Phil got up and clapped Jim on the shoulder. "Guess you'd best forget it, old boy! Let the tail follow the dog."

"But you must admit, Phil, that the weak spot in this deal of Rattlesnake's, after all, is right on the question of my ability to raise the dough."

"Yes!—I admit it—but the real weak point is one he never reckoned on."

"And what's that, pray?"

"He knew you had just gone on one of your crazy bouts. The law of averages informed him that you would get back to your—ahem!—sober senses in about a month's time, when the date of your second payment would be long gone by and your precious Agreement for Sale, if ever you happened to remember it again, would be simply so much waste paper. He would throw half a dozen fits, right now, if he knew you were—ahem!—compos mentis, with five days still to go to make two thousand dollars—maybe. But I'm wasting your precious time, Jim," he continued. "Get out your pen, and ink, and paper, and get busy;—eight dime novels of thirty thousand words apiece—two hundred and forty thousand words a day for five days! Shades of Sir Walter Scott and Balzac!"

He laughed. "I wouldn't do it, Jim;—no, not for a farm!"

And Phil went back to the smithy as Jim continued dressing, doing a little special thinking, the while, on the side.

All that day, the mystery of who painted DeRue Hannington's horse was the talk of the town.

Several painters and paper-hangers, as they went about their business in garments that betrayed their calling, were glared at in open suspicion. The reward of one hundred dollars read very good and a sort of hidden-treasure-hunt look was in the eyes of many.

The next day blue notices instead of white were tacked to the telegraph poles and the hoardings. With DeRue Hannington's anger and indignation, the reward had risen in the night. It now stood at five hundred dollars.

In unison, the keenness of the hunt for the perpetrator of the so-called dastardly outrage rose four hundred per cent.

Meanwhile, Jim did not go to work at the Court House as he had practically said, nor yet did he go outside. He sat quietly in his own room, smoking his pipe and reading Emerson and Professor Drummond, which, of course, was quite in keeping with the peculiarities of his temperament. He had little to say to Phil as the latter dropped in to see him from time to time; and the all-absorbing topic of the town—DeRue Hannington's big reward—seemed to interest him about as much as did the approaching dissolution of his hold on the ranch he had contracted to purchase from Rattlesnake Dalton.

Phil looked in vain for signs of diligence in the direction of stories from the pen of Captain Mayne Plunkett, and articles on the affairs of the heart by Aunt Christina.

In the language of the farm, Jim was simply sawing wood.

For two days, the signs on the telegraph poles remained blue in colour.

On the evening of that second day Jim ventured only a little into conversation.

"Phil,—do you know I'm heart sick of playing the darned idiot. I've a good mind to start work."

"Jee-rusalem! You don't say!" exclaimed his astounded friend.

"Honest to goodness! Man, I wish, though, that I could beat Dalton to it on that deal."

"I wish you could too, for he is bragging all over the town how he put one over on you, and that you're on the loose somewhere, worse than ever, too shamefaced to show up in your own town."

By way of answer, Jim twisted his gaunt face in an enigmatical smile.

"It's a good ranch!" continued Phil.

"Of course it is! That is why I'd give my head to fool him on it."

"Well!—I've a thousand bucks and one dollar in the Commercial Bank, and I'm willing to go halves if you can raise the balance."

Jim started up excitedly, but he subsided almost as quickly. He pulled out the linings of his pockets and with them came a little roll of bills.

"One hundred and sixteen dollars!" he said ruefully. "I've counted them one hundred and sixteen times, backwards, forwards and upside down, these last three days, and I can't get them to grow a dollar more."

"Won't somebody stand good for you?"

"Somebody might,—but I am not borrowing. That is one thing Jim Langford never did in his life and he is not going to start in now with it to help him out of a tom-fool boozing stunt he never should have got into. I don't mind your money so much, Phil, for it would be a partnership affair between two pals, but I am not crawling all over town begging for loans, especially after Dalton has had his say. No,—it's no good!"

At noon next day, Jim was still in the doldrums.

Phil rushed in all excitement.

"What do you know about that fool Hannington? The town is ablaze with red posters now, and he is offering a thousand dollars reward, for one day only—like a bargain sale—to anyone who will lay information that will lead to the conviction of the horse painter."

Jim laid down his book, put his pipe out by smothering it with his little finger, then got up and went to the clothes closet. He took down his hat and jacket.

"What's up now?" asked Phil.

"I'm after that thousand, sonny!"

"What?"

"I saw Hannington's horse painted. I know who did it and I'm going to lay information."

Phil gaped.

As Jim was proceeding outside, Phil ran after him and laid hold on his arm.

"Wait a bit, old man! Let me get this right," he said slowly. "Do you mean to say you are going to play informer for a thousand dirty dollars?"

"Why not? I'm the only man who saw it done. There are mighty few in town who wouldn't do the same thing if they knew what I know. Besides, the fellow who did it darned-well deserves all that he gets. I've no love for him, and I need the money. Good-bye, Philly! I'll see you anon."

He went downstairs, opened the front door cautiously and, finding few people about, he hurried along the block and down the back lanes to the rear of The Advertiser building. He sneaked unseen into Ben Todd's private office. There was no one inside. Ben, evidently, was in the basement in the printing shop.

The editor's desk was littered as usual with newspapers, scribbled scraps of paper, cuttings, paste-pots and such paraphernalia of the making of a country newspaper.

Jim closed the door, sat down in Todd's chair and took up the telephone receiver. He called for DeRue Hannington and got him without difficulty.

"Hullo!—is that Mr. Hannington?"

"Mr. DeRue Hannington speaking."

"Are you busy?"

"Not too much so! Who is they-ah?"

"Could you come down to The Advertiser office right away—Mr. Todd's place—something important in regard to what you are so worked up over?"

"Why, yes,—certainly! Of course, I can come."

"Be here in ten minutes."

"Yes! Who is calling?"

"Never mind! Come and see, and come quick!"

And Jim rang off.

In two or three minutes Ben Todd, the editor, came in, long of legs and hunched of back, trailing his arms like an ape, his handsome bearded face lit up in pleasantness and his keen brown eyes searching Jim curiously.

"Hello, Jim! Glad to see you! The boys must have miscued. I heard you had fallen off the water wagon."

"And can't a fellow climb back again as easily as he fell off?"

"Some can, but you generally take your own sweet time, my Wayward Boy. Still, I'm glad to see you. What brought you in?"

Jim swung round in the chair. "I want you to act as umpire for me in a little matter. Are you willing?"

"Of course I am! What is it?"

"Why,—here comes the other fellow," said Jim, as the handle of the door turned and the gaudy, resplendent and immaculate Percival strutted in, bringing with him an odour of pomade and scented soap.

Ben Todd looked over in surprise.

"Aw,—good day, gentlemen! Someone 'phoned me beastly hurriedly."

"Sit down, Mr. Hannington—Mr. DeRue Hannington," invited Ben. "Guess you were the one who 'phoned, Jim?"

"Yes!" acknowledged Jim, becoming alert. And he wasted no time beating about.

"You wish to know the name of the man who Union-Jacked your cayuse?"

"The name of the boundah who painted my mare!—you just jolly-well bet your boots I do, sir!"

"Well,—I know it."

"Yes—yes!"

"Does your offer of a thousand dollars still hold good?"

"Till midnight, to-night;—certainly!"

"Good! Make out a cheque now and hand it over to Mr. Todd as umpire."

"Doesn't the word of DeRue Hannington bally-well suit everyone here?" exclaimed the Englishman in a hurt tone.

"Sure!—but this is strictly business."

Hannington pulled out his cheque book, wrote out the cheque for one thousand dollars payable to "cash" and handed it over to Ben Todd who was eyeing the scene in undisguised interest; his keen mind already fathoming the secret.

"There!" remarked Hannington. "Now, give me your information, my deah Langford."

"If the man I name gets convicted, or if you fail to lay a charge against him, the money comes to me? Do I get the arrangement right?"

"You have it absolutely, my careful Scotsman. Fire away! Fire away!"

"You got that, Mr. Todd?" queried Jim.

"Absolutely!" mocked the editor.

"Well, gentleman,—the name of the man who painted Mr. Percival DeRue Hannington's mare is—James Langford, your most humble and obedient servant, and very much at the service of both of you."

Ben Todd grunted.

The Englishman sat bolt upright. His chin dropped and he gaped, his fingers running nervously up and down over the gilt metal buttons of his fancy waistcoat. He rose slowly from his chair and his face grew pale in his anger; then it became red and perspiry.

"You—you confounded scoundrel! You—you miserable individual! You—you trickster!"

"Go on,—go on!" put in Jim coolly, "the more you call me down, the better I like it. I'm a positive glutton for anathema. Mr. DeRue Hannington simply eats up elocution,—eh, Ben!"

The editor smiled dryly. "He does, but he is finding some difficulty in digesting some of yours, Jim, and I'm not surprised at it."

Jim held over the desk 'phone to Hannington.

"Better 'phone up for Palmer and get it over."

Hannington pushed the receiver away.

"I refuse,—I—I decline absolutely. I shan't prosecute,—damned if I do! It is downright blackmail. Yes,—by gad! Give me back my cheque, Mr. Todd, and let me go. I'm jolly-well sick of this."

