A whistling breath came from between the dying man's parted lips, and culminated in a hoarse rattling in his throat. Then his body moved abruptly, and one arm lifted from the elbow-joint, the head half turned towards the girl, and words distinct, but halting, came from the working lips.

"He—he—did—it. Free—P—Press. Yell—ow—G——" The last word died away to a gurgle. A violent fit of coughing seized the dying man, then it ceased suddenly. His head weighed like lead upon the girl's supporting hand, and a thin trickle of blood bubbled from the corners of his mouth. Prudence withdrew her arm from beneath him and replaced the head upon the pillow. Her tears had ceased to flow now.

"He is dead," she said with studied calmness, as she straightened herself up from the bed.

She moved a step or two away. Then she paused uncertainly and gazed about her like one dazed. Her mother went towards her, but before she reached her side Prudence uttered a strange, wild cry and rushed from the room, tearing wildly at the fastenings of her silk dress as though to rid herself of the mocking reminder of that awful day.



CHAPTER IX

LONELY RANCH AT OWL HOOT

In spite of the recent tragic events the routine of the daily life at Loon Dyke Farm was very little interfered with. Just for a few weeks following upon the death of Leslie Grey the organization of Mrs. Malling's household had been thrown out of gear.

The corning of the police and the general scouring of the country for the murderers of the Customs officer had entailed a "nine days' wonder" around the countryside, and had helped to disturb the wonted peace of the farm. But the search did not last long. Horse-thieves do not wait long in a district, and the experience of the "riders of the plains" taught them that it would be useless to pursue where there was no clue to guide them. The search was abandoned after a while, and the dastardly murder remained an unsolved mystery.

The shock to Prudence's nervous system had been a terrible one, and a breakdown, closely bordering upon brain fever, had followed. The girl's condition had demanded the utmost care, and, in this matter, Sarah Gurridge had proved herself a loyal friend. Dr. Parash, with conscientious soundness of judgment, had ordered her removal for a prolonged sojourn to city life in Toronto; a course which, in spite of heartbroken appeal on the girl's part, her mother insisted upon carrying out with Spartan-like resolution.

"Broken hearts," she had said to Sarah, during a confidential chat upon the subject, "are only kept from mending by them as talks sympathy. There isn't nothin' like mixing with folks what's got their own troubles to worrit over. She'll get all that for sure when she gets to one o' them cities. Cities is full of purgat'ry," she added profoundly. "I shall send her down to sister Emma, she's one o' them hustlin' women that'll never let the child rest a minute."

And Sarah had approved feelingly.

So Prudence was safely dispatched eastwards for an indefinite period before the spring opened. But Hephzibah Malling had yet to realize that her daughter had suddenly developed from a child, who looked to her mother's guidance in all the more serious questions of life, into a woman of strong feelings and opinions. This swift casting off of the fetters of childhood had been the work of those few passionate moments at the bedside of her dying lover.

Prudence had submitted to the sentence which her mother, backed by the doctor's advice, had passed, and she went away. But in complying with the order she had performed the last act which childhood's use had prompted. The period of her absence was indefinite. The fiat demanded no limitation to her stay with "sister" Emma. She could return when she elected so to do. Bred in the pure air of the prairie, no city could claim her for long. And so she returned to the farm against all opposition within two months of leaving it.

The spring brought another change to the farm, a change which was as welcome to the old farm-wife as the opening of the spring itself. Hervey returned from Niagara, bringing with him the story of the failure of his mission. True to herself and the advice of Iredale, Hephzibah made her proposition to her son, with the result that, with some show of distaste, he accepted the situation, and with his three-legged companion took up his abode at the farm.

And so the days lengthened and the summer heat increased; the hay in the sloughs ripened and filled the air with its refreshing odours; the black squares of ploughed land were quickly covered with the deepening carpet of green, succulent grain; the wild currant-bushes flowered, and the choke-cherries ripened on the laden branches, and the deep blue vault of the heavens smiled down upon the verdant world.

George Iredale again became a constant and welcome visitor at the farm, nor in her leisure did Sarah Gurridge seek relaxation in any other direction.

The morning was well advanced. The air was still and very hot. There was a peaceful drowsiness about the farm buildings and yard which was only broken by the occasional squeal of the mouching swine routing amongst any stray garbage their inquisitive eyes happened to light upon. The upper half of the barn door stood open, and in the cool shade of the interior could be seen the outline of dark, well-rounded forms looming between the heel-posts of the stalls which lined the side walls. An occasional impatient stamp from the heavily-shod hoofs told of the capacity for annoyance of the ubiquitous fly or aggravating mosquito, whilst the steady grinding sound which pervaded the atmosphere within, and the occasional "gush" of distended nostrils testified to healthy appetites, and noses buried in mangers well filled with sweet-smelling "Timothy" hay.

The kitchen doorway was suddenly filled with the ample proportions of Hephzibah Malling. She moved out into the open. She was carrying a large pail filled with potato-parings and other fragments of culinary residuum. A large white sun-bonnet protected her grey head and shaded her now flaming face from the sun, and her dress, a neat study in grey, was enveloped in a huge apron.

She moved out to a position well clear of the buildings and began to call out in a tone of persuasive encouragement—

"Tig—tig—tig! Tig—tig—tig!"

She repeated her summons several times, then moved on slowly, continuing to call at intervals.

The swine gathered with a hungry rush at her heels, and their chorus of acclamation drowned her familiar cry. Passing down the length of the barn she reached a cluster of thatched mud hovels. Here she opened the crazy gate to admit her clamorous flock, and then deposited the contents of her pail in the trough provided for that purpose. The pigs fell-to with characteristic avidity, complaining vociferously the while as only pigs will.

She stood for a few moments looking down at her noisy charges with calculating eyes. It was a fine muster of young porkers, and the old lady was estimating their bacon-yielding capacity.

Suddenly her reflections were interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and turning, she saw Hervey crossing the yard in the direction of the creamery. She saw him disappear down the steps which led to the door, for the place was in the nature of a dugout She sighed heavily and moved away from her porkers, and slowly she made her way to the wash-house. The sight of this man had banished all her feelings of satisfaction. Her son was a constant trouble to her; a source of grave worry and anxiety. Her hopes of him had been anything but fulfilled.

In the meantime Hervey had propped himself against the doorway of the creamery and was talking to his sister within. The building, like all dugouts, was long and low; its roof was heavily thatched to protect the interior from the effects of the sun's rays. Prudence was moving slowly along the two wide counters which lined the walls from one end to the other. Each counter was covered with a number of huge milk-pans, from which the girl was carefully skimming the thick, yellow cream. She worked methodically; and the rich fat dropped with a heavy "plonk" into the small pail she carried, in a manner which testified to the quality of the cream.

She looked a little paler than usual; the healthy bloom had almost entirely disappeared from her cheeks, and dark shadows surrounded her brown eyes. But this was the only sign she displayed of the tragedy which had come into her young life. The trim figure was unimpaired, and her wealth of dark hair was as carefully adjusted as usual. Hervey watched his sister's movements as she passed from pan to pan.

"Iredale wants me to ride over to Owl Hoot to-day," he said slowly. "We're going to have an afternoon's 'chicken shoot.' He says the prairie-chicken round his place are as thick as mosquitoes. He's a lucky beggar. He seems to have the best of everything. I've scoured our farm all over and there's not so much as a solitary grey owl to get a pot at. I hate the place."

Prudence ceased working and faced him. She scornfully looked him up and down. At that moment she looked very picturesque with her black skirt turned up from the bottom and pinned about her waist, displaying an expanse of light-blue petticoat. Her blouse was a simple thing in spotless white cotton, with a black ribbon tied about her neck.

"I think you are very ungrateful, Hervey," she said quietly. "I've only been home for a few months, and not a day has passed but what I've heard you grumble about something in connection with your home. If it isn't the dulness it's the work; if it isn't the work it's your position of dependence, or the distance from town, or the people around us. Now you grumble because of the shooting. What do you want? We've got a section and a half, nearly a thousand acres, under wheat; we've got everything that money can buy in the way of improvements in machinery; we've got a home that might fill many a town-bred man with envy, and a mother who denies us nothing; and yet you aren't satisfied. What do you want? If things aren't what you like, for goodness' sake go back to the wilds again, where, according to your own account, you were happy. Your incessant grumbling makes me sick."

"A new departure, sister, eh?" Hervey retorted, smiling unpleasantly. "I always thought it was everybody's privilege to grumble a bit. Still, I don't think it's for you to start lecturing me if even it isn't. Mother's treated me pretty well—in a way. But don't forget she's only hired me the same as she's hired Andy, or any of the rest of the hands. Why, I haven't even the same position as you have. I am paid so many dollars a month, for which I have to do certain work. Let me tell you this, my girl: if I had stayed on this farm until father died my position would have been very different. It would all have been mine now."

