_ CHAPTER IX. LONELY RANCH AT OWL HOOT
In spite of the recent tragic events the routine of the daily life at Loon Dyke Farm was very little interfered with. Just for a few weeks following upon the death of Leslie Grey the organization of Mrs. Malling's household had been thrown out of gear.
The corning of the police and the general scouring of the country for the murderers of the Customs officer had entailed a "nine days' wonder" around the countryside, and had helped to disturb the wonted peace of the farm. But the search did not last long. Horse-thieves do not wait long in a district, and the experience of the "riders of the plains" taught them that it would be useless to pursue where there was no clue to guide them. The search was abandoned after a while, and the dastardly murder remained an unsolved mystery.
The shock to Prudence's nervous system had been a terrible one, and a breakdown, closely bordering upon brain fever, had followed. The girl's condition had demanded the utmost care, and, in this matter, Sarah Gurridge had proved herself a loyal friend. Dr. Parash, with conscientious soundness of judgment, had ordered her removal for a prolonged sojourn to city life in Toronto; a course which, in spite of heartbroken appeal on the girl's part, her mother insisted upon carrying out with Spartan-like resolution.
"Broken hearts," she had said to Sarah, during a confidential chat upon the subject, "are only kept from mending by them as talks sympathy. There isn't nothin' like mixing with folks what's got their own troubles to worrit over. She'll get all that for sure when she gets to one o' them cities. Cities is full of purgat'ry," she added profoundly. "I shall send her down to sister Emma, she's one o' them hustlin' women that'll never let the child rest a minute."
And Sarah had approved feelingly.
So Prudence was safely dispatched eastwards for an indefinite period before the spring opened. But Hephzibah Malling had yet to realize that her daughter had suddenly developed from a child, who looked to her mother's guidance in all the more serious questions of life, into a woman of strong feelings and opinions. This swift casting off of the fetters of childhood had been the work of those few passionate moments at the bedside of her dying lover.
Prudence had submitted to the sentence which her mother, backed by the doctor's advice, had passed, and she went away. But in complying with the order she had performed the last act which childhood's use had prompted. The period of her absence was indefinite. The fiat demanded no limitation to her stay with "sister" Emma. She could return when she elected so to do. Bred in the pure air of the prairie, no city could claim her for long. And so she returned to the farm against all opposition within two months of leaving it.
The spring brought another change to the farm, a change which was as welcome to the old farm-wife as the opening of the spring itself. Hervey returned from Niagara, bringing with him the story of the failure of his mission. True to herself and the advice of Iredale, Hephzibah made her proposition to her son, with the result that, with some show of distaste, he accepted the situation, and with his three-legged companion took up his abode at the farm.
And so the days lengthened and the summer heat increased; the hay in the sloughs ripened and filled the air with its refreshing odours; the black squares of ploughed land were quickly covered with the deepening carpet of green, succulent grain; the wild currant-bushes flowered, and the choke-cherries ripened on the laden branches, and the deep blue vault of the heavens smiled down upon the verdant world.
George Iredale again became a constant and welcome visitor at the farm, nor in her leisure did Sarah Gurridge seek relaxation in any other direction.
The morning was well advanced. The air was still and very hot. There was a peaceful drowsiness about the farm buildings and yard which was only broken by the occasional squeal of the mouching swine routing amongst any stray garbage their inquisitive eyes happened to light upon. The upper half of the barn door stood open, and in the cool shade of the interior could be seen the outline of dark, well-rounded forms looming between the heel-posts of the stalls which lined the side walls. An occasional impatient stamp from the heavily-shod hoofs told of the capacity for annoyance of the ubiquitous fly or aggravating mosquito, whilst the steady grinding sound which pervaded the atmosphere within, and the occasional "gush" of distended nostrils testified to healthy appetites, and noses buried in mangers well filled with sweet-smelling "Timothy" hay.
The kitchen doorway was suddenly filled with the ample proportions of Hephzibah Malling. She moved out into the open. She was carrying a large pail filled with potato-parings and other fragments of culinary residuum. A large white sun-bonnet protected her grey head and shaded her now flaming face from the sun, and her dress, a neat study in grey, was enveloped in a huge apron.
She moved out to a position well clear of the buildings and began to call out in a tone of persuasive encouragement--
"Tig--tig--tig! Tig--tig--tig!"