"'Give me my principal and let me go,'" quoted Jim in mockery.

"I can't do that, Mr. Hannington. Sorry," said the editor, "but if you decline to prosecute, the money goes to Mr. Langford."

"Then, by gad!" cried Hannington, "I shall prosecute to the utmost deuced rigour of the bally law, and be-dimned to him. You cawn't fool lightly with a DeRue Hannington,—no sirs!

"I'll have you understand we DeRue Hanningtons are fighters. My great-great-grandfathers both fought at Waterloo, DeRue on the side of the French and Hannington on the side of the British,—yes, sirs!"

"I'm thinking maybe that explains why you are not quite sure now whether you are the prosecutor or the prosecuted," pawkily remarked Jim.

Hannington glared, grabbed up the telephone and called for the police station. As usual, Palmer was up on his ranch, and Hannington had to be contented with Howden, the deputy, who got over to the Advertiser office almost immediately and, in a very short space of time afterwards, he had the not unwilling Jim safely locked up for the night in the town jail.

Howden, to save himself a little labour—ostensibly for the sake of his friendship with Jim, but really to leave himself free for his evening's amours with a waitress at the Kenora—offered to allow Jim to go home if he would promise to show up at the Court in the morning, but Jim was too fond of experience and too susceptible of melodrama to pass up so golden an opportunity;—he refused to give his parole and in consequence slept soundly and innocently on a little camp bed, in a ten by five cell, at the expense of the municipality.

As soon as the news got about—which it did with astounding rapidity—the entire town was in a fit of merriment over the latest exploit of the wily Langford and the discomfiture of DeRue Hannington; and early the following morning, when the local police magistrate was still negotiating his matutinal egg, the little Courtroom was packed to overflowing.

Phil called off work for an hour or two in order to be on hand should Jim require his aid in any way.

The voluminous and cheerful judge disposed of a case of petty thieving in quick time, then called the case against James Langford for cruelty to animals and destruction of property.

When Jim appeared—his eyes twinkling, but his face as solemn as a parish minister at the funeral of a wealthy and generous member of his congregation, a muffled cheer broke out, which was promptly squelched by the magistrate, to DeRue Hannington's undisguised pleasure.

The case against Jim was read. He pleaded guilty, refusing lawyer's aid or the privilege of stepping into the witness box. There were no dramatics—at least not until the police magistrate pronounced the sentence.

"James Langford," he droned severely, "have you ever been tried before for a criminal act of any kind?"

"No, sir!"

"This is your first offence?"

"No, sir!—but the first time I've been caught."

"Now, Jim,—that'll do!" reprimanded the magistrate, forgetting his courtly dignity for the moment and breaking into a grin; for Jim and he were cronies of long standing.

"I deeply regret that I cannot give you the benefit of the First Offender's Act. These boyish pranks of yours must be put down. You will be breaking windows and riding your horse on the sidewalk next if we allow you to go on in this way, unpunished. You are a big lad now and it is high time you were beginning to take life seriously."

Hannington nodded his head approvingly, and clasped his hands over his stomach.

"In pronouncing sentence, I hope you will take this lesson to heart and that this will be your last appearance before this or any other Court of Justice.

"I fine you fifty dollars and costs, and command that you wash and scrub Percival DeRue Hannington's mare, between the hours of two and four p.m. in front of the Court House, every day, until the animal is restored to its natural colour."

A wild laugh and a great shuffling of feet greeted the sentence.

DeRue Hannington sprang up indignantly, his face bursting red with anger.

"But sir—but sir—I—I! Fifty dollars?—why—I paid one thousand dollars to get him here. Your Honour, it is a positive scandal—a perfect outrage!"

"Silence, sir!" commanded the magistrate.

"But it is an outrage, sir. I insist—it is a low, beastly trick. I appeal—I——"

"Silence!" roared the magistrate again. "One word more, sir, and I'll commit you for contempt of Court. Next case!"

At the Court House door the crowd seized upon Jim, hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him down Main Street, singing and chaffing as happily as if Jim had just won an election.

At the Commercial Bank Jim stopped them and beckoned to Phil.

"Say!—get your thousand dollars out of the Bank and we'll have the crowd take us to Dalton's office right away. I got Hannington's cheque, marked O.K., from Ben Todd in the Court House. We'll call Dalton's bluff for once—and at once."

Phil rushed into the Bank and was back in three minutes with the money in his possession.

"Now boys!" shouted Jim, "down to Dalton's office and then to the Kenora."

Off they went, shouting and singing as before, not particular as to what it was all about, but simply keen on making an uproar—and as big a one as possible—now that the opportunity presented itself.

James Dalton—sole proprietor of the Dalton Realty Company—was standing at the door of his office, watching the actions of the oncoming crowd. The moment he saw Jim, however, he hurried inside.

The mob stopped at the door. Jim jumped to the ground.

"Come on in, Phil! Stay there, boys—just for a minute or two. There are drinks for the crowd at the end of this trip."

By this time, Dalton was sitting behind his desk, his thumb in the armhole of his vest, nervously chewing at the end of an unlighted cigar.

"I bought the Brantlock Ranch from you the other day, Rattler."

"That's right,—go to it!" ventured Dalton as a try-out. "I kind of half expected something like this."

"Are you going to deny it?"

"If you mean, am I going to deny that I gave a gink, half dippy with booze, an Agreement for Sale in temporary exchange for a bunch of horses that he couldn't look after and was liable to have pinched on him; if you mean am I going to deny that I did it to save him losin' what he couldn't keep an eye on himself,—then I ain't."

Dalton leaned back, still pale from excitement but not at all unsatisfied with his vocal delivery.

Jim looked over to Phil in sheer astonishment at the man's audacity. Phil smiled in return.

"What do you think of that now;—the Rattler turned 'good Samaritan'?

"And you did it just out of the goodness of your kind, unselfish, little, palpitating heart, Dalton?"

"I ain't throwin' any bouquets at myself," remarked Dalton.

"And where are the horses you were so kind as to look after for me?"

"I made a better sale of them hat-racks than you ever could 'a' done. I got eight hundred bucks for the bunch. And I'm ready to give you a cheque for that amount, less ten percent for puttin' the deal through;—seven hundred and twenty bucks, the minute you hand over the phoney agreement which I was dam-fool enough to give you at the time to satisfy your would-be lawyer's intooition and to keep you from yappin' all over the country."

Jim went up to the desk and leaned over toward Dalton.

Dalton leaned back in his chair, so far back that he nearly tip-tilted over it.

"Rattler," said Jim, "come off your perch. It isn't any good. ''Tain't the knowing kind of cattle that is ketched with mouldy corn,'" he quoted roughly.

"I ain't professin' to be up to your high-falutin' talk, Langford, but I get the drift; and I guess you think I'd be batty enough to give you a ranch worth seven thousand bucks on an Agreement for Sale in exchange for a bunch of old spavined mules and three thousand bucks on time."

Jim pulled the Agreement out of his pocket and threw it on the desk, thumping his fist down hard on top of it right under Rattlesnake's sharp nose, causing Dalton to jump again.

"See that?"

"Yep,—guess I do!"

"Well,—you're going to abide by it."

"I am?—like hell!" said Dalton.

Phil took a gun from his pocket and handed it to Jim.

Jim toyed with it. "See that?"

"Can it, Langford! Gun stuff don't go down with me. It is ancient history. You'll get pinched again if you try that on."

"But you see it—don't you?"

"Sure thing! I ain't got 'stigmatism that bad yet."

"Well, Rattler,—it isn't loaded, but I am going to rap you over the koko with it if you don't be a good boy and do as you are told."

"Now,—repeat after me!"

Dalton laughed and rolled his eyes upward to the ceiling.

Jim's arm darted out and the butt-end of the revolver caught Dalton such a sharp rap over the head that that individual was some seconds before he recovered.

"Now," said Jim, "are you ready?"

Dalton sat tight.

"Hi, boys!" shouted Langford sharply, a sudden inspiration seizing him. "I've got a dirty horse-thief, red-handed and self-confessed. Bring in a rope. We can start him with a dip in the horse-trough."

Three husky individuals strode inside.

Dalton gasped. He knew just what the men in the Valley thought of horse-stealing, in general, and he was all unprepared for this sudden move of Jim's.

"Steady a minute, boys!" exclaimed Jim. "It seems that Dalton has not quite made up his mind as to whether he stole those horses of mine that he sold afterwards, or simply took them from me in part-payment of the Brantlock Ranch.

"Now, Rattler, come on, repeat your little spiel after me, or go with the boys and get what's coming to you."

Dalton saw the game was up.

"This Agreement," said Jim.

"This Agreement," repeated Dalton sheepishly.

"Is a real, genuine Agreement."

"Is a real, genuine Agreement," continued the other.

"Between Jim Langford and me, and stands good."

"Between Jim Langford and me, and stands good."

"Sorry to disappoint you, boys!—but Dalton remembers now that he didn't steal my horses,—he bought them.

"Now Rattler, darling!—Phil Ralston and I are taking up that Agreement and want possession of the ranch right away."

Dalton licked his lips.

"There's two thousand plunks due me to-day on that there agreement."

"And there's the money, my bonnie boy!"

Jim threw Hannington's marked cheque on the table. Phil followed with ten one-hundred-dollar bills.

