Part 2

"You understand, I am sure," said he softly. "It has been worse this vacation than ever before. Dad's at a great disadvantage now and I have to watch him like a lynx. Swale's bar is a powerful lodestone. But he is bracing gamely. He has not touched the stuff for three weeks and if I stay with him now I believe he'll win out. Then I'll not lose the year after all. A steady grind at the homestead should work out an extra-mural pass, and I could pull down my degree with the rest of you."

"You will be missed, Ned."

He looked up quickly into her eyes. They were a peculiar mixture of sympathy and fun.

"Undoubtedly!" agreed Ned disconsolately, though his eyes twinkled. "How the Registrar will grieve at the non-appearance of my hitherto regular fee. And Grimes, sweet janitor! He will drop not a tear, but a diabolic wink at my sudden demise."

"Mercenary Registrar!" sighed Mary. "And unspeakably happy Grimes! Doubtful mourners, I admit. But others will follow the two chiefs. I see the Rugby Team pacing after slowly and aghast. They mourn Captain and star punter at one fell stroke or rather in the unavailable person of one fellow, Pullar. Methinks there was to have been a great International Debate. But now?--How can I go on down the long line? Behold the Winged Seven, favourites for the Hockey Cup, now, alas, the Wingless Six! And the Eight-oared Crew?--Can you not see that you will be missed ever so little?"

Ned looked up with a rueful grin.

"Grave losses all," replied Ned. "The ironic heartlessness of the small Co-ed notwithstanding. Varsity will gradually recover from her terrible handicap. Infinitely more terrible is it for me. Calculate the unmaterialized wisdom of four hundred priceless lectures. But, after all--it is nothing."

"No-o?" commented Mary slyly in sceptical demur.

Ned glanced into the brown eyes in time to surprise a smile uniquely pleasing in its whimsical delight. Instantly they became mockingly sober.

"Mary!" said he seriously, holding her gaze. "Will you miss me?"

The girl's eyes wandered suddenly to tree, sky, brook, finally resting on a log at their feet.

"What a sudden switch from general to particular," said she, absorbed apparently in the task of pecking a hole in the bark with the dainty toe of her riding-boot.

Laughing quietly Ned proceeded.

"If you could peep into my mind, Mary, you would find a seething resentment there. And all because of you. Soon you will be rejoining the old class. There's the rub. I cannot conceive of Pellawa without you."

"Indeed?"

"And a very big 'indeed,'" aggrieved Ned. "To think that Rooter Combes and his rah-rahs will be in clover. This obsession has been actively depressing since last Thursday. Perhaps you remember riding by Sparrow's. You looked quaintly desirable in that chic, brown slicker----"

"With my face all spattered and Bobs a mud tramp!"

"I did not see Bobs at all, just a chicily hooded girl with peeping curls of brown hair, flashing eyes and a nod adorably imperious but very welcome."

"I should not have recognized you."

"But you did and at that particular moment the act was doubly precious to me. How can I resign you, Mary, to the too tender solicitude of Combes and those dear fellows?"

Mary tipped her head reflectively while she read his half-serious eyes.

"Is this your trouble, Ned?" said she smiling frankly down at him. "Do you mean that you will miss me--quite a little?"

"Just so. Since you comprise the population of Pellawa--for me. But----"

"You may not be called upon to forego the society of this so immensely necessary person."

Now it was his eyes that opened wide.

"I have a piece of big news for you," continued Mary, shaking her head wisely while she enjoyed his surprise. "I, too, am dropping out. No Varsity for me this term. You see me to-day, Ned, a specially permitted schoolma'am. Last Thursday as I rode by Sparrow's I was on my way to sign the entangling documents. Bridges are all burned. To-morrow I begin teaching--where do you think?"

He shook his head.

"In the school of--The Craggs. I shall be your very close neighbour. Mary McClure is not flitting away from you. Combes and his tender-hearted fellows should worry very considerably, I fancy."

"Mary, Mary!" was the elated cry. "I am sorry for you but riotously happy for myself."

She looked down upon him a moment with eyes brimmingly glad, then a shadow crept into them.

"I am spending this year with Mother and Dad," she said simply.

Looking earnestly at her he caught the shine of tears. Stifling the gay words leaping to his lips he rose and stepping to her drew her head to his breast.