She repeated her summons several times, then moved on slowly, continuing to call at intervals.
The swine gathered with a hungry rush at her heels, and their chorus of acclamation drowned her familiar cry. Passing down the length of the barn she reached a cluster of thatched mud hovels. Here she opened the crazy gate to admit her clamorous flock, and then deposited the contents of her pail in the trough provided for that purpose. The pigs fell-to with characteristic avidity, complaining vociferously the while as only pigs will.
She stood for a few moments looking down at her noisy charges with calculating eyes. It was a fine muster of young porkers, and the old lady was estimating their bacon-yielding capacity.
Suddenly her reflections were interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and turning, she saw Hervey crossing the yard in the direction of the creamery. She saw him disappear down the steps which led to the door, for the place was in the nature of a dugout She sighed heavily and moved away from her porkers, and slowly she made her way to the wash-house. The sight of this man had banished all her feelings of satisfaction. Her son was a constant trouble to her; a source of grave worry and anxiety. Her hopes of him had been anything but fulfilled.
In the meantime Hervey had propped himself against the doorway of the creamery and was talking to his sister within. The building, like all dugouts, was long and low; its roof was heavily thatched to protect the interior from the effects of the sun's rays. Prudence was moving slowly along the two wide counters which lined the walls from one end to the other. Each counter was covered with a number of huge milk-pans, from which the girl was carefully skimming the thick, yellow cream. She worked methodically; and the rich fat dropped with a heavy "plonk" into the small pail she carried, in a manner which testified to the quality of the cream.
She looked a little paler than usual; the healthy bloom had almost entirely disappeared from her cheeks, and dark shadows surrounded her brown eyes. But this was the only sign she displayed of the tragedy which had come into her young life. The trim figure was unimpaired, and her wealth of dark hair was as carefully adjusted as usual. Hervey watched his sister's movements as she passed from pan to pan.
"Iredale wants me to ride over to Owl Hoot to-day," he said slowly. "We're going to have an afternoon's 'chicken shoot.' He says the prairie-chicken round his place are as thick as mosquitoes. He's a lucky beggar. He seems to have the best of everything. I've scoured our farm all over and there's not so much as a solitary grey owl to get a pot at. I hate the place."
Prudence ceased working and faced him. She scornfully looked him up and down. At that moment she looked very picturesque with her black skirt turned up from the bottom and pinned about her waist, displaying an expanse of light-blue petticoat. Her blouse was a simple thing in spotless white cotton, with a black ribbon tied about her neck.
"I think you are very ungrateful, Hervey," she said quietly. "I've only been home for a few months, and not a day has passed but what I've heard you grumble about something in connection with your home. If it isn't the dulness it's the work; if it isn't the work it's your position of dependence, or the distance from town, or the people around us. Now you grumble because of the shooting. What do you want? We've got a section and a half, nearly a thousand acres, under wheat; we've got everything that money can buy in the way of improvements in machinery; we've got a home that might fill many a town-bred man with envy, and a mother who denies us nothing; and yet you aren't satisfied. What
do you want? If things aren't what you like, for goodness' sake go back to the wilds again, where, according to your own account, you were happy. Your incessant grumbling makes me sick."
"A new departure, sister, eh?" Hervey retorted, smiling unpleasantly. "I always thought it was everybody's privilege to grumble a bit. Still, I don't think it's for you to start lecturing me if even it isn't. Mother's treated me pretty well--in a way. But don't forget she's only hired me the same as she's hired Andy, or any of the rest of the hands. Why, I haven't even the same position as you have. I am paid so many dollars a month, for which I have to do certain work. Let me tell you this, my girl: if I had stayed on this farm until father died my position would have been very different. It would all have been mine now."
"Well, since you didn't do so, the farm is mother's." Prudence's pale cheeks had become flushed with anger. "And I think, all things considered, she has treated you particularly well."
And she turned back to her work.
The girl was very angry, and justifiably so. Hervey was lazy. The work which was his was rarely done unless it happened to fall in with his plans for the moment. He was thoroughly bearish to both his mother and herself, and he had already overdrawn the allowance the former had made him. All this had become very evident to the girl since her return to the farm, and it cut her to the quick that the peace of her home should have been so rudely broken. Even Prudence's personal troubles were quite secondary to the steady grind of Hervey's ill-manners.
