"I suppose you haven't got the new program cut and dried yet?" Edgar suggested.

George was seldom precipitate.

"No," he answered. "I've a few ideas in my mind."

"Won't you have some trouble about finances, if the alterations are extensive?"

"I'll have to draw on my private account, unless Herbert will assist."

"Herbert won't do anything of the kind," said Edgar decidedly.

George, making no answer, called Grierson from the stable.

"You'll drive in to the settlement after breakfast to-morrow, Tom," he said. "Tell the man I'll keep the team, if he'll knock off twenty dollars, and he can have his check when he likes. Then bring out the flour and groceries."

"I suppose I won't be going in again for a while; we'll be too busy?"

"It's very likely," said Edgar, knowing his comrade's temperament.

"Then I wonder if I could draw a pound or two?" asked Grierson diffidently.

"Why?" George questioned him. "The Immigration people would see that you had some money before they let you in."

"I've four pounds now; I want to send something home at once."

"Ah!" said George. "I see. How much did you leave your wife?"

"About three pounds, sir; I had to bring enough to pass me at Quebec."

"Then if you give me what you have, I'll let you have a check for twice as much on an English bank. Better get your letter written."

Grierson's look was very expressive as he turned away with a word of thanks; and Edgar smiled at George.

"You have bought that fellow—for an advance of four pounds," he said.

George showed a little embarrassment.

"I was thinking of the woman," he explained.

Then he pointed to the prairie.

"There's a rig coming. It looks like visitors."

Soon afterward, Grant, whom they had met on the train, drew up his team and helped his daughter down.

"We were passing and thought we'd look in," he said. "Found out yesterday that you were located here."

George called Grierson to take the team, and leading the new arrivals to the house, which was still in disorder, he found them seats in the kitchen. It was rather roughly and inadequately furnished, and Edgar had decided that Sylvia had spent little of her time there. After they had talked for a while, a man, dressed in blue duck trousers, a saffron-colored shirt, and an old slouch hat, which he did not remove, walked in, carrying a riding quirt. Grant returned his greeting curtly, and then the man addressed George.

"I heard you were running this place," he said.

"That's correct."

"Then I put in the wheat on your summer fallow; Mrs. Marston told me to. Thought I'd come along and let you have the bill."

His manner was assertively offhand, and George did not ask him to sit down.

"It's a very second-rate piece of work," George said. "You might have used the land-packer more than you did."

"It's good enough. Anyway, I'll trouble you for the money."

Edgar was sensible of indignation mixed with amusement. This overbearing fellow did not know George Lansing.

"I think you had better take off your hat before we go any farther—it's customary. Then you may tell me what I owe you."

The man looked astonished, but he complied with the suggestion, and afterward stated his charge, which was unusually high. Edgar noticed that Grant was watching George with quiet interest.

"I suppose you have a note from Mrs. Marston fixing the price?"

The other explained that the matter had been arranged verbally.

"Was anybody else present when you came to terms?" George asked.

"You can quit feeling, and pay up!" exclaimed the stranger. "I've told you how much it is."

"The trouble is that you're asking nearly double the usual charge per acre."

Grant smiled approvingly, but the man advanced with a truculent air to the table at which George was sitting.

"I've done the work; that's good enough for me."

"You have done it badly, but I'll give you a check now, based on the regular charge, which should come to"—George made a quick calculation on a strip of paper and handed it to the man. "This is merely because you seem in a hurry. If you're not satisfied, you can wait until I get an answer from Mrs. Marston; or I'll ask some of my neighbors to arbitrate."

The man hesitated, with anger in his face.

"I guess I'll take the check," he said sullenly.

Crossing the floor, George took a pen and some paper from a shelf.

"Sit here," he said, when he came back, "and write me a receipt."

The other did as he was bidden, and George pointed toward the door.

"That's settled; I won't keep you."

The man looked hard at him, and then went quietly out; and Grant leaned back in his seat with a soft laugh.

"You fixed him," he remarked. "He has the name of being a tough."

"I suppose an Englishman newly out is considered lawful prey."

"A few of them deserve it," Grant returned dryly. "But let that go. What do you think of the place?"

George felt that he could trust the farmer. He had spent a depressing day, during which all he saw had discouraged him. Marston had farmed in a singularly wasteful manner; fences and outbuildings were in very bad repair; half the implements were useless; and it would be a long and costly task to put things straight.

"I feel that I'll have my hands full. In fact, I'm a little worried about it; there are so many changes that must be made."

"Sure. Where are you going to begin?"

"By getting as much summer fallowing as possible done on the second quarter-section. The first has been growing wheat for some time; I'll sew part of that with timothy. There's one bit of stiff land I might put in flax. I've thought of trying corn for the silo."

"Timothy and a silo?" commented Grant.

"You're going in for stock, then? It means laying out money, and a slow return."

"I'm afraid so. Still, you can't grow cereals year after year on this light soil. It's a wasteful practise that will have to be abandoned, as people here seem to be discovering. Grain won't pay at sixteen bushels to the acre."

"A sure thing," Grant agreed. "I'm sticking right to wheat, but that's because I'm too old to change my system, and I'm on black soil, which holds out longer."

"But you're taking the nature out of it."

"It will see me through if I fallow," said Grant. "When I've done with it and sell out, somebody else can experiment with mixed crops and stock-raising. That's going to become the general plan, but it's costly at the beginning." Then he rose. "I'll walk round the place with you."

They went out, and the girl fell behind with Edgar. He had learned that her name was Flora.

"Mr. Lansing seems to understand farming," she remarked. "He didn't tell us he had been on the prairie before."

"He hasn't told you now," Edgar pointed out.

"George never does tell things about himself unless there's a reason."

"He soon got rid of the fellow who sowed the crop."

Edgar laughed.

"I knew the man would meet with a surprise. George's abilities are not, as a rule, obvious at first sight. People find them out by accident, and then they're somewhat startled."

"You're evidently an admirer of his. Do you mean to go in for farming?"

"I am, though I wouldn't have him suspect it," said Edgar. "In answer to the other question, I haven't made up my mind. Farming as it's carried on in this country seems to be a rather arduous occupation. In the meanwhile, I'm undergoing what English people seem to think of as the Canadian cure; that is, I've been given a chance for readjusting my ideas and developing my character."

"Under Mr. Lansing's guidance?"

Edgar realized that the girl was less interested in him than in George, but he did not resent this.

"You're smart. I believe my people entertained some idea of that nature; George is considered safe. Still, to prevent any misapprehension, I'd better point out that my chief failings are a fondness for looking at the amusing side of things and a slackness in availing myself of my opportunities. As an instance of the latter defect, I'm boring you by talking about Lansing."

Flora regarded him with a quiet smile.

"It struck me that you were saying something about yourself."

"I suppose that's true," Edgar admitted. "It clears the ground."

"For what?"

"For an extension of our acquaintance, among other things."

"Do you want it extended?"

They had stopped at the edge of a hollow filled with tall, harsh grass, and Edgar studied her while he considered his answer. There was nothing that suggested coquetry in the faint amusement she displayed; this was a girl with some depth of character, though he realized that she was pretty. She carried herself well; she was finely and strongly made; her gray eyes were searching; and she had a rather commanding manner. Her hair was a warm brown, clustering low on a smooth forehead; nose and lips and chin were firmly molded.

"Yes," he answered candidly; "I'm feeling the strangeness of the country, and I've an idea that both George and I may need friends in it. It strikes me that you and your father would prove useful ones."

"Well," she said, "he's sometimes called hard, and he's a little prejudiced on certain points, but he can be very staunch to those he takes a liking to."

"I believe," Edgar rejoined, "that also applies to you; I don't mean the first of it."

Flora changed the subject.

"I gather that you're not favorably impressed with the place."

"I'm not. If I had to farm it, I'd feel scared; and I don't think George is happy. It's hard to understand how Marston let it get into such a state."

"He was unfitted for the work, and he was further handicapped."

"How?" Edgar asked.

"You may have noticed that while economy ruled outside, the house is remarkably well furnished. The money Marston spent in Winnipeg stores should have gone into the land."

Edgar nodded; he did not agree with George's opinion of Sylvia.

"You don't seem to approve of the way Mrs. Marston managed things. It's rather curious. I always thought her pretty capable in some respects."

"That's very possible," said Flora with a hint of dryness.

"After all, it may not have been her fault," Edgar suggested. "Marston was a generous fellow; he may have insisted on thinking first of her comfort."

"Then she ought to have stopped him," said Flora firmly. "Do you think a woman should let a man spoil his one chance of success in order to surround her with luxury?"

"The answer's obvious."

A dazzling flash of lightning leaped from the mass of somber cloud overhead, and they turned back toward the house, which George and Grant reached soon afterward. Grant said that he must get home before the storm broke, and Grierson brought out his spirited team. It had grown nearly dark; a curious leaden haze obscured the prairie; and when the man was getting into his light, spring-seated wagon, a jagged streak of lightning suddenly reft the gloom and there was a deafening roll of thunder. The horses started. Grant fell backward from the step, dropping the reins; and while the others stood dazzled by the flash, the terrified animals backed the vehicle with a crash against the stable. Then they plunged madly forward toward the fence, with the reins trailing along the ground. Flora had got in before her father, and she was now helpless.

It was too late when Grant got up; Grierson and Edgar were too far away, and the latter stood still, wondering with a thrill of horror what the end would be; he did not think the horses saw the thin wire fence, and the gap in it was narrow. If they struck a post in going through, the vehicle would overturn. Then George, running furiously, sprang at the horses' heads, and went down, still holding on. He was dragged along a few yards, but the pace slackened, and Edgar ran forward with Grierson behind him. For a few moments there was a savage struggle, but they stopped and held the team, until Grant coolly cleared the reins and flung them to his daughter.

"Stick tight while I get up, and then watch out," he said to the others.