"Mary," said he gently, "our work is planned for a year ahead. Home is the only place for us just now."

"We'll make it a great year, Ned," was the hopeful reply. "When I was a little girl, everything good for Mother and Dad was described as 'bestest.' This is to be the 'bestest' year for our loved ones that they have ever known. Can we make it so?"

"You are only a little girl yet," said Ned, kissing the face turned up to him. "And this is to be their 'bestest' year. We shall see to that. Now for my trouble, the thing that drove me out to find you. These last moments have made it deepen rather than vanish. On Thursday afternoon, a short time before I saw you, I had an adventure. Have you heard of it?"

"Not even a rumour, Ned. Mother and I are not as intimate with Pellawa life as we should be."

"I am glad you have not heard," said Ned earnestly. "There was an encounter in the pool-room. Your father was involved."

At Ned's words a fear flashed into the girl's eyes.

"Your father and I have made rather slow progress in our mutual acquaintanceship. We got to know each other much better at Sparrow's. I cannot say the event has helped any. We are now enemies publicly acknowledged. At least your father so considers me. The clash was sharp and promises serious trouble ahead for us. It will hamper us not a little in our plans of the last few minutes."

"Ned!" she cried with lips a-tremble. "You did not fight? Not that?"

He looked at her, deeply troubled by the white face and the pain in her glance. She was looking at the scar on his cheek. He thought of the wager. A staggering regret swept over him. He was about to tell her the whole story, but now? No. She should not know all--just yet. Forcing a reassuring smile he replied:

"No. We did not fight. It was a touch and go but resulted in nothing more than a sharp brush with your father's gang. That scratch is from the boot of Bill Baird. I was able to restrain the Valley Gang, thanks to Easy Murphy's loyalty. Otherwise the worst would have happened. We did not fight and I am confident I can give you my promise that we never shall."

Immense relief filled the girl's eyes.

"You were in a hard place," said she, her look of strange comprehension searching his face. "You held your hand because--because of our love. I know it."

Her sure intuition astonished him, but before he could speak she continued:

"There is startling cause for cheer in all this, Ned. If you can prevent the terrible possibility I am thinking of, you can win Dad."

"How would you have me do it, Mary?" was his abrupt appeal.

She pondered deeply, her eyes growing in solicitude as the moments passed. At length she looked at him with troubled face, shaking her head.

"I do not know," was her helpless confession. "How would you win him?"

"The only way is to play the man with him," was the slow answer. "He would turn over heaven or hell to break me. Obviously I must break him."

The girl shuddered at the words. Watching the quivering face he was surprised to hear her say:

"I know there is no other way. One of you must conquer. But there is a condition I want to make. You will be right, always, Ned, as well as irresistible. I know you will."

"I shall always have the right with me. I have it now," was the quick reply. "I expect to butt into stone walls at times, but we shall win out. There is only one great, lurking dread. Sometimes I fear your father may strike at me through you, we mean so much to each other."

As he spoke he fancied he saw in her eyes the glimmer of a haunting fear. But it vanished so swiftly he doubted he had ever glimpsed it. The big eyes reading his were heavy with grief. With sudden impulse he crushed her in the shelter of his great arms.

"I should not have breathed the thought," said he penitently. "Nothing conceivable can ever strike our love, Mary. You are not afraid?"

"Not of that," was the reply as she nestled contentedly within the strength of him. "Many things may happen, but not that. Just now Father is obsessed with his new friendship. It is a thousand pities that the friend should be Chesley Sykes. His presence in Pellawa is an ominous mystery to me. So far he has deported himself with desirable aloofness. May he continue to do so. He is completely outside of this beautiful moment. Let us forget him."

"And ride away together," suggested Ned.

"I have an hour yet," calculated Mary.

"We'll spend it riding No-trail Gulch," tempted Ned.

"Let us away," laughed the girl gaily. "For the trail----"

"Is luring," completed Ned, leading her to the horses.

A moment later they clattered over the gravel bed of the brook and into the trees.

