Lighting his pipe, George leaned contentedly on the rail. Then remembering what the Canadian had said, he thought of his old friend Marston, a man of charm and varied talents, whom he had long admired and often rather humbly referred to. It was hard to understand how Dick had failed in Canada, and harder still to see why he had made his plodding comrade his executor; for George, having seldom had occasion to exert his abilities, had no great belief in them. He had suffered keenly when Sylvia married Dick, but the homage he had offered her had always been characterized by diffidence, springing from a doubt that she could be content with him; and after a sharp struggle he succeeded in convincing himself that his wound did not matter if she were happier with the more brilliant man. He had entertained no hard thoughts of her: Sylvia could do no wrong. His love for her sprang rather from respect than passion; in his eyes she was all that a woman ought to be.
In the meanwhile his new friends were discussing him in a car farther back along the train.
"I'm glad I had that Englishman by me in the crowd," the man remarked. "He's cool and kept his head, did what was needed and nothing else. I allow you owe him something for bringing you through."
"Yes," said the girl; "he was quick and resolute." Then reserving the rest of her thoughts, she added: "His friend's amusing."
"Percy? Oh, yes," agreed her father. "Nothing to notice about him—he's just one of the boys. The other's different. What that fellow takes in hand he'll go through with."
"You haven't much to form an opinion on."
"That doesn't count. I can tell if a man's to be trusted when I see him."
"You're generally right," the girl admitted. "You were about Marston.
I was rather impressed by him when he first came out."
Her father smiled.
"Just so. Marston had only one trouble—he was all on top. You saw all his good points in the first few minutes. It was rough on him that they weren't the ones that are needed in this country."
"It's a country that demands a great deal," the girl said thoughtfully.
"Sure," was the dry reply. "The prairie breaks the weak and shiftless pretty quick; we only have room for hard men who'll stand up against whatever comes along."
"And do you think that description fits the Englishman we met?"
"Well," said her father, "I guess he wouldn't back down if things went against him."
He went out for a smoke, and the girl considered what he had said. It was not a matter of much consequence, but she knew he seldom made mistakes, and in this instance she agreed with him. As it happened, George's English relatives included one or two clever people, but none of them held his talents in much esteem. They thought him honest, rather painstaking, and good-natured, but that was all. It was left for two strangers to form a juster opinion; which was, perhaps, a not altogether unusual thing. Besides, the standards are different in western Canada. There, a man is judged by what he can do.
CHAPTER V
THE PRAIRIE
After a hot and tedious journey, George and his companion alighted one afternoon at a little station on a branch line, and Edgar looked about with interest when the train went on again. A telegraph office with a baggage-room attached occupied the middle of the low platform, a tall water-tank stood at the end, and three grain elevators towered high above a neighboring side-track. Facing the track, stood a row of wooden buildings varying in size and style: they included a double-storied hotel with a veranda in front of it, and several untidy shacks. Running back from them, two short streets, thinly lined with small houses, led to a sea of grass.
"Sage Butte doesn't strike one as a very exhilarating place," George remarked. "We'll stroll round it, and then see about rooms, since we have to stay the night."
They left the station, but the main street had few attractions to offer. Three stores, with strangely-assorted, dusty goods in their windows fronted the rickety plankwalk; beyond these stood a livery stable, a Chinese laundry, and a few dwelling-houses. Several dilapidated wagons and buggies were scattered about the uneven road. In the side street, disorderly rows of agricultural implements surrounded a store, and here and there little board dwellings with wire mosquito-doors and net-guarded windows, stood among low trees. Farther back were four very small wooden churches. It was unpleasantly hot, though a fresh breeze blew clouds of dust through the place.
"I've seen enough," said Edgar. "The Butte isn't pretty; we'll assume it's prosperous, though I haven't noticed much sign of activity yet. Let's go to the hotel."
When they reached it, several untidy loungers sat half asleep in the shade of the veranda, and though they obstructed the approach to the entrance none of them moved. Passing behind them, George opened a door filled in with wire-mesh, and they entered a hot room with a bare floor, furnished with a row of plain wooden chairs. After they had rung a bell for several minutes, a man appeared and looked at them with languid interest from behind a short counter.
"Can you put us up?" George inquired.
"Sure," was the answer.
The man flung down a labeled key, twisted round his register, which was fitted in a swivel frame, and handed George a pen.
"We want two rooms," Edgar objected.
"Can't help that. We've only got one."
"I suppose we'd better take it. Where can one get a drink?"
"Bar," replied the other, indicating a gap in a neighboring partition.
"They're laconic in this country," Edgar remarked.
"Ever since I arrived in it, I've felt as if I were a mere piece of baggage, to be hustled along anyway without my wishes counting."
"You'll get used to it after a while," George consoled him.
Entering the dark bar, Edgar refreshed himself with several ice-cooled drinks, served in what he thought were unusually small glasses. He felt somewhat astonished when he paid for them.
"Thirst's expensive on the prairie," he commented.
"Pump outside," drawled the attendant. "It's rather mean water."
They went upstairs to a very scantily furnished, doubled-bedded room.
George, warned by previous experience, glanced around.
"There's soap and a towel, anyway; but I don't see any water," he remarked. "I'll take the jar; they'll have a rain-tank somewhere about."
Edgar did not answer him. He was looking out of the open window, and now that there was little to obstruct his view, the prospect interested him. It had been a wet spring, and round the vast half-circle he commanded the prairie ran back to the horizon, brightly green, until its strong coloring gave place in the distance to soft neutral tones. It was blotched with crimson flowers; in the marshy spots there were streaks of purple; broad squares of darker wheat checkered the sweep of grass, and dwarf woods straggled across it in broken lines. In one place was the gleam of a little lake. Over it all there hung a sky of dazzling blue, across which great rounded cloud-masses rolled.
Edgar looked around as George came in with the water.
"That's great!" he exclaimed, indicating the prairie; and then, turning toward the wooden town, he added: "What a frightful mess man can make of pretty things! Still, I've no doubt the people who built the Butte are proud of it."
"If you talk to them in that style, you'll soon discover their opinion," George laughed; "but I don't think it would be wise."
