Chapter X: Part 10

The girl laughed. "Well," she said, "most of the folks in this province who read newspapers have. There was a column about you and your sick partner and the doctor. You carried him across the range when he was too played out to walk, didn't you?"

"No," said Brooke, a trifle astonished. "I certainly did not. He was a good deal too heavy, as a matter of fact, and I was not very fit to drag myself. But when did this quite unwarranted narrative come out, and what shape did it take?"

They told him as nearly as they could remember, and added running comments and questions both at once.

"You had almost nothing to eat for a week when you started across the range to bring the doctor out. That must have been horrid--and what did it feel like?" said one.

Brooke shook his head. "I really don't know," he said. "I should recommend you to try it."

"And then the poor man was dead when you got there--I 'most cried over him. There was a good deal about it. It must have been creepy coming upon him lying in the dark."

Brooke, who understood a little about Western journalism, waited until they stopped, for the thing was becoming comprehensible to him.

"Now," he said, "I know how the story got out. I didn't think the doctor would be guilty of anything of that kind, but no doubt he told the little schoolmaster at the settlement, who is a friend of his, and, I believe, addicted to misusing ink. Still, you see, the thing is evidently inaccurate. Do I look as if I could do without anything to eat for a week?"

One of the girls again favored him with a scrutinizing glance. "Well," she said, with a little twinkle in her eyes, "you certainly look as though square meals were scarce at the Dayspring."

Brooke laughed, and then glancing round saw Barbara approaching. He fancied that she could not well have avoided seeing him unless she wished to, but she passed so close that her skirt almost touched him, and then stopped, apparently smiling down on a matronly lady a few yards away. Brooke felt his face grow warm, and was glad that his companions' questions covered his confusion.

"Who'd you get to do the funeral? There wouldn't be any kind of clergyman up there."

"No," said Brooke, grimly. "We had to manage it ourselves--that is, the doctor did. I'm afraid it wasn't very ceremonious--and it was snowing hard at the time."

He sat silent a moment while a little shiver ran through him as he remembered the bitter blast that had whirled the white flakes about the two lonely men, and shaken a mournful wailing from the thrashing pines.

"How dreadful!" said one of his companions. "The story only mentioned the big glacier, and the forest lying black all round."

Brooke fancied he understood the narrator's reticence, for there were details the doctor was not likely to be communicative about.

"The big glacier was, at least, three miles away, and nobody could have seen it from where we stood," he said, evasively.

Just then, and somewhat to his relief, Mrs. Devine came up to him. "There are two or three people here who heard you play at the concert, and I have been asked to try to persuade you to do so again," she said. "Clarice Marvin would be delighted to lend you her violin."

Seeing that it was expected of him, Brooke agreed, and there was a brief discussion during the choosing of the music, in which two or three young women took part. Then it was discovered that the piano part of the piece fixed upon was unusually difficult, and the girl who had offered Brooke the violin said, "You must ask Barbara, Mrs. Devine."

Barbara, being summoned, made excuses when she heard what was required of her, until the lady violinist looked at her in wonder.

"Now," she said, "you know you can play it if you want to. You went right through it with me only a week ago."

A faint tinge of color crept into Barbara's cheek, but saying nothing further, she took her place at the piano, and Brooke bent down towards her when he asked for the note.

"It really doesn't commit you to anything," he said. "Still, I can obviate the difficulty by breaking a string."

Barbara met his questioning gaze with a little cold smile.

"It is scarcely worth while," she said.

Then she commenced the prelude, and there was silence in the big room when the violin joined in. Nor were those who listened satisfied with one sonata, and Barbara had finished the second before she once more remembered whom she was playing for. Then there was a faint sparkle in her eyes as she looked up at him.

"It is unfortunate that you did not choose music as a career," she said.

Brooke laughed, though his face was a trifle grim.

"The inference is tolerably plain," he said. "I really think I should have been more successful than I was at claim-jumping."

Barbara turned away from the piano, and Brooke, who laid down the violin, took the vacant place beside her.

"Still, I'm almost afraid it's out of the question now," he said, looking down at his scarred hands. "The kind of thing I have been doing the past few years spoils one's wrist. You no doubt noticed how slow I was in part of the shifting."

The girl noticed the leanness of his hands and the broken nails, and then glanced covertly at his face. It was gaunt and hollow, and she was sensible that there was a suggestion of weariness in his pose, which had, so far as she could remember, not been there before. Again a little thrill of compassion ran through her, and she felt, perhaps illogically, as she had done during the sonata, that no man could be wholly bad who played the violin as he did. Still, the last thing she intended doing was admitting it.

