The stranger moved forward another step, and then stopped abruptly with a little gasp as his glance took in the overturned tray, scattered crockery, and the rigid figure of the girl standing with a flushed face beside the stove. Then he glanced at Alton, and noticing the old jacket and deerhide slippers, appeared to have some difficulty in checking a smile, for this was a young man who knew nothing of the simple strenuous life of the bush, but a good deal about the under-side of that of the cities.
"I'll come back in business hours to-morrow," he said. "Sorry to disturb you, but I hadn't a minute all day, and there was a question I figured we could best talk over quietly."
"Then you had better start in with it," said Alton quietly. "This lady, who came here on business, is just going."
"Of course," said the stranger. "I think I have had the pleasure of meeting her."
He turned with a little smile which broadened into a grin Alton found intolerable, for there was a patter of feet on the stairway, and when he looked round except for himself and Alton the room was empty.
"The fact is I'm awfully sorry," he said. "But how was I to know?"
The veins were swollen on Alton's forehead, and his eyes half-closed. "Now," he said sternly, "I don't want to hear any more of that. I think I told you the lady you saw here came in a few minutes ago on an affair of business."
It was unfortunate that Alton had a difficult temper and his visitor no discretion, for there are men in whom Western directness degenerates into effrontery.
"Of course!" said the latter. "My dear fellow, you needn't protest. Considering the connection between her employers and Hallam, who is scarcely a friend of yours, that is especially likely."
Alton stood very straight, looking at the speaker in a fashion which would have warned any one who knew him. "I figure you can't help being a fool, but I want to hear you admit that you're sorry for it," he said.
He spoke very quietly, but it was unfortunate for both of them that the other man, who was growing slightly nettled, did not know when to stop.
"I told you I was sorry—I looked in at an inopportune time—already, and I'll forget it right off," he said. "Now that should content anybody, because there are folks who would think the story too good to be lost."
He got no further, because Alton stepped forward and seized him by the collar, which tore away in his grasp. Then there was a brief scuffle, a scattering of papers up and down the room, and Alton stood gasping in the doorway, while his visitor reeled down the first flight of stairs and into the wall at the foot of it. Alton glanced down at him a moment, and seeing he was not seriously hurt, flung the door to with a bang that rolled from corridor to corridor through the great silent building, before he turned back into the disordered room with a little laugh.
"I've fixed that fellow, anyway, and now I'd better go through those plans until I simmer down," he said.
He picked up the overturned table and his scattered supper, while it was characteristic of him that when an hour later he rolled up a sheet of mill-drawings in a survey plotting of the Somasco valley, he had forgotten all about the incident, which was, however, not the case with the other man. In another twenty minutes he was also fast asleep, and because men commence their work betimes in that country, had disposed of several car-loads of Somasco produce before he breakfasted next morning. During the day he noticed that some of the younger men he met smiled at him curiously, but attached no especial meaning to it. Alton had taught himself to concentrate all his faculties upon his task, and he worked in the city as he had done in the bush, with the singleness of purpose and activity that left no opportunity of considering side issues. He had also, as usual, a good deal to do: buyers of dressed lumber, cattle, and ranching produce to interview; shippers of horses to bargain with: railroad men and politicians to obtain promises of concessions from, and men who had money to lend to interest. The latter was the most difficult task, and now and then his face grew momentarily grave as he remembered the burdens he had already laid upon his ranch and the Somasco Consolidated.
"Still, what we're working for is bound to come, and we'll hold on somehow until it does," he said to Forel, who occasionally remonstrated with him. "When you've helped me to put the new loan through I'll bring Charley or the other man down, and go up and relocate the claim. After the late snowfall nobody could get through the ranges now, but Tom and I could make our way when it wouldn't be possible to any of Hallam's men."
Possibly because he had been successful hitherto, Alton was slightly over-sanguine, and apt to make too small allowance in his calculations for contingencies in which human foresight and tenacity of purpose may not avail. It happened in the meanwhile, though he was, of course, not aware of this, that Deringham had an interview with Hallam in the smoking-room of the big C.P.R. hotel. They did not enter it together, for Deringham was sitting there when Hallam came in, about the time the Atlantic express was starting, which accounted for the fact that there was nobody else present. Deringham appeared a trifle too much at his ease, though his face was pale, for he had not departed from veracity when he informed Forel that his heart had troubled him after listening to Seaforth's story. He nodded to Hallam, and picked out a fresh cigar from the box upon the table before he spoke.
"It is fine weather," he said.
"Oh, yes," said Hallam dryly. "Still, I guess you didn't ask me to come here and talk about the climate."
"No," and Deringham glanced at his cigar. "I meant to tell you that the little speculation you recently mentioned does not commend itself to me. In fact, I have decided that we can have no more dealings of any description together."
"No?" said Hallam, with a little brutal laugh. "Dollars running out?"
Deringham glanced at him languidly. "As you know, that is not the reason. Now I do not ask for a return of the money you obtained from me—but I want the thing stopped immediately."
Hallam poured out a glass of wine. "You will have to put it straight."
"Well," said Deringham, "if you insist. I am sincerely sorry I ever saw or heard of you. You, of course, remember the conditions on which I made that deal with you. I desired Mr. Alton kept away from Somasco—for a time, and now I want a definite promise from you that he will be free from any further molestation."
"Then," said Hallam, with a grin, "what's your programme if I don't agree? You would put the police on to me?"
"No," said Deringham, making the best play he could, though he realized the weakness of his hand. "That would not appear advisable—or necessary. It would be simpler to warn my kinsman."
Hallam laid his hand upon the table, and Deringham noticed that it was coarse and ill-shaped, but suggested a brutal tenacity of grasp.
"Bluff, with nothing behind it. You don't take me that way," he said. "Now I'll put my cards right down in front of you. Alton is not a fool, and you couldn't tell him anything he doesn't know already. The trouble is, he can prove nothing. He has a tolerably short temper, and one day he 'most hammered the life out of another man in the Somasco mill. That man didn't like him before, and it's quite possible he fell foul of Alton after it, but where does that take in me? Got hold of that, haven't you? Well, then, there's just this difference between you and me. I could tell Alton one or two things about you he didn't know!"
"I would be willing to take my chance of his believing you," said
Deringham.
Hallam laughed. "For a man of business you have a plaguy bad memory. Now it seems to me quite likely that the man I talked about has had quite enough of fooling with Alton, and we'll let what you asked for go at that, because there's something else we're coming to. There was a cheque you gave me, and I had who it was drawn by and payable to put down on the slip when I passed it through my bank. Now I've got that slip, and after I'd had a talk with him, Alton wouldn't wonder what you gave me all those dollars for."
