Phil openly commented on the peculiarity, but Jim just stuck his tongue in his cheek.

Neither McLean nor the wounded half-breed were seriously hurt, and in a week both were well again—the one going lamely about his business and the other in jail beside his fellows.

The trial was placed on the calendar for the next Assizes which had been arranged for the following month, when most of the Fall crops would be in and shipped, thereby leaving twelve good men and true free to devote some of their time to the requirements of law and justice.

Jim went back again to the Court House as Government Agent Thompson's assistant. Phil kept to the forge, serious and tremendously earnest in following the calling he had been so strangely thrust into.

He could not fail to notice, day by day, the gradual change that was coming over Sol Hanson. Sol had not been drunk for weeks. He dressed himself much more neatly than formerly, although what it was exactly that gave him the smarter appearance, Phil could not make out until Smiler led him to understand by signs and grimaces that Sol now washed his face and hands mornings and evenings, instead of every Sunday morning as formerly.

But there was something else.

Sol's blue eyes had contracted a habit of gazing into the heart of the fire while he leaned abstractedly on the bellows handle. He became interested in the train arrivals. He posted letters and called every day at the post office for mail. Whether he got any or not Phil was unable to say definitely. But he got a sneaking suspicion after a while, that the soft-hearted, simple, big fellow was either answering letters through the Seattle Matrimonial Times, or corresponding with some lady friend. He felt convinced that Sol was badly, or rather, madly in love.

He probed the big Swede with the sharp end of a question now and again, but Sol was wonderfully impervious.

One day, Jim and Phil were strolling leisurely up Main Street from the Kenora Hotel where they had been having an early lunch together. The north train had just come in and a few drummers, some incoming Chinamen and a number of straggling passengers were spreading themselves for their different destinations, carrying grips and canvas bags with their samples and their belongings as the case might be.

Neither Jim nor Phil was paying any heed to what was a daily occurrence, until they were stopped by a buxom, fair-haired, blue-eyed maiden, with a pleasant smile on her big, innocent face. She was cheaply but becomingly dressed and filled her clothes with attractive generosity. As she laid down her two hand-bags, her smile broadened and beamed until it broke into a merry dimple on each of her cheeks and parted her ruddy lips to the exposure of a mouthful of fresh, creamy-looking, well-formed teeth.

There was no gainsaying who was the object of her smiles:—it was Jim Langford and Jim alone, and there was nothing left for either him or Phil to do but to doff their hats and wait the lady's good pleasure.

She seemed in no hurry to speak.

As Jim gazed at her in surprise, waiting; her fingers—hard, red fingers they were—began to twist a little nervously about the painfully new gloves she carried, and her eyes dropped, looked up, and dropped again.

"Guess you don't know me!" she ventured at last.

"No! I'm sorry! I can't remember ever meeting you before," he answered.

"Ho, ho!" muttered Phil under his breath.

"See you later, Jim!" he said loudly, making to move off.

"Here, you piker! You wait a minute." Jim grabbed Phil's coat sleeve.

The young lady's cheeks began to take on the added attractiveness of a blush.

"You ain't ever met me before, I know," she said. "But don't you know me by my picture?"

Jim shook his head in perplexity.

"I'd a-knowed you any place."

For the first time in Phil's experience of Jim, the latter stood abashed.

"You might have come to meet me at the train though. Guess you was just comin'. I wrote you three days since."

"You did, eh! Well,—I never got your letter," bantered Jim, recovering his composure.

She was a pretty piece of femininity, despite her poor language and her somewhat tawdry finery.

"I think you're stringing me. But say!—I'm awful hungry, and I've been two days in the train.

"Ain't you goin' to get me some eats, Sol?"

"Sol!" exclaimed Jim with a gulp that spoke intense relief. "Why, my good girl, my name's not Sol!"

"Oh, yes it is!" she answered bravely, with the smile fading. "I tell you I'd a-knowed you anywheres."

"You're making a mistake, dear lassie. My name is certainly not Sol."

A glimmer of light was beginning to break in on Phil, but he kept that glimmer miserly to his inmost self.

"Yes it is! Oh, yes it is!" she said again, putting her hand on Jim's arm, but with a peculiar little expression of uncertainty in her eyes.

"You can't fool me, Sol Hanson,—and, say boy!—I've come a long ways for you, and I'm awful tired."

"Hanson! Good Lord!" blurted out Jim. "Me—Sol Hanson! Lassie, lassie, I didna think I was so good looking. Are ye looking for Sol Hanson?"

The girl did not answer. A moisture began to gather in her big, blue eyes, and a tear toppled over.

Jim was all baby at once.

"Dinna greet!—there's a good lass! Dinna greet here in the street," he coaxed. "If it is Sol Hanson ye want, we can soon help ye to get him."

The girl bent down and opened up one of her hand-bags, bringing out a large photograph, pasted on a creamy-coloured, gay-looking cardboard mount. She handed it to Jim, searching his face with her tear-dimmed eyes.

Jim gazed at it in bewilderment. Then he scratched his head and gazed again.

"Ain't that your picture?" the young lady asked. "Don't tell me that it ain't, for it wouldn't be true; and I came all this way because you wrote so nice and looked so big and good. I—I didn't think you was a bluffer like—like other men."

Her breath caught and she began to sob.

"My dear lassie,—I am bewildered,—confounded. I—I——That is my photo, but where in all the world did ye get it from?"

The girl looked at him a little angrily, for she had pluck in plenty.

"Where do you think? I ain't stole it. You sent it to me. Where else could I get it?"

Jim stood foolishly.

"I certainly never sent it. Why, woman!—I never saw ye before. I don't know your name even. I—I——

"There, there! Dinna start to greet again. We'll fix you up, if you'll only tell Phil and me your trouble."

"—And your name ain't Sol Hanson?" she queried, with a trembling lip.

"No!—I am sorry to say it is not!"

From her grip, the girl picked out a bundle of envelopes, well filled, and done up in lavender-coloured ribbon.

"—And—and you never wrote them letters to me?"

Jim looked at the writing and shook his head.

"No,—I never did!"

"—And—and you don't know my name's Betty Jornsen?"

"I didn't, but I do now, Betty," gallantly answered Jim, while Phil was beside himself trying to stifle his amusement one moment, and endeavouring to keep back his feelings of sympathy for the girl, the next.

Several passers-by turned round and stared in open interest at the strange meeting.

"Shut up your bag, lassie! Don't show us any more o' your gear," appealed Jim in perturbation at the thought of what might come out next.

The buxom, fair-haired woman began to sob again. She turned and appealed to Phil.

"Oh, what am I to do, mister? I had a good job at Nixon's Cafe in Seattle. Sol wrote to me through the Matrimonial Times. I wrote back to him. I sent him my picture and he sent me his—this one—and now he says he ain't him."

"That isn't his photo, woman,—it is mine," interrupted Jim.

"But he's you," she whimpered.

"Then who the mischief am I?" asked Jim in perplexity.

"You told me you had a house, and fruit trees, and a blacksmith's shop, and plenty of money and, if I came to Canada, we'd get married. I throwed up my good job and I've come and now you say you ain't him," she sailed on breathlessly, her ample bosom labouring excitedly.

"Phil," said Jim, aside. "How the devil do you suppose that big idiot got my photo? It looks like one taken off one I used to have, and lost."

"I guess that is just what it is," grinned Phil.

"Well,—we've got to see this little woman right, and incidentally give Sol Hanson the biggest fright he ever got in his natural.

"Miss—Miss Jornsen,—there's a mistake somewhere. My name is Jim Langford, and that is my photograph; but I never sent it to you. We happen to know Sol Hanson though. He lives here all right. This gentleman works with him.

"Sol is a Swede?"

"Yes,—yes!" put in Betty, "same as I am."

"I'm thinking he was afraid he wasn't good-looking enough and he was scared to take chances, so he sent you my photo instead of one of his own," he went on, without even a blush of conceit.

"And—and he ain't such a good-looker as you?" she queried.

"Well,—well, of course, tastes differ. You might like him fine," he grinned, with becoming modesty.

"But he's got a house, and fruit trees, and a blacksmith shop, and he can work?" she asked.

"You bet! He's well fixed. Come along and we'll see him now. He will never be able to resist you."

Betty perked up at the compliment.

Then nervously and timidly she set herself to rights, finally consenting to allow Jim and Phil to escort her to the smithy.

"You wait here!" instructed Jim at the corner of the block. "We'll go and break the news to Sol. We'll come back for you.

"Give me that picture, though. I have a word to say in his ear about that."

Betty opened her bag, gazed fondly on Jim's photo, then at him, before she slowly delivered it up.

Phil went into the smithy, hung up his coat, put on his apron and started in to work.

Jim followed him a few minutes later.

Sol Hanson was busy shoeing a horse. Jim went over to him.

"Here, Sol," he cried, "come over and see this."

The good-natured big fellow stopped his work and followed Jim to the dust-begrimed window.

Jim stuck the photograph under Sol's nose.

"Do you know who that is?"