"Make out your receipt, son,—quick!"

Rattlesnake Jim turned a sickly white and looked at the two before him in a blank kind of way, then his eyes travelled to the three men by the window and over to the crowd at the door, none of whom had any sympathy for him, but, on the contrary were all aching for the pleasure of dipping him—or anyone else for that matter—into the nearby horse-trough.

Slowly Dalton opened his drawer, took out his receipt book, made out the necessary document and handed it over.

"Guess you've won!" he said, picking up the cheque and money.

"Call off your dogs now, and get to hell out of this!"

"Gee, Rattler, but you're polite with your customers," remarked Phil with a smile.

"Ta-ta, son!" cried Jim, "another thousand little bucklets in six months and you are fully paid up. Dirty, rotten fraud,—eh, my wee mannie!"

At the door Jim raised his voice.

"Thanks, fellows! Phil and I are going ranching and we haven't time for booze any more, but you go on down to the Kenora and tell Charlie Mack to give you a couple of rounds each at my expense. I'll 'phone him as soon as we get home.

"You're a dog-goned bunch of real, live sports,—every mother's son of ye."



CHAPTER XIX

Ranching De Luxe

A team of horses and a wagon were standing at the front entrance to Mrs. Clunie's boarding house.

It was the same team and wagon that Jim Langford took over from Rattlesnake Dalton with the Brantlock Ranch.

It was early morning and still dark, but the two would-be ranchers had already loaded up the wagon with their tools, bedding and personal effects.

With a nod of satisfaction to each other, they grinned, tied their saddle horses on behind, clambered into the front of the wagon and started off.

This ranching fad was entirely Jim's, for Phil looked with Lord Nelson's blind eye when it came to seeing any quick fortune in fruit farming. But knowing that the Brantlock Ranch was a sheer give-away at the price they had paid for it and not being desirous of parting from Jim or of smothering any attempt on the part of the latter to take up some definite work, he had compromised: Jim was to remain on the ranch all the time, while Phil would keep on working at his trade with Sol Hanson, thereby giving Sol time to look about for a substitute and also ensuring a good food supply until they should realise on their next season's general produce, which Jim had decided to plant and cultivate between his fruit trees. This revolutionary plan of combining truck gardening and ranching had been a pet scheme of Jim's for a number of years. He contended, and rightly too, that despite the fact that a fruit rancher was a fruit rancher, there was no particular reason why a rancher should not be a farmer as well; rather than lay out his young trees and sit still for the next five or six years and become poor or bankrupt in the process of waiting till his trees should grow to fruition—as so many seemed to be doing—when by pocketing his pride and condescending to a little hard work in market gardening, he could at least make ends meet until the time came for the greater harvest of the big fruits.

Jim Langford was not destined to demonstrate this theory personally, although he lived to be confirmed in his wisdom and to see the plan work out to splendid success.

The Brantlock Ranch was only some two miles from town, and Phil, for company's sake, had agreed to spend his spare time there, riding in and out to work morning and evening.

When all was ready, Jim handled the reins of his team, blew a kiss in the location of the chaste and goodly Mrs. Clunie's bedroom window, and they started off.

Phil glanced up at the clouded sky, through which the grey of dawn was endeavouring to peep. Away beyond the mist, the dark outline of the cold, enveloping hills barely showed itself.

"It's a great day to start out ranching, Jim," he commented with a shiver, as he buttoned up his coat and turned up his collar.

Jim looked upward. A blob of very moist snow—the forerunner of many—splashed into his eye and blurred his vision.

"It sure is!" he agreed, squeezing it out.

"It is a good job we have Morrison's tarpaulin over our stuff."

"Ugh-huh!"

Five minutes' silence ensued, in which the grey of dawn seemed to be getting the worse of its tussle with the black of night.

"I guess the gang down town will think we're crazy starting out to ranch in the month of November."

"Ay!"

A splash of snow struck the bridge of Phil's nose, spread itself and slid slowly down to the point, where it clung precariously for a moment, then lost its hold. Another—the size of a silver dollar—landed sheer on the nape of Jim's neck just where the coat and his hair did not meet. Jim turned up his coat collar to forestall a possible repetition.

"There's one consolation, Jim, we'll have everything in apple-pie order by the spring-time."

"Ya!"

A cattleman, going townward, passed.

"Rotten weather for movin', fellows!" was his chilling comment.

Jim looked up lugubriously, but without verbal response.

Phil well understood the mood, and did not worry.

Langford might have been pondering on the comfortable bed he had left at Mrs. Clunie's and on the advisability of turning back, or he might have been figuring how much they were going to make on the next year's fruit crop. As he did not turn back, his thoughts, despite his monosyllables, were evidently bravely optimistic.

On they jogged through the enveloping mists of the vanguard of a snow-storm, huddling themselves gradually into smaller and smaller compass as the sleety snow warmed—or rather, cooled—to its task of discouragement and settled down in ghostly earnest, pushing back the already delayed dawn and casting a cheerless gloom over the countryside.

Before the budding ranchers had gone half a mile, the watery snow was running off their clothes. When a mile was completed they were soaked through, sitting like two scare-crows, their hats almost to their chins and their chins buried in their buttoned mackinaws.

They were nearing their journey's end—too miserable for words—when a horse clip-clopped on the muddy road behind them. The rider drew up alongside them.

"Gee, boys, but you started early. I thought I'd never catch up on you."

The speaker was Eileen Pederstone, snug in her riding habit and enveloped in an oilskin coat.

"In the name of all that's lovely!" ejaculated Jim. "What are you doing up at this time in the morning?"

"I'm up by this time pretty nearly every morning, Mister Impertinence.

"I thought I might be in time to catch you at Mrs. Clunie's before you left. I just heard of this enterprise late last night."

She laughed.

"My, but that was a great coup. You're a dandy pair! I just wanted to wish you both the best of luck right at the start."

"Thanks awfully!" grinned Jim, "for we sure are getting it."

"Oh, tush! This is nothing. Okanagan ranchers don't worry about a little snow in November or December. It's a good warm blanket for the roots of the trees when the cold comes along, and a fine drink for them later on in the spring-time.

"Here's something for your first meal on the ranch. Who's to be cook,—you Jim, or Phil?"

Phil glanced over quickly and Eileen's cheeks took on a rosier tint.

"Oh, Jim's to be the rancher and I've to earn a living for both in the meantime," answered Phil, "so I guess he will be cook—unless we can hog-tie one somewhere."

Eileen handed them a large parcel from under her oilskin.

"Well,—that's all, boys," she said. "I'm going to Victoria pretty soon, to be dad's house-keeper. But I'll be out to see you before I go. You're off on your own at last,—and that's the only way. If you don't like ranching, sell out. But whatever you do,—oh boys!—keep on your own. Don't ever work for the other fellow any more. Stay out on your own. One is always of most value to one's-self. I wish I could preach that from the hill-tops. Wage slaving for somebody else is the curse of the times."

"Hush!—you rascally little socialist; do you wish to ruin all the millionaires and trust companies by giving away their trade secrets in this way?" dryly commented Jim.

Eileen laughed.

"Well,—good-bye, Jim! Good-bye, Phil! And jolly good luck!"

With a whirl and a jump she turned and made off. But the cheery sunshine of her presence and her hearty greeting kept radiating over the two, leaving a warmth and a cheerfulness around them, where a few moments before had been cold and grumpiness.

They reached their destination at last, unhitched and turned the horses into a large barn in the rear of the dwelling house.

There was no doubting the splendidness of the ranch proper, with its acres of young fruit trees set out in rows with mathematical exactitude, and its pasturage which was now blanketed with snow. Neither, alas! was there any doubting the miserableness of the broken-down two-storied, log-built barn of a place that was meant for their future home.

Jim and Phil shook the icy water from their clothes, stamped their feet and went inside.

The house was damp and cheerless, and evidently had not been subjected to heating of any kind for months.

They unloaded their bedding and other effects, then set about to light a fire in the fairly business-like stove that stood in a corner of the kitchen. They were busy at it, when the smooth, greasy, grinning face of a fat Chinaman showed round the door-post.

"Hullo, John,—come on in!" greeted Jim.

The oriental obeyed, with just a little show of diffidence, although diffidence of any degree did not sit too well on the general sleek confidence of his appearance.

"Hullo!" said Phil, looking him over.

"Hullo!" said the Chinaman, familiarly. "You new bossy-man,—eh?"

"You bet! Where you come from, John?"

"Where me come? Me live here. Me stop little house way down orchard. Me work allee time nicee day;—live here allee time winter.

"You let me stop,—eh?"

The Chinaman was quick in getting to business.

"What do you say, Jim?" asked Phil.

"Sure thing,—just what we want!

"Say, John!—what your name?"

"Me,—my name? My name, Ah Sing."

"Ah Sing!" exclaimed Jim, looking upward in expectancy.

"Ya,—Ah Sing!" repeated the other with a set, Chinese grin.

"Ah Sing!"

"Ya,—Ah Sing!"

"Then, why in heaven's name, don't you? I've asked you twice," laughed Jim, showing his large teeth.

The Chinaman showed his own in return.

"Sing,—you know me?"

"Ya,—I know you. You bossy-man, Big Jim. I see you Court House plenty time."

