"Until the spring?" he broke out. "You expect me to let you go?"
"You must," said Sylvia firmly, and added in a softer voice, "I'm rather sorry."
He saw that he could not shake her decision.
"Then we must have a clear understanding," he rejoined hotly. "You know I want you—when is this waiting to end? Tell me now, and let me tell all who care to hear, that you belong to me."
Sylvia made a gesture of protest and coquettishly looked down.
"You must still have patience," she murmured; "the time will soon pass."
"And then?" he asked with eagerness.
She glanced up at him shyly.
"If you will ask me again when I come back, I will give you your answer."
She left him no reason for doubting what that answer would be; and, stretching out his arms, he drew her strongly to him. In a minute or two, however, Sylvia insisted on his returning to his host, and soon afterward Mrs. Kettering came in to look for her.
CHAPTER XX
A BLIZZARD
A bitter wind searched the poplar bluff where George and his hired man, Grierson, were cutting fuel. Except in the river valleys, trees of any size are scarce on the prairie, but the slender trunks and leafless branches were closely massed and afforded a little shelter. Outside on the open waste, the cold was almost too severe to face, and George once or twice glanced anxiously across the snowy levels, looking for some sign of Edgar, who should have joined them with the team and sledge. It was, however, difficult to see far, because a gray dimness narrowed in the horizon. George stood, dressed in snow-flecked furs, in the center of a little clearing strewn with rows of fallen trunks from which he was hewing off the branches. The work was hard; his whole body strained with each stroke of the heavy ax, but it failed to keep him warm, and the wind was growing more bitter with the approach of night.
"I don't know what can be keeping West," he said after a while. "We haven't seen the mail-carrier either, and he's two hours late; but he must have had a heavy trail all the way from the settlement. I expect he'll cut out our place and make straight for Grant's. We'll have snow before long."
There was an empty shack not far away where, by George's consent, the mail-carrier left letters when bad weather made it desirable to shorten his round.
Grierson nodded as he glanced about. The stretch of desolate white prairie had contracted since he had last noticed it, the surrounding dimness was creeping nearer in, and the ranks of poplar trunks were losing their sharpness of form. Now that the men had ceased chopping, they could hear the eerie moaning of the wind and the sharp patter of icy snow-dust among the withered brush.
"It will take him all his time to fetch Grant's; I wish Mr. West would come before it gets dark," Grierson said with a shiver, and fell to work again.
Several minutes passed. George was thinking more about the mail-carrier's movements than about Edgar's. The English letters should have arrived, and he was anxiously wondering if there were any for him. Then, as he stopped for breath, a dim moving blur grew out of the prairie, and he flung down his ax.
"Here's West; we'll have light enough to put up the load," he said.
A little later Edgar led two powerful horses up the narrow trail, and for a while the men worked hard, stacking the logs upon the sledge. Then they set off at the best pace the team could make, and the cold struck through them when they left the bluff.
"Stinging, isn't it?" Edgar remarked. "I couldn't get over earlier; Flett turned up, half frozen, and he kept me. Seems to have some business in this neighborhood, though he didn't say what it is."
George, walking through the snow to leeward of the loaded sledge, where it was a little warmer, betrayed no interest in the news. Temperance reform was languishing at Sage Butte and its leaders had received a severe rebuff from the authorities. The police, who had arrested an Indian suspected of conveying liquor to the reservation, had been no more successful, for the man had been promptly acquitted. They had afterward been kept busy investigating the matter of the shooting of George's bull, which had recovered; but they had found no clue to the offender, and nothing of importance had happened for some time.
It had grown dark and the wind was rapidly increasing. Powdery snow drove along before it, obscuring the men's sight and lashing their tingling faces. At times the icy white haze whirled about them so thick that they could scarcely see the blurred dark shape of the sledge, but as they had hauled a good many loads of stovewood home, the trail was plainly marked. It would be difficult to lose it unless deep snow fell. With lowered heads and fur caps pulled well down, they plodded on, until at length George stopped where the shadowy mass of a bluff loomed up close in front of them.
"I'll leave you here and make for the shack," he said. "I want to see if there are any letters."
"It's far too risky," Edgar pointed out. "You'll get lost as soon as you leave the beaten trail."
"I'll have the bluff for a guide, and it isn't far from the end of it to the small ravine. After that I shouldn't have much trouble in striking the fallow."
"It's doubtful," Edgar persisted. "Let the letters wait until to-morrow."
"No," said George, resolutely. "I've waited a week already; the mail is late. Besides, we'll have worse snow before morning."
Seeing that he had made up his mind, Edgar raised no more objections, and in another few moments George disappeared into a haze of driving snow. When he left the trail he found walking more difficult than he had expected, but though it was hard to see beyond a few yards, he had the bluff to guide him and he kept along the edge of it until the trees vanished suddenly. Then he stopped, buffeted by the wind, to gather breath and fix clearly in his mind the salient features of the open space that he must cross.
If he could walk straight for half a mile, he would strike a small hollow and by following it he would reach a tract of cultivated ground. This, he thought, should be marked by the absence of the taller clumps of grass and the short willow scrub which here and there broke through the snow. There would then be a stretch of about two hundred acres to cross before he found the little shack, whose owner had gone away to work on the railroad during the winter. He expected to have some trouble in reaching it, but he must get the letters, and he set off again, breaking through the snow-crust in places, and trying to estimate the time he took.
A quarter of an hour passed and, as there was no sign of the ravine, he began to wonder whether he had deviated much from his chosen line. In another few minutes he was getting anxious; and then suddenly he plunged knee-deep into yielding snow. It got deeper at the next step and he knew that he had reached the shallow depression, which had been almost filled up by the drifts. He must cross it, and the effort this entailed left him gasping when he stopped again on the farther side.
It was still possible to retrace his steps, because he could hardly fail to strike the bluff he had left, but there was no doubt that to go on would be perilous. If he missed the shack, he might wander about the prairie until he sank down, exhausted; and after a day of fatiguing labor he knew that he could not long face the wind and frost. There was, however, every sign of a wild storm brewing; it might be several days before he could secure the letters if he turned back, and such a delay was not to be thought of.
He went on, following the ravine where he could trace its course, which was not always possible, until he decided that he must have reached the neighborhood of the farm. There was, however, nothing to indicate that he had done so. He could see only a few yards; the snow had all been smooth and unbroken near the hollow, he could distinguish no difference between any one part of it and the rest; and he recognized the risk he took when he turned his back on his last guide and struggled forward into the waste.