Curiously enough, after the first passing of the shock of Grey's death she found herself less stricken than she would have deemed it possible. There could be no doubt that she had loved the man in her girlish, adoring fashion.
She had thought that never again could she return to the place which had such dread memories for her. Thoughts of the long summer days, and the dreary, interminable winter, when the distractions of labour are denied the farmer, had been revolting to her. To live within a few miles of where that dreadful tragedy had occurred; to live amongst the surroundings which must ever be reminding her of her dead lover; these things had made her shrink from the thought of the time when she would again turn westward to her home.
But when she had once more taken her place in the daily life at the farm, it was, at first with a certain feeling of self-disgust, and later with thankfulness, that she learned that she could face her old life with perfect equanimity. The childish passion for her dead lover had died; the shock which had suddenly brought about her own translation from girlhood to womanhood had also dispelled the illusions of her girlish first love.
She confided nothing to anybody, but just went about her daily round of labours in a quiet, pensive way, striving by every means to lighten her mother's burden and to help her brother to the path which their father before them had so diligently trodden.
Her patience had now given way under the wearing tide of Hervey's dissatisfaction, and it seemed as though a rupture between them were imminent.
"Oh, well enough, if you consider bare duty," Hervey retorted after a deliberate pause.
"Bare duty, indeed!" Prudence's two brown eyes flashed round on him in an instant. "You are the sort of man who should speak of duty, Hervey. You just ought to be ashamed of yourself. Your mother's debt of duty towards you was fulfilled on the day you left the farm years ago. She provided you with liberal capital to start you in life. Now you have come back, and she welcomes you with open arms--we both do--glad that you should be with us again. And what return have you made to her for her goodness? I'll tell you; you have brought her nothing but days of unhappiness with your lazy, grumbling ways. If you are going to continue like this, for goodness' sake go away again. She has enough on her shoulders without being worried by you."
The man looked for a moment as though he were going to give expression to some very nasty talk. Prudence had returned to her pans and so lost the evil glance of his expressive eyes. Then his look changed to a mocking smile, and when he spoke his words were decidedly conciliating.
"I'm afraid I've done something to offend you, Prue. But you shouldn't use hard words like that I know I'm not much of a farmer, and I am always a bit irritable when I am not my own master. But don't let's quarrel. I wanted to talk to you about George Iredale. He seems a jolly decent fellow--much too good to be kicking his heels about in such a district as Owl Hoot. He's extremely wealthy, isn't he?"
The girl felt angry still, but Hervey's tone slightly mollified her. She answered shortly enough, and the skimming of the milk was not done with the adeptness which she usually displayed.
"Rich? Yes, he's one of the richest men in Manitoba. Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. He seems very interested in--us. He's always over here. And he never by any chance loses an opportunity of ingratiating himself with mother. I wonder what his object is?"
Prudence bent over her work to hide the tell-tale flush which had spread over her face, and the skimming was once more done with the utmost care.
"Mother is very fond of Mr. Iredale," she replied slowly. "He is a good man, and a good friend. We, as you know, are his nearest neighbours. Are you going over there to-day?"
"I think so. Why?"
"Oh--it doesn't matter--I was going to ask you to ride over to Lakeville to ask Alice Gordon to come here during the harvesting. She's staying with the Covills. But it doesn't matter in the least, I can send one of the boys."
"Yes, better send one of the boys. I'm going over to Lonely Ranch. I shall cultivate Iredale; he's the only man I care about round here."
Prudence had nearly completed her operations and was salting the cream in the pail.
"Say, sis, did it ever strike you that Iredale's dead sweet on you?" Hervey went on coarsely.
The girl suddenly turned and looked her brother squarely in the face. Her brow was again flushed, but now with anger.
"You'll lose the best of your shooting if you don't hurry. You've got ten miles to ride. And--I am going to lock up."
Her brother didn't offer to move.
"Why do you do all this work?" he went on calmly. "Why don't you send all the milk to the Government creamery? It'll save labour, and you get market price for the produce."
"Because Government creameries are for those who can't afford to send their stuff to market, or make their cheese on their farms."