Deringham was silent almost a minute, for he knew his opponent had seen the weak point. Then he said, "If I admitted that you were right?"
Hallam raised his big hand, and pressed his thumb down slowly and viciously on the table. "It don't need admitting. I've got you there," he said. "Still, I don't know that I want to squeeze you. Well, I once kept Alton out of Somasco to please you, and now I want you to keep him right here in Vancouver for a while."
"I could not do it."
"Well," said Hallam, grinning, "if you couldn't, I figure your daughter could."
Deringham had all along been struggling with a sense of disgust, and now his anger mastered him. It was, however, the rage of a weak man which is not far removed from fear.
"You infernal scoundrel," he said.
Hallam laughed brutally. "That may do you good, and it makes no difference to me," he said. "I want Alton to stop here just three weeks from to-day. He'll stay without pressing for two of them, I think—and you've got to keep him during the third one. There's nothing going to hurt him, but it wouldn't be wise to fool things, you understand?"
He took up his hat as he spoke, and moved towards the door, while
Deringham's eyes blazed when it closed behind him.
"Damn him!" he said, almost choked with impotent fury, and then sat down limply with a face that grew suddenly blanched. His hand shook as he seized his glass, and some of the wine he needed was spilled upon the table, for his eyes grew dim as the faintness came upon him. Deringham had been recommended a rest from all excitement and business anxieties before he sailed from England, and passion was distinctly injudicious considering the condition of one of his organs.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE FORCE OF CALUMNY
As Hallam had surmised, one or two affairs of importance detained Alton in Vancouver. The winter had been exceptionally rigorous, and he knew that the claim was guarded securely by frost and snow. Having also, he fancied, effectually silenced his indiscreet visitor by flinging him down-stairs, he thought no more about that affair, and spent one or two evenings pleasantly at Forel's house, where Alice Deringham greeted him with slightly reserved cordiality.
She fancied she understood his reticence on the memorable evening when he had stumbled on the stairway, and was not altogether displeased by it. He had, it seemed, been over-sensitive, for he was but slightly lame, while she had reasons for surmising that he would realize there was no great necessity for the self-sacrifice in time. Alice Deringham was not unduly vain, but she knew her power, and Alton had in his silence betrayed himself again and again. Still, it seemed only fitting that he should make the first advances, now the moment when she might have done so had passed. She also fancied she understood the motive which prompted his answer when her father spoke to him respecting Carnaby.
"I can't go over now," he said. "Your lawyers and agents can look after the place a little longer, and I needn't worry if you're content with them. Anyway, all of it does not belong to me and we will see what we can fix up between us when I go over by and by."
This was pleasant hearing to Deringham, who commenced to hope that he would be able to give a satisfactory account of his stewardship when the time came, and winced at the recollection of the folly which had placed him in Hallam's grasp. Of late his health had given way again, and that served as an excuse for remaining at Vancouver, which he had scarcely the courage to leave.
Affairs were in this condition when Miss Deringham sat listening to the conversation of other visitors in the house of a friend of Mrs. Forel's one afternoon. Now and then a veiled allusion reached her, and at last she glanced inquiringly at her hostess.
The lady smiled deprecatingly and shook her head. "It is really indiscreet of Helen, but she seems to believe it is true," she said. "These things do happen, even in the old country."
Alice Deringham laughed. "I am afraid I cannot controvert you if that is uncomplimentary, because I don't know what you are alluding to."
Her hostess looked thoughtful. "Then you haven't heard it yet?" she said. "Well, I am not the one to tell you, and it is quite possible they haven't got the story correctly."
Miss Deringham was interested, but she asked no more questions, and had changed her place when she once more heard a subdued voice she recognized behind a great lacquered screen.
"One would be sorry for Hettie Forel, but her husband was always a little unguarded. Opened his house to everybody, you know."
"It was the big bushman I saw there?" said another person, and Alice Deringham felt a curious little quiver in her fingers as she waited the answer.
"Yes. Hettie will feel it. She made such a fuss of him, but it mayn't have been his fault altogether. He is quite a good-looking man, if he is a trifle lame, and the girl may have thrown herself at him. They sometimes do."
Alice Deringham set her lips and turned her head away from her companion as one of the voices continued. "Hettie has not heard it yet, and Tom did not seem sure about it when he told me. In fact, Forel brought the man over to see us the night before, but it is quite evident now the girl had been living there. Yes, Tom heard he had rooms behind his office."
Miss Deringham had recovered her outward serenity, and the flush had faded from her face, leaving it very colourless as she turned to her companion.
"You heard that woman?" she said.
The lady beside her nodded, though there was a little pink tinge in her cheeks. "I am sorry that you did, my dear."
Alice Deringham stood up, and looked down at her with a sparkle in her eyes. "I know," she said, "that it cannot be true."
"We must hope so," said her companion, who appeared distinctly uncomfortable. "Still, the story is being told all over the city, and several of the houses Forel took the man to are closed against him already."
Alice Deringham seemed to shiver a little. "But—it is impossible."
Her companion shook her bead. "My husband is a member of the company which employed Miss Townshead, and as the man's business affairs were antagonistic to theirs she was dismissed immediately."
Alice Deringham found it very difficult to conceal the effect of this last blow, and was turning away when two women rose from a divan behind the screen. "The tea is cold. Shall I ask for some more for you?" said one of them. "Pleased to see you again, Miss Deringham."
She got no further, for the girl, who looked her full in the face, passed on, and the other woman flushed a trifle.
"I'm afraid she must have heard you," said somebody. "Miss Deringham is, I believe, a connection of Alton's, and Hettie Forel hinted there was something more than that between them. It would be an especially suitable match because of some property in the old country."
The lady she spoke to smiled somewhat sourly. "Then one would be a trifle sorry for the rancher," she said.
It cost Miss Deringham a good deal to talk to her hostess until she could depart without attracting attention, and she walked back to Forel's house with a blaze in her eyes. As yet she could not think connectedly, for the astonishment had left no room for more than vague sensations of disgust and anger and a horrible rankling of wounded pride. Mrs. Forel as it happened was busy, and the girl slipped away to a room that was seldom occupied and sat there in the gathering darkness staring at the fire. The story was, she strove to persuade herself, utterly impossible, for she had probed the man's character thoroughly, and seen that it was wholesome through all its crudities—and yet it was evident the horrible tale must have some foundation, because otherwise refutation would be so simple.