Soon afterward a bell rang for supper, and going down to a big room, they found seats at a table which had several other occupants. Two of them, who appeared to be railroad-hands, were simply dressed in trousers and slate-colored shirts, and when they rested their elbows on the tablecloth, they left grimy smears. George thought the third man of the party, who was neatly attired, must be the station-agent; the fourth was unmistakably a newly-arrived Englishman. As soon as they were seated, a very smart young woman came up and rattled off the names of various unfamiliar dishes.
"I think I'll have a steak; I know what that is," Edgar told her.
She withdrew, and presently surrounded him with an array of little plates, at which he glanced dubiously before he attacked the thin, hard steak with a nickeled knife which failed to make a mark on it. When he made a more determined effort, it slid away from him, sweeping some greasy fried potatoes off his plate, and he grew hot under the stern gaze of the girl, who reappeared with some coffee he had not ordered.
"Perhaps you had better take it away before I do more damage, and let me have some fish," he said humbly.
"Another time you'll say what you want at first. You can't prospect right through the menu," she rebuked him.
In the meanwhile George had been describing his companions on the train to one of the men opposite.
"He told me he was located in the district, but I didn't learn his name, and he didn't get off here," he explained. "Do you know him?"
"Sure," said the other. "It's Alan Grant, of Poplar, 'bout eighteen miles back. Guess he went on to the next station—a little farther, but it's easier driving, now they're dumping straw on the trail."
"Putting straw on the road?" Edgar broke in. "Why are they doing that?"
"You'll see, if you drive out north," the man answered shortly. Then he turned to his better-dressed companion. "What are you going to do with that carload of lumber we got for Grant?"
"Send the car on to Benton."
"She's billed here."
"Can't help that—the road's mistake. Grant ordered all his stuff to
Benton. What he says goes."
This struck George as significant—it was only a man of importance whose instructions would be treated with so much deference. Then the agent turned to Edgar.
"What do you think of this country?"
"The country's very nice. So far as I've seen them, I can't say as much for the towns; they might be prettier."
"Might be prettier?" exclaimed the agent. "If they're not good enough for you, why did you come here?"
"I'm not sure it was a very judicious move. But, you see, I didn't know what the place was like; and, after all, an experience of this kind is supposed to be bracing."
The agent ignored Edgar after this. He talked to George, and elicited the information that the latter meant to farm. Then he got up, followed by two of the others, and the remaining man with the English appearance turned to George diffidently.
"Do you happen to want a teamster?" he asked.
"I believe I'll want two," was the answer. "But I'm afraid I'll have to hire Canadians."
The man's face fell. He looked anxious, and George remembered having seen a careworn woman tearfully embracing him before their steamer sailed. Her shabby clothes and despairing face had roused George's sympathy.
"Well," said the man dejectedly, "that's for you to decide; but I've driven horses most of my life, and until I get used to things I'd be reasonable about the pay. I was told these little places were the best to strike a job in; but, so far as I can find out, there's not much chance here."
George felt sorry for him. He suddenly made up his mind.
"What are farm teamsters getting now?" he asked a man who was leaving an adjacent table.
"Thirty dollars a month," was the answer.
"Thanks," said George, turning again to the Englishman. "Be ready to start with us to-morrow. I'll take you at thirty dollars; but if I don't get my value out of you, we'll have to part."
"No fear of that, sir," replied the other, in a tone of keen satisfaction.
When they got outside, Edgar looked at George with a smile.
"I'm glad you engaged the fellow," he said; "but considering that you'll have to teach him, were you not a little rash?"
"I'll find out by and by." George paused, and continued gravely: "It's a big adventure these people make. Think of it—the raising of the passage money by some desperate economy, the woman left behind with hardly enough to keep her a month or two, the man's fierce anxiety to find some work! When I saw how he was watching me, I felt I had to hire him."
"Just so," responded Edgar. "I suppose I ought to warn you that doing things of the kind may get you into trouble some day; but cold-blooded prudence never did appeal to me." He took one of the chairs in front of the building and filled his pipe before he continued: "We'll sit here a while, and then we might as well stroll across the plain. The general-room doesn't strike me as an attractive place to spend the evening in."
An hour later they left the tall elevators and straggling town behind, and after brushing through a belt of crimson flowers, they followed the torn-up black trail that led into the waste. After a mile or two it broke into several divergent rows of ruts, and they went on toward a winding line of bluff across the short grass. Reaching that, they pushed through the thin wood of dwarf birch and poplar, skirting little pools from which mallard rose: and then, crossing a long rise, they sat down to smoke on its farther side. Sage Butte had disappeared, the sun had dipped, and the air was growing wonderfully fresh and cool. Here and there a house or barn rose from the sweep of grass; but for the most part it ran back into the distance lonely and empty. It was steeped in strong, cold coloring, but on its western rim there burned a vivid flush of rose and saffron. Edgar was impressed by its vastness and silence.
"This," he said thoughtfully, "makes up for a good deal. Once you get clear of the railroad, it's a captivating country."
"Have you decided yet what you're going to do in it?"
"It's too soon," Edgar rejoined. "The family idea was that I should stay about twelve months, and then go back and enter some profession. Ethel seems quite convinced that a little roughing it will prove beneficial. I might, however, stop out and try farming, which is one reason why you can have my services for nothing for a time. Considering what local wages are, don't you think you're lucky?"
"That," laughed George, "remains to be seen."
"Anyhow, there's no doubt that Sylvia Marston scores in securing you on the same favorable terms. It has struck me that she's a woman who gets things easily."
"She hasn't always done so. Can you imagine, for instance, what two years on a prairie farm must have been to a delicate, fastidious girl, brought up in luxury?"
"I've an idea that Sylvia would manage to avoid a good many of the hardships."
"Sylvia would never shirk a duty," George declared firmly.
Edgar refilled his pipe.
"I've been thinking about Dick Marston," he said. "After the way he was generally regarded at home, it was strange to hear that Canadian's opinions; but I've a notion that this country's a pretty severe touchstone. I mean that the sort of qualities that make one popular in England may not prove of much use here."
"Dick lost his crop; that accounts for a good deal," George said shortly.