"Ah, that's the worst of being large farmers, it entails so much work. By Jove! Iredale doesn't work like we 'moss-backs' have to, and he's made a fortune. I guess if there were a Mrs. George Iredale she'd have a bully time. No cheese- or butter-making, eh, sis?" And, with a grin, Hervey turned on his heel, and, passing up the steps, walked away towards the barn.
Prudence waited until her brother had disappeared within the stables; then she locked up. As she turned from the door she heard her mother's voice calling.
"Girl--girl, where are you?"
"Here I am, mother dear, at the creamery."
Mrs. Malling trundled round the corner of the house.
"Prudence, there's young Peter Furrer come over, and I haven't time to stop and gossip with him. Like as not he don't want to talk to a body like me, anyway. Just drop that skirt o' yours, girl, and go and see him. A nice time o' day to come a-courtin'. He'll be a-follerin' you to the grain fields when we're harvesting."
Prudence smiled.
"Never mind, mother. He's come at an opportune moment. I want a messenger to go over to Lakeville. He'll do. I'm sending word to Alice Gordon. I want her to come here for the harvesting. Alice must get very sick of living at Ainsley, in spite of the fact of her beau living there. I've a good mind to tell her to bring him out here. Shan't be long, dear; I'll join you directly. Where are you? In the wash-house?"
The girl ran off, letting her skirt fall as she went The mother passed on to the wash-house, muttering to herself as she went.
"La, if he were only like her. But there, the Lord ordains, and them as brings their offspring into the world must abide the racket. But it goes hard with a man about the house who idles. Mussy-a-me, he ain't like his poor father. And I'm not goin' to give him no extra dollars to fling around in Winnipeg. He's too fond of loose company."
The old lady continued to mutter audibly until she reached the wash-house door, where she disappeared just as the object of her thoughts led his horse out of the barn, jumped on its back, and rode away.
It was noon when Hervey reached Owl Hoot. He had been there several times lately, sometimes at George Iredale's invitation, but generally at his own. He had his own particular reasons for cultivating the owner of Lonely Ranch, and those reasons he kept carefully to himself. This unworthy son had only been at Loon Dyke Farm for little more than four months, and during that brief period he had plainly shown what manner of man he was.
Even the doting affection of his mother had not blinded that simple soul to his shortcomings. Each month since his coming he had steadily overdrawn his allowance to no inconsiderable extent. His frequent visits to Winnipeg had always ended in his return home with pockets empty, and an accumulation of debts, of which he said nothing, left behind him. Then came the inevitable request for money, generally backed up by some plausible excuse, and Hephzibah's cheque-book was always forthcoming on these occasions. But though, hitherto, she had not failed him, he saw by her manner that the time was not far distant when her sweet old face would become curiously set, and the comely mouth would shut tight, and the cheque-book would remain locked in her wardrobe, while he poured his flimsy excuses on stone-deaf ears.
He understood his mother. She would do much, perhaps far too much for her children, but she would not allow herself to be preyed upon; she was too keen a business woman for that. Besides, his accumulation of debts was now so great that all he was able to bleed her for would be but a drop in the ocean. In Winnipeg he posed as the owner of Loon Dyke Farm, and as such his credit was extensive. But now there were clamourings for settlements, and Hervey knew that gaming debts and hotel bills must be met in due course. Tradesmen can wait, they have redress from owners of property, but the others have no such means of repaying themselves, therefore they must be paid if he wished to remain in the district. Now he meant to raise what he required from Iredale. He had recognized the fact that Iredale was in love with Prudence, nor was he slow to appreciate the possibilities which this matter suggested as a money-raising means. Yes, Hervey intended that Iredale should pay for the privilege of enjoying his sister's society. Money he must have, and that at once.
It was a wild, desolate region which he rode through on his way to Lonely Ranch. No one, finding themselves suddenly dropped into the midst of those wood-covered crags and clean-cut ravines, the boulder-strewn, grassless land, would have dreamed that they were within half-a-dozen miles of the fertile prairie-lands of Canada. It was like a slum hidden away in the heart of a fashionable city. The country round the mysterious Lake of the Woods is something utterly apart from the rest of the Canadian world, and partakes much of the nature of the Badlands of Dakota. It is tucked away in the extreme south-eastern corner of Manitoba, and the international boundary runs right through the heart of it.
