inlet into which Dampier had arranged to bring the Selache. He glanced at Lewson, who said nothing, and they plodded forward faster than before.

The misty sun was high in the heavens when at length they reached the foot of the steep rise, and Wyllard gasped heavily as they crept up the ascent. He was making a severe muscular effort; but it was the nervous tension that troubled him most, for he knew that he would look down upon the inlet from the summit. He blamed himself bitterly for not sending on a messenger to Dampier when he fell in with Overweg, which, in his eagerness to follow up the clue the latter had given him, he had at first omitted to do. There had certainly been difficulties in the way, for the increase in the scientist's party had made additional packers necessary, and Wyllard felt that he could not reasonably compel him to leave the camp comforts he had evidently been accustomed to behind. In spite of that, he had been at fault in not disregarding every objection, and he realised it now.

Somehow he kept pace with Lewson, but he closed one hand tight as he neared the top. When he reached it he stopped suddenly, and his face set hard as he looked down, standing very still. Beneath him lay a strip of dim, green water, with a fringe of soft, white surf at the foot of the promontory, while beyond the latter there stretched away an empty expanse of slowly heaving sea. There was nothing else, however; no schooner in the inlet, no boat upon the beach.

In another moment or two they went down the slope savagely at a stumbling run, and then stopped, gasping by the water's edge, and looked at one another. There were marks in the sand which showed them where a boat had been drawn up not very long ago. The Selache had evidently been there, and had sailed away again.

Then Wyllard sat down limply upon the shingle, for all the strength seemed to suddenly melt out of him, and it was several minutes before he looked up. Lewson was still standing, a shapeless, barbaric figure in his garments of skins, with a dark lined face that had scarcely changed, gazing out to sea. The hide moccasins he wore had chafed through, and Wyllard noticed that the blood was trickling from one of his feet.

"Well?" he said, harshly.

Wyllard laid a stern restraint upon himself. Their case looked desperate, but it must, at least, be grappled with.

"We must go back and meet the rest," he said. "That first—what is to come afterwards I don't quite know." Then a faint gleam of resolution crept into his eyes. "The schooner the Russians seized lies in an inlet down the coast."

Lewson made a sign of comprehension. "There are four of us. There will be birds by and bye. I can trap things."

Then he flung himself down near his comrade, and for an hour neither of them said anything. Wyllard, at least, was worn-out physically, and limp from the last few hours' mental strain, while Lewson very seldom said more than was absolutely necessary. Then they made a very frugal meal, and long afterwards Wyllard was haunted by the memory of that dreary afternoon during which he lay upon the shingle watching the slow pulsations of the dim, lifeless sea.

They set out again early next morning, and, as it happened, found a little depot of provisions that Dampier had made, but it was several days before they met Charly and the Indian, and another week had passed before Overweg reached the place appointed. He listened to Wyllard's story gravely, and then appeared to consider.

"You have some plans?" he asked.

Wyllard admitted that this was the case, and Overweg smiled behind his spectacles.

"It is, perhaps, better that you do not tell me what they are," he said. "There is, however, one thing I can do. You say you left some stores you could not carry at the depot, which I will take, for provisions are now not plentiful with me, but there are still a few things you have not which are almost necessary at my base camp, and"—he spread his hands out—"after all, if I have to go south a little earlier than I intended it is not a great matter."

He wrote on a strip of paper which he handed to Wyllard. "You will take these, and nothing else. I may add that Smirnoff is stationed at the inlet where the schooner lies."

Wyllard thanked him, and then looked him in the eyes. "There is a long journey before us, and you have only my word that I will take nothing but these things."

Overweg nodded quietly. "Yes," he said, "it is, however, perhaps permissible to assure you that it is sufficient for me."

Very little more was said, and in another half-hour Wyllard and his companions were ready to set out. He and the little spectacled scientist grasped each other's hands, and then Wyllard abruptly turned away. A few minutes later he turned again, and looking back saw Overweg standing upon the ridge where he had left him silhouetted against a low, grey sky. He raised his cap once, and Wyllard, who answered him, swung round once more, and strode on faster towards the south. He knew that his regard for this stranger who had fallen across his path would remain unchanged while his life should last.



CHAPTER XXX.

THE LAST EFFORT.

It was after a long and arduous journey which had left its mark on all of them that Wyllard and his companions lay among the boulders beside a sheltered inlet waiting for the dusk to fall one lowering evening. They were cramped and aching, for they had scarcely moved during the last hour; their garments were badly tattered, and their half-covered feet were bleeding. They were, as they recognised, a pitiful company to seize a vessel, with three knives and one rifle between them, but there was resolution in their haggard faces.