He was seated in another moment, the girl quietly making room for him; then, to Edgar's astonishment, he lashed the frantic horses with the whip, and, plunging forward, they swept madly through the opening in the fence, with the wagon jolting from rut to rut. A minute or two afterward they had vanished into the thick obscurity that veiled the waste of grass, and there was a dazzling flash and a stunning roll of thunder. George, flushed and breathless, looked around with a soft laugh.

"Grant has pretty good nerve," he said.

"That's so, sir," Grierson agreed. "Strikes me he'll take some of the wickedness out of his team before he gets them home. I noticed that Miss Grant didn't look the least bit afraid."

Then a deluge of rain drove them into the house, where Edgar sat smoking thoughtfully; for what Flora Grant had said about Sylvia had a disturbing effect on him. It looked as if her selfish regard for her comfort had hampered Marston in his struggle; and though Edgar had never had much faith in Sylvia, this was painful to contemplate. Moreover, George cherished a steadfast regard for her, which complicated things; but Edgar prudently decided that the matter was a delicate one and must be left to the people most concerned. After all, Miss Grant might be mistaken.



CHAPTER VII

A CATTLE DRIVE

George was summer fallowing, sitting in the iron saddle of a plow which a heavy Clydesdale team hauled through the stubble. The work should have been done earlier, for the soil on the Marston farm was very light, and, as it had already grown several crops of cereals, George was anxious to expose it to the influence of sun and wind as soon as possible. It was about the middle of the afternoon and very hot. Rounded cloud-masses overhung the plain, but dazzling sunshine fell on grass and stubble, and a haze of dust surrounded the team, while now and then the fine soil and sand, blown from the rest of the fallow by the fresh breeze, swept by in streams. George wore motor-goggles to protect his eyes, but his face and hands felt scorched and sore. Farther back, Edgar plodded behind a lighter team, making very poor progress.

Presently George looked up and saw Flora Grant riding toward him. She sat astride, but her skirt fell in becoming lines, and he thought the gray blouse and wide Stetson hat, with a red band round it, most effective. She reined up her horse near the plow, and George got down.

"I was passing—going on to Forsyth's place—and my father asked me to call," she said. "You were talking about buying cattle, and a man at Dunblane has some good Herefords to sell. Father thinks they would suit you."

"His recommendation carries weight," said George.

"I'll go and see them. I must thank you for bringing me word."

"I've another message. It's this—when you're buying stock, be cautious how you bid."

"As I'm not well up in local prices, I wish Mr. Grant had been a little plainer."

"He went farther than I expected. You see, as a friend of the seller, he's awkwardly fixed."

"Just so," said George. "But, if you're not in the same position, you might give me a hint. How much is the value of Canadian cattle usually below the price likely to be asked of a new arrival?"

"In this case, I should say about fifty per cent," Flora answered, with a laugh.

"Thank you," responded George. "I am sure your opinion's to be relied on."

Edgar stopped his team near by, and Flora regarded him with amusement as he came toward them, his red face streaked with dust.

"You look a good deal more like a western farmer than you did when I saw you last," she laughed.

Edgar removed his goggles and surveyed his working attire somewhat disgustedly.

"I wonder whether that's a compliment; but now that I've made the first plunge, I'd better go through with it—get a flappy hat and a black shirt, or one of those brilliant orange ones."

"The latter are more decorative. But, as you are going on a two days' journey to drive some cattle, I'll tell you how to find the way."

"You had better tell George. I can only remember the things that interest me."

Flora gave them clear instructions, and when she rode away George turned to Edgar.

"You'll have to come, and we'll start at once. Grierson can go on plowing with the Clydesdales, which is more than you could do."

"I'm afraid I must admit it," said Edgar, glancing at his ragged furrow. "But I'm going to have my supper and put up some provisions before I leave the place."

They set out an hour later, and safely reached their destination, where George purchased a dozen cattle. They were big, red and white, long-horned animals, accustomed to freedom, for fences are still scarce on tracts of the prairie, and they ranged about the corral in a restless manner. Edgar, leaning on the rails, watched them dubiously.

"They look unusually active," he remarked. "I'm not an expert at cattle-driving, but I suppose two of us ought to take them home."

The rancher laughed.

"Two's quite a good allowance for that small bunch, but if you keep north among the scrub poplar, you won't be bothered by many fences. It's pretty dry in summer, but you'll get good water in Baxter's well, if you head for the big bluff you'll see tomorrow afternoon. We'll let them out when you're ready."

As soon as the rails were flung down, the cattle rushed out tumultuously, as if rejoicing in their restored freedom. Then, while George and his companion mounted, they started off across the prairie at a steady trot.

"A mettlesome lot; seem to be in good training," Edgar commented. "Have you any idea where they're going?"

"Guess they're heading for a creek two miles back; water's scarce," explained the rancher. "As it's near the trail, you had better let them go. You'll round them up quite easy when they've had a drink."

George and Edgar rode after the cattle. The sun was getting low, but the temperature showed no signs of falling, and the men were soon soaked in perspiration. The herd went on at a good pace, making for a wavy line of timber, and on reaching it, plunged down the side of a declivity among little scattered trees. A stream trickled through willow bushes and tall grass in the bottom of the hollow, and the men. had trouble in forcing the cattle to leave the water. Before they accomplished it, Edgar had got very wet and had scratched himself badly in scrambling through the brush.

"Driving stock is by no means so easy as it looks," he grumbled, when they had climbed the opposite ascent, leading their horses. "The way these beasts jump about among the bushes confuses you; I'd have sworn there were forty of them in the ravine."

"I see only nine now," George said pointedly.

Edgar looked back into the hollow.

"There are three of the brutes slipping away upstream as fast as they can go! You're smarter at the thing than I am—hadn't you better go after them?"

"I expect I'll be needed to keep this bunch together," George rejoined.

Edgar strode away, but it was half an hour later when he came back, hot and angry, with the cattle crashing through the brush in front of him. Then the reunited herd set off at a smart pace across the plain.

"They seem fond of an evening gallop," Edgar remarked. "Anyhow, they're going the right way, which strikes me as something to be thankful for."

They rode on, and it was getting dark when they checked the herd near a straggling poplar bluff. The grass was good, the beasts began to feed quietly, and after picketing their horses the men lay down on their blankets. It was growing cooler, a vivid band of green still flickered along the prairie's rim, and the deep silence was intensified by the soft sound the cattle made cropping the dew-damped herbage.

"I wonder if they go to sleep," mused Edgar. "I'm beginning to think this kind of thing must be rather fine when one gets used to it. It's a glorious night."

By and by he drew his blanket round him and sank into slumber; but for a while George, who had paid a high price for a Hereford bull, lay awake, thinking and calculating. It would cost a good deal more than he had anticipated to work the farm; Sylvia had no funds that could be drawn upon, and his means were not large. Economy and good management would be needed, but he was determined to make a success of his undertaking. At last, seeing that the herd showed no signs of moving, he went to sleep.

Awakening at sunrise George found that, except for the horses, there was not a beast in sight. For an hour he and West hunted them through the bluff; and then, after making a hurried breakfast, they went on their way again. It rapidly got hotter, the stock traveled quietly, and, with a halt or two where a clump of poplars offered a little shade, they rode, scorched by dazzling sunshine, across the limitless plain. In the afternoon George began to look eagerly for the bluff that the rancher mentioned. They had found no water, and the cattle seemed distressed. The glare and heat were getting intolerable, but the vast, gradual rise in front of them ran on, unbroken, to the skyline. Its crest, however, must be crossed before evening; and they toiled on.

At last, the long ascent was made, and George felt relieved when he saw a dark line of trees in the wide basin below him.

"That must be the big bluff where the well is; though I don't see a house," he said.

They had some trouble in urging the herd down the slope, but after a while they reached the welcome shadow of the trees, and Edgar broke into a shout when he saw a rude wooden platform with a windlass upon it and a trough near by.

"Ride ahead with the horses and water them," said George, dismounting.

Edgar did as he was bidden, but presently the herd, attracted by the sight of water, came surging round the trough, savagely jostling one another. The lad worked hard with the windlass, but he could not keep them supplied, and they crowded on the low platform covering the well, with heads stretched out eagerly toward the dripping bucket. After being flung against the windlass by a thirsty beast, Edgar called to his companion.

"They'll break through if you're not quick! It's my opinion they're bent on getting down the well!"

George came to his assistance with his riding quirt, but when they were supplying the last two or three unsatisfied animals, a man ran out of the bluff.

"What in thunder are you doing with our water?" he cried.

"He looks angry," Edgar commented. "When that rancher fellow told us about the well, he didn't mention the necessity of asking Mr. Baxter's permission." Then he waved his hand to the stranger.

"Come here and have a talk!"

The man came on at a quicker run. His face was hot with indignation, and on reaching them he broke into breathless and pointed expostulations.

"When you're quite through, we'll assess the damages," George quietly told him.

The farmer's anger began to dissipate.

"No," he said; "that would be taking a pretty mean pull on you; but water's scarce, and you can't have any more."

"Well," requested George, "have you a paddock or corral you could let me put this bunch of cattle into until the morning? I'm willing to pay for the accommodation."

"I can't do it," replied the other. "I want all the fenced grass I've got. Take them right along, and you'll strike a creek about six miles ahead. Then you ought to make the river to-morrow night."

It was obvious that he desired to be rid of them; and as it was getting cooler George resumed his journey. He found the creek early the next morning, and as the day promised to be unusually hot he delayed only until he had watered the stock. In an hour or two the sun was hidden by banks of leaden cloud, but the temperature did not fall and there was an oppressive heaviness in the air. The prairie had faded to a sweep of lifeless gray, obscured above its verge. The men made progress, however; and late in the afternoon a winding line of timber that marked the river's course appeared ahead. Shortly afterward, Edgar looked around.