Walking became more difficult, the wind was getting stronger, and there was no sign of the shack. Perhaps he had gone too far to the south. He inclined to the right, but that brought him to nothing that might serve as a guide; there was only smooth snow and the white haze whirling round him. He turned more to the right, growing desperately afraid, stopped once or twice to ascertain by the way the snow drove past whether he was wandering from his course, and plodded on again savagely. At last something began to crackle beneath his feet. Stooping down, he saw that it was stubble, and he became sensible of a vast relief. He could not be more than a few minutes walk from the shack.
It was only three or four yards off when he saw it, and on entering he had difficulty in closing the rickety door. Then, when he had taken off his heavy mittens, it cost him some trouble to find and strike a match with his half-frozen hands. Holding up the light, he glanced eagerly at a shelf and saw the two letters he had expected; there was no mistaking the writing and the English stamps. He thrust them safely into a pocket beneath his furs when the match went out and struck another, for his next step required consideration.
The feeble radiance traveled round the little room, showing the rent, board walls and the beams rough from the saw that supported the cedar roofing shingles. A little snow had sifted in and lay on the floor; there was a rusty stove at one end, but no lamp or fuel, and the hay and blankets had been removed from the wooden bunk. Still, as George was warmly clad and had space to move about, he could pass the night there. The roar of the wind about the frail building rendered the prospects of the return journey strongly discouraging. He might, however, be detained all the next day by the snow; but what chiefly urged him to face the risk of starting for the homestead was his inability to read his letters. The sight of them had sent a thrill through him, which had banished all sense of the stinging cold. He had eagerly looked forward to a brief visit to the old country, and Sylvia had, no doubt, bidden him come. It was delightful to picture her welcome, and the evenings they would spend in Muriel Lansing's pretty drawing-room while he told her what he had done and unfolded his plans for the future. He could brook no avoidable delay in reading her message, and, nerving himself for a struggle, he set out again.
The shack vanished the moment he left it. The snow was thicker; and, floundering heavily through the storm, George had almost given up the attempt to find the ravine, when he fell violently into a clearer part of it. Then he gathered courage, for the bluff was large and would be difficult to miss; but it did not appear when he expected it. He was breathless, nearly blinded, and on the verge of exhaustion, when he crashed into a dwarf birch and, looking up half dazed, saw an indistinct mass of larger trees. He had now a guide, but it was hard to follow, with his strength fast falling and the savage wind buffeting him. He had stopped a moment, gasping, when something emerged from the driving snow. It was moving; it looked like a team with a sledge or wagon, and he thought that his companions had come in search of him. He cried out, but there was no answer, and though he tried to run, the beasts vanished as strangely as they had appeared.
They had, however, left their tracks, coming up from the south, where the settlement lay, and this convinced him that they had not been driven by Edgar or Grierson. He made an attempt to overtake them and, falling, went on again, wondering a little who the strangers could be; though this was not a matter of much consequence. If they had blankets or driving-robes, they might pass the night without freezing in the bluff, where there was fuel; but George was most clearly conscious of the urgent need for his reaching the homestead before his strength gave out.
At last he struck the beaten trail which had fortunately not yet been drifted up, and after keeping to it for a while he saw a faint twinkle of light in front of him. A voice answered his shout and when he stopped, keeping on his feet with difficulty and utterly worn out, a team came up, blurred and indistinct, out of the driving snow. After that somebody seized him and pushed him toward an empty sledge.
"Get down out of the wind; here's the fur robe!" cried a voice he recognized. "We came back as soon as we had thrown off the load."
George remembered very little about the remainder of the journey, but at last the sledge stopped where a warm glow of light shone out into the snow. Getting up with some trouble he reached the homestead door and walked heavily into the room where he sank, gasping, into a chair. He felt faint and dizzy, he could scarcely breathe; but those sensations grew less troublesome as he recovered from the violent change of temperature. Throwing off his furs, he noticed that Flett sat smoking near the stove.
"Here's some coffee," said the constable. "It's pretty lucky Grierson found you. I can't remember a worse night."
George drank the coffee. He still felt heavy and partly dazed; his mind was lethargic, and his hands and feet tingled painfully with the returning warmth. He knew that there was something he ought to tell Flett, but it was a few minutes before he could think clearly.
"I met a team near the bluff and lost it again almost immediately," he mumbled finally.
Flett's face became intent.
"Did the men who were with it see you? Which way were they going?"
"No," said George sleepily. "Anyway, though I called I didn't get an answer. I think they were going west."
"And there's no homestead for several leagues, except Langside's shack.
They'll camp there sure."
"I don't see why they shouldn't," George remarked with languid indifference.
"Hasn't it struck you why those fellows should be heading into waste prairie on a night like this? Guess what they've got in the wagon's a good enough reason. If the snow's not too bad, they'll pull out for the Indian reservation soon as it's light to-morrow."
"You think they have liquor with them?" asked George.
Flett nodded and walked toward the door, and George felt the sudden fall of temperature and heard the scream of the wind. In a minute or two, however, the constable reappeared with Edgar.
"I'd get them sure; they're in the shack right now," Flett declared.
"You would never find it," Edgar remonstrated. "We had hard enough work to strike the homestead, and we were on a beaten trail, which will have drifted up since then. You'll have to drop the idea—it's quite impossible."
"It's blamed hard luck," grumbled Flett. "I may trail the fellows, but I certainly won't get them with the liquor right in the wagon, as it will be now, and without something of that kind it's mighty hard to secure a conviction. I've no use for the average jury; what we want is power to drop on to a man without any fuss or fooling and fix him so he won't make more trouble."
"It's fortunate you'll never get it," Edgar remarked. "I've a notion it would be a dangerous thing to trust even a Northwest policeman with. You're not all quite perfect yet."
Then George, recovering from his lethargy, remembered the letters and eagerly opened the one from Sylvia. It consisted of a few sentences in which she carelessly told him that if he came over he would not see her, as she was going to Egypt with Herbert and Muriel. The hint of regret that her journey could not be put off looked merely conventional, but she said he might make his visit in the early summer, as she would have returned by then.
George's face hardened as he read it, for the disappointment was severe. He thought that Sylvia might have remembered that he could not leave the farm after spring had begun. The man felt wounded and, for once, inclined to bitterness. His optimistic faith, which idealized its object, was bound to bring him suffering when dispelled by disillusion; offering sincere homage to all that seemed most worthy, he had not learned tolerance. Though his appreciation was quick and generous, he must believe in what he admired, and it was, perhaps, a misfortune that he was unable to recognize shortcomings with cynical good-humor. He could distinguish white from black—the one stood for spotless purity, the other was very dark indeed—but his somewhat restricted vision took no account of the more common intermediate shades.