Close in front of them the green water lapped softly among the stones. The breeze was light off shore, and the tide, which was just running ebb, rippled against the bows of a little schooner lying some thirty yards from the bank. She had been seized for illegal sealing some years earlier, and it was evident that she had been very little used since then. The paint was peeling from her cracked and weathered side, her gear was frayed and bleached with frost and rain, and only very hard-pressed men would have faced the thought of going to sea in her. Wyllard and his companions were, however, very hard-pressed indeed, and they preferred the hazards of a voyage in the crazy vessel to falling into the Russians' hands. It was also clear that they had no choice. It must be either one thing or the other.

Some little distance up-stream a low rise cut against the dingy sky. It shut off all view of the upper part of the inlet, which wound in behind it, but Wyllard and his companions had cautiously climbed the slope earlier in the afternoon, and lying flat upon the summit had looked down upon the little wooden houses that clustered above the beach. He had then decided that this part of the inlet would dry out at about half-ebb, and as the schooner's boat, which he meant to seize, lay upon the shingle it was evident that he must carry out his plans within the next three hours.

These were very simple. There was nobody on board the schooner, which lay in deeper water, and he fancied that it would be possible to swim off to her and slip the cable; but they must have provisions, and there was, so far as he could see, only one way of obtaining them. A building which stood by itself close beside the beach was evidently a store, for he had seen two men carrying bags and cases out of it under the superintendence of a third in some kind of uniform, and it appeared to be unguarded. Wyllard, who had reasons for surmising that the few settlements on the coast were under strict official control, fancied that the store contained Government supplies, and had arranged that Charly and Lewson should break into it as soon as darkness fell, and pull off to the schooner with anything they could find inside. Whether they would succeed in doing this he did not know, and he admitted to himself that it scarcely seemed probable, but he could think of no other plan, and the attempt must be made.

In the meanwhile a thin haze drove across the crest of the rise, the breeze freshened slightly, and the little ripples lapped more noisily along the shingle. There was evidently a good deal of fresh water coming down the inlet, and it was in a fever of impatience he watched the schooner strain at her cable. That evening had already seemed the longest he had ever spent in his life. By and bye it commenced to rain, and little streams of chilly water trickled about the weary men, but they lay still, with lips tight set, in tense suspense. What Lewson had had to face in the awful icy wastes to the north of them Wyllard could scarcely imagine, and Lewson could not tell, but he and his two other comrades had borne things almost beyond endurance since he commenced his search, and now there was far too much at stake for him to increase the odds against them by any undue precipitancy. He was then in a dangerous mood, but he had laid his plans with grim, cold-blooded caution, and he meant to adhere to them.

At length, and very slowly, the light faded, until the beach grew shadowy, and the schooner's spars and rigging showed dim and blurred against a dusky background. The rise that shut off the settlement was lost in drifting haze, and the dull rumble of the surf on the outer beach came up more sharply through the gathering darkness. The measured beat of its deep pulsations almost maddened Wyllard as he lay and listened, for if all went right he would be sliding out over the long heave with every sail piled on to the crazy schooner in another hour or two.

At length, when there was only a faint gleam of water sliding by below, he rose stiffly to his feet, and Lewson stretched out a hand for the rifle that lay among the stones. There was a sharp click as he jerked the lever, and then he laughed, a little jarring laugh, as the magazine snapped back.

"They'll treat us as pirates if they get hands on us—and I've been lashed in the face—with a sled-dog-whip," he said.

Charly said nothing as he loosened the long seaman's knife in his belt, and Wyllard made no remonstrance, for there is, as he recognised, a point beyond which prudence does not count. After what Overweg had once or twice told him, it was unthinkable that they should fall into Smirnoff's hands.

Then Lewson and Charly melted away into the darkness, and Wyllard and the Siwash walked quietly down to the water's edge, a little up-stream of the schooner, as the stream was running strong. They, however, stripped off nothing, for it was evident that none of the rags they left behind could be replaced, and they knew from experience that when the first shock is over a man swimming in icy water is kept a little warmer by his clothing. For all that, the cold struck through Wyllard like a knife when he flung himself forward and swung his left hand out, and it was perhaps a minute before he was clearly conscious of anything beyond the physical agony and the mental effort to retain control of his faculties. Then he made out the schooner, a vague, blurred shape a little down-stream of him, and he swam furiously, his face dipping under each time his left hand came out.

He drew level with her, clutched at her cable, a foot short, and was driven against her bows. Then the stream swept him onward, gasping, and clawing savagely at her slippery side, until his fingers found a hold. It was merely the rounded top of a bolt, but with a desperate effort he clutched the bent iron that led up from it to one of the dead-eyes of the mainmast-shrouds. He could not, however, draw himself up any further, and he hung on, wondering when his strength would fail him, until the Siwash, who had already crawled up the cable, leaned down from above and seized his shoulder. In another moment or two he reached the rail, and went staggering across the deck, dripping, and half dazed.

