"It was really four to one, which makes the odds heavier," he said.

"I guess not," rejoined the engineer with a smile. "You were laying into one of them pretty lively as I ran up."

Hardie felt a little disconcerted. Having been partly dazed by the blow he had received, he had no clear recollection of the part he had taken in the scrimmage, though he had been conscious of burning anger when Farren was struck down. It was, however, difficult to believe that the engineer had been mistaken, because the locomotive lamp had lighted the track brilliantly.

"Anyway, one of them put his mark on you," resumed his companion. "Did you notice it, Pete?"

"Sure," said the grinning fireman; "big lump on his right cheek." He fumbled in a box and handed a tool to Hardie. "Better hold that spanner to it, if you're going to preach to-morrow. But how's Farren?"

"No sign of consciousness. The sooner we can get him into a doctor's hands, the better."

"Stir her up," ordered the engineer, and nodded when his comrade swung back the fire-door and hurled in coal. Then he turned to Hardie. "We're losing no time. She's running to beat the Imperial Limited clip, and the track's not worked down yet into its bed."

Hardie, looking about for a few moments, thought the speed could not safely be increased. There was a scream of wind about the cab, though when he had stood upon the track the air had been almost still; a bluff, which he knew was a large one, leaped up, hung over the line, and rushed away behind; the great engine was rocking and jolting so that he could hardly maintain his position, and the fireman shuffled about with the erratic motion. Then Hardie busied himself trying to protect Farren from the shaking, until the scream of the whistle broke through the confused sounds and the pace diminished. The bell began to toll, and, rising to his feet, Hardie saw a cluster of lights flitting back toward him. Shortly afterward they stopped beside a half-built row of elevators.

"Guess you'll have to be back to-morrow," the engineer said.

Hardie nodded.

"I've been rather worried about it. It would take me all night to walk."

"That's so," agreed the other. "All you have to do is to see Farren safe in the doctor's hands and leave the rest to me. I've got to have some water, for one thing." He turned to his fireman. "We'll put in that new journal babbit; she's not running sweet."

The clergyman was inclined to believe that the repair was not strictly needed, though it would account for a delay; but one or two of the station hands had reached the engine and, following instructions, they lifted Farren down, and wheeled him on a baggage truck to the doctor's house. The doctor seemed to have no doubt of the man's recovery but said that he must not be moved again for a day or two; and Hardie went back to the station, reassured and less troubled than he had been for some time. The attitude of the engineer, fireman, and construction gang, was encouraging. It confirmed his belief that the lawless element was tolerated rather than regarded with sympathy, and the patience of the remainder of the community would become exhausted before long. Though he admitted the influence of a bad example, he had firm faith in the rank and file.



CHAPTER XXIII

A HARMLESS CONSPIRACY

On the evening that George left for Brandon, Edgar drove over to the Grant homestead.

"It's Saturday night, my partner's gone, and I felt I deserved a little relaxation," he explained.

"It's something to be able to feel that; the men who opened up this wheat-belt never got nor wanted anything of the kind," Grant rejoined. "But as supper's nearly ready, you have come at the right time."

Edgar turned to Flora.

"Your father always makes me feel that I belong to a decadent age. One can put up with it from him, because he's willing to live up to his ideas, which is not a universal rule, so far as my experience of moralizers goes. Anyhow, I'll confess that I'm glad to arrive in time for a meal. The cooking at our place might be improved; George, I regret to say, never seems to notice what he eats."

"That's a pretty good sign," said Grant.

"It strikes me as a failing for which I have to bear part of the consequences."

Flora laughed.

"If you felt that you had to make an excuse for coming, couldn't you have made a more flattering one?"

"Ah!" said Edgar, "you have caught me out. But I could give you a number of better reasons. It isn't my fault you resent compliments."

Flora rose and they entered the room where the hired men were gathering for the meal. When it was over, they returned to the smaller room and found seats near an open window, Grant smoking, Flora embroidering, while Edgar mused as he watched her. Dressed in some simple, light-colored material, which was nevertheless tastefully cut, she made an attractive picture in the plainly furnished room, the walls of which made an appropriate frame of uncovered native pine, for he always associated her and her father with the land to which they belonged. There was nothing voluptuous in any line of the girl's face or figure; the effect was chastely severe, and he knew that it conveyed a reliable hint of her character. This was not marked by coldness, but rather by an absence of superficial warmth. The calmness of her eyes spoke of depth and balance. She was steadfast and consistent; a daughter of the stern, snow-scourged North.

Then he glanced at the prairie, which ran west, streaked with ochre stubble in the foreground, then white and silvery gray, with neutral smears of poplar bluffs, to the blaze of crimson where it cut the sky. It was vast and lonely; at first sight a hard, forbidding land that broke down the slack of purpose and drove out the sybarite. He had sometimes shrunk from it, but it was slowly fastening its hold on him, and he now understood how it molded the nature of its inhabitants. For the most part, they were far from effusive; some of their ways were primitive and perhaps slightly barbarous, but there was vigor and staunchness in them. They stuck to the friends they had tried and were admirable in action; it was when, as they said, they were up against it that one learned most about the strong hearts of these men and women.

"Lansing will be away some days," Grant said presently. "What are you going to do next week?"

"Put up the new fence, most likely. The land's a little soft for plowing yet."

"That's so. As you'll have no use for the teams, it would be a good time to haul in some of the seed wheat. I've a carload coming out."

"A carload!" exclaimed Edgar in surprise, remembering the large carrying capacity of the Canadian freight-cars. "At the price they've been asking, it must have cost you a pile."

"It did," said Grant. "I generally try to get down to bed-rock figure, but I don't mind paying it. The fellow who worked up that wheat deserves his money."

"You mean the seed's worth its price if the crop escapes the frost?"

"That wasn't quite all I meant. I'm willing to pay the man for the work he has put into it. Try to figure the cross fertilizations he must have made, the varieties he's tried and cut out, and remember it takes time to get a permanent strain, and wheat makes only one crop a year. If the stuff's as good as it seems, the fellow's done something he'll never be paid for. Anyway, he's welcome to my share."

"There's no doubt about your admiration for hard work," declared Edgar. "As it happens, you have found putting it into practise profitable, which may have had some effect."

Grant's eyes twinkled.

"Now you have got hold of the wrong idea. You have raised a different point."

"Then, for instance, would you expect a hired man who had no interest in the crop to work as hard as you would?"

"Yes," Grant answered rather grimly; "I'd see he did. Though I don't often pay more than I can help, I wouldn't blame him for screwing up his wages to the last cent he could get; but if it was only half the proper rate, he'd have to do his share. A man's responsible to the country he's living in, not to his employer; the latter's only an agent, and if he gets too big a commission, it doesn't affect the case."

"It affects the workman seriously."

"He and his master must settle that point between them," Grant paused and spread out his hands forcibly. "You have heard what the country west of old Fort Garby—it's Winnipeg now—was like thirty years ago. Do you suppose all the men who made it what it is got paid for what they did? Canada couldn't raise the money, and quite a few of them got frozen to death."

It struck Edgar as a rather stern doctrine, but he admitted the truth of it; what was more, he felt that George and this farmer had many views in common. Grant, however, changed the subject.

"You had better take your two heavy teams in to the Butte on Monday; I've ordered my freight there until the sandy trails get loose again. Bring a couple of spare horses along. We'll load you up and you can come in again."

"Two Clover-leaf wagons will haul a large lot of seed in a double journey."

"It's quite likely you'll have to make a third. Don't you think you ought to get this hauling done before Lansing comes home?"

A light broke in on Edgar. Grant was, with some reason, occasionally called hard; but he was always just, and it was evident that he could be generous. He meant to make his gift complete before George could protest.

"Yes," acquiesced Edgar; "it would be better, because George might want the teams, and for other reasons."

The farmer nodded.

"That's fixed. The agent has instructions to deliver."

Edgar left the homestead an hour later and spent the Sunday resting, because he knew that he would need all of his energy during the next few days. At dawn on the following morning he and Grierson started for Sage Butte, and on their arrival loaded the wagons and put up their horses for the night. They set out again before sunrise and were glad of the spare team when they came to places where all the horses could scarcely haul one wagon through the soft black soil. There were other spots where the graded road sloped steeply to the hollow out of which it had been dug, and with the lower wheels sinking they had to hold up the side of the vehicle. Great clods clung to the wheels; the men, plodding at the horses' heads, could scarcely pull their feet out of the mire, and they were thankful when they left the fences behind and could seek a slightly sounder surface on the grass.

Even here, progress was difficult. The stalks were tough and tangled and mixed with stiff, dwarf scrub, which grew in some spots almost to one's waist. There were little rises, and hollows into which the wagons jolted violently, and here and there they must skirt a bluff or strike back into the cut-up trail which traversed it. Toward noon they reached a larger wood, where the trees crowded thick upon the track. When Edgar floundered into it, there appeared to be no bottom. Getting back to the grass, he surveyed the scene with strong disgust; he had not quite got over his English fastidiousness.

Leafless branches met above the trail, and little bays strewn with trampled brush which showed where somebody had tried to force a drier route, indented the ranks of slender trunks. Except for these, the strip of sloppy black gumbo led straight through the wood, interspersed with gleaming pools. Having seen enough, Edgar beckoned Grierson and climbed a low hillock. The bluff was narrow where the road pierced it, but it was long and the ground was rough and covered with a smaller growth for some distance on its flanks.

"There's no way of getting round," he said. "I suppose six horses ought to haul one wagon through that sloo."

"It looks a bit doubtful," Grierson objected. "We mightn't be able to pull her out if she got in very deep. We could dump half the load and come back for it."

"And make four journeys? It's not to be thought of; two's a good deal too many."