For all that, he was incapable of seriously blaming Sylvia. Her letter had hurt him, but he began to make excuses for her, and several that seemed satisfactory presented themselves; then, feeling a little comforted, he opened the letter from Herbert with some anxiety. When he read it, he let it drop upon the table and set his lips tight. His cousin informed him that it would be most injudicious to raise any money just then by selling shares, as he had been requested to do. Those he had bought on George's account had depreciated in an unexpected manner and the markets were stagnant. George, he said, must carry on his farming operations as economically as possible, until the turn came.
"Bad news?" said Edgar sympathetically.
"Yes. I'll have to cut out several plans I'd made for spring; in fact,
I don't quite see how I'm to go on working on a profitable scale.
We'll have to do without the extra bunch of stock I was calculating on;
and I'm not sure I can experiment with that quick-ripening wheat.
There are a number of other things we'll have to dispense with."
"We'll pull through by some means," Edgar rejoined encouragingly, and
George got up.
"I feel rather worn out," he said. "I think I'll go to sleep."
He walked wearily from the room, crumpling up the letters he had risked his life to secure.
CHAPTER XXI
GRANT COMES TO THE RESCUE
The storm had raged for twenty-four hours, but it had now passed, and it was a calm night when a little party sat in George's living-room. Outside, the white prairie lay still and silent under the Arctic frost, but there was no breath of wind stirring and the room was comfortably warm. A big stove glowed in the middle of it, and the atmosphere was permeated with the smell of hot iron, stale tobacco, and the exudations from resinous boards.
Grant and his daughter had called when driving back from a distant farm, and Trooper Flett had returned to the homestead after a futile search for the liquor smugglers. He was not characterized by mental brilliancy, but his persevering patience atoned for that, and his superior officers considered him a sound and useful man. Sitting lazily in an easy chair after a long day's ride in the nipping frost, he discoursed upon the situation.
"Things aren't looking good," he said. "We've had two cases of cattle-killing in the last month, besides some horses missing, and a railroad contractor knocked senseless with an empty bottle; and nobody's locked up yet."
"I don't think you have any reason to be proud of it," Edgar broke in.
Flett spread out his hands in expostulation.
"It's not our fault. I could put my hands on half a dozen men who're at the bottom of the trouble; but what would be the use of that, when the blamed jury would certainly let them off? In a case of this kind, our system of justice is mighty apt to break down. It's a pet idea of mine."
"How would you propose to alter it?" Edgar asked, to lead him on.
"If we must have a jury, I'd like to pick them, and they'd be men who'd lost some stock. You could depend on them."
"There's something to be said for that," Grant admitted with a dry smile.
"This is how we're fixed," Flett went on. "We're up against a small, but mighty smart, hard crowd; we know them all right, but we can't get after them. You must make good all you say in court, and we can't get folks to help us. They'd rather mind the store, have a game of pool, or chop their cordwood."
"I can think of a few exceptions," Edgar said. "Mrs. Nelson, for example. One could hardly consider her apathetic."
"That woman's dangerous! When we were working up things against Beamish, she must make him look like a persecuted victim. She goes too far; the others won't go far enough. Guess they're afraid of getting hurt."
"You couldn't say that of Mr. Hardie," Flora objected.
"No. But some of his people would like to fire him, and he's going to have trouble about his pay. Anyhow, this state of things is pretty hard on us. There's no use in bringing a man up when you've only got unwilling witnesses."
"What you want is a dramatic conviction," said Edgar sympathetically.
"Sure. It's what we're working for, and we'd get it if everybody backed us up as your partner and Mr. Grant are doing." He turned to George. "My coming back here is a little rough on you."
George smiled.
"I dare say it will be understood by the opposition, but I don't mind.
It looks as if I were a marked man already."
A few minutes later Flett went out to attend to his horse; George took Grant into a smaller room which he used for an office; and Edgar and Flora were left alone. The girl sat beside the stove, with a thoughtful air, and Edgar waited for her to speak. Flora inspired him with an admiration which was largely tinged with respect, though, being critical, he sometimes speculated about the cause for this. She was pretty, but her style of beauty was rather severe. She had fine eyes and clearly-cut features, but her face was a little too reposeful and her expression usually somewhat grave; he preferred animation and a dash of coquetry. Her conversation was to the point—she had a way of getting at the truth of a matter—but there was nevertheless a certain reserve in it and he thought it might have been more sparkling. He had discovered some time ago that adroit flattery and hints that his devotion was hers to command only afforded her calm amusement.
"Mr. Lansing looks a little worried," she said at length.
"It strikes me as only natural," Edgar replied, "He has had a steer killed since the rustlers shot the bull; we have foiled one or two more attempts only by keeping a good lookout, and he knows that he lies open to any new attack that may be made on him. His position isn't what you could call comfortable."
"I hardly think that would disturb your comrade very much."
Edgar saw that she would not be put off with an inadequate explanation, and he was a little surprised that she did not seem to mind displaying her interest in George.
"Then," he said, "for another thing, he's disappointed about having to give up an English visit he had looked forward to."
He saw a gleam that suggested comprehension in her eyes.
"You mean that he is badly disappointed?"
"Yes," said Edgar; "I really think he is."
He left her to make what she liked of this, and he imagined that there was something to be inferred from it. He thought it might be wise to give her a hint that George's affections were already engaged.
"Besides," he resumed, "it's no secret that the loss of his harvest hit him pretty hard. We'll have to curtail our spring operation in several ways and study economy."
Flora glanced toward the door of the room her father had entered with George. Edgar thought she had done so unconsciously; but it was somewhat suggestive, though he could not see what it implied.
"Well," she said, "I'm inclined to believe that he'll get over his difficulties."
"So am I," Edgar agreed. "George isn't easy to defeat."
In the meanwhile Grant sat in the next room, smoking thoughtfully and asking George rather direct questions about his farming.
"I've made some inquiries about that new wheat your English botanist friend reported on," he said at length. "Our experimental farm people strongly recommend it, and there's a man I wrote to who can't say enough in its favor. You'll sow it this spring?"
"I'm afraid I'll have to stick to the common kinds," George said gloomily. "I've a pretty big acreage to crop and that special seed is remarkably dear."
"That's so," Grant agreed. "As a matter of fact, they haven't quite made their arrangements for putting it on the market yet, and the surest way to get some is to bid for a round lot. After what I'd heard, I wired a Winnipeg agent and he has promised to send me on what looks like more than I can use. Now I'll be glad to let you have as much as you want for your lightest land."