"Why did you stay at the Dayspring through the winter?" she asked, abruptly.

"Well," said Brooke, reflectively, "I really don't know. No doubt it was an unwarranted fancy, but I think I felt that after what I had purposed at the Canopus I was doing a little _per contra_, that is, something that might count in balancing the score against me, though, of course, I'm far from certain that it could be balanced at all. You see, it was a little lonely up there, especially after Allonby died, as well as a trifle cold."

Barbara would have smiled at any other time, for she knew what the ranges were in winter, but, as it was, her face was expressionless and her voice unusually even.

"I think I understand," she said. "It was probably the same idea that once led your knights and barons to set out on pilgrimages with peas in their shoes, though it is not recorded that they did the more sensible thing by restoring their plundered neighbors' possessions."

Brooke laughed. "Still, my stay at the Dayspring served a purpose, for, although somebody else would no doubt have done so eventually, I found the galena, and I didn't go quite so far as the gentlemen you mention after all. No doubt it is very reprehensible to steal a mine, or, in fact, anything, but I don't know that charitable people would consider that feeling tempted to do so was quite the same thing."

Barbara started a little, and there was a distinct trace of color in her face.

"I never quite grasped that point before," she said. "You certainly stopped short of----?

"The actual theft," said Brooke. "I don't, however, mind admitting that the thing never occurred to me until this moment, but I can give you my word, whatever it may be worth, that I never glanced at the papers after you handed them to me."

There was a trace of wonder in Barbara's face, though she was quite aware that it could not be flattering to any man to show unnecessary astonishment when informed that he had, after all, some slight sense of honor.

"Then I really think I did you a wrong, but we are, I fancy, neither of us very good at ethics," she said, languidly, though she was now sensible of a curious relief. The man had, it seemed, at least, not abused her confidence altogether, for, while there was no evident reason why she should do so, she believed his assertion that he had not glanced at the papers.

"Hair-splitting," said Brooke, reflectively, "is an art very few people really excel in, and I find the splitting of rocks and pines a good deal easier and more profitable. You were, of course, in spite of your last admission, quite warranted in not seeing me twice to-night."

"I think I was," and Barbara looked at him steadily. "You see, I believed in you. In fact, you made me, and it was that I found so difficult to forgive you."

It was a very comprehensive admission, and Brooke, whose heart throbbed as he heard it, sat silent awhile.

"Then," he said, very slowly, "it would be useless to expect that anything I could do would ever induce you to once more have any confidence in me?"

Barbara's eyes were still upon him, though they were not quite so steady as usual.

"Yes," she said, quietly, "I am afraid it is."

Brooke made her a little inclination. "Well," he said, "I scarcely think anybody acquainted with the circumstances would blame you for that decision. And now I fancy Mrs. Devine is waiting for you."

XXVI.

THE JUMPING OF THE CANOPUS.

The snow was soft at last, and honeycombed by the splashes from the pines, which once more scattered their resinous odors on a little warm breeze, when Shyanne Tom came plodding down the trail to the Canopus. He was a rock-driller of no great proficiency, which was why Captain Wilkins had sent him on an errand to a ranch; and was then retracing his steps leisurely. It was still a long way to the mine, but he was in no great haste to reach it, because he found it pleasanter to slouch through the bush than swing the hammer, and the time he spent on the journey would be credited to him. He had turned out of the trail to relight his pipe in the shelter of a big cedar, which kept off the wind, when he became sensible of a beat of horse hoofs close behind him. He would have heard it earlier, but that the roar of a river, which had lately burst its icy chains, came throbbing across the trees.

Shyanne was shredding his tobacco plug with a great knife, but he turned sharply round because he could not think of any one likely to be riding down that trail, which only led to the Canopus, just then. As it happened, he stood in the shadow, and it is difficult to make out a man who does not move amidst the great grey-tinted trunks, especially if he is dressed in stained and faded jean; but the sunlight was on the trail, and Shyanne was struck by the attitude of one of the horsemen who appeared among the trees. There were five or six of them, and the beasts were heavily loaded with provisions and blankets, as well as axes and mining tools. The last man, however, led a horse, which carried nothing at all, and the leader, who had just pulled his beast up, was holding up his hand. It was evident to Shyanne that they had seen his tracks in the snow, but, as that was a peaceful country, he failed to understand why it should have brought the party to a standstill. He, however, stayed where he was, watching the leader, who stooped in his saddle.