They yoked the three teams to the first wagon, which promptly sank a long way up its high wheels, and while the men waded nearly knee-deep at their heads, the straining horses made thirty or forty yards. Then Edgar sank over the top of his long boots and the hub of one wheel got ominously low.

"They've done more than one could have expected; I hate to use the whip, but we must get out of this before she goes in altogether," he said.

Grierson nodded. He was fond of his horses, which were obviously distressed, and flecked with spume and lather where the traces chafed their wet flanks; but to be merciful would only increase their task.

The whip-cracks rang out like pistol-shots; and, splashing, snorting, struggling, amid showers of mire, they drew the wagon out of its sticky bed. They made another dozen yards; and then Grierson turned the horses into one of the embayments where there was brush that would support the wheels. Edgar sat down, breathless, upon a fallen trunk.

"People at home have two quite unfounded ideas about this country," he said disgustedly. "The first is that money is easily picked up here—which doesn't seem to need any remark; the second is that they have only to send over the slackers and slouchers to reform them. In my opinion, a few doses of this kind of thing would be enough to fill them with a horror of work." He replaced the pipe he had taken out. "It's a pity, Grierson, but we can't sit here and smoke."

They went on and nearly capsized the wagon in a pool, the bottom of which was too soft to give them foothold while they held up the vehicle, but they got through it and one or two others, and presently came out, dripping from the waist down, on to the drier prairie. Then Edgar turned and viewed their track.

"It won't bear much looking at; we had better unyoke," he said. "If anybody had told me in England that I'd ever flounder through a place like that, I'd—"

He paused, seeking for words to express himself fittingly.

"You'd have called him a liar," Grierson suggested.

"That hardly strikes me as strong enough," Edgar laughed.

They had spent two hours in the bluff when they brought the last load through, and sitting down in a patch of scrub they took out their lunch. After a while Edgar flung off his badly splashed hat and jacket and lay down in the sunshine.

"The thing's done; the pity is it must be done again to-morrow," he remarked, "In the meanwhile, we'll forget it; I'll draw a veil over my feelings."

They had finished lunch and lighted their pipes when a buggy appeared from behind a projecting dump of trees and soon afterward Flora Grant pulled up her horse near by. Edgar rose and stood beside the vehicle bareheaded, looking slender and handsome in his loose yellow shirt, duck overalls, and long boots, though the marks of the journey were freely scattered about him. Flora glanced at the jaded teams and the miry wagons and smiled at the lad. She had a good idea of the difficulties he had overcome.

"The trail must have been pretty bad," she said. "I struck off to the east by the creek, but I don't think you could get through with a load."

"It was quite bad enough," Edgar assured her. Flora looked thoughtful.

"You have only two wagons; we must try to send you another, though our teams are busy. Didn't you say Mr. Lansing would be back in a day or two?"

"I did, but I got a note this morning saying he thought he had better go on to Winnipeg, if I could get along all right. I told him to go and stop as long as he likes. Considering the state of the trails, I thought that was wise."

Flora smiled. She knew what he meant, since they had agreed that all the seed must be hauled in before his comrade's return.

"I'm not going to thank you; it would be difficult, and George can ride over and do so when he comes home," Edgar resumed. "I know he'll be astonished when he sees the granary."

"If he comes only to express his gratitude, I'm inclined to believe my father would rather he stayed at home."

"I can believe it; but I've an idea that Mr. Grant is not the only person to whom thanks are due."

Flora looked at him sharply, but she made no direct answer.

"Your partner," she said, "compels one's sympathy."

"And one's liking. I don't know how he does so, and it isn't from any conscious desire. I suppose it's a gift of his."

Seeing she was interested, he went on with a thoughtful air:

"You see, George isn't witty, and you wouldn't consider him handsome. In fact, sometimes he's inclined to be dull, but you feel that he's the kind of man you can rely on. There's not a trace of meanness in him, and he never breaks his word. In my opinion, he has a number of the useful English virtues."

"What are they, and are they peculiarly English?"

"I'll call them Teutonic; I believe that's their origin. You people and your neighbors across the frontier have your share of them."

"Thanks," smiled Flora. "But you haven't begun the catalogue."

"Things are often easier to recognize than to describe. At the top of the list, and really comprising the rest of it, I'd place, in the language of the country, the practical ability to 'get there.' We're not in the highest degree intellectual; we're not as a rule worshipers of beauty—that's made obvious by the prairie towns—and to be thought poetical makes us shy. In fact, our artistic taste is strongly defective."

"If these are virtues, they're strictly negative ones," Flora pointed out.

"I'm clearing the ground," said Edgar. "Where we shine is in making the most of material things, turning, for example, these wilds into wheatfields, holding on through your Arctic cold and blazing summer heat. We begin with a tent and an ox-team, and end, in spite of countless obstacles, with a big brick homestead and a railroad or an automobile. Men of the Lansing type follow the same course consistently, even when their interests are not concerned. Once get an idea into their minds, convince them that it's right, and they'll transform it into determined action. If they haven't tools, they'll make them or find something that will serve; effort counts for nothing; the purpose will be carried out."

Flora noticed the enthusiastic appreciation of his comrade which his somewhat humorous speech revealed, and she thought it justified.

"One would imagine Mr. Lansing to be resolute," she said. "I dare say it's fortunate; he had a heavy loss to face last year."

"Yes," returned Edgar. "As you see, he's going on; though he never expected anything for himself."

"He never expected anything?" Flora repeated incredulously. "What are you saying?"

Edgar realized that he had been injudicious. Flora did not know that Sylvia Marston was still the owner of the farm and he hesitated to enlighten her.

"Well," he said, "George isn't greedy; it isn't in his nature."

"Do you mean that he's a rich man and is merely farming for amusement?"

"Oh, no," said Edgar; "far from it!" He indicated the miry wagons and the torn-up trails. "You wouldn't expect a man to do this kind of thing, if it wasn't needful. The fact is, I don't always express myself very happily; and George has told me that I talk too much."

Flora smiled and drove away shortly afterward, considering what he had said. She had noticed a trace of confusion in his manner and it struck her as significant.

When the buggy had grown small in the distance, Edgar called to Grierson and they went on again.



CHAPTER XXIV

GEORGE FEELS GRATEFUL

When George returned from Winnipeg, Edgar took him to the granary.

"You may as well look at the seed Grant sent you, and then you'll be able to thank him for it," he said. "It's in here; I turned out the common northern stuff you bought to make room."

"Why didn't you put it into the empty place in the barn?" George asked.

"I wasn't sure it would go in; there's rather a lot of it," Edgar explained, with a smile.

George entered the granary and stopped, astonished, when he saw the great pile of bags.

"Is all of that the new seed?" he asked incredulously.

"Every bag," said Edgar, watching him.

George's face reddened. He was stirred by mixed emotions: relief, gratitude, and a feeling of confusion he could not analyze.

"Grant must have sent the whole carload!" he broke out.

"As a matter of fact, he sent most of it. Grierson and I hauled it in; and a tough job we had of it."

"And you took it all, without protesting or sending me word?"

"Yes," said Edgar coolly; "that's precisely what I did. You need the stuff; Grant meant you to have it, and I didn't want to offend him."

"I suppose you have some idea what that seed is worth?"

"I dare say I could guess. Our people at home once experimented with some American seed potatoes at three shillings each. But aren't you putting the matter on a rather low plane?"

George sat down and felt for his pipe.

"I feel that you have played a trick on me. If you had only let me know, I could have objected."

"Just so; that's why I kept quiet," Edgar laughed. "The seed's here and you ought to be thankful. Anyway, Grant won't take it back."

"What have I done that I should get this favor?" George said half aloud.

"That's so characteristic!" Edgar exclaimed. "Why must you always be doing things? Do you imagine that whatever one receives is the result of so much exertion?"

"I don't feel the least interest in such quibbles."

"I can't believe it," Edgar rejoined. "You're more at home when you have a fence to put up, or a strip of new land to break." Then he dropped his bantering tone. "There's nothing to be distressed about. Grant has been pretty generous, and I think he and Flora need thanking."

"That's true; they've made me feel half ashamed. I never expected this."

"In my opinion, the sensation's quite unnecessary. You have given a few people a lift in your time, and I've an optimistic notion that actions of the kind recoil on one, even though it's a different person who makes you some return."

"I wish you would stop talking!" George exclaimed impatiently.

Edgar mentally compared Flora Grant with Sylvia, in whom he disbelieved, and found it hard to restrain himself. It was, he felt, a great misfortune that George could not be made to see.

"Oh, well!" he acquiesced. "I could say a good deal more, if I thought it would do any good, but as that doesn't seem likely I'll dry up."

"That's a comfort," George said shortly.

He left the granary in a thoughtful mood, and on the following evening drove over to the Grant homestead. Its owner was busy somewhere outside when he reached it, but Flora received him and he sat down with satisfaction to talk to her. It had become a pleasure to visit the Grants; he felt at home in their house. The absence of all ceremony, the simple Canadian life, had a growing attraction for him. One could get to know these people, which was a different thing from merely meeting them, and George thought this was to some extent the effect of their surroundings. He had always been conscious of a closer and more intimate contact with his friends upon the mountain-side or the banks of some salmon river than he had ever experienced in a club or drawing-room. For all that, Flora sometimes slightly puzzled him. She was free from the affectations and restraints of artificial conventionality, but there was a reserve about her which he failed to penetrate. He wondered what lay behind it and had a curious feeling that Edgar either guessed or knew.

"Did you enjoy your visit to Winnipeg?" she asked.

"It was a pleasant change and I got through my business satisfactorily. Of course, I didn't go for amusement."

Flora laughed.

"So I supposed; you're growing more Canadian every day. But you meant to make a visit to England, which couldn't have had any connection with business, last winter, didn't you?"