"Ya,—sure thing! You bet! Dam-good picture too, Jim!" he commented, with an innocence well assumed.

"Yes,—you certainly seem to like it. I can't say it is very like you, you son-of-a-gun."

"Me? No! Pretty like you though, Jim," Sol stammered.

"Look here, you big lump of humanity;—what the devil do you mean by sending my photo all over the country and saying it is yours?"

"Me?—I ain't—I didn't—I——"

"Cut it out, you big bluffer! You couldn't lie decently to save your neck."

Sol laughed at last.

"You not been goin' for to get mad, Jim. Just a little joke I have on some girl. See!"

"Oh,—it was! Darned good joke for me—and you too!"

"Ya!—you see I find it one day on floor here. You drop it some time. I ain't much of a swell looker for girls. All girls like face like yours. I get Vancouver man make me twelve pictures all same as this one. I send them just for little joke to girls I write to some time."

Jim clutched at his own hair despairingly, as Phil furiously worked the bellows in his mirth.

"Great jumping Caesar! Twelve! Are you going to start a harem?"

"Ach, no! Just have a little fun,—that's all. You don't go and been for to get mad at that."

"Great fun! Great joke!" commented Jim, "but you've put your foot in it this time, old cock. One of these women is in town, looking for your scalp. She is asking everybody in Vernock where Sol Hanson hangs out."

Sol's big face grew a shade paler and his jaw dropped. He became excited.

"You—you didn't been for to tell her,—Jim?"

"Sure I did! Why not? You're going to marry her,—aren't you? She's telling everybody that."

Sol, who had been standing with his big hands spread on his leather apron and his mouth agape, now showed signs of anxiety.

"But,—I—I—Which one is it, Jim? What she call herself?"

"Oh,—there are several, you blooming Mormon?"

Sol ran to his coat and pulled a bundle of letters and miscellaneous photographs from the pocket. He handed them to Jim.

"Look at them," he cried in excitement. "Tell me quick which one come."

He mopped the perspiration from his brow. "By hell!—I guess I been got in a bad fix this time for sure."

Jim slowly went over the documents and photographs.

"No! No! No! No!" he exclaimed, as he handed them back to Sol one by one.

"Not one,—by gosh, Jim! That pretty funny. Must be one, though. Sure you look at every one?"

"She's not there, Sol. Trot out the others, old man."

"I ain't got no more, Jim. Honest! That every dam-one,—honest!

"Say,—maybe she tell you her name? Is it—is it Gracie Peters?"

"No!"

"Is it Sal Larigan?"

"No!"

"Betty——"

"Yes,—that's it! Betty—Betty Jornsen!"

"What? Betty she come? Jumpin' Yiminy! Let me get my hat and coat. Where is she now? By gosh, Jim,—she dam-fine little peach."

Sol became more and more excited. "I got her picture here. You miss it up. See!"

He ran over the photographs.

"There," he exclaimed, holding it up admiringly.

It was Betty's photograph, and a perfectly charming little picture she made too. But Jim had intentionally passed it over, for he was not through with Sol Hanson. He had still his pound of flesh to exact.

"Ain't that dam-fine girl?" Sol went on. "See that, Phil! I been going to marry her. You bet! Tra-la-la!" he half sang. "Come on!—let's go and find her, Jim. Come on!"

"Wait a bit!—Bide a wee!" returned canny Scot Langford. "That isn't the picture of the woman who is here for you."

Sol's face fell.

"What? But you say her name's Betty Jornsen?"

"Yes! That is what she told me."

"Well!—that's Betty;—that's her."

"Oh, no it isn't! Don't you fool yourself, mister man. You're mixed up in your women, Sol."

"No siree! You look on back," Sol returned triumphantly. "See that! 'With love and kisses to Sol from Betty Jornsen.'"

Jim stood for a moment in silence.

"She nice little girl;—come up, maybe, to your shoulder?" queried Sol.

"No, Sol!—she's six feet high if she is an inch."

"She got fair hair and blue eyes; nice white teeth?"

"No, laddie!—she has carroty red hair; and her eyes, I mean her eye—for she has only one—is a bleary, grey colour."

Sol commenced to perspire afresh, and to hop from one foot on to the other.

"Aw, you foolin' me, Jim!"

"Devil a fool! It is too serious for that. She's big; she's got one eye; she's lost her teeth in front and she is evidently a widow or she has three kids with her, two at her skirts and one in her arms."

"Good Christopher Columbus!" exclaimed Sol, pulling at his hair.

"And, and, Sol,—she is coming here for you, in five minutes."

The big blacksmith was in desperation.

"Sol,—you're done;—you're done brown," Jim went on relentlessly, "and it serves you darned well right."

"But, Jim,—you been a lawyer. She can't go make me marry her?"

"Yes she can!"

"But she lie to me. She send me picture of nice girl and say it her and she Betty Jornsen. I tell her to come to me, from her picture,—see!"

"You big, blue-eyed, innocent baby! You're done;—you're in the soup;—your goose is cooked. Take it from me,—she's got you, and got you good.

"Didn't you send her my photo and say it was yours?"

Sol stood aghast.

"Aw,—that just a joke!" he persisted.

"Hadn't she a perfect right to do the same thing to you? Well—evidently she has done it. Poor Sol!"

"But—but——"

"It's no good. There aren't any buts to this. She is here. She is expecting Sol Hanson to be a fine looking fellow like me, and the poor thing is going to get a pie-faced, slop-eyed individual like yourself.

"Now, you're expecting a pretty little blonde and you're getting,—well,—something totally different."

Jim slapped Sol on the back.

"Too bad! Take your medicine, though, old man! Be a sport! You're distinctly up against it."

Phil was metaphorically in knots by the furnace fire.

Sol rushed for his coat.

"No dam-fear!" he cried. "I go to coop first. She ain't been going to run any bluff on Sol Hanson,—see! You tell her, and her carrots-hair, and her one eye, and her three dam-kids, to go plumb toboggan to hell.

"I come back sometime—maybe."

Sol made a dart for the front door. Then he changed his mind and made for the back one. But he guessed the wrong one—or, perhaps after all, it was the right one.

As he was going out, Betty Jornsen, with her two grips, came in and blocked up his exit.

She had evidently wearied of waiting at the corner, and had determined to investigate matters for herself.

Sol made to brush past. Suddenly he stopped. He looked at Betty. He stared. His eyes became big and nearly popped out of his head in his amazement.

Betty looked up at him in surprise.

They gaped thus at each other for a few seconds, then Sol staggered to the side of the door and leaned against it, breathing hard as if he had run a mile.

At last he found his tongue and himself, and straightened up.

"Betty,—by gosh! Betty,—little Betty, by Yiminy!" he exclaimed, throwing his long arms about her, knocking her grips aside and sending her hat awry. He lifted her up high and kissed her fair on the mouth. He swung her round and round the smithy, all oblivious of his amused spectators.

Meantime, Betty kicked and struggled, and finally succeeded in smacking his face loudly with a free hand.

Sol set her down and rubbed his cheek foolishly, white she stamped her foot at him.

"You great big—great big—boob!" she cried.

Jim stepped out from the shadow.

"Miss Jornsen,—allow me to introduce you to Mr. Sol Hanson!"

Betty looked at Jim querulously, and then at Sol who was standing nervously by, gazing at her.

Slowly and shyly she sidled up to the big blacksmith. She put her hands on the lapels of his ill-fitting coat and slid her fingers down them tenderly; then she laid her head on his chest, while his big arms went about her again.

"Come on, Phil!" said Jim, "this is no place for the proverbial parson's son."

Sol's eyes took on a new light.

"Jim,—by gosh!—maybe it been no place for a parson's son," he grinned, "but it a dam-fine place for a parson. What you think, eh, Betty?"

"You fellows wait. We all go together, get it over right now. What you think, my little Betty?"

"Sure! There ain't no good in waitin'," answered Betty. "And say, Mister—Mister Langford!—I ain't tryin' to be insultin', nor anything like that, but if you think you're a better looker than my big Sol, then you've got another think comin'."

Sol's head went up and his chest went out, as they were entitled to do, for Jim was considered quite a handsome fellow in his own way.



CHAPTER XVI

The Breakaway

The hour that followed was a busy one. Betty was whisked away by Phil to Mrs. Clunie's for a good, substantial home-made dinner and a general overhaul. Sol rushed home for his new, check suit, then off to the registrar's for the marriage license accompanied by Jim. Phil next unearthed the valiant Smiler from the basement of a Chinese restaurant in Wynd Alley where he was busy sampling the current day's bill of fare, gratis. Phil hauled him off to the barber's for a wash and a haircut, then to the O.K. Supply Store for new clothes, over and under, which set the poor dumb little rascal wondering as to what sin he had committed to warrant the infliction.

The Reverend Anthony Stormer—the venerable old Lutheran pastor—was next informed of the expected arrivals; and, by the time Jim came along upholding Sol in a state of nervous prostration, all was in readiness for the ceremony.