Lonely Ranch was situated in an abrupt hollow, and was entirely lost to view in a mammoth growth of pinewoods. Years ago a settlement had existed in this region, but what the nature of that settlement it was now impossible to tell. Local tradition held that, at some far-distant period, the place had been occupied by a camp of half-breed "bad-men" who worked their evil trade upon the south side of the American border, and sought security in the shelter of this perfect hiding-place. Be that as it may, it was now the abode of George Iredale, rancher. He had built for himself a splendid house of hewn logs, and his outbuildings--many of them the restored houses of the early settlers--and corrals formed a ranch of very large dimensions.
And it was all hidden away in black woods which defied the keenest observation of the passer-by. And the hollow was approached by a circuitous road which entered the cutting at its northern end. Any other mode of ingress was impossible for any beast of burden.
As Hervey entered the valley and became lost to view in the sombre woods, he was greeted by the woeful cry of a screech-owl. So sudden and unexpected was the ear-piercing cry that both horse and rider started. The horse threw up its head and snorted, and stood for an instant trembling with apprehension. Hervey looked about him keenly. He could see nothing but the crowd of leafless tree-trunks, and a bed of dry pine-cones which covered the surrounding earth. The owl was probably hidden in the hollow of some dead tree, for there were many about. He pressed his horse forward. The animal moved cautiously, dancing along in its nervous apprehension.
Presently another cry split the air. Again some owl had protested at his intrusion.
So suddenly did the cry come that Hervey felt a slight superstitious quiver pass down his back, but he rode on. He had nearly a mile of the valley to travel before he came to the house, and, during the journey, seven times came the hideous screech of the owls. Now he began to understand why this place was called "Owl Hoot."
It was with a feeling of relief that he at length saw the ranch through the trees, and he greeted Iredale, who was standing in his doorway when he dismounted, with genuine pleasure.
"Well," he said, after shaking his host by the hand, "another mile of this d----d valley and I should have turned tail and fled back to the open. Why, you must have a regular colony of owls in the place. Man, I never heard such weird cries in my life. How is it that I haven't heard them before when I came here?"
Iredale took his visitor's horse. He was dressed in moleskin. Underneath his loose, dun-coloured vest he wore a soft shirt, and in place of a linen collar he had a red bandana tied about his neck. His headgear was a Stetson hat. In this garb he looked much more burly and powerful than in the tweeds he usually wore when visiting at the farm. His strong, patient face was lit by a quiet smile. He was a man whose eyes, and the expression of his features, never betrayed his thoughts. A keen observer would have noticed this at once, but to such people as he encountered he merely appeared a kindly man who was not much given to talking.
"Colony of owls, eh?" he said, leading the horse in the direction of the barn. "Those cries you have heard are what this cheerful place takes its name from. It only needs one cry to set the whole valley ringing with them. Had not the first creature seen you approach you might have reached your destination without hearing one disturbing sound. As a rule, in the daytime, they are not heard, but at night no one can enter these woods without the echoes being aroused. When they begin to shriek there is no sleep for any one in my house."
"So I should say. Well, never mind them now, we have other matters on hand. What coverts are we going to shoot over first?"
Hervey had followed his host to the stable. A strange-looking little creature came from the obscurity within. He was an undersized man with a small face, which seemed somehow to have shrivelled up like a dead leaf. He had a pair of the smallest eyes Hervey had ever seen, and not a vestige of hair on his face. His head was covered with a crown of bristly grey hair that seemed to grow in patches, and his feet were both turned in one direction--to the right.
"Take this plug and give him a rub down, Chintz," said Iredale. "When he's cool, water and feed him. Mr. Malling won't need him until about eight o'clock."
Then he turned towards the house.
"He don't waste words," observed Hervey, indicating the man, who had silently disappeared into the stable, taking the horse with him.
"No; he's dumb," replied Iredale. "He's my head boy."
"Boy?"
"Yes. Sixty-two."
The two men passed into Iredale's sitting-room. It was plainly but comfortably furnished in a typical bachelor manner. There were more signs of the owner's sporting propensities in the room than anything else, the walls being arranged with gun-racks, fishing-tackle, and trophies of the chase.
"We'll draw the bush on the other side of the Front Hill, otherwise known as the 'Haunted Hill,'" said Iredale, pointing to a gun-rack. "Select your weapon. I should take a mixed bore--ten and twelve. We may need both. There are some geese in a swamp over that way. The cartridges are in the bookcase; help yourself to a good supply, and one of those haversacks."