"It can't be more than a few minutes since that fellow went along, and his tracks break off right here," he said. "I guess there's a side trail somewhere, though the bush seems kind of thick."

"A blame rancher looking for a deer," said another man. "Anyway, if he'd heard us, he'd have stopped to talk."

The leader, Shyanne fancied, appeared reflective. "Well," he said, "I can't quite figure where he could have come from. Tomlinson's ranch is quite a way back, and there's not another house of any kind until you strike the mine. Still, I guess we needn't worry, so long as he hasn't seen us."

He shook his bridle, and while one or two of the men turning in their saddles looked about them the horses plodded on, but Shyanne stood still for at least five minutes. He was not especially remarkable for intelligence, but it was evident to him that the men had a sufficient reason for desiring that nobody should see them. Then he put his pipe away, and proceeded circumspectly up the trail, with the print of the horse hoofs leading on before him, until they turned off abruptly into the bush. The meaning of this was incomprehensible, since it was not the season when timber-right or mineral prospectors started on their journeys, and Shyanne decided that it might be advisable to go on and inform Wilkins of what he had seen. Still, he made no great progress, for the snow was soft, and, after all, the Canopus did not belong to him.

About the time he reached it, Brooke, who had come up there on some business with Wilkins, was lounging, cigar in hand, on the verandah at the ranch. The night was, for the season, still and almost warm, and a half-moon hung low above the dripping pines, while he found the silence and the sweet resinous odors soothing, for he had been toiling feverishly at the Dayspring of late. Why he stayed there when there was no longer any reason he should not go back to England, and Barbara had told him that his offences were too grievous to be forgiven, he did not exactly know. Still, the work had taken hold of him, and he felt that while she was in the country he could not go away. He was wondering, disconsolately, whether time would soften her indignation, or if she would always be merciless, when Wilkins came into the verandah. He was an elderly and somewhat deliberate man, but Brooke fancied he was anxious just then.

"It's kind of fortunate you're here to-night. We've got to have a talk," he said.

Brooke gave him a cigar, and leaned against the balustrade, when he slowly lighted it.

"You can't let me have the men I asked for?" he said.

Wilkins made a little gesture. "All you want. That's not the point. Now, you just let me have a minute or two."

Ten had passed before he had related what Shyanne had told him, and then Brooke, who saw the hand of Saxton in this, quietly lighted another cigar.

"Well," he said, "what do you make of it? They're scarcely likely to be timber-righters?"

"They might be claim-jumpers."

"Still, nobody could jump a claim whose title was good."

Wilkins appeared a trifle uneasy, though it was too dark for Brooke to see him well, but he apparently made up his mind to speak.

"The fact is, our title isn't quite as good as it might be. That is, there's a point or two anybody who knew all about it could make trouble on," he said, and then turned, a trifle impatiently, to Brooke. "You take it blame quietly. I had kind of figured that would astonish you."

Brooke laughed. "I had surmised as much already. We'll suppose the men Shyanne saw intend to jump the claim. How will they set about it?"

"They'll wait until they figure every one's asleep--twelve o'clock, most likely, since that would make it easy to get their record in the same day, though it's most of an eight hours' ride to the office of the Crown recorder. Then they'll drive their stakes in quietly, and while the rest sit down tight on the pegged-off claim, one of them will ride out all he's worth to get the record made. After that, they'll start in to bluff the dollars out of Devine."

He stopped somewhat abruptly, and Brooke fancied that he had something still upon his mind, but he had discovered already that it was generally useless to attempt the extraction of any information Wilkins had not quite decided to impart.

"Then what are we going to do?" he said.

"Turn out the boys, and hold the jumpers off as long as we can, while somebody from our crowd rides out to put a new record in. When a claim's bad in law anybody can stake it, and the Crown will register him as owner until they can straighten out the thing."

"Then what do you expect from me?"

Wilkins' answer was prompt and decisive. "We'll have a horse ready. You'll ride for the Company."

Brooke turned from him abruptly, and looked down the valley. He would have preferred to avoid an actual conflict with Saxton for several reasons, but he could not remain neutral, and must choose between Devine and him. He had also broken off his compact, and while he wished the jumpers had been acting for another man, there was apparently only the one course open to him. It was also conceivable that if he could make a valid new record it would count for a little in his favor with Barbara.

"I certainly seem the most suitable person, and you can get the horse ready," he said. "Still, is there any reason I shouldn't make sure of the thing by starting right away?"