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Clunie arrived escorting Betty Jornsen; pretty, buxom and beaming, and as full of confidence as Smiler was of Chinese noodles.

Smiler could not understand then what the ceremony was all about, nor did he seem to gain any further enlightenment on the matter at any later date.

It was all over within two hours of Betty's arrival in Vernock.

Sol was for sending Betty to her new home till supper time, intending himself to go back to the smithy with Phil and get down to the heavy work that lay there awaiting completion. But Phil and Jim would have none of it. And when Betty and Mrs. Clunie backed them up, there was nothing left for Sol to do but to obey; so, with three or four hand-bags—half of them borrowed—they were bundled into the Kelowna stage, and nothing more was heard of them for two weeks.

Smiler attended to his own needs as he had had to do often before, and he was back in the basement of the Chinese restaurant in Wynd Alley, finishing his dinner sampling,—with his new rig-out rolled up in a bundle under his arm and garbed in his much beloved rags and tatters.

That was the first of a dozen occasions upon which Smiler was dressed up by various well-meaning members of the community and it was the first of twelve occasions that Smiler resented the interference and went back, at the earliest opportunity, to his old, familiar and well-ventilated draperies.

The next fourteen days were desperate ones for Phil. From the moment he got back to the smithy, repair work piled in on him. Reapers and binders gave way in various parts and had to be put to rights at once, for it was nearing the end of the harvest season and the cold weather was already creeping along. Every horse in the Valley seemed suddenly to require reshoeing; wagon springs broke; buggy tires came off or wore out as they had never done before; morning, noon and night Phil slaved trying to cope with the emergency. There was no help that he could call in, and he would not for worlds have sent word to Sol to end his holiday a moment sooner that might be.

He snatched his meals when and where he could, while everyone clamoured for the immediate execution of his requirements. Finally Phil got up so early and he worked so late, that he made his bed for the time being on a bundle of straw covered with sacking, in a corner beside the forge.

He was young and strong, and he knew his work. He loved the rush of it and he gloried in the doing of things that other men would have groaned at. Above all, he was glad to think that he was now considered of some value in a work-a-day community.

It did not occur to him that day and night labour, even for a little time, had a terribly wearing effect on the physique; that he was losing weight with every twenty-four hours of it and that his cheeks grew paler and a little more gaunt every day of that week or so of extra push.

He chased Jim from the smithy as a worthless time-waster—whenever that worthy showed face—and Jim, for the nonce, had to find companionship and entertainment in his world of Penny Dreadful creation and his Love Knot Untanglements.

One glorious gleam of sunshine burst in on Phil's world of toil and set his muscles dancing and his heart singing in merry time to the ring of his hammer on the anvil. A perfumed note, bearing an invitation to him from Eileen Pederstone to attend a reception on the sixth evening of the month following, at her new home on the hill, was the dainty messenger of joy.

And what cared Phil if Brenchfield should be there? He had held his own before;—he could do it again. What counted all this hard work?—a puff of wind;—he was going to Eileen Pederstone's. What matter it how the world wagged?—a tolling bell;—he would dance again with the dainty, little vision with the merry brown eyes, the twinkling feet and the ready tongue. Ho!—life was good; life was great! Life was heaven itself!

Come on! Fill the smithy and the yard with your horses, and I'll shoe all of them! Block the roads and the by-ways with your wagons and buggies;—what care I for toil? Heap your broken reapers and binders a mountain high, and I'll stand on top of them before nightfall, with my hammer held defiantly to the heavens and shout "Excelsior, the work is done." The Fairy Princess has stopped in her procession; she looks my way; she smiles: her galloping courier brings a perfumed favour; she beckons me. Ah, surely! what a Paradise, after all, is this we live in!

In a sweet little world of dreams—in which even a blacksmith may live at times—Phil battled with his tasks and overcame them one by one.

And it was little he cared about the week's growth of beard that sat on his gaunt face, or for the sweat that ran over his forehead and splashed to his great, bared chest. Pride did not chide him for hands that were horny and begrimed, nor for arms that were red and scarred from the bite of flying sparks.

But it was thus that the lady of his dreams found him, as she wafted in from a gallop over the ranges, with a shoe in her hand and leading a horse that wore only three.

A smile was on her happy face, her cheeks were aglow and her eyes were dancing in childish delight.

Little wonder then that Phil's heart stopped, then raced with all the mad fury of a runaway; little wonder his face grew pale and his eyes gleamed as he moved back against the wall beside his furnace.

And Eileen's merry smile faded away like the heat of an Indian Summer's day before the cool of the approaching night. She stared with widening eyes at the figure before her, for she saw, not the young, sturdy, country blacksmith, but a picture of the past, a fugitive from the police, a gaunt tired man, spent and almost beaten, seeking sanctuary.

And on this occasion, she did not take time to consider how much the man before her still craved for sanctuary.

Her lips parted in fear. Her hand went to her heart and she stepped slowly backward toward the door.

"Oh,—oh,—oh!" was all she uttered.

She dropped the horseshoe at her feet, and, pressing her hands to her eyes as if to shut out a sight that was unwelcome, she ran the remaining distance to the door, pulled herself into her saddle and rode quickly away.

She did not come back, as some might have done, to view the havoc she had wrought. She did not know even that she had wrought havoc; but three hours later, faithful, dumb, little Smiler found the man he so much adored lying on a pile of horseshoes, breathing scarcely at all, and strangely huddled.

That was the day that big, happy Sol Hanson came back to bear his share of the load—and, for the week that followed, he had to bear all of it, for Phil's overtaxed brain refused to awaken for seventy-two hours and his overworked body declined to limber up for seventy-two hours more.

On the morning of Phil's return to the smithy, at a moment when Sol's back was turned, the little perfumed note—which had brought the message from Fairyland—was dropped on the glowing furnace fire and thrust with an iron deep into the red coals.

With it, Phil fancied he was thrusting the little fairy dream, and he felt ever so glad of it. But he did not know, foolish man, that the fires have never been kindled that can burn dreams from Fairyland; that nothing can keep them from whispering back, at unexpected moments, and beckoning to the dreamer through the flames; ay, even through the cold, grey, dead ashes, when these are all that remain of the dancing passion-fires that have revelled and rioted themselves to exhaustion and oblivion.

On the evening of the reception at John Royce Pederstone's, Phil failed to land home from work at his usual time, and, as the hour drew near when they should be leaving, Jim Langford worried himself not a little, for he knew that Phil had received an invitation—the same as he had done—and he had noticed also how happy his friend had seemed over it. Of course, of the recognition at the smithy between Eileen and Phil he knew nothing, and even if he had known he would not have understood, for, so far, he had not even guessed at Phil's previous history nor at the connection there was between Phil and Graham Brenchfield.

Before going up to Pederstone's, Jim called at the smithy, but found the place closed up for the night. He hurried along to Sol Hanson's little home, but the lovebirds there could tell him no more than that Phil had quit work at the accustomed hour, that Smiler was also a truant; which made it possible that the two had gone off together on some boyish adventure. There was nothing left for Jim to do after that but to go to Royce Pederstone's alone, in the hope that Phil would be there or would show up later.

Everyone in Vernock of any importance was at the reception, in the company of his wife or sweetheart; but there was no sign of Phil. And the hours wore quickly on without his appearing.

Eileen—bright, blushing, buoyant and busy—found time to corner Jim.

"What has happened to Mr. Ralston? I—I thought he would be sure to be here."

Jim thought her tone was just a little strained and that her colour went somewhat suddenly.

"I haven't the slightest idea! He didn't show up to-night at home; yet he has been aching for this little affair since he received your invitation."

"Oh, I—I hardly think so, Jim. He is not the man to ache much over this kind of thing. You don't suppose anything serious could have happened?" she asked with a show of anxiety.

"I don't. But I'm sure only something serious would keep him away. However,—what's the good of worrying!—Phil can look out for himself pretty good."

"Yes,—I daresay!" she said absently, staring at the dancers as they glided round in the next room.

Jim put his hand on her arm and moved her round to him.

"Eileen,—what is it that is troubling you? You are not so terribly interested in Phil as all that,—are you?"

She roused herself.

"Me? Oh dear no! Not any more than I am in Sol Hanson, in Mr. Todd, in—in Jim Langford," she bantered. "Why should I? I know him only in the most casual of casual ways."

"Have you seen him since he was invited here?" Jim asked bluntly.

"Ye-yes!—just for a moment in the smithy the day he took sick. I thought,—oh Jim!—I thought possibly he might have misunderstood something—something that happened there at that time,—but—ah well!—anyway, it doesn't matter now.

"He does not say very much at any time, does he, Jim? He's a queer fellow."

"Ay!" said Jim drily, "and you're a queer little fellow yourself, Eileen,—eh!"

"Do you know anything of him before he came to Vernock?" she inquired suddenly, with a change of tone.

"Practically nothing! He has kept that a sealed book, and it is none of my affairs; but I do know that since he came here he has been the real stuff, and that is good enough for Jim Langford."