George felt grateful. He did not think that this methodical man had made any careless mistake over his order; but he hesitated.
"Thanks," he said. "Still, it doesn't get over the main difficulty."
"I guess it does. You would have had to pay money down for the seed, and I'll be glad to let the thing stand over until you have thrashed out. The price doesn't count; you can give me back as many bushels as you get."
"Then," said George with a slight flush, "you're more generous than wise. They haven't produced a wheat yet that will stand drought and hail. Suppose I have another year like last? I'm sorry I can't let you run this risk."
"We'll quit pretending. I owe a little to the country that has made me what I am, and these new hardy wheats are going to play a big part in its development. I want to see them tried on the poorest land."
"That's a good reason. I believe it goes some way, but I hardly think it accounts for everything."
His companion looked at him with fixed directness.
"Then, if you must be satisfied, you're my neighbor; you have had blamed hard luck and I like the way you're standing up to it. If anybody's on meaner soil than yours I want to see it. Anyway, here's the seed; take what you need, pay me back when you're able. Guess you're not too proud to take a favor that's gladly offered."
"I'd be a most ungrateful brute if I refused," George replied with feeling.
"That's done with," Grant said firmly; and soon afterward he and George returned to the other room.
After a while he went out with Edgar to look at a horse, and George turned to Flora.
"Your father has taken a big weight off my mind, and I'm afraid I hardly thanked him," he said.
"Then it was a relief?" she asked, and it failed to strike him as curious that she seemed to know what he was alluding to.
"Yes," he declared; "I feel ever so much more confident now that I can get that seed. The fact that it was offered somehow encouraged me."
"You never expected anything of the kind? I've sometimes thought you're apt to stand too much alone. You don't attach enough importance to your friends."
"Perhaps not," admitted George. "I've been very wrong in this instance; but I suppose one naturally prefers to hide one's difficulties."
"I don't think the feeling's universal. But you would, no doubt, be more inclined to help other people out of their troubles."
George looked a little embarrassed, and she changed the subject with a laugh.
"Come and see us when you can find the time. On the last occasion, you sent your partner over."
"I'd made an appointment with an implement man when I got your father's note. Anyway, I should have fancied that Edgar would have made a pretty good substitute."
"Mr. West is a favorite of ours; he's amusing and excellent company, as far as he goes."
Her tone conveyed a hint that Edgar had his limitations and he was not an altogether satisfactory exchange for his partner; but George laughed.
"He now and then goes farther than I would care to venture."
Flora looked at him with faint amusement.
"Yes," she said. "That's one of the differences between you; you're not assertive. It has struck me that you don't always realize your value."
"Would you like one to insist on it?"
"Oh," she said, "there's a happy medium; but I'm getting rather personal, and I hear the others coming."
She drove away a little later, and when Flett had gone to bed George and Edgar sat talking a while beside the stove.
"Grant's a staunch friend, and I'm more impressed with Flora every time I see her," said the lad. "She's pleasant to talk to, she can harness and handle a team with any one; but for all that, you recognize a trace of what I can only call the grand manner in her. Though I understand that she has been to the old country, it's rather hard to see how she got it."
George signified agreement. Miss Grant was undoubtedly characterized by a certain grace and now and then by an elusive hint of stateliness. It was a thing quite apart from self-assertion; a gracious quality, which he had hitherto noticed only in the bearing of a few elderly English ladies of station.
"I suppose you thanked her for that seed?" Edgar resumed.
"I said I was grateful to her father."
"I've no doubt you took the trouble to mark the distinction. It might have been more considerate if you had divided your gratitude."
"What do you mean?"
"It's hardly likely that the idea of helping you in that particular way originated with Alan Grant, though I shouldn't be surprised if he had been allowed to think it did."
George looked surprised and Edgar laughed.
"You needn't mind. It's most improbable that Miss Grant either wished or expected you to understand. She's a very intelligent young lady."
"It strikes me that you talk too much," George said severely.
He went out, feeling a little disturbed by what Edgar had told him, but unable to analyze his sensations. Putting on his furs, he proceeded to look around the stable, as he had fallen into a habit of doing before he went to rest. There was a clear moon in the sky, and although the black shadow of the buildings stretched out across the snow, George on approaching one noticed a few footprints that led toward it. There were numerous other tracks about, but he thought that those he was looking at had been made since he had last entered the house. This, however, did not surprise him, for Flett had recently visited the stable.
On entering the building, George stopped to feel for a lantern which was kept on a shelf near the door. The place was very dark and pleasantly warm by contrast with the bitter frost outside, and he could smell the peppermint in the prairie hay. Familiar sounds reached him—the soft rattle of a shaking rope, the crackle of crushed straw—but they were rather more numerous than usual, and while he listened one or two of the horses began to move restlessly.
The lantern was not to be found; George wondered whether Flett had carelessly forgotten to replace it. He felt his way from stall to stall, letting his hand fall on the hind quarters of the horses as he passed. They were all in their places, including Flett's gray, which lashed out at him when he touched it; there was nothing to excite suspicion, but when he reached the end of the row he determined to strike a match and look for the lantern. He was some time feeling for the match-box under his furs, and while he did so he heard a soft rustling in the stall nearest the door. This was curious, for the stall, being a cold one, was unoccupied, and there was something significantly stealthy in the sound; but it ceased, and while he listened with strained attention a horse moved and snorted. Then, while he fumbled impatiently at a button of his skin coat which would not come loose, an icy draught stole into the building.
It was obvious that the door was open; he had left it shut.
Breaking off his search for the matches, he made toward the entrance and sprang out. There was nobody upon the moonlit snow, and the shadows were hardly deep enough to conceal a lurking man. He ran toward the end of the rather long building; but, as it happened, he had to make a round to avoid a stack of wood and a wagon on the way. When he turned the corner, the other side of the stable was clear in the moonlight and, so far as he could see, the snow about it was untrodden. It looked as if he had made for the wrong end of the building, and he retraced his steps toward a barn that stood near its opposite extremity. Running around it, he saw nobody, nor any footprints that seemed to have been recently made; and while he stood wondering what he should do next, Grierson appeared between him and the house.
"Were you in the stables a minute or two ago?" George called to him,
"No," said the other approaching. "I'd just come out for some wood when I saw you run round the barn."
George gave him a brief explanation, and the man looked about.
"Perhaps we'd better search the buildings; if there was any stranger prowling round, he might have dodged you in the shadow. It's hardly likely he'd make for the prairie; the first clump of brush big enough to hide a man is a quarter of a mile off."
They set about the search, but found nobody, and George stopped outside the last building with a puzzled frown on his face.