Action was, however, imperatively necessary, and he braced himself for the effort. The schooner was lying with her anchor up-stream, but he did not think it would be possible to heave her over it and break it out unless he waited until the others arrived, and it would then be a lengthy and, what was more to the purpose, a noisy operation. The anchor must be sacrificed, but there was the difficulty that he could hardly expect to find a shackle on the cable in the dark. Running forward with the Siwash, he pulled a chain stopper out, and then shipping the windlass levers found with vast relief that it would work. It would make a horribly distinct clanking, he knew, but that could not be helped, and the next thing was to discover if the end of the chain was made fast below, for it is very seldom that a skipper finds it necessary to pay all his cable out.

Dropping into the darkness of the locker beneath the forecastle, he was more fortunate than he could reasonably have expected to be, for as he crawled over the rusty links he felt a shackle. It appeared to be of the usual harp-pattern with a cottered pin, and he called out sharply to the Siwash, who presently flung him an iron bar and a big spike. Then he struck one of the two or three sulphur matches he had carefully treasured, and when the sputtering blue flame went out set to work to back the pin out in the dark. He smashed his knuckles and badly bruised his hands, but he succeeded, and knew that he had shortened the chain by two-thirds now.

Then he scrambled up on deck again and hurried aft, for the vessel's kedge had been laid out astern to prevent her swinging. There was a heavy hemp warp attached to it, and it cost them some time to heave most of it over, after which they proceeded to get the mainsail on to her. It was covered with a coat, and Wyllard cut himself as he slashed through the tiers in savage impatience. Then he and the Siwash toiled at the halliards desperately, for the task of raising the heavy gaff was almost beyond their powers.

There was no grease on the mast-hoops, the blocks had evidently not been used for months, and several times they desisted a moment or two, gasping, breathless, and utterly exhausted. Still, foot by foot they got the black canvas up, and then, leaving the peak hanging, ran forward to the boom-foresail, which was smaller and lighter. They set that, cast two jibs and the staysail loose, and let them lie, and Wyllard sat down feeling that the thing they had done would, if attempted in cold blood, have appeared almost impossible.

It was done, however, and now he must wait until the boat appeared. There was no sign of her, and as he gazed up the inlet, seeing only the dim glimmer of the water and the sliding mist, the suspense became almost intolerable. Minute slipped by after minute, and still nothing loomed out of the haze. The canvas rustled and banged above him, there was a growing splashing beneath the bows, and the schooner strained more heavily at her cable. Everything was ready, only his comrades did not appear. He clenched his hands and set his lips as he waited, and wondered at the Siwash who sat upon the rail, a dim, shapeless figure, impassively still.

At length his heart throbbed furiously, for a faint splash of oars came out of the darkness, and they both ran forward to the windlass. The sharp clanking it made drowned the splash of oars, but in another minute or two there was a crash as the boat drove alongside, and Charly scrambled up with a rope while Lewson hurled sundry bags and cases after him. Then he climbed on deck in turn, and Charly commenced a breathless explanation.

"It's all we could get. There's nobody on our trail," he said.

The last fact was most important, and Wyllard cut him short. "Get the jibs and staysail on to her."

The new arrivals did it while the cable clanked and rattled as the schooner drove astern, but at the first heave the rotten staysail tore off the hanks, and one jib burst as they ran it up its stay. Then for an anxious moment or two the cable jammed, and the anchor brought the schooner up. All four flung themselves upon the windlass levers, and after a furious effort the chain came up again and ran out faster, fathom by fathom, rattling horribly, until the end of it shot suddenly over the windlass. Then there was another check as the schooner brought up by the kedge swung suddenly across the stream.

Her banging canvas filled, she listed over, and it was evident to all of them that if the kedge started she would forthwith drive ashore. Its warp ripped out of the water tense with strain, and she was swinging on it heading for the beach when; Wyllard flung himself upon the wheel.

"Hang on to every inch or break it!" he roared. "Out main-boom; box your jib and staysail up to weather!"

They did it, amidst a great clatter of blocks and thrashing of canvas, in desperate haste, while Wyllard wrenched up his helm, and the schooner, straining on the warp, fell away with her bows down-stream. He was quivering all through, and the sweat of effort dripped from him when he swung up an arm to Lewson, who was standing at the bollard the warp was made fast to.

"Now," he cried hoarsely, "let her go!"