Wilkins thought there was. "Well," he said, "I've only Shyanne's tale to go upon, and supposing those men aren't claim-jumpers after all, what do we gain by sending you to make a new record on the claim?"

"Nothing beyond letting everybody know that your patent's bad, and raising trouble with the Crown people over it, while I scarcely fancy Devine would thank me for doing that unnecessarily. It would be wiser to wait and make certain of what they mean to do."

"You've hit it," said Wilkins. "I'll go along and talk to the boys."

He disappeared into the darkness, and Brooke, who was feeling chilly now, went back to the stove, while it was two hours later when he took his place behind one of the sawn-off firs which dotted the hillside above what had been one of the most profitable headings of the mine. The half-moon was higher now, and the pale radiance showed the six-foot stumps that straggled up the steep slope in rows until the bush closed in on them again. There was no longer any snow upon the firs, and they towered against the blueness of the night in black and solemn spires. The bush was also very quiet, as was the strip of clearing, and there was nothing to show that a handful of men were waiting there with a sense of grim anticipation.

Half an hour slipped by, and there was no sound from the forest but the soft rustling of the fir twigs under a little breeze, while Brooke, who found the waiting particularly unpleasant, and was annoyed to feel his fingers were quivering a little with the tension, grew chilly. It would, he felt, be a relief when the jumpers came, but another ten minutes dragged by and there was still no sign of them. The breeze had grown a trifle colder, and the firs were whispering eerily, while he could now hear the men moving uneasily. Then he started when the howl of a wolf came out of the bush, and, leaning forward, grasped Wilkins' arm.

"I suppose they will come?" he said.

The mine captain made a sign to a man who crouched behind a neighboring tree.

"Quite sure you were awake when you saw those men, Shyanne?" he said. "Harrup hadn't been giving you any of the hard cider?"

Shyanne chuckled audibly. "Not more'n a jugful, anyway, and I don't see things on the hardest cider they make in Ontario. No, sir, those men were there, and I've a notion there's one of them yonder now."

The shadows of the firs were black upon the clearing, but a dark patch was projected suddenly beyond the rest, and a voice came faintly through the whispering of the trees.

"Stand by," it said. "They're coming along."

Then Brooke set his lips as a human figure, carrying what seemed to be an axe, materialized out of the gloom. Another appeared behind it, and then a third, while, when a fourth became visible, Wilkins rose suddenly.

"Now, what in the name of thunder are you wanting here?" he said.

The foremost man jumped, as Shyanne asserted afterwards, like a shot deer, but the rest, who had apparently steadier nerves, came on at a run, and a man behind them shouted, "Don't worry 'bout anything, but get your stakes in. I'll do the talking."

Then, while Brooke slipped away, Wilkins stepped out into the moonlight with a Marlin rifle gleaming dully in his hand. "Stop right where you are," he said. "Where's the man who wants to talk?"

The men stopped, and stood glancing about them, irresolutely. There were six in all, but rather more than that number of shadowy objects had appeared unexpectedly among the sawn-off stumps. While they waited Saxton stepped forward.

"Well," he said, "you see me."

"Oh, yes," said Wilkins, drily, "and I guess I've seen many a squarer man. What do you want crawling round our claim, anyway?"

"It's not yours. Your patent's bad, and we're going to re-locate it for you. Haven't you got those stakes ready, boys?"

"Bring them along," said Wilkins. "I'm waiting."

He stood stiff and resolute, with the rifle at his hip, and the moonlight on his face, which was very grim, and once more the claim-jumpers glanced at their leader, dubiously. They were aware that although the regulations respecting mineral claims might not have been complied with, there are conditions under which a man is warranted in holding on to his property. Wilkins also appeared quite decided on doing it.

Then Saxton's voice rose sharply. "Hallo!" he said. "What the----"

Wilkins swung round, and saw three or four more shadowy figures enter the clearing from the opposite side, and they also apparently carried stakes and axes.

"Figured you'd get in ahead of us, Saxton," said one of them.

Saxton evidently lost his temper. "Well," he said, "I guess I'm going to do it, you slinking skunk. If it can't be fixed any other way, I'll strike you for shooting Brooke."

Wilkins laughed. "Any more of you coming along? It's a kind of pity you didn't get here a little earlier."

They knew what he meant in another moment, when the sound of a horse ridden hard through slushy snow rose from the shadows of the pines. Wilkins made a little ironical gesture.