Hervey did as his host suggested.
"Why 'Haunted Hill'?" he asked curiously.
Iredale shrugged.
"By reason of a little graveyard on the side of it. Evidently where the early settlers buried their dead. It is a local name given, I suppose, by the prairie folk of your neighbourhood. Come on."
The two men set out. Nor did they return until six o'clock. Their shoot was productive of a splendid bag--prairie chicken and geese. Both men were excellent shots. Iredale was perhaps the better of the two, at least his bag numbered two brace more than that of his companion; but then, as Hervey told himself, he was using a strange gun, whilst Iredale was using the weapon he most favoured. Supper was prepared by the time they returned to the house. Iredale, healthily hungry and calmly contented, sat down to the meal; Hervey, famished by his unusual exercise, joined him in the loudest of good spirits.
Towards the close of the meal, when the whisky-and-water Hervey had liberally primed himself with had had due effect, he broached the subject that was ever uppermost in his thoughts. He began expansively--
"You know, George,"--he had already adopted the familiarity, and Iredale had not troubled to show disapproval, probably he remembered the relationship between this man and Prudence,--"I'm sick of farming. It's too monotonous. Not only that; so long as mother lives I am little better than a hired man. Of course she's very good," he went on, as he noted a sudden lowering of his companion's eyelids; "does no end for me, and all that sort of thing; but my salary goes nowhere with a man who has--well--who has hitherto had considerable resources. It's no easy thing under the circumstances to keep my expenses down. It seems such nonsense, when one comes to think of it, that I, who will eventually own the farm, subject, of course, to some provision for Prue, have to put up with a trifling allowance doled out to me every month; it's really monstrous. Who ever heard of a fellow living on one hundred dollars a month! That's what I'm getting. Why, I owe more than five months' wages at the Northern Union Hotel in Winnipeg. It can't be done; that's all about it."
Iredale looked over at the dark face opposite him. Nor could he help drawing a comparison between the man and the two ladies who owned him, one as brother, the other as son. How utterly unlike them he was in every way. There was not the smallest resemblance in mind, face, or figure. His thoughts reverted to Silas Malling, and here they paused. Here was the resemblance of outward form; and he wondered what unfathomed depths had lain in the nature of the old farmer which could have communicated themselves in such developed form to the son. It was inconceivable that this indolent, selfish spendthrift could have inherited his nature from Silas Malling. No; he felt sure that some former ancestor must have been responsible for it. He understood the drift of Hervey's words in a twinkling. He had experienced this sort of thing before from other men. Now he did not discourage it.
"A hundred a month on the prairie should be a princely--er--wage," he said in his grave way. "Of course it might be different in a city."
"It is," said Hervey decidedly. "I don't know, I'm sure," he went on, after a moment's pause. "I suppose I must weather through somehow."
He looked across at Iredale in such a definitely meaning way that the latter had no hesitation in speaking plainly. He knew it was money, and this was Prudence's brother.
"Got into a--mess?" he suggested encouragingly.
Hervey felt that he had an easy victim, but he smoked pensively for a moment before he spoke, keeping his great eyes turned well down upon the table-cover.
"Um--I lost a lot of money at poker the last time I was in the city. I was in an awful streak of bad luck; could do nothing right. Generally it's the other way about. Now they're pressing me to redeem the I.O.U.s. When they owe me I notice they're not so eager about it."
"That's bad; I'm sorry to hear it." Iredale's eyes were smiling, whilst in their depths there was the faintest suspicion of irony. He was in no way imposed upon by the breadth of the fabrication. It was the old story. He, too, lit his pipe and leant back in his chair. "I hope the amount is not too overwhelming. If I can--er--be----"
Hervey interrupted him eagerly. He brought his hand down heavily upon the table.
"By Jove! you are a good sort, George. If you could--just a loan, of course--you see I can offer you security on my certain inheritance of the farm----"
But Iredale had no wish to hear anything about his future possibilities of inheritance. He interrupted him sharply, and his tone was unusually icy.
"Tut--tut, man. Never mind about that. In spite of your need of money, I hope it will be many a year before your mother leaves our farming world."