She smiled.

"Oh you men! You stand by your pals to the very last ditch; while a woman will desert her woman friend at the first one.

"Never mind! Let us forget Mr. Ralston meantime.

"Did you hear the news, Jim?—the great news! Daddy,—my own daddy has been offered the portfolio of Minister of Agriculture on the new Cabinet. He will be the Honourable John Royce Pederstone. And this his first session in Parliament too! Isn't it great?"

"Je—hosephat!" Jim jumped up. "And I never heard a thing."

"I don't wonder at that, Jim. Dad only got the wire an hour ago making the definite offer."

"By jingo!—I must go and give him my congratulations. Here's the Mayor looking for you, Eileen. I'll leave you to him. I must find your dad."

And while the reception at John Royce Pederstone's was at its height, Phil Ralston was trudging the hills alone, coming over the ranges from Lumby, a village which lay several miles distant, where he had gone by stage direct from the smithy. He walked in the melancholy enjoyment of his own thoughts. It did him good—and he knew it—to get off in this way when things were not going to his liking. It gave him an opportunity to review himself in the cold blood of retrospect, without interference; and it gave him time quietly to review the conduct of others about him; a chance to decide whether he was right or wrong in the position he had assumed; a chance to plan his future course from what had already taken place.

It was a crisp, frosty night, with a deep blue velvet dome of cloudless sky overhead, with star-diamonds that flashed and twinkled with ever varying colours, until a crescent moon, shaped like the whip of an orange, rose up over the hills to the east, cold, luminous and silvery, and paled the lesser twinkling lights into insignificance and ultimate obscurity.

As Phil topped the last hill overlooking Vernock, his head was high and so were his spirits, for he had made up his mind that come what might he would pursue his way calmly and earnestly to the end as he thought fit, and, if Eileen Pederstone cared to betray his secret, he would meet that difficulty as he had met others.

He looked down into the town before him, but its usual fairy-like aspect was absent, for the town fathers were beginning to get frugal and did not use their electricity on the main streets when the moon was up or when the snow was lying. Only the smaller lights of the dwelling houses gave out any signs of life.

He dropped gradually down, then across an orchard and on to the main highway leading to Vernock.

As he was passing the town jail, his attention was attracted by an unusual commotion there. Voices were gabbling noisily and quite a crowd was gathered at the main entrance. He hurried over. The first man he ran against was Langford, who accosted Phil in a rush of Doric, which at once informed him that something serious must be wrong.

"Where ha'e ye been, man? I've been pryin' for ye everywhere."

"Walking!" answered Phil shortly. "What's the matter?"

"Matter! De'il tak' it,—I thocht the whole toon kent by this time. I thocht maybe ye were efter them."

"Well, I'll be hanged!" exclaimed Phil as the truth dawned on him.

"Ay,—ye may weel say it! What did I tell ye? Didna I say they'd never face trial? The eight o' them broke awa' three or four hours ago. It was real nicely planned.

"Ye see the airshaft there! It runs richt into the top o' the wall and ventilates the prison where the men sleep. There was ootside collusion, of coorse. Standin' on a horse, I guess they threw a rope into the airshaft from the ootside and it slid richt doon to the passageway, inside. They say one of the prisoners was a good hand at pickin' locks and that he did them a' wi' a hairpin. Maybe he did. But they got oot o' their cells anyway, climbed the rope one at a time, crawled up the airshaft and out. Just look at that airshaft—it would hold a half a dozen men at a time nearly. They might as well have left an open door for them as have that contraption,—no wire protection over the ends, nothing but hinged lids that anyone can raise at any time."

"And they're gone?" asked Phil helplessly.

"Gone,—ay! good and gone! Like as no' they're 'ower the border' by this time, like 'a' the blue bonnets' in the song.

"They had horses waitin' for them."

"But, land sakes, Jim!—where the deuce were the jailers, the police, all this time?" asked Phil.

Jim laughed.

"Where did ye expect them to be? Chief Palmer was at Royce Pederstone's reception. Howden—well, it seems Howden had a date on with one of the Kenora waitresses. Ryans, the jailer, says everything was quiet. He happened to open an unused cell, where he kept his brooms and things, and, when he was inside somebody slammed the door on him and locked him in. A trump-up from beginning to ending, and too thin to keep a draught out even. Phil, it sure would make one's stomach turn; politics, justice, protection, the whole thing would seem to be a farce from start to finish, and we are parties to it ourselves, aiding and abetting it; too weak or else too lazy to issue even a mild protest."

"And what is being done now? Who put you on to it?"

"Oh,—that youngster Smiler, as usual. He knows everything that goes on. The wee deevil came up to Pederstone's. They wouldn't let him in, but he shot through the door and made for me. Brenchfield was standing by and saw the dumb show, and understood it quicker than I did, for he was off like a greyhound, and so was Palmer.

"Before I got down here, he had his own pursuit gang working and they were away, hot-foot, after the runaways,—perhaps."

"Well,—I guess that ends it," lamented Phil.

"I guess it just does," agreed Jim. "Palmer leading the chase, and Brenchfield at his ear telling him how to do it before he set out. Gee, man!—I wish we had been in it, though. There would have been hell apopping for somebody, for I'm just in the mood."

"But didn't Brenchfield go, too?"

"Not so far as I know! He was here, got them started after much pow-powing with Palmer; then someone came for him and he went off again in a hurry. One of the gang, no doubt! Damn them!"

"Oh, oh, oh,—Jim Langford!" interrupted a well-known, melodious voice at Jim's elbow.

Jim and Phil turned quickly to the speaker.

It was Eileen Pederstone, wrapped up snugly in a warm, fur coat. Apparently she was alone.

"Great Scot, lassie!—what are you doing here?"

"Good evening, gentlemen!" she said politely.

Phil returned her salutation, with a very uneasy feeling inside.

"Little ladies should be sleeping in their beds," put in Jim in a tone of admonition.

"I wouldn't mind if I were now," she returned. "I just couldn't resist coming down here when I heard of the breakaway from jail, and so many of the men felt they had to rush off from our place.

"I coaxed daddy to bring me down. I lost him somewhere in the crowd half an hour ago."

"Ugh-huh!—and what else?" inquired Jim.

"Well, I am positively sick of having my dad for a member of parliament. I never seem to have him to myself for five minutes on end. I don't know where he has gone to, I'm tired and,—and I'm looking for some big, strong man to see me home up the hill. Would you mind, Jim?"

"No, indeed, Eileen! I would be glad to do so,—but unfortunately I have promised Thompson, the Government Agent, to stay here in charge till he gets back. But Phil here will see you home, and be delighted to do so. Eh, Phil?"

"Why—why, certainly! Only too pleased!" said Phil, although he could have punched Jim's head for putting him in such a predicament. He half hoped that Eileen Pederstone would find an excuse, but instead, she accepted the proffered service without demur.

They started off immediately. Neither spoke for a hundred yards or so, for a constraint seemed to be holding both back; the one did not know of anything fitting to say, and the other had so much to say that she was at a loss to know how or where to begin.

Womanlike, Eileen was first to break the silence.

"I was sorry, Mr. Ralston, that you were too busy to come to our place to-night—or, I should say, last night, for it is morning now."

"I wasn't exactly too busy," returned Phil frankly. "I walked the hills for the good of my health, and I enjoyed myself splendidly."

"Oh!—I thought—I thought you would be sure to come, if only for daddy's sake,—unless something serious would prevent you," said the young lady slowly.

It was dark and impossible for either one to see the other clearly, so they had to be guided by the voice alone.

"Yes,—I guess probably I should have come, but——"

Eileen interrupted him.

"Mr. Ralston,—don't let us fence any more. That's what everybody does nowadays. It isn't honest. Can't we be honest?"

"Of course we can, Miss Pederstone! I am glad you put it so plainly. Now, if you had been in my shoes,—would you have come?"

"Oh, please don't put it that way. We have gone through too much for that. We know too much of each other for argument."

"You mean, you know too much about me," corrected Phil, a little bitterly.

"Yes!—and, believe me or not as you will, I never thought, I never guessed—until—until I saw you that afternoon in the smithy, tired-out, begrimed, your hair awry and your clothes loose about you—I never dreamed that you—that you—that——"

"That I was the escaped convict you befriended!"

Eileen put her hand on his arm.

"Mr. Ralston,—why do you have to be so callous; why are you so severe with yourself?"

There was a touch of irony in the short laugh Phil gave.

"One can't afford to be otherwise with one's self," he retorted. "It is a privilege one is permitted to take."

"It is a privilege you have no right to take and—and I am so sorry if I hurt your feelings that afternoon. I did not think for a second how you might misconstrue my behaviour, although—although I could see it all afterwards. Won't you please understand me? I was so surprised, so taken aback,—the picture returned to me so suddenly—that I could not think properly. I just had to run out into the open and away, in order to pull myself together."

Phil walked along by her side, up the hill, without answering.

"Won't you believe me?" she pleaded.

"I can never forget that you were kind to me when I needed it most."