Edgar, knowing how staunch he was to his friends, changed the subject; and when the light grew dim they went back to the hotel. Breakfasting soon after six the next morning, they took their places in a light, four-wheeled vehicle, for which three persons' baggage made a rather heavy load, and drove away with the hired man. The grass was wet with dew, the air invigoratingly cool, and for a time the fresh team carried them across the waste at an excellent pace. When he had got used to the frantic jolting, Edgar found the drive exhilarating. Poplar bluffs, little ponds, a lake shining amid tall sedges, belts of darkgreen wheat, went by; and while the horses plunged through tall barley-grass or hauled the vehicle over clods and ruts, the same vast prospect stretched away ahead. It filled the lad with a curious sense of freedom: there was no limit to the prairies—one could go on and on, across still wider stretches beyond the horizon.
By and by, however, they ran in among low sandy hills, dotted with dwarf pines here and there, and the pace slackened. The grass was thin, the wheels sank in deep, loose sand, and the sun was getting unpleasantly hot. For half an hour they drove on; and then the team came to a standstill, necked with spume, at the foot of a short, steep rise. Edgar alighted and found the heat almost insupportable. There was glaring sand all about him, and the breeze which swept the prairie was cut off by the hill in front.
"You'll have to help the team," George told him, as he went to the horses' heads.
Edgar and the hired man each seized a wheel and endeavored to start the vehicle, while the horses plunged in the slipping sand. They made a few yards, with clouds of grit flying up about them, and afterward came to a stop again. Next they tried pushing; and after several rests they arrived, breathless and gasping, at the crest of the rise. There was a big hollow in front, and on the opposite side a ridge which looked steeper than the last one.
"How much do you think there is of this?" Edgar inquired.
"I can't say," George answered. "I know of one belt that runs for forty miles."
Even walking downhill was laborious, for they sank ankle-deep, but it was very much worse when they faced the ascent. Short as the hill was, it took them some time to climb; and, with the hired man's assistance, Edgar carried a heavy trunk up the last part of it. Then he sat down.
"I'm not sure I can smoke, but I intend to try," he said. "If you mean to rush the next hill right off, you will go without me." He turned to the hired man. "What do you think of these roads, Grierson?"
"I've seen better, sir," the other answered cautiously. "Perhaps the hills don't go on very far."
Edgar ruefully glanced ahead at scattered pines, clumps of brush, and ridges of gleaming sand.
"It's my opinion there's no end to them! Hauling a load of wheat through this kind of country must be a bit of an undertaking."
After a short rest, they toiled for an hour through the sand; and then rode slowly over a road thickly strewn with straw, which bore the wheels. It led them across lower ground to a strong wire fence, where it forked: one branch skirting the barrier along the edge of a muskeg, the other running through the enclosed land. Deciding to take the latter, George got down at the entrance, which was barred by several strands of wire, firmly fastened.
"Half an hour's work here," Edgar commented. "Driving's rather an arduous pastime in western Canada."
They crossed a long field of barley, a breadth of wheat, and passed an empty house; then wound through a poplar wood until they reached the grass again. It was long and rank, hiding the ruts and hollows in the trail; but after stopping a while for dinner in the shadow of a bluff, they jolted on, and in the afternoon they reached a smoother track. Crossing a low rise, they saw a wide stretch of wheat beneath them, with a house and other buildings near its margin.
"That," said George, "is Sylvia's farm."
Half an hour later, they drove through the wheat, at which George glanced dubiously; and then, traversing a belt of light sandy clods partly grown with weeds, they drew up before the house. It was double-storied, roomy, and neatly built of wood; but it was in very bad repair, and the barn and stables had a neglected and half-ruinous look. Implements and wagons which had suffered from exposure to the weather, stood about outside. Edgar noticed that George's face was grave.
"I am afraid we have our work cut out," he said. "We'll put up the team, and then look round the place and see what needs doing first."
CHAPTER VI
GEORGE GETS TO WORK
It was an oppressive evening, after a day of unusual heat. Edgar sat smoking outside the homestead. He had been busy since six o'clock that morning, and he felt tired and downcast. Massed thunder-clouds brooded over the silent prairie, wheat and grass had faded to dingy green and lifeless gray, and Edgar tried to persuade himself that his moodiness was the effect of the weather. This was partly the case, but he was also suffering from homesickness and a shrinking from what was new and strange.
The wooden house had a dreary, dilapidated look; the weathered, neglected appearance of barns and stables was depressing. It was through a neighboring gap in the fence that Marston's team had brought their lifeless master home; and Edgar had seen enough to realize that the man must have grown slack and nerveless before he had succumbed. The farm had broken down Marston's strength and courage, and now another man, less gifted in many ways, had taken it in charge. Edgar wondered how he would succeed; but in spite of a few misgivings he had confidence in George.
After a while the latter, who had been examining Marston's farming books, came out, looking grave; he had worn a serious air since their arrival.
"There'll have to be a change," he said. "Dick's accounts have given me something to think about. I believe I'm beginning to understand now how his money went."
"I suppose you haven't got the new program cut and dried yet?" Edgar suggested.
George was seldom precipitate.
"No," he answered. "I've a few ideas in my mind."
"Won't you have some trouble about finances, if the alterations are extensive?"
"I'll have to draw on my private account, unless Herbert will assist."
"Herbert won't do anything of the kind," said Edgar decidedly.
George, making no answer, called Grierson from the stable.
"You'll drive in to the settlement after breakfast to-morrow, Tom," he said. "Tell the man I'll keep the team, if he'll knock off twenty dollars, and he can have his check when he likes. Then bring out the flour and groceries."
"I suppose I won't be going in again for a while; we'll be too busy?"
"It's very likely," said Edgar, knowing his comrade's temperament.
"Then I wonder if I could draw a pound or two?" asked Grierson diffidently.
"Why?" George questioned him. "The Immigration people would see that you had some money before they let you in."
"I've four pounds now; I want to send something home at once."
"Ah!" said George. "I see. How much did you leave your wife?"
"About three pounds, sir; I had to bring enough to pass me at Quebec."
"Then if you give me what you have, I'll let you have a check for twice as much on an English bank. Better get your letter written."
Grierson's look was very expressive as he turned away with a word of thanks; and Edgar smiled at George.
"You have bought that fellow—for an advance of four pounds," he said.
George showed a little embarrassment.
"I was thinking of the woman," he explained.
Then he pointed to the prairie.
"There's a rig coming. It looks like visitors."
Soon afterward, Grant, whom they had met on the train, drew up his team and helped his daughter down.
"We were passing and thought we'd look in," he said. "Found out yesterday that you were located here."