"Well, since you didn't do so, the farm is mother's." Prudence's pale cheeks had become flushed with anger. "And I think, all things considered, she has treated you particularly well."

And she turned back to her work.

The girl was very angry, and justifiably so. Hervey was lazy. The work which was his was rarely done unless it happened to fall in with his plans for the moment. He was thoroughly bearish to both his mother and herself, and he had already overdrawn the allowance the former had made him. All this had become very evident to the girl since her return to the farm, and it cut her to the quick that the peace of her home should have been so rudely broken. Even Prudence's personal troubles were quite secondary to the steady grind of Hervey's ill-manners.

Curiously enough, after the first passing of the shock of Grey's death she found herself less stricken than she would have deemed it possible. There could be no doubt that she had loved the man in her girlish, adoring fashion.

She had thought that never again could she return to the place which had such dread memories for her. Thoughts of the long summer days, and the dreary, interminable winter, when the distractions of labour are denied the farmer, had been revolting to her. To live within a few miles of where that dreadful tragedy had occurred; to live amongst the surroundings which must ever be reminding her of her dead lover; these things had made her shrink from the thought of the time when she would again turn westward to her home.

But when she had once more taken her place in the daily life at the farm, it was, at first with a certain feeling of self-disgust, and later with thankfulness, that she learned that she could face her old life with perfect equanimity. The childish passion for her dead lover had died; the shock which had suddenly brought about her own translation from girlhood to womanhood had also dispelled the illusions of her girlish first love.

She confided nothing to anybody, but just went about her daily round of labours in a quiet, pensive way, striving by every means to lighten her mother's burden and to help her brother to the path which their father before them had so diligently trodden.

Her patience had now given way under the wearing tide of Hervey's dissatisfaction, and it seemed as though a rupture between them were imminent.

"Oh, well enough, if you consider bare duty," Hervey retorted after a deliberate pause.

"Bare duty, indeed!" Prudence's two brown eyes flashed round on him in an instant. "You are the sort of man who should speak of duty, Hervey. You just ought to be ashamed of yourself. Your mother's debt of duty towards you was fulfilled on the day you left the farm years ago. She provided you with liberal capital to start you in life. Now you have come back, and she welcomes you with open arms—we both do—glad that you should be with us again. And what return have you made to her for her goodness? I'll tell you; you have brought her nothing but days of unhappiness with your lazy, grumbling ways. If you are going to continue like this, for goodness' sake go away again. She has enough on her shoulders without being worried by you."

The man looked for a moment as though he were going to give expression to some very nasty talk. Prudence had returned to her pans and so lost the evil glance of his expressive eyes. Then his look changed to a mocking smile, and when he spoke his words were decidedly conciliating.

"I'm afraid I've done something to offend you, Prue. But you shouldn't use hard words like that I know I'm not much of a farmer, and I am always a bit irritable when I am not my own master. But don't let's quarrel. I wanted to talk to you about George Iredale. He seems a jolly decent fellow—much too good to be kicking his heels about in such a district as Owl Hoot. He's extremely wealthy, isn't he?"

The girl felt angry still, but Hervey's tone slightly mollified her. She answered shortly enough, and the skimming of the milk was not done with the adeptness which she usually displayed.

"Rich? Yes, he's one of the richest men in Manitoba. Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. He seems very interested in—us. He's always over here. And he never by any chance loses an opportunity of ingratiating himself with mother. I wonder what his object is?"

Prudence bent over her work to hide the tell-tale flush which had spread over her face, and the skimming was once more done with the utmost care.

"Mother is very fond of Mr. Iredale," she replied slowly. "He is a good man, and a good friend. We, as you know, are his nearest neighbours. Are you going over there to-day?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Oh—it doesn't matter—I was going to ask you to ride over to Lakeville to ask Alice Gordon to come here during the harvesting. She's staying with the Covills. But it doesn't matter in the least, I can send one of the boys."

"Yes, better send one of the boys. I'm going over to Lonely Ranch. I shall cultivate Iredale; he's the only man I care about round here."

Prudence had nearly completed her operations and was salting the cream in the pail.

"Say, sis, did it ever strike you that Iredale's dead sweet on you?" Hervey went on coarsely.

The girl suddenly turned and looked her brother squarely in the face. Her brow was again flushed, but now with anger.

"You'll lose the best of your shooting if you don't hurry. You've got ten miles to ride. And—I am going to lock up."

Her brother didn't offer to move.

"Why do you do all this work?" he went on calmly. "Why don't you send all the milk to the Government creamery? It'll save labour, and you get market price for the produce."

"Because Government creameries are for those who can't afford to send their stuff to market, or make their cheese on their farms."

"Ah, that's the worst of being large farmers, it entails so much work. By Jove! Iredale doesn't work like we 'moss-backs' have to, and he's made a fortune. I guess if there were a Mrs. George Iredale she'd have a bully time. No cheese- or butter-making, eh, sis?" And, with a grin, Hervey turned on his heel, and, passing up the steps, walked away towards the barn.

Prudence waited until her brother had disappeared within the stables; then she locked up. As she turned from the door she heard her mother's voice calling.

"Girl—girl, where are you?"

"Here I am, mother dear, at the creamery."

Mrs. Malling trundled round the corner of the house.

"Prudence, there's young Peter Furrer come over, and I haven't time to stop and gossip with him. Like as not he don't want to talk to a body like me, anyway. Just drop that skirt o' yours, girl, and go and see him. A nice time o' day to come a-courtin'. He'll be a-follerin' you to the grain fields when we're harvesting."

Prudence smiled.

"Never mind, mother. He's come at an opportune moment. I want a messenger to go over to Lakeville. He'll do. I'm sending word to Alice Gordon. I want her to come here for the harvesting. Alice must get very sick of living at Ainsley, in spite of the fact of her beau living there. I've a good mind to tell her to bring him out here. Shan't be long, dear; I'll join you directly. Where are you? In the wash-house?"

The girl ran off, letting her skirt fall as she went The mother passed on to the wash-house, muttering to herself as she went.

"La, if he were only like her. But there, the Lord ordains, and them as brings their offspring into the world must abide the racket. But it goes hard with a man about the house who idles. Mussy-a-me, he ain't like his poor father. And I'm not goin' to give him no extra dollars to fling around in Winnipeg. He's too fond of loose company."

The old lady continued to mutter audibly until she reached the wash-house door, where she disappeared just as the object of her thoughts led his horse out of the barn, jumped on its back, and rode away.

It was noon when Hervey reached Owl Hoot. He had been there several times lately, sometimes at George Iredale's invitation, but generally at his own. He had his own particular reasons for cultivating the owner of Lonely Ranch, and those reasons he kept carefully to himself. This unworthy son had only been at Loon Dyke Farm for little more than four months, and during that brief period he had plainly shown what manner of man he was.

Even the doting affection of his mother had not blinded that simple soul to his shortcomings. Each month since his coming he had steadily overdrawn his allowance to no inconsiderable extent. His frequent visits to Winnipeg had always ended in his return home with pockets empty, and an accumulation of debts, of which he said nothing, left behind him. Then came the inevitable request for money, generally backed up by some plausible excuse, and Hephzibah's cheque-book was always forthcoming on these occasions. But though, hitherto, she had not failed him, he saw by her manner that the time was not far distant when her sweet old face would become curiously set, and the comely mouth would shut tight, and the cheque-book would remain locked in her wardrobe, while he poured his flimsy excuses on stone-deaf ears.

He understood his mother. She would do much, perhaps far too much for her children, but she would not allow herself to be preyed upon; she was too keen a business woman for that. Besides, his accumulation of debts was now so great that all he was able to bleed her for would be but a drop in the ocean. In Winnipeg he posed as the owner of Loon Dyke Farm, and as such his credit was extensive. But now there were clamourings for settlements, and Hervey knew that gaming debts and hotel bills must be met in due course. Tradesmen can wait, they have redress from owners of property, but the others have no such means of repaying themselves, therefore they must be paid if he wished to remain in the district. Now he meant to raise what he required from Iredale. He had recognized the fact that Iredale was in love with Prudence, nor was he slow to appreciate the possibilities which this matter suggested as a money-raising means. Yes, Hervey intended that Iredale should pay for the privilege of enjoying his sister's society. Money he must have, and that at once.

It was a wild, desolate region which he rode through on his way to Lonely Ranch. No one, finding themselves suddenly dropped into the midst of those wood-covered crags and clean-cut ravines, the boulder-strewn, grassless land, would have dreamed that they were within half-a-dozen miles of the fertile prairie-lands of Canada. It was like a slum hidden away in the heart of a fashionable city. The country round the mysterious Lake of the Woods is something utterly apart from the rest of the Canadian world, and partakes much of the nature of the Badlands of Dakota. It is tucked away in the extreme south-eastern corner of Manitoba, and the international boundary runs right through the heart of it.