*III*

*BOUQUETS*

The month of October sped swiftly away in one long attack on oceans of stooks amid the blue blaze of cloudless skies. The threshers were having a run of "great weather" as the blank fields and the piles of straw averred. The matter of the McClure-Pullar wager had of course leaked out and become the one thrilling feature of the annual wind-up. Aside from the two gangs there was a keenly interested and, alas, gaming public. The sympathy of the plains went to Ned Pullar; the odds to Rob McClure. Jack Butte had become an inhuman sphinx. Into Jack's elevator had come the steady stream of grain from the contending mills but to no one had he divulged the respective records. No system of tapping his books had yet succeeded. This was due to the fact that Jack Butte was an irreproachable and resourceful stakeholder. As rare evidence of his unique qualifications he had sworn the secrecy of every farmer threshed by the rivals. It was a tribute to the sporting public that with but three days to run only one man knew of the interesting situation.

The Valley Outfit was resting. Ned Pullar was oiling-up and cleaning his engine during the dinner interim. Every bit of brass about her was gleaming gold while the friction surfaces shone clean like new silver. The "Old Lady" had established a personal reputation in the Valley as a "mighty good engine," and her engineer was justly proud of her. To Ned she had become a living thing. Mounting on the footboard he grasped the throttle. During the pounding grind of the past month he had formed the habit of communing with this thing of power that he controlled with so masterful a hand. As his eyes read gauge and water-glass with satisfaction he spoke to the engine, addressing her not by word of mouth but with the voice of his reflection.

"Just a couple of days more and we'll ease up on you, old girl. You've been a game old Pal and you'll not throw me down now."

The Old Lady made violent protest at even the hint of such infidelity by throwing a hissing cloud of steam from her exhaust. Ned smiled, gripping the throttle with a fond clutch.

"Same old ready bird!" said he. "Eager to get at it, are you? Just five minutes, Old Lady, and we'll set you purring again."

With the flames roaring through her flues the thing of steel waited restively for the thing of will that held her levers in sinewy grasp.

At the separator the men resting for a few minutes upon the straw were looking up into the face of Andy Bissett, the separator man, listening to him as he worked away with wire prod and oil can.

"I tell you, lads, we are up against a stiffer proposition than any of you fellows think. Ned's out for blood. He doesn't care a whiff for that wager Butte holds. But he's got to win it."

"Hold on, Andy!" cried Lawrie, the big feeder. "You've got me up in the air. I thought the Valley Outfit was after McClure's long green."

"So they be," agreed Dad Blackford belligerently. "And Ned, 'e's a-goin' to get hit."

But Andy shook his head.

"You don't get me," said he, pausing in his work. "And I can't explain for I'm as much at sea as the rest of you. But we've got to win this little bet. If we put it over McClure it will only be by a thousand or two. Ned says he won't push the Outfit any harder, but I've taken the liberty to put on the squeeze play for a couple of days. Grant's putting on two extra stook wagons and a couple of men. Here they come now. We're going to slam through a couple of thousand above the regular. If Grant can bung this old fanning mill I don't know it."

The men leaped to their feet, for the extra wagons had rattled up. There was a fresh determination in every face. They had been working at high pressure for the long run, but they were right on their toes in the face of the challenge. Each man went to his place addressing himself to the struggle in the workmanlike fashion of the Valley Outfit. Jean Benoit, the little French bagger, plucked the tankman's sleeve as the group broke up.

"What Ned hole on hees cheek?" questioned the Frenchman excitedly.

Easy Murphy looked at him a moment deeply puzzled. Suddenly light broke.

"Begobs, 'tis the tongue in his chake yer dappy about. Why, sez you, does not the sly divil be afthur-r showin' the hand uv him? Shure Ned's not wearin' his heart on his lapel, me frind from Montmorenci."

Jean searched the Irishman's face as it went through the contortion of an excessively wise and secretive wink.

"Mon Gar!" exclaimed the confused fellow. "De boss wan woodhead! Why he de debble not squeal? Eef we know, den lak wan blankety busy bee we work de whole gang. Eef we not know, Ned he ged him on de neck."

"You're right, Jean!" was the emphatic pronouncement. "And yit Ned wull not be afthurr tellin' his saycrits till the gintle lugs uv the Valley Gang. Can't ye see whut's eggin' him on? 'Tis not the wee wager. 'Tis a man." Tapping the Frenchman wisely on the breast he whispered tragically, "The boss is thrailin' a varmit be the cognomin uv Robbie McClure and he'll be afthurr gittin' his man dead or aloive. Put that intill the poipe uv ye and smoke ut, not forgettin' till wur-rk like ---- in the manetoime. Farewell!"