"Well!—you catchem heap firewood, cleanem up, sweepee floor—just little bit—cookem one time every day;—and you stop. No do it;—you go away;—no get stop here,—see!"

"Me stop here long time," remonstrated Sing fearfully, "one—two—three—four bossy-man come, Sing stop allee time."

"No matter,—you work little bit, or no stop here,—see!"

The idea of winter work did not appeal to the wily Sing, but as it was "work" or "get out," he relented.

"All lite!" he agreed. "Me stop. You pay me spling-time?"

"Yes!—that's a go, Sing. I pay you all time you work outside on ranch. No pay winter time: not muchee work: just little bit."

"Me savvy! Me go catchem dly wood."

"So he is an old pal of yours, Jim?"

"Yes!—and he's a pretty wise guy at that.

"He was up before Thompson, the Government Agent, one time I was there. Thompson was trying to get him to take an oath over something. He asked Sing how he would like to swear, whether by kissing the Bible or in the Chinese way.

"Me no care," said Sing, "burnem paper, smellum book—allee same Ah Sing."

"Thompson saw how much the Chinaman cared about oaths in general, so he got busy and pretty nearly scared the daylights out of Sing."

"What did he do?" asked Phil, as both continued unpacking their gear.

"Oh,—he made Sing swear by the live chicken. You see, a Chinaman will always tell the truth when he has to cut a live chicken's head off over it. If he happens to be guilty of anything and says he isn't and cuts the fowl's koko off,—he is sure to die for his prevarication. We all die, anyway, of course," commented Jim, "but not so suddenly, evidently. Then, if John is accused by someone of doing something he didn't do and he pleads innocent and cuts the infernal bird's headpiece off—the other fellow cops off."

Phil laughed, and worked on his fingers as if endeavouring to figure the thing out.

"It's quite easy;—simple as A.B.C.," commented Jim, "only you're too darned thick skulled to savvy,—that's all."

"And I guess the chinks think we are pretty dense not to understand," put in Phil.

"Just so!"

Sing put an end to the conversation by reappearing with a big armful of wood.

A respectable fire was soon blazing in the stove and a sense of increasing comfort began to pervade the place. Eileen's eatables—meat pie and some baked fruits—were put into the oven to heat, while Jim and Phil changed into dry clothes.

They then went into the adjoining room to inspect the furnishings, which consisted solely of an iron bedstead with a fairly good spring on it; a cheap little bureau, two chairs and an oil lamp.

The walls of the place were of shiplap covering the logs, while the roof at the corners had holes in it big enough to put one's head through. Fortunately a loft of some kind separated the heavens from the occupants.

They spent the day making the house somewhat habitable, inspecting the barns and grooming and feeding their horses.

In a spirit of thankfulness for small mercies, as night drew down they got out their mattresses and bedding and prepared to make themselves as comfortable as possible. They partook of supper and went to bed early. Both were tired, and it was not long before they were sound asleep. They might have remained so until morning had not Phil wakened up with the fancy of something scampering over his face.

He sprang into a sitting posture.

"Get down, man! You're letting in the draught. It's all right. You were just dreaming," grunted Jim.

"Dreaming nothing!" cried Phil, brushing his face. "Something as big as a horse ran over my cheek."

"Lie down then and cover up your head. It'll be all right."

Phil was not so easily satisfied. He struck a match and looked about him.

"See that!" he whispered. As Jim jumped up in response, several shadowy forms scurried off in various directions. The match burned to Phil's fingers and spluttered out, as Phil swore and sucked his injured digits.

"Deevils!" whispered Jim eerily.

"Rats!" exclaimed Phil, striking another match and groping for the lamp.

"Better than bugs!" said Jim philosophically.

"Oh, you wait!" retorted Phil. "The bugs haven't found out yet that we're here. You'll make acquaintance with them later."

Jim shivered.

"Man,—I detest bugs, though! I wouldn't wonder if you are right too; the place had a musty smell; besides, that wily duck of a civilized chink would be living here if there wasn't something wrong." He shivered again. "They give me the grue. I can feel the darned little brutes already."

"Oh, forget it!" said Phil. "Whoever heard of a calculating, sober-minded, creepy bug coming out on a night like this and scaring you away before you're right settled down. Bugs have more sense than that, Jim."

Langford curled himself up in small compass, covered his head over with the blankets and dozed off again.

Phil rose, took his twenty-two rifle from his pack and set it alongside the bed. He put a light to the lamp, got into bed again and turned the light down to a peep. He lay quietly watching the hole in the corner of the roof over by the foot of the bed.

The lamplight reflected suddenly from two tiny beads at the edge of the hole. Phil reached cautiously for his rifle, raised it, aimed carefully and fired. Something fell on the floor with a thud.

Jim sprang up in alarm.

"Good heavens, man!—what's up?" he cried.

"Oh, go to sleep!" answered Phil. "I've just shot one of your bugs."

"Shoot away then," retorted Jim, "but please remember they're not my bugs."

In a few minutes more, Phil shot again, and another victim thumped to the floor. Half a dozen times this happened at intervals, until Jim—unable to get any sleep—grew faintly interested in the sport and volunteered to take a turn while Phil crept under the blankets for warmth.

It was only when morning began to dawn that the two got down to an honest hour's slumber.

When they rose, thirty-six dead bush rats lay in a heap directly under the hole in the roof.

"And they told us nobody lived here!" remarked Jim. "That's a great bag, though. Man,—if only they were rabbits!"

"How do you suppose they come to make this room their shelter?" asked Phil.

"Easy enough! They evidently come in from the outside between the logs and the shiplap to the loft above. They have made a run along by the beams there and down that board running from the roof to the floor and propping up the wall there; then they make over the floor to that hole, and into the stable where the litter and feed is."

"Great stuff!" commented Phil.

"Ay,—ay!" said Jim wearily, "but I can see where most of my time is going to be occupied in keeping the house to ourselves."

They were late in getting about that morning, but, fortunately, Ah Sing had been around and was putting the finishing touches to a breakfast for two.

Three ugly black cats were at the Chinaman's legs with erect tails, rubbing their backs against him in feline glee every moment he stopped shuffling over the floor.

"Hullo, Sing;—pretty early! Think maybe best you cook dinner night-time—one meal every day—no cookem breakfast. We makem breakfast," said Jim, as he picked up one cat after another by the neck and solemnly dropped them out at the front door.

"Ya,—I savvy!" said Ah Sing. "Me cookem supper every night—to-morrow—but no do'em this time to-day. My blother's wifee, she die and get buried one year to-day. Savvy! Me want to go and put'm chicken, piecee pork, punk stick, all on grave—see!"

Phil laughed as he sat down to the table. Ah Sing looked hurt.

"What you do that for?" asked Phil.

"You no savvy?" queried the Chinaman, leaning over with arched eyebrows. "Put'm on grave so devil come and eat'm up. Devil say, 'Ah Sing good boy;—Ah Sing blother Lee, he good boy too.' Devil, heap pleased. No hurt Ah Sing and Lee Sing."

Jim ventured a cautious look up from his oatmeal and milk, as if awaiting the outcome of the discussion.

"Gee!—but they're a crazy bunch," said Phil, addressing no one in particular. Ah Sing was of the knowing school of chink and did not choose to let the remark slide by.

"You say 'heap crazy.' No crazy! White man just allee same crazy. He put'm flower on white girlie grave. You no think that crazy. Chinaman put'm chicken and pork on Chinee girlie grave,—Chinaman no crazy.

"White man look up—see angel; white man put'm flower, please angels. Angels no hurt anybody.

"Chinaman look down—see devil. Devil he can hurt everybody. Chinaman put'm chicken for devil. Devil heap pleased:—no hurt Chinaman.

"Just allee same,—allee same! White man flower;—Chinaman chicken!"

Jim laughed. "Best forget it, Phil;—he's a dyed-in-the-wool Chinaman, fully Canadianised. You can't beat him. He has a pat answer for anything you like to put up to him. And, after all, when you come to analyse the darned thing,—there is about as much sense in the pork and punk-stick stuff as there is in the flowers. Give me my bouquets when I am alive,—that's what I say."

After breakfast, Phil saddled his horse and rode to town. It was still snowing softly, but a rift of blue and a shaft of sunlight overhead gave promise of a let-up, while a wind with a nip in it prophesied a drop in the barometer and a tightening up.

When he got back in the evening, he found the front door bolted on the inside. He rapped on the panel, and Jim opened it very slightly, making a scooping motion with his foot along the floor, as if helping something out of the kitchen or trying to prevent something from coming in.

"What's up, Jim? Scared for burglars?"

"Burglars,—no! Darned black cats! The door won't stay closed without being bolted, and these ugly black devils of Sing's have taken such a fancy to the place and the heat, that I have been busy all day slinging them outside."

"That accounts for the negro shuffle you did as I came in," laughed Phil.

"Exactly! I've got the habit now."

"But what on earth does the Chinaman do with so many black cats?"

"Just another tom-fool notion these loonies have. They're plumb scared o' the dark. The dark and the devil work a sort of co-operative business against the chink. That is why Sing keeps his light burning all night."

"But where do the cats come in?" asked Phil.

"You wouldn't ask that if you had had to punt them out all day, to-day, as I did. But, punning aside:—Sing and his kind think that when there's no light, safety lies in having black cats around. Somehow, his Satanic Majesty—poor devil—is scared for black cats."