George called Grierson to take the team, and leading the new arrivals to the house, which was still in disorder, he found them seats in the kitchen. It was rather roughly and inadequately furnished, and Edgar had decided that Sylvia had spent little of her time there. After they had talked for a while, a man, dressed in blue duck trousers, a saffron-colored shirt, and an old slouch hat, which he did not remove, walked in, carrying a riding quirt. Grant returned his greeting curtly, and then the man addressed George.
"I heard you were running this place," he said.
"That's correct."
"Then I put in the wheat on your summer fallow; Mrs. Marston told me to. Thought I'd come along and let you have the bill."
His manner was assertively offhand, and George did not ask him to sit down.
"It's a very second-rate piece of work," George said. "You might have used the land-packer more than you did."
"It's good enough. Anyway, I'll trouble you for the money."
Edgar was sensible of indignation mixed with amusement. This overbearing fellow did not know George Lansing.
"I think you had better take off your hat before we go any farther—it's customary. Then you may tell me what I owe you."
The man looked astonished, but he complied with the suggestion, and afterward stated his charge, which was unusually high. Edgar noticed that Grant was watching George with quiet interest.
"I suppose you have a note from Mrs. Marston fixing the price?"
The other explained that the matter had been arranged verbally.
"Was anybody else present when you came to terms?" George asked.
"You can quit feeling, and pay up!" exclaimed the stranger. "I've told you how much it is."
"The trouble is that you're asking nearly double the usual charge per acre."
Grant smiled approvingly, but the man advanced with a truculent air to the table at which George was sitting.
"I've done the work; that's good enough for me."
"You have done it badly, but I'll give you a check now, based on the regular charge, which should come to"—George made a quick calculation on a strip of paper and handed it to the man. "This is merely because you seem in a hurry. If you're not satisfied, you can wait until I get an answer from Mrs. Marston; or I'll ask some of my neighbors to arbitrate."
The man hesitated, with anger in his face.
"I guess I'll take the check," he said sullenly.
Crossing the floor, George took a pen and some paper from a shelf.
"Sit here," he said, when he came back, "and write me a receipt."
The other did as he was bidden, and George pointed toward the door.
"That's settled; I won't keep you."
The man looked hard at him, and then went quietly out; and Grant leaned back in his seat with a soft laugh.
"You fixed him," he remarked. "He has the name of being a tough."
"I suppose an Englishman newly out is considered lawful prey."
"A few of them deserve it," Grant returned dryly. "But let that go.
What do you think of the place?"
George felt that he could trust the farmer. He had spent a depressing day, during which all he saw had discouraged him. Marston had farmed in a singularly wasteful manner; fences and outbuildings were in very bad repair; half the implements were useless; and it would be a long and costly task to put things straight.
"I feel that I'll have my hands full. In fact, I'm a little worried about it; there are so many changes that must be made."
"Sure. Where are you going to begin?"
"By getting as much summer fallowing as possible done on the second quarter-section. The first has been growing wheat for some time; I'll sew part of that with timothy. There's one bit of stiff land I might put in flax. I've thought of trying corn for the silo."
"Timothy and a silo?" commented Grant.
"You're going in for stock, then? It means laying out money, and a slow return."
"I'm afraid so. Still, you can't grow cereals year after year on this light soil. It's a wasteful practise that will have to be abandoned, as people here seem to be discovering. Grain won't pay at sixteen bushels to the acre."
"A sure thing," Grant agreed. "I'm sticking right to wheat, but that's because I'm too old to change my system, and I'm on black soil, which holds out longer."
"But you're taking the nature out of it."
"It will see me through if I fallow," said Grant. "When I've done with it and sell out, somebody else can experiment with mixed crops and stock-raising. That's going to become the general plan, but it's costly at the beginning." Then he rose. "I'll walk round the place with you."
They went out, and the girl fell behind with Edgar. He had learned that her name was Flora.
"Mr. Lansing seems to understand farming," she remarked. "He didn't tell us he had been on the prairie before."
"He hasn't told you now," Edgar pointed out.
"George never does tell things about himself unless there's a reason."
"He soon got rid of the fellow who sowed the crop."
Edgar laughed.
"I knew the man would meet with a surprise. George's abilities are not, as a rule, obvious at first sight. People find them out by accident, and then they're somewhat startled."
"You're evidently an admirer of his. Do you mean to go in for farming?"
"I am, though I wouldn't have him suspect it," said Edgar. "In answer to the other question, I haven't made up my mind. Farming as it's carried on in this country seems to be a rather arduous occupation. In the meanwhile, I'm undergoing what English people seem to think of as the Canadian cure; that is, I've been given a chance for readjusting my ideas and developing my character."
"Under Mr. Lansing's guidance?"
Edgar realized that the girl was less interested in him than in George, but he did not resent this.
"You're smart. I believe my people entertained some idea of that nature; George is considered safe. Still, to prevent any misapprehension, I'd better point out that my chief failings are a fondness for looking at the amusing side of things and a slackness in availing myself of my opportunities. As an instance of the latter defect, I'm boring you by talking about Lansing."
Flora regarded him with a quiet smile.
"It struck me that you were saying something about yourself."
"I suppose that's true," Edgar admitted. "It clears the ground."
"For what?"
"For an extension of our acquaintance, among other things."
"Do you want it extended?"
They had stopped at the edge of a hollow filled with tall, harsh grass, and Edgar studied her while he considered his answer. There was nothing that suggested coquetry in the faint amusement she displayed; this was a girl with some depth of character, though he realized that she was pretty. She carried herself well; she was finely and strongly made; her gray eyes were searching; and she had a rather commanding manner. Her hair was a warm brown, clustering low on a smooth forehead; nose and lips and chin were firmly molded.
"Yes," he answered candidly; "I'm feeling the strangeness of the country, and I've an idea that both George and I may need friends in it. It strikes me that you and your father would prove useful ones."
"Well," she said, "he's sometimes called hard, and he's a little prejudiced on certain points, but he can be very staunch to those he takes a liking to."
"I believe," Edgar rejoined, "that also applies to you; I don't mean the first of it."
Flora changed the subject.
"I gather that you're not favorably impressed with the place."
"I'm not. If I had to farm it, I'd feel scared; and I don't think George is happy. It's hard to understand how Marston let it get into such a state."