"It's very strange," he said. "I left the door shut; I couldn't be mistaken."
"Look!" cried Grierson, clutching his arm. "There's no mistaking about that!"
Turning sharply, George saw a dim mounted figure cross the crest of a low rise some distance away and vanish beyond it.
"The fellow must have run straight for the poplar scrub, keeping the house between you and him," Grierson explained. "He'd have left his horse among the brush."
"I suppose that was it," George said angrily. "As there's no chance of overtaking him, we'll have a look at the horses, with a light, and then let Flett know."
There was nothing wrong in the stable, where they found the lantern George had looked for flung down in the empty stall, and in a very short space of time after they had called him Flett appeared. He walked round the buildings and examined some of the footprints with a light, and then he turned to George.
"Looks like an Indian by his stride," he said. "Guess I'll have to saddle up and start."
"You could hardly come up with the fellow; he'll have struck into one of the beaten trails, so as to leave no tracks," Edgar pointed out.
"That's so," said Flett. "I don't want to come up with him. It wouldn't be any use when your partner and Grierson couldn't swear to the man."
"What could have been his object?" George asked. "He seems to have done no harm."
"He wanted to see if my gray was still in the stable," Flett said dryly. "His friends have some business they'd sooner I didn't butt into fixed up somewhere else."
"But you have no idea where?"
"I haven't; that's the trouble. There are three or four different trails I'd like to watch, and I quite expect to strike the wrong one. Then, if the man knows you saw him, he might take his friends warning to change their plans. All the same, I'll get off."
He rode away shortly afterward, and as the others went back toward the house Edgar laughed.
"I don't think being a police trooper has many attractions in winter," he remarked. "Hiding in a bluff for several hours with the temperature forty degrees below, on the lookout for fellows who have probably gone another way, strikes me as a very unpleasant occupation."
CHAPTER XXII
THE SPREAD OF DISORDER
Flett spent a bitter night, keeping an unavailing watch among the willows where a lonely trail dipped into a ravine. Not a sound broke the stillness of the white prairie, and realizing that the men he wished to surprise had taken another path, he left his hiding-place shortly before daylight. He was almost too cold and stiff to mount; but as his hands and feet tingled painfully, it was evident that they had escaped frostbite, and that was something to be thankful for.
Reaching an outlying farm, he breakfasted and rested a while, after which he rode on to the Indian reservation, where he found signs of recent trouble. A man to whom he was at first refused access lay with a badly battered face in a shack which stood beside a few acres of roughly broken land; another man suffering from what looked like an ax wound sat huddled in dirty blankets in a teepee. It was obvious that a fight, which Flett suspected was the result of a drunken orgy, had been in progress not long before; but he could find no liquor nor any man actually under its influence, though the appearance of several suggested that they were recovering from a debauch. He discovered, however, in a poplar thicket the hide of a steer, from which a recent breeze had swept its covering of snow. This was a serious matter, and though the brand had been removed, Flett identified the skin as having belonged to an animal reported to him as missing.
He had now, when dusk was approaching, two charges of assault and one of cattle-killing to make, and it would not be prudent to remain upon the reservation during the night with anybody he arrested. The Indians were in a sullen, threatening mood; it was difficult to extract any information, and Flett was alone. He was, however, not to be daunted by angry looks or ominous mutterings, and by persistently questioning the injured men he learned enough to warrant his making two arrests; though he decided that the matter of the hide must be dropped for the present.
It was in a state of nervous tension that he mounted and drove his prisoners on a few paces in front of him. If he could get them into the open, he thought he would be safe, but the reservation was, for the most part, a tract of brush and bluff, pierced by ravines, among which he half expected an attempt would be made to facilitate their escape. For all that, he was, so far as appearances went, very calm and grim when he set out, and his prisoners, being ahead, did not notice that he searched each taller patch of brush they entered with apprehensive glances. Nor did they see his hand drop to his pistol-butt when something moved in the bushes as they went down the side of a dark declivity.
There was, however, no interference, and he felt more confident when he rode out into the moonlight which flooded the glittering prairie. Here he could deal with any unfavorable developments; but it was several leagues to the nearest shelter, and the Indians did not seem inclined to travel fast. The half-frozen constable would gladly have walked, only that he felt more master of the situation upon his horse. Mile after mile, they crossed the vast white waste, without a word being spoken, except when the shivering man sternly bade his prisoners, "Get on!"
Hand-cuffed as they were, he dare not relax his vigilance nor let them fall back too near him; and he had spent the previous night in the bitter frost. At times he felt painfully drowsy, but he had learned to overcome most bodily weaknesses, and his eyes only left the dark, plodding figures in front of him when he swept a searching glance across the plain. Nothing moved on it, and only the soft crunch of snow broke the dreary silence. At last, a cluster of low buildings rose out of the waste, and soon afterward Flett got down with difficulty and demanded shelter. The rudely awakened farmer gave him the use of his kitchen, in which a stove was burning; and while the Indians went to sleep on the floor, Flett, choosing an uncomfortable upright chair, lighted his pipe and sat down to keep another vigil. When dawn broke, his eyes were still open, though his face was a little haggard and very weary.
He obtained a conviction for assault; but, as the charges of cattle-killing and being in possession of liquor had to be dropped, this was small consolation. It left the men he considered responsible absolutely untouched.
Afterward, he played a part in other somewhat similar affairs, for offenses were rapidly becoming more numerous among both Indians and mean whites; but in spite of his efforts the gang he suspected managed to evade the grip of the law. Flett, however, was far from despairing; he waited his time and watched.
While he did so, spring came, unusually early. A warm west wind swept the snow away and for a week or two the softened prairie was almost impassable to vehicles. Then the wind veered to the northwest with bright sunshine, the soil began to dry, and George set out on a visit to Brandon where he had some business to transact.
Reaching Sage Butte in the afternoon, he found it suffering from the effects of the thaw. A swollen creek had converted the ground on one side of the track into a shallow lake; the front street resembled a muskeg, furrowed deep by sinking wheels. The vehicles outside the hotels were covered with sticky mire; the high, plank sidewalks were slippery with it, and foot passengers when forced to leave them sank far up their long boots; one or two of the stores were almost cut off by the pools. It rained between gleams of sunshine, and masses of dark cloud rolled by above the dripping town and wet prairie, which had turned a dingy gray.
As he was proceeding along one sidewalk, George met Hardie, and it struck him that the man was looking dejected and worn.
"Will you come back with me and wait for supper?" he asked. "I'd be glad of a talk."