Lonely Ranch was situated in an abrupt hollow, and was entirely lost to view in a mammoth growth of pinewoods. Years ago a settlement had existed in this region, but what the nature of that settlement it was now impossible to tell. Local tradition held that, at some far-distant period, the place had been occupied by a camp of half-breed "bad-men" who worked their evil trade upon the south side of the American border, and sought security in the shelter of this perfect hiding-place. Be that as it may, it was now the abode of George Iredale, rancher. He had built for himself a splendid house of hewn logs, and his outbuildings—many of them the restored houses of the early settlers—and corrals formed a ranch of very large dimensions.

And it was all hidden away in black woods which defied the keenest observation of the passer-by. And the hollow was approached by a circuitous road which entered the cutting at its northern end. Any other mode of ingress was impossible for any beast of burden.

As Hervey entered the valley and became lost to view in the sombre woods, he was greeted by the woeful cry of a screech-owl. So sudden and unexpected was the ear-piercing cry that both horse and rider started. The horse threw up its head and snorted, and stood for an instant trembling with apprehension. Hervey looked about him keenly. He could see nothing but the crowd of leafless tree-trunks, and a bed of dry pine-cones which covered the surrounding earth. The owl was probably hidden in the hollow of some dead tree, for there were many about. He pressed his horse forward. The animal moved cautiously, dancing along in its nervous apprehension.

Presently another cry split the air. Again some owl had protested at his intrusion.

So suddenly did the cry come that Hervey felt a slight superstitious quiver pass down his back, but he rode on. He had nearly a mile of the valley to travel before he came to the house, and, during the journey, seven times came the hideous screech of the owls. Now he began to understand why this place was called "Owl Hoot."

It was with a feeling of relief that he at length saw the ranch through the trees, and he greeted Iredale, who was standing in his doorway when he dismounted, with genuine pleasure.

"Well," he said, after shaking his host by the hand, "another mile of this d——d valley and I should have turned tail and fled back to the open. Why, you must have a regular colony of owls in the place. Man, I never heard such weird cries in my life. How is it that I haven't heard them before when I came here?"

Iredale took his visitor's horse. He was dressed in moleskin. Underneath his loose, dun-coloured vest he wore a soft shirt, and in place of a linen collar he had a red bandana tied about his neck. His headgear was a Stetson hat. In this garb he looked much more burly and powerful than in the tweeds he usually wore when visiting at the farm. His strong, patient face was lit by a quiet smile. He was a man whose eyes, and the expression of his features, never betrayed his thoughts. A keen observer would have noticed this at once, but to such people as he encountered he merely appeared a kindly man who was not much given to talking.

"Colony of owls, eh?" he said, leading the horse in the direction of the barn. "Those cries you have heard are what this cheerful place takes its name from. It only needs one cry to set the whole valley ringing with them. Had not the first creature seen you approach you might have reached your destination without hearing one disturbing sound. As a rule, in the daytime, they are not heard, but at night no one can enter these woods without the echoes being aroused. When they begin to shriek there is no sleep for any one in my house."

"So I should say. Well, never mind them now, we have other matters on hand. What coverts are we going to shoot over first?"

Hervey had followed his host to the stable. A strange-looking little creature came from the obscurity within. He was an undersized man with a small face, which seemed somehow to have shrivelled up like a dead leaf. He had a pair of the smallest eyes Hervey had ever seen, and not a vestige of hair on his face. His head was covered with a crown of bristly grey hair that seemed to grow in patches, and his feet were both turned in one direction—to the right.

"Take this plug and give him a rub down, Chintz," said Iredale. "When he's cool, water and feed him. Mr. Malling won't need him until about eight o'clock."

Then he turned towards the house.

"He don't waste words," observed Hervey, indicating the man, who had silently disappeared into the stable, taking the horse with him.

"No; he's dumb," replied Iredale. "He's my head boy."

"Boy?"

"Yes. Sixty-two."

The two men passed into Iredale's sitting-room. It was plainly but comfortably furnished in a typical bachelor manner. There were more signs of the owner's sporting propensities in the room than anything else, the walls being arranged with gun-racks, fishing-tackle, and trophies of the chase.

"We'll draw the bush on the other side of the Front Hill, otherwise known as the 'Haunted Hill,'" said Iredale, pointing to a gun-rack. "Select your weapon. I should take a mixed bore—ten and twelve. We may need both. There are some geese in a swamp over that way. The cartridges are in the bookcase; help yourself to a good supply, and one of those haversacks."

Hervey did as his host suggested.

"Why 'Haunted Hill'?" he asked curiously.

Iredale shrugged.

"By reason of a little graveyard on the side of it. Evidently where the early settlers buried their dead. It is a local name given, I suppose, by the prairie folk of your neighbourhood. Come on."

The two men set out. Nor did they return until six o'clock. Their shoot was productive of a splendid bag—prairie chicken and geese. Both men were excellent shots. Iredale was perhaps the better of the two, at least his bag numbered two brace more than that of his companion; but then, as Hervey told himself, he was using a strange gun, whilst Iredale was using the weapon he most favoured. Supper was prepared by the time they returned to the house. Iredale, healthily hungry and calmly contented, sat down to the meal; Hervey, famished by his unusual exercise, joined him in the loudest of good spirits.

Towards the close of the meal, when the whisky-and-water Hervey had liberally primed himself with had had due effect, he broached the subject that was ever uppermost in his thoughts. He began expansively—

"You know, George,"—he had already adopted the familiarity, and Iredale had not troubled to show disapproval, probably he remembered the relationship between this man and Prudence,—"I'm sick of farming. It's too monotonous. Not only that; so long as mother lives I am little better than a hired man. Of course she's very good," he went on, as he noted a sudden lowering of his companion's eyelids; "does no end for me, and all that sort of thing; but my salary goes nowhere with a man who has—well—who has hitherto had considerable resources. It's no easy thing under the circumstances to keep my expenses down. It seems such nonsense, when one comes to think of it, that I, who will eventually own the farm, subject, of course, to some provision for Prue, have to put up with a trifling allowance doled out to me every month; it's really monstrous. Who ever heard of a fellow living on one hundred dollars a month! That's what I'm getting. Why, I owe more than five months' wages at the Northern Union Hotel in Winnipeg. It can't be done; that's all about it."

Iredale looked over at the dark face opposite him. Nor could he help drawing a comparison between the man and the two ladies who owned him, one as brother, the other as son. How utterly unlike them he was in every way. There was not the smallest resemblance in mind, face, or figure. His thoughts reverted to Silas Malling, and here they paused. Here was the resemblance of outward form; and he wondered what unfathomed depths had lain in the nature of the old farmer which could have communicated themselves in such developed form to the son. It was inconceivable that this indolent, selfish spendthrift could have inherited his nature from Silas Malling. No; he felt sure that some former ancestor must have been responsible for it. He understood the drift of Hervey's words in a twinkling. He had experienced this sort of thing before from other men. Now he did not discourage it.

"A hundred a month on the prairie should be a princely—er—wage," he said in his grave way. "Of course it might be different in a city."

"It is," said Hervey decidedly. "I don't know, I'm sure," he went on, after a moment's pause. "I suppose I must weather through somehow."

He looked across at Iredale in such a definitely meaning way that the latter had no hesitation in speaking plainly. He knew it was money, and this was Prudence's brother.

"Got into a—mess?" he suggested encouragingly.

Hervey felt that he had an easy victim, but he smoked pensively for a moment before he spoke, keeping his great eyes turned well down upon the table-cover.

"Um—I lost a lot of money at poker the last time I was in the city. I was in an awful streak of bad luck; could do nothing right. Generally it's the other way about. Now they're pressing me to redeem the I.O.U.s. When they owe me I notice they're not so eager about it."

"That's bad; I'm sorry to hear it." Iredale's eyes were smiling, whilst in their depths there was the faintest suspicion of irony. He was in no way imposed upon by the breadth of the fabrication. It was the old story. He, too, lit his pipe and leant back in his chair. "I hope the amount is not too overwhelming. If I can—er—be——"

Hervey interrupted him eagerly. He brought his hand down heavily upon the table.

"By Jove! you are a good sort, George. If you could—just a loan, of course—you see I can offer you security on my certain inheritance of the farm——"

But Iredale had no wish to hear anything about his future possibilities of inheritance. He interrupted him sharply, and his tone was unusually icy.

"Tut—tut, man. Never mind about that. In spite of your need of money, I hope it will be many a year before your mother leaves our farming world."

"I trust so," murmured Hervey, without enthusiasm.

"How much will appease your creditors?"

Iredale spoke with such indifference about the amount that Hervey promptly decided to double the sum he originally intended to ask for.

"Five thousand dollars," he said, with some show of diffidence, but with eyes that gazed hungrily towards this man who treated the loaning of a large amount in such a careless manner.