"That's a curious streak of haze in the distance," he remarked.

"It's smoke," said George. "Grass fires are not uncommon in hot weather. It looks like a big one."

They urged the cattle on a little faster, but it was evening when they reached the first of the trees. George rode forward between them and pulled up his horse in some concern. The ford had been difficult when they crossed it on the outward journey, but now the space between bank and bank was filled by an angry flood. It rolled by furiously, lapping in frothy ripples upon the steep slope that led down to it.

"Nearly an extra three feet of water; there'd be a risk in crossing," he said, when Edgar joined him.

"We couldn't make the place where the trail runs in, and the landing down-stream from it looks bad."

"Then what ought we to do?" Edgar inquired.

"Wait until to-morrow. There's no doubt been a heavy thunderstorm higher up, but the water should soon run down." George glanced back toward the prairie dubiously. "I'm a little anxious about the fire; but, after all, it may not come near us."

The cattle did not wander far after drinking, and the men ate their supper. It grew dark, but the heat did not lessen, and the oppressive air was filled with a smell of burning. Looking back between the trees, they could see a long streak of yellow radiance leaping up, and growing dim when the view was obstructed by clouds of smoke.

"It's an awkward situation, and, as if it were not bad enough, there's a big thunderstorm brewing," Edgar said at length. "I'll go along and look at the mark you made upon the bank."

He strode away among the trees. It was very dark. The tethered horses were moving restlessly; but, so far as Edgar could make out, the cattle were bunched together. After lighting a match he came back.

"The water's falling, but only slowly," he reported. "Should we try to drive the stock along the bank?"

"We couldn't herd them in the dark. Besides, it's an extensive fire, and I'm doubtful whether we could get down to the water farther along."

They waited for an hour, keeping the cattle together with some trouble, and watching the blaze, which grew brighter rapidly. At last, wisps of pungent smoke rolled into the bluff.

"The beasts are ready to stampede!" George suddenly called to Edgar. "We'll have to make a start! Get into the saddle and drive them toward the ford!"

They were very busy for a while. Their horses were hard to manage, the timber was thick, and the herd attempted to break away through it; but at last they reached the steep dip to the waterside. One beast plunged in and vanished, more followed, and George, plying his quirt and shouting, rode in among the diminishing drove. He felt the water lapping about his boots, and then the horse lost its footing. George dropped from the saddle and seized a stirrup. For some minutes he could see a few dark objects about him, but they disappeared, and he and the horse were swept away down-stream.

He kept hold—the animal was swimming strongly—and after a time a lurid flash of lightning showed him a black mass of trees close ahead. They vanished, the succeeding darkness was impenetrable, and the crash of thunder was deadened by the roar of water. For a moment or two his head was driven under, but when he got it clear, another dazzling flash revealed a high bank only a few yards away, and when thick darkness followed he felt the horse rise to its feet. Then he touched soft bottom, and a little later scrambled up an almost precipitous slope with the bridle in his hand and the horse floundering behind him. They reached the summit, and, stopping among thin timber, it was with strong relief that he heard Edgar's shout. Shortly afterward the lad appeared, leading his horse.

"There's some of the drove on this side; I don't see the rest," he said, glancing toward the opposite bank, where dark trees stood out against a strong red glare.

"It strikes me we only got across in time."

Then torrential rain broke upon them, and while they stood, unable to move forward, a cry reached them faintly through the roar of the deluge. It came again when George answered, and was followed by a crackling and snapping of underbrush. Then, as a blaze of lightning filled the bluff with radiance, two men appeared for a moment, leading their horses among the slender trunks. They were immediately lost to sight again, but presently they came up, and George recognized Grant by his voice.

"So you have got through, Lansing," he cried. "I met Constable Flett on the trail, and, as he told me the river was rising and there was a big fire west, I figured you must be up against trouble."

He asked a few questions and then resumed:

"As you got the stock started, they'll have swum across; but we can't round them up until it's light. There's a deserted shack not far off, and I guess we'll head for it."

The constable agreed; and, mounting when they had got out of the timber, they rode off through the rain.



CHAPTER VIII

CONSTABLE FLETT'S SUSPICIONS

It was nearly six o'clock in the evening when George and his companions, who had spent part of the day looking for the straying stock, rode up to the Grant homestead through a vast stretch of grain. This grew on the rich black soil they call "gumbo" in the West; but here and there a belt of dark-colored summer fallow checkered the strong green of the wheat and oats. Though he clung to the one-crop system, Alan Grant was careful of his land. The fine brick house and range of smart wooden buildings, the costly implements, which included a gasoline tractor-plow, all indicated prosperity, and George recognized that the rugged-faced man beside him had made a marked success of his farming.

When the cattle had been secured, Flora Grant welcomed the new arrivals graciously, and after a while they sat down to supper with the hired men in a big room. It was plainly furnished, but there was everything that comfort demanded, for the happy mean between bareness and superfluity had been cleverly hit, and George thought Miss Grant was responsible for this. He sat beside her at the foot of the long table and noticed the hired hands' attitude toward her. It was respectful, but not diffident. The girl had no need to assert herself; she was on excellent terms with the sturdy toilers, who nevertheless cheerfully submitted to her rule.

When the meal was over, Grant led his guests into a smaller room, and produced a bag of domestic tobacco.

"The stock have gone far enough," he said. "You'll stay here to-night."

Flett looked doubtful, though it was obvious that he wished to remain. He was a young, brown-faced man, and his smart khaki uniform proclaimed him a trooper of the Northwest Mounted Police.

"The trouble is that I'm a bit late on my round already," he protested.

"That's soon fixed," said Grant.

He opened a roll-top desk, and wrote a note which he read out:

"'Constable Flett has been detained in the neighborhood of this homestead through having rendered, at my request, valuable assistance in rounding up a bunch of cattle, scattered in crossing the flooded river.'"

"Thanks," said Flett. "That kind of thing counts when they're choosing a corporal."

Grant turned to George with a smile.

"Keep in with the police, Lansing—I've known a good supper now and then go a long way. They may worry you about fireguards and fencing, but they'll stand by you when you're in trouble, if you treat them right. If it's a matter of straying stock, a sick horse, or you don't know how to roof a new barn, you have only to send for the nearest trooper."

"Aren't these things a little outside their duties?" Edgar asked.

The constable grinned.

"Most anything that wants doing badly is right in our line."

"Sure," said Grant. "It's not long since Flett went two hundred miles over the snow with a dog-team to settle a little difference between an Indian and his wife. Then he once brought a hurt trapper a fortnight's journey on his sledge, sleeping in the snow, in the bitterest weather. They were quite alone, and the hurt man was crazy most of the time."

"Then you're supposed to look after the settlers, as well as to keep order?" suggested Edgar, looking admiringly at the sturdy young constable.

"That's so," replied Flett. "They certainly need it. Last winter we struck one crowd in a lonely shack up north—man, woman, and several children huddled on the floor, with nothing to eat, and the stove out—at forty degrees below. There was a bluff a few miles off, but they hadn't a tool of any kind to cut cordwood with. Took us quite a while to haul them up some stores, though we made twelve-hour marches between our camps in the snow. We had to hustle that trip."

He paused and resumed:

"Better keep an eye on that bunch of young horses, Mr. Grant; bring them up nearer the house when the nights get darker. Those Clydesdales are mighty fine beasts and prices are high."

Grant looked astonished.

"I've been here a good many years, and I've never lost a horse," he declared.

"It doesn't follow you'll always be as lucky," the trooper said pointedly.

"I was told that property is as safe in the West as it is in England," Edgar broke in.

"Just so," remarked the trooper. "They say that kind of thing. I never was in the old country, but young mavericks aren't the only stock to go missing in Alberta, which isn't a long way off. The boys there have their hands full now and then, and we have three or four of the worst toughs I've struck right in Sage Butte."

Grant leaned forward on the table, looking steadily at him.

"Hadn't you better tell me what you have in your mind?"

"I can't give you much information, but we got a hint from Regina to keep our eyes open, and from things I've heard it's my idea that now that the boys have nearly stopped the running of Alberta cattle across the frontier, some of the toughs they couldn't track mean to start the same game farther east. Some of you ranchers run stock outside the fences, and I guess one could still find a lonely trail to the American border."

"Well," said Grant, "I'm glad you told me." He turned to George. "Be careful, Lansing; you would be an easier mark."

They strolled outside; and after a while George joined Flora, and sauntered away across the grass with her. It was a clear, still evening, and the air was wonderfully fresh.

"Though he wouldn't let me thank him, I feel I'm seriously indebted to your father, Miss Grant," he said. "Our horses were worn out, and the stock had all scattered when he turned up with the trooper."

"I believe he enjoyed the ride, and the night in the rain," replied Flora. "You see, he had once to work very hard here, and now that things have changed, he finds it rather tame. He likes to feel he's still capable of a little exertion."

"I shouldn't consider him an idle man."

Flora laughed.

"That would be very wrong; but the need for continual effort and the strain of making ends meet, with the chance of being ruined by a frozen crop, have passed. I believe he misses the excitement of it."

"Then I gather that he built up this great farm?"

"Yes; from a free quarter-section. He and my mother started in a two-roomed shack. They were both from Ontario, but she died several years ago." The girl paused. "Sometimes I think she must have had remarkable courage, I can remember her as always ready in an emergency, always tranquil."

George glanced at her as she stood, finely posed, looking out across the waste of grass with gravely steady eyes, and it occurred to him that she resembled her mother in the respects she had mentioned. Nevertheless, he felt inclined to wonder how she had got her grace and refinement. Alan Grant was forceful and rather primitive.

"Have you spent much of your time here?" he asked.

"No," she answered. "My mother was once a school-teacher, and she must have had ambitious views for me. When the farm began to prosper, I was sent to Toronto. After that I went to Montreal, and finally to England."

"You must be fond of traveling."