"I guess you'll never get rich claim-jumping, boys," he said.

Then Saxton's voice rose again. "The game's not finished. We'll play you for it yet," he said. "Where's that horse? Get your stakes in."

He vanished in another minute, but his followers remained, and there was for a time a very lively scuffle about the stakes Brooke had already hammered in. They were torn up, and replaced several times before the affray was over, and then two men, who furnished a very vague account of the fashion in which they had received their injuries, were with difficulty conveyed to the Vancouver hospital. In spite of a popular illusion, pistols are not in general use in that country, but it is not insuperably difficult to disable an opponent effectively with an axe or shovel.

In the meanwhile, three men, who realized that, under the circumstances, a good deal would depend upon who was first to reach it, were riding hard by different ways towards the recorder's office, and Brooke, having no great confidence in the horse Wilkins had supplied him with, had taken what was at once the worst and shortest route. That is not a nice country to ride through in daylight, even when there is no snow upon the ground, and there were times when he held his breath as the horse plunged down the side of a gulley with the half-melted snow and gravel sliding away beneath its hoofs. They also smashed and floundered through withered fern and crackling thickets of sal-sal and salmon berry, and during one perilous hour Brooke dragged the beast by the bridle up slopes of wet and slippery rock, from which the winds had swept the snow away.

Still, it was long since he had felt in the same high spirits, and when they reached more even ground the rush through the cold night air brought him a curious elation. He felt he was, at least doing what might count in his favor against the past, and, apart from that, there was satisfaction to be derived from the reckless ride itself. He had, however, only a blurred recollection of most of it, flitting forest, peaks that glittered coldly, the glint of moonlight on still frozen lakes, and the frequent splashings through icy fords, until, when the stars had faded, and the firs rose black and hard against the dawn, they reeled down to the bank of a larger river, from which the white mists were streaming. It swirled by thick with floating ice, and the horse strenuously objected to enter the water at all. Twice it reared at the stabbing of the spurs, and then bounded with arching back, but Brooke was used to that trick, and contrived to keep his saddle until he and the beast slid down the bank together, and there was a splash and flounder as they reached the water.

It was most of it freshly-melted ice, and when he slipped from the saddle, which he promptly found it necessary to do, the cold took his breath away, and he clung by the stirrup leather, gasping and half-dazed, while the beast proceeded unguided for a minute or two. Then, as they swung round in a white eddy, his perceptions came back to him, and he realized that there was no longer any need for swimming, when he drove against a boulder, whose head just showed above the swirling foam. He got on his feet somehow, and was never quite sure whether he led the beast through the rest of the passage or held on by the bridle, but at last they staggered up the opposite bank, where a man he could not see very well in the dim light sat looking down on him from the saddle. Brooke moved a pace nearer, and then recognized him as the one who had shot him at Devine's ranch.

"Saxton has taken the high trail and he'll cross by the bridge, but I guess we're quite a while ahead of him," he said. "Now, do you know any reason why we shouldn't pool the thing?"

Brooke stared at him, divided between indignation and appreciation of his assurance.

"Yes," he said, drily, "several, and one of them is quite sufficient by itself."

"Figure it out," said the other. "I tell you Saxton can't make our time over the high trail, though it's a better road. Now that one of us will get there first is a sure thing, but it's quite as certain it can't be both, and I'd be content with half of what you bluff out of Devine. That's reasonable."

Brooke felt his face grow a trifle hot, though he recognized that it was not astonishing the man should credit him with the purpose he had certainly been impelled by at their last meeting.

"I can't make a deal with you on any terms," he said. "Ride on, or pull your horse out of the trail."

"I guess that wouldn't suit me," said the other man, and when Brooke had his foot in the stirrup, suddenly swung up his hand.

Then there was a flash and a detonation, and the horse plunged. The flash was repeated, and while Brooke strove to clear his foot of the stirrup, the beast staggered and fell back on him. It, however, rolled and struggled, and, for his foot was free now, he contrived to drag himself away.

When he was next sensible of anything, he could hear a very faint thud of hoofs far up the climbing trail, and, after lying still for several minutes, ventured to move circumspectly. He felt very sore, but all his limbs appeared to be in their usual places, and, rising shakily, he found, somewhat to his astonishment, that he could walk. The horse was evidently dead, but there was, he remembered, a ranch not very far away, and a certain probability of the other man still breaking one of his own limbs or his horse's legs, for the trail was rather worse than trails usually are in that country. Brooke accordingly decided to hobble on to the ranch, and somehow accomplished it, though the man who opened the door to him looked very dubious when he asked him for a horse.