The rope fell with a splash, the schooner lurched forward and drove away down the inlet with the stream running seaward under her, while Wyllard felt a trifle dazed from sheer revulsion of feeling. The rumble of the surf was growing louder, the deck slanted slightly beneath him, and if they could keep her off the beach for the next few minutes there was freedom before them. He hazarded a glance astern, but could see no sign of a boat up the inlet. They had done a thing which even then appeared almost incredible.

The breeze came down fresher, the gurgle at the bows grew louder, and the deck commenced to heave with a slow and regular rise and fall. Then a long, shadowy point girt about with spectral surf slipped by, and they were out in open water. They ran her out for an hour or two and then, though the peak of the mainsail burst to tatters as they hauled her on a wind, let her stretch away northwards following the trend of coast.

"We'll stand on as she's lying until we find a creek or river mouth. We must have water," Wyllard said.

An hour later he called Charly to the wheel, and sitting down in the shelter of the rail soon afterwards went to sleep, though this was about the last thing he had contemplated doing. It was grey dawn when he opened his eyes again, and stood up, aching all over and very cold, to see that the schooner was tumbling over a little spiteful sea with the hazy loom of land not far away from her. Then he glanced at the gear and canvas, and was almost appalled, while Charly, who was busy close by, saw his face and grinned.

"You don't want to look at her too much," he said. "We took a swig on the peak-halliards a little while ago, and had to let up before we pulled the gaff off her. Boom-foresail's worse, and the jibs are dropping off her, while the water just pours in through her topsides when she puts another lee plank down."

Wyllard made a little expressive gesture, and leaned upon the rail. He realised then something of the nature of the task he had undertaken. They had no anchor, no fresh water, no fuel for cooking, and, so far as he was aware, very few provisions, while it seemed to him that the weathered, worn-out gear would not hold the masts in the vessel in any weight of breeze. Still, the thing must be attempted, and there was one want, at least, that could be supplied.

"Anyway," he said, "we'll beat her in. When we come abreast of the first creek you and Tom and the Siwash will go ashore."

It was afternoon when they sighted one, and they took most of the canvas off the vessel before three of them pulled away in the boat, leaving Wyllard at the helm. It was blowing moderately fresh off shore, and it was with feverish impatience he watched them toiling at the oars, two of them pulling while the third man sculled. Then they disappeared behind a point, and an anxious hour went by before the boat, which now showed a very scanty strip of side above the tumbling foam, crept out from the beach again. Having no breakers, they had brought the water off in bulk, sitting in it as they pulled, and it was fortunate that the boat lurched off shore easily before the little splashing seas. They lost some of the water before they hove it into the big and very rusty tank, and then they held a consultation when they had swung the boat in and the schooner was running off to the east again.

"We've about stores enough to last two weeks—that is, if you don't expect too much," Lewson pointed out. "There's an American stove in the deck-house, and while we can't find anything meant to burn in it there's an axe down forward, and we could cut out cabin floorings, or a beam or two, without taking too much stiffening out of her."

Wyllard, who had inspected the stores, fancied that a fortnight was the very longest that could be counted on, though they ate no more than would keep a modicum of strength in them. From their kind and quality he surmised that they had been intended for the officials in charge of the settlement.

"How did you get them, Tom?" he asked.

"The thing," said Lewson quietly, "was simple. It was dark and hazy, and raining quite hard, and the first thing we did was to run the boat down and leave her nearly afloat. Then we crawled back, and lay by listening outside that store. We were figuring how we were to break it in when two men came along. They went in and came out with a bag or two, and as they left the door open we figured they were coming back for more. We humped out a moderate load, and had just got it down to the boat when we saw those men, or two others, in the haze. I was for lying by, but Charly would get out then."

Charly laughed drily. "He wanted to take the rifle and go back to look for Smirnoff. I'd no use for any trouble of that kind, and I shoved the boat off while he was seeing how many ca'tridges there were in the magazine. He waded in and grabbed the boat when he saw I was sure going, but I shoved her away from him. Then it kind of struck him he had to get in or swim."

Lewson's expression grew very grim. "That's the thing that hurts the most—to go away before I got even with that man," he said. "Still, I may get over it if I try to think of him with his nose smashed hard to starboard."

Wyllard made a sign of impatience. He felt that, after all, there was perhaps something to be said for Smirnoff's point of view.

"There is just one plan open to us, and that's to drive her across to the eastward as fast as we can," he said. "We might, perhaps, pick up an Alaska C.C. factory before the provisions quite run out if this breeze and the gear hold up. Failing that, we must try for one of the Western Aleutians."