Iredale offered no comment. He merely rose from his seat, and opening a drawer in his bookcase, produced a cheque-book and a pen and ink. He made out a cheque for the amount named, and passed it across the table. His only remark was—

"Your luck may change. Pay me when you like. No, don't bother about a receipt."

Hervey seized upon the piece of paper. He was almost too staggered to tender his thanks. Iredale in his quiet way was watching, nor was any movement on his companion's part lost to his observant eyes. He had "sized" this man up, from the soles of his boots to the crown of his head, and his contempt for him was profound. But he gave no sign. His cordiality was apparently perfect. The five thousand dollars were nothing to him, and he felt that the giving of that cheque might save those at Loon Dyke Farm from a world of anxiety and trouble. Somehow behind that impassive face he may have had some thoughts of the coming of a future time when he would be able to deal with this man's mode of life with that firmness which only relationship could entitle him to—when he could personally relieve Hephzibah of the responsibility and wearing anxiety of her worthless son's doings. In the meantime, like the seafaring man, he would just "stand by."

"I can't thank you enough, George," said Hervey at last. "You have got me out of an awkward situation. If I can do you a good turn, I will." Iredale detected a meaning emphasis in the last remark which he resented. "Some day," the man went on; "but there—I will say no more."

"No, I shouldn't say anything. These things happen in the course of a lifetime, and one mustn't say too much about them." The two men then smoked on in silence.

Presently Hervey rose to go. It was nearly eight o'clock.

"Well," said Iredale, as he prepared to bid his guest good-bye, "we have had a good afternoon's sport. Now you know my coverts you must come over again. Come whenever you like. If I am unable to go with you, you are welcome to shoot over the land by yourself. There are some grand antelope about the place."

"Thanks. I shall certainly come again. And—well, when are you coming over to us again? I can't offer you any shooting."

"Don't trouble," smiled Iredale.

Hervey saw the "boy" Chintz leading his horse round.

"You might tell your mother," the rancher went on, "that I'll come to-morrow to read over that fencing contract she spoke about for her."

Hervey leered round upon him.

"Will it do if I tell Prue instead?"

"Certainly not." Iredale's face was quite expressionless at that moment. "You will please do as I ask."

Hervey gulped down his chagrin; but his eyes were alight with the anger from which his lips refrained. He mounted his horse.

"Well, good-bye, George," he said, with a great display of cordiality. "I hope those owls of yours will permit me to ride in peace."

"I have no doubt they will," replied Iredale, with an inscrutable smile. "Good-bye."

Hervey rode away. The man he had left remained standing at his front door. The horseman half turned in his saddle as the bush closed about him.

"Curse the man for his d——d superiority," he muttered. "I suppose he thinks I am blind. Well, Mr. Iredale, we've made a pleasant start from my point of view. If you intend to marry Prudence you'll have to pay the piper. Guess I'm that piper. It's money I want, and it's money you'll have to pay."

The mysterious owner of Lonely Ranch was thinking deeply as he watched his guest depart.

"I believe he's the greatest scoundrel I have ever come across," he said to himself. "Money? Why, he'd sell his soul for it, or I'm no judge of men of his kidney, and, worse luck, I know his sort well enough. I wonder what made me do it? Not friendship. Prudence? No, not exactly. And yet—I don't know. I think I'd sooner have him on my side than against me." Then he turned his eyes towards the corrals and outbuildings which were dotted about amongst the trees, and finally they settled upon a little clearing on the side of Front Hill. It was a graveyard of the early settlers. "Yes, I must break away from it all—and as soon as possible. I have said so for many a year, but the fascination of it has held me. If I hope to ever marry Prudence I must give it up. I must not—dare not let her discover the truth. The child's goodness drives me to desperation. Yes—it shall all go."

His gaze wandered in the direction Hervey had taken, and a troubled look came into his calm eyes. A moment later he turned suddenly with a shiver and passed into the house. Somehow his thoughts were very gloomy.



CHAPTER X

THE GRAVEYARD AT OWL HOOT

Prudence and Alice Gordon surveyed the wild scene that suddenly opened out before them. They had drawn their horses up to a standstill on the brow of no inconsiderable hill, and beyond stretched a panorama of strikingly impressive beauty. Nature in one of her wildest moments, verdant and profound, was revealed.

Alice was a pretty girl, rather ordinary, and ever ready for laughter, which helped to conceal an undercurrent of serious thought. She was an old pupil of Sarah Gurridge's, and consequently Prudence's school-friend. But Alice lived in Ainsley, where, report had it, she was "keeping company" with Robb Chillingwood, and now the two girls only met when Alice visited the farm at such seasons of the year as the present.

"Do you think it will be safe to go further?" asked Alice, in a tone of awestruck amazement. "You say you are sure of the way. Would it not be better to turn off here and make for Lonely Ranch, and seek Chintz's guidance? There is time enough, and it is so easy to get lost."

The girls had set out to visit Lonely Ranch, to enjoy a ramble and a sort of picnic in the surrounding woods. Iredale was away on business, and the two friends, availing themselves of the opportunity, were taking a day off from the duties of the farm. They had started with the intention of riding over and leaving their horses with Iredale's man, Chintz, and then proceeding on foot. At the last moment Prudence had changed her mind and decided on a visit to the great Lake of the Woods, which was two miles further on to the south-west of the ranch. They carried their provisions in their saddle-bags, and had made up their minds to find some suitable break in the woods on the shore of the lake where they could tether their horses and idle the afternoon away.

Instead of turning into the valley of Owl Hoot they had crossed the mouth of it, and were now at the summit of its eastern slope, gazing out upon the mysteries of the almost uninhabited regions beyond.

"Of course it's safe, you silly," said Prudence. "Why, suppose we were to lose ourselves, that old mare you are riding would take you home straight as the crow flies. Besides, I have no fancy for that ferret-faced Chintz becoming one of our party. We could never talk freely in front of him."

"All right, then," said Alice, with a sigh. "You are leader of this expedition. Don't the woods look gloomy? And look out beyond. There seems to be no end to them. Shall we stop and have dinner here, and ride on afterwards?"

"Certainly not, madam," Prudence said briskly. "No shirking; besides, we want water to make our tea. There's none here."

Prudence understood her friend's fears, which were not without reason. It was a simple thing to get lost in such a forest. But anyway, as she had said, the old prairie horses they were riding would carry them home should they mistake the road. There was really no danger.

It was a gorgeous day. The sun was shining with unabated splendour; as yet it wanted an hour to noon. The brilliant daylight was somehow different here to what it was on the prairie. The fierce sunlight poured down upon an unbroken carpet of dull green, which seemed to have in it a tinge of the blackness of the heavy tree-trunks which it concealed beneath. The result was curiously striking. The brightness of the day was dulled, and the earth seemed bathed in a peculiar light such as a vault of grey rain-clouds above it bestows. The girls, gazing into the valley which yawned at their feet, were looking into a shadowed hollow of sombre melancholy—unchanging, unrelieved.

Beyond stretched a vista of hills, growing steadily greater as the hazy distance was reached. Behind where they stood was the Owl Hoot valley and woodlands, equally sombre, until the prairie was reached.

The moments passed, and they made no effort to move. They were both lost in thought, and looked out across the wild woodlands with eyes which beheld only that which was most profoundly beautiful. Prudence was enjoying the scene, the redolent air which rose from the woods below, the solitary grandeur of the world about her, with all the appreciation of a prairie-bred girl. Alice merely saw and marvelled at the picture before her. She was less enthusiastic, less used to such surroundings than her companion. They affected her differently. She marvelled, she wondered, but a peculiar nervousness was inspired by what she beheld. At length Prudence took the initiative. She lifted her reins and her horse moved forward.

"Come along, Alice," she said. And the two disappeared down the slope into the giant forest below.

Once on their way Alice recovered her good spirits again. Within the forest the world did not seem so vast, so confusing to the eye. On either hand, ahead, were to be seen only bare tree-trunks beneath the ponderous green canopy which shut out the sunlight from above. The scrunch of the pine-cones crushing under the hoofs of the horses carried a welcome sense of companionship to the riders. Alice found the reality much less fearful than the contemplation from the heights above. In a few moments both girls were chattering gaily, all thoughts of losing themselves, or of other dangers which these virgin forests might conceal, having passed from their minds.

Whatever doubts may have assailed Alice they were soon set at rest, for, in a short time, after ascending another rather sharp slope, they found themselves gazing down upon a long, narrow sheet of water. It was one of the many inlets with which the shores of the mysterious Lake of the Woods abound. From where the girls first caught sight of it, it looked as though the forest had been cleanly rent by the glistening water which had cut its way into the dense growth, demolishing every sign of vegetation in its path, but leaving everything which grew even down to its very edge. This inlet widened out between two hills, and, beyond that, in a dazzling haze, the vast body of the lake, like a distant view of the sea, was just visible. It was a perfect picture.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" said Prudence enthusiastically. "Isn't it worth a few miles' ride to see it? I'm glad we didn't go and bother that horrid little Chintz. It would have taken half the pleasure away to have had his ferrety face with us."