"Then you believe me," she reiterated, "and you will believe that I shall never, never, never tell anyone your secret?"

The moon sailed out behind the clouds, and Phil looked down and saw a pale, earnest face searching his.

"Yes!—I do believe you," he answered. "I could not do anything else now."

"Thanks ever so much!" Eileen smiled.

And with that smile, the ache that had been at Phil's heart for some days took wings and flew away to the Land of Delusion from whence it came.

"May I ask just one little question before we bury that small bit of the past?" Eileen asked.

"Yes!—what is it?"

"Does anyone else up here know that you are the same person who—who was recaptured that night?"

"Yes!—one other knows."

"Jim Langford?"

"No, not Jim—although I think I may have to tell him some day. It is awkward at times."

"Your secret would be safe with him."

"I know it would."

"If it isn't Jim who knows, it can be only one other," she reasoned, "Mayor Brenchfield."

"Yes!"

"Is he likely to betray you?"

"He would if he felt free to do it;—but as things stand, he daren't."

"Oh!"

That simple little word which can mean so many things, was Eileen's answer.

She sighed, then she brightened up again.

"Well!—that has been got rid of, anyway."

On climbing the steepest part of the hill road, she questioned Phil once more.

"Do you intend making blacksmithing your life's business?"

"Why? Isn't it a good calling?"

"Oh, yes! My dad was a blacksmith for the most of his life. But I think you are intended for something different, something bigger than that. You have had more education, for one thing, than my dear old daddy had."

Phil laughed.

"That is quite flattering—but your dad has my education beaten a thousand miles by his experience and shrewdness. I guess I shall have to keep to blacksmithing until I get some money ahead and until that 'something different' that you speak of, turns up."

"I should dearly love to see you and Jim in partnership. You would make a great team, for you never quarrel."

"Is that the secret of successful business partnership?"

"I think it is an important one of them."

"I daresay you are right," said Phil. "But what are we to do?"

"What do others do? Look at the men without brains, without even business ability, who have made money—heaps of it—buying and selling land right in this Valley, in this town, and who started in without a dollar. Why,—I could name them by the score;—Fraser & Somerville; McWilliams; Peter Brixton; McIntyre & Anderson, and even that good-for-nothing, Rattlesnake Dalton;—why, the town swarms with them. If they can do it, what could not two smart men, honest, with up-to-date business methods, do? Property has been changing owners hand-over-fist lately and I know it is merely the beginning. Next year property will move faster than ever; money for investment is pouring in; the people are flocking westward; values are rising; the ranches are producing more than ever; prices are improving; irrigation schemes are afoot;—why, it simply cannot be held back. Dad, Mayor Brenchfield, Ben Todd,—they are all anticipating it."

Phil almost gasped at Eileen's enthusiasm.

"They are the monied land-owners, the vested interests," he put in. "It suits them to anticipate."

"And, believe me, they will realise," retorted Eileen.

"Almost thou persuadest me to be a real estate agent," he bantered.

"Well,—one thing I do know; no man ever got very far ahead working for the other fellow. If a man isn't worth more to himself than he is to someone else, you can bet that someone else is not going to employ him."

"You talk as if you had worked it all out, Miss Pederstone."

"I have, too!" she went on. "If you are holding down a job at a fair price, it ought to be a sufficient indication to you that you should be at it on your own account."

Eileen's ardour set a spark aglow in Phil, but, manlike, he was prone to ignore it and even to argue against her conclusions.

"You must pardon me if I have said too much," apologised Eileen at last, "only, only I have tried to speak for your own good, and Jim's, for there is so much good in Jim that just wants elbow room;—and besides, knowing what I know, I should like so much to see you make good."

"I haven't any fear at all of the ultimate 'making good,'" replied Phil. "I have always known that it would come sooner or later. It has never been merely a hope with me, it has been an inward knowledge since I was quite a little chap."

"Why then, that knowledge, backed by your every endeavour, cannot fail to realise great success for you. It is fear of failure that kills so many successful ventures before their birth. Without fear—which is at best a cowardly bugaboo, the world would be heaven."

"Well,—heaven is where the devil isn't," said Phil, "so fear must be the very devil himself."

"Fear is the only devil I know," asserted Eileen.

"I am afraid I have the misfortune to be acquainted with quite a lot of other little devils," he laughed.

They crossed the road together, along the west-end of Mayor Brenchfield's local ranch and town house, which was divided from the new Royce Pederstone property by the big house and grounds which that eccentric Englishman, Percival DeRue Hannington, had bought for himself and now occupied in lordly bachelordom.

Several of Brenchfield's stables and out-houses were situated quite close to the roadway.

In passing, Phil observed a faint light in one of these, which swung as if in the hands of someone moving about.

As they continued along, he fancied he heard the sound of voices, one of which rose and fell as if in anger.

His momentary curiosity caused him to stop conversing and to listen more intently.

One of the voices rose again; there was the distinct sound of the crack of a whip, followed by a high-pitched throaty articulation as of an animal in pain. It sounded so helpless and piteous, that Eileen drew herself up nervously and shuddered. She gripped at Phil's arm.

Ever suspicious where Brenchfield or any of his followers were concerned, and quickly roused to anger at the slightest abuse shown to any of the lower creation, Phil acted on the impulse of the moment.

"Please stay here for a second, Eil—Miss Pederstone. I am going over to see what is doing there."

He turned, vaulted the fence, and bending low he crept cautiously over to the barn. At the window, he rose slowly upright and peered inside.

The horror of what he saw there remained focussed on his mind ever afterwards; and always when he turned to that picture in the album of his memory, his gorge rose and a murderlust that could hardly be stifled filled his entire being.

He darted to the door of the barn. It was unfastened. He flung it open and rushed inside, throwing himself with mad fury on Brenchfield, who had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up. He had a long whip in his hand, poised high in the air, and was about to continue his devilish cruelty.

The Mayor swung round and, before Phil got to him, the downward stroke of the whip caught the latter across the head and shoulders. He staggered for the fraction of a second, then closed with his adversary, catching the right arm that held the whip and, turning it smartly over his shoulder in a trick Jim Langford had taught him, had Brenchfield groaning with the pain of the strain on his elbow. He relaxed his fingers and the whip dropped to the strawed floor.

Phil released his hold, whirled round and shot his right fist full in the face of his opponent. His left hand followed, sending Brenchfield backward. Recovering quickly, the Mayor came back at Phil, cursing roundly. But strong and heavy as he was, he was no match now for the sturdy, young blacksmith before him. And it was not very many minutes before he knew it.

They fought around the stable like wild cats. Time and again Brenchfield got in on Phil, but for every time he did Phil got in on him half a dozen. The heavier man's breath began to give out. His face was cut and bleeding and his vision was becoming more and more faulty as time went on.

"Skookum!" he cried furiously. "What the hell's the matter with you? Brain this fool with the lantern, can't you?"

But his henchman, Skookum, had already perceived how the fight was going and his discretion proved much greater than his valour. He dropped the lantern and darted out at the door. As good luck would have it, the lantern fell right-end up and, after wobbling precariously on its rim, sat upright in the corner, blinked, then continued to shed a fitful light over the scene.

Phil, with anger unabated, darted in on Brenchfield, smashing at him right and left. The latter tottered. Phil sprang in and clutched at his throat. Both went forcibly to the ground, with Brenchfield undermost. Phil gripped and squeezed and shook with almost ferocious brutality, until the Mayor's struggles became less and less violent, and finally ceased. And after that, Phil's grip did not relax, for that murderlust, which he had read of and heard of but had never before understood, was on him.

Had it not been for a quiet, pleading voice and a little hand that slipped over his and along his fingers, pushing its way between his and the soft throat of his adversary, the sunlight would have gone out of his life for all time.

"Please, Phil,—please!" she cried. "Don't! Phil—you would not kill him! You must not,—for my sake, for my sake! He isn't worth it. Phil, Phil,—let him go!"

And the murderlust—as it had done so often before at the gentle but all powerful pleading of God's women—shrank back, dwindled down, then faded into its native oblivion.

Phil's fingers relaxed and he rose slowly, working his hands convulsively, then pushing his wet hair back from his forehead, as he looked first down at the gasping figure of his hated adversary and then in open-eyed amazement at Eileen.

"Thanks!" he said, very quietly.

"Why did you do that?" she said. "What has he done?"

For answer, Phil caught her by the arm and turned her about-face.

A bundle of rags was trussed against the post of one of the stalls. Phil lifted the lantern from the ground and held it up.

"Oh!—oh, dear God!" she wailed piteously, running forward with hands outstretched. "Quick, Phil!—loose the ropes. The hound!—oh, the miserable, foul hound!" she continued.

Phil drew a pocket knife and slashed the ropes that held poor, little, half-unconscious Smiler.

They set the boy gently in a corner; and slowly, in response to crooning words and loving hands that stroked his dirty, wet brow, he came to; and what a great smile he had for Eileen as she laid her tear-stained cheek against the cold, twisted face.