"Oh," she said, with some reserve, "I had thought of taking up a profession."

"And you have abandoned the idea?"

She looked at him quietly, wondering whether she should answer.

"I had no alternative," she said. "I began to realize it after my mother's death. Then my father was badly hurt in an accident with a team, and I came back. He has nobody else to look after him, and he is getting on in life."

Her words conveyed no hint of the stern struggle between duty and inclination, but George guessed it. This girl, he thought, was one not to give up lightly the career she had chosen.

Then she changed the subject with a smile.

"I suspect that my father approves of you, perhaps because of what you are doing with the land. I think I may say that if you have any little difficulty, or are short of any implements that would be useful, you need only come across to us."

"Thank you," George responded quietly.

"Mr. West mentioned that you were on a farm in this country once before. Why did you give it up?"

"Somebody left me a little money."

"Then what brought you back?"

She was rather direct, but that is not unusual in the West, and George was mildly flattered by the interest she displayed.

"It's a little difficult to answer. For one thing, I was beginning to feel that I was taking life too easily in England, It's a habit that grows on one."

He had no desire to conceal the fact that he had come out on Sylvia's behalf—it never occurred to him to mention it. He was trying to analyze the feelings which had rendered the sacrifice he made in leaving home a little easier.

"I don't think the dread of acquiring that habit is common among your people," Flora said mischievously. "It doesn't sound like a very convincing reason."

"No," replied George, with a smile. "Still, it had some weight. You see, it isn't difficult to get lazy and slack, and I'd done nothing except a little fishing and shooting for several years. I didn't want to sink into a mere lounger about country houses and clubs. It's pleasant, but too much of it is apt to unfit one for anything else."

"You believe it's safer, for example, to haul stovewood home through the Canadian frost or drive a plow under the scorching sun?"

"Yes; I think I feel something of the kind."

Flora somewhat astonished him by her scornful laugh.

"You're wise," she said. "We have had sportsmen here from your country, and I've a vivid memory of one or two. One could see by their coarse faces that they ate and drank too much; and they seemed determined to avoid discomfort at any cost. I suppose they could shoot, but they could neither strip a gun nor carry it on a long day's march. The last party thought it needful to take a teamload of supplies when they went north after moose. It would have been a catastrophe if they had missed their dinner."

"Going without one's dinner has its inconveniences," said George.

"And thinking too much about it has its perils," she retorted.

George nodded. He thought he knew what she meant, and he agreed with it. He could recall companions who, living for pleasure, had by degrees lost all zest for the more or less wholesome amusements to which they had confined their efforts. Some had become mere club loungers and tattlers; one or two had sunk into gross indulgence. This had had its effect on him: he did not wish to grow red-faced, slothful, and fleshy, as they had done, nor to busy himself with trivialities until such capacities for useful work as he possessed had atrophied.

"Well," he said, "nobody could call this a good country for the pampered loafer."

Flora smiled, and pointed out across the prairie. In the foreground it was flecked with crimson flowers; farther back willow and poplar bluffs stretched in bluish smears across the sweep of grass that ran on beyond them toward the vivid glow of color on the skyline. It was almost beautiful in the soft evening light, but it conveyed most clearly a sense of vastness and solitude. The effect was somehow daunting. One thought of the Arctic winter and the savage storms that swept the wilds.

"I've heard it called hard," she said. "It undoubtedly needs hard men; there is nothing here that can be easily won. That's a fact that the people you're sending over ought to recognize."

"They soon discover it when they get out. When they've had a crop hailed or frozen, the thing becomes obvious."

"Did you lose one?"

"I did," George rejoined rather gloomily. "I've a suspicion that if we get much dry weather and the usual strong winds, I may lose another. The wheat's getting badly cut by driving sand; that's a trouble we don't have to put up with in the old country."

"I'm sorry," said Flora; and he knew she meant it. "But you won't be beaten by one bad season?"

"No," George answered with quiet determination. "I must make a success of this venture, whatever it costs."

She was a little puzzled by his manner, for she did not think he was addicted to being needlessly emphatic; but she asked no questions, and soon afterward the others joined them and they went back to the house. Early on the following morning, George started homeward with his cattle, and as they rode slowly through the barley-grass that fringed the trail, Edgar looked at him with a smile.

"You spent some time in Miss Grant's company," he remarked. "How did she strike you?"

"I like her. She's interesting—I think that's the right word for it. Seems to understand things; talks to you like a man."

"Just so," Edgar rejoined, with a laugh. "She's a lady I've a high opinion of; in fact, I'm a little afraid of her. Though I'm nearly as old as she is, she makes me feel callow. It's a sensation that's new to me."

"And you're a man of experience, aren't you?"

"I suppose I was rather a favorite at home," Edgar owned with humorous modesty. "For all that, I don't feel myself quite up to Miss Grant's standard."

"I didn't notice any assumption of superiority on her part."

"Oh, no," said Edgar. "She doesn't require to assume it; the superiority's obvious; that's the trouble. One hesitates about offering her the small change of compliments that generally went well at home. If you try to say something smart, she looks at you as if she were amused, not at what you said, but at you. There's an embarrassing difference between the things."

"The remedy's simple. Don't try to be smart."

"You would find that easy," Edgar retorted. "Now, in my opinion, Miss Grant is intellectual, which is more than anybody ever accused you of being, but I suspect you would make more progress with her than I could do. Extremes have a way of meeting, and perhaps it isn't really curious that your direct and simple views should now and then recommend you to a more complex person."

"I notice a couple of beasts straying yonder," George said dryly.

Edgar rode off to drive the animals up to the herd. George, he thought, was painfully practical; only such a man could break off the discussion of a girl like Miss Grant to interest himself in the movements of a wandering steer. For all that, the beasts must be turned, and they gave Edgar a hard gallop through willow scrub and tall grass before he could head them off and afterward overtake the drove.



CHAPTER IX

GEORGE TURNS REFORMER

George was working in the summer fallow a few days after his return from Grant's homestead, when a man rode across the plowing and pulled up his horse beside him. He was on the whole a handsome fellow, well mounted and smartly dressed, but there was a hint of hardness in his expression. George recognized him as the landlord of a hotel at the settlement.

"Your crop's not looking too good," the stranger greeted him.

"No," returned George. "It was badly put in, and we've had unusually dry weather."

"I forgot," the other rejoined. "You're the fellow Jake Gillet had the trouble with. Beat him down on the price, didn't you? He's a bad man to bluff."

"The point that concerned me was that he asked a good deal more than his work was worth."

The man looked at George curiously.

"That's quite possible, but you might have let him down more gently than you did. As a newcomer, you don't want to kick too much or run up against things other folks put up with."

George wondered where the hint he had been given led.

"I rode over to bring this paper for you to sign," the man went on.

Glancing through it, George saw that it was a petition against any curtailment of the licenses at Sage Butte, and a testimonial to the excellent manner in which the Sachem Hotel was conducted by its owner, Oliver Beamish. George had only once entered the place, but it had struck him as being badly kept and frequented by rather undesirable customers.

"Some fool temperance folks are starting a campaign—want to shut the hotels," his visitor explained. "You'll put your name to this."

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Mr. Beamish. I can't form an opinion; I haven't heard the other side yet."

"Do you want to hear them? Do you like that kind of talk?"

George smiled, though he was not favorably impressed by the man. His tone was too dictatorial; George expected civility when asked a favor.

"After all," he said, "it would only be fair."

"Then you won't sign?"

"No."

Beamish sat silent a moment or two, regarding George steadily.

"One name more or less doesn't matter much, but I'll own that the opinion of you farmers who use my hotel as a stopping-place counts with the authorities," he told him. "I've got quite a few signatures. You want to remember that it won't pay you to go against the general wish."

There was a threat in his manner, and George's face hardened.

"That consideration hasn't much weight with me," he said.

"Well," returned Beamish, "I guess you're wrong; but as there's nothing doing here, I'll get on."

He rode away, and George thought no more of the matter for several days. Then as he was riding home with Edgar from a visit to a neighbor who had a team to sell, they stopped to rest a few minutes in the shade of a poplar bluff. It was fiercely hot on the prairie, but the wood was dim and cool, and George followed Edgar through it in search of saskatoons. The red berries were plentiful, and they had gone farther than they intended when George stopped waist-deep in the grass of a dry sloo, where shallow water had lain in the spring. He nearly fell over something large and hard. Stooping down, he saw with some surprise that it was a wooden case.

"I wonder what's in it?" he said.

"Bottles," reported Edgar, pulling up a board of the lid. "One of the cure-everything tonics, according to the labels. It strikes me as a curious place to leave it in."

George carefully looked about. He could distinguish a faint track, where the grasses had been disturbed, running straight across the sloo past the spot he occupied; but he thought that the person who had made the track had endeavored to leave as little mark as possible. Then he glanced out between the poplar trunks across the sunlit prairie. There was not a house on it; scarcely a clump of timber broke its even surface. The bluff was very lonely; and George remembered that a trail which ran near by led to an Indian reservation some distance to the north. While he considered, Edgar broke in:

"As neither of us requires a pick-me-up, it might be better to leave the thing where it is."

"That," replied George, "is my own idea."

Edgar looked thoughtful.

"The case didn't come here by accident; and one wouldn't imagine that tonics are in great demand in this locality. I have, however, heard the liquor laws denounced; and as a rule it's wise to leave matters that don't concern you severely alone."

"Just so," said George. "We'll get on again, if you have had enough berries."

On reaching the homestead, they found a note from Miss Grant inviting them to come over in the evening; and both were glad to comply with it. When they arrived, the girl led them into a room where a lady of middle-age and a young man in clerical attire were sitting with her father.

"Mrs. Nelson has come over from Sage Butte on a mission," she said, when she presented them. "Mr. Hardie, who is the Methodist minister there, is anxious to meet you."