"I think not," said George. "You're on the far side of the town and there are two streets to cross; you see, I'm going to Brandon, and I'll take enough gumbo into the cars with me, as it is. Then my train leaves in half an hour. I suppose I mustn't ask you to come into the Queen's?"
"No," said the clergyman. "Our old guard won't tolerate the smallest compromise with the enemy, and there's a good deal to be said for their point of view. After all, half-measures have seldom much result; a man must be one thing or another. But we might try the new waiting-room at the station."
The little room proved to be dry and comparatively clean, besides being furnished with nicely made and comfortable seats. Leaning back in one near the stove, George turned to his companion.
"How are things going round here?" he asked.
"Very much as I expected; we tried and failed to apply a check in time, and of late we have had a regular outbreak of lawlessness. At first sight, it's curious, considering that three-fourths of the inhabitants of the district are steady, industrious folk, and a proportion of the rest are capable of being useful citizens."
"Then how do you account for the disorder?"
Hardie looked thoughtful.
"I suppose we all have a tendency to follow a lead, which is often useful in an organized state of society; though it depends on the lead. By way of counter-balance, we have a certain impatience of restraint. Granting this, you can see that when the general tone of a place is one of sobriety and order, people who have not much love for either find it more or less easy to conform. But, if you set them a different example, one that slackens restrictions instead of imposing them, they'll follow it, and it somehow seems to be the rule that the turbulent element exerts the stronger influence. Anyway, it becomes the more prominent. You hear of the fellow who steals a horse in a daring manner; the man who quietly goes on with his plowing excites no notice."
"One must agree with that," George replied. "Popular feeling's fickle; a constant standard is needed to adjust it by."
Hardie smiled.
"It was given us long ago. But I can't believe that there's much general sympathy with these troublesome fellows. What I complain of is popular apathy; nobody feels it his business to interfere; though this state of things can't continue. The patience of respectable people will wear out; and then one can look for drastic developments."
"In the meanwhile, the other crowd are having their fling."
Hardie nodded.
"That's unfortunately true, though the lawbreakers have now and then come off second-best. A few days ago, Wilkie, the station-agent, was sitting in his office when a man who had some grievance against the railroad walked up to the window. Wilkie told him he must send his claim to Winnipeg, and the fellow retorted that he would have satisfaction right away out of the agent's hide. With that, he climbed in through the window; and I must confess to a feeling of satisfaction when I heard that he left the station in need of medical assistance. A week earlier, Taunton, of the store, was walking home along the track in the dark after collecting some of his accounts, when a man jumped out from behind a stock of ties with a pistol and demanded his wallet. Taunton, taken by surprise, produced a wad of bills, but the thief was a little too eager or careless in seizing them, for Taunton grabbed the pistol and got his money back. After that, he marched the man three miles along the track and into his store. I don't know what happened then, but I heard that there were traces of a pretty lively scuffle."
George laughed, but his companion continued more gravely:
"Then we have had a number of small disturbances when the men from the new link line came into town—they've graded the track to within a few miles now—and I hold Beamish responsible; they haven't encouraged these fellows at the Queen's. In fact, I mean to walk over and try to get a few words with them as soon as I leave you."
"One would hardly think Saturday evening a very good time," George commented.
His train came in shortly afterward, and when it had gone Hardie went home for a rubber coat, and then took the trail leading out of the settlement. He was forced to trudge through the tangled grass beside it because the soft gumbo soil stuck to his boots in great black lumps, and the patches of dwarf brush through which he must smash made progress laborious. After a while, however, he saw a long trail of black smoke ahead, and sounds of distant activity grew steadily louder.
There was an angry red glare on the western horizon, though the light was beginning to fade, when he reached the end of the new line and found a crowd of men distributing piles of gravel and spiking down the rails which ran back, gleaming in the sunset, lurid, straight and level, across the expanse of grass, until they were lost in the shadowy mass of a bluff. Near the men stood a few jaded teams and miry wagons; farther on a row of freight-cars occupied a side-track, a little smoke rising from the stacks on the roofs of one or two. Their doors were open, and on passing, Hardie noticed the dirty blue blankets and the litter of wet clothing in the rude bunks. As he approached the last car, which served as store and office, a man sprang down upon the line. He wore wet long boots and an old rubber coat stained with soil, but there was a stamp of authority upon his bronzed face.
"How are you getting on, Mr. Farren?" Hardie inquired.
"Slowly," said the other; "can't catch up on schedule contract time. We've had rain and heavy soil ever since we began. The boys have been giving me some trouble, too."
"You won't mind my having a few words with them?"
"Why, no," said Farren. "Guess they need it; but I'm most afraid you'll be wasting time. The Scandinavians, who're quiet enough and might agree with you, can't understand, and it's quite likely that the crowd you want to get at won't listen. Anyway, you can try it after they've dubbed the load off the gravel train; she's coming now."
He pointed toward a smear of smoke that trailed away across the prairie. It grew rapidly blacker and nearer, and presently a grimy locomotive with a long string of clattering cars behind it came down the uneven track. It had hardly stopped when the sides of the low cars dropped, and a plow moved forward from one to another, hurling off masses of gravel that fell with a roar. Then the train, backing out, came to a standstill again, and a swarm of men became busy about the line. Dusk was falling, but the blaze of the great electric light on the locomotive streamed along the track. While Hardie stood watching, half a dozen men dropped their tools and walked up to his companion.
"We're through with our lot," announced one. "We're going to the Butte and we'll trouble you for a sub of two dollars a man."
"You won't get it," said Farren shortly. "I want the ties laid on the next load."
"Then you can send somebody else to fix them. We're doing more than we booked for."
"You're getting paid for it."
"Shucks!" said the other contemptuously. "What we want is an evening at the Butte; and we're going to have it! Hand over the two dollars."
"No, sir," said Farren. "I've given in once or twice and I've got no work out of you for most two days afterward. You can quit tie-laying, if you insist; but you'll get no money until pay-day."
One of the men pulled out his watch.
"Boys," he said, "if we stop here talking, there won't be much time left for a jag when we make the Butte. Are you going to let him bluff you?"
The growl from the others was ominous. They had been working long hours at high pressure in the rain, and had suffered in temper. One of them strode forward and grasped Farren's shoulder.
"Now," he demanded, "hand out! It's our money."
There was only one course open to Farren. His position was not an easy one, and if he yielded, his authority would be gone.
His left arm shot out and the man went down with a crash. Then the others closed with him and a savage struggle began.