Almost incredible as it was, the belief that it was borne out by fact was forced upon her, and too dazed to reason clearly she shrank with an overwhelming sense of disgust. She had, it seemed, wilfully deceived herself, and the man was, as she had fancied at the beginning, without sensibility or refinement, brutal in his forcefulness, and swayed by elementary passions. Then she writhed under the memory of the occasions on which she had unbent somewhat far to him, and the recollection of two incidents in the sickroom stung her pride to the quick; while when the booming of a gong rolled through the house, she rose faint and cold with an intensity of anger that for the time being drove out any other feeling. It would have gone very hardly with Alton had chance afforded her the means of punishing him just then.
As fate would have it the opportunity was also given her, for that evening Deringham, who had heard nothing of the story, was able to secure a few minutes alone with his daughter. He was, she noticed, looking unusually pale and ill, and that reminded her that he owed all his anxieties to Alton.
"Our kinsman is going back to Somasco very shortly, and then on into the ranges. I wish he could be prevented," he said.
The girl laughed a little. "I think it would be difficult to prevent
Mr. Alton doing anything he had decided on."
"Yes," said Deringham. "He can be exasperatingly obstinate, but—and I put it frankly—he might listen to you. The journey he contemplates would be apt to prove perilous at this season."
Alice Deringham looked at her father with a smile the meaning of which he could not fathom. He did not know that she had of late been disturbed by unpleasant suspicions concerning his connection with Hallam.
"I fancy you are mistaken. You are of course influenced by a desire for his safety?"
Deringham winced, for he recognized the tone of sardonic scepticism, but he was horribly afraid of Hallam, and could not afford to fail.
"Well," he said, with a gesture of weariness, "I am afraid I must make an admission, I am hemmed in by almost overwhelming anxieties, and I have come to no understanding yet with Alton respecting Carnaby. Now if disaster overtook him in the ranges it would entail an investigation of the Carnaby affairs, and the withdrawal of a good deal of money from my companies, which would seriously hamper me. I have once or twice had to slightly exceed my duties as trustee, and Alton would approve of steps I have taken which a lawyer or accountant would consider irregular. Of course, if you had any knowledge of business I could make it more clear to you, but I can only tell you that I am anxious about Alton's safety for my own sake as well as his."
Alice Deringham turned towards him with a trace of impatience. "We may as well be honest, and I fancy Mr. Alton is used to risks," she said quietly. "Whether he encounters more than usual just now or otherwise is absolutely no concern of mine."
Deringham saw the change in her and wondered, but resolved to profit by it.
"I want him kept here a little longer. It is important to me," he said,
The girl saw the hand of Hallam in this, and surmised that it would not be to Alton's advantage if he postponed his journey, but she was vindictively bitter against him then, and glanced at her father inquiringly. It was evident that he was anxious and ill, and she was sensible of a pity that had yet a trace of contempt in it for him.
"Still, I do not see how I could induce him to remain," she said.
"Well," said Deringham slowly, "there is a way. Forel will be here in a minute—but if you would listen to me."
Deringham seemed to find a difficulty in commencing, and there was a curious expression in his restless eyes, while once or twice he stopped and proceeded somewhat inconsequently. He had made tools of a good many men and befooled the public without any especial scruples, but there was a shred of pride left him, and this was the first time he had stooped to drag his daughter into his schemes. His story lacked plausibility, and the girl was not deceived, but he was her father, and it was his cause she was asked to further against the man who had humiliated her and dispossessed him. She glanced away from him when he had finished, but her voice was quietly even.
"I think I shall be sorry for it ever afterwards, but I will do what you ask," she said.
Deringham, who was slightly bewildered by something in her attitude, sighed with relief, and then turned with the grotesque resemblance of a smile in his face to greet Forel, who came in.
"Gillard has been called away south on business and has sent me word he can let me have the places at the opera-house for both nights," he said. "No doubt you have seen the great man in England with his regular company, but a treat of the kind is appreciated here, and Gillard bought up a row of places, the best in the house. My wife is wondering who she should ask, and would like to know if Miss Deringham has any preference."
Deringham glanced at his daughter, and then smiled at his host. "One feels a little diffident about returning a favour at somebody else's expense, but my kinsman Alton was very kind to us in the bush," he said.
Forel appeared a trifle embarrassed, and Alice Deringham felt her neck grow warm as she watched him. "We can talk about it later, but I scarcely think Mr. Alton would come just now if he was asked," he said.
The girl turned away, for she could comprehend Forel's discomfiture, while as they followed him her father touched her.
"Get Mr. Alton there on the second night, and that is all I ask," he said.
It was two days later, when Alton returned to his office in a somewhat uncertain temper. He had called at Forel's house the previous evening, and been informed that Mrs. Forel was not at home, though the blaze of lights and music made it evident that she was entertaining a good many guests. He had also waited a considerable time for a banker who had been apparently willing to make him certain advances a few days earlier, and when he came to complete the transaction, raised wholly unexpected difficulties. Afterwards he called upon a dealer in tools and sawmill machinery, who, after professing his willingness to deal with him on usual easy terms, demanded a cheque with the order. Alton fancied he recognized the hand of Hallam in this, but there was also something else which troubled him. Some of the men he had business with had been a trifle abrupt in their greetings, and others smiled sardonically when they saw him.
As he strode down the corridor the keeper of the building signed to him. "There was a young man here asking for you," he said. "Told me he was Mr. Townshead, and he'd be back again."
Alton had scarcely reopened his office when a produce broker he had dealings with came in. "I've worked off the first two car-loads, and you can send some more along," he said. "Now, it's not quite my business, but if you'll not stand out about the usual commission I can put you on to a man who wants a hundred fat cattle."
"It's a deal," said Alton, glancing thoughtfully at his visitor, whom he considered an honest man. "Now I think you know a good deal about all that goes on in this city?"
"Oh, yes," said the other man, "I have to. Glad to be of any use to you I can."
"Well," said Alton, "I've noticed men smiling at me kind of curiously, and I want to know right off what's the meaning of it. There's nothing especially humorous about me."
"You don't know?" and his visitor appeared to reflect when Alton shook his head.
"Then to put it straight, there are folks who would not believe you.
No, stop a little, I mentioned nothing about myself. Have you done
anything lately, that might have hurt the susceptibilities of Mr.
Cartier?"
Alton laughed grimly. "Yes," he said, "I hope so. I hove him out of this place one night and he fell downstairs."
"Well," said the other man, smiling, "that accounts for a good deal.
Do you happen to be on good terms with Mr. Hallam? Cartier is."
"No," said Alton dryly, "I don't. When Mr. Hallam and I feel at peace one of us will be dead."