"I trust so," murmured Hervey, without enthusiasm.
"How much will appease your creditors?"
Iredale spoke with such indifference about the amount that Hervey promptly decided to double the sum he originally intended to ask for.
"Five thousand dollars," he said, with some show of diffidence, but with eyes that gazed hungrily towards this man who treated the loaning of a large amount in such a careless manner.
Iredale offered no comment. He merely rose from his seat, and opening a drawer in his bookcase, produced a cheque-book and a pen and ink. He made out a cheque for the amount named, and passed it across the table. His only remark was--
"Your luck may change. Pay me when you like. No, don't bother about a receipt."
Hervey seized upon the piece of paper. He was almost too staggered to tender his thanks. Iredale in his quiet way was watching, nor was any movement on his companion's part lost to his observant eyes. He had "sized" this man up, from the soles of his boots to the crown of his head, and his contempt for him was profound. But he gave no sign. His cordiality was apparently perfect. The five thousand dollars were nothing to him, and he felt that the giving of that cheque might save those at Loon Dyke Farm from a world of anxiety and trouble. Somehow behind that impassive face he may have had some thoughts of the coming of a future time when he would be able to deal with this man's mode of life with that firmness which only relationship could entitle him to--when he could personally relieve Hephzibah of the responsibility and wearing anxiety of her worthless son's doings. In the meantime, like the seafaring man, he would just "stand by."
"I can't thank you enough, George," said Hervey at last. "You have got me out of an awkward situation. If I can do you a good turn, I will." Iredale detected a meaning emphasis in the last remark which he resented. "Some day," the man went on; "but there--I will say no more."
"No, I shouldn't say anything. These things happen in the course of a lifetime, and one mustn't say too much about them." The two men then smoked on in silence.
Presently Hervey rose to go. It was nearly eight o'clock.
"Well," said Iredale, as he prepared to bid his guest good-bye, "we have had a good afternoon's sport. Now you know my coverts you must come over again. Come whenever you like. If I am unable to go with you, you are welcome to shoot over the land by yourself. There are some grand antelope about the place."
"Thanks. I shall certainly come again. And--well, when are you coming over to us again? I can't offer you any shooting."
"Don't trouble," smiled Iredale.
Hervey saw the "boy" Chintz leading his horse round.
"You might tell your mother," the rancher went on, "that I'll come to-morrow to read over that fencing contract she spoke about for her."
Hervey leered round upon him.
"Will it do if I tell Prue instead?"
"Certainly not." Iredale's face was quite expressionless at that moment. "You will please do as I ask."
Hervey gulped down his chagrin; but his eyes were alight with the anger from which his lips refrained. He mounted his horse.
"Well, good-bye, George," he said, with a great display of cordiality. "I hope those owls of yours will permit me to ride in peace."
"I have no doubt they will," replied Iredale, with an inscrutable smile. "Good-bye."
Hervey rode away. The man he had left remained standing at his front door. The horseman half turned in his saddle as the bush closed about him.
"Curse the man for his d----d superiority," he muttered. "I suppose he thinks I am blind. Well, Mr. Iredale, we've made a pleasant start from my point of view. If you intend to marry Prudence you'll have to pay the piper. Guess I'm that piper. It's money I want, and it's money you'll have to pay."
The mysterious owner of Lonely Ranch was thinking deeply as he watched his guest depart.
"I believe he's the greatest scoundrel I have ever come across," he said to himself. "Money? Why, he'd sell his soul for it, or I'm no judge of men of his kidney, and, worse luck, I know his sort well enough. I wonder what made me do it? Not friendship. Prudence? No, not exactly. And yet--I don't know. I think I'd sooner have him on my side than against me." Then he turned his eyes towards the corrals and outbuildings which were dotted about amongst the trees, and finally they settled upon a little clearing on the side of Front Hill. It was a graveyard of the early settlers. "Yes, I must break away from it all--and as soon as possible. I have said so for many a year, but the fascination of it has held me. If I hope to ever marry Prudence I must give it up. I must not--dare not let her discover the truth. The child's goodness drives me to desperation. Yes--it shall all go."
His gaze wandered in the direction Hervey had taken, and a troubled look came into his calm eyes. A moment later he turned suddenly with a shiver and passed into the house. Somehow his thoughts were very gloomy. _