The lady was short and slight in figure but was marked by a most resolute expression.

"The mission is Mr. Hardie's," she said. "I'm merely his assistant. I suppose you're a temperance reformer, Mr. Lansing?"

"No," George answered meekly; "I can't say I am."

"Then you'll have to become one. How long is it since you indulged in drink?"

George felt a little embarrassed, but Edgar, seeing Flora's smile and the twinkle in her father's eyes, hastily came to his rescue.

"Nearly a month, to my knowledge. That is, if you don't object to strong green tea, consumed in large quantities."

"One should practise moderation in everything. Everything!"

"It has struck me," said Edgar thoughtfully, "that moderation is now and then desirable in temperance reform."

Mrs. Nelson fixed her eyes on him with a severe expression.

"Are you a scoffer?"

"No," said Edgar; "as a matter of fact, I'm open to conviction, especially if you intend to reform the Butte. In my opinion, it needs it."

"Well," responded the lady, "you're a signature, anyway; and we want as many as we can get. But we'll proceed to business. Will you state our views, Mr. Hardie?"

The man began quietly, and George was favorably impressed by him. He had a pleasant, sun-burned face, and a well-knit but rather thin figure, which suggested that he was accustomed to physical exertion. As he could not afford a horse, he made long rounds on foot to visit his scattered congregation, under scorching sun and in the stinging frost.

"There are four churches in Sage Butte, but I sometimes fear that most of the good they do is undone in the pool room and the saloons," he said. "Of the latter, one cannot, perhaps, strongly object to the Queen's."

"One should always object to a saloon," Mrs. Nelson corrected him.

Hardie smiled good-humoredly.

"After all, the other's the more pressing evil. There's no doubt about the unfortunate influence of the Sachem."

"That's so," Grant agreed. "When I first came out from Ontario, there wasn't a loafer in the town. When the boys were through with their day's job, they had a quiet talk and smoke and went to bed; they came here to work. Now the Sachem bar's full of slouchers every night, and quite a few of them don't do anything worth speaking of in the daytime, except make trouble for decent folks. If the boys try to put the screw on a farmer at harvest or when he has extra wheat to haul, you'll find they hatched the mischief at Beamish's saloon. But I've no use for giving those fellows tracts with warning pictures."

"That," said Mrs. Nelson, "is by no means what we intend to do."

"I'm afraid that admonition hasn't had much effect, and I agree with Mr. Grant that the Sachem is a gathering place for doubtful characters," Hardie went on. "What's worse, I've reasons for supposing that Beamish gets some of them to help him in supplying the Indians on the reservation with liquor."

This was a serious offense, and there was a pause, during which Edgar glanced meaningly at George. Then he made a pertinent remark.

"Four churches to two saloons is pretty long odds. Why do you think it needful to call in the farmers?"

Hardie looked troubled, but he showed that he was honest.

"The churches are thinly attended; I'm the only resident clergyman, and I'm sorry I must confess that some of our people are indifferent: reluctant, or perhaps half afraid, to interfere. They want a clear lead; if we could get a big determined meeting it might decide the waverers."

"Then you're not sure of winning?" asked Grant.

"No," replied Hardie. "There'll be strong and well-managed opposition; in fact, we have nearly everything against us. I've been urged to wait, but the evil's increasing; those against us are growing stronger."

"If you lose, you and your friends will find the Butte pretty hot. But you feel you have a chance, a fighting chance, and you mean to take it?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm with you,"' Grant declared with a grim smile. "Don't mistake me: I take my glass of lager when I feel like it—there's some right here in the house—but, if it's needful, I can do without. I'm not going into this thing to help you in preaching to whisky-tanks and toughs—it's the law I'm standing for. If what you suspect is going on, we'll soon have our colts rebranded and our calves missing. We have got to clean out Beamish's crowd."

"Thanks," said Hardie, with keen satisfaction.

He turned to George.

"I'd be glad of your support, Mr. Lansing."

George sat silent a moment or two while Flora watched him. Then he said quietly:

"My position's much the same as Mr. Grant's—I can do without. After what you have said about the Sachem, I'll join you."

"And you?" Hardie asked Edgar.

The lad laughed.

"I follow my leader. The loungers about the Sachem weren't civil to me; said unpleasant things about my appearance and my English clothes. To help to make them abstainers strikes me as a happy thought."

Flora glanced at him in amused reproof, and Hardie turned to Grant.

"What about your hired men?"

"Count them in; they go with me. If you have brought any memorial along, I'll see they sign it."

"I wish all our supporters had your determination," Mrs. Nelson remarked approvingly.

Hardie ventured a protest.

"I don't want any pressure put upon them, Mr. Grant."

"Pressure?" queried the farmer. "I'll just ask them to sign."

"I wonder if you're quite satisfied with the purity of all your allies' motives, Mr. Hardie?" Edgar inquired.

A smile crept into the clergyman's face.

"I don't think a leader's often in that position, Mr. West; and considering what I'm up against, I can't refuse any support that's offered me. It's one reason why I've taken yours."

"Now that I've joined you, I'd better mention a little discovery West and I made this afternoon," said George.

Hardie's expression grew eager as he listened.

"It's certainly liquor—for the reservation Indians," he broke out. "If we can fix the thing on Beamish—I haven't a doubt that he's responsible—we can close the Sachem."

"Then we had better decide how it's to be done," Grant said curtly.

He ruled out several suggestions, and finally said:

"I expect the case will be sent for to-night, and we want two witnesses who'll lie by in the sloo. One of them ought to be a farmer; but we'll see about that. Guess your part is to find out how the liquor left the Butte, Mr. Hardie. What do you think of the plan, ma'am?"

"I leave it to you," said Mrs. Nelson, half reluctantly. "But be warned—if the men can't close the Sachem, the women of Sage Butte will undertake the thing."

"Then we have only to decide who is to watch the bluff," said Hardie.

"As I first mentioned the matter, I'll go, for one," George volunteered.

"You're the right man," declared Grant. "As a newcomer who's never been mixed up with local affairs, your word would carry more weight with the court. The opposition couldn't make you out a partizan. But you want to recognize what you're doing—after this, you'll find yourself up against all the Sachem toughs. It's quite likely they'll make trouble for you."

"I wonder whether such reasons count for much with Mr. Lansing?" Flora said suggestively.

George made no reply, but Edgar laughed.

"They don't, Miss Grant; you can set your mind at rest on that. You don't seem curious whether they count with me."

"You're not going," Grant told him. "We must have two men who can be relied on, and I can put my hand on another who's younger and a little more wiry than I am." He turned to George. "What you have to do is to lie close in the sloo grass until the fellows come for the liquor, when you'll follow them to the reservation, without their seeing you. Then you'll ride up and make sure you would know them again. They should get there soon after daylight, as they won't strike the bluff until it's dark, but there's thick brush in the ravine the trail follows for the last few miles. It won't matter if they light out, because Flett will pick up their trail. I'll send for him right off, but he could hardly get through before morning."

The party broke up shortly afterward, and George rode home, wondering why he had allowed himself to become involved in what might prove to be a troublesome matter. His ideas on the subject were not very clear, but he felt that Flora Grant had expected him to take a part. Then he had been impressed in Hardie's favor; the man was in earnest, ready to court popular hostility, but he was nevertheless genial and free from dogmatic narrow-mindedness. Behind all this, there was in George a detestation of vicious idleness and indulgence, and a respect for right and order. Since he had been warned that the badly-kept hotel sheltered a gang of loafers plotting mischief and willing to prey upon men who toiled strenuously, he was ready for an attempt to turn them out. He agreed with Grant: the gang must be put down.



CHAPTER X

THE LIQUOR-RUNNERS

Dusk was closing in when George and the hired man whom Grant had sent with him reached the bluff and tethered their horses where they would be hidden among the trees. This done, George stood still for a few moments, looking about. A dark, cloud-barred sky hung over the prairie, which was fast fading into dimness; the wood looked desolate and forbidding in the dying light. He did not think any one could have seen him and his companion enter it. Then he and the man floundered through the undergrowth until they reached the sloo, where they hid themselves among the grass at some distance from the case, which had not been removed.

There was no moon, and a fresh breeze swept through the wood, waking eerie sounds and sharp rustlings among the trees. Once or twice George started, imagining that somebody was creeping through the bushes behind him, but he was glad of the confused sounds, because they would cover his movements when the time for action came. His companion, a teamster born on the prairie, lay beside him amid the tall harsh grass that swayed to and fro with a curious dry clashing. He broke into a soft laugh when George suddenly raised his head.

"Only a cottontail hustling through the brush. Whoever's coming will strike the bluff on the other side," he said. "Night's kind of wild; pity it won't rain. Crops on light soil are getting badly cut."

George glanced up at the patch of sky above the dark mass of trees. Black and threatening clouds drove across it; but during the past few weeks he had watched them roll up from the west a little after noon almost every day. For a while, they shadowed the prairie, promising the deluge he eagerly longed for; and then, toward evening, they cleared away, and pitiless sunshine once more scorched the plain. Grain grown upon the stiff black loam withstood the drought, but the light soil of the Marston farm was lifted by the wind, and the sharp sand in it abraded the tender stalks. It might cut them through if the dry weather and strong breeze continued; and then the crop which was to cover his first expenses would yield him nothing.

"Yes," he returned moodily. "It looks as if it couldn't rain. We ought to go in more for stock-raising; it's safer."

"Costs quite a pile to start with, and the ranchers farther west certainly have their troubles. We had a good many calves missing, and now and then prime steers driven off, when I was range-riding."

"I haven't heard of any cattle-stealing about here."

"No," said the teamster. "Still, I guess we may come to it; there are more toughs about the settlement than there used to be. Indians have been pretty good, but I've known them make lots of trouble in other districts by killing beasts for meat and picking up stray horses. But that was where they had mean whites willing to trade with them."