George's face grew serious. He had, she thought, not got over his disappointment.

"Yes," he said. "But there was nothing to be done here then."

"So the things that should be done invariably come first with you?"

"In this case—I mean as far as they concern the farm—it's necessary."

Flora considered his answer, studying him quietly, though she had some sewing in her hands. Supposing, as she had once thought, there was some English girl he had longed to see, he could have made the journey later, when his crop had been sown, even though this entailed some neglect of minor operations that required his care. He received, as she had learned with interest, few English letters, so there was nobody to whom he wrote regularly; and yet his disappointment when forced to abandon his visit had obviously been keen. There was, Flora thought, a mystery here.

"After all," she said, "the feeling you have indicated is pretty common in the Canadian wheat-belt."

"Then why should you expect me to be an exception? As a matter of fact, I'm at least as anxious as my neighbors to be successful. That's partly why I've come over to-night." His voice grew deeper and softer as he continued. "I want to thank you and your father for your surprising generosity."

"Surprising?" responded Flora lightly, though she was stirred by the signs of feeling he displayed. "Do you know you're not altogether complimentary?"

He smiled.

"You'll forgive the slip; when one feels strongly, it's difficult to choose one's words. Anyway, to get that seed, and so much of it, is an immense relief. I'm deeply grateful; the more so because your action was so spontaneous. I haven't a shadow of a claim on you."

Flora put down her sewing and looked at him directly.

"I don't think you ought to say that—do you wish to be considered a stranger?"

"No," George declared impulsively. "It's the last thing I want. Still, you see—"

She was pleased with his eagerness, but she checked him.

"Then, as you have a gift of making friends, you must take the consequences."

"I didn't know I had the gift. My real friends aren't plentiful."

"If you begin to count, you may find them more numerous than you think."

"Those I have made in Canada head the list."

The girl felt a thrill of satisfaction. This was not a compliment; he had spoken from his heart.

"After all, I don't see why you should insist on thanking me as well as my father, who really sent you the seed." She paused. "You didn't do so on the last occasion; I mean at the time when it was promised to you."

This was correct, and George was conscious of some embarrassment.

"Well," he said firmly, "I think I'm justified."

Flora could not contradict him, and she was glad he felt as he did. She liked his way of sticking to the point; indeed, she was sensible of a strong liking for the man.

During the next minute or two her father came in. He cut short George's thanks, and then took out his pipe.

"I was in at the Butte yesterday," he said. "The police have got the men who knocked Farren out, and Flett says they mean to press for a smart penalty. It's about time they made an example of somebody. When I was in, I fixed it up to turn Langside off his holding."

Flora looked up with interest.

"But how had you the power?" George asked.

"The man owes me four hundred dollars for a horse and some second-hand implements I let him have nearly three years ago."

"But he has broken a big strip of his land; it's worth a good deal more than you lent him."

"Just so. He owes everybody money round the Butte. I saw Taunton of the store and the implement man and told them Langside had to quit."

"You seem to have found them willing to agree."

Grant broke into a grim smile.

"What I say to those men goes. Then I've got security; they know I could pull Langside down."

George looked at Flora and was slightly surprised at her acquiescent manner.

"It sounds a little harsh; a good harvest might have set him straight," he said. "However, I suppose you have a reason for what you're doing."

"That's so. Langside's the kind of man I've no use for; he takes no interest in his place. After he has put in half a crop, he goes off and spends his time doing a little railroad work and slouching round the saloons along the line."

"It doesn't seem sufficient to justify your ruining him."

"I've got a little more against the man. Has it struck you that somebody round here, who knows the trails and the farmers' movements, is standing in with the liquor boys."

A light broke in upon George. Now that the matter had been put before him, he could recollect a number of points that seemed to prove the fanner right. When cattle had been killed, their owners had been absent; horses had disappeared at a time which prevented the discovery of their loss from being promptly made. It looked as if the offenses could only have been committed with the connivance of somebody in the neighborhood who had supplied their perpetrators with information.

"I believe you've got at the truth," he replied. "Still, it must be largely a matter of suspicion."

Grant leaned forward on the table and his face grew stern.

"You'll remember what Flett said about our system of justice sometimes breaking down. In this matter, I'm the jury, and I've thought the thing over for the last six months, weighing up all that could be said for Langside, though it isn't much. What's more, I've talked to the man and watched him; giving him every chance. He has had his trial and he has to go; there's no appeal."

George could imagine the thoroughness with which his host had undertaken his task. Grant would be just, deciding nothing without the closest test. George felt that the man he meant to punish must be guilty. For all that, he looked at Flora.

"Have you been consulted?" he asked.

"I understood," said Flora. "And I agreed."

Her face was as hard as her father's and George was puzzled.

"I should have thought you would have been inclined to mercy."

Flora colored a little, but she looked at him steadily.

"Langside deserves the punishment he has so far escaped. He's guilty of what my father thinks, but there's another offense that I'm afraid will never be brought home to him."

George admired her courage as he remembered a very unpleasant story he had heard about a pretty waitress at the settlement. As a matter of fact, he had doubted it.

"Flora went to see the girl at Regina. They found her there pretty near dying," Grant explained quietly.

Recollecting a scene outside the Sachem, when Flora had accompanied Mrs. Nelson, George realized that he had rather overlooked one side of her character. She could face unpleasant things and strive to put them right, and she could be sternly just without shrinking when occasion demanded it. This, however, was not an aspect of hers that struck one forcibly; he had generally seen her compassionate, cheerful, and considerate. Then he told himself that there was no reason why he should take any interest in Flora Grant's qualities.

"I suppose Langside will be sold up," he said.

"Open auction, though I guess there won't be much bidding. Folks round here don't know the man as I do, but they've good reason to believe the money will go to his creditors, and there'll be nothing left for him."

"The foreclosure won't meet with general favor," George said pointedly.

"That doesn't count. It strikes one as curious that people should be ready to sympathize with the slouch who lets his place go to ruin out of laziness, and never think of the storekeepers' just claim on the money he's wasted. Anyway, there's nothing to stop people from bidding; but, in case they hold off, we have fixed up how we'll divide the property."

It was obvious to George that the position of Grant's associates was unassailable. If any friends of Langside's attempted to run prices up, they would only put the money into his creditor's pockets; if, as seemed more probable, they discouraged the bidding, the creditors would secure his possessions at a low figure and recoup themselves by selling later at the proper value. George realized that Grant had carefully thought out his plans.

"I don't think you have left him any way of escape," he said.

"No," replied Grant; "we have got him tight. You had better come along to the auction—you'll get notice of it—and see how the thing goes."

George said that he would do so, and shortly afterward drove away. On reaching home he told Edgar what he had heard, and the lad listened with a thoughtful expression.

"One can't doubt that Grant knows what he's doing, but I'm not sure he's wise," he said. "Though Langside's a regular slacker, he has a good many friends, and as a rule nobody has much sympathy with exacting creditors. Then it's bound to come out that it was Grant who set the other fellows after Langside; and if he buys up much of the property at a low figure, the thing will look suspicious."

"I tried to point that out."

"And found you had wasted words? Grant would see it before you did, and it wouldn't have the least effect on him. You wouldn't expect that man to yield to popular opinion. Still, the thing will make trouble, though I shall not be sorry if it forces on a crisis."

George nodded.

"I'm getting tired of these continual petty worries, and keeping a ceaseless lookout. I want to hit back."

"You'll no doubt get your chance. What about Miss Grant's attitude?"

"She agreed with her father completely; I was a little surprised."

"That was quite uncalled for," said Edgar with a smile. "It looks as if you didn't know the girl yet. These Westerners are a pretty grim people."

George frowned at this, though he felt that there was some truth in what his companion said. On the whole, he was of the same mind as Grant; there were situations in which one must fearlessly take a drastic course.

"The sooner the trouble begins, the sooner it will be over," he said. "One has now and then to run the risk of getting hurt."



CHAPTER XXV

A COUNTERSTROKE

Langside's farm was duly put up at auction, together with a valuable team which he hired out to his neighbors when he left the place, a few implements and a little rude furniture. The sale was held outside, and when George arrived upon the scene during the afternoon a row of light wagons and buggies stood behind the rickety shack, near which was an unsightly pile of broken crockery, discarded clothes and rusty provision cans. It was characteristic of Langside that he had not taken the trouble to carry them as far as the neighboring bluff. In front of the bluff, horses were picketed; along the side ran a strip of black soil, sprinkled with the fresh blades of wheat; and all round the rest of the wide circle the prairie stretched away under cloudless sunshine, flecked with brightest green.

A thin crowd surrounded the auctioneer's table, but the men stood in loose clusters, and George, walking through them, noticed that the undesirable element was largely represented. There were a number of small farmers, attracted by curiosity, or perhaps a wish to buy; but these kept to themselves, and men from the settlement of no fixed profession who worked spasmodically at different tasks, and spent the rest of their time in the Sachem, were more plentiful. Besides these, there were some strangers, and George thought the appearance of several was far from prepossessing.

It was a glorious day. There was vigor in the warm breeze that swept the grassy waste; the sunshine that bathed the black loam where the green blades were springing up seemed filled with promise; but as the sale proceeded George became sensible of a vague compunction. The sight of the new wheat troubled him—Langside had laboriously sown that crop, which somebody else would reap. Watching the battered domestic utensils and furniture being carried out for sale had the same disturbing effect. Poor and comfortless as the shack was, it had, until rude hands had desecrated it, been a home. George felt that he was consenting to the ruin of a defenseless man, assisting to drive him forth, a wanderer and an outcast. He wondered how far the terrors of loneliness had urged Langside into his reckless courses—homesteaders scattered about the wide, empty spaces occasionally became insane—but with an effort he overcame the sense of pity.