"Now, this thing is getting a little more clear to me. I wasn't willing to believe all I heard, anyway."
"That," said Alton, "does not concern me. The question is what did you hear?"
The other man appeared embarrassed and sat silent a space. "I think it's only right that you should know," he said. "Well—according to Cartier—there was a lady here when he came in close on midnight, and he gave folks the impression that she stayed here altogether. That wouldn't possibly have counted for so much, but it also got about that she made use of her place to give you information that was worth a good deal about the business of Hallam and the folks she worked for."
Alton's face grew almost purple, but the dark hue faded and left it unusually pale again. "That," he said very slowly, "is a damnable lie. The lady alluded to was here once only, and for at the most three minutes."
The other man grew a trifle uneasy under his gaze. "Of course," he said, "your word will do for me. Still, she was here, you see—and it's difficult to rub out a lie with that much behind it. I'm afraid you'll find it stick to you both like glue, especially as her employers turned the girl out immediately. Anyway, I'll do what I can for you, and now about that other car-load and the cattle?"
Alton brought his hand down crashing on the table. "The cattle? Oh, get out and come back to-morrow or next month, when I feel less like killing somebody!"
The other man appeared quite willing to accept his dismissal, and Alton vacantly noticed that a black stream of ink was trickling across the table. Mechanically he dabbled his handkerchief in it and then flung it and the ink-vessel into the grate, after which he sat still with a black stain upon the cheek that rested on his fist.
"The plucky little soul—and they've turned her out," he said. "Lord, but somebody has got to pay for this!"
He did not move for at least ten minutes, while the clamour of the city vibrated through the silent room, and when his first anger passed away became sensible of a great pity for the girl who had risked so much for him. It appeared only too probable that because of the modicum of truth it was founded on the lie would stick to both of them, and now when it was too late Alton regretted his folly. He had been fully justified in kicking Cartier out of his rooms, but he knew that everything that is legitimate is not advisable, and groaned as he saw what the story must cost the defenceless girl who had a living to earn and her father to maintain. There was so far as he could see no way out of the difficulty yet—and the one that concerned himself was almost as formidable, for he knew Alice Deringham's pride, and the damning fact remained that he could not deny the whole story.
He had flung himself back wearily in his chair when there was a step in the passage and a young man came in. He walked straight forward, and stood with one hand on Alton's table looking down on him with wonder and anger in his face. His eyes were unusually bright, and there was a great contusion on his forehead.
"Jack," said Alton simply. "Well, sit down there, and I'll try to talk to you. This is a devlish mess I've got into. Only heard about it ten minutes ago."
Jack Townshead did not move at all. "I'll stand in the meantime." he said harshly. "Unfortunately there are more concerned than you."
"Yes," said Alton wearily. "Don't rub it in. I know. Who was it told you?"
"That's beyond the question," said the lad. "Still, last night one of our men who'd been down here came in and was telling the story in the boys' sleeping-shed. I knocked him down—that is, I meant to, and started out by the first train. I'm at the mine on the south road now."
"You haven't been home?"
"No," said Townshead grimly. "I came straight to you, and in the first place you're coming with me everywhere to deny this story."
Alton sat very still for a space, and the lad seemed to quiver as he watched him. "I can't—that is, not all of it."
Every trace of colour faded from Jack Townshead's face. "Good Lord!
Damn you, Alton—it can't be true."
Alton rose up slowly and stretched his hand out, while the veins swelled out on his forehead. Then he dropped it again.
"You'll be sorry for this by and by, Jack," he said. "Don't you know your sister better—you fool? Now sit down there, and I'll tell you everything."
The lad was evidently spirited, but he was a trifle awed by what he saw in Alton's eyes, and did as he was bidden. The hoarse voice he listened to carried conviction with it, but his face was almost haggard when the story was concluded. "Now," said Alton very slowly, "that's all, and for your sister's sake you dare not disbelieve me."
Jack Townshead groaned. "Thank God," he said, with a tremor in his voice. "But, Harry, what is to be done? I simply can't tell the old man—and there's Nellie. You can't deny sufficient to be any good—and the cursed thing will kill her. Now I'm trying not to blame you—but there must be a way of getting out somehow—and it's for you to find it."
Alton leaned upon the table a trifle more heavily, his eyes half-closed, and one hand clenched.
"Yes," he said slowly. "There is a way—and I'm beginning to see it now. Get your hat, Jack, and in the first place we'll go right along and see Mr. Cartier."
The lad rose, and then, possibly because he was over-strung and needed relief in some direction, laughed harshly. "I think you had better wash your face before you go," he said.
Twenty minutes later they entered an office together and Alton signed to a clerk. "Tell Mr. Cartier I'm wanting to see him right now," he said. "You know who I am."
The man smiled, for he probably also grasped the purport of Alton's visit. "Then you had better come back in a week," he said. "He went across to Victoria yesterday."
"That," said Alton grimly, "was wise of him."
They went out, and the lad glanced at his companion. "It is of the least importance. There is more to be done!"
"Yes," said Alton simply. "You have my sympathy, Jack, but just now I can't do with too much of you. Go right away—to anywhere, and don't come back until you're wanted. I've got to think how I can best do the thing that's right to everybody."
CHAPTER XXVIII
ALTON FINDS A WAY
Daylight was fading, and it was growing dim in the little upper room where Miss Townshead sat alone. The front of the stove was, however, open, and now and then a flicker of radiance fell upon the girl, and showed that her eyes were hazy, and there were traces of moisture on her cheek. Her patience had been taxed to the uttermost that day, but Townshead, who had spent most of it in querulous reproaches, had gone out, and his daughter was thankful to be alone at last, for the effort to retain a show of composure had become almost unendurable.
It was with a sinking heart she glanced down across the roofs of the city into the busy streets where already the big lights were blinking, and remembered all she had borne with there during the last few days. Somebody, it seemed, had industriously spread the story of her dismissal, and a refusal had followed every application she made for employment; but while that alone was sufficient to cause her consternation, the half-contemptuous pity of her former companions, and the fashion in which one or two of them had avoided her, were almost worse to bear, and sitting alone in the gathering darkness the girl flushed crimson at the memory. There was also the grim question by what means she could stave off actual want to grapple with, and to that she could as yet find no answer, while her eyes grew dim as she glanced about the little room. Townshead had changed his quarters, and many of the trifles that caught his daughter's glance had cost her a meal or hours of labour with the needle after a long day in the city, but they made the place a home, and she knew what it would cost her to part with them.