The conversation changed as Phil surveyed the interior of the house. He found a great change had come over their abode. For one thing, it was decidedly cosier. The damp, bug-like feel had gone from the place. An odour of varnish pervaded. The holes in the ceiling and floors had been boarded over, the windows were clean and had curtains on, the stove was polished, and a general air of home comfort was present.

Jim had made an auspicious start.

And every day thereafter showed an added improvement, for it was little that Langford was able to do out-of-doors in that in-between season just prior to the freezing up—and all his energies were evidently being divided between the fixing up of the house and his usual contributions to Aunt Christina's love column and Captain Mayne Plunkett's monthly "thriller."

They had hardly been three weeks on the ranch, when the winter set in for good and shackled the earth in snow and ice.

The morning and evening rides in and out to the smithy were a perfect delight to Phil and they set his blood effervescing in his veins as it had never done before.

Many an evening when it was getting late and the great whiteness around was deathly still, he and Jim would stand on the front veranda and smoke a pipe together, as they silently drank in the beauty of the scene about them.

Jim was by nature a dreamer, and it only required an occasion such as that to set him brooding.

Phil, with the call of the open born in him, preferred the out-of-doors and nature's silences to all else that the world contained.

They would stand there together, looking over the dark rows of young trees, erect and soldier-like in the orchard, against the background of white,—away down to the Kalamalka Lake, smooth and frozen over, then beyond to the low hills that undulated interminably. Quietly, they would admire the sky above them as it seemed fairly strung over with myriads of fairy lamps, twinkling and changing colour in real fairy delight. They would watch those fairy globes here and there shatter into fragments—as if with the cold—and trail earthward in a shimmering streak of silver-dust. They would wait till the moon sailed up over the hills in all her enchantment, then slowly on the heels of their boots, they would beat out the dying embers from the bowls of their pipes, take a glance down the end of the orchard to Ah Sing's shack—where a dim light, suggestive of nothing else but Orientalism, seemed ever to be burning—nod to each other and smile, then turn in without a word and go to bed.

It was in these silences that Phil got to know Jim for the true gentleman he was. It was away out there in that evening stillness that Jim, lonely and misunderstood for the most part, grasped for the first time in his life the true meaning of comradeship, and it aroused in him a fierce love for Phil that could be likened only to the mother-love of a cougar for her young.

That there was some shadow in Phil's life which Phil had never spoken of to him, Jim knew only too well, but he cared little for his friend's past. Only the present counted with men like Jim Langford. Besides, it was little after all that Phil knew of Jim. But what he did know was all to the good.

And, were they not in the West where heredity and social caste is scoffed at, where what a man has sprung from, what he has been or done amiss, matters not at all; where only whether or not he now stands four-square with his fellows counts in the reckoning?

Yet, many times, Phil had made up his mind to confide in Jim and tell him of all his past dealings with Brenchfield; what he had suffered in his youthful folly for that creature who had only sought to do him irreparable injury in return. But, somehow, he had kept thrusting it into the background till a more favourable opportunity should present itself.

The inevitable did come, however, swift and sudden, and all unexpectedly for both of them.



CHAPTER XX

A Breach and a Confession

It was but two days from Christmas. Phil and Sol Hanson had been striving hard to cope with an accumulation of work so that they might be clear of it during the holiday season. Sol, in fact, had been slaving at nights as well as during the day, until even he was bordering on a physical exhaustion.

Jim Dalton, that evil genius, came into the smithy during a temporary absence of Phil's, proffered Sol a drink from the inevitable bottle which he always seemed to have hidden somewhere about his person, and Sol was too weak to refuse.

By the time Phil got back Sol had disappeared.

For the first time since her marriage, Betty's love and influence had failed to anchor her big, weak husband.

From past experience, Phil knew that it was useless going after the big fellow, who required only a few hours to end his carousal. He failed to return to the smithy that evening, so Phil locked up and rode home. He did not call in at Sol's home, for he hoped that the Swede would find his way there within a few hours more.

Next morning, Phil had to open up again.

Betty called in, flooded in tears. Sol had not been home. Phil counselled her to go back and wait in her little cottage for the return of her husband, for he did not wish her to be a witness of his usual reaction. She departed, but whether or not she took Phil's advice, he did not know.

About eleven o'clock, Sol staggered in, helpless, but good-natured as usual. The heat of the smithy soon did its work and the big fellow curled himself up in a corner, among some empty sacks, and dropped off to sleep.

It was the awakening that Phil dreaded, but risky as he knew it would be, he determined to give Sol a chance and leave him to wake up, without sending out to inform Royce Pederstone, who was home for a week to participate in the Christmas festivities, and the Mayor,—whose combined duty it was to see that Sol was properly secured against doing anyone any bodily injury.

But Phil's good intentions were not allowed to fructify.

Brenchfield and Royce Pederstone rode into the yard together, as if they had been aware of every move of Sol's.

They ordered Phil to lock the front door and come out by the back way. Phil pleaded Sol's cause for a little, but only got called a sentimental fool for his kindly feelings; and he had no recourse but to obey instructions, for Brenchfield and Royce Pederstone had almost unlimited power in regard to Sol's permanent freedom or confinement.

Brenchfield pitched some chunks of coal at Sol through the broken window. Sol woke with a start, cursed in a mixture of Swedish and English, then, with that terrible madness upon him—which Phil had witnessed only once before but would never forget,—he sprang for the back door, as Phil got round the gable-end of the smithy.

Sol wrestled for a few seconds with the back door and finally tore it completely from its hinges. He darted out into the yard, hurling the broken woodwork full at Brenchfield as the latter was swinging his lariat. Hanson followed his missile and, for a short space, it looked as if the Mayor's last moment had arrived. But numbers counted again and, fortunately for the big Swede, he could not be in two places at once. Royce Pederstone's rope landed deftly over his head and brought him to earth gasping for breath, half strangled.

Brenchfield recovered. His rope whirled in the air and tightened over Sol's uptilted legs. The rest was easy. Shortly afterwards, Hanson, foaming at the mouth and shouting at the pitch of his voice, was trussed securely to the stanchions supporting one of the barns.

The Mayor and Royce Pederstone were still inside the barn, and Phil was standing in the yard, when poor, little, distraught Betty came anxiously round the building, still on her quest for her man. She heard Sol's voice, and her eyes grew wide and shone in fear and anger. She darted toward the out-house. Phil tried to stop her, but it was useless. Inside she went, and when she surveyed the scene before her—the two strong, calculating men standing watching her husband whom she loved with all the strength of her robust little being, and he roped and hog-tied like some wild animal—her whole womanly nature welled up and overflowed.

"What have you done?" she cried fiercely, her voice weakening as she went on. "Solly, dearie,—my own Sol!"

And Sol cursed, and shrieked, and struggled, unheeding. She ran forward to him and placed her arms about his great neck where the veins were swollen almost to bursting point. She patted his huge, heaving, hairy chest. She wiped away the perspiration from his forehead and the white ooze from his lips. She laid her face gently against his, tapping his cheek with her fingers; crooning to him and kissing him as she would a baby.

Slowly the big fellow melted under her influence. His struggling gradually ceased. Betty kept on calling his name again and again. Her tears dropped on to his upturned, distorted face, and those tears did what knotted lariats and wooden beams had failed to do—they brought peace and sanity back to the eyes of big Sol Hanson.

His head cradled back in his Betty's arms and he panted, looked up at her, and, after a few minutes, smiled crookedly.

"Loosen them ropes!" Betty commanded of Brenchfield and Royce Pederstone.

"We daren't do it," answered the Mayor.

"You loose them quick," she cried again, "or I'll kill you.

"Them fellows is skeered you'll hurt them, Sol. Tell them Solly you won't touch 'em,—will you, Solly?"

Sol shook his head.

Phil came forward to do the needful. At the same instant, Royce Pederstone's good sense took in the situation better than Brenchfield's dogged mind could.

"Guess we might take a chance, Graham!" he said quietly.

"You ain't takin' any chances with my Solly. Give me a knife and beat it, both of you. I ain't skeered o' my man."

The Mayor opened his jack-knife and handed it to Betty. He and Royce Pederstone went into the yard together. Phil stood watching by the barn door.

Shortly afterwards, Sol came out, his big hand clasped over Betty's little one. He looked away from the men in the yard, shame-facedly, but Betty's eyes shone defiance and her head kept up, and the two lovers walked on to the highway and along in the direction of their own home.

"Well I'll be darned!" exclaimed Pederstone. "It takes a woman every time to know how to handle a man."

Brenchfield scoffingly curled his lip.

"Coming my way, Graham?"

"Not yet awhile," said the Mayor; "I want to see Ralston here about a little matter that's been on my mind for a while."

Phil was already back working on the furnace bellows and stirring his irons in the red-hot coals.

Mayor Brenchfield came over to him, his fat but handsome face leering a little under his bushy eyebrows.

"So, Philly,—you're still earning your daily bread by the sweat of your blooming brow!"

The young man looked his tormentor over contemptuously, and continued his work without comment.

"Gee, but some men are damned fools though!" continued the other.

"And some are damned curs," answered Phil.

Brenchfield bit his lip, then grinned.