The others concurred in this, and very fortunately the breeze kept to the west and south, for Wyllard had very grave doubts as to whether he could have thrashed the schooner to windward through a steep head sea. Indeed, on looking back on that voyage and remembering the state of the vessel, it seemed to him that he and his companions had only escaped as by a miracle. In any case, they hove her to one misty evening in a deep inlet behind a promontory, and Wyllard, who sculled up it alone in the growing darkness, badly startled the agent of an A.C.C. factory when he appeared, ragged, haggard, and wet with rain, in the doorway of a big, stove-warmed room.

The agent, however, was, as he admitted, out for business, and when Wyllard produced a wad of paper money stained by wet and perspiration he appeared quite willing to part with certain provisions. He was also told that no questions would be answered, and when he had given Wyllard supper the latter sculled away in the darkness leaving him none the wiser. Half an hour later the schooner slipped out to sea again.

The rest was by comparison easy. They had the coast of Alaska and British Columbia close aboard, and they crept southwards in fine weather, once running off their course when the smoke of a steamer crept up above the horizon. Then they ran for the northern tongue of Vancouver Island in a strong breeze of wind, and Wyllard, who had already decided that the vessel would scarcely fetch five hundred dollars and that it would be better if all trace of her disappeared, pulled his wheel over suddenly as she was scraping by a surf-swept reef.

In another minute she was on hard and fast, and they had scarcely got the boat over when the masts went with a crash. A quarter of an hour later they were thrown up on the beach, and before they set out on a long march through the bush there was very little to be seen of the vessel.

Three or four days afterwards they reached a little wooden town, and Wyllard, who slipped into it alone in the dusk, bought clothing for himself and his companions, who put it on in the bush. Then they went into the town together, and slept that night in a wooden hotel.

Their troubles were over, and, what was more, Wyllard, who pledged the rest to secrecy, fancied that what had become of the schooner would remain a mystery.



CHAPTER XXXI.

WYLLARD COMES HOME.

Harvest had commenced at the Range, and the clashing binders were moving through the grain when Hawtrey sat one afternoon in Wyllard's room at the Range. It was then about five o'clock, and every man belonging to the homestead was toiling bare-armed and grimed with dust among the yellow oats, but Hawtrey sat at a table gazing at the litter of papers in front of him with a troubled face. He wore a white shirt and store clothes, which was distinctly unusual in case of a Western farmer at harvest time, and Edmonds, the mortgage jobber, leaned back in a big chair quietly watching him.

The latter had, as it happened, called at a singularly inconvenient time, and Hawtrey was anxious to get rid of him before the guests he expected arrived. It was Sally's birthday, and since she took pleasure in simple festivities of any kind he had arranged to celebrate it at the Range. He was, however, sufficiently acquainted with his companion's character to realise that it was most unlikely that he would take his departure before he had accomplished the purpose which had brought him there. This was to collect several thousand dollars.

It was quite clear to Hawtrey that he was in an unpleasantly tight place. Edmonds held a bond upon his homestead, teams, and implements as security for a short date loan, repayment of which was due, and he was to be married to Sally in a month or so.

"Can't you wait a little?" he asked at length.

"I'm afraid not," was the uncompromising reply. "Money's tight this fall, and things have gone against me. Besides, you could pay me off if you wanted to."

Edmonds turned towards an open window, and glanced at the great stretch of yellow grain that ran back across the prairie. Dusty teams and binders with flashing wooden arms moved half-hidden along the edge of it, and the still, clear air was filled with a clash and clatter and the rustle of flung-out sheaves.

There was no doubt that money could be raised upon that harvest field. Indeed, Hawtrey fancied that his companion would be quite content to take a bond for the delivery of so many thousand bushels in repayment of the loan, but while he had already gone further than he had at one time contemplated doing, this was a course he shrank from suggesting. After all, the grain was Wyllard's, and there was the difficulty that Wyllard might still come back, while if he failed to do this an absence of another few months would entitle his executors to presume him dead. In either case, Hawtrey would be required to account for his property.

"No," he said, "I can't take—that way."

There was a trace of contempt in the mortgage jobber's smile. "You of course understand just how you're fixed, but it seemed to me from that draft of the arrangement with Wyllard that you have the power to do pretty much what you like. Anyway, if you gave me a bond on as much of that grain as would wipe out the loan at present figure, it would only mean that you would have Wyllard's trustees for creditors instead of me, and it's probable that they wouldn't be as hard upon you as I'm compelled to be. As things stand, you have got to square up or I throw your place on the market."

Hawtrey's face betrayed his dismay, and his companion fancied that he would yield to a little further pressure. He had not said anything about the mortgage to Sally, and it would be singularly unpleasant to be turned out upon the prairie within a month or two of his marriage, for he could not count upon being left in possession of the Range much longer.

"I'm only entitled to handle Wyllard's money on—his—account," he objected.