Langside had slackly given way, and, choosing an evil part, had become a menace to the community; as Grant had said, he must go. This was unavoidable, and though the duty of getting rid of him was painful, it must be carried out. George was usually unsuspicious and of easy-going nature up to a certain point, but there was a vein of hardness in him.

Once or twice the auctioneer was interrupted by jeering cries, but he kept his temper and the sale went on, though George noticed that only a few strangers made any purchases. At length, when the small sundries had been cleared off, there was a curious silence as the land was put up. It was evident that the majority of those present had been warned not to bid.

The auctioneer made a little speech in praise of the property, and paused when it fell flat; then, while George wondered what understanding the creditors had arrived at with Grant, a brown-faced stranger strode forward.

"I've been advised to let this place alone," he said. "I suppose you have a right to sell?"

"Yes, sir," replied the auctioneer. "Come along, and look at my authority, if you want. It's mortgaged property that has been foreclosed after the creditors had waited a long while for a settlement, and I may say that the interest demanded is under the present market rate. Everything's quite regular; no injustice has been done. If you're a purchaser, I'll take your bid."

"Then I'll raise you a hundred dollars," said the man.

There was a growl of dissatisfaction, and the stranger turned to the part of the crowd from which it proceeded.

"This is an open auction, boys. I was born in the next province, and I've seen a good many farms seized in the years when we have had harvest frost, but this is the first time I ever saw anybody try to interfere with a legal sale. Guess you may as well quit yapping, unless you mean to bid against me."

There was derisive laughter, and a loafer from Sage Butte threw a clod. Then another growl, more angry than the first, broke out as Grant, moving forward into a prominent place, nodded to the auctioneer. His rugged face was impassive, and he ignored the crowd. A number of the farmers strolled toward him and stood near by with a resolute air which had its effect on the others, though George saw by Grant's look of surprise that he had not expected this. Another man made a bid, and the competition proceeded languidly, but except for a little mocking laughter and an occasional jeer, nobody interfered. In the end, the stranger bought the land; and soon afterward Grant walked up to George.

"I want the team, if I can get it at a reasonable figure; they're real good beasts with the imported Percheron strain strong in them," he said. "It will be a while before they're put up, and I'd be glad if you could ride round and let Flora know what's keeping me. I'd an idea she expected there might be some trouble to-day."

"I'll get off; but there's a mower yonder I would like. Will you buy it for me, if it goes at a fair price?"

"Certainly," promised Grant. "Tell Flora to give you supper; and if you ride back afterward by the trail, you'll meet me and I'll let you know about the mower."

George rode away shortly afterward, and Grant waited some time before he secured the team, after rather determined opposition. Finding nobody willing to lead the horses home, he hitched them to the back of his light wagon and set off at a leisurely pace. When he had gone a little distance, he overtook a man plodding along the trail. The fellow stopped when Grant came up.

"Will you give me a lift?" he asked.

The request is seldom refused on the prairie, and Grant pulled up his team.

"Get in," he said. "Where are you going?"

"North," answered the other, as he clambered up. "Looking for a job; left the railroad yesterday and spent the night in a patch of scrub. Heard there was stock in the bluff country; that's my line."

Grant glanced at the fellow sharply as he got into the wagon and noticed nothing in his disfavor. His laconic account of himself was borne out by his appearance.

"It's quite a way to the first homestead, if you're making for the big bluffs," he said. "You had better come along with me and go on in the morning."

"I'll be glad," responded the other. "These nights are pretty cold, and my blanket's thin."

They drove on, and after a while the stranger glanced at the team hitched behind the vehicle.

"Pretty good beasts," he remarked. "That mare's a daisy. Ought to be worth a pile."

"She cost it," Grant told him. "I've just bought her at a sale."

"I heard the boys talking about it when I was getting dinner at the settlement," said the stranger carelessly. "Called the fellow whose place was sold up Langside, I think. There's nothing much wrong with the team you're driving."

Grant nodded; they were valuable animals, for he was fond of good horses. He was well satisfied with his new purchases and knew that Langside had bought the mare after a profitable haulage contract during the building of a new railroad. His companion's flattering opinion made him feel rather amiable toward him.

It was getting near dusk when they entered a strip of broken country, where the ground was sandy and lolled in low ridges and steep hillocks. Here and there small pines on the higher summits stood out black against the glaring crimson light; birches and poplars straggled up some of the slopes; and the trail, which wound through the hollows, was loose and heavy. The moist sand clogged the wheels and the team plodded through it laboriously, until they came to a spot where the melted snow running into a depression had formed a shallow lake. This had dried up, but the soil was very soft and marshy. Grant pulled up and glanced dubiously at the deep ruts cut in the road.

"There's a way round through the sand and scrub, but it's mighty rough and I'm not sure we could get through it in the dark," he said.

"S'pose you double-yoke and drive straight ahead," suggested the other. "I see you have some harness in the wagon."

Grant considered. The harness, which had been thrown in with his purchase, was old and short of one or two pieces; it would take time and some contriving to hitch on the second team, and the light was failing rapidly. When he had crossed the soft place, there would still be some rough ground to traverse before he reached the smoother trail by which George would be riding.

"It might be as quick to go round," he replied.

"No, sir," said his companion, firmly. "There's a blamed steep bit up the big sandhill."

Suspicion flashed on Grant; the man had led him to believe he was a stranger to the locality, and it was significant that he should insist upon their stopping and harnessing the second team.

"That's so," he returned. "Guess you had better get down and see if it's very soft ahead."

The fellow rose with a promptness which partly disarmed Grant's suspicions, and put his foot on the edge of the vehicle, ready to jump down. Then he turned swiftly and flung himself upon the farmer, crushing his soft felt hat down to his chin. Grant could see nothing, and while he strove to get a grip on his antagonist he was thrown violently backward off the driving seat. The wagon was of the usual high pattern, and he came down on the ground with a crash that nearly knocked him unconscious. Before he got up, he was seized firmly and held with his shoulders pressed against the soil. He struggled, however, until somebody grasped his legs and his arms were drawn forcibly apart. It was impossible to see, because the thick hat was still over his face and somebody held it fast, but he had an idea that three or four men had fallen upon him. They had, no doubt, been hidden among the brush; the affair had been carefully arranged with his treacherous companion.

"Open his jacket; try the inside pocket," cried one; and he felt hands fumbling about him. Then there was a disappointed exclamation. "Check-book; that's no good!"

The farmer made a last determined effort. After having long ruled his household and hired men as a benevolent but decidedly firm-handed autocrat, it was singularly galling to be treated in this unceremonious fashion, and if he could only shake off the hat and get a glimpse of his assailants he would know them again. Moreover, he had brought a roll of bills with him, in case he should make some small purchases. He was, however, held firmly, and the hands he had felt dived into another pocket.

"Got it now!" cried a hoarse voice. "Here's his wallet; seems to have a good wad in it!"

Grant, though he was generally sternly collected, boiled with fury. He felt no fear, but an uncontrollable longing to grapple with the men who had so humiliated him.

"Guess, I'll fix you up!" came an angry voice when Grant managed to fling off one pair of hands.

Then he received a heavy blow on the head. Somebody had struck him with the butt of a whip or riding quirt. The pain was distressing; he felt dazed and stupid, disinclined to move, but he retained consciousness. There were sounds to which he could attach a meaning: a rattle of harness which indicated that his driving team was being loosened, a thud of hoofs as the heavier Percherons were led away. In the meanwhile he could still feel a strong grasp on his shoulder, holding him down, and once or twice a man near him gave the others sharp instructions. Grant made a languid effort to fix the voice in his memory, but this was difficult because his mind worked heavily.

At length the driving team was unyoked—he could hear it being led away—but the ache in his head grew almost intolerable and his lassitude more intense. For a while he had no idea what was going on; and then a hoarse cry, which seemed one of alarm, rang out sharply. There was a patter of running feet, a thud of hoofs on the soft soil, and, breaking through these sounds, a rhythmic staccato drumming. Somebody was riding hard across the uneven ground.

Gathering his languid senses, Grant suddenly moved his head, flinging the hat from his face, and raised himself a little, leaning on one elbow. There was no longer anybody near him, but he could see a man riding past a shadowy clump of trees a little distance off, leading a second horse. Closer at hand, another man was running hard beside one of the Percherons, and while Grant watched him he made an effort to scramble up on the back of the unsaddled animal, but slipped off. Both these men were indistinct in the dim hollow, but on a sandy ridge above, which still caught the fading light, there was a sharply-outlined mounted figure sweeping across the broken ground at a reckless gallop. It must be Lansing, who had come to the rescue. Grant sent up a faint, hoarse cry of exultation. He forgot his pain and dizziness, he even forgot he had been assaulted; he was conscious only of a burning wish to see Lansing ride down the fellow who was running beside the Percheron.

There was a patch of thick scrub not far ahead which it would be difficult for the horseman on the rise to break through, and if the fugitive could succeed in mounting, he might escape while his pursuer rode round; but Lansing seemed to recognize this. He swept down from the ridge furiously and rode to cut off the thief. Grant saw him come up with the fellow, with his quirt swung high, but the figures of men and horses were now indistinct against the shrub. There was a blow struck; one of the animals reared, plunged and fell; the other went on and vanished into the gloom of the dwarf trees.

Then Grant, without remembering how he got up, found himself upon his feet and lurching unsteadily toward the clump of brush. When he reached it, Lansing was standing beside his trembling horse, which had a long red gash down its shoulder. His hands were stained and a big discolored knife lay near his feet. There was nobody else about, but a beat of hoofs came back, growing fainter, out of the gathering dusk.

George looked around when the farmer joined him, and then pointed to the wound on the horse.

"I think it was meant for my leg," he said. "I hit the fellow once with the thick end of the quirt, but he jumped straight at me. The horse reared when he felt the knife and I came off before he fell. When I got up again, the fellow had gone."