"He was unfitted for the work, and he was further handicapped."
"How?" Edgar asked.
"You may have noticed that while economy ruled outside, the house is remarkably well furnished. The money Marston spent in Winnipeg stores should have gone into the land."
Edgar nodded; he did not agree with George's opinion of Sylvia.
"You don't seem to approve of the way Mrs. Marston managed things. It's rather curious. I always thought her pretty capable in some respects."
"That's very possible," said Flora with a hint of dryness.
"After all, it may not have been her fault," Edgar suggested. "Marston was a generous fellow; he may have insisted on thinking first of her comfort."
"Then she ought to have stopped him," said Flora firmly. "Do you think a woman should let a man spoil his one chance of success in order to surround her with luxury?"
"The answer's obvious."
A dazzling flash of lightning leaped from the mass of somber cloud overhead, and they turned back toward the house, which George and Grant reached soon afterward. Grant said that he must get home before the storm broke, and Grierson brought out his spirited team. It had grown nearly dark; a curious leaden haze obscured the prairie; and when the man was getting into his light, spring-seated wagon, a jagged streak of lightning suddenly reft the gloom and there was a deafening roll of thunder. The horses started. Grant fell backward from the step, dropping the reins; and while the others stood dazzled by the flash, the terrified animals backed the vehicle with a crash against the stable. Then they plunged madly forward toward the fence, with the reins trailing along the ground. Flora had got in before her father, and she was now helpless.
It was too late when Grant got up; Grierson and Edgar were too far away, and the latter stood still, wondering with a thrill of horror what the end would be; he did not think the horses saw the thin wire fence, and the gap in it was narrow. If they struck a post in going through, the vehicle would overturn. Then George, running furiously, sprang at the horses' heads, and went down, still holding on. He was dragged along a few yards, but the pace slackened, and Edgar ran forward with Grierson behind him. For a few moments there was a savage struggle, but they stopped and held the team, until Grant coolly cleared the reins and flung them to his daughter.
"Stick tight while I get up, and then watch out," he said to the others.
He was seated in another moment, the girl quietly making room for him; then, to Edgar's astonishment, he lashed the frantic horses with the whip, and, plunging forward, they swept madly through the opening in the fence, with the wagon jolting from rut to rut. A minute or two afterward they had vanished into the thick obscurity that veiled the waste of grass, and there was a dazzling flash and a stunning roll of thunder. George, flushed and breathless, looked around with a soft laugh.
"Grant has pretty good nerve," he said.
"That's so, sir," Grierson agreed. "Strikes me he'll take some of the wickedness out of his team before he gets them home. I noticed that Miss Grant didn't look the least bit afraid."
Then a deluge of rain drove them into the house, where Edgar sat smoking thoughtfully; for what Flora Grant had said about Sylvia had a disturbing effect on him. It looked as if her selfish regard for her comfort had hampered Marston in his struggle; and though Edgar had never had much faith in Sylvia, this was painful to contemplate. Moreover, George cherished a steadfast regard for her, which complicated things; but Edgar prudently decided that the matter was a delicate one and must be left to the people most concerned. After all, Miss Grant might be mistaken.
CHAPTER VII
A CATTLE DRIVE
George was summer fallowing, sitting in the iron saddle of a plow which a heavy Clydesdale team hauled through the stubble. The work should have been done earlier, for the soil on the Marston farm was very light, and, as it had already grown several crops of cereals, George was anxious to expose it to the influence of sun and wind as soon as possible. It was about the middle of the afternoon and very hot. Rounded cloud-masses overhung the plain, but dazzling sunshine fell on grass and stubble, and a haze of dust surrounded the team, while now and then the fine soil and sand, blown from the rest of the fallow by the fresh breeze, swept by in streams. George wore motor-goggles to protect his eyes, but his face and hands felt scorched and sore. Farther back, Edgar plodded behind a lighter team, making very poor progress.
Presently George looked up and saw Flora Grant riding toward him. She sat astride, but her skirt fell in becoming lines, and he thought the gray blouse and wide Stetson hat, with a red band round it, most effective. She reined up her horse near the plow, and George got down.
"I was passing—going on to Forsyth's place—and my father asked me to call," she said. "You were talking about buying cattle, and a man at Dunblane has some good Herefords to sell. Father thinks they would suit you."
"His recommendation carries weight," said George.
"I'll go and see them. I must thank you for bringing me word."
"I've another message. It's this—when you're buying stock, be cautious how you bid."
"As I'm not well up in local prices, I wish Mr. Grant had been a little plainer."
"He went farther than I expected. You see, as a friend of the seller, he's awkwardly fixed."
"Just so," said George. "But, if you're not in the same position, you might give me a hint. How much is the value of Canadian cattle usually below the price likely to be asked of a new arrival?"
"In this case, I should say about fifty per cent," Flora answered, with a laugh.
"Thank you," responded George. "I am sure your opinion's to be relied on."
Edgar stopped his team near by, and Flora regarded him with amusement as he came toward them, his red face streaked with dust.
"You look a good deal more like a western farmer than you did when I saw you last," she laughed.
Edgar removed his goggles and surveyed his working attire somewhat disgustedly.
"I wonder whether that's a compliment; but now that I've made the first plunge, I'd better go through with it—get a flappy hat and a black shirt, or one of those brilliant orange ones."
"The latter are more decorative. But, as you are going on a two days' journey to drive some cattle, I'll tell you how to find the way."
"You had better tell George. I can only remember the things that interest me."
Flora gave them clear instructions, and when she rode away George turned to Edgar.
"You'll have to come, and we'll start at once. Grierson can go on plowing with the Clydesdales, which is more than you could do."
"I'm afraid I must admit it," said Edgar, glancing at his ragged furrow. "But I'm going to have my supper and put up some provisions before I leave the place."
They set out an hour later, and safely reached their destination, where George purchased a dozen cattle. They were big, red and white, long-horned animals, accustomed to freedom, for fences are still scarce on tracts of the prairie, and they ranged about the corral in a restless manner. Edgar, leaning on the rails, watched them dubiously.
"They look unusually active," he remarked. "I'm not an expert at cattle-driving, but I suppose two of us ought to take them home."
The rancher laughed.