George considered this. It had struck him that the morality of the country had not improved since he had last visited it; though this was not surprising in view of the swarm of immigrants that were pouring in. Grant had pithily said that once upon a time the boys had come there to work; but it now looked as if a certain proportion had arrived on the prairie because nobody could tolerate them at home. Flett and the Methodist preacher seemed convinced that there were a number of these undesirables hanging about Sage Butte, ready for mischief.

"Well," he said, "I suppose the first thing to be done is to stop this liquor-running."

They had no further conversation for another hour. The poplars rustled behind them and the grass rippled and clashed, but now and then the breeze died away for a few moments, and there was a curious and almost disconcerting stillness. At last, in one of these intervals, the Canadian, partly rising, lifted his hand.

"Listen!" he said. "Guess I hear a team."

A low rhythmic drumming that suggested the beat of hoofs rose from the waste, but it was lost as the branches rattled and the long grass swayed noisily before a rush of breeze. George thought the sound had come from somewhere half a mile away.

"If they're Indians, would they bring a wagon?" he asked.

"It's quite likely. Some of the bucks keep smart teams; they do a little rough farming on the reservation. It would look as if they were going for sloo hay, if anybody saw them."

George waited in silence, wishing he could hear the thud of hoofs again. It was slightly daunting to lie still and wonder where the men were. It is never very dark in summer on the western prairie, and George could see across the sloo, but there was no movement that the wind would not account for among the black trees that shut it in. Several minutes passed, and George looked around again with strained attention.

Suddenly a dim figure emerged from the gloom. Another followed it, but they made no sound that could be heard through the rustle of the leaves, and George felt his heart beat and his nerves tingle as he watched them flit, half seen, through the grass. Then one of the shadowy objects stooped, lifting something, and they went back as noiselessly as they had come. In a few more moments they had vanished, and the branches about them clashed in a rush of wind. It died away, and there was no sound or sign of human presence in all the silent wood. George, glad that the strain was over, was about to rise, but his companion laid a hand on his arm.

"Give 'em time to get clear. We don't want to come up until there's light enough to swear to them or they make the reservation."

They waited several minutes, and then, traversing the wood, found their horses and mounted. The grass stretched away, blurred and shadowy, and though they could see nothing that moved upon it, a beat of hoofs came softly back to them.

"Wind's bringing the sound," said the teamster. "Guess they won't hear us."

They rode out into the gray obscurity, losing the sound now and then. They had gone several leagues when they came to the edge of a dark bluff. Drawing bridle, they sat and listened, until the teamster broke the silence.

"There's a trail runs through; we'll try it."

The trail was difficult to find and bad to follow, for long grass and willow-scrub partly covered it, and in spite of their caution the men made a good deal of noise. That, however, seemed of less importance, for they could hear nothing ahead, and George looked about carefully as they crossed a more open space. The trees were getting blacker and more distinct; he could see their tops clearly against the sky, and guessed that dawn was near. How far it was to the reservation he did not know, but there would be light enough in another hour to see the men who had carried off the liquor. Then he began to wonder where the latter were, for there was now no sign of them.

Suddenly, when the wind dropped for a moment, a faint rattle of wheels reached them from the depths of the wood, and the teamster raised his hand.

"Pretty close," he said. "Come on as cautious as you can. The reservation's not far away, and we don't want them to get there much before us."

They rode a little more slowly; but when the rattle of wheels and thud of hoofs grew sharply distinct in another lull, the man struck his horse.

"They've heard us!" he cried. "We've got to run them down!"

George urged his beast, and there was a crackle of brush about him as the black trees streamed past. The thrill of the pursuit possessed him; after weeks of patient labor, he felt the exhilaration of the wild night ride. The trail, he knew, was riddled here and there with gopher holes and partly grown with brush that might bring his horse down, but this did not count. He was glad, however, that the teamster was behind him, because he could see the dim gap ahead between the mass of trees, and he thought that it was rapidly becoming less shadowy. The sound of hoofs and wheels was growing louder; they were coming up with the fugitives.

"Keep them on the run!" gasped the man behind. "If one of us gets thrown, the other fellow will hold right on!"

A few minutes later George's horse plunged with a crash through a break.

"We're off the trail!" his companion cried. "Guess it switches round a sloo!"

They floundered through crackling brushwood until they struck the track, and afterward rode furiously to make up the lost time, with the sound of wheels leading them on. Then in the gap before them they saw what seemed to be the back of a wagon which, to George's surprise, suddenly disappeared. The next moment a figure carrying something crossed the trail.

"To the right!" cried the teamster.

George did not think his companion had seen the man. He rode after him into the brush, and saw the fellow hurrying through it with a load in his arms. The man looked around. George could dimly make out his dark face; and his figure was almost clear. He was an Indian and unusually tall. Then he plunged into a screen of bushes, and George, riding savagely, drove his horse at the obstacle.

He heard the twigs snap beneath him, a drooping branch struck him hard; and then he gasped with horror. In front there opened up a deep black rift in which appeared the tops of trees. Seeing it was too late to pull up, he shook his feet clear of the stirrups. He felt the horse plunge down, there was a shock, and he was flung violently from the saddle. He struck a precipitous slope and rolled down it, clutching at twigs, which broke, and grass, until he felt a violent blow on his head. After that he knew nothing.

It was broad daylight when consciousness returned, and he found himself lying half-way down a steep declivity. At the foot of it tall reeds and sedges indicated the presence of water, and he realized that he had fallen into a ravine. There was a small tree near by, against which he supposed he had struck his head; but somewhat to his astonishment he could not see his horse. It had apparently escaped better than he had, for he felt dizzy and shaky and averse to making an effort to get up, though he did not think he had broken any bones.

After a while he fumbled for his pipe and found some difficulty in lighting it, but he persevered, and lay quiet while he smoked it out. The sunlight was creeping down the gully, it was getting pleasantly warm, and George felt dull and lethargic. Some time had passed when he heard the teamster's shout and saw the man scrambling down the side of the ravine.

"Badly hurt?" he asked, on reaching George.

"No," said George; "I don't think it's serious; I feel half asleep and stupid. Suppose that's because I hit my head."

The other looked at him searchingly. His eyes were heavy and his face had lost its usual color.

"You want to get back to your homestead and lie quiet a while. I didn't miss you until I'd got out of the bluff, and then the wagon was close ahead."

"How was it you avoided falling in after me?"

"That's easy understood in the daylight. The trail twists sharply and runs along the edge of the ravine. I stuck to it; instead of turning, you went straight on."

"Yes," said George, and mentioned having seen the Indian who left the wagon. Then he asked: "But what about the fellow you followed?"

His companion hesitated.

"Guess I've been badly fooled. I came up with him outside the bluff when it was getting light, and he stopped his team. Said he was quietly driving home when he heard somebody riding after him, and as he'd once been roughly handled by mean whites, he tried to get away. Then as I didn't know what to do, I allowed I'd keep him in sight until Constable Flett turned up, and by and by we came to a deserted shack. There's a well in the bluff behind it, and the buck said his team wanted a drink; they certainly looked a bit played out, and my mare was thirsty. He found an old bucket and asked me to fill it."

"You didn't leave him with the horses!"

"No, sir; but what I did was most as foolish. I let him go and he didn't come back. See how I was fixed? If I'd gone into the bluff to look for him, he might have slipped out and driven off, so I stood by the beasts quite a while. It strikes me that team wasn't his. At last Flett rode up with another trooper. It seems Steve met them on the trail."

George nodded. Flett had arrived before he was expected, because Grant's messenger had been saved a long ride to his station.

"Well?" he said.

"When we couldn't find the buck, Flett sent his partner off to pick up his trail, and then said we'd better take the team along and look for you. I left where the trail forks; he was to wait a bit. Now, do you think you can get up?"

George did so, and managed with some assistance to climb the slope, where his companion left him and went off for the constable. Flett arrived presently, and made George tell his story.

"The thing's quite plain," he said. "The fellow you saw jumped off with the liquor, though one wouldn't expect him to carry it far. You say he was tall; did he walk a little lame?"

"It was too dark to tell. I'm inclined to think I would know him again."

"Well," explained Flett, "this is the kind of thing Little Ax is likely to have a hand in, and he's the tallest buck in the crowd. I'll stick to the team until we come across somebody who knows its owner. The first thing we have to do is to find that case of liquor."

Half an hour later the teamster came back carrying it, and set it down before the constable with a grin.

"Guess it's your duty to see what's in these bottles," he remarked. "Shall I get one out?"

"You needn't; I've a pretty good idea," answered Flett; adding meaningly, "besides, it's the kind of stuff a white man can't drink." Then he turned to George. "I'd better take you home. You look kind of shaky."

"What about my horse?" George asked.

"Guess he's made for home," said the teamster. "I struck his trail, and it led right out of the woods."

George got into the wagon with some trouble, and the teamster rode beside it when they set off.

"You haven't much to put before a court," he said to Flett.

"No," the constable replied thoughtfully. "I'm not sure our people will take this matter up; anyway, it looks as if we could only fix it on the Indians. This is what comes of you folks fooling things, instead of leaving them to us."

"The police certainly like a conviction," rejoined the teamster, grinning. "They feel real bad when the court lets a fellow off; seem to think that's their business. Guess it's why a few of their prisoners escape."

Flett ignored this, and the teamster turned to George.

"I'll tell you what once happened to me. I was working for a blamed hard boss, and it doesn't matter why I quit without getting my wages out of him, but he wasn't feeling good when I lit out behind a freight-car. By bad luck, there was a trooper handy when a train-hand found me at a lonely side-track. Well, that policeman didn't know what to do with me. It was quite a way to the nearest guard-room; they don't get medals for corraling a man who's only stolen a ride, and he had to watch out for some cattle rustlers; so wherever he went I had to go along with him. We got quite friendly, and one night he said to me, 'There's a freight that stops here nearly due. I'll go to sleep while you get out on her.'"