Twice she had raised her head and straightened herself with an effort, while a flicker of pride and resolution crept into her eyes, only to sink back again limply in her chair, when there was a tapping at the door, and she rose as some one came into the room. Then she set her lips and stood up very straight as she saw that it was Alton.
"I could find nobody about, and there was no answer when I knocked," he said. "So I just came in."
The girl moved a little so that she could see his face in the light from the stove, and it was quietly stern, but the movement had served two purposes, for her own was now invisible.
"And you fancied you could dispense with common courtesy in my case?" she said.
Alton made a little grave gesture of deprecation. "I wanted to see you—very much—but please sit down."
Nellie Townshead took the chair he drew out, and was glad that it was in the shadow, for Alton stood leaning against the window-casing looking down on her with grave respect and pity in his face.
"I am a little lame—as you may have heard," he said, as though to explain his attitude.
"Yes," said the girl, whose composure returned as she saw that he was temporizing. "I am sorry."
"Well," said Alton quietly, "so am I—especially just now—but I did not come to talk to you about my injury."
Nellie Townshead appeared very collected as she glanced in his direction, for she had a good courage, and had been taught already that when an issue is unavoidable it is better to face it boldly.
"One would scarcely have fancied that was your object."
"No," said Alton very quietly. "Now I am just a plain bush rancher, and don't know how to put things nicely, but I don't know that there's any disrespect in a straight question, and I came to ask if you would marry me."
The girl was mistress of herself, and the man's naive directness was in a fashion reassuring. She was also, for a moment, very angry.
"It is a little sudden, is it not?" she said. "Did I ever give you any cause for believing that I would?"
"No," said Alton, "I don't think you did."
Nellie Townshead afterwards wondered a little at her composure and temerity, but she fancied she knew what had prompted the man, and, because it hurt her horribly, all the pride she had came to her assistance, and in place of embarrassment she was sensible of a desire to test him to the uttermost.
"Then," she said, "one should have a reason for asking such a question, and, at least, something to urge in support of it."
Alton moved forward, and leaned over the back of her chair, where because he did most things thoroughly he attempted to lay one hand caressingly on her hair. Miss Townshead, however, moved her head suddenly, and the man drew back a pace with a flush in his face.
"It is very lonely up at the ranch, and I have begun to see that I have been missing the best of life. Mine is too grim and bare, and I want somebody to brighten and sweeten it for me."
The girl was very collected. What she had borne during the last few days had turned her gentleness into bitterness and anger. Thus it was, with a curious dispassionate interest she would have been incapable of under different circumstances, she continued to try the man, realizing that though it was no doubt unpleasant to him, there was one great reason which precluded the possibility of his suffering as he would otherwise have done.
"But you are going to live in the city now," she said.
"Yes," said Alton gravely. "That is why I want you more. You see I know so little, and there is so much you could teach me. I want somebody to lead me where I could not otherwise go, though I know it is asking a great deal while I can give so little."
This, the girl realized, was, though somewhat impersonal, wholly genuine. The tone of chivalrous respect rang true, and she could comprehend the half-instinctive straining after an ideal by one whose belief in her sex was, if slightly crude, almost reverential. It touched her, though she knew that to benefit him it could only be offered to one woman, and she was not that one.
"And that is all?" she said.
"Of course!" said Alton too decisively, because he remembered, as Miss Townshead quite realized, that the other reason must always remain hidden. This was also as balm to her pride, and there was a trace of a smile in her eyes.
"It is, as you appear to understand, very little."
"Well," said Alton, who seemed to take courage, "now when I see your meaning there is a trifle more."
Again he moved a pace, and the girl fancied he would have laid his hand upon her shoulder. "No," she said decisively.
Alton sighed, and his face became impassive, but it seemed to the girl that there was relief in it.
"I think I could be kind to you and make things smooth for you," he said very simply. "I should always look up to you, and I wouldn't ask for very much—only to see you happy."
He stopped apparently for inspiration, and Nellie Townshead smiled a little. "Do you think that last was wise?"
Alton turned towards her with a little glint in his eyes, and the girl, who knew his temperament, felt that she had gone far enough. He had borne it very well, and it seemed to her that other men might have handled the situation, which was difficult, less delicately.
"I asked you a question, and it seems to me that it still waits an answer."
The girl rose and stood looking at him with a little colour in her cheeks and a flash in her eyes, but there was that in her attitude which held Alton at a distance. "If you were not the man you are, and I was a little weaker, I should have said yes," she said. "As it is—there is nothing that would induce me to marry you."
It was almost dark now, and Nellie Townshead could not see her companion's face, but she was no longer careful to keep her own in the shadow, even when the radiance from the stove flickered about the room.
"Will you not think it over?" he said very quietly. "I know how unfit
I am for you—and I am a cripple—but——"
The light was now more visible in Nellie Townshead's eyes, but her voice was gentle. "No," she said, "There are two very good reasons why it is impossible—and you know one of them. Now do you believe I do not know what brought you here to-day?"
"I think I have been trying to tell you," said Alton sturdily. "If you fancy it was anything else you are wrong."
The girl shook her head. "You are a good man, Harry Alton, but not a clever one. Only that it would have been a wrong to you, you would almost have persuaded me—by your silence chiefly. Still, you must go away, and never speak of this again."
Alton stood still a moment glancing at her with pity and a great admiration. The girl was good to look upon, he knew her courage, and now as she flung all that he could offer her away and stood alone and friendless with the world against her, but undismayed, all his heart went out to her, and what he had commenced from duty he could almost have continued from inclination.
"Please listen just a little, and I'll be quite frank," he said. "You told me there were two reasons."
Possibly the girl read what was passing in his mind, for she smiled curiously.
"I think you had better go—now—and leave me only a kindly memory of you. Do you think I should be content to take—the second place?" she said. "Nothing that you could tell me would remove one of the obstacles, and you will be grateful presently. When that time comes be wise, and don't ask for less than everything."
Alton said nothing further, and when his steps rang hollowly down the stairway the girl sat down and sighed. Then she laughed a curious little laugh and stopped to brush the tears from her eyes.
As it happened, while Nellie Townshead sat alone in the darkness Miss Deringham was writing a note to Alton. Spoiled sheets of paper were scattered about the table, and though there was nobody to see it the girl's face was flushed as she glanced down at the last one. The message it bore was somewhat laconic and ran, "We are going to the opera-house on Thursday, and as there is a place not filled I would like to see you there before you start for the ranges, if you know of no reason why you should not come."
She gave it to a maid, and sat still until she heard a door swing to, then rose swiftly and ran down the stairway. She met the maid at the foot of it, and said breathlessly, "I want to add something to the letter."