"Lovely—lovely," exclaimed Alice rapturously. Her bright eyes were dancing with delight, and her breath came and went rapidly. "Just fancy, Prue; I have lived all these years within reach of this place and this is the first time I have ever set eyes upon the lake."

Her companion laughed.

"That is not to be wondered at. There are very few people who ever come this way. Why, I couldn't say, unless it is that the country is bad to travel through on this side. Mind, although there are few habitations on the western shore, there are plenty to the east and south. I never could understand why George Iredale selected Owl Hoot for the site of his ranch. Just think how delightful it would be to have your home built on this hill." The girl indicated their position with her riding-whip. "Wouldn't it be delightful to wake each morning and gaze out upon such a scene?"

"Perfect," said Alice, whilst her eyes glanced mischievously in her friend's direction. "Summer or winter?"

"Summer, of course, you goose," exclaimed Prudence.

"Of course; winter would be different, wouldn't it?" Alice was laughing, but Prudence was quite serious.

"Yes; that's the worst of all Nature's finest handiwork. There's always some drawback to it. Ugh, winter in this place would be too dreadful to contemplate. These wilds are only fit for Indians and coyotes and wolves when the summer is over."

"But it's a heavenly spot now," said Alice. Suddenly she raised her whip and pointed. Far down, out upon the surface of the silvery belt of water, a tiny speck was slowly moving. At first so distant was it that it appeared to be stationary, but after a while it was distinctly to be seen moving. "What is it?" she questioned sharply.

"Looks like a boat," replied Prudence. "I wonder whose?"

"I give it up. Does Mr. Iredale keep a boat?"

Although Prudence was the elder of the two girls she was much the simpler. She was essentially of the prairie. She had no suspicion of the apparently innocent inquiry.

"I don't think so. I never really heard. No; I should think that must belong to some Indians or half-breed fishermen. There are some of those people about, I believe."

She continued to watch the boat for some moments. The less serious girl beside her allowed her attention to wander. Prudence saw the boat approach the near shore. Then it disappeared under the shadow of the towering pines. An exclamation from Alice drew her attention.

"Look over the other side, Prue; there's another boat. It has just shot out from that great clump of undergrowth. Why, there are a dozen people in it. Look! they are racing along. Where's the other gone?"

"It disappeared under this bank. Ah, the other one is following in its wake. Yes, I should say those are Indians."

"Let us go on down. We can see better from the bank. My curiosity is aroused. I didn't know there was so much fishing done here. Mr. Iredale never speaks of it."

"I don't think Mr. Iredale sees much of the lake. His land—that is, his grazing—lies to the west of the house. But he rarely talks about his work. As he says, so few people care about this wild district that he does not like to worry folks by reminding them of its existence."

"All the same," replied Alice, "one of these fine days some enterprising American will come along and find out some, at present, unknown wealth in the place, and then the settlers round the district will kick themselves. Trust a Canuk for sitting down on his hundred and sixty acres and never moving beyond the limits of his fencing. I like this weird place, with its woods, its hills and valleys, its lake and its mysterious boats. You should draw George—I mean Mr. Iredale—out. There must be a deal that is of interest here."

"Why should I draw him out?" asked Prudence innocently, as the horses ambled down the hill towards the shore of the lake. "You ask him. I believe he'd like to tell some one all about it."

"No, thanks, friend Prue," said Alice cheerfully. "I'm not what you might call a 'free agent.' There is a young man, to wit, a certain Robb, who might object. Besides, I have not turned poacher yet."

"What on earth do you mean?"

Prudence turned a pair of astonished brown eyes on her companion. Alice didn't answer, and the two looked squarely into each other's faces. The elder girl read the meaning which Alice did not attempt to conceal, and a warm flush mounted quickly and suffused her sun-tanned face.

Then followed a long silence, and the crackling of the pine-cones beneath the horses' feet alone aroused the echoes of the woods. Prudence was thinking deeply. A thoughtful pucker marred the perfect arch of her brows, and her half-veiled eyes were turned upon her horse's mane.

George Iredale. What of him? He seemed so to have grown into her life of late that she would now scarcely recognize Loon Dyke Farm without him. This sudden reminder made her look back over the days since her return from "down East," and she realized that George, since that time, had literally formed part of her life. He was always in her thoughts in some way or other. Every one on the farm spoke of him as if he belonged to it. Hardly a day passed but what some portion of it was spent by him in her company. His absence was only when his business took him elsewhere.

And what was the meaning of it all? What was he to her that her friend should talk of "poaching" when regarding her own intercourse with this man? Prudence's face grew hotter. The awakening had come. At that moment she knew that George Iredale was a good deal to her, and she felt a certain maidenly shame at the discovery. He had never uttered a word of love to her—not one, in all the years she had known him, and, unbidden, she had given him her love. In those first moments of realization her heart was filled with something like dismay which was not wholly without a feeling of joy. She felt herself flushing under the thoughts conjured by her friend's implication, and her feelings became worse as Alice went on.

"Ah, Prue, you can't hide these things from me. I have always intended to say something, but you are such an austere person that I was afraid of getting a snub. Mr. Iredale is a charming man, and—well—I hope when it comes off you'll be very, very happy."

"Don't be absurd, Alice." Prudence had recovered herself now.

"My dear Prue," the girl retorted emphatically, and imitating the other's lofty tone, "George Iredale just worships the ground you walk on. One word of encouragement from you, if you haven't already given it to him, and in a short time you will be the mistress of Lonely Ranch."

"Nothing of the sort"

"My dear girl, I know."

"You know less than you think you do, and I am not going to listen to any more of your nonsense."

Prudence touched her horse's flank with her heel and trotted on ahead of her companion. But in her heart she knew that what Alice had said was true.

Alice called after her to wait. The trees were so closely set that she had difficulty in steering clear of them; but Prudence was obdurate and kept right on. Nor did she draw rein until the shore of the lake was reached, and then only did she do so because of the impassable tangle of undergrowth which confronted her. Just as Alice came up with her she started off again at right angles to the direction they had come, riding parallel with the bank. Alice, breathless and laughing, followed in her wake, until at length a break in the trees showed them a grassy patch which sank slowly down in a gentle declivity to the water's edge. By the time this was reached Prudence's good-humour was quite restored.

"A nice dance you've led me," expostulated Alice, as they dismounted and began to off-saddle.

"Serves you right for your impertinence," Prudence smiled over at the other.

"All the same I'm right."

"Now keep quiet, or I'll ride off again and leave you."

"So you can if you like; this old mare I'm riding will take me home straight as the crow flies. What's that?"

Out across the water came a long-drawn cry, so weird yet so human that the two girls stood still as statues, their faces blanching under their tan. The echoes seemed to die hard, growing slowly fainter and fainter. Alice's eyes were widely staring and filled with an expression of horror. Prudence recovered herself first. She laughed a little constrainedly, however.

"We are in the region of Owl Hoot," she said significantly. "That was one of the screech-owls."

"O-oh! I thought it was some one being murdered."

"We shall probably hear lots of strange cries; these regions are renowned for them. You've got the kettle on your saddle, Al. Get all the things out whilst I gather some kindling and make a fire."

"For goodness' sake don't leave me here alone for long," Alice entreated. "I won't mention George's name again, sure."

But Prudence had tethered her horse and set off on her quest. Alice, left alone, secured her horse and proceeded to disgorge the contents of her saddle-bags, and also those on her friend's saddle. This done, she stepped down to the water's edge, and, pushing the reedy vegetation on one side, filled the kettle. As she rose from her task she looked out down the wide inlet. The view was an enchanting one. The wooded banks opposite her rose abruptly from the water, overshadowing it, and throwing a black reflection upon its still surface. There was not a breath of air stirring; the world seemed wondrously still.

Away to the left the water widened out, and was overhung by a haze of heat. She was about to turn away when, from out of the distance, there appeared another long boat. Instantly the girl was all attention. This boat was not travelling in the same direction as were those they had first seen, but was making for the point where the others had appeared. She had a much better view down here at the bank of anything moving on the lake than from the higher land, and she could not help being struck by the fact that, whoever the occupants of the strange craft, they were not Indians. One man was standing in the stern steering the boat by the aid of a long paddle, and this man was garbed in white-man's attire. The distance she was away from the object of her curiosity prevented her distinguishing the features of these people of the lake; but that which was apparent to her was the fact that they were not fishermen, nor was their boat a fishing-boat. It was long, and built with the narrowness of a rice-lake canoe, and so low in the water that its gunwale looked to be within an inch of the glassy surface.