"Two's quite a good allowance for that small bunch, but if you keep north among the scrub poplar, you won't be bothered by many fences. It's pretty dry in summer, but you'll get good water in Baxter's well, if you head for the big bluff you'll see tomorrow afternoon. We'll let them out when you're ready."
As soon as the rails were flung down, the cattle rushed out tumultuously, as if rejoicing in their restored freedom. Then, while George and his companion mounted, they started off across the prairie at a steady trot.
"A mettlesome lot; seem to be in good training," Edgar commented.
"Have you any idea where they're going?"
"Guess they're heading for a creek two miles back; water's scarce," explained the rancher. "As it's near the trail, you had better let them go. You'll round them up quite easy when they've had a drink."
George and Edgar rode after the cattle. The sun was getting low, but the temperature showed no signs of falling, and the men were soon soaked in perspiration. The herd went on at a good pace, making for a wavy line of timber, and on reaching it, plunged down the side of a declivity among little scattered trees. A stream trickled through willow bushes and tall grass in the bottom of the hollow, and the men. had trouble in forcing the cattle to leave the water. Before they accomplished it, Edgar had got very wet and had scratched himself badly in scrambling through the brush.
"Driving stock is by no means so easy as it looks," he grumbled, when they had climbed the opposite ascent, leading their horses. "The way these beasts jump about among the bushes confuses you; I'd have sworn there were forty of them in the ravine."
"I see only nine now," George said pointedly.
Edgar looked back into the hollow.
"There are three of the brutes slipping away upstream as fast as they can go! You're smarter at the thing than I am—hadn't you better go after them?"
"I expect I'll be needed to keep this bunch together," George rejoined.
Edgar strode away, but it was half an hour later when he came back, hot and angry, with the cattle crashing through the brush in front of him. Then the reunited herd set off at a smart pace across the plain.
"They seem fond of an evening gallop," Edgar remarked. "Anyhow, they're going the right way, which strikes me as something to be thankful for."
They rode on, and it was getting dark when they checked the herd near a straggling poplar bluff. The grass was good, the beasts began to feed quietly, and after picketing their horses the men lay down on their blankets. It was growing cooler, a vivid band of green still flickered along the prairie's rim, and the deep silence was intensified by the soft sound the cattle made cropping the dew-damped herbage.
"I wonder if they go to sleep," mused Edgar. "I'm beginning to think this kind of thing must be rather fine when one gets used to it. It's a glorious night."
By and by he drew his blanket round him and sank into slumber; but for a while George, who had paid a high price for a Hereford bull, lay awake, thinking and calculating. It would cost a good deal more than he had anticipated to work the farm; Sylvia had no funds that could be drawn upon, and his means were not large. Economy and good management would be needed, but he was determined to make a success of his undertaking. At last, seeing that the herd showed no signs of moving, he went to sleep.
Awakening at sunrise George found that, except for the horses, there was not a beast in sight. For an hour he and West hunted them through the bluff; and then, after making a hurried breakfast, they went on their way again. It rapidly got hotter, the stock traveled quietly, and, with a halt or two where a clump of poplars offered a little shade, they rode, scorched by dazzling sunshine, across the limitless plain. In the afternoon George began to look eagerly for the bluff that the rancher mentioned. They had found no water, and the cattle seemed distressed. The glare and heat were getting intolerable, but the vast, gradual rise in front of them ran on, unbroken, to the skyline. Its crest, however, must be crossed before evening; and they toiled on.
At last, the long ascent was made, and George felt relieved when he saw a dark line of trees in the wide basin below him.
"That must be the big bluff where the well is; though I don't see a house," he said.
They had some trouble in urging the herd down the slope, but after a while they reached the welcome shadow of the trees, and Edgar broke into a shout when he saw a rude wooden platform with a windlass upon it and a trough near by.
"Ride ahead with the horses and water them," said George, dismounting.
Edgar did as he was bidden, but presently the herd, attracted by the sight of water, came surging round the trough, savagely jostling one another. The lad worked hard with the windlass, but he could not keep them supplied, and they crowded on the low platform covering the well, with heads stretched out eagerly toward the dripping bucket. After being flung against the windlass by a thirsty beast, Edgar called to his companion.
"They'll break through if you're not quick! It's my opinion they're bent on getting down the well!"
George came to his assistance with his riding quirt, but when they were supplying the last two or three unsatisfied animals, a man ran out of the bluff.
"What in thunder are you doing with our water?" he cried.
"He looks angry," Edgar commented. "When that rancher fellow told us about the well, he didn't mention the necessity of asking Mr. Baxter's permission." Then he waved his hand to the stranger.
"Come here and have a talk!"
The man came on at a quicker run. His face was hot with indignation, and on reaching them he broke into breathless and pointed expostulations.
"When you're quite through, we'll assess the damages," George quietly told him.
The farmer's anger began to dissipate.
"No," he said; "that would be taking a pretty mean pull on you; but water's scarce, and you can't have any more."
"Well," requested George, "have you a paddock or corral you could let me put this bunch of cattle into until the morning? I'm willing to pay for the accommodation."
"I can't do it," replied the other. "I want all the fenced grass I've got. Take them right along, and you'll strike a creek about six miles ahead. Then you ought to make the river to-morrow night."
It was obvious that he desired to be rid of them; and as it was getting cooler George resumed his journey. He found the creek early the next morning, and as the day promised to be unusually hot he delayed only until he had watered the stock. In an hour or two the sun was hidden by banks of leaden cloud, but the temperature did not fall and there was an oppressive heaviness in the air. The prairie had faded to a sweep of lifeless gray, obscured above its verge. The men made progress, however; and late in the afternoon a winding line of timber that marked the river's course appeared ahead. Shortly afterward, Edgar looked around.
"That's a curious streak of haze in the distance," he remarked.
"It's smoke," said George. "Grass fires are not uncommon in hot weather. It looks like a big one."
They urged the cattle on a little faster, but it was evening when they reached the first of the trees. George rode forward between them and pulled up his horse in some concern. The ford had been difficult when they crossed it on the outward journey, but now the space between bank and bank was filled by an angry flood. It rolled by furiously, lapping in frothy ripples upon the steep slope that led down to it.
"Nearly an extra three feet of water; there'd be a risk in crossing," he said, when Edgar joined him.
"We couldn't make the place where the trail runs in, and the landing down-stream from it looks bad."