Grant felt scarcely capable of standing. He sat down heavily and fumbled for his pipe, while George turned his attention to the horse again.

"Though it's only in the muscle, the cut looks deep," he said at length. "I'd better lead him back to your place; it's nearer than mine."

"I'd rather you came along; I'm a bit shaky."

"Of course," said George. "I was forgetting. Those fellows had you down. Are you hurt?"

"They knocked me out with something heavy—my whip, I guess—but I'm getting over it. Cleaned out my pockets; went off with both teams."

George nodded.

"It's pretty bad; quite impossible to get after them. They'll head for Montana as fast as they can ride."

"Did you see any of them clearly?"

"One fellow looked like Langside, though I couldn't swear to him; but I'd know the man who knifed my horse. Remembered that would be desirable, in case he escaped me; and I got a good look at him. Now, if you feel able shall we make a start? I'm afraid the horse is too lame to carry you."

He picked up the knife. Grant rose, and they set off, leading the horse, which moved slowly and painfully. It had grown dark and the trail was rough, but the farmer plodded homeward, stopping a few moments now and then. The path, however, grew smoother when they had left the sandy ridges behind, and by and by the lights of the homestead commenced to twinkle on the vast shadowy plain. Soon after they reached it, George rode away, mounted on a fresh horse, in search of Constable Flett.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE CLIMAX

George was tired and sleepy when he reached the settlement early in the morning, and found Flett at Hardie's house. It transpired from their conversation that there had been a disturbance at the Sachem on the return of a party which had driven out to the sale, and one man, who accused a companion of depriving him of a bargain, had attacked and badly injured him with a decanter. Flett, being sent for, had arrested the fellow, and afterward called upon the clergyman for information about his antecedents and character. He listened with close attention while George told his tale; and then examined the knife he produced.

"This is about the limit!" he exclaimed. "You wouldn't have persuaded me that the thing was possible when I was first sent into the district. It isn't what one expects in the wheat-belt, and it certainly has to be stopped."

"Of course," said George, with some impatience. "But wouldn't it be wiser to consider the ways and means? At present the fellows are no doubt pushing on for the frontier with two valuable teams and a wad of stolen bills."

Flett smiled at him indulgently.

"This isn't a job that can be put through in a hurry. If they're heading for the boundary—and I guess they are—they'll be in Dakota or Montana long before any of the boys I'll wire to could come up with them. Our authority doesn't hold on American soil."

"Is that to be the end of it?"

"Why, no," Flett answered dryly. "As I guess you have heard, they have had trouble of this kind in Alberta for a while; and most every time the boys were able to send back any American mavericks and beef-cattle that were run into Canada. As the result of it, our chiefs at Regina are pretty good friends with the sheriffs and deputies on the other side. They're generally willing to help us where they can."

"Then you shouldn't have much difficulty in trailing your men. Suppose a fellow turned up with four exceptionally good horses and offered them to an American farmer or dealer, wouldn't it arouse suspicion?"

"It might," said Flett, with a meaning smile. "But the thing's not so simple as it looks. We all know that Canadian steers and horses have been run off and disposed of across the frontier; and now and then a few from that side have disappeared in Canada. This points to there being a way of getting rid of them; some mean white on a lonely holding will take them at half-value, and pass them along. What we have to do is to send a man over quietly to investigate, and get the sheriffs and deputies to keep their eyes open. I'm going to beg the Regina people to let me be that man."

"You may as well understand that it isn't the return of the horses Grant wants so much as the conviction of the men who waylaid him."

"Then," said Flett, pointedly, "he must be mighty mad."

Hardie joined in George's laugh; but the constable went on:

"I believe we're going to get them; but it will take time—all summer, perhaps. I've known our boys lay hands on a man they wanted, eighteen months afterward."

"In one way, I don't think that's much to their credit," the clergyman remarked.

Taking up the knife George had handed him, Flett pointed to some initials scratched on the bone haft.

"Kind of foolish thing for the fellow to put his name on his tools; but I don't know anybody those letters might stand for. Now you describe him as clearly as you can, while I put it down."

George did as he was bidden, and added: "There were two more—one of them looked like Langside—and I believe a fourth man, though I may be mistaken in this. They were moving about pretty rapidly and the light was bad."

Flett got up.

"I'll have word sent along to Regina, and then try to locate their trail until instructions come. I want to get about it right away, but there's this blamed fellow who knocked out his partner at the Sachem, and it will take me most of a day's ride before I can hand him on to Davies. It's a charge that nobody's going to worry about, and it's a pity he couldn't have escaped. Still, that's the kind of thing that can't happen too often."

He went out and George turned to Hardie.

"How does the matter strike you?"

"I've an idea that Flett was right in saying it was the limit. There was a certain romance about these disturbances when they began; they were a novelty in this part of Canada. People took them lightly, glad of something amusing or exciting to talk about. It was through popular indifference that the gang first gained a footing, but by degrees it became evident that they couldn't be dislodged without a vigorous effort. People shrank from making it; and, with Beamish backing them, the fellows got steadily bolder and better organized. All the time, however, they were really at the mercy of the general body of orderly citizens. Now they have gone too far; this last affair can't be tolerated. Instead of apathy, there'll be an outbreak of indignation; and I expect the people who might have stopped the thing at the beginning will denounce the police."

George nodded.

"That's my idea. What's our part?"

"I think it's to assist in the reaction. Your story's a striking one. We had better get it into a newspaper as soon as possible. I suppose it would be correct to say that Grant was cruelly beaten?"

"His face is blue from jaw to temple. They knocked him nearly senseless with the butt of a whip, while he was lying, helpless, on the ground."

"And your horse was badly wounded?"

"I wish it weren't true; there's a gash about eight inches long. If it will assist the cause, you can say the stab was meant for me."

"Well," said Hardie, "I think it will make a moving tale. I'm afraid, however, I'll have to lay some stress upon the single-handed rescue."

George looked dubious.

"I'd rather you left that out."

"We must impress the matter on people's thoughts, make it command attention; a little diplomacy is allowable now and then," said Hardie, smiling. "Since you don't mind getting yourself into trouble, I don't see why you should object to being held up to admiration, and it's in an excellent cause. Now, however, I'll order breakfast for you, and then you had better get some sleep."

During the afternoon, George set off for home, and he was plowing for the summer fallow a week later when Flora Grant rode up to him.

"I suppose you have got your mail and have seen what the Sentinel says about you?" she asked mischievously.

George looked uncomfortable, but he laughed.

"Yes," he confessed. "It seemed to afford Edgar some amusement."

"Who's responsible for that flattering column? It doesn't read like the work of the regular staff."

"I'm afraid that I am, to some extent, though Hardie's the actual culprit. The fact is, he thought the course was necessary."

"Well, I suspected something of the kind; so did my father. It was a wise move, and I think it will have its effect."

George made no comment and she sat silent a moment or two while he watched her with appreciation. She was well-mounted on a beautiful, carefully-groomed horse; the simple skirt and bodice of pale gray emphasized the pure tinting of her face and hands and the warm glow of her hair, in which the fierce sunshine forced up strong coppery gleams. Her lips formed a patch of crimson, there was a red band on her wide Stetson hat, and her eyes shone a deep blue as she looked down at George, who stood in the sandy furrow leaning against the heavy plow. He was dressed in old overalls that had faded with dust and sun to the indefinite color of the soil, but they displayed the fine lines of a firmly knit and muscular figure. His face was deeply bronzed, but a glow of sanguine red shone through its duskier coloring. Behind them both ran a broad sweep of stubble, steeped in strong ochre, relieved by brighter lemon hues where the light blazed on it.

"Though I couldn't resist the temptation to tease you, I quite agree with the Sentinel," she resumed. "It really was a very gallant rescue, and I suppose you know I recognize my debt to you. I was a little too startled to speak about it when you brought my father home, and you went away so fast."

"The fellows were afraid of being identified; they bolted as soon as they saw me."

"One didn't," Flora pointed out. "A knife-thrust, like the one you avoided, or a pistol-shot would have obviated any risk they ran. But of course you hate to be thanked."

"No," George replied impulsively; "not by you."

"I wonder," she said with an amused air, "why you should make an exception of me?"

"I suppose it lessens my sense of obligation. I feel I've done some little thing to pay you back."

"I'm not sure that was very happily expressed. Is it painful to feel that you owe anything to your neighbors?"

George flushed.

"That wasn't what I meant. Do you think it's quite fair to lay traps for me, when you can count on my falling into them?" He turned and pointed to the great stretch of grain that clothed the soil with vivid green. "Look at your work. Last fall, all that plowing was strewn with a wrecked and mangled crop; now it's sown with wheat that will stand the drought. I was feeling nearly desperate, wondering how I was to master the sandy waste, when you came to the rescue and my troubles melted like the dust in summer rain. They couldn't stand before you; you banished them."

She looked at him rather curiously, and, George thought, with some cause, for he was a little astonished at his outbreak. This was not the kind of language that was most natural to him.

"I wonder," she said, "why you should take so much for granted—I mean in holding me accountable?"

"It's obvious," George declared. "I understand your father; he's a very generous friend, but the idea of sending me the seed didn't occur to him in the first place; though I haven't the least doubt that he was glad to act on it."

"Ah!" said Flora, "it looks as if you had been acquiring some penetration; you were not so explicit the last time you insisted on thanking me. Who can have been teaching you? It seems, however, that I'm still incomprehensible."

George considered. It would be undesirable to explain that his enlightenment had come from Edgar, and he wanted to express what he felt.

"No," he said, in answer to her last remark; "not altogether; but I've sometimes felt that there's a barrier of reserve in you, beyond which it's hard to get."