So intent was the girl upon this strange appearance that she did not notice Prudence's return, and as the strange craft disappeared within the undergrowth of the opposite shore, she turned with a start at the sound of her friend's voice beside her.

"Another boat," asked Prudence, "or the one we saw before?"

"Another."

There was a silence; then the two turned away and prepared their dinner.

They pitched their camp in the shade, and the meal was quickly prepared. The smoke from their fire helped to keep off the few late summer mosquitoes that hummed drowsily upon the sultry air. Everything was wonderfully peaceful and sleepy about their little encampment. Not a leaf stirred or a bough creaked; there was the stillness of death over all. Gradually the silence communicated itself to the girls, and the pauses in their chatter grew longer and their eyes more thoughtful. Even their horses for the most part stood idly by. The green grass had but a passing attraction for them. They nibbled at it occasionally, it is true, but with apparently little appetite. After dinner the two friends spread their saddle-blankets upon the grass, and stretched themselves thereon in attitudes of comfort, from which they could look out across the shining surface of the lake; and soon their talk almost entirely ceased. Then, for a while, they lay dreaming the time away in happy waking dreams of the future.

Alice had bridged for a moment the miles which divided Owl Hoot from Ainsley, and her thoughts were with her sturdy lover, Robb Chillingwood. She was contemplating their future together, that future which would contain for them, if no great ease and luxury, at least the happiness of a perfect love and mutual assistance in times of trial. Her practical mind did not permit her to gaze on visionary times of prosperity and rises to position, but rather she considered their present trifling income, and what they two could do with it. Now and again she sighed, not with any feeling of discontent, but merely at the thought of her own inability to augment her future husband's resources. She was in a serious mood, and pondered long upon these, to her, all-important things.

Prudence's thoughts were of a very different nature, although she too was dreaming of the man whom her sudden realization had brought so pronouncedly into her life. Her round dark face was clouded with a look of sore perplexity, and at first the dominant note of her reflections was her blindness to the real state of her own feelings. Now everything was clear to her of the manner in which George Iredale had steadily grown into her daily life, and how her own friendly liking for him had already ripened into something warmer. He was so quiet, so undemonstrative, so good and kind. She saw now how she had grown accustomed to look for and abide by his decisions in matters which required more consideration than she could give—matters which were beyond her. She understood the strong, reliant nature which underlaid the quiet exterior. And now, when she came to think of it, in all the days of her grown womanhood he had ever been near her, seeking her society always. There was just that brief period during which Leslie Grey had swayed her heart with his tempestuous manner, for the rest it was Iredale. She tried to shut him out; to contemplate his removal from the round of her daily life. Instantly the picture of that life lost its brightness and colouring, and her world appeared to her a very dreary smudge of endless toil. Yes, Alice had sounded the keynote, and Prudence's heart had responded with the chord in sympathy. She knew now that she loved George Iredale.

This realization was not wholly pleasurable, for with it came a sudden grip of fear at her simple heart. Her thoughts went back to some eight months before. And she found herself again looking into the death-chamber at the Leonville school-house. That scene had no longer power to move her; at least not in the way one might have expected. She no longer loved the dead man; he had passed from her thoughts as though she had never cared for him. But a new feeling had sprung up in her heart which the realization of this indifference had brought. And this feeling filled her with an utter self-loathing. She shuddered as she thought of her own heartlessness, the shallow nature which was hers. She remembered her feelings at that bedside as she listened to the dying man's last words. Worst of all, she remembered how, in the paroxysm of her grief, she had sworn to discover the murderer of Leslie Grey and see justice administered. Now she asked herself, What had she done? And the answer came in all its callous significance—Nothing!

She roused herself; her face was very pale. Her thoughts framed themselves into unspoken words.

"If this is the way I have fulfilled my promise to the dead, if this is the extent and depth of my love, then I am the most worthless woman on earth. What surety can I give that my love for George is a better thing than was my affection for Leslie Grey?"

She sat herself up, she looked over at her companion and noted the drooping eyelids. Her features were strangely set, and her smooth forehead wore a disfiguring frown. Then she spoke in a sharp tone that startled the girl beside her.

"Alice, do you think it is possible to imagine you are in love with a man—I mean, that you honestly believe you love him at the time and really do not?"

Alice endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.

"Why, yes, I suppose so. I've been in love with a dozen men at one time and another, never longer than a month with any one of them. I never go to a dance but what I fall in love with at least two of my partners, and my undying affection for both just lasts the evening out. Imagination is strongly developed in some people—when they're young."

"No, be serious."

Alice gazed at the other curiously. Then—

"Out with it, Prue. What is it that's troubling you? Your face is significant of some dire tragedy."

"How long have you been engaged to Robb Chillingwood?"

"Nearly six months. Why?"

"And you've never thought of any other man?"

Alice shook her head. For once she was quite serious.

"Couldn't look at another man. Robb hasn't got two cents to his name, but I'm going to marry him or—or—die an old maid."

For a moment the expression of Prudence's face relaxed, but a moment later it set itself into more stern lines than ever.

"Alice, you were right in what you said about George," she went on slowly. "I can hardly believe it myself yet. Leslie Grey has only been dead eight months, and yet here I am thinking all day long of another man. I believe I am utterly heartless—worthless."

"Well?"

"Well, it's just this. I am not worth an honest man's love. I used to think I worshipped the ground poor Leslie walked on—I'm sure I loved him to distraction," the girl went on passionately. "Very well; suppose George asked me to marry him and I consented. In all probability, in the light of what has gone before, I should be tired of him in a year, and then—and then——"

"You're talking nonsense now, Prue," said Alice. She was alarmed at the other's tone. The beautiful face of her friend was quite pale, and sharp lines were drawn about the mouth.

"I'm not talking nonsense," the other went on in a tense, bitter tone. "What I say is true. In less than eight months I have forgotten the dead. I have done nothing to discover the murderer who robbed me of a husband and lover. I have simply forgotten—forgotten him. Put yourself in my place—put your Robb in Leslie's place. What would you have done?"

Alice thought seriously before she answered.

"I should never have rested until I had avenged his death," she said at last, and a hard glitter shone in her eyes. Then a moment after she smiled. "But it is different. I don't think you really loved Leslie Grey. You merely thought you did."

"That only makes it worse," the other retorted. Prudence's face was alight with inflexible resolve. "My debt to the dead must be paid. I see it now in a light in which it has never presented itself to me before. I must prove myself to myself before—before——" She broke off, only to resume again with a fierce and passionate earnestness of which Alice had never believed her capable. "I can never marry George Iredale with Leslie's unavenged death upon my conscience. I could never trust myself. George may love me now; I believe I love him, but——No, Alice, I will never marry him until my duty to Leslie Grey is fulfilled. This shall be my punishment for my heartless forgetfulness."

Alice surveyed her friend for some seconds without speaking. Then she burst out into a scathing protest—

"You are mad, Prue,—mad, mad, utterly mad. You would throw away a life's happiness for the mere shadow of what you are pleased to consider a duty. Worse, you would destroy a man's happiness for a morbid phantasm. What can you do towards avenging Leslie's death? You hold no clue. What the police have failed to fathom, how can you hope to unravel? If I were a man, do you know what I'd do to you? I'd take you by the shoulders and shake you until that foolish head of yours threatened to part company with your equally foolish body. You should have thought of these things before, and not now, when you realize how fond you are of George, set about wrecking two healthy lives. Oh, Prue, you are—are—a fool! And I can scarcely keep my temper with you." Alice paused for want of breath and lack of vocabulary for vituperation. Prudence was looking out across the water. Her expression was quite unchanged. With all the warped illogicalness of the feminine mind she had discovered the path in which she considered her duty to lie, and was resolved to follow it.

"I have a better clue than you suppose, Alice," she said thoughtfully, "the clue of his dying words. I understood his reference to the Winnipeg Free Press. That must be the means by which the murderer is discovered. They were not horse-thieves who did him to death. And I will tell you something else. The notice in that paper to which he referred—you know—is even now inserted at certain times. The man or men who cause that notice to be inserted in the paper were in some way responsible for his death."

There was a moment's pause. Then Alice spoke quite calmly.

"Tell me, Prue, has George proposed yet?"

"No."

"Ah!" And Alice smiled broadly and turned her eyes towards the setting sun. When she spoke again it was to draw attention to the time. As though by common consent the matter which had been under discussion was left in abeyance.

"It is time to be moving," the girl said. "See, the sun will be down in an hour. Let us have tea and then we'll saddle-up."

Tea was prepared, and by the time the sun dipped below the horizon the horses were re-saddled and all was ready for the return journey. They set out for home. Alice was in the cheeriest of spirits, but Prudence was pre-occupied, even moody. That afternoon spent in the peaceful wilds of the "back" country had left its mark upon her. All her life—her world—seemed suddenly to have changed. It was as though this second coming of love to her had brought with it the banking clouds of an approaching storm. The two rode Indian fashion through the woods, and neither spoke for a long time; then, at last, it was Alice who ventured a protest.