Hardie laid hold of a man who had picked up an iron bar, and managed to wrest it from him, but another struck him violently on the head, and he had a very indistinct idea of what went on during the next minute or two. There was a struggling knot of men pressed against the side of the car, but it broke up when more figures came running up and one man cried out sharply as he was struck by a heavy lump of gravel. Then Hardie found himself kneeling beside Farren, who lay senseless near the wheels with the blood running down his set white face. Behind him stood the panting locomotive engineer, trying to hold back the growing crowd.
"Looks pretty bad," he said. "What's to be done with him?"
"We had better get him into his bunk," directed Hardie. "Then I'll make for the Butte as fast as I can and bring the doctor out."
"It would take two hours," objected the engineer, as he gently removed Farren's hat. "Strikes me as a mighty ugly gash; the thing must be looked to right away. If I let her go, throttle wide, we ought to make Carson in half an hour, and they've a smart doctor there." He said something to his fireman and added: "Get hold; we'll take him along."
It looked as if the outbreak had not met with general approval, for a number of the bystanders offered their help and the injured man was carefully carried to the locomotive.
"I'll run the cars along as far as the gravel pit; then I can book the journey," the engineer said to Hardie. "But as I can't get off at the other end, you'll have to come along."
Hardie wondered how he would get back, but that was not a matter of great consequence, though he had to preach at Sage Butte in the morning, and he climbed up when Farren had been lifted into the cab. Then he sat down on the floor plates and rested the unconscious man's head and shoulders against his knees as the engine began to rock furiously. Nothing was said for a while; the uproar made by the banging cars would have rendered speech inaudible, but when they had been left behind, the engineer looked at Hardie.
"In a general way, it's not the thing to interfere in a row with a boss," he said. "Still, four to two, with two more watching out for a chance to butt in, is pretty steep odds, and Farren's a straight man. I felt quite good when I hit one of those fellows with a big lump of gravel."
Hardie could understand his sensations and did not rebuke him. So far as his experience went, the western locomotive crews were of an excellent type, and he was willing to admit that there were occasions when the indignation of an honest man might be expressed in vigorous action.
"It was really four to one, which makes the odds heavier," he said.
"I guess not," rejoined the engineer with a smile. "You were laying into one of them pretty lively as I ran up."
Hardie felt a little disconcerted. Having been partly dazed by the blow he had received, he had no clear recollection of the part he had taken in the scrimmage, though he had been conscious of burning anger when Farren was struck down. It was, however, difficult to believe that the engineer had been mistaken, because the locomotive lamp had lighted the track brilliantly.
"Anyway, one of them put his mark on you," resumed his companion. "Did you notice it, Pete?"
"Sure," said the grinning fireman; "big lump on his right cheek." He fumbled in a box and handed a tool to Hardie. "Better hold that spanner to it, if you're going to preach to-morrow. But how's Farren?"
"No sign of consciousness. The sooner we can get him into a doctor's hands, the better."
"Stir her up," ordered the engineer, and nodded when his comrade swung back the fire-door and hurled in coal. Then he turned to Hardie. "We're losing no time. She's running to beat the Imperial Limited clip, and the track's not worked down yet into its bed."
Hardie, looking about for a few moments, thought the speed could not safely be increased. There was a scream of wind about the cab, though when he had stood upon the track the air had been almost still; a bluff, which he knew was a large one, leaped up, hung over the line, and rushed away behind; the great engine was rocking and jolting so that he could hardly maintain his position, and the fireman shuffled about with the erratic motion. Then Hardie busied himself trying to protect Farren from the shaking, until the scream of the whistle broke through the confused sounds and the pace diminished. The bell began to toll, and, rising to his feet, Hardie saw a cluster of lights flitting back toward him. Shortly afterward they stopped beside a half-built row of elevators.
"Guess you'll have to be back to-morrow," the engineer said.
Hardie nodded.
"I've been rather worried about it. It would take me all night to walk."
"That's so," agreed the other. "All you have to do is to see Farren safe in the doctor's hands and leave the rest to me. I've got to have some water, for one thing." He turned to his fireman. "We'll put in that new journal babbit; she's not running sweet."
The clergyman was inclined to believe that the repair was not strictly needed, though it would account for a delay; but one or two of the station hands had reached the engine and, following instructions, they lifted Farren down, and wheeled him on a baggage truck to the doctor's house. The doctor seemed to have no doubt of the man's recovery but said that he must not be moved again for a day or two; and Hardie went back to the station, reassured and less troubled than he had been for some time. The attitude of the engineer, fireman, and construction gang, was encouraging. It confirmed his belief that the lawless element was tolerated rather than regarded with sympathy, and the patience of the remainder of the community would become exhausted before long. Though he admitted the influence of a bad example, he had firm faith in the rank and file.
CHAPTER XXIII
A HARMLESS CONSPIRACY
On the evening that George left for Brandon, Edgar drove over to the
Grant homestead.
"It's Saturday night, my partner's gone, and I felt I deserved a little relaxation," he explained.
"It's something to be able to feel that; the men who opened up this wheat-belt never got nor wanted anything of the kind," Grant rejoined. "But as supper's nearly ready, you have come at the right time."
Edgar turned to Flora.
"Your father always makes me feel that I belong to a decadent age. One can put up with it from him, because he's willing to live up to his ideas, which is not a universal rule, so far as my experience of moralizers goes. Anyhow, I'll confess that I'm glad to arrive in time for a meal. The cooking at our place might be improved; George, I regret to say, never seems to notice what he eats."
"That's a pretty good sign," said Grant.
"It strikes me as a failing for which I have to bear part of the consequences."
Flora laughed.
"If you felt that you had to make an excuse for coming, couldn't you have made a more flattering one?"
"Ah!" said Edgar, "you have caught me out. But I could give you a number of better reasons. It isn't my fault you resent compliments."
Flora rose and they entered the room where the hired men were gathering for the meal. When it was over, they returned to the smaller room and found seats near an open window, Grant smoking, Flora embroidering, while Edgar mused as he watched her. Dressed in some simple, light-colored material, which was nevertheless tastefully cut, she made an attractive picture in the plainly furnished room, the walls of which made an appropriate frame of uncovered native pine, for he always associated her and her father with the land to which they belonged. There was nothing voluptuous in any line of the girl's face or figure; the effect was chastely severe, and he knew that it conveyed a reliable hint of her character. This was not marked by coldness, but rather by an absence of superficial warmth. The calmness of her eyes spoke of depth and balance. She was steadfast and consistent; a daughter of the stern, snow-scourged North.