"Do you think it would be worth while to make the attempt? Suppose you succeeded and found there was nothing on the other side?"

He made a sign of negation, and she watched him with some interest; the man was trying to thrash out his ideas.

"That couldn't happen," he declared gravely. "Somehow you make one feel there is much in you that wants discovery, but that one will learn it by and by. After all, it's only the shallow people you never really get to know."

"It would seem an easy task, on the face of it."

"As a matter of fact, it isn't. They have a way of enveloping themselves in an air of importance and mystery, and when they don't do so, they're casual and inconsequent. One likes people with, so to speak, some continuity of character. By degrees one gets to know how they'll act and it gives one a sense of reliance." He paused and added, diffidently: "Anything you did would be wise and generous."

"By degrees?" smiled Flora. "So it's slowly, by patient sapping, the barriers go down! One could imagine that such things might be violently stormed. But you're not rash, are you, or often in a hurry? However, it's time I was getting home."

She waved her hand and rode away, and George, getting into the saddle, started his team, and thought about her while he listened to the crackling of the stubble going down beneath the hoofs, and the soft thud of thrown-back soil as the lengthening rows of clods broke away from the gleaming shares. What she might have meant by her last remark he could not tell, though so far as it concerned him, he was ready to admit that he was addicted to steady plodding. Then his thoughts took a wider range, and he began to make comparisons. Flora was not characterized by Sylvia's fastidious refinement; she was more virile and yet more reposeful. Sylvia's activities spread bustle around her; she required much assistance and everybody in her neighborhood was usually impressed into her service, though their combined efforts often led to nothing. Flora's work was done silently; the results were most apparent.

Still, the charm Sylvia exerted was always obvious; a thing to rejoice in and be thankful for. Flora had not the same effect on one, though he suspected there was a depth of tenderness in her, behind the barrier. It struck him as a pity that she showed no signs of interest in West, who of late seemed to have been attracted by the pretty daughter of a storekeeper at the settlement; but, after all, the lad was hardly old or serious enough for Flora. There was, however, nobody else in the district who was nearly good enough for her; and George felt glad that she was reserved and critical. It would be disagreeable to contemplate her yielding to any suitor unless he were a man of exceptional merit.

Then he laughed and called to his horses. He was thinking about matters that did not concern him; his work was to drive the long furrow for Sylvia's benefit, and he found pleasure in it. Bright sunshine smote the burnished clods; scattered, white-edged clouds drove across the sky of dazzling blue, flinging down cool gray shadows that sped athwart the stubble; young wheat, wavy lines of bluff, and wide-spread prairie were steeped in glowing color. The man rejoiced in the rush of the breeze; the play of straining muscles swelling and sinking on the bodies of the team before him was pleasant to watch; he felt at home in the sun and wind, which, tempered as they often were by gentle rain, were staunchly assisting him. By and by, all the foreground of the picture he gazed upon would be covered with the coppery ears of wheat. He had once shrunk from returning to Canada; but now, through all the stress of cold and heat, he was growing fond of the new land. What was more, he felt the power to work at such a task as he was now engaged in to be a privilege.



CHAPTER XXVII

A SIGN FROM FLETT

Summer drew on with swift strides. Crimson flowers flecked the prairie grass, the wild barley waved its bristling ears along the trails, saskatoons glowed red in the shadows of each bluff. Day by day swift-moving clouds cast flitting shadows across the sun-scorched plain, but though they shed no moisture the wheat stood nearly waist-high upon the Marston farm. The sand that whirled about it did the strong stalks no harm.

Earlier in the season there had been drenching thunder showers, and beyond the grain the flax spread in sheets of delicate blue that broke off on the verge of the brown-headed timothy. Still farther back lay the green of alsike and alfalfa, for the band of red and white cattle that roamed about the bluffs; but while the fodder crop was bountiful George had decided to supplement it with the natural prairie hay. There was no pause in his exertions; task followed task in swift succession. Rising in the sharp cold of the dawn, he toiled assiduously until the sunset splendors died out in paling green and crimson on the far rim of the plain.

The early summer was marked by signs of approaching change in Sage Butte affairs. There were still a few disturbances and Hardie had troubles to face, but he and his supporters noticed that the indifference with which they had been regarded was giving place to sympathy. When Grant first visited the settlement after his misadventure, he was received with expressions of indignant commiseration, and he afterward told Flora dryly that he was astonished at the number of his friends. Mrs. Nelson and a few of the stalwarts pressed Hardie to make new and more vigorous efforts toward the expulsion of the offenders, but the clergyman refrained. Things were going as he wished; it was scarcely wise to expose such a tender thing as half-formed opinion to a severe test, and the failure that might follow a premature attempt could hardly be recovered from. It seemed better to wait until Grant's assailants should be arrested, and the story of their doings elicited in court, to rouse general indignation, and he thought this would happen. Flett had disappeared some weeks ago and nothing had been heard of him, but Hardie believed his chiefs had sent him out on the robbers' trail. The constable combined sound sense with dogged pertinacity, and these were serviceable qualities.

It was a hot afternoon when George brought home his last load of wild sloo hay, walking beside his team, while Flora curbed her reckless horse a few yards off. She had ridden over with her father, and finding that George had not returned, had gone on to prevent a hired man from being sent for him. They had met each other frequently of late, and George was sensible of an increasing pleasure in the girl's society; though what Flora felt did not appear. Behind them the jolting wagon strained beneath its high-piled load that diffused an odor of peppermint; in front the shadow of a bluff lay cool upon the sun-scorched prairie.

"I suppose you heard that Baxter lost a steer last week," she said. "Most likely, it was killed; but, though the police searched the reservation, there was no trace of the hide. We have had a little quietness, but I'm not convinced that our troubles won't break out again. Nobody seems to have heard anything of Flett."

"He's no doubt busy somewhere."

"I'm inclined to believe so, and, in a way, his silence is reassuring. Flett can work without making a disturbance, and that is in his favor. But what has become of Mr. West? We haven't seen much of him of late."

"He has fallen into a habit of riding over to the settlement in his spare time, which isn't plentiful."

"Ah!" exclaimed Flora; "that agrees with some suspicions of mine. Don't you feel a certain amount of responsibility?"

"I do," George admitted. "Still, he's rather head-strong, and he hasn't told me why he goes to the Butte; though the girl's father gave me a hint. I like Taunton—he's perfectly straightforward—and I'd almost made up my mind to ask your opinion about the matter, but I was diffident."

"I'll give it to you without reserve—there's no ground for uneasiness on West's account; he might fall into much worse hands. If Helen Taunton has any influence over him, it will be wisely used. Besides, she has been well educated; she spent a few years in Montreal."

"She has a nice face; in fact, she's decidedly pretty."

"And that would cover a multitude of shortcomings?"

"Well," said George, thoughtfully, "mere physical beauty is something to be thankful for; though I'm not sure that beauty can be, so to speak, altogether physical. When I said the girl had a nice face, I meant that its expression suggested a wholesome character."

"You seem to have been cultivating your powers of observation," Flora told him. "But I'm more disposed to consider the matter from Helen's point of view. As it happens, she's a friend of mine and I've reasons for believing that your partner's readily susceptible and inclined to be fickle. Of course, I'm not jealous."

George laughed.

"He's too venturesome now and then, but he has been a little spoiled. I've an idea that this affair is likely to be permanent. He has shown a keen interest in the price of land and the finances of farming, which struck me as having its meaning."

They had now nearly reached the bluff and a horseman in khaki uniform rode out of it to meet them.

"I've been over to your place," he said to George, when he had dismounted. "I was sent to show you a photograph and ask if you can recognize anybody in it?"

He untied a packet and George studied the picture handed him. It showed the rutted main street of a little western town, with the sunlight on a row of wooden buildings. In the distance a band of cattle were being driven forward by two mounted men; nearer at hand a few wagons stood outside a livery stable; and in the foreground three or four figures occupied the veranda of a frame hotel. The ease of their attitudes suggested that they did not know they were being photographed, and their faces were distinct. George looked triumphantly excited and unhesitatingly laid a finger on one face.

"This is the man that drove off Mr. Grant's Percheron and stabbed my horse."

The trooper produced a thin piece of card and a small reading-glass.

"Take another look through this; it came along with the photograph. Now, would you be willing to swear to him?"

"I'll be glad to do so, if I have the chance. Shall I put a mark against the fellow?"

"Not on that!" The trooper handed George the card, which proved to be a carefully drawn key-plan of the photograph, with the figures outlined. "You can mark this one."

George did as he was told, and then handed the photograph to Flora.

"How did your people get it?" he asked the trooper.

"I can't say; they don't go into explanations."

"But what do you think? Did Flett take the photograph?"

"No, sir; I heard him tell the sergeant he knew nothing about a camera. He may have got somebody to take it or may have bought the thing."

"Do you know where he is?"

"I only know he got special orders after Mr. Grant was robbed. It's my idea he was somewhere around when the photograph was taken."

"I wonder where it was taken? In Alberta, perhaps, though I'm inclined to think it was on the other side of the frontier."

"That is my opinion," said Flora. "There's not a great difference between us and our neighbors, but the dress of the mounted men and the style of the stores are somehow American. I'd say Montana, or perhaps Dakota."

"Montana," said the trooper. "The big bunch of cattle seems to fix it."

"Then you think Flett is over there?" asked George. "I'm interested, so is Miss Grant, and you needn't be afraid of either of us spreading what you say."

"It's my notion that Flett has spotted his men, but I guess he's now watching out near the boundary in Canada. These rustler fellows can't do all their business on one side; they'll have to cross now and then. Flett's in touch with some of the American sheriffs, who'll give him the tip, and the first time the fellows slip over the frontier he'll get them. That would suit everybody better and save a blamed lot of formalities."

Flora nodded.