Phil turned as Brenchfield was slowly rising on his arm. He went over and picked up the whip.

"What are you going to do?" anxiously cried Eileen.

"Just three!" said Phil, "for the three he gave that poor, helpless little devil. Say 'No' and I won't."

It was a challenge.

For answer, Eileen hid her face among Smiler's rags. And three times, with all the force of a young blacksmith's arm behind it, that whip rose and fell across the shoulders of Vernock's Mayor, ere it was broken with a snap and tossed by Phil among the straw.

A little later and Smiler was on his feet, little the worse.

Eileen led him outside.

Phil and Brenchfield were then alone.

"Damn you, for an interloping jail-breaker! I'll fix you for this before you're much older," growled the Mayor.

"Damn all you like," answered Phil, "but one word of any kind from you of what has happened here to-night and you are the man who will be trying to break jail. Keep your mouth shut, and we are square on what has happened. Say as much as a word and—well,—it's up to you."

"Oh, you go to hell!" exclaimed Brenchfield.



CHAPTER XVII

Wayward Langford's Grand Highland Fling

Jim Langford did not make an appearance until breakfast time that morning, and then there was dirt on his clothes, fire in his eyes and venom on his tongue.

"What do you know?" asked Phil as soon as they were alone.

"Know? What did I tell you, man? Darn them for the four-flushing hypocrites that they are. An hour ago Palmer came trotting back quite calmly with his crew.

"'The bunch got away on us, across the Line,' he whimpered.

"A put-up game from start to finish! Oh, don't let me talk about it, Phil. It makes me positively crazy. For ten cents I'd go and shoot up the town."

Phil tried to get Jim to sit down and eat, but it was useless, for Jim kept walking Mrs. Clunie's dining-room like something in a cage.

Knowing the danger of the mood, Phil kept a wise silence and, much as he disliked it, he had to leave his angry chum and get along to his work.

At the smithy, things were little better. Sol Hanson had, in a roundabout way, gathered that Smiler had been abused, and, in some inexplicable manner, had arrived at the truth, that Brenchfield was responsible for it. Sol was vowing vengeance in no uncertain tones.

"What you know about it, Phil?"

"Guess he's just been in a scrap with some other kids," answered Phil in an off-hand way.

"Scrap nothing! You just about as dumb as Smiler. All the same, some day I kill that big blow-hard Brenchfield. Maybe he Mayor; maybe he got all kinds of money. Dirty son-of-a-gun, that's all! I know him,—see! Next time he tie Sol Hanson up, by gar!—I finish him. He what you call,—all cackle, no egg."

Phil laughed.

"All right!—you laugh away. Some day I get drunk—good and drunk—just for fun to break his big fat neck. You watch me,—see!"

"Forget it, Sol! You can't afford to do that kind of thing now. You're a married man, you know."

"Sure I am," he answered proudly. "And my Betty, she says, 'Go to it!' Anybody hurt Smiler, hurt Betty,—see! Anybody hurt my Betty,—well,—by gar!—he only hurt her one time,—that's all."

Truly Phil had his hands full, and when he got back home he met with further disquieting news, Jim Langford, with his horse, and a cheque he had just received that day in payment for some of his dime novels, was off on the rampage.

For the three days following, Phil tried hard, but could find no trace of his chum.

On the fourth day news reached him that Jim was out on the race-track, a mile from town, racing a band of Indians for their horses. He hurried over, and got there just in time to see the last horse added to the lot, tethered to a fence, that Jim had already won. The moment Jim set eyes on Phil, he put spurs to his mare, vaulted the fence right on to the highway, and set off full tear for Vernock, leaving his live winnings behind him without a thought.

This foolish act was characteristic of Jim, and it suited the Indians splendidly. The losers at once started out to claim their horses. But Phil got there first, strung the animals together, pushed his way boldly through the protesting crowd and trotted nine horses back with him to town. He stabled the lot in Mrs. Clunie's spacious barn, then set out on foot to search for Jim once more.

He did not have far to go, for on passing through the Recreation Park he came on a scene that he positively refused to disturb. Instead, he dropped on his hands and knees, and stalked stealthily behind the trees and among the bushes until he could both see and hear all that was going on.

Jim's horse, with its reins trailing, was cropping grass close by.

Jim was seated on the grassy bank near the creek, where the clear water wimpled and gurgled over the white, rounded stones. Around Jim, in easy attitudes but with eyes wide and gaping mouths, squatted some twenty-five or thirty boys of varying ages and of varying colours and nationalities, but all of a kin when it came to appreciation of the universal language—the language of an exciting story.

Jim was reading to them from one of his most bloody dime novels, and the wonderful elocution he possessed never displayed itself with greater zest. His wavy, reddish-brown hair swept his forehead becomingly; his face, thin, keen and full of cultured intelligence, betrayed every emotion as he declaimed; and his long arms and tapering fingers moved in a ceaseless rhythm of gesticulation.

It was the same old stuff:—

"'Hal, the boy rider of the Western plains, stood on the brink of the chasm: behind him, three thousand feet of sheer precipice to the seething, boiling waters and jagged rocks below;—before him, the onrushing bandits.

"'Black Dan, outstripping the others, sprang on Hal, mouthing fearful oaths. With astounding agility, Hal stepped aside, caught Dan by the middle, and, swinging him high over his head, sent him hurtling, with ear-splitting shrieks, down, sheer down to his doom.

"'This staggered Dan's followers for a second, until Cross-eyed Dick, jibing his comrades for their cowardice, next rushed in upon our dauntless hero. Hal drew his dagger from his belt and bravely awaited the onslaught. When Cross-eyed Dick was within a few yards of him, he raised his arm and threw his dagger deftly and with terrific force, burying it to the hilt in the train-robber's windpipe. With a clotted gurgle—blood spurting from his mortal wound—Hal's assailant still came rushing on. He staggered on the brink for a moment, then—without another sound—he toppled over and joined his dead leader who was lying, a beaten pulp, among the boulders, far below.'"

On and on Jim went, making the hackneyed, original; the ridiculous, feasible; the impossible, real; until even Phil hated to pull himself away from the scene, to await a more convenient season for his endeavours to bring Jim back to himself.

If ever there was poetry in a "Deadwood Dick," thought Phil, surely it was then.

Feeling that Jim was in harmless company for the time being, Phil left him, intending to round him up later.

An hour afterwards he returned to Mrs. Clunie's to have a look at the horses he had stabled. To his great surprise and annoyance he found the place empty of all but his own and Mrs. Clunie's animals. Surmising that the half-breeds had "put one over on him" he started down town, hot foot and hot of head. He took the back way through Chinatown, as he knew Jim had a habit of frequenting the most unusual places when on the rampage.

His journey, for a time, proved without adventure.

Had he taken the way of Main Street, or further over still, toward the poorer class of shacks and dwellings, it might have been more interesting for him, for Jim's insatiable love of a change was being indulged to its full and he was busy making quite a good fellow of himself with all the orphans and poverty-stricken widows he could find.

It was he, and not the half-breeds, who had taken his horses from Mrs. Clunie's barn. What he did with them after he took them was not clear to himself then, for his memory merely served him in flashes. But all of it returned to him later, in startling realism.

He found himself on top of a wagon-load of sacked potatoes, driving a good team of heavy horses townward, with his own mare leisurely ambling behind, unhitched—following him as a dog would.

He had no use for sacked potatoes at that particular moment, so he bethought himself how best to get rid of them. As usual, he set about to do a good turn where it was most needed.

From one end of the little country town to the other he went, stopping at the door of every family he knew of where the produce would prove of value, and off he unloaded one, or two, or three sacks, as he thought they might be required; refusing to betray the source of supply further than that they were a gift which the Lord was providing.

It was thus that Phil finally found him, and quite unabashed was that lanky, dust-browned individual.

"Can you no' let a man be?" he remonstrated. "When I'm playin' the deevil, you admonish me, and when I'm tryin' to do a good turn, you're beside me, silent and stern as a marble monument.

"Man, Phil, ye mak' me feel like the immortal Robert Louis Stevenson must have felt when he wrote 'My Shadow.'"

"I never heard of it," said Phil.

"What? Never heard of it! May the Lord in his bounteous mercy forgive ye for your astounding ignorance. No time like the present, Philly, laddie;—no time like the present. Listen!—and never dare ye tell me again that ye never heard it,—for it's your twin brother."

And there, in that back street, beside the potato wagon, he burst into melody in as clear and rich a baritone voice as Phil had ever heard.

Jim was a born minstrel.

From beginning to end, he sang that never-dying, baby melody of the master-craftsman, Robert Louis Stevenson, with a feeling true to every word of it and emphasising particularly the parts which he fancied applied especially to Phil.

"I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of it is more than I can see. He's very, very like me from the heels up to the head, And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow, Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow, For he sometimes shoots up taller, like an India rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

"He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see, I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me. One morning, bright and early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every butter-cup But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed."

There were few people about when Jim began his singing, but a considerable crowd was gathered long before he finished.