"Where are you leading us to, Prue?" she asked. "I am sure this is not the way we came."

Prudence looked round; she seemed as though she had only just awakened from some unpleasant dream.

"Not the way?" she echoed. Then she drew her horse up sharply. She was alert in an instant. "I'm afraid you're right, Al." Then in a tone of perplexity, "Where are we?"

Alice stared at her companion with an expression of dismay.

"Oh, Prue, you've gone and lost us—and the sun is already down."

Prudence gazed about her blankly for a few moments, realizing only too well how truly her companion had spoken. She had not the vaguest notion of the way they had come. The forest was very dark. The day-long twilight which reigned beneath the green had darkened with the shadows of approaching night. There was no opening in view anywhere; there was nothing but the world of tree-trunks, and, beneath their horses' feet, the soft carpet of rotting vegetation, whilst every moment the gloom was deepening to darkness—a darkness blacker than the blackest night.

"What shall we do?" asked Alice, in a tone of horror. Then: "Shall we go back?"

Prudence shook her head. Her prairie instincts were roused now.

"No; come along; give your mare her head. Our horses will find the way."

They touched the animals sharply, and, in response, they moved forward unhesitatingly. The old mare Alice was riding took the lead, and the journey was continued. The gloom of the forest communicated something of its depressing influence to the travellers. There was no longer any attempt at talk. Each was intent upon ascertaining their whereabouts and watching the alert movements of the horses' heads and ears. The darkness had closed in in the forest with alarming suddenness, and, in consequence, the progress was slow; but, in spite of this, the assurance with which the horses moved on brought confidence to the minds of the two girls. Prudence was in no way disturbed. Alice was not quite so calm. For an hour they threaded their way through the endless maze of trees. They had climbed hills and descended into valleys, but still no break in the dense foliage above. They had just emerged from one hollow, deeper and wider than the rest, and were slowly ascending a steep hill. Prudence was suddenly struck by an idea.

"Alice," she said, "I believe we are heading for the ranch. The valleys all run north and south hereabouts. We are travelling westwards."

"I hope so," replied the other decidedly; "we shall then be able to get on the right trail for home. This is jolly miserable. O—oh!"

The girl's exclamation was one of horror. A screech-owl had just sent its dreadful note in melancholy waves out upon the still night air. It started low, almost pianissimo, rose with a hideous crescendo to fortissimo, and then died away like the wail of a lost soul. It came from just ahead of them and to the right. Alice's horse shied and danced nervously. Prudence's horse stood stock still. Then, as no further sound came, they started forward again.

"My, but those owls are dreadful things," said Alice. "I believe I nearly fainted."

"Come on," said Prudence. "After all they are only harmless owls." Her consolatory words were as much for the benefit of her own nerves as for those of her friend.

The brow of the hill was passed and they began to descend the other side. Suddenly they saw the twinkling of stars ahead. Alice first caught sight of the welcome clearing.

"An opening at last, Prue; now we shall find out where we are." A moment later she turned again. "A light," she said. "That must be the ranch. Quick, come along."

The blackness of the wood gave place to the starlit darkness of the night. They were about to pass out into the open when suddenly Alice's horse came to a frightened stand. For an instant the mare swerved, then she reared and turned back whence she had come. Prudence checked her horse and looked for what had frightened the other animal.

A sight so weird presented itself that she suddenly raised one hand to her face and covered her eyes in nervous terror. Alice had regained the mastery of her animal and now drew up alongside the other. She looked, and the sharp catching of her breath told of what she saw. Suddenly she gripped Prudence's arm and drew the girl's hand from before her face.

"Keep quiet, Prue," she whispered. "What is this place?"

"The Owl Hoot graveyard. This is the Haunted Hill."

"And those?" Alice was pointing fearfully towards the clearing.

"Are——Oh, come away, I can't stand it."

But neither girl made a move to go. Their eyes were fixed in a gaze of burning fascination upon the scene before them. Dark, almost black, the surrounding woods threw up in relief the clearing lit by the stars. But even so the scene was indistinct and uncertain. A low broken fence surrounded a small patch of ground, in the middle of which stood a ruined log-hut. Round the centre were scattered half-a-dozen or more tumbled wooden crosses, planted each in the centre of an elongated mound of earth. Here and there a slab of stone marked the grave of some dead-and-gone resident of Owl Hoot, and a few shrubs had sprung up as though to further indicate these obscure monuments. But it was not these things which had filled the spectators with such horror. It was the crowd of silent flitting figures that seemed to come from out of one of the stone-marked graves, and pass, in regular procession, in amongst the ruins of the log-hut, and there disappear. To the girls' distorted fancy they seemed to be shrouded human forms. Their faces were hidden by reason of their heads being bent forward under the pressure of some strange burden which rested on their shoulders. Forty of these gruesome phantoms rose from out of the ground and passed before their wildly-staring eyes and disappeared amidst the ruins. Not a sound was made by their swift-treading feet. They seemed to float over the ground. Then all became still again. Nothing moved, nor was there even the rustle of a leaf upon the boughs above. The stars twinkled brightly, and the calm of the night was undisturbed. Alice's grip fell from her companion's arm. Her horse reared and plunged, then, taking the bit between its teeth, it set off down the hill in the direction of Iredale's house. The light which had burned in one of the windows had suddenly gone out, and there was nothing now to indicate the way, but the mare made no mistake. Prudence gave her horse its head and followed in hot pursuit.

Both animals came to a stand before the door of the barn behind the house, where, to the girls' joy, they found the ferret-faced Chintz apparently awaiting them.

Alice was almost in a fainting condition, but Prudence was more self-possessed. She merely told the little man that they had lost their way, and asked his assistance to guide them out of the valley to where the trail to Loon Dyke Farm began. Such was the unexpected ending of their picnic.



CHAPTER XI

CANINE VAGARIES

The last stage of the girls' journey—the ride home from the ranch—was like some horrible nightmare. It was as though recollection had suddenly turned itself into a hideous, tangible form which was pursuing them over the dark expanse of prairie. Even their horses seemed to share something of their riders' fears, for their light springing stride never slackened during that ten miles' stretch, and they had to be literally forced down to a walk to give them the necessary "breathing." Like their riders, the animals' one idea seemed to be to reach the security of the farm with all possible dispatch.

The farm dogs heralded their approach, and when the girls slid down from their saddles Hephzibah was at the threshold waiting for them. The rest of the evening was spent in recounting their adventures. Hephzibah listened to their narrative, filled with superstitious emotion whilst endeavouring to treat the matter in what she deemed a practical, common-sense manner. She was profoundly impressed. Hervey was there, but chose to treat their story with uncompromising incredulity. So little was he interested, although he listened to what was said, as to rouse the indignation of both girls, and only his sudden departure to bed saved a stormy ending to the scene.

It was not until the house was locked up, and Prudence and Alice were preparing to retire—they shared the same bedroom—that Hephzibah Malling dropped her mask of common-sense and laid bare the quaintly superstitious side of her character. The good farm-wife had not lived on the prairie all her life without contracting to the full the superstitions which always come to those whose lives are spent in such close communion with Nature. She could talk freely with these two girls when no one else was present. She had heard a hundred times the legends pertaining to the obscure valley of Owl Hoot, but this was the first time that she had heard the account of these things from eye-witnesses.

She came into the girls' bedroom arrayed in a red flannel dressing-gown, which had shrunk considerably under the stress of many washings, and her night-cap with its long strings, white as driven snow, enveloped her head like a miniature sun-bonnet. She came with an excuse upon her lips, and seated herself in a rigid rush-bottomed chair. Prudence was brushing her hair and Alice was already in bed.

"My dears," she said, as she plumped herself down; she was addressing them both, but her round eyes were turned upon Alice, who was sitting up in bed with her hands clasped about her knees, "I've been thinking that maybe we might ask young Mr. Chillingwood out here. It's quite a time since I've seen him. He used to come frequent-like before—before—" with a sharp glance over at her daughter, "a few months back. He's a good lad, and I thought as he'd make quite a companion for Hervey. An' it 'ud do 'em a deal of good to air them spare rooms. I'm sure they're smelling quite musty. What say?"

Alice blushed and Hephzibah's old eyes twinkled with pleasure. Prudence answered at once—

"That's a good idea, mother, I'll write to him at once for you." Then she turned her smiling face upon the old lady and shook a forefinger at her. "You're an arch-plotter, lady mother. Look at Alice's face. That's not sunburn, I know."

"Maybe it isn't—maybe it isn't," replied Mrs. Malling, with a comfortable chuckle, whilst her fat face was turned up towards a gorgeous wool-worked text which hung directly over the head of the bed, "though I'll not say but what a day in the sun like she's just had mightn't have redded the skin some."