"It strikes me as very likely; and Flett's perhaps the best man you could have sent. But have you shown the photograph to my father?"

"I did that before I left the homestead. There's nobody in the picture like the fellow who drove with Mr. Grant, and he tells me he saw nobody else. Now I must be getting on."

He rode away, and Flora reverted to the topic she and George had been discussing.

"So you believe Mr. West is thinking of living here altogether! I suppose he would be able to take a farm of moderate size?"

"It wouldn't be very large; he can't have much money, but his people would help him to make a start if they were satisfied. That means they would consult me."

Flora smiled.

"And you feel you would be in a difficult position, if you were asked whether it would be wise to let him marry a prairie girl? Have you formed any decision about the matter?"

She spoke in an indifferent tone, but George imagined that she was interested.

"I can't see why he shouldn't do so."

"Think a little. West has been what you call well brought up, he's fastidious, and I haven't found English people free from social prejudices. Could you, as his friend, contemplate his marrying the daughter of a storekeeper in a rather primitive western town? Taunton, of course, is not a polished man."

"I don't think that counts; he's a very good type in spite of it. The girl's pretty, she has excellent manners, and she strikes me as having sense—and in some respects Edgar has very little. I'll admit that at one time I might not have approved of the idea, but I believe I've got rid of one or two foolish opinions that I brought out with me. If Miss Taunton is what she appears to be, he's lucky in getting her. Don't you think so?"

He had spoken with a little warmth, though, as Flora knew, he was seldom emphatic; and a rather curious expression crept into her face. He did not quite understand it, but he thought she was pleased for some reason or other!

"Oh," she said lightly, "I have told you my opinion."

Nothing further was said about the subject, but George walked beside his team in a state of calm content. His companion was unusually gracious; she made a picture that was pleasant to watch as she sat, finely poised, on the big horse, with the strong sunlight on her face. Her voice was attractive, too; it reached him, clear and musical, through the thud of hoofs and the creak of slowly-turning wheels, for he made no attempt to hurry his team.

When they reached the homestead, the conversation centered on the constable's visit; and when the Grants left, Edgar stood outside with George, watching the slender mounted figure grow smaller beside the jolting buggy.

"George," he said, "I've met very few girls who could compare with Flora Grant, taking her all round."

"That's correct," George told him. "As a matter of fact, I'm doubtful whether you have met any who would bear the comparison. It was the sillier ones who made a fuss over you."

"I know of one," Edgar resumed. "As it happens, she's in Canada."

"I'd a suspicion of something of the kind," George said dryly.

Edgar made no answer, but presently he changed the subject.

"What's the least one could take up a farm here with, and have a fair chance of success?"

"One understands it has been done with practically nothing on preempted land, though I'm rather dubious. In your case, I'd fix five thousand dollars as the minimum; more would be decidedly better."

"Yes," said Edgar thoughtfully; "that's about my idea; and I suppose it could be raised, though my share of what was left us has nearly all been spent in cramming me with knowledge I've no great use for. Stephen, however, has done pretty well, and I think he always realized that it would be his privilege to give me a lift; I've no doubt he'll write to you as soon as I mention the matter, and your answer will have its effect." He looked at George with anxious eyes. "I venture to think you'll strain a point to say what you can in my favor?"

"In the first place, I'll ride over to the Butte and have supper with Taunton, as soon as I can find the time."

"Thanks," responded Edgar gratefully; "you won't have any doubts after that." Then he broke into laughter. "You'll excuse me, but it's really funny, George."

"I don't see the joke," George said shortly.

Edgar tried to look serious, and failed.

"I can imagine your trying to weigh up Helen; starting a subtle conversation to elucidate her character, and showing what you were after and your profound ignorance with every word; though you mustn't suppose I'd be afraid of submitting her to the severest test. Why, you wouldn't even know when a girl was in love with you, unless she told you so. Perhaps it's some excuse that your mind's fixed on one woman to the exclusion of all the rest, though one could imagine that, as you think of her, she's as unreal and as far removed from anything made of flesh and blood as a saint in a picture. After all, I dare say it's a very proper feeling."

George left him, half amused and half disturbed. He did not resent Edgar's freedom of speech, but the latter had a way of mixing hints that were not altogether foolish with his badinage, and his comrade was inclined to wonder what he had meant by one suggestive remark. It troubled him as he strolled along the edge of the tall green wheat, but he comforted himself with the thought that, after all, Edgar's conversation was often unworthy of serious consideration.

A week later George rode over to the store at the settlement, feeling a little diffident, because he had undertaken the visit only from a sense of duty. He was cordially received, and was presently taken in to supper, which was served in a pretty room and presided over by a very attractive girl. She had a pleasant voice and a quiet face; though he thought she must have guessed his errand, she treated him with a composure that set him at his ease. Indeed, she was by no means the kind of girl he had expected Edgar to choose; but this was in her favor. George could find no fault in her.

Shortly after the meal was finished his host was called away, and the girl looked up at George with a flush of color creeping, most becomingly, into her face.

"Edgar told me I needn't be afraid of you," she said.

George smiled.

"I can understand his confidence, though it had a better foundation than my good-nature. I wonder whether I might venture to say that he has shown remarkably good sense?"

"I'm glad you don't think he has been very foolish," replied the girl, and it was obvious to George that she understood the situation.

He made her a little grave bow.

"What I've said, I'm ready to stick to. I'm a friend of Edgar's, and that carried an obligation."

"Yes," she assented, "but it was because you are a friend of his and, in a way, represent his people in England, that I was a little uneasy."

Her speech implied a good deal and George admired her candor.

"Well," he said, "so far as I am concerned, you must never feel anything of the kind again. But I think you should have known it was quite unnecessary."

She gave him a grateful glance and soon afterward her father came in.

"Guess we'll take a smoke in the back office," he said to George.

George followed him, and thought he understood why he was led into the little untidy room strewn with packets of goods, though his host had a fine commodious house. Taunton would not attempt to dissociate himself from his profession; he meant to be taken for what he was, but he knew his value. He was a gaunt, elderly man: as far as his general appearance went, a typical inhabitant of a remote and half-developed western town, though there was a hint of authority in his face. Giving George an excellent cigar, he pointed to a chair.

"Now," he began, "we must have a talk. When your partner first came hanging round my store, buying things he didn't want, I was kind of short with him. Helen helps me now and then with the books, and he seemed to know when she came in."

"I noticed he came home in a rather bad temper once or twice," George said with a laugh. "I used to wonder, when he produced sardine cans at supper, but after a while I began to understand."

"Well," continued Taunton, "I didn't intend to have any blamed Percy trying to turn my girl's head, until I knew what he meant. I'd nobody to talk it over with—I lost her mother long ago—so I kind of froze him out, until one day he came dawdling in and asked if he might take Helen to Jim Haxton's dance.

"'Does she know you have come to me about it?' I said.

"'Can't say,' he told me coolly, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. 'I haven't mentioned the matter yet; I thought I'd ask you first.'

"'S'pose I object?' I said.

"'Then,' he allowed quite tranquil, 'the thing will have to be considered. There's not the slightest reason why you should object.'

"I'd a notion I could agree with him—I liked the way he talked—and I told him Helen could go, but the next time he called he was to walk right into the office instead of hanging round the counter. I asked him what he'd done with all the canned truck he'd bought, and he said he was inclined to think his partner had eaten most of it. Since then he's been over pretty often, and I figured it was time I gave you a hint."

"Thanks," responded George. "He was, in a way, placed in my hands, but I've no real control over him."

"That's so; he's of age. What I felt was this—I've nothing against West, but my girl's good enough for anybody, and I can't have his people in England looking down on her and making trouble. If they're not satisfied, they had better call him back right now. There's to be no high-toned condescension in this matter."

"I don't think you need be afraid of that," said George. "It would be altogether uncalled for. It's very likely that I shall be consulted, and I'll have pleasure in telling his people that I consider him a lucky man."

"There's another point—has West any means?"

"I believe about five thousand dollars could be raised to put him on a farm."

Taunton nodded.

"It's not very much, but I don't know that I'm sorry. I'll see they're fixed right; whatever West gets I'll beat. My girl shan't be indebted to her husband's folks. But there's not a word to be said about this yet. West must wait another year before we decide on anything."

George thought the storekeeper's attitude could not be found fault with, and when he drove home through the soft dusk of the summer night, he was glad to feel that there was no need for anxiety about the choice Edgar had made.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE LEADING WITNESS

Three or four weeks passed quietly without any news from Flett until one evening when Edgar sat talking to Miss Taunton in the office of her father's store at Sage Butte. The little, dusty room was unpleasantly hot and filled with the smell of resinous pine boards; there was a drawl of voices and an occasional patter of footsteps outside the door; and a big book, which seemed to have no claim on her attention, lay open on the table in front of the girl.

She was listening to Edgar with a smile in her eyes, and looking, so he thought, remarkably attractive in her light summer dress which left her pretty, round arms uncovered to the elbow and displayed the polished whiteness of her neck. He was expressing his approval of the current fashions, which he said were rational and particularly becoming to people with skins like ivory. Indeed, he was so engrossed in his subject that he did not hear footsteps approaching until his companion flashed a warning glance at him; and he swung round with some annoyance as the door opened.

"I guessed I would find you here," said the station-agent, looking in with an indulgent smile.

"You're a thoughtful man," retorted Edgar. "You may as well tell me what you want."

"I've a wire from Flett, sent at Hatfield, down the line."

"What can he be doing there?" Edgar exclaimed; and Miss Taunton showed her interest.

"He was coming through on the train. Wanted Mr. Lansing to meet him at the station, if he was in town. Hadn't you better go along?"

"I suppose so," said Edgar resignedly, glancing at his watch. "It looks as if your men had taken their time. Flett should be here in about a quarter of an hour now."