Suddenly a little fair-haired girl came up to him with a show of bashfulness. He put his hand on her curls.

"What is't?" he asked. "Tell me;—ye need never be feart for me."

"Please—please, sir,—that was a nice song and mother says would you sing it to us at our social to—to-night?"

"Sing it,—of course I'll sing it. Just you tell your Uncle Jim where to come, and I'll be there. What social is it, bairnie?"

"Please—it's the Salvation Army."

"Oh-h!" groaned Jim, clutching at his forelock. But he held manfully to his contract. "What time would ye like me to be there, lassie?"

"Mother says, please nine o'clock."

"Nine o'clock at the barracks! Right you are! I'll be there, and I'll sing 'My Shadow.'"

"Please—and what is your name?" she inquired, in a business-like way.

"My name!—let me see,—oh, ay! Uncle Jim,—just plain Uncle Jim!"

"And you'll come sure?" she asked.

"Yes, bairnie!—I'll come sure."

The little girl ran off, evidently highly pleased at the addition she had made to the programme for their social meeting.

Phil gripped Jim by the arm.

"Yes, shadow dearie!" said the big fellow whimsically, "what is't?"

"Aren't you going to cut this stuff out, Jim?"

"What? Man alive, do ye want to make a mock o' me? Me!—cut it out and this just the first week. You managed that once, Phil, to my eternal disgrace. Don't ye know that when I start, it means a month on the calendar—and has always meant that and always will mean——"

"No, it won't," put in Phil. "Not if I know it!"

"But, Phil, the folks expect it. Ye could never disappoint the people."

"Disappoint be-damned! Are you going to quit this right now, or not?"

"Man, ye shouldna put it like that to me," expostulated Jim, swaying slightly as he threw his arm round by way of emphasis.

Phil held out his hand to him.

"All right, Jim! I'm sorry. Good-bye! Good-bye for good!"

Almost a haunted look came into the bloodshot eyes of the big fellow.

"Phil,—Phil,—ye don't mean that? Ye wouldna throw me doon?"

"But I do mean it. I thought you and I were going to make a good partnership some day."

"And aren't we?"

"Not this way! Good heavens, Jim!—what's the matter with you, anyway? Haven't you got the courage to stand a little disappointment now and again without flying to this? You can't go on being a fool all your life.

"I tell you, I came here to make good. I am making good and I'm going to make better. So can you, if you get down to it. We can turn this town round our thumbs, if we go to it together. If you haven't the grit to quit this damnable foolishness—then I'm through with you for keeps and I'm going to find somebody with sense to go at it with me. If I can't, then I'm going to go at it alone."

With bent head, Jim stood in silence under the tirade.

"Where did you get this rig?" asked Phil, referring to the team and wagon.

Jim shook his head.

"What did you do with the horses you took from Mrs. Clunie's barn?"

Jim shook his head again.

"They were your own horses;—where did you get them?"

Jim's shock of auburn hair waggled a negative.

"And that's what the booze is doing for you, old man. You won't know your own name pretty soon."

Suddenly Phil's voice changed and he slipped his arm across his friend's shoulder.

"Jim,—Jim,—we've been good pals. Won't you quit this crazy behaviour, and we'll stay good pals right to the finish?"

"When do you want me to start?" asked Jim quietly.

Phil's face lit up.

"Right now!"

"Give me to-night;—two or three hours more, and don't interfere with me between this and then,—and I'll take you on."

"It's a go!" exclaimed Phil, holding out his hand.

Jim gripped it, and Phil knew that Jim would keep his word, for he was the kind of man whose word, drunk or sober, was as good as the deed accomplished.

"Mind you, Phil,—I don't say I'll never drink again."

"I'm not asking you to promise that," answered Phil.

"Right! At nine o'clock to-night I'm through with the long-term Highland Fling for keeps."

Phil assented to the proposal and left Jim to complete his potato distribution.

But Jim could not have remained very long with the job, for, by the time Phil had taken a leisurely stroll round to the forge to have a few words with Sol Hanson, and had partaken of a bit of supper with Betty and the big, genial Swede, Jim had succeeded in putting up his delivery-outfit, had dressed himself out in his cowboy trappings; chaps, Stetson, khaki shirt, red tie, belts, spurs and all complete, and was creating a furore among the law-abiding citizens down town.

Phil came upon the scene—or rather, the scene came upon Phil—like a flash of lightning out of the heavens.

He was making down town, intent on spending half an hour with his pipe and the evening paper in a secluded corner of the Kenora Hotel, when he heard a shout and witnessed a scurrying of people into the middle of the road. Phil himself had hardly time to get out of the way of a mad horseman who was urging his horse and yelling like an Indian on the war-path; tearing along the sidewalk in a headlong gallop, striking at every overhanging signboard with the handle of his quirt and sending these swinging and creaking precariously—oblivious of everybody and everything but the crazy intent in speed and noise that seemed to possess him so fully.

"How long has he been at this?" Phil asked of an old, toothless bystander.

"Oh,—'bout half an hour, maybe more, maybe not quite so much," came the reply.

"Nobody been hurt?" he inquired further.

"Guess nit! That Langford faller's all right. On the loose again, and just a-lettin' off steam. A good holler and a good tear on a cayuse ain't goin' to hurt nobody nohow, 'cept them what ain't got no call to go and be interferin'."

With difficulty Phil extricated himself from the man's superfluity of negatives and continued on his way.

He passed through the saloon of the Kenora, which was already overflowing with the usual mob such places attract in any Western country town; ranchers, cowpunchers, real-estate touts, railway construction men, horse dealers, teamsters and several of Vernock's sporty storekeepers and clerks.

He seated himself in a lounge chair in one of the side rooms, lit his pipe and pulled out the previous day's Coast newspaper. He was tired from his all day's running around after Jim. It was a raw evening out-of-doors, but it was cosy in there. The popping of corks, the clinking of glasses, the hum of voices and the occasional burst of ribald laughter, even the quarrelsome argument; all had more or less a soothing effect, which began to make Phil feel at harmony with the world at large. He looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He stretched his legs, unfolded the large sheet and settled down comfortably.

He did not get very far. He had only scanned the headlines and had read the chief editorial, when the sound of an old, familiar voice in the saloon attracted his attention. He looked up.

It was DeRue Hannington, immaculate as usual, but terribly excited and mentally worked-up.

This same Percival DeRue Hannington had now become an established fact in Vernock. While he was looked upon as more or less of a fool in regard to money matters—with more money than brains—he had that trait about him which many well-bred Englishmen possess; he always commanded a certain amount of respect, and he declined to tolerate anything verging on loose familiarity.

"Say!" he was drawling, as he strode the saw-dusted floor, whacking his leggings with his riding crop, "what would you Johnnies do with a rotter that grossly maltreated your horse?"

"Stand him a drink," came a voice.

"Lynch him," suggested another.

"Push his daylights in!"

"Dip him in the lake!"

"Invite him up home and treat him to a boiled egg!"

"Forget it!"

Various were the suggestions thrown out, gratis, to DeRue Hannington's query, for all of them knew that he was crazy over horseflesh in general and particularly over the pure white thoroughbred he had got from Rattlesnake Dalton the day he closed the deal and became owner of the good-for-nothing Lost Durkin Gold Mine.

Whether or not DeRue Hannington considered that he had been defrauded in the matter of the mine still remained for him to test out, but the white horse was certainly a beauty, and her owner was never so happy as when careering down Main Street or over the ranges astride of her.

"By gad!—lynching is not half severe enough," fumed the Englishman. "You chaps are all jolly fond of horses. That is why I dropped in. It is an out and out beastly shame. The scoundrel should be horse-whipped and run out of town."

"Say, sonny!—why don't you tell us what'n-the-hell's the matter with your blinkin' hoss, 'stead o' jumpin' up and down like a chimpanzee, and makin' us dizzy watchin' yer?" asked a hardened old bar-lounger. "Stand still and let me lean my eyes up against somethin' steady for a minute."

This brought DeRue Hannington to himself.

"Come out here, gentlemen, and see for yourselves!" he invited. "Everybody come and have a look. I have her outside. A beastly, dirty, rotten shame;—that's what I call it, and if there is any bally justice in this Valley, I am going to see it jolly-well performed; by George, I am!"

The idly curious crowd gathered to the doorway after Hannington. In a few seconds thereafter, the wildest shouts of laughter and a medley of caustic remarks caused Phil to get up to see what it all was about.

At the door, he looked over the heads of those on the lower steps of the veranda, and there on the sidewalk stood the dejected Hannington holding the bridle of what might have been a huge zebra gone wild on the colour scheme, or an advertisement for a barber's shop.

It was evidently DeRue Hannington's white thoroughbred, but white no longer. Phil went out to make a closer inspection.

What a sight she presented! She had been painted from head to hoofs in broad stripes of red, white and blue. The white was her own natural colour, but the red and blue were a gaudy, cheap paint still partly wet. Nevertheless, the work was the work of an artist. The body was done in graceful, sweeping lines, while the legs were circled red, white and blue alternately down to each hoof. Even the animal's head was emblazoned in the most fantastic manner.