Edmonds appeared to reflect. "So far as I can remember there was nothing of that kind stated in the draft of the arrangement. It empowered you to do anything you thought fit with the money, but it's altogether your own affair. I can, of course, get my dollars back by selling your homestead up, and I have to decide if that must be done or not before I leave."

He had very little doubt as to what the decision would be. Hawtrey would yield, and afterwards it would not be difficult to draw him into some unwise speculation with the object of getting the money back, which he imagined that Hawtrey would be desperately anxious to do. As the result of this, he expected to get such a hold upon the Range that he would be master of the situation when the property fell into the hands of Wyllard's trustees. That Hawtrey would be disgraced as well as ruined naturally did not count with him.

The latter took up one of the papers, and read it through with vacillation in his eyes. Then he rose, and stood leaning on the table while he gazed at the teams toiling amidst the grain. There was wealth enough yonder to release him from his torturing anxieties, and after all, he felt, something must turn up before the reckoning was due. It was not in his nature to face a crisis, and with him a trouble seemed less formidable if it could only be put off a little. Edmonds, who knew with what kind of man he had to deal, said nothing further, and quietly reached out for another cigar.

In the meanwhile, though neither of the men were aware of this, Sally had just got down from her waggon on the other side of the house, and another couple of teams were already growing larger upon the sweep of whitened prairie. As she entered the homestead she met Mrs. Nansen, and the latter informed her that Hawtrey was busy with Edmonds in Wyllard's room. Sally's eyes sparkled when she heard it, and her face grew hard.

"That man!" she said. "Well, I guess I'll go right in to them."

In another minute she opened the door, and answered the mortgage jobber's somewhat embarrassed greeting with a frigid stare. Having some experience of Sally's uncompromising directness, he was inclined to fancy that the game was up, but he said nothing further, and she fixed her eyes on Hawtrey.

"What's this man doing here again?" she asked. "You promised me you would never make another deal with him."

Hawtrey flushed. Had he fancied it would have been the least use he would have made some attempt to get Sally out of the room, but he was unpleasantly sure that unless she was fully satisfied first it would only result in failure. Besides, driven to desperation, as he was, he had a half-conscious feeling that she might provide him with some means of escape. Sally had certainly saved him once already, and, humiliating as it was, he fancied that she did not expect too much from him. She might be very angry, but Sally's anger was, after all, less difficult to face than Agatha's quiet scorn.

"I haven't made another deal. It's—a previous one," he said lamely.

Sally swung round on Edmonds. "You have come here for money? You may as well tell me. I won't leave you with Gregory until you do."

It was quite evident that she would make her promise good, and Edmonds nodded.

"Yes," he said; "about 3,000 dollars."

"And Gregory can't pay you?"

Edmonds reflected rapidly, and decided to take a bold course. He was acquainted with Hawtrey's habit of putting things off, and fancied that the latter would seize upon the first loophole of escape from an embarrassing situation. That was why he gave him a lead.

"Well," he said, "there is a way in which he could do it if he wished. He has only to fill in a paper and hand it me."

He had, however, not sufficiently counted on Sally's knowledge of his victim's affairs, or her quickness of wit, for she turned to Hawtrey with a commanding gesture.

"Where are you going to get 3,000 dollars from?" she asked.

The blood crept into Hawtrey's face, for this was a thing he could not tell her; but a swift suspicion flashed into her mind as she looked at him.

"Perhaps it could be—raised," he said.

"To pay his mortgage off?" and Sally swung round on Edmonds now.

"Yes," the latter admitted; "he can easily do it."

Then the girl turned to Hawtrey. "Gregory," she said with harsh incisiveness, "there's only one way you could get that money—and it isn't yours."

Hawtrey said nothing, but he could not meet her gaze, and when he turned from her she looked back at the mortgage jobber.

"If you're gone before I come back there'll sure be trouble," she informed him, and sped swiftly out of the room.

Then Hawtrey sat down limply in his chair, and Edmonds laughed in a jarring manner. The game was up, but, after all, if he got his 3,000 dollars he could be satisfied, for he had already extracted a good many from Hawtrey one way or another.

"If I were you I'd marry that girl right away," he said. "You'd be safer if you had her to look after you."

Hawtrey let the jibe pass. For one thing, he felt that it was warranted, and just then his anxiety was too strong for anger.

In the meanwhile, Sally ran out of the house to meet Hastings, who had just handed his wife down from their waggon, and drew him a pace or two aside.

"I'm worried about Gregory," she said; "he's in trouble—big trouble. Somehow we have got to raise 3,000 dollars. Edmonds is inside with him."