Then he glanced at the prairie, which ran west, streaked with ochre stubble in the foreground, then white and silvery gray, with neutral smears of poplar bluffs, to the blaze of crimson where it cut the sky. It was vast and lonely; at first sight a hard, forbidding land that broke down the slack of purpose and drove out the sybarite. He had sometimes shrunk from it, but it was slowly fastening its hold on him, and he now understood how it molded the nature of its inhabitants. For the most part, they were far from effusive; some of their ways were primitive and perhaps slightly barbarous, but there was vigor and staunchness in them. They stuck to the friends they had tried and were admirable in action; it was when, as they said, they were up against it that one learned most about the strong hearts of these men and women.
"Lansing will be away some days," Grant said presently. "What are you going to do next week?"
"Put up the new fence, most likely. The land's a little soft for plowing yet."
"That's so. As you'll have no use for the teams, it would be a good time to haul in some of the seed wheat. I've a carload coming out."
"A carload!" exclaimed Edgar in surprise, remembering the large carrying capacity of the Canadian freight-cars. "At the price they've been asking, it must have cost you a pile."
"It did," said Grant. "I generally try to get down to bed-rock figure, but I don't mind paying it. The fellow who worked up that wheat deserves his money."
"You mean the seed's worth its price if the crop escapes the frost?"
"That wasn't quite all I meant. I'm willing to pay the man for the work he has put into it. Try to figure the cross fertilizations he must have made, the varieties he's tried and cut out, and remember it takes time to get a permanent strain, and wheat makes only one crop a year. If the stuff's as good as it seems, the fellow's done something he'll never be paid for. Anyway, he's welcome to my share."
"There's no doubt about your admiration for hard work," declared Edgar. "As it happens, you have found putting it into practise profitable, which may have had some effect."
Grant's eyes twinkled.
"Now you have got hold of the wrong idea. You have raised a different point."
"Then, for instance, would you expect a hired man who had no interest in the crop to work as hard as you would?"
"Yes," Grant answered rather grimly; "I'd see he did. Though I don't often pay more than I can help, I wouldn't blame him for screwing up his wages to the last cent he could get; but if it was only half the proper rate, he'd have to do his share. A man's responsible to the country he's living in, not to his employer; the latter's only an agent, and if he gets too big a commission, it doesn't affect the case."
"It affects the workman seriously."
"He and his master must settle that point between them," Grant paused and spread out his hands forcibly. "You have heard what the country west of old Fort Garby—it's Winnipeg now—was like thirty years ago. Do you suppose all the men who made it what it is got paid for what they did? Canada couldn't raise the money, and quite a few of them got frozen to death."
It struck Edgar as a rather stern doctrine, but he admitted the truth of it; what was more, he felt that George and this farmer had many views in common. Grant, however, changed the subject.
"You had better take your two heavy teams in to the Butte on Monday;
I've ordered my freight there until the sandy trails get loose again.
Bring a couple of spare horses along. We'll load you up and you can
come in again."
"Two Clover-leaf wagons will haul a large lot of seed in a double journey."
"It's quite likely you'll have to make a third. Don't you think you ought to get this hauling done before Lansing comes home?"
A light broke in on Edgar. Grant was, with some reason, occasionally called hard; but he was always just, and it was evident that he could be generous. He meant to make his gift complete before George could protest.
"Yes," acquiesced Edgar; "it would be better, because George might want the teams, and for other reasons."
The farmer nodded.
"That's fixed. The agent has instructions to deliver."
Edgar left the homestead an hour later and spent the Sunday resting, because he knew that he would need all of his energy during the next few days. At dawn on the following morning he and Grierson started for Sage Butte, and on their arrival loaded the wagons and put up their horses for the night. They set out again before sunrise and were glad of the spare team when they came to places where all the horses could scarcely haul one wagon through the soft black soil. There were other spots where the graded road sloped steeply to the hollow out of which it had been dug, and with the lower wheels sinking they had to hold up the side of the vehicle. Great clods clung to the wheels; the men, plodding at the horses' heads, could scarcely pull their feet out of the mire, and they were thankful when they left the fences behind and could seek a slightly sounder surface on the grass.
Even here, progress was difficult. The stalks were tough and tangled and mixed with stiff, dwarf scrub, which grew in some spots almost to one's waist. There were little rises, and hollows into which the wagons jolted violently, and here and there they must skirt a bluff or strike back into the cut-up trail which traversed it. Toward noon they reached a larger wood, where the trees crowded thick upon the track. When Edgar floundered into it, there appeared to be no bottom. Getting back to the grass, he surveyed the scene with strong disgust; he had not quite got over his English fastidiousness.
Leafless branches met above the trail, and little bays strewn with trampled brush which showed where somebody had tried to force a drier route, indented the ranks of slender trunks. Except for these, the strip of sloppy black gumbo led straight through the wood, interspersed with gleaming pools. Having seen enough, Edgar beckoned Grierson and climbed a low hillock. The bluff was narrow where the road pierced it, but it was long and the ground was rough and covered with a smaller growth for some distance on its flanks.
"There's no way of getting round," he said. "I suppose six horses ought to haul one wagon through that sloo."
"It looks a bit doubtful," Grierson objected. "We mightn't be able to pull her out if she got in very deep. We could dump half the load and come back for it."
"And make four journeys? It's not to be thought of; two's a good deal too many."
They yoked the three teams to the first wagon, which promptly sank a long way up its high wheels, and while the men waded nearly knee-deep at their heads, the straining horses made thirty or forty yards. Then Edgar sank over the top of his long boots and the hub of one wheel got ominously low.
"They've done more than one could have expected; I hate to use the whip, but we must get out of this before she goes in altogether," he said.
Grierson nodded. He was fond of his horses, which were obviously distressed, and flecked with spume and lather where the traces chafed their wet flanks; but to be merciful would only increase their task.
The whip-cracks rang out like pistol-shots; and, splashing, snorting, struggling, amid showers of mire, they drew the wagon out of its sticky bed. They made another dozen yards; and then Grierson turned the horses into one of the embayments where there was brush that would support the wheels. Edgar sat down, breathless, upon a fallen trunk.
"People at home have two quite unfounded ideas about this country," he said disgustedly. "The first is that money is easily picked up here—which doesn't seem to need any remark; the second is that they have only to send over the slackers and slouchers to reform them. In my opinion, a few doses of this kind of thing would be enough to fill them with a horror of work." He replaced the pipe he had taken out. "It's a pity, Grierson, but we can't sit here and smoke."
They went on and nearly capsized the wagon in a pool, the bottom of which was too soft to give them foothold while they held up the vehicle, but they got through it and one or two others, and presently came out, dripping from the waist down, on to the drier prairie. Then Edgar turned and viewed their track.