"I am very sun-burnt," said Alice consciously.

"Why, we've been in the forest, where there's no sun, nearly all day," exclaimed Prudence quickly.

"Ah, them forests—them forests," observed Hephzibah, in a pensive tone of reflection. "Folks says strange things about them forests."

"Yes," put in Alice, glad to turn attention from herself, "usually folks talk a lot of nonsense when they attribute supernatural things to certain places. But for once they're right, mother Hephzy; I shall never disbelieve in ghosts again. Oh, the horror of it—it was awful," and the girl gave a shudder of genuine horror.

"And could you see through 'em?" asked the old lady, in a tone of suppressed excitement.

"No, mother," chimed in Prudence, leaving the dressing-table and seating herself on the patchwork coverlet of the bed. "They seemed quite—solid."

"But they wore long robes," said Alice.

"Did they now?" said Mrs. Malling, wagging her head meaningly. "But the lore has it that spectres is flimsy things as ye can see through—like the steam from under the lid of a stewpan."

"Ye—es," said Alice thoughtfully.

"All I can say is, that I wonder George Iredale can live beside that graveyard. I tell you, mother, there's no arguing away what we saw. They came up out of one of those graves and marched in a procession into the ruined dead-house," said Prudence seriously.

"And my mare nearly threw me in her fright." Alice's face had paled at the recollection.

Hephzibah nodded complacently. She was thoroughly enjoying herself.

"True—true. That's just how 'tis. Animals has an instinct that ain't like to human. They sees more. Now maybe your horses just stood of a tremble, bimeby like? That's how it mostly takes 'em."

Under any other circumstances the two girls would probably have laughed at the good lady's appreciation of the supposed facts. But their adventures were of too recent a date; besides, they believed themselves. The gloom of the forest seemed to have got into their bones, and the horrid picture was still with them.

"The Haunted Hill," said Prudence musingly. "I don't think I ever heard in what way the valley was haunted. Have you, mother?"

"Sakes alive, girl, yes. It's the way you have said, with fantastic fixin's added accordin' to taste. That's how it come I never believed. Folks disagreed about the spooks. They all allowed as the place was haunted, but their notions wasn't just alike. Your poor father, child, was a man o' sense, an' he argued as plain as a tie-post. He said there was fabrications around that valley 'cause of the variating yarns, and I wouldn't gainsay him. But, as Sarah says, when the washing don't dry white there's mostly a prairie fire somewheres around. Your father was that set on his point that he wouldn't never go an' see for himself, although, I do say, I urged him to it for the sake of truth."

Prudence yawned significantly and Alice had snuggled down on to her pillow. The former clambered in beneath the clothes.

"Well, mother, all I can say is, that never again, unless I am forced to, will I visit Owl Hoot. And under any circumstances I will never run the risk of getting benighted there."

"Well, well," said the farm-wife, rising heavily to her feet and preparing to depart, "maybe George would like to hear about the thing you've seen when he comes back." She paused on her way to the door, and turned an earnest face upon the two girls. "Say, children, you didn't see no blue lights, did ye?"

"No, mother Hephzy," said Alice sleepily. "There were no blue lights."

"Ah," in a tone of relief. "There's no gainsaying the blue lights. They're bad. It means death, children, death, does the blue light—sure." And the good lady passed out of the room with the shuffling gait which a pair of loose, heelless slippers contrived to give her.

"Prue," said Alice, when the door had closed, "when are you going to ask Robb to come?"

"As soon as possible, if you like."

"Thanks. Good-night, dear; mother Hephzy is a sweet old thing."

The two girls turned over, and in a few moments were sleeping soundly. It would have taken more than the recollections of their adventures to banish sleep from their tired eyes. They slept the sweet refreshing sleep of those who have passed their waking hours in the strong, bracing air of the prairie.

Two days later Hervey was abroad early. He was cleaning his guns outside the back door of the house. Two weapons were lying upon a large dust sheet which was spread out upon the ground. The guns were in pieces, and each portion had been carefully oiled and wiped. He was now devoting his attention to a heavy revolver.

Prudence was standing in the kitchen doorway watching her brother. Andy was over by the barn superintending the dispatch of the teams to the harvest fields; the hands were preparing to depart to their work. Prudence's early morning work was in the creamery.

Hervey looked up from the weapon he was cleaning, and turned his great eyes upon his sister.

"When is this fellow coming out here?" he asked in a tone of irritation. His question was merely the result of his own train of thought. He had not been speaking of any one in particular.

"Who? Robb Chillingwood?"

"Yes, of course. I've not heard of any one else's coming."

"We've asked him for a fortnight to-day. Why?"

Hervey ran the cleaning-rod through a couple of the chambers of the pistol before he spoke again. The rag jammed in the barrel and entailed a hard pull to extract it.

"Who asked him to come?" he went on, as he re-adjusted the piece of rag in the eye of the rod.

"Mother did. He's a very nice fellow." Prudence looked over at the parade of "Shire" teams as they started for the fields. "Alice and he are engaged to be married, you know."

"And I suppose he's coming out here to 'spoon' her—ugh! It's sickening."

"Don't be so brutal," the girl replied sharply.

"Brutal?" Hervey laughed coarsely. "You're getting particular. The house won't be a fit place to live in with an engaged couple in it. I should have thought mother would have known better than to have asked him."

"Don't be absurd."

Prudence moved from her stand. The dog, Neche, had slowly emerged from round the corner of the barn, and was now mouching leisurely towards her. She went over to meet him and caress his great ugly head.

"I'm not absurd." Hervey followed her movements with no very friendly gaze. He hated with an unreasonable hatred to see her go near the dog. "I know what engaged couples are. Look at the way some of the clowns around here carry on with their girls. When Mr. Robb Chillingwood takes up his abode here, I shall depart, I tell you straight. I think mother should have consulted me first. But, there, I suppose that little vixen Alice arranged it all. I hate that chum of yours."

"There's nothing like mutual regard, whatever its quality," laughed Prudence; but there was a look of anger in her deep brown eyes. "You are at liberty to please yourself as to your goings or comings—they make no difference to the work of the farm."

The girl's face was turned defiantly upon her brother. Hervey spun the chambers of the pistol round. His eyes remained upon the weapon, and his forefinger pressed sharply upon the trigger. He looked thoughtfully over the fore-sight and rested the pistol in the crook of his upraised, bent left arm. His attitude was one of taking steady aim. He made no reply.

Suddenly Prudence felt the bristling of Neche's mane under her hand. And she sought to soothe him. This dog's displays of sudden temper were as unaccountable as they were fierce.

"What are you going to do to-day?" she asked, as her brother did not speak and the dog quietened.

"Going over to Iredale's place. Why?"

"When shall you return?"

"Don't know." Hervey turned; his pistol was pointing towards his sister.

"Well, what about the 'thresher'? You and Andy were going to get it——Look out!"

Her exclamation came with a shriek. The great husky had dashed from her side and made a charge towards its master. Its lips were drawn up, and its fearful, bared fangs gleamed in the morning light. Hervey lowered his weapon with a laugh. The dog paused irresolute, then, with a wicked growl, it turned back and sought again the girl's caressing hand.

"One of these days I'll give you something to snarl at, you d——d cur," Hervey said, between his clenched teeth. Then he turned at the sound of his mother's voice. The old lady was standing in the kitchen doorway.

"What's all the fuss about?" she asked, turning her round eyes from one to the other. "Quarrelling again, I'll be bound. Breakfast's ready, so just come in, both of you, or the 'slap-jacks' 'll all be spoiled."

Prudence glanced covertly in the dog's direction as she obeyed the summons. She was fearful that the brute contemplated a further attack upon its master. In spite of the constant bickerings which took place between these two, the girl had no desire that her brother should be hurt.

Hervey spoke not a word during the morning meal, except to demand the food he required, and his surliness had a damping effect on those about him, and it was with a sigh of relief that his mother at last rose from the table and began to gather the plates preparatory to clearing away. Once, as Hervey moved slowly towards the door to return to his guns, she looked as though she were going to speak. But the words died on her lips, and she ambled off to the wash-house without speaking.

The atmosphere cleared when Hervey mounted his horse and rode off. His mother looked after him, sighed and shrugged; then she went on with her work with a touch of her old cheerful manner about her. No complaint ever passed her lips, but, to those who knew the kindly old face, the change that had come over it was very apparent. The smooth forehead was ploughed deeply with wrinkles which were new to it, and the eyes had lost something of their expression of placid content.

But Hervey travelled his own road at his own gait. His thoughts he kept to himself. The man was more or less inscrutable to those about him.

To-day he had taken his dog with him. He had at length made up his mind to rid himself of the brute. The exhibition of that morning had decided him upon a course which he had long meditated, but had always failed to carry out when the critical moment arrived.