Hastings did not seem greatly astonished. "Ah!" he said, "I guess it's over that mortgage of his. It would be awkward for you and Gregory if Edmonds took the homestead and turned him out."

Sally's face grew rather white, but she met his gaze steadily.

"Oh," she said, "that's not what I would mind the most."

Hastings reflected a moment or two. He fancied that this was a very difficult admission for the girl to make, and that she had made it suggested that Hawtrey might become involved in more serious difficulties. He had also a strong suspicion of what they were likely to be.

"Sally," he said quietly, "you are afraid of Edmonds making him do something you would not like?"

Though she did not answer directly he saw the shame in the girl's face, and remembered that he was one of Wyllard's trustees.

"I must raise those dollars—now—and I don't know where to get more than five hundred from. I might manage that," she said.

"Well," said Hastings, "you want me to lend you them, and I'm not sure that I can. Still, if you'll wait a few minutes I'll see what I can do."

Sally left him, and he turned to his wife, whose expression suggested that she had overheard part of what was said and had guessed the rest.

"You mean to raise that money? After all, we are friends of his, and it may save him from letting Edmonds get his grip upon the Range," she said.

Hastings made a sign of reluctant assent. "I don't quite know how I can do it personally, in view of the figure wheat is standing at, and I don't think much of any security that Gregory could offer me. Still, there is, perhaps, a way in which it could be arranged, and it's one that, considering everything, is more or less admissible. I think I'll wait here for Agatha."

Agatha was in the waggon driven by Sproatly close behind them, and when he had handed her and Winifred down Hastings, who walked to the house with them, drew her into an unoccupied room, while Mrs. Nansen took the rest into the big general one.

"I'm afraid that Gregory's in rather serious trouble. Sally seems very anxious about him," he said. "It's rather a delicate subject, but I understand that in a general way you are on good terms with both of them?"

Agatha met his somewhat embarrassed gaze with a smile. She fancied that what he really wished to discover was whether she still felt any bitterness against Gregory and blamed him for pledging himself to Sally.

"Yes," she said, "Sally and I are good friends, and I am very sorry to hear that Gregory is in any difficulty."

Hastings still seemed embarrassed, and she was becoming puzzled by his manner.

"Once upon a time you would have done anything possible to make things easier for him," he said. "I wonder if I might ask if to some extent you have that feeling still?"

"Of course. If he is in serious trouble I should be glad to do anything within my power to help him."

"Even if it cost, we will say, about six hundred English pounds?"

Agatha gazed at him in bewildered astonishment. "There are some twenty dollars in my possession which your wife handed me not long ago."

"Still, if you had the money, you would be glad to help him—and would not regret it afterwards?"

"No," said Agatha decisively; "if I had the means, and the need was urgent, I should be glad to do what I could." Then she laughed. "I can't understand in the least how this is to the purpose."

"If you will wait for the next two or three months I may be able to explain it to you," said Hastings. "In the meanwhile, there are one or two things I have to do."

Agatha sat still when he left her, wondering what he could have meant, but feeling that she would be willing to do what she had assured him. His suggestion that it was possible that she still cherished any sense of grievance against Gregory because he was going to marry Sally, however, brought a little scornful smile into her eyes. It was singularly easy to forgive Gregory that, for she now saw him as he was—shallow, careless, shiftless, a man without depth of character. He had a few surface graces, and on occasion a certain half-insolent forcefulness of manner which in a curious fashion was almost becoming. There was, however, nothing beneath the surface. When he had to face a crisis he collapsed like a pricked bladder, which was the first simile she could think of, though she admitted that it was not a particularly elegant one. He was, it seemed, quite willing that a woman should help him out of the trouble he had involved himself in, for she had no doubt that Sally had sent Hastings on his somewhat incomprehensible errand.

Then a clear voice came in through the window, and turning towards it she saw that a young lad clad in blue duck was singing as he drove his binder through the grain. The song was a very simple one which had some vogue just then upon the prairie, but her eyes grew suddenly hazy as odd snatches of it reached her through the beat of hoofs, the clash of the binder's arms, and the rustle of the flung-out sheaves.

"My Bonny lies over the ocean, My Bonny lies far over the sea."

Then he called to his horses, and it was a few moments before she heard again—

"Bring back my Bonny to me."

A quiver ran through her as she leaned upon the window frame. There was a certain pathos in the simple strain, and she could fancy that the lad, who was clearly English, as an exile felt it, too. Once more as the jaded horses and clashing machine grew smaller down the edge of the great sweep of yellow grain, his voice came faintly up to her with its haunting thrill of longing and regret—

"Bring back my Bonny to me."