"Then what ought we to do?" Edgar inquired.
"Wait until to-morrow. There's no doubt been a heavy thunderstorm higher up, but the water should soon run down." George glanced back toward the prairie dubiously. "I'm a little anxious about the fire; but, after all, it may not come near us."
The cattle did not wander far after drinking, and the men ate their supper. It grew dark, but the heat did not lessen, and the oppressive air was filled with a smell of burning. Looking back between the trees, they could see a long streak of yellow radiance leaping up, and growing dim when the view was obstructed by clouds of smoke.
"It's an awkward situation, and, as if it were not bad enough, there's a big thunderstorm brewing," Edgar said at length. "I'll go along and look at the mark you made upon the bank."
He strode away among the trees. It was very dark. The tethered horses were moving restlessly; but, so far as Edgar could make out, the cattle were bunched together. After lighting a match he came back.
"The water's falling, but only slowly," he reported. "Should we try to drive the stock along the bank?"
"We couldn't herd them in the dark. Besides, it's an extensive fire, and I'm doubtful whether we could get down to the water farther along."
They waited for an hour, keeping the cattle together with some trouble, and watching the blaze, which grew brighter rapidly. At last, wisps of pungent smoke rolled into the bluff.
"The beasts are ready to stampede!" George suddenly called to Edgar. "We'll have to make a start! Get into the saddle and drive them toward the ford!"
They were very busy for a while. Their horses were hard to manage, the timber was thick, and the herd attempted to break away through it; but at last they reached the steep dip to the waterside. One beast plunged in and vanished, more followed, and George, plying his quirt and shouting, rode in among the diminishing drove. He felt the water lapping about his boots, and then the horse lost its footing. George dropped from the saddle and seized a stirrup. For some minutes he could see a few dark objects about him, but they disappeared, and he and the horse were swept away down-stream.
He kept hold—the animal was swimming strongly—and after a time a lurid flash of lightning showed him a black mass of trees close ahead. They vanished, the succeeding darkness was impenetrable, and the crash of thunder was deadened by the roar of water. For a moment or two his head was driven under, but when he got it clear, another dazzling flash revealed a high bank only a few yards away, and when thick darkness followed he felt the horse rise to its feet. Then he touched soft bottom, and a little later scrambled up an almost precipitous slope with the bridle in his hand and the horse floundering behind him. They reached the summit, and, stopping among thin timber, it was with strong relief that he heard Edgar's shout. Shortly afterward the lad appeared, leading his horse.
"There's some of the drove on this side; I don't see the rest," he said, glancing toward the opposite bank, where dark trees stood out against a strong red glare.
"It strikes me we only got across in time."
Then torrential rain broke upon them, and while they stood, unable to move forward, a cry reached them faintly through the roar of the deluge. It came again when George answered, and was followed by a crackling and snapping of underbrush. Then, as a blaze of lightning filled the bluff with radiance, two men appeared for a moment, leading their horses among the slender trunks. They were immediately lost to sight again, but presently they came up, and George recognized Grant by his voice.
"So you have got through, Lansing," he cried. "I met Constable Flett on the trail, and, as he told me the river was rising and there was a big fire west, I figured you must be up against trouble."
He asked a few questions and then resumed:
"As you got the stock started, they'll have swum across; but we can't round them up until it's light. There's a deserted shack not far off, and I guess we'll head for it."
The constable agreed; and, mounting when they had got out of the timber, they rode off through the rain.
CHAPTER VIII
CONSTABLE FLETT'S SUSPICIONS
It was nearly six o'clock in the evening when George and his companions, who had spent part of the day looking for the straying stock, rode up to the Grant homestead through a vast stretch of grain. This grew on the rich black soil they call "gumbo" in the West; but here and there a belt of dark-colored summer fallow checkered the strong green of the wheat and oats. Though he clung to the one-crop system, Alan Grant was careful of his land. The fine brick house and range of smart wooden buildings, the costly implements, which included a gasoline tractor-plow, all indicated prosperity, and George recognized that the rugged-faced man beside him had made a marked success of his farming.
When the cattle had been secured, Flora Grant welcomed the new arrivals graciously, and after a while they sat down to supper with the hired men in a big room. It was plainly furnished, but there was everything that comfort demanded, for the happy mean between bareness and superfluity had been cleverly hit, and George thought Miss Grant was responsible for this. He sat beside her at the foot of the long table and noticed the hired hands' attitude toward her. It was respectful, but not diffident. The girl had no need to assert herself; she was on excellent terms with the sturdy toilers, who nevertheless cheerfully submitted to her rule.
When the meal was over, Grant led his guests into a smaller room, and produced a bag of domestic tobacco.
"The stock have gone far enough," he said. "You'll stay here to-night."
Flett looked doubtful, though it was obvious that he wished to remain. He was a young, brown-faced man, and his smart khaki uniform proclaimed him a trooper of the Northwest Mounted Police.
"The trouble is that I'm a bit late on my round already," he protested.
"That's soon fixed," said Grant.
He opened a roll-top desk, and wrote a note which he read out:
"'Constable Flett has been detained in the neighborhood of this homestead through having rendered, at my request, valuable assistance in rounding up a bunch of cattle, scattered in crossing the flooded river.'"
"Thanks," said Flett. "That kind of thing counts when they're choosing a corporal."
Grant turned to George with a smile.
"Keep in with the police, Lansing—I've known a good supper now and then go a long way. They may worry you about fireguards and fencing, but they'll stand by you when you're in trouble, if you treat them right. If it's a matter of straying stock, a sick horse, or you don't know how to roof a new barn, you have only to send for the nearest trooper."
"Aren't these things a little outside their duties?" Edgar asked.
The constable grinned.
"Most anything that wants doing badly is right in our line."
"Sure," said Grant. "It's not long since Flett went two hundred miles over the snow with a dog-team to settle a little difference between an Indian and his wife. Then he once brought a hurt trapper a fortnight's journey on his sledge, sleeping in the snow, in the bitterest weather. They were quite alone, and the hurt man was crazy most of the time."
"Then you're supposed to look after the settlers, as well as to keep order?" suggested Edgar, looking admiringly at the sturdy young constable.