"It's too late, miss," said the maid, who was a recent importation from Britain. "I gave it John the Chinaman, and he went off trotting as usual. I couldn't overtake him."
Alice Deringham smiled a little, though her voice belied her as she said, "It is of no importance. I can write another."
She knew, however, that no second message she could send would repair what she had done, for Alton had timed his departure for the ranges next day, and several must elapse before Thursday came. He would, she also felt assured, not fail to come.
Miss Deringham was justified, for a few days later Seaforth stood waiting in the snow with a pack-horse's bridle in his hand, and several brawny men with heavy packs slung about them close by, when Tom of Okanagan drove into the clearing as fast as his smoking team could haul the jolting wagon.
"You can sling all those things down again," he said. "Thomson rode in with a wire from the railroad, and Harry's not coming."
"Not coming?" said Seaforth bewilderedly as he opened the message.
"We've no time to lose—now."
Then he crumpled the strip of paper angrily. "We'll push on slowly, boys, until he comes up with us, but you had better wait for him, Tom," he said, and added half aloud, "The devil take all women!"
Miss Deringham went to the opera-house on Thursday with a somewhat distinguished party, and though a storm of applause greeted the eminent English dramatist, and the play was a popular one, saw very little of him or the first act of it. Then when the glitter of lights filled the building as the curtain went down she looked about her with veiled expectancy. She knew Alton of Somasco, and that if he intended to keep the assignation he would then come when everybody could see him.
She had also surmised correctly, for just then Alton, who had shouldered his way through a group in the corridor, moved down it under a blaze of light, his head erect, and his face somewhat grim as he saw the smiles and glances of disapproval of those who made way for him. As the rancher who was fighting Hallam and the capitalists behind him he was already known in that city, and the story that the woman who was spoken of with him had assisted him from the beginning by betraying the secrets of those who employed her at his instigation had spread, and told against him.
Alton saw it all, and did not for a moment turn aside so long as the smiles and whispers were directed at him, but he stopped and waited, leaning on a chair some distance behind the spot where Forel's party were until the curtain rose again. The next act commenced, as he knew, with a night scene, and while most of the audience had no eyes for any one but the great tragedian, he moved forward quickly, and Alice Deringham turned her head a trifle as a shadowy form slipped into the vacant place beside her. She could scarcely see the man, and was not certain that she desired to, but she would have known who he was had he been wholly invisible.
"It is you," she said softly. "I knew that you would come."
"Yes," said Alton. "You asked me to, but now I know that I should not have done so."
"And that I should not have asked you?" said Alice Deringham. "You should have been on your journey already."
Alton laughed a little. "That was not what I meant—as of course you know," he said. "Still, I wanted to see you—and I had to come."
"Why?"
Alton was silent a little. "It may be the last time."
Alice Deringham shivered. "But there is no reason?"
"No—and yes," said Alton grimly. "I—and it is due to you and another to tell you this—have done no wrong, but there are reasons why I should not intrude myself into your company, and I am going back up there into the snow to-morrow."
"But," said the girl, feeling horribly guilty, "there are times when one's friends can do a good deal for one."
Alton seemed to laugh a trifle bitterly. "Yes," he said. "Still, I do not care to trouble mine in that direction. One must stand alone now and then, and things have not been going well with me lately. I had another blow to-day. I asked Miss Townshead to marry me—and she would not."
Alice Deringham said nothing for a space, and then her voice was different. There was no shade of expression in it. "And you are going back to look for the silver tomorrow? I hope you will be successful."
"Thank you," said Alton. "It would mean a good deal to everybody—and now I think I have already stayed too long."
Alice Deringham heard the creaking of a chair, and when she looked round he had gone, but she said very little to any one when the curtain came down again, while Alton, turning in a doorway for a moment, set his lips as he caught the gleam of her hair.
"I think I have done the right thing all round, but it was condemnably hard," he said as he went down the corridor.
By chance he came face to face with Forel a few moments later, and both men stopped. "I am glad I found you," said Alton. "It is only fitting to tell you that for a minute or two I joined your party."
Forel looked uncomfortable. "To be frank, there are unpleasant tales about you, and while they needn't interfere with business one has to——" he said, and stopped.
Alton nodded. "You needn't be too explicit. The tales, so far as you have heard them, are not true. I tell you so on my word of honour—and I want you to show that you believe me by finding Miss Townshead something to do. You can draw on me for the salary if it's necessary."
Forel, who was a good-tempered man, flushed a little. "If there was anything in the stories I should take this very ill."
"Of course," said Alton. "I shouldn't have objected if you had knocked me down, but, as I see you are not quite sure yet, for just five minutes you have got to listen to me."
Forel did so, and nodded when Alton concluded, "I think you should do what I want you to, because in the first place it will give you very little trouble, and if you can't take my word so far, I'm not fit to be trusted with your interests in the big deal we have in hand."
"And in the second?" said Forel, who stood to benefit considerably by the success of the Somasco Consolidated, dryly.
Alton laughed. "I think it would be more tasteful to leave that unexpressed, because it's connected with the other one," he said.
"Well," said Forel, "frankly, I should have doubted what you have told me had it come from most other men, but in this case I will see what I can do. We are, as it happens, in want of somebody at Westminster, and I'll send them down a line to-morrow."
"Thanks," said Alton, with a little sigh of relief. "Now I think I've straightened up everything, and I can go back to the ranges contented."
CHAPTER XXIX
THE PRICE OF DELAY
It was raining with pitiless persistency when Alton and Tom of Okanagan came floundering down into the river valley. The roar of the canon rose in great reverberations from out of the haze beneath them, and all the pines were dripping, while the men struggled wearily knee-deep in slush of snow. The spring which lingers in the North had come suddenly, and a warm wind from the Pacific was melting the snow, so that the hillsides ran water, and the torrents that had burst their chains swirled frothing down every hollow.
The men were chilled to the backbone, for it had rained all day and they had passed several nights sheltered only by the pines. Garments and boots were sodden, and Alton's face was set and drawn, for though he could now walk without much visible effort upon the level, a journey through the ranges of that country would at any season test the endurance of the strongest whole-limbed man, and his forced march had only been accomplished by stubborn determination and disregard of pain. Still, it was not physical distress alone which accounted for his gravity. He had put off his journey to the latest moment, and now when time was scanty the weather promised to further delay him. They had stopped a moment breathless, when Okanagan broke the silence.
"Plenty water. I'm figuring we'll find Charley Seaforth somewhere here," he said. "The jumpers would have it drier, if they headed out from lower down the railroad over the bench country."
Alton nodded as he listened to the roar of the river, which warned him that their road up the valley would be almost impassable.