"Say, Phil!—I'm sorry for all I did. Honest, I am. I want you to forget the past and forgive me. I treated you, as you say, like a cur. I'm willing to make amends and do the right thing by you as far as that is humanly possible. You and I were brought up together, Phil. That should count some."

"It should," agreed Phil, in a non-committal way, wondering what was behind this change of front on the part of Brenchfield.

"I am willing to have my holdings appraised and to make you a present of one half."

"You mean you are willing to let me have the half that belongs to me?"

"If you care to put it that way,—yes!"

"Half of the proceeds of your theft?"

"Oh, forget that! Can't you have a little sense, if only in your own interests?"

Phil smiled.

"I was always a bit of a fool, Brenchfield, where my own interests were concerned. But I am gaining wisdom as I go along."

"Then, in heaven's name, take this chance when it is offered you. No man can do more than I am willing to do now. You won't have to work another stroke in your life."

Phil's eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Gee,—but that would be a pleasant prospect,—I don't think!"

Brenchfield held out his hand. "Is it a go?"

Phil was almost convinced by the sincere ring in Brenchfield's voice. He glanced into the latter's face, but the Mayor's eyes failed to play up to the sound he had put into his voice.

"Do you honestly mean all you say?" asked Phil.

"Every word of it!"

"Well,—since you have raised the white flag, here are my terms:—

"I don't want a cent of your money. Sell out and turn every nickel you have over to somebody or some institution that needs it. Come with me before a magistrate and make an honest confession, and take your chance of a new start, like a man would do. I'll shake hands then and call it quits, but not until."

The Mayor glared at Phil as if he considered the latter had suddenly become bereft of his reason.

"Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed in disgust, turning on his heel, "no use bargaining with a lunatic."

"Wait a bit!" cried Phil. "If I accept all you offer, what do you want in return?"

"Nothing!—nothing but that little piece of paper I was fool enough to leave lying about a few years ago."

"In other words,—your price is the proof of my innocence and your own guilt."

"The question of innocence and guilt has been settled between you and me long ago. You paid the price;—why not take your share of the proceeds?"

Phil shook his head.

"No!" blurted Brenchfield angrily, "but you prefer to use the cipher note for blackmail and to satisfy your own dirty designs for revenge when your own time comes."

Phil pointed to the door.

"Get out!—and don't bring up this subject to me again. I am sick of it—and you."

Suddenly the Mayor laughed in relief, and he snapped his thumb and forefinger under Phil's nose.

"Go to it! Do your worst!" he exclaimed. "I've found out all I wanted to find. You are an arrant bluffer, Phil Ralston, but you're not quite smart enough. You haven't got that note. Damn you!—you never had it for longer time than it took you that morning to burn it.

"It was ashes before the police came.

"Now, Philip Ralston,—it was you who committed the crime you got rightly jailed for. You didn't get half what was coming to you, dirty thief and blackmailer that you are. You should have had ten years——"

Brenchfield got no further. Phil was on him quick as an avalanche. The Mayor, in his haste to get out of the way, toppled backward against the anvil. Phil's left arm shot out and finished the job. He caught Brenchfield straight on the point of the chin, sending him hurtling head first over the anvil and on to the floor on the other side.

Phil vaulted over on top of him, but when he saw the huddled form, limp and insensible, and the face livid and drawn, his better judgment flashed through and mastered his terrible anger. He caught the inert Mayor by the arms, dragged him across the soft flooring of hoof shavings and metal-dust, to the outside, slinging him unceremoniously on to the heap of broken iron beside the frozen horse-trough. He next went back into the smithy, damped down the fires, dipped a pail into the vat—filling it with water—then shut up shop, for it was growing dark and near to the usual closing time. He went into the yard and looked over his still senseless but heavily breathing antagonist. He dashed the icy contents of the pail contemptuously over the head and shoulders of Brenchfield, tossing the empty receptacle on the ground. He next loosened his horse from the stall in the barn, mounted and rode down town to Morrison of the O.K. Supply Company to purchase the balance of the supplies he and Jim required for their next day's Christmas dinner—their first Christmas dinner on a ranch; Phil's first Christmas dinner in six outside of a prison.

And, as he jogged homeward over the hard, frozen snow—his saddlebags on either side choking full of good things to eat—he tried, again and again, but without success, to discover at which point in his conversation with Brenchfield he had given himself away and thereby disclosed to him that his cipher confession was a myth.

And Graham Brenchfield, as he took the back lanes home,—after having regained his scattered senses and put his upset toilet into half-respectable shape—cursed himself for his folly and wished that what he had tried to draw Ralston on were really true; that the document he so much dreaded and desired to possess were really ashes long since strewn to the winds.

But he could not be certain on the point, for Phil had not sufficiently betrayed himself; so he cursed again and made up his mind that there was only one course now open to make surety doubly sure;—and Phil Ralston or any others who tried to come in his path must accept the consequences of their folly and rashness.

Phil reached the ranch in good time and, considering all he had gone through, in fairly good spirits. He stabled the horse, and after brushing three or four of Ah Sing's black cats from the door-step he went inside, greeting Jim in his usual hearty way.

The table was set in the kitchen and the pots were steaming on the stove top, all ready for the evening meal.

Jim was in the adjoining room, apparently absorbed over some of his alleged literary work. He raised his head as Phil greeted him, but his face remained solemn. He kept at the table while Phil washed and dried his face and hands. Phil went in to him at last and sat down on the bed watching Jim intently.

"Come on, old cock!" he cried, "wake up. These dime 'bloods' are getting your goat. Cut loose from them—it's Christmas Eve, and, glory be! we are not in the workhouse.

"Hullo!—what have you been doing with my old gum boots? Gee,—I haven't seen them for a dog's age."

That gave Jim his opening. He rose and went over to the bed, holding out his hand to his partner.

"Phil, old boy, if you get angry with me I'm going to be dog-goned sorry. I've got something on my chest and I've got to get it off.

"You won't get mad!"

The big, rugged, raw-boned Scot caught Phil in his arms and hugged him as if he were a sweetheart.

Usually so undemonstrative, Phil was taken aback at Jim's behaviour; and Jim, immediately ashamed for his outward show of emotion, sat down beside Phil and looked at the floor between his legs.

Phil clapped him on the back and Jim drew himself together.

"How long ago is it since you had these boots on, Phil?"

"Oh,—I guess I haven't had them on since before——" He reddened. "Oh!—four or five years, maybe. They never fitted me very well."

"My own broke on the soles yesterday and I simply had to have something of the kind when cleaning out the stable to-day, so I hunted out yours from your old kit bag."

"You're heartily welcome to them, Jim,—if that is all."

Jim turned a curious glance at Phil.

"You good old scout!" he said. Then he changed quickly. "Och,—what's the use o' me beating about. Phil,—that—that fell out of the toe of one of the boots when I was trying to get them on."

He held out a dirty, crumpled piece of paper.

Phil took it from him and looked it over casually.

"It was twisted up, almost to the size of a marble."

Suddenly Phil's face took on an ashy hue and he gasped.

"Great God; I—I——"

He jumped up, then caught at the bed-post for support as he tried to gather his wits and to quiet his wildly thumping heart.

"You—you——It is all right, Jim," he stammered. "It is of no importance."

Jim rose and placed his arm round his chum.

"Phil, old chap,—it isn't any good to pretend. I'm an interfering lout, I know, and I shouldn't have done it. I have made out all that it says, and, oh God!—but you're a game sport—even if you have been a darned fool about it."

Phil stood helpless.

"Heavens!" continued Jim, "five years in jail for that pig! And you never split on him. The dirty sewer-rat!

"I remember every point of that case now. Being a lawyer, I followed it closely. It struck me as one of purely damned, damning circumstantial evidence and it interested me at the time."

"And—and you found this in—in my old boot?" asked Phil, pulling himself up.

"Ay!—and pretty nearly didn't pay any heed to it. I unrolled it without thinking, then the queer mix-up of letters and numbers got me. I wasn't so very busy—I never am when something crops up that attracts the curiosity part of me. I wondered what it could all mean. I sat down there and got it in two hours, beginning at the end and working backwards. I should have stopped, laddie, when I got a certain length, but it dealt with you and I didn't think I would be right in stopping.

"Edgar Allen Poe's 'Gold Bug' gave me the incentive for deciphering such like conundrums. I found it easy enough starting in with his method of deduction.

"You're no' angry wi' me, Phil?" asked Jim, taking refuge in his favourite Doric.

"No—no—I'm not, Jim! I meant to—to tell you—someday. I—this has caught me unexpectedly and I can't just think right. But I thought this had been burned long ago. Brenchfield thinks so too. The police had these boots all the time I was in jail, and they didn't discover it.

"Let's sit down, Jim! I've got to tell you all about it now. Supper can wait. We'll both feel the better for it afterwards."

They sat down together on the bed in that little back room.

"It's a common enough story, Jim. I was born in Toronto. There were four of us, my dad, my mother, my little sister Margery and myself. A happier quartette no one ever heard of. But my mother died suddenly. To my mind, she took all the fun of life with her. Dad moved us to Texas, where he became engaged in some mining or oil projects. A year after my mother's death, he married again. I did not understand a thing about it, until he told me I had a new mother. In a fit of boyish resentment, I packed my clothes together, took my small hoard of savings, went into my little sister's bedroom one night as she lay asleep, kissed her, cried over her, and ran away.