"The only beast I've got isn't worth much, but you don't look up to taking him in over the lake trail," he said.

He, however, parted with the horse, and hove Brooke into the saddle, while the latter groaned as he rode away. One arm and one leg were stiff and aching, and at every jolt his back hurt him excruciatingly, but a few hours later he rode, spattered with mire and slushy snow, into a little wooden town, and had afterwards a fancy that somebody offered to lift him down. He was not sure how he got out of the saddle, but a man he recognized took the horse, and he proceeded, limping stiffly, with his wet clothes sticking to his skin, to the Crown mining office. The recorder, who appeared to be a young Englishman, looked hard at him when he came in, and then pointed to a chair.

"You may as well sit down. If my surmises are correct, there is no great need for haste," he said.

Brooke's face, which was a trifle grey, grew suddenly set.

"Some one else has already recorded a new claim on the Canopus?" he said.

"Yes," said the recorder. "In fact, two of them, and the last man was good enough to inform me that there was another of you coming along."

"Then you can't give a record?"

"No," said the other man, with a little smile. "I'm not sure that any of you will get one in the meanwhile; that is, not until we have obtained a few particulars from Mr. Devine."

"I have come on behalf of him."

"That," said the recorder, "is, under the circumstances, no great recommendation. In fact, there are several points your employer will be asked to clear up before we go any further with the matter."

Brooke, who asked no more questions, contrived to make his way to the hotel, and flung himself down to rest, when he had ascertained when the Pacific express came in. Important as it was that he should see Devine, he was, however, very uncertain whether he would be able to get up again.

XXVII.

THE LAST ROUND.

The whistle screamed hoarsely as the long train swung out from the shadow of the pines, and Brooke raised himself stiffly in his seat in a big, dusty car. A sawmill veiled in smoke and steam swept by, and, while the roar of wheels sank to a lower pitch, he caught the gleam of the blue inlet Vancouver City is built above ahead. Then, as the clustering roofs, which seamed the hillside ridge on ridge with a maze of poles and wires cutting against the background of stately pines grew plainer, he straightened his back with an effort. It was aching distressfully, and he felt dizzy as well as stiff, while he commenced to wonder whether his strength would hold out until he had seen Devine and finished his business in the city.

Then the cars lurched a little, there was a doleful tolling of a bell, and when the long, dusty train rolled slowly into the depot he dropped shakily from a vestibule platform. The rough planking did not seem quite steady, and he struck his feet against the metals when he crossed the track, but he managed to reach Devine's office, and found that he was out. He would, however, be back in another hour, his clerk said, and it occurred to Brooke that he could, in the meanwhile, consult a doctor. The latter asked him a few questions, and then sat looking at him thoughtfully for a moment or two.

"It's not quite clear to me how the horse came to fall on you. You were dismounted at the time?" he said. "Still, after all, that's not quite the question."

Brooke smiled a little. "No," he said. "I scarcely think it is."

"Well," said the doctor, drily, "whichever way you managed it, the snow was either very soft or something else took the weight of the beast off you, but I don't think you need worry greatly about that fall. Lie down for a day or two, and rub some of the stuff I give you on the bruises. Now, suppose you tell me what you've been doing for the last few months."

Brooke did so concisely, and the doctor nodded. "Pretty much as I figured," he said. "You want to stop it right away. Go down the Sound on a steamboat, or across to Victoria for two or three weeks, and do nothing."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question."

The doctor made a little gesture. "Then, if you go on taking it out of yourself, there'll be trouble, especially if you worry. Go slow, and eat and sleep all you can for a month, anyway."

Brooke thanked him, and went back to Devine's office thoughtfully. He felt that the advice was good, though there were difficulties in the way of his acting upon it. He had already realized that the strain of the last few months, the insufficient food, and feverish work, were telling upon him, but he had made up his mind to hold out until the work at the Dayspring was in full swing and the value of the ore lead had been made clear beyond all doubt. Then there would be time to rest and consider the position.

Devine was in when he reached the office, and looked hard at him, but he said very little while Brooke told his story. Nor did he appear by any means astonished or concerned.

"Well," he said, reflectively, "it's quite likely that we'll have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Saxton to-morrow. He'll hang off until then, and when he comes I'll be ready to talk to him. In the meanwhile, you're coming home with me."