"That's so," replied Flett. "They certainly need it. Last winter we struck one crowd in a lonely shack up north—man, woman, and several children huddled on the floor, with nothing to eat, and the stove out—at forty degrees below. There was a bluff a few miles off, but they hadn't a tool of any kind to cut cordwood with. Took us quite a while to haul them up some stores, though we made twelve-hour marches between our camps in the snow. We had to hustle that trip."
He paused and resumed:
"Better keep an eye on that bunch of young horses, Mr. Grant; bring them up nearer the house when the nights get darker. Those Clydesdales are mighty fine beasts and prices are high."
Grant looked astonished.
"I've been here a good many years, and I've never lost a horse," he declared.
"It doesn't follow you'll always be as lucky," the trooper said pointedly.
"I was told that property is as safe in the West as it is in England,"
Edgar broke in.
"Just so," remarked the trooper. "They say that kind of thing. I never was in the old country, but young mavericks aren't the only stock to go missing in Alberta, which isn't a long way off. The boys there have their hands full now and then, and we have three or four of the worst toughs I've struck right in Sage Butte."
Grant leaned forward on the table, looking steadily at him.
"Hadn't you better tell me what you have in your mind?"
"I can't give you much information, but we got a hint from Regina to keep our eyes open, and from things I've heard it's my idea that now that the boys have nearly stopped the running of Alberta cattle across the frontier, some of the toughs they couldn't track mean to start the same game farther east. Some of you ranchers run stock outside the fences, and I guess one could still find a lonely trail to the American border."
"Well," said Grant, "I'm glad you told me." He turned to George. "Be careful, Lansing; you would be an easier mark."
They strolled outside; and after a while George joined Flora, and sauntered away across the grass with her. It was a clear, still evening, and the air was wonderfully fresh.
"Though he wouldn't let me thank him, I feel I'm seriously indebted to your father, Miss Grant," he said. "Our horses were worn out, and the stock had all scattered when he turned up with the trooper."
"I believe he enjoyed the ride, and the night in the rain," replied Flora. "You see, he had once to work very hard here, and now that things have changed, he finds it rather tame. He likes to feel he's still capable of a little exertion."
"I shouldn't consider him an idle man."
Flora laughed.
"That would be very wrong; but the need for continual effort and the strain of making ends meet, with the chance of being ruined by a frozen crop, have passed. I believe he misses the excitement of it."
"Then I gather that he built up this great farm?"
"Yes; from a free quarter-section. He and my mother started in a two-roomed shack. They were both from Ontario, but she died several years ago." The girl paused. "Sometimes I think she must have had remarkable courage, I can remember her as always ready in an emergency, always tranquil."
George glanced at her as she stood, finely posed, looking out across the waste of grass with gravely steady eyes, and it occurred to him that she resembled her mother in the respects she had mentioned. Nevertheless, he felt inclined to wonder how she had got her grace and refinement. Alan Grant was forceful and rather primitive.
"Have you spent much of your time here?" he asked.
"No," she answered. "My mother was once a school-teacher, and she must have had ambitious views for me. When the farm began to prosper, I was sent to Toronto. After that I went to Montreal, and finally to England."
"You must be fond of traveling."
"Oh," she said, with some reserve, "I had thought of taking up a profession."
"And you have abandoned the idea?"
She looked at him quietly, wondering whether she should answer.
"I had no alternative," she said. "I began to realize it after my mother's death. Then my father was badly hurt in an accident with a team, and I came back. He has nobody else to look after him, and he is getting on in life."
Her words conveyed no hint of the stern struggle between duty and inclination, but George guessed it. This girl, he thought, was one not to give up lightly the career she had chosen.
Then she changed the subject with a smile.
"I suspect that my father approves of you, perhaps because of what you are doing with the land. I think I may say that if you have any little difficulty, or are short of any implements that would be useful, you need only come across to us."
"Thank you," George responded quietly.
"Mr. West mentioned that you were on a farm in this country once before. Why did you give it up?"
"Somebody left me a little money."
"Then what brought you back?"
She was rather direct, but that is not unusual in the West, and George was mildly flattered by the interest she displayed.
"It's a little difficult to answer. For one thing, I was beginning to feel that I was taking life too easily in England, It's a habit that grows on one."
He had no desire to conceal the fact that he had come out on Sylvia's behalf—it never occurred to him to mention it. He was trying to analyze the feelings which had rendered the sacrifice he made in leaving home a little easier.
"I don't think the dread of acquiring that habit is common among your people," Flora said mischievously. "It doesn't sound like a very convincing reason."
"No," replied George, with a smile. "Still, it had some weight. You see, it isn't difficult to get lazy and slack, and I'd done nothing except a little fishing and shooting for several years. I didn't want to sink into a mere lounger about country houses and clubs. It's pleasant, but too much of it is apt to unfit one for anything else."
"You believe it's safer, for example, to haul stovewood home through the Canadian frost or drive a plow under the scorching sun?"
"Yes; I think I feel something of the kind."
Flora somewhat astonished him by her scornful laugh.
"You're wise," she said. "We have had sportsmen here from your country, and I've a vivid memory of one or two. One could see by their coarse faces that they ate and drank too much; and they seemed determined to avoid discomfort at any cost. I suppose they could shoot, but they could neither strip a gun nor carry it on a long day's march. The last party thought it needful to take a teamload of supplies when they went north after moose. It would have been a catastrophe if they had missed their dinner."
"Going without one's dinner has its inconveniences," said George.
"And thinking too much about it has its perils," she retorted.
George nodded. He thought he knew what she meant, and he agreed with it. He could recall companions who, living for pleasure, had by degrees lost all zest for the more or less wholesome amusements to which they had confined their efforts. Some had become mere club loungers and tattlers; one or two had sunk into gross indulgence. This had had its effect on him: he did not wish to grow red-faced, slothful, and fleshy, as they had done, nor to busy himself with trivialities until such capacities for useful work as he possessed had atrophied.
"Well," he said, "nobody could call this a good country for the pampered loafer."
Flora smiled, and pointed out across the prairie. In the foreground it was flecked with crimson flowers; farther back willow and poplar bluffs stretched in bluish smears across the sweep of grass that ran on beyond them toward the vivid glow of color on the skyline. It was almost beautiful in the soft evening light, but it conveyed most clearly a sense of vastness and solitude. The effect was somehow daunting. One thought of the Arctic winter and the savage storms that swept the wilds.