"Silly, Jim,—wasn't it? But from that day to this I have not seen a relative of mine.

"I worked my way north, back into Canada, to Campbeltown, where I remembered having visited the Brenchfields as a little fellow with my mother. Brenchfield's mother and mine had been school companions in the old days. I had had a good time on that earlier visit and the memory of it, more than anything else, prompted me to make for Campbeltown again.

"Mrs. Brenchfield showed me every kindness and made a home for me. She or her husband must have sent word to my dad, who evidently decided to let me cool my heels. He mailed me a draft for three hundred dollars and promised a further hundred dollars a month for my keep and education during the time I preferred to deny myself of the pardon and loving welcome that would await me any time I cared to return home. That was where the mistake was made. Jim, he should have insisted on my being returned home at once and when I got home he should have given me a right good hiding.

"I indignantly returned his draft and wrote him declining all aid from one whom I, in my juvenile heroics, felt I could no longer respect as a father.

"Gee!—what fools we are sometimes! And how often have I longed and ached to hear from my dear old dad again! But I was proud, and I fear I am still a little that way.

"I was thrown into the constant companionship of Graham Brenchfield and despite our great dissimilarity in make-up and his three years' advantage over me in age, we got on well together. He was different then.

"The Brenchfields educated me, as they did Graham. I put it all down, for a long time after, to the great goodness of their hearts, but I have had every reason to believe lately that they were secretly in receipt of that hundred dollars a month which I so dramatically declined from my dad. I feel certain now that it was my stay with the Brenchfields that so materially aided them in the education of their own, for they had little enough money in their own right for educational purposes.

"I pulled up on Graham at school and in a few years we were ready to start out to conquer the world. It was then that we decided on the Great Adventure to the Golden West, in search of fame and chiefly fortune.

"Youthful-like, we made a vow. We were to work together if we could, but, no matter what took place, we were to meet at the end of five years, pool our profits and make a fair divide.

"Brenchfield had five hundred dollars in cash. I had a similar amount coming to me from a farmer named Angus Macdonald in payment of two summers' work I had put in on his place. Macdonald promised to send the money on to me at a certain date and, as his name and word were gold currency in and around Campbeltown, we set out on Graham Brenchfield's five hundred. We got to Vancouver, did odd jobs there for a bit; then Graham got something more promising to do on a cattle ranch in the Okanagan Valley and he left me clearing land in Carnaby, in the suburbs of Vancouver.

"Well, Jim,—Brenchfield had been only a few months gone, when I received letters from him urging me to send along the money I had coming from Angus Macdonald, as he had obtained a month's option on some land in which he declared there was a positive fortune. As it turned out, Brenchfield was right in his surmise, as he seemed to be in almost everything else he touched for years following. It was ranch property, evidently right on the survey line of a new railroad. He was wildly excited over it in all his letters. Macdonald's money was due, but it did not come to hand, so I had to keep on putting Brenchfield off and meantime I made a draft on Macdonald, putting it through the Carnaby branch of the Commercial Bank for collection. Three days before Brenchfield's option was up he dropped in on me unexpectedly, by the first inter-urban train one morning. At that time, I was living by myself in a little rented two-roomed shack a few hundred yards outside of Carnaby.

"Graham Brenchfield raged and ranted in a terrible way, getting purple in the face in his disappointment and anger. He called Macdonald all the skin-flinting names he could think of and incidentally expressed himself of my unbusiness-like qualities. I told him what I had done, how I had written to Macdonald repeatedly, wired him and finally drawn on him; that I had called at the bank until Maguire the banker got sick at the sight of me and declared I haunted him like a damned ghost.

"I left Brenchfield that morning in my place, promising to be back by noon. I worked for two hours, then left off for fifteen minutes to run over to the bank, for I had a hunch that there was something there. Maguire the Agent was in a nasty mood.

"He declared there was nothing for me. I told him he hadn't looked to see, and I waited around, whistling and shuffling my feet till he got exasperated. It was the end of the month and he was busy, so perhaps I should have been more considerate, but I was nineteen years old then and consideration did not weigh very heavily on me. Besides, I was badly in need of the money.

"He finally threatened to throw me out for the 'kite-flier' I evidently was. That angered me; I picked up a heavy ruler and threatened to knock his head in. At last, my eye caught sight of the postal stamp of Campbeltown on a letter among his unopened mail lying on the counter. And, sure enough, it contained Macdonald's payment. I got the money from Maguire and left immediately, as happy as a king.

"Before going home to break the good news to Brenchfield, I returned to my job in order to tell Macaskill the foreman that I intended taking the afternoon off. When I got there, they used me to clear off some fallen timber from the right-of-way and that delayed me quite a bit. I didn't see Macaskill, so left without saying anything in particular to anyone.

"When I got back home, Brenchfield was sitting at the kitchen table with his head resting on his hands. He had been writing on a sheet of paper. I ran over to him and clapped my hand on his back. I threw my roll of bills on the table right under his nose. He stared at the bundle stupidly, then sprang up with an oath on his lips. Jim, I can see it all again as if it had taken place ten minutes ago. I can hear him word for word as if my mind had become for the time being a recording phonograph.

"I could see at a glance that there was something very far wrong. His eyes were bloodshot and he was deathly white.

"'Good God!' he cried, pushing his fingers through his hair.

"'Graham,—whatever is the matter with you?' I asked. 'You surely haven't been drinking? You're ill.'

"He laughed.

"'I'm all right! Nothing wrong with my health! Guess it's my morals that have gone fluey. So you got the money? My God!—if I'd only known that."

"He put his hand in his back pocket, drew out a bundle of bills and tossed it on the table beside mine. It was money, Jim,—money by the heap.

"'Good heavens, man!—where did you get it?' I cried.

"'Ay!—you may well ask. I had to have it—you know; so I went out and got it. Stole it—or rather, borrowed it when the other fellow wasn't looking. See that over there!' He pointed to a basin on the wash-stand. 'Look inside, Phil. It's red. Look at your shirt lying in the corner there. It's bloody too. God!—the damned stuff is still all over me. It sticks like glue. It won't come off.'

"His voice was gradually getting louder, so I went to him and clapped my hand over his mouth. I cautioned him to be quiet. For the first time in my memory, Graham Brenchfield broke down and cried like a baby. Little wonder,—for it was his first great offence against society and law.

"I led him to a chair and sat quietly beside him until the worst of his wildness seemed to be over.

"'Graham,—you must pull yourself together,' I said. 'Tell me what it is you have done. Maybe it is not so bad. Maybe we can fix it up.'

"'Phil, I got tired waiting for you and went out three-quarters of an hour ago,' he replied. 'I went over the fields to the village. I didn't mean any wrong then. I had no thought of it. I went the back way toward the bank. The back door was open and I looked in. The banker was figuring. There was money—stacks of it. The sight of the damned stuff made me crazy. I had little hope of you getting yours. It seemed an easy way. Something gripped me and I saw nothing after that but the money. There was no one about. I crept in, and under that counter that lifts up. He never saw or heard me. I picked up something—a poker, a ruler maybe. God only knows what it was! I hit him over the head with it. It didn't drop him. I had to hit him again and again. Then blood spurted. He fell on the floor. I grabbed as much money as I thought I needed and I came away hoping to get out from here before you got back. I was just writing to you now to tell you what I had done. I put it in the old cipher we made up together at school. I knew you'd fathom it and understand. It is on the table there.

"'Now you've come back,' he continued. 'They'll be after me. What am I to do, Phil? It'll break the dad's and mother's hearts if the police get me for this. Honest, Phil!—I didn't mean to. I can't think right. You tell me what to do. You fix it up and get me away from here.'

"He was on the point of breaking down again, Jim, when I brought him up with a jerk.

"'I can help any man but a murderer,' I said. 'You didn't kill Maguire?'

"'No, no! I swear it,' he answered. 'The knocks I gave him could not kill him.'

"'Well, if he dies, Graham, I'll have to tell. If he doesn't, you can bank on me. Your folks have been too good to me for me to forget and we've been too good friends for me to give you away. Does anybody know you are in Carnaby?' I asked further.

"'Not a soul,' he said.

"'Has anyone seen you here?'

"'Not that I know of!'

"'Quick then,' I cried. 'Take this money Angus Macdonald sent. It's ours. There are five hundred dollars. That's all you need to meet your present obligations. Leave the blood money where it is. I'll put it in an envelope and some time late to-night I'll drop it, unaddressed, into the bank letter-box. They'll never guess what has happened, and, if Maguire recovers and they get their money back, no one—no one but you, Graham—will be any the worse for it.'

"This was one time that Brenchfield allowed himself to be advised and led.

"'Here,—take the back way,' I went on, 'the way you came, through the timber. Walk till you get to Newtown, then drop on to a Vancouver car and in. Then up the main line by to-night's train, and lie quiet.'

"Brenchfield stopped at the door and offered me his hand.

"'You won't hold a grudge against me for this?' he asked.

"'Never a grudge!' I said.

"'You won't let it interfere with our plans for the future, Phil?'

"'No,—for you'll have learned your lesson.'

"'And we're still partners?'