Brooke hoped that he did not show the embarrassment he certainly felt, for, much as he longed to see her, it was, after their last meeting, difficult to believe that Barbara would appreciate his company, and he scarcely felt in a mood for another taste of her displeasure.

"I had decided on going out on the Atlantic express this evening," he said. "There is a good deal to do at the Dayspring, and I could scarcely expect Mrs. Devine to be troubled with me. Besides, you see, I came right away----"

He glanced significantly at his clothes, but Devine, who rose, laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You're coming along," he said. "I may want you to-morrow."

Brooke, who felt too languid to make another protest, went with him, and when they reached the house on the hillside, Devine led him into a room which looked down on the inlet.

"Sit down," he said, pointing to a big lounge chair. "I'll send somebody to look after you, and, unless you look a good deal better than you do now, you'll stay right here to-morrow. In the meanwhile, you'll excuse me. There are one or two folks I have to see in the city."

He went out, and Brooke, who let his head, which ached a good deal, sink back upon the soft upholstery, wondered vacantly what Mrs. Devine would think when she saw him there. He still wore the garments he was accustomed to at the mine, and, though they were dry now, and, at least, comparatively clean, he felt that long boots and soil-stained jean were a trifle out of place in that dainty room. That, however, did not seem to matter. He was drowsy and a trifle dizzy, while the room was warm, and it was with a little start he heard the door-handle rattle a few minutes later. Then, while he endeavored to straighten himself, Barbara came in.

"I feel that I ought to offer you my excuses for being here, though I am not sure that I could help it," he said. "Grant Devine is of a somewhat determined disposition, and he insisted on bringing me."

Barbara did not notice him wince as with pain when he turned to her, for she was not at that moment looking at him.

"Then why should you make any? It is his house," she said.

This was not very promising, for Brooke felt it suggested that, although the girl was willing to defer to Devine's wishes, they did not necessarily coincide with hers.

"It is!" he said. "Still, I seem to have acquired the sense of fitness you once mentioned, and I feel I should not have come. One is, however, not always quite so wise as he ought to be, and I was feeling a trifle worn out when your brother-in-law invited me. That probably accounted for my want of firmness."

Barbara glanced at him sharply, and noticed the gauntness of his face and the spareness of his frame, which had become accentuated since she had last seen him. It also stirred her to compassion, which was probably why she endeavored, as she had done before, to harden her heart against him.

"No doubt you spent last night in the saddle, and the trails would be bad," she said. "I believe they are getting some tea ready, and, in the meanwhile, how are you progressing at the mine?"

Brooke realized that she had heard nothing about his ride or the jumping of the Canopus, and determined that she should receive no enlightenment from him. This may have been due to wounded pride, but it afterwards stood him in good stead. Nor would he show that her chilly graciousness, which went just as far as the occasion demanded and no further, hurt him, and he accordingly roused himself, with an effort, to talk about the mine. The girl had usually appeared interested in the subject, and it was, at least, a comparatively safe one.

She, on her part, noticed the weariness in his eyes, and found it necessary to remind herself of his offences, for the story he told was not without its effect on her. It was, though he omitted most of his own doings, a somewhat graphic one, and she realized a little of the struggle he and the handful of men Devine had been able to send him had made, half-fed, amidst the snow. Still, for no very apparent reason, his composure and the way he kept himself in the background irritated her.

"One would wonder why you put up with so much hardship. Wasn't it a little inconsequent?" she said.

Brooke's gaunt face flushed. "Well," he said, "one is under the painful necessity of earning a living."

"Still, could it not be done a little more easily?"

"I don't know that it is, under any circumstances, a remarkably simple thing, but that is not quite the question, and, since you seem to insist, I'll answer you candidly. In my case, it was almost astonishingly inconsequent--that is, as I expect you mean, about the last thing any one would naturally have expected from me. Still, I felt that, after what I had done, I had a good deal to pull up, you see; though that is a motive with which, as I noticed when I mentioned it once before, you apparently can scarcely credit me."

Barbara smiled. "It was your own actions that made it difficult."

"I admitted on another occasion that I am not exactly proud of them, but there was some slight excuse. There usually is, you see."

"Of course!" said Barbara. "You need not be diffident. In your case there were the dollars of which my brother-in-law plundered you."

Brooke looked at her with a little glint in his eyes. "You," he said, slowly, "can be very merciless."

"Well," said Barbara, who met his gaze with quiet composure, "I might have been less so had I not expected quite so much from you. After all, it does not greatly matter--and here is the tea."