The teamster paused and added with a laugh:

"That's what I did, and I'd be mighty glad to set the drinks up if I ever meet that man off duty. We'd both have a full-size jag on before we quit."

"And you're one of the fellows who're running Hardie's temperance campaign!" Flett said dryly.



CHAPTER XI

DIPLOMACY

Flett left the team at George's homestead. Bidding him take good care of it, and borrowing a fresh team, he drove away with the wagon. When he reached Sage Butte it was getting dusk. He hitched the horses outside of the better of the two hotels and entered in search of food, as he had still a long ride before him. Supper had long been finished, and Flett was kept waiting for some time, but he now and then glanced at the wagon. It was dark when he drove away, after seeing that the case lay where he had left it, and he had reached his post before he made a startling discovery. When he carried the case into the lamplight, it looked smaller, and on hastily opening it he found it was filled with soil!

He sat down and thought; though on the surface the matter was clear—he had been cleverly outwitted by somebody who had exchanged the case while he got his meal. This, as he reflected, was not the kind of thing for which a constable got promoted; but there were other points that required attention. The substitution had not been effected by anybody connected with the Queen's; it was, he suspected, the work of some of the frequenters of the Sachem; and he and his superiors had to contend with a well-organized gang. News of what had happened in the bluff had obviously been transmitted to the settlement while he had rested at Lansing's homestead. He had, however, made a long journey, and as he would have to ride on and report the matter to his sergeant in the morning, he went to sleep.

The next day George was setting out on a visit to Grant when a man rode up and asked for the team.

"Flett can't get over, but he wants the horses at the post, so as to have them handy if he finds anybody who can recognize them," he explained.

That sounded plausible, but George hesitated. The animals would be of service as a clue to their owner and a proof of his complicity in the affair. As they had not been identified, it would embarrass the police if they were missing.

"I can only hand them over to a constable, unless you have brought a note from Flett," he replied.

"Then, as I haven't one, you'll beat me out of a day's pay, and make Flett mighty mad. Do you think he'd get anybody who might know the team to waste a day riding out to your place? Guess the folks round here are too busy, and they'd be glad of the excuse that it was so far. They won't want to mix themselves up in this thing."

George could find no fault with this reasoning, but he thought the fellow was a little too eager to secure the horses.

"Well," he said, "as I'm going to call on Mr. Grant, I'll see what he has to say. If I'm not back in time, Mr. West will give you supper."

"Then Grant's standing in with you and the temperance folks?"

It struck George that he had been incautious, but he could not determine whether the man had blundered or not. His question suggested some knowledge of the situation, but an accomplice of the offenders would, no doubt, have heard of the part Grant's hired man had played.

"I don't see how that concerns you," he replied. "You'll have to wait until I return if you want the team."

He rode on, but he had not gone far when he met Beamish, of the Sachem.

"I was coming over to see you," the man told him. "You bought that young Hereford bull of Broughton's, didn't you?"

George was surprised at the question, but he answered that he had done so.

"Then would you sell him?"

"I hadn't thought of it."

"Guess that means I'll have to tempt you," Beamish said. "I want the beast."

He named a price that struck George as being in excess of the animal's value; and then explained:

"I've seen him once or twice before he fell into Broughton's hands; the imported Red Rover strain is marked in him, and a friend of mine, who's going in for Herefords, told me not to stick at a few dollars if I could pick up such a bull."

This was plausible, but not altogether satisfactory, and George, reflecting that a buyer does not really praise what he means to purchase, imagined that there was something behind it.

"I'm not likely to get a better bid," he admitted. "But I must ask if the transaction would be complete? Would you expect anything further from me in return?"

Beamish regarded him keenly, with a faint smile.

"Well," he said, "I certainly want the bull, but you seem to understand. Leave it at that; I'm offering to treat you pretty liberally."

"So as to prevent my assisting Flett in any way or taking a part in Hardie's campaign?"

"I wouldn't consider it the square thing for you to do," Beamish returned quietly.

George thought of the man who was waiting at the homestead for the team. It was obvious that an attempt was being made to buy him, and he strongly resented it.

"Then I can only tell you that I won't make this deal. That's the end of the matter."

Beamish nodded and started his horse, but he looked back as he rode off.

"Well," he called, in a meaning tone, "you may be sorry."

George rode on to Grant's homestead, and finding him at work in the fallow, told him what had passed.

"I fail to see why they're so eager to get hold of me," he concluded.

Grant, sitting in the saddle of the big plow, thoughtfully filled his pipe.

"Of course," he said, "it wasn't a coincidence that Beamish came over soon after the fellow turned up for the horses. It would have been worth while buying the bull if you had let them go—especially as I believe it's right about a friend of his wanting one—and nobody could have blamed you for selling. The fact is, your position counts. The bluff would make a handy place for a depot, and, while there's nobody else near, you command the trails to it and the reservation. Nobody could get by from the settlement without being seen, unless they made a big round, if you watched out."

"I'm beginning to understand. What you say implies that they're doing a good trade."

"That's so," Grant assented. "I wouldn't have believed it was so big before Hardie put me on the track and I began to look around. But you want to remember that what you're doing may cost you something. I'm your nearest neighbor, you're running stock that are often out of sight, and you're up against a determined crowd."

"It's true," George admitted. "Still, I can't back out."

Grant cast a keen, approving glance at him. George sat quietly in his saddle with a smile on his brown face; his pose was easy but virile: there was a stamp of refinement and old country breeding upon him. His eyes were suggestively steady; his skin was clear; he looked forceful in an unemphatic manner. The farmer was to some extent prejudiced against the type, but he could make exceptions. He had liked Lansing from the beginning, and he knew that he could work.

"No," he said; "I guess you're not that kind of man. But won't you get down and go along to the house? Flora will be glad to talk with you, and I'll be in for supper soon."

George thanked him, and did as he suggested. He was beginning to find pleasure in the conversation of Flora Grant.

It was two hours later when he took his leave and the farmer went out with him.

"I don't know what Hardie's doing, but I've an idea that Mrs. Nelson means to make some move at the Farmers' Club fair," he said. "She's a mighty determined and enterprising woman. If you can spare the time, you'd better ride in and see what's going on."

On reaching home, George was not surprised to find that the man who had come for the horses had departed without waiting for his answer. The next day he received an intimation that the annual exhibition of the Sage Butte Farmers' Club would shortly be held; and one morning a fortnight later he and Edgar rode off to the settlement.

They found the little town rudely decorated with flags and arches of poplar boughs, and a good-humored crowd assembled. The one-sided street that faced the track was lined with buggies, wagons, and a few automobiles; horses and two or three yoke of oxen were tethered outside the overfull livery stables.

A strong breeze drove blinding dust-clouds through the place, but even in the wind the sunshine was scorching.

As he strolled toward the fair-ground, George became interested in the crowd. It was largely composed of small farmers, and almost without exception they and their wives were smartly attired; they looked contented and prosperous. Mingling with them were teamsters, many as neatly dressed as their masters, though some wore blue-jean and saffron-colored shirts; and there were railroad-hands, mechanics, and store-keepers. All of them were cheerful; a few good years, free from harvest frost and blight, had made a marked improvement in everybody's lot.

Yet, there was another side to the picture. Odd groups of loungers indulged in scurrilous jests; hoarse laughter and an occasional angry uproar issued from the hotels, and shabby men with hard faces slouched about the veranda of one. George noticed this, but he presently reached the fair-ground, where he inspected the animals and implements; and then, toward supper-time, he strolled back with Grant. They were walking up one of the side-streets when shouts broke out behind them.

George looked around but for a moment he could see very little through the cloud of dust that swept the street. When it blew away it revealed a row of women advancing two by two along the plank sidewalk. They were of different ages and stations in life, but they all came on as if with a fixed purpose, and they had resolute faces. Mrs. Nelson led them, carrying a riding quirt, and though George was not astonished to see her, he started when he noticed Flora Grant near the end of the procession. She was paler than usual, and she walked quietly with a rather strained expression.

Grant touched George's shoulder.

"This is certainly more than I figured on," he said; "but I guess there's no use in my objecting. Now she's started, she'll go through with it. They're making for the Sachem; we had better go along."

Shortly afterward, a gathering crowd blocked the street.

"Speech!" somebody cried; and there was ironical applause.

Mrs. Nelson raised her hand, and when the procession stopped, she looked sternly at the men before her.

"No," she answered; "speeches are wasted on such folks; we're here to act!"

She waved the quirt commandingly.

"Let us pass!"

She was obeyed. The women moved on; and George and Grant managed to enter the hotel behind them before the throng closed in. The big general-room was hot and its atmosphere almost intolerably foul; the bar, which opened off it, was shadowy, and the crowded figures of lounging men showed dimly through thick cigar smoke. The hum of their voices died away and there was a curious silence as the women came in. Edging forward, George saw Beamish leaning on his counter, looking quietly self-possessed and very dapper in his white shirt and well-cut clothes.

"Well," he said, "what do you ladies want with me?"

Their leader faced him, a small and yet commanding figure, with an imperious expression and sparkling eyes.

"You got a notice that from supper-time this bar must be shut!"

"I did, ma'am. It was signed by you. Now, so far as I know, the magistrates are the only people who can close my hotel."

"That's so!" shouted somebody; and there were confused murmurs and harsh laughter which suggested that some of the loungers were not quite sober.

"Fire them out!" cried another man. "Guess this is why Nelson gets cold potatoes for his supper. Ought to be at home mending socks or washing their men's clothes."

The lady turned sternly on the last speaker.

"Yes," she said; "that's the kind of idea you would hold. It's getting played out now."

George was conscious of slight amusement. The affair had its humorous side, and, though he was ready to interfere if the women were roughly handled, he did not think they ran any serious risk. Beamish looked capable of dealing with the situation.