Jean did not understand quite all but he turned to the bagger with fierce resolution. As he knocked the filling bag with his knee he caught sight of McClure's smoke through the cloud of dust enveloping him. His dark eyes shone.

"We lick heem! We lick heem!" was his low soliloquy. Then he added joyously as he gave the bag a vicious jab, "Ha! Eet will be good!"

The thought energized him mightily. Deftly settling the bag and closing it he seized it adroitly and by united force of arms, knees and back hurled it up into the wagon, remarking ferociously:

"So we give McClure the beeg fall. We give him beeg scare too, eh? And mebbe leetle licking also."

Smiling gleefully he settled to the grind.

Easy Murphy was absorbed in a brown study as he climbed up on his water tank and started his horses over the stubble. Suddenly he came out of the maze of his cogitations and called fiercely at his horses.

"Arrah, me beauties, shake the legs uv ye or I'll be afthurr pokin' yer rumps wid me number tins."

The horses took the hint and broke into a lumbering trot. They were making a trip to the water-hole and at the moment were passing through a field of oats into which they would soon be hauling the Outfit. As he drove through the wire gate out into the road-allowance he saw a buckboard pull up at the fence some distance away. The sole occupant dropped out of the vehicle and passing through the strands of wire walked for a considerable distance into the stocks. Pausing for a moment the stranger knelt down beside a stock, then rising walked on to another, where he knelt again. His actions excited a keen curiosity in his observer.

"Begobs, me hearty!" exclaimed Easy. "Ye're not pickin' pansies in an oat-field. Nathur are ye adorin' the Almighty, for ye're almighty loike Snoopy Bill Baird, head foozler of McClure's bums. I'll hail yuh, Bill, till I find out yer tack."

He was about to yell when he checked himself, muttering:

"Howld yer jaw, ye owld fool."

The other had noticed his approach and loitered a few minutes shelling the grain, interested evidently in the yield. This matter duly settled, he climbed back through the fence and reentering the buckboard drove slowly along toward the tank. It was Snoopy Bill all right. As they drew abreast Easy pulled up his horses. A roguish twinkle played in his eyes as he said:

"'Tis a foine day wur-r havin', Bill. A pleasant day indade for pluckin' swate bokays."

"Great day! Great day! Murphy!" was the jocular reply,

"Bin pickin' pansies the day," continued Easy naively, curious to discover what he could.

Snoopy Bill looked at him sharply. But no guile could he discover in the face grinning down at him.

"No such luck, Murphy," said he casually. "I was taking a squint at the yield. Pretty durn good, eh?"

"And it's the yield ye're afthurr meddlin' with and not the swate and gowlden daisies. I saw yuh pokin' around among the stooks as I pulled through the gate."

The smile on Snoopy Bill's face ceased to deepen while the whole man became suddenly alert. Easy Murphy caught the change.

"Ye're Snoopy Bill, shure enough," blurted he. "And I'll lay ye a tin-spot ye were up to no godly devowshuns kneeling in the muck by the stooks. Ye're not prominint for religion, are ye, Snoopy?"

Snoopy Bill's tone was galling to Easy's inflammable spirit as he replied imperturbably:

"Leaving the matter of the 'swate daisies' aside, Murphy. I was praying for you, honest. I was putting in a lick for the Valley Gang asking the good Lord to have a look to Pullar's Outfit when we clean them up."

Easy's jaw set, a sign that an ultimatum was imminent.

"Ye blatherin' spalpeen!" he cried, his hands opening and shutting convulsively. "I'll be afthurr spilin' yer sassy mug if ye open it agin."

Snoopy Bill opened his "mug" with commendable lack of hesitation. An impudent drawl pointedly accentuated did not tend to reduce Easy's evident irritation.

"Talking about mugs, Murphy," said he confidentially, "it seems to me we have some curious and fine large samples hereabouts gopping wide open for free inspection."

The sardonic grin that accompanied the casual observation touched off a whole magazine of high explosive. Easy's mouth was a generously ample specimen and his posture of attention was to sit with it ajar. The amplitude of that particular area of his facial map was a source of constant regret. Hence the remark rankled.