"It can't be helped," he said, and Tom of Okanagan, who saw how grim his face had grown, understood the reason. If Hallam's emissaries had gone up before them any further delay might cost Alton the mine.
Nothing was said for another minute, and then Okanagan pointed to a dim smear of vapour below them that was a little bluer than the mist.
"Smoke. Charley's held up by the river," he said.
They went on in moody silence, knowing that where the hardy ranchers Seaforth had with him had failed there was little probability of any man forcing a passage, and presently the smell of burning firwood came up to them through the rain. Then a red flicker appeared and vanished amidst the dusky trunks, and in another few minutes Alton was shaking his comrade's hand. The faces of both of them were unusually grave, and there was dejection in the growl of greeting from the men, who sat half seen amidst the smoke watching them.
"That's the whole of us," said Seaforth, who noticed his comrade's glance. "We can't get on."
"How long have you been here?" said Alton, with significant quietness.
"Two days. It's unfortunate you didn't come earlier, Harry, because we could have got right through a week ago. Was it the leg that kept you?"
"No," said Alton, with a little mirthless laugh, "it wasn't the leg. I should have come, but one can't always do two things at once, and I had to choose. I've a good deal to tell you."
Seaforth glanced sharply at his comrade. "I fancied you had. You are not the man I left at Vancouver, Harry. Well, you will be hungry, and supper's almost ready."
It was several hours later, and the men in the bigger tent were fast asleep, when Seaforth and Alton sat swathed in clammy blankets under a little canvas shelter. The drip from the great branches above beat upon it, and the red light of the snapping fire shone in upon the men. Neither of them had spoken for some time, but at last Alton laid down his pipe.
"This is a thing I wouldn't tell to any man if it could be helped, but as you will hear it told the wrong way when you get back to the city, you have got to know," he said. "I'd have been where I was wanted if it hadn't happened, and now I can't help feeling I have given you and the rest away. It hurts me, Charley, but what could I do? It would have been worse to let two women suffer for my condemned folly."
Seaforth was in no mood for laughter, but his eyes twinkled faintly.
"Two of them? You have been getting on tolerably fast down there,
Harry."
Alton stopped him with a gesture. "My temper's not what it was a few weeks ago," he said. "Now, you sit still and listen to me."
He had scarcely commenced his story when the smile died out of
Seaforth's eyes. He seemed to listen with breathless intentness, and
his voice shook a little as he said, "And you asked her to marry you.
Did you think for a moment that she would?"
Alton appeared to consider. "I didn't think at all," he said. "It seemed the one thing I could do, and I did it."
"The city hasn't made much difference in you," said Seaforth, watching his comrade intently. "It must have been a load off your mind when she refused you?"
Alton straightened himself a little. "I don't like the way you put it, Charley. Whoever gets Miss Townshead will have a treasure. The girl's good all through. Now I think I've told you everything, and I don't ask if you believe me."
There was a flicker of warmer colour under Seaforth's bronze, and a curious glint in his eyes.
"Yes," he said slowly; "I think she is too good even for you, and you have done all that any one could have expected of you, without keeping up the farce any longer. I am glad you did not ask if I believed you—because I could scarcely have forgiven you that question. Do you think I don't know—both of you—better?"
The last words were a trifle strained, and Alton stared at his comrade in bewildered astonishment, for Seaforth had betrayed himself in his passion. Then there was silence for a full minute until he said very quietly—
"And I never guessed."
"No?" said Seaforth, still a trifle hoarsely. "And now I think you know."
Alton nodded, and there was a very kindly smile in his eyes. "Yes; I'm beginning to understand—a good deal," he said. "I'm very glad, for there are not many girls like Miss Townshead in the Dominion. Charley, you're a lucky man, but why have you been so long over it? It never struck me that you were bashful."
Seaforth smiled mirthlessly. "If you will listen a few minutes you will see how fortunate I am. You never asked me what brought me out from the old country, Harry."
Alton gravely pressed his arm. "There are times when one must talk.
Go on, if it will do you good," he said.
It was not an uncommon story Seaforth told that night, and Alton, who had heard it, slightly varied, several times already, could fill up the gaps when his comrade ceased, and the drip from the branches splashing upon the canvas replaced his disjointed utterance. Seaforth was very young when it happened and the woman older than him.
"Now you see what kept me silent. It wasn't a nice thing to tell—you," he said.
Alton glanced at him with grave sympathy, and then stared at the fire. "And what became of her? I saw her picture once—in a twenty-five cent album," he said. "A woman of that kind would know what she was about?"
Seaforth smiled wryly. "I was not the only fool," he said. "When I'd flung away everything a richer man came along."
Alton was silent a space. "Three thousand pounds," he said, "is a good deal, even in the old country."
"Yes," said Seaforth wearily; "though it goes a very little way as I spent it, it is, and I've been paying it back, at first a few dollars at a time, ever since I came out to the Dominion. You see, the old man paid off everything, though I know now money was very scarce with him then, and I've wondered sometimes how far it helped to break him. He died soon after the crash came—and the girls had nothing."
"I think you told me your sisters were married now?"
"Yes," said Seaforth, "Flora sent me back the last exchange somewhat indignantly, which was why I was able to take my share in the Consolidated. Still, all that is a little outside the question, isn't it?"
Alton smiled at his partner, and laid a sinewy hand on his shoulder. "I wouldn't worry too much about it, Charley," he said. "You were a young fool, but you have lived it down, and there's the room there has always been for a good many more like you in the Dominion. Look round in high places, and you'll see them—good men, and better than they might have been but for that little trip-up when they were young. Yes, I've wondered where your dollars went to—and I'm glad we have done so well now I know. You can stand straight up, Charley, and face the world again."
Seaforth laughed wryly. "The trouble is that it isn't the world I care about," he said.
"No," said Alton. "Well, for one has to do the square thing, I think I'd chance telling somebody the story you told me—though of course you'd have to put parts of it differently."
Seaforth made a little gesture of despondency. "I'm afraid I haven't the courage, and—with all that behind me——"
"It—is—behind," said Alton. "And somehow I fancy it would only be fair to give the person it might concern the opportunity of hearing you."
Seaforth appeared to check a groan. "There are things that one can never quite rub out. I was twenty-three then, and now when it is five years ago, and she is alone in that horrible city, I must keep silent still. Harry, it's almost unendurable, but, because I must tell that story, to speak now would be to throw my last chance away."
Alton nodded with grave sympathy. "Yes, I think you're right, and you must wait. Well, it's time to turn in. With the first of the daylight we're going on again."