This in her case was more than anyone could do, and as she stood listening a tear splashed upon her closed hands. The man, by comparison with whom Gregory appeared a mere lay figure, was in all probability lying still far up in the solitudes of the frozen North, with his last grim journey done. This time, however, he had not carried her picture with him. Gregory was to blame for that, and it was the one thing she could not forgive him.

She leaned against the window for another minute, struggling with an almost uncontrollable longing, and looking out upon the sweep of golden wheat and whitened grass with brimming eyes, until there was a rattle of wheels, and she saw Edmonds drive away. In another minute she heard voices in the corridor, and it became evident that Hastings was speaking to his wife.

"I've got rid of the man, and it's reasonable to expect that Gregory will keep clear of him after this," he said.

"Don't you mean that Agatha did it?"

It was Mrs. Hastings who asked the question, and Agatha became intent as she heard her name. She did not, however, hear the answer, and Mrs. Hastings spoke again.

"Allen," she said, "you don't keep a secret badly, though Harry pledged you not to tell. Still, all that caution was a little unnecessary. It was, of course, just the kind of thing he would do."

"What did he do?" Hastings asked, and Agatha heard his wife's soft laugh, for they were just outside the door now.

"Left the Range, or most of it, to Agatha in case he didn't come back again."

They went on, and Agatha, turning from the window, sat down limply with the blood in her face and her heart beating horribly fast. Wyllard's last care, it seemed, had been to provide for her, and that fact brought her a curious sense of solace. In an unexplainable fashion it took the bitterest sting out of her grief, though how far he had succeeded in his intentions did not seem to matter in the least. It was sufficient to know that amidst all the haste of his preparation he had not forgotten her.

Then, becoming a little calmer, she understood what had been in Hastings's mind during the interview that had puzzled her, and was glad that she assured him of her willingness to sacrifice anything that might be hers if it was needed to set Gregory free. It was, she felt, what Wyllard would have done with the money. He had said that Gregory was a friend of his, and that, she knew, meant a good deal to him.

It was, however, evident that she must join the others if she did not wish her absence to excite undesirable comment, and going out she came face to face with Sally in the corridor. The girl stopped, and saw the sympathy in her eyes.

"Yes," she said impulsively, "I've saved him. Edmonds has gone. Hastings bought him off, and, though I don't quite know how, you helped him. He stayed behind to wait for you."

Agatha smiled. The vibrant relief in her companion's voice stirred her, and she realised once more that in choosing this half-taught girl, at least, Gregory had acted with wholly unusual wisdom. It was with a sense of half-contemptuous amusement at her folly she remembered how she had once fancied that Gregory was marrying beneath him. Sally was far from perfect, but when it was a matter of essentials the man was not fit to brush her shoes.

"My dear," she said, "I really don't know exactly what I—have—done, but if it amounts to anything it is a pleasure to me."

Then they went together into the big general room where Gregory was talking to Winifred somewhat volubly. Agatha, however, fancied from his manner that he had, at least, the grace to feel ashamed of himself. Supper, she heard Mrs. Nansen say, would be ready very shortly, and feeling in no mood for general conversation she sat near a window looking out across the harvest field until she heard a distant shout, and saw a waggon appear on the crest of the rise. Then, to her astonishment, two of the binders stopped, and she saw a couple of men who sprang down from them run to meet the waggon. In another moment or two more of the teams stopped, and a faint clamour of cries went up, while here and there little running figures straggled up the slope. Then her companions clustered about her at the window, wondering, and Winifred turned to Hastings.

"What are they shouting for?" she asked. "They are all crowding about the waggon now."

Agatha felt suddenly dazed and dizzy, for she knew what the answer to that question must be even before Mrs. Hastings spoke.

"It's Harry coming back," she said, and gasped.

In another moment they streamed out of the house, and Agatha found it scarcely possible to follow them, for the sudden revulsion of feeling had almost overpowered her. Still, she reached the door, and saw the waggon drawn up amidst a cluster of struggling men, and by and bye Wyllard, whom they surrounded, break out as if by force from the midst of them. She stood on the threshold waiting him, and in the midst of her exultation a pang smote her as she saw how gaunt and worn he was. He came straight towards her, apparently regardless of the others, and clasping the hands she held out drew her into the house.

"So you have not married Gregory yet?" he said, and laughed triumphantly when he saw the answer in her shining eyes.

"No," she said softly, "it is certain that I will never marry him."

Wyllard drew her back still further with a compelling grasp.

"Why?" he asked.

Agatha looked up at him, and then turned her eyes away.

"I was waiting for you," she said simply.



Then he took her in his arms and kissed her before he turned, still with her hand in his, to face the others who were now flocking back to the house, and in another moment or two they went in together amidst a confused clamour of good wishes.



THE END.