Phil laughed uproariously. He could not help it. None could—excepting possibly the man who owned the horse. To look at the animal gave one a sensation of dizziness.

The old bar-lounger, who had been so anxious to know what the trouble was about, was the first to give way under it.

"Holy mackinaw! I've got them again. Talk about seein' snakes," he cried, turning toward the saloon door and putting his hands over his eyes as if to shut out the sight, "hydrophobey, or delirious tremblin's ain't got nothin' on that. Say, Heck!—mix me up a drink o' gasoline and Condy's Fluid, so's I kin forgit it."

"Only wan thing wrong wid her," exclaimed an Irish pig-breeder from Tipperary; "she should 'a' been painted Emerild Green."

"Yes,—or maybe Orange," commented his friend who hailed from Ulster.

But with Percival DeRue Hannington it was a serious crime and he was in no mood to see any humour in the situation.

"Gentlemen," he cried, as the crowd began to dwindle back, "I'll give one hundred dollars cash to any one of you who can tell me who did this. My offer holds good for a week."

At that particular moment, the offer of a bribe did not bring to the fore any informers, so DeRue Hannington, riding a spare horse and leading his favourite by a halter rope, jogged his way homeward.

He had hardly gone the length of a block, when the comparative quiet of a respectable western saloon was again broken in upon. There was a clatter of hoofs outside which came to an abrupt stoppage; a heavy scrambling on the wooden steps leading to the veranda which ran round the hotel, an encouraging shout from a familiar voice, a clearing of passageway;—and Jim Langford, in all his gay trappings, still astride his well-trained horse, was occupying the middle of the bar-room floor, bowing profusely right and left to the astonished onlookers, making elaborate sweeps with his hat.

Everyone stopped, open-mouthed.

"What's this now!" shouted the long-suffering Charlie Mackenzie, the husky proprietor of the Kenora, as he came in from the dining-room.

"Good evening, good sir! It is Jim Langford, and very much at your service," came the gracious reply.

"Most of the time Jim Langford is welcome—but not when he don't know the dif' between a bar and a stable. Hop it now, and tie your little bull outside," was Mackenzie's ready retort.

"Boys!" cried Jim with a laugh, "we all know Charlie. He's a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny;—and all that sort of thing;—but we're thirsty.

"Hands up—both hands—who wants a drink?"

Half a hundred hands shot in the air.

Jim's mood changed like a summer's day before a thunder plump. He pulled a gun. "Keep them there or I'll blow your heads off," he shouted dramatically.

And every hand stayed decorously and obediently above its owner's head.

Suddenly Jim laughed and threw his gun on the floor.

"Scared you all stiff that time! The gun's empty—not a cartridge in it.

"Come on, fellows! This is on me. Line up and get it over.

"Buck up, Charlie! Get your gang busy. I'm paying the piper."

Phil kept fairly well in the background, but drew closer to the lea of the others. He caught Jim's eye once, and he fancied he detected the faintest flicker of a wink; but, otherwise, Jim's face remained inscrutable.

Sitting easily on his horse, he pulled out a roll of bills and tossed over the cost of the treat to Mackenzie.

"Listen, fellows!" said he, leaning over in his saddle, "this is my last long bat. Next time you see me on the tear, shoot me on sight."

He pulled out his watch.

"Five minutes to nine! Say,—you'll have to excuse me; I've an appointment with a lady friend for nine o'clock."

Someone laughed.

"What the devil are you laughing at? I said a lady; and I meant it. Now, darn you,—laugh!" he taunted.

The laugh didn't come.

"Ho, Charlie! What do your windows cost?" he asked, pointing to those fronting the main street.

"Want to buy a window?" grinned the fleshy hotel-keeper.

"Sure!"

"One—or the whole frame?"

"The entire works, the nine windows, frame and all!"

"Oh well!—to you, Jim, that would be fifty bucks, less ten percent for cash," replied Mackenzie, going over to the cash register.

"Fifty dollars, less ten percent," repeated Jim; "that's forty-five dollars." His voice rose gaily. "There she goes, Charlie!"

He threw forty-five dollars from his roll over the counter.

"The window's mine! Good-bye, boys! My little lady is waiting for me."

He swung his mare round, set his heels into her sides and, before anyone could move, the horse and its rider sprang for the window, dashed clear through it on to the roadway and away at a gallop, without so much as a stop or a stumble; leaving a shower of broken glass and splintered wood in their train.



CHAPTER XVIII

The Coat of Many Colours

Before going to work next morning, Phil peeped into Jim's bedroom, and the sight proved pleasing to his eyes.

The place looked like a rocky beach after a storm and a shipwreck; boots, hat, spurs, leather straps, riding chaps, coat, pants, everything, lay in a muddle on the carpet, while Jim, the cause of all the rummage—innocent-looking as a newly born lamb, and smiling serenely in his evidently pleasant dreams—lay in bed, fast asleep.

At noon, after lunch, Phil looked in again, pushed the door wide and entered.

Jim was in his trousers and his undershirt, and was laboriously shaving himself before the mirror. He turned round and grinned. Phil grinned back at him and sat down on the edge of the bed.

There were no recriminations. What was past was dead and buried—at least as much of it as would submit to the treatment without protest.

"Jim!"

"Ugh-huh!"

"Had a good sleep?"

"Sure!"

"Just up?"

"Ay!"

"Feeling fit?"

"You bet!"

"Going to work?"

"Yep!—maybe."

"Did you hear what some tom-fool did to Percival DeRue Hannington's horse?"

Jim stopped his shaving and grimaced before the mirror, then swung slowly round on his heel.

"No!—although something inside of me seems to denote the feeling that I must have heard somebody talk about it. Give me the yarn."

Phil did so, as briefly as possible.

"And DeRue Hannington is as mad as a caged monkey. He has this white notice placarded on every telegraph pole in town."

Phil tossed over a hand-bill, which Jim perused slowly.

ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD.

The above reward will be paid to anyone giving information that will lead to the conviction of the person, or persons, who maltreated my white mare by coating her with paint.

Percival DeRue Hannington.

Jim laughed and threw the paper back to Phil.

"Well!—I should worry about a little thing like that. Man,—I've troubles enough of my own to contend with."

"How's that?" asked Phil, looking up. "You haven't been doing anything likely to get you into hot water?"

"No—father confessor,—excepting maybe this:"

It was Jim's turn to throw over a piece of paper which he picked up from the bureau.

Phil looked it over.

It was an Agreement for Sale, between James Shallingford Dalton and James Langford, in which the former accepted from the latter nine horses—receipt of which was thereby acknowledged—as first payment of five hundred dollars on his Brantlock Ranch of sixty acres, with barns and shack, two dray-horses, one dray and one and a half tons of sacked potatoes; total purchase price thirty-five hundred dollars; second payment of two thousand dollars to be made within seven days, the balance in six months thereafter; prompt payment on due dates to be the essence of the agreement.

Phil glanced over at Jim, then turned up his nose in disgust.

"Gee!—and I thought you were a lawyer."

"So did I!" returned Jim ruefully.

"But what in the name of all that's lovely made you sign an agreement like that?"

"The Lord only knows!"

"Great snakes!—it would be all right if it weren't for that last clause. Didn't you read it? 'Prompt settlement on due dates to be the essence of the agreement.' Couldn't you see that the property reverts to Dalton immediately you fail to make any one payment on the dates agreed?"

Jim laughed in a woe-begone way.

"Ay!—Dalton put one over on me that time, all right. But it's the very last. Can't stand for this happening again. It hurts, right on my professional dignity. Won't he have the haw-haw on me?

"Ah, well! What's done can't be undone. 'My deed's upon my head.'"

"Gosh, but he's a rotter," growled Phil. "Put a thing like that over on a drunken man!"

"Hush! Not drunk, Phil;—call it indisposed! You know I am an aesthete on these matters.

"But wasn't it some bait though, Phil?"

"Oh, great stuff all right! The ranch must be worth six or seven thousand dollars. But a fat chance you had of ever getting it. Why, he had you every way you turned. All you did was to give him a present of nine horses worth five hundred dollars."

"He'll never get his spuds back, that's one blessing."

"Go to it;—be philosophic! Lovely consolation that! A ton and a half of potatoes for five hundred bucks!"

"That's right, Shadow, dearie,—rub it in."

Phil did not answer, but sat on Jim's bed and looked at the carpet in evident disgust.

After a few minutes of silence, Jim grunted, then he began to laugh.

"You seem to be quite pleased with your performance," commented Phil sarcastically.

"Man,—I was just thinkin' what a grand thing it would be if only I could make these payments."

"A fine chance you have—about fifty dollars in the wide world and five days left in which to make two thousand. Nobody in this town will lend you a red cent. They are all too anxious putting their money in a hole in the ground themselves. Of course, you might write forty dime novels at fifty dollars apiece and make it that way:—that means just eight a day for five days."