"You don't require to butt in, boys," he said. "Leave me to talk to these ladies; I guess their intentions are good." He bowed to Mrs. Nelson. "You can go on, ma'am."

"I've only this to say—you must close your bar right now!"

"Suppose I'm not willing? It will mean a big loss to me."

"That," answered Mrs. Nelson firmly, "doesn't count; the bigger the loss, the better. You will stop the sale of drink until to-morrow, or take the consequences."

Another woman, who looked careworn and haggard, and was shabbily dressed, stood forward.

"We and the children have borne enough!" she broke out. "We have to save the cord-wood in the bitter cold; we have to send the kiddies out in old, thin clothes, while the money that would make home worth living in goes into your register. Where are the boys—our husbands and sons—who once held steady jobs and did good work?" She raised an accusing hand, with despair in her pinched face. "Oh! I needn't tell you—they're rebranding farmers' calves or hiding from the police! Don't you know of one who walked to his death through the big trestle, dazed with liquor? For these things the men who tempted them will have to answer!"

"True, but not quite to the point," Mrs. Nelson interposed. "We have found remonstrance useless; the time for words has passed. This fellow has had his warning; we're waiting for him to comply with it."

There was an uproar outside from the crowd that was struggling to get in and demanding to be told what was going on; but Beamish made a sign of resignation.

"It looks as if I couldn't refuse you; and anyway it wouldn't be polite." He turned to his customers.

"Boys, it's not my fault, but you'll get no more drinks to-day. For all that, I must make a point of asking you to treat these ladies with respect."

"Smart," Grant remarked to George. "He has handled the thing right. This means trouble for Hardie."

Then Beamish once more addressed the intruders.

"Now that I've given in, has it struck you that there isn't much use in closing my place if you leave the Queen's open?"

"We'll shut them both!" Mrs. Nelson declared.

"Then there's just another point—I've folks who have driven a long way, staying the night with me, and there's quite a crowd coming in for supper. How am I to treat them?"

"They can have all they want to eat," Mrs. Nelson told him graciously; "but no liquor."

"I can't refuse to supply them without a reason. What am I to say?"

"Tell them that the Women's Reform League has compelled you to close your bar."

"And I've been given the orders by their acknowledged secretary?"

"Yes. I'm proud of being their leader, and of the duty I've discharged."

Beamish turned to his customers.

"You'll remember what she has told me, boys!"

Grant drew George away.

"She walked right into the trap; you couldn't have stopped her. I'm sorry for Hardie. But we may as well get out now; there'll be no trouble."

The street was blocked when the women left, but a passage was made for them; and, followed by everybody in the settlement, they proceeded to the other hotel, whose proprietor capitulated. Then Mrs. Nelson made a speech, in which she pointed out that for once the festival would not be marked by the orgies which had on previous occasions disgraced the town. Her words, by no means conciliatory, and her aggressive air provoked the crowd, which had, for the most part, watched the proceedings with amusement. There were cries of indignant dissent, angry shouts, and the throng began to close in upon the speaker. Then there was sudden silence, and the concourse split apart. Into the gap rode a slim young man in khaki, with a wide hat of the same color, who pulled up and sat looking at the people with his hand on his hip. George recognized him as the constable who shared the extensive beat with Flett.

"Now," he said good-humoredly, "what's all this fuss about?"

Several of them informed him and he listened gravely before he called one of the farmer's stewards, and spoke a few words to him.

"It strikes me," he said, "that you had all better go back to the fair-ground, while I look into things. There's an item or two on the program Mr. Carson wants to work off before supper."

He had taken the right tone, and when they began to disperse he rode on to the Sachem.

"I want your account of this disturbance," he said to the proprietor.

Beamish related what had taken place and the constable looked surprised.

"Am I to understand that you're afraid to open your bar because of the women?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," replied Beamish, coolly; "that's about the size of it. You'd have been scared, too; they're a mighty determined crowd."

"Nobody except the authorities has any right to interfere."

"That's my opinion, but what am I to do about it? Suppose these women come back, will you stand at the door and keep them out? They're capable of mobbing you."

The constable looked dubious, and Beamish continued:

"Besides, I've given them my word I'd shut up—they made me."

"Then how do you expect us to help?"

"So far as I can see, you can only report the matter to your bosses."

The constable felt inclined to agree with this. He asked for the names of the ladies, and Beamish hesitated.

"I was too taken up with Mrs. Nelson to notice the rest, and the place was rather dark. Anyway, about half of them were foolish girls with notions; I don't want to drag them in."

"You blame somebody for setting them on?"

"I do," said Beamish, without a trace of rancor. "There's Mrs. Nelson—everybody knows she's a crank—and Hardie, the Methodist minister. They've been trying to make trouble for the hotels for quite a while."

The constable made a note of this and presently called on Hardie, who had just returned to town after visiting a sick farmer. The former listened to what the minister had to say, but was not much impressed. Beamish had cleverly made him his partizan.

After supper George and Grant called on Hardie and found him looking distressed.

"I'm much afraid that the result of three or four months' earnest work has been destroyed this afternoon," he said. "Our allies have stirred up popular prejudice against us. We'll meet with opposition whichever way we turn."

"There's something in that," Grant agreed. "Mrs. Nelson's a lady who would wreck any cause. Still, she has closed the hotels."

"For one night. As a result of this afternoon's work, they will probably be kept open altogether. You can imagine how the authorities will receive any representations we can make, after our being implicated in this disturbance."

"Have you thought of disowning the ladies? You could do so—you had no hand in the thing."

The young clergyman flushed hotly.

"I'd have stopped this rashness, if I'd heard of it; but, after all, I'm the real instigator, since I started the campaign. I'm willing to face my share of the blame."

"You mean you'll let Beamish make you responsible?"

"Of course," said Hardie. "I can't deny I'm leader. The move was a mistake, considered prudentially; but it was morally justifiable. I'll defend it as strongly as I'm able."

Grant nodded, and Flora and Mrs. Nelson came in.

"Are you satisfied with what you've done?" Grant said to the girl. "You might have given me a hint of it."

Flora smiled.

"I'm afraid Beamish was too clever for us. From an outsider's point of view, he behaved exceptionally well, and in doing so he put us in the wrong. I didn't know what had been planned when I left home, but, as one of the league, I couldn't draw back when I heard of it."

"You think he was too clever?" Mrs. Nelson broke in. "How absurd to say that! We have won a brilliant victory!"

Grant made a little gesture.

"If you're convinced of that, ma'am, we'll leave you to talk it over."

He led George toward the door.

"I like that man Hardie," he resumed when they reached the street. "Beamish has him beaten for the present, but I'm thankful there'll be no women about when we come to grips with his crowd. It may take a while, but those fellows have got to be downed."



CHAPTER XII

GEORGE FACES DISASTER

A fortnight had passed since the affair at the settlement when Hardie arrived at the Marston homestead toward supper-time. After the meal was over, he accompanied his host and Edgar to the little room used for an office.

"As I've been busy since four this morning, I don't mean to do anything more," said George, "I suppose you don't smoke?"

"No," Hardie answered. "It's a concession I can make without much effort to our stricter brethren. I'm inclined to believe they consider smoking almost as bad as drink. You agree with them about the latter?"

"We try to be consistent," Edgar told him. "You see, I couldn't very well indulge in an occasional drink when I've undertaken to make those Sage Butte fellows abstainers. Anyhow, though you're by no means liberal in your view, you're practical people. As soon as I landed at Montreal, a pleasant young man, wearing a silver monogram came up to me, and offered me introductions to people who might find me a job. Though I didn't want one, I was grateful; and when I told him I wasn't one of his flock, he said it didn't matter. That kind of thing makes a good impression."

"How are you getting on at the settlement?"

George interposed.

Hardie sat silent for a few moments, and George saw that his eyes were anxious and his face looked worn.

"Badly," he said. "I feel I can talk to you freely, and that's really why I came, though I had another call to make."

"You're having trouble?"

"Plenty of it. I've had another visit from the police, though that's not a very important matter; and Mrs. Nelson's action has raised a storm of indignation. It would be useless to move any further against the Sachem. Even this is not the worst. Our people are split up by disagreements; I've been taken to task; my staunchest supporters are falling away."

"They'll rally," said George. "Leave those who haven't the courage to do so alone; you're better rid of them. I suppose it's apt to make a difference in your finances."

The clergyman colored.

"That's true, though it's hard to own. It subjects one to a strong temptation. After all, we're expected to keep our churches full—it's necessary."

"The road to success," Edgar remarked, "is comparatively easy. Always proclaim the popular view, but be a little more emphatic and go a little farther than the rest. Then they'll think you a genius and make haste to follow your lead."

Hardie looked at him quietly.

"There's another way, Mr. West, and the gate of it is narrow. I think it seldom leads to worldly fame." He paused and sighed. "It needs courage to enter, and one often shrinks."

"Well," said Edgar, "I'll confess that I find the popular idea, whatever it may happen to be, irritating; I like to annoy the people who hold it by pointing out their foolishness, which is partly why I'm now farming in western Canada. George, of course, is more altruistic; though I don't think he ever analyzes his feelings. As soon as he sees anybody in trouble and getting beaten, he begins to strip. I've a suspicion that he enjoys a fight!"

"If you would stop talking rot, we'd get on better," George said curtly, and then turned to his visitor. "I gather that you're afraid of wrecking your church. It's an awkward situation, but I suppose you have made up your mind?"

"Yes; I must go on, if I go alone."

The man, as the others recognized, had no intention of being dramatic, but his quiet announcement had its effect, and there was silence for a moment or two. Then Edgar, who was impatient of any display of strong feeling, made an abrupt movement.

"After all," he said cheerfully, "you'll have Mrs. Nelson beside you, and I'm inclined to think she would enliven any solitude."