He was asleep in another ten minutes, but Seaforth lay awake shivering under his clammy blankets most of the night, and rose aching when he heard his comrade's voice through the patter of the rain in the misty darkness of the early morning. They made four miles that day, and floundered waist-deep in water amidst the boulders during most of it. The hillsides above them were steep and almost unclimbable, and no man could have driven a canoe upstream amidst the grinding ice-cake which cumbered the river, that was frozen still in its slower reaches. There they found better travelling through the slush that covered the rotten ice, but those reaches were few and short, and they went back to the boulders when the swollen river burst its bonds again.
It came down in savage tumult between the rocks, whose heads just showed above the foam, and its banks were further cumbered by a whitened driftwood frieze over which the men must clamber warily, clawing for a foothold on the great battered trunks, or smashing through a tangle of brittle limbs. At times they were stopped altogether by a maze of washed-up timber no man could struggle through, and the axes were plied for an hour or more before they went on again.
The second day was like the first one, though their toil was if anything more arduous still, and on the evening of the fourth they came, worn out, dripping, and dejected, to a spot where the valley narrowed in. A strip of forest divided the rock from the river on the opposite shore, but between them and it a confusion of froth and foam swirled down, while the hillsides seemed to vibrate with the roar of the rapid. One glance sufficed to show that the crossing was wholly impossible for either beast or man. On their side of the river a wall of rock hemmed the little party in, and even Seaforth wondered, while Okanagan growled half-aloud, when Alton, knee-deep in water, plodded steadily on. There was not more than another hour's daylight, and Seaforth remembered that the gorge extended for a league or so, while the flood had spread across it in front of them, but he knew his comrade and said nothing. Presently he slipped from a boulder, and sank almost shoulder-deep in a whirling pool, but somebody grabbed his arm, and after a breathless flounder he felt the shingle under him and the froth lapped only to his knee. Then they crawled amidst the driftwood which washed up and down beneath them, tearing garments and lacerating limbs, until they stood once more panting on dry shingle, with a broad stretch of froth before them, and the light growing dim.
The river had spread from side to side of the constricted valley, and the crash of the ice it brought down rang hollowly from rock to rock until it was lost high up amidst the climbing pines. It seemed to Seaforth that to go on was impossible, and he glanced at his comrade anxiously, Alton stood alone upon a driftwood trunk, his figure silhouetted in rigid outline against the whiteness of the foam, for his drenched garments clung in sodden folds to every curve of it. His face was as immobile in its wet grimness save for the smouldering glow in his eyes, and there was a low growl of half-articulate expostulation from those about him as he turned and pointed to the river.
"What are you stopping for? The silver's yonder, and there's our road," he said.
None of them protested. They knew no rancher or prospector in the province could traverse the road he pointed to, but in their long grapple with the forest they had not infrequently attempted things that appeared beyond the power of man, and speech seemed useless when the river would answer for them. Therefore, when Alton once more took to the water they followed him, bracing overtaxed muscle against the tireless stream until the man who pressed on a dozen yards in front went down. Then while Seaforth held his breath there was a cry from Okanagan, who clutched at an arm that rose from the flood. Seaforth had his hand next moment, somebody clung to him, and they went downstream together for a space, with the shingle slipping beneath them, and their burdens dragging them down, panting, floundering, choking, but still holding on, until they found a foothold in the slack of an eddy, and Seaforth saw that Alton was on his feet again. His hat had gone, and there was a red gash on his forehead from which the blood ran down. He said nothing until they stood less than knee-deep, when Seaforth glanced at him.
"You will be contented now?" he said.
"Yes," said Alton, with hoarse breathlessness. "I'm beaten. Well, we'll go back and make a traverse across the ranges."
Seaforth glanced for a moment at the slope of rock that ran up into the dimness above him. Here and there it afforded a foothold to a juniper or stunted pine, but that was all, and there was a gleam of slushy snow high up above it, where though the pitch was flatter the firs could scarcely climb. Whether any man could reach those heights or cross them through the melting drifts he did not know, but at the best the journey would cost a day for every hour it would have done had it been possible to follow the valley.
"You know what day it is?" he said.
"Yes," said Alton very quietly. "If Hallam's men are up there it will be too late when we get through. That means tolerably bad times for Somasco."
"I," said Seaforth, "wasn't exactly thinking about Somasco."
Alton's face was very grim. "Well," he said dryly, "it means a good deal less to one of us than it would have done a few weeks ago."
They went back, and it was dark when they camped in the dripping undergrowth, but while Seaforth fancied that Alton did not sleep that night, he was the first upon his feet when they rose in the darkness of the morning, and commenced the slow ascent. There was no man in the party who did not feel that the journey would be useless, but they went on nevertheless, hewing a path through thickets, crawling up steep rock faces on hands and knees, and wading through the drifts to the waist in melting snow. So with toil incredible they left the leagues behind, one, and when they were fortunate, two to the day, and evening was at hand when at last they came scrambling down from fir to fir into the rain-swept valley. There was nothing visible beneath them but a haze of falling water and the tops of dripping trees, but Alton stooped now and then as though listening, and Seaforth could guess at the torments of suspense he was enduring.
"We shall know in a few more minutes," he said. "I can see the river now."
"Go on," said Alton hoarsely. "Oh, get on."
Five minutes had scarcely passed when they stopped again, and the men stared at each other in silence as a thudding sound came up to them through the rain. It was just distinguishable, and they might be mistaken, but a full minute went by before one of them glanced at Alton. He stood very still, with one knee bent a trifle, leaning against a pine until the sound grew plainer and was followed by a voice.
"We're too late, but we'll go down and see it out," he said.
Ten minutes later they plodded into the glare of a fire, and stopped, worn-out and dripping in front of a rude bark shelter. A few men were scattered about it eating their evening meal, and for a moment or two they stared at the newcomers silently, until Alton stepped forward and stood where all could see him, hatless and tattered, with a clotted bandage about his head.
"What are you doing on my claim?" he said.
A big man rose up slowly with an axe in his hand, and pointed to a board with rough letters cut in it nailed to a tree.
"It may have been yours one time. It's ours now," he said. "There's no getting over the laws of this country."
Seaforth expected an outbreak, and heard a growl from his comrades, who commenced to close in behind him, but Alton only closed one hand a little.
"Where's the man who brought you here?" he said.
"Gone out," said the other, "to record the claim. Now we don't want any unpleasantness, but the mine is ours, and there are enough of us to keep it, you see. Come in and have some supper, and take it reasonably."
Alton looked at him for a space out of half-closed eyes, and the man appeared to grow uneasy.