"Operator had train orders to get through; we have two freights side-tracked," the agent explained. "Don't be late; she's coming along on time."

He hurried out, and a few minutes later Edgar crossed the street and strolled along the low wooden platform, upon which a smart constable was waiting. A long trail of smoke, drawing rapidly nearer, streaked the gray and ochre of the level plain, and presently the big engine and dusty cars rolled into the station amid the hoarse tolling of the bell. As they ran slowly past him, Edgar saw a police trooper leaning out from a vestibule, and when the train stopped the constable on the platform hurried toward the car. A hum of excited voices broke out and Edgar had some difficulty in pushing through the growing crowd to reach the steps. A constable, who had hard work to keep the others back, let him pass, and he found Flett standing on the platform above, looking rather jaded, with a pistol loose in his holster.

"Isn't Mr. Lansing here?" Flett asked eagerly, and then turned to the trooper. "Keep those fellows off!"

"No," answered Edgar; "he hasn't come into town. But what's the cause of this commotion? Have you got your men?"

"Three of them," said Flett, with a look of pride. "I expect we'll get the fourth. But come in a minute, out of the noise."

The car was besieged. Curious men were clambering up the side of it, trying to peer in through the windows; others disputed angrily with the trooper who drove them off the steps. Eager questions were shouted and scraps of random information given, and groups of people were excitedly running across the street to the station. It was, however, a little quieter in the vestibule when Flett had banged the door. He next opened the inner door that led to the smoking compartment of the Colonist car. In spite of its roominess, it was almost insufferably hot and very dirty; the sunlight struck in through the windows; sand and fine cinders lay thick upon the floor. A pile of old blue blankets lay, neatly folded, on one of the wooden seats, and on those adjoining sat three men. Two wore brown duck overalls, gray shirts, and big soft hats; one was dressed in threadbare cloth; but there was nothing that particularly suggested the criminal in any of their sunburned faces. They looked hot and weary with the journey, and though their expression was perhaps a little hard, they looked like harvest hands traveling in search of work. One, who was quietly smoking, took his pipe from his mouth and spoke to Flett.

"Can't you get us some ice?" he asked. "The water in the tank isn't fit to drink."

"They haven't any here. You'll have to wait until we get to the junction," Flett told him, and drew Edgar back into the vestibule.

"We're taking them right along to Regina," he explained. "I'm sorry I couldn't see Mr. Lansing, but I'll ride over as soon as I'm sent back. If he's likely to be away, he'd better send word to the station."

"I don't expect he'll leave the farm during the next few weeks," said Edgar.

Then one of the constables looked in.

"Conductor says he can't hold up the train."

"I'll be off," said Edgar, with a smile at Flett. "This should mean promotion; it's a fine piece of work."

He jumped down as the train pulled out and hurried back to the store where Miss Taunton was eagerly awaiting news. Soon afterward he left; and as he rode up to the homestead day was breaking, but he found George already at work in the stable.

"It's lucky we don't need your horse. If you're going to keep up this kind of thing, you had better buy an automobile," he remarked.

Edgar laughed.

"I don't feel remarkably fresh, but I'll hold out until to-night. There's the fallowing to be got on with; I suppose nothing must interfere with that. But aren't you up a little earlier than usual?"

"I want to haul in the posts for the new fence. Grierson has his hands full, and now that there are four of us, Jake spends so much time in cooking."

"A reckless waste of precious minutes!" Edgar exclaimed ironically. "If one could only get over these troublesome bodily needs, you could add hours of work to every week and make Sylvia Marston rich. By the way, Jake's cooking is getting awful."

He put up his horse and busied himself with several tasks before he went in to breakfast. When it was finished, and the others went out, he detained George.

"What did you think of that meal?" he asked.

"Well," said George, "it might have been better."

Edgar laughed scornfully.

"It would take some time to tell you my opinion, but I may as well point out that you're paying a big bill for stores to Taunton, though we never get anything fit to eat. Helen and I were talking over your account, and she wondered what we did with the things, besides giving me an idea. It's this—why don't you tell Grierson to bring out his wife?"

"I never thought of it. She might not come; and she may not cook much better than Jake."

"She certainly couldn't cook worse! I expect she would save her wages, and she would set a hired man free. Jake can drive a team."

"It's a good idea," George agreed. "Send Grierson in."

The man came a few minutes later.

"We get on pretty well; I suppose you are willing to stay with me?" George said to him.

Grierson hesitated and looked disturbed.

"The fact is, I'd be very sorry to leave; but I'm afraid I'll have to by and by. You see, I've got to find a place I can take my wife to."

"Can she cook?"

"Yes," said Grierson, indicating the remnants on the table with contempt. "She would do better than this with her eyes shut! Then," he continued eagerly, "she can wash and mend clothes. I've noticed that you and Mr. West throw half your things away long before you need to."

"That's true," Edgar admitted. "It's the custom of the country; time's too valuable to spend in mending anything, though I've noticed that one or two of the people who tell you about the value of time get through a good deal of it lounging round the Sachem. Anyway, amateur laundering's an abomination, and I'm most successful in washing the buttons and wrist-bands off." He turned to his companion. "George, you'll have to send for Mrs. Grierson."

The matter was promptly arranged, and when Grierson went out with a look of keen satisfaction, Edgar laughed.

"I feel like pointing out how far an idea can go. Helen only thought of making me a little more comfortable, and you see the result of it—Grierson and his wife united, things put into shape here, four people content! Of course, one could cite a more striking example; I mean when Sylvia Marston thought you had better go out and look after her farm. There's no need to mention the far-reaching consequences that opinion had."

"I volunteered to go out," George corrected him.

"Well," said Edgar, "I quite believe you did so. But you're no doubt pining to get at the fence."

They went off to work, but Edgar, driving the gang-plow through the stubble under a scorching sun, thought that Sylvia's idea might bear more fruit than she had calculated on, and that it would be bitter to her. His mind, however, was chiefly occupied with a more attractive person, and once when he turned the heavy horses at the end of the furrows he said softly, "May I deserve her!" and looked up with a tense expression in his hot face, as if making some firm resolve, which was a procedure that would have astonished even those who knew him well.

A week passed, each day growing brighter and hotter, until the glare flung back by sandy soil and whitening grass became painful, and George and his assistants discarded most of their clothing when they went about their tasks. The oats began to show a silvery gleam as they swayed in the strong light; the wheat was changing color, and there were warm coppery gleams among the heavy ears; horses and cattle sought the poplars' shade. Then one evening when the Grants had driven over, Flett arrived at the homestead, and, sitting on the stoop as the air grew cooler, related his adventures.

"I guess my chiefs wouldn't be pleased to hear me; we're not encouraged to talk, but there's a reason for it, as you'll see when I'm through," he said, and plunged abruptly into his narrative.

It proved to be a moving tale of weary rides in scorching heat and in the dusk of night, of rebuffs and daunting failures. Flett, as he admitted, had several times been cleverly misled and had done some unwise things, but he had never lost his patience nor relaxed his efforts. Slowly and doggedly, picking up scraps of information where he could, he had trailed his men to the frontier, where his real troubles had begun. Once that he crossed it, he had no authority, and the American sheriffs and deputies were not invariably sympathetic. Some, he concluded, were unduly influenced by local opinion, which was not in favor of interfering with people who confined their depredations to Canadian horses. Others, who acknowledged past favors from Regina, foresaw troublesome complications before he could be allowed to deport the offenders; but some, with a strong sense of duty, offered willing help, and that was how he had been able to make the arrests on Canadian soil.

"Now," he concluded, "we tracked these men from point to point and I've evidence to prove most of their moves, but they never had the four horses in a bunch until they made Montana, which is a point against us. We can show they were working as a gang, that they were altogether with the horses on American soil, but as we haven't corralled the only man Mr. Grant could swear to, there's only one way of proving how they got them. You see where all this leads?"

"It looks as if you depended on my evidence for a conviction," said George.

Flett nodded.

"You saw Mr. Grant attacked and the horses run off. You can identify one man, and we'll connect him with the rest."

He took out a paper and handed it to George.

"It's my duty to serve you with this; and now that it's done, I'll warn you to watch out until after the trial. If we can convict these fellows, we smash the crowd, but we'd be helpless without you."

George opened the document and found it a formal summons to attend the court at Regina on a date specified. Then he produced another paper and gave it to Flett with a smile.

"The opposition seem to recognize my importance, and they move more quickly than the police."

The trooper took the letter, which was typed and bore no date or name of place.

"'Keep off this trial and you'll have no more trouble,'" he read aloud. "'Back up the police and you'll be sorry. If you mean to drop them, drive over to the Butte, Thursday, and get supper at the Queen's.'"

"Yesterday was Thursday, and I didn't go," George said after a moment's silence.

The quiet intimation was not a surprise to any of them, and Flett nodded as he examined the letter.

"Not much of a clue," he remarked. "Toronto paper that's sold at every store; mailed two stations down the line. Nobody would have met you at the Queen's, but most anybody in town would know if you had been there. Anyway, I'll take this along." He rose. "I can't stop, but I want to say we're not afraid of your backing down."

He rode off in a few more minutes and after a while the Grants took their leave, but Flora walked down the trail with George while the team was being harnessed.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" she said. "These men are dangerous; they know yours is the most important evidence. I shall be anxious until the trial."

There was something in her eyes and voice that sent a curious thrill through George.

"I don't think that's needful; I certainly won't be reckless," he said.

Then Flora got into the vehicle; and during the next week or two George took precautions. Indeed, he now and then felt a little uncomfortable when he had occasion to pass a shadowy bluff. He carried a pistol when he went around the outbuildings at night, and fell into a habit of stopping to listen, ready to strike or shoot, each time he opened the door of one in the dark.