"I wasn't quite so sure about that part of it, but a look in Brenchfield's face made me relent.

"'Partners,—yes, Graham,—if you still wish it,' I said.

"'Wish it,—sure I wish it, Phil.'

"'Right-o.'

"'And whatever happens between you and me, in five years' time we'll pool everything we have, as we promised, and make a fair divide?'

"'Yes, yes!—all right! For heaven's sake get away quickly. You're wasting precious time, and time with you is everything. One can never tell.'

"'When will you come up to the Okanagan?' he asked next.

"'Just as soon as this blows over and I get squared away. Maybe in three weeks' time—not later than a month.'

"We shook hands and I watched him as he hurried away across the fields."

Phil stopped and looked into space.

"Go on, go on, man," exclaimed Jim, his face tense.

"After that, the first thing that caught my eye was Brenchfield's note on the table. I had the key to it in my mind, so it was easy enough to decipher. You have it Jim, word for word:—

"'Dear Phil,

I have gone back to Vernock. I have borrowed the money I needed and I fear I have hurt the banker in the borrowing. Forgive me, but there was no other way out. Whatever you hear, keep silent. Join me as soon as you can. Burn this.

Graham Brenchfield.'"

"Pretty damning stuff, Jim, even if it is in cipher. Well, the last I remember of that note was crumpling it up till it was a mere nothing at all. I must have tossed it away unconsciously and it got lodged in the toe of my gum boot, although I always felt certain within myself till now that I had burned it along with every other scrap of paper I could find in the shack coming from Brenchfield. My next job was to cover up all other traces he had left behind. There was the basin of discolored water on the wash-stand. I threw the water out at the back door and scoured the basin. I next put the stolen money in a large blue envelope and thrust it between my trunk and the wall, out of sight until I should be able to get rid of it through the bank letter-box when night came. I thought I was through then, when I found my dirty shirt in the corner—the twin of the one I was then wearing. It was smeared with blood-stains. Evidently Graham had used that first on his hands, and the water afterwards. I held up the tell-tale garment between my fingers, intending to set it ablaze in the stove. I changed my mind, for shirts were shirts in those days and somewhat scarce. I decided to give it a thorough washing instead. Somewhere, I had heard that hot water would not remove blood-stains, so I emptied some cold water into the basin and got my soap ready to begin. I was just in the act of dipping the shirt into the water when the screen door rattled and three men stepped into the kitchen. My heart jumped, for one of them was Jim Renfrew, Carnaby's Police Chief. The other two I guessed as plain-clothes men from Vancouver.

"'Sorry to disturb you, Ralston,—but we want you at the Station for a few minutes. You don't mind coming, eh!' asked Renfrew.

"'What do you want me for?' I asked.

"'Oh, come and see!' said the Chief. 'Just want to ask you something about something! We won't eat you.'

"Two of them laid hands on me and before I knew just exactly how it happened, cold metal snapped over my wrists and held me secure. The stained shirt was snatched out of my hand. I turned angrily, but a wrench of the handcuffs pulled me up.

"'Cut that out now! Come along quiet! Shut your trap, and say nothing you might be sorry for later. Come on!'

"One of the plain-clothes men remained behind, while the other and the Chief took me through the town to the local jail.

"It was some little time before I grasped the awful seriousness of my position and began to realise how events which I had never thought of might possibly involve me in this affair at the bank. I was totally ignorant of how much the police knew; that was the straining and nerve-racking part.

"The following morning I was brought before the local magistrate, charged with attempted murder and robbery, and was immediately committed for trial to the Assizes. And that evening, handcuffed between two policemen, I was transferred to the Provincial Prison at Ukalla, to await trial.

"God alone knows what I suffered during all that dreadful time, Jim, but I had made up my mind that it was my duty to take the blame on myself, for Brenchfield would never have committed the crime had I fulfilled my share of the bargain at the outset and put my money in when it was due. I thought of the goodness of the Brenchfields, of all they had done for me, of what it would mean to them if Graham were convicted. I only dreamed of a few months' imprisonment at the outset, so I decided I would keep my mouth shut.

"During all the time I remained awaiting trial, no one visited me but a parson and an exasperated lawyer who had been appointed to defend me, but who could get nothing out of me.

"I was tried. I refused to speak, and in so doing, I hadn't the ghost of a chance for liberty.

"Macaskill the foreman swore that I had been absent from my work for a time on the morning of the assault; I had been expecting money which hadn't arrived and I seemed badly in need of it.

"Doctor Rutledge of Carnaby had stopped at the door of the bank that morning and had seen me inside. He had heard Maguire and I in dispute and had heard further my threat to crack Maguire over the head with the very ruler with which the assault had been committed.

"Maguire, swathed in bandages but apparently little the worse, recounted our dispute. He swore that I had committed the assault on him, as it had happened just after he had paid over the money to me and turned back to his work.

"Chief Renfrew and his two detectives had caught me, red-handed, in my shack, washing my blood-stained shirt—a shirt similar to the one I was wearing at the time of my arrest. They even found the entire proceeds of the theft in a blue envelope behind my trunk; although they had to admit having been unable to trace the additional five hundred dollars which Maguire stated he had given to me.

"It was great stuff, Jim. Circumstantially damning as could be. They gave me five years in hell for my share in it, also a nice long harangue from the judge about behaving myself when I came out."

During this long, clear-cut, passionless recital, Jim Langford had sat beside Phil, glooming into space, his face like chiselled grey granite.

"My God!" he exclaimed at last and only his lips moved.

"Yes, Jim,—and Graham Brenchfield sat among the spectators all through the trial, heard me sentenced, rose and went out into his merry world without as much as a twitch of his eyelid for Phil Ralston.

"Ah, well! it's over and done with. But can you blame me, Jimmy, for a little bitterness in my heart against that fine gentleman for his cowardice and treachery?"

"Blame you," exclaimed Jim, passionately. "Great God! if he had done this with me, Phil, I would have schemed and plotted till I succeeded in getting him away to some lonely shack, then I would have tied him up and cut little pieces out of him every day till there was nothing left of him but his sense of pain and his throbbing black heart."

Phil laughed, rose and stretched himself.

"That's just the penny-dreadful part of you talking, Jim; the Captain Mayne Plunkett. You know quite well you wouldn't do anything of the kind."

But Jim was in no mood for flippancy.

"Sit down!" he commanded. "Now that you have told me so much, tell me everything. We are in this together now and I want to know what has passed between you and that scum since you came up here."

"You know the most of it; there isn't much more to tell," said Phil, but obedient to his friend's wishes, he sat down again and starting in with his first meeting, as a fugitive, with Eileen Pederstone, he told of all the attempts that Brenchfield had made on his life, of his wild schemes and endeavours to recover this very paper that lay on the counterpane beside them, the existence of which Phil had been unaware but had bluffed and double-bluffed at in order to keep Brenchfield in his place. Right down to what had taken place that afternoon in the forge—not a detail did Phil miss out—and last of all, he confided to Jim the great longing in his heart that had been with him since first he had met Eileen Pederstone, and the hope that some day, after he had honestly achieved, he might be privileged to tell her what his feelings were toward her.

"If you are not altogether an idiot," answered Jim bluntly, "you will tell her the very next time you meet her. Does the lassie know that you were jailed for something you didn't do?"

"No,—I—I didn't tell her that. But she is aware that we met some time in the past:—that there is some kind of secret between Brenchfield and me."

"Are you going to have that two-faced hypocrite arrested?" asked Jim.

"No, siree!"

"And why not, pray?"

Phil gave Jim all his reasons "why not," and, despite Jim's cajolings and threatenings, he remained obdurate on the point.

"Well," exclaimed Langford at last, "you're positively the sentimentalest ass I ever met. But maybe after all you are right. Brenchfield has had this thing eating at his liver like a cancer for six years now and the longer it eats the worse he'll suffer. He is on the down-grade right now, or else I am sadly mistaken. He is up to the ears in it with the worst crooks in the Valley:—cattle rustlers, warehouse looters, horse thieves, jail birds, bootleggers and half-breeds. Some of these fellows some day are going to get sore with him. Oh, you may be sure his sins are going to find him out;—and the higher he goes the farther he will have to fall.

"It certainly will be one hell of a crash when it comes, and Jimmy Langford hopes to be there with bells on at the funeral of Mayor Brenchfield and his hoggish ambitions."

Phil crumpled up the paper in his palm.

"Here!" cried Jim. "What are you doing that for?"

Phil smiled a little sadly.

"I suppose you will be putting it in the stove next?"

"I guess so!"

"Well, you'd better guess again. It is just like the crazy thing you would try to do in one of your soft moments. Give it to me! I'll take mighty good care of it. It is all that may lie between your guilt or innocence some day, even if it is after Brenchfield is dead and gone to his well-earned reward. A whole lot hinges on that little bit of paper. It has got to be kept good and secure. Come on, softy,—hand it over!"

"If I do, will you promise never to use it in any way unless I consent, or unless I am not in a position to give you either my assent or dissent?"

"Yes!—I promise that."

"There you are then." Phil handed it to Langford, who opened a pocket in his belt and put it carefully inside.

"Guess we might have a bite of supper now,—eh, what!"

They drew in to the table; and that Christmas Eve supper was almost hilarious, for now there was no shadow between, and it meant an intense relief to both.