"Ye've said it!" was his angry utterance as he threw down the lines. With a leap he was off the tank. They dropped to the road together, but Snoopy Bill having a shorter descent recovered first and rushing at his antagonist swung swiftly and struck, planting a powerful blow on the chest, hurling the other against the tank. He followed quickly for the head with his other hand but Easy's native wit acted with surprising speed and he ducked. Snoopy Bill's closed fist rapped on the hard surface of the tank, skinning the knuckles.

"Thry agin!" yelled the Irishman mockingly, with a vicious thrust into his enemy's ribs. The blow staggered his opponent. Swiftly he followed it with a jolting up-cut, yelling again, "Take wan yersilf and be hanged!"

The blow made Snoopy Bill's head bob back and he dropped to his knees. Easy stood over him furiously triumphant. Stooping he called into the other's ear:

"Git busy at yer devowshuns, me hearty. Put in a wur-rd for McClure and his divils."

With a weak smile Snoopy Bill staggered to his feet.

"You are a hard hitter, Murphy," said he dazedly.

Picking his late antagonist up bodily Easy bundled him into his buckboard and slapping the horse smartly on the hip sent him off at a trot. Placing his hands to his mouth the tankman shouted:

"If ye want anny more forgitmenots come back the morrow, the garden's full."

With this parting shot he climbed up on his tank and resumed his trip to the water-hole.

*IV*

*THE MAN, ROB McCLURE*

Rob McClure sat before his roll-top desk, his head resting upon his hands. He was perturbed. Occasionally his head would sink into a posture of dejection. In a moment he would straighten, shrug his shoulders and look out of the window, his face swept by the irony of an uncouth smile.

He was a man of powerful physique, large of frame, possessor of a presence singularly impressive. He was conscious of his power. An habitual, impatient shrug revealed a restive spirit deeply antagonistic to baffling elements. A relentless, implacable expression inwrought the face that exhibited even in the act of smiling the dominance of an over-riding will. There was something cruel in the hard lines about the mouth, while the deep little wrinkles about the eyes more than hinted brutal cunning. One felt that given sufficient pressure Rob McClure was capable of the unspeakable. There were, however, relieving features to the hard visage, most prominent of all a high, expansive brow and great, volcanic eyes.

Looking out of the window his eyes fell on the yellow stretches of stubble, empty now save for the huge piles of straw thrown up by the blower. In the west the plain was gulfed by the blue depths of The Qu'Appelle Valley. His glance swept over the autumn landscape all unseeing, for his gaze was fixed on two streams of distant smoke that rose for a little in straight columns, then floated off in long parallel lines to the west. Clenching his fist he brought it down on the desk.

"I've got him nailed!" he breathed fiercely, smiling his strange smile.

Then his confidence seemed to shake. The two lines of smoke were streaming over the fields evenly abreast.

"Pullar's a silent devil," he whispered darkly. "He is deep--deep as ----, and he cleans up a pile of stuff."

He meditated for a little then added decisively:

"But I've got him nailed tight."

The irresolution disappeared and the cruel smile stole out again.

"If he should win," was the jocular reflection. "We'll take a look at the little game proposed by Reddy Sykes. Reddy has a way--a fetching way." The name brought a certain merriness to his face. The humour was not attractive.

With a satisfied shrug he rocked back in his chair. As he did so his eyes rested on a photograph above his desk. Down upon him gazed two beautiful faces. Instantly a tender light softened the hard features. His lips moved, shaping involuntarily the names:

"Helen! Mary!"

The picture held his searching gaze until the sound of approaching footsteps broke the spell. At the sound the tender light vanished and a conflict surged over his face. Gradually his jaw set and the steel of the unyielding will revealed itself. The door opened quietly and in a moment a hand rested gently on his head. The voice that fell on his ear was sympathetic and affectionate. Mary had broken into his sanctum.

"Why, Daddy," she cried, "you are looking very serious. Are you troubled about something?"

The very solicitude of the voice seemed to chafe him.

"No," he exclaimed abruptly.

Nothing daunted she fondled his hair.

"Is the mill not running well, Daddy?"

The appeal in the voice caused a relenting of his face but his tone was forbidding as he replied:

"Yes. She's running along fine. I must go out to her right away."

Submitting brusquely to her kiss he rose and snapping the roll-top shut took his departure.