"I think it matters a good deal, but perhaps we needn't go into that," said Brooke, who took the cup she handed him. "You have poured out tea for me on several occasions now, but still, each one recalls the first time you did it at the Quatomac ranch."

The same thing had happened to Barbara, but she laughed. "It, presumably, made no difference to the tea, and yours runs some risk of getting cold."

Brooke appeared to be holding his cup with quite unnecessary firmness, and she fancied his color was a trifle paler than it had been, but he smiled.

"I really do not remember that it tasted any the worse," he said. "Perhaps you can remember how the sound of the river came in through the open door that night, and the light flickered in the draughts. It showed up your face in profile, and I can still picture Jimmy sitting by the stove, with his mouth wide open, watching you. He had evidently never seen anything of the kind before."

Barbara noticed the manner in which he pulled himself up, and realized that the sentence had deviated from its natural conclusion. It was, though he had certainly been guilty of obtaining what she was pleased to consider her esteem by a course of disgraceful imposition, gratifying that he should be able to recall that evening. That, however, was not to be admitted.

"I remember that the two candles were stuck in whisky bottles," she said. "You removed them somewhat suddenly when you came in."

Brooke smiled, but his face was a trifle grey in patches now, and the cup was shaking visibly. "I really shouldn't have done," he said. "Still, you see, I was a trifle flurried that night, and like Jimmy in one respect, in that I had never----"

"You, at least, had been handed tea by a lady before," said Barbara, severely.

"I had, but the incomplete explanation still holds good. Well, it was, no doubt, unwise of me to take those candlesticks away, since to disguise one's habits for a stranger's benefit naturally implies a deficiency of becoming pride, and it could, in any case, only have made the thing more palpable to you."

"One's habits?" said Barbara, who would not admit comprehension.

Brooke nodded. "Men," he said, "do not, as a rule, buy whisky bottles to make candlesticks of, and there were, as I believe you noticed, a good many more of them already on the floor. Still, you see, your good opinion--was--important to me, and I was willing to cheat you into bestowing it on me even then. It matters--it really does matter--a good deal."

Then there was a crash, and Brooke's cup struck the leg of the chair, while his plate rolled across the floor, and Barbara's dress was splashed with tea. The man sat gripping the chair arm hard, and blinking at her, while his face grew grey; but when she rose he apparently recovered himself with an effort.

"Very sorry!" he said, slowly. "Quite absurd of me! Still, I have had a good deal to do--and very little sleep--lately."

Barbara was wholly compassionate now. "Sit still," she said, quietly. "I will bring you a glass of wine."

"No," said Brooke, a trifle unevenly. "I must have kept you here half an hour already, and I am afraid I have spoiled your dress into the bargain. That ought to be enough. If you don't mind, I think I will go and lie down."

He straightened himself resolutely, and Barbara, who called the house-boy, stood still, with a warm tinge in her face, when he went out of the room. The man was evidently worn out and ill, and yet he had endeavored to hide the fact to save her concern, while she had found a most unbecoming pleasure in flagellating him. He had met her very slightly-veiled reproaches with a composure which, she surmised, had not cost him a little, even when his strength was melting away from him. Then she flushed a still ruddier color as she remembered that, in any case, dissimulation was a strong point of his, for she felt distinctly angry with herself for recollecting it.

She had engagements that evening, and did not see him, while he had apparently recovered during the night, for, when she came down to breakfast, Mrs. Devine told her that he had already gone out with her husband. In point of fact, an eight-hours' sleep had done a good deal for Brooke, who lunched, or rather dined, with Devine in the city, and then went with him to his office to wait until the Pacific express came in.

"The train's up to schedule time. I sent to ask them at the depot," said Devine. "I guess we'll have Mr. Saxton here in another ten minutes."

The prediction was warranted, for he had about half smoked the cigar he lighted when Saxton was shown in. The latter was dressed tastefully in city clothes, and wore a flower in his buttonhole. He also smiled as he glanced at Brooke.

"It was quite a good game you put up, and you got away five minutes before I did," he said. "Still, three men are a little too many to jump a claim when I'm one of them."

Brooke's face grew a trifle grim, for he saw Saxton's meaning, but Devine regarded the latter with a faint, sardonic smile.

"Sit down and take a cigar," he said. "I guess you came here to talk to me, and Mr. Brooke never meant to jump the claim."

"No?" and Saxton assumed an appearance of incredulity very well. "Now I quite figured that he did."

"You can fix it with him afterwards," said Devine. "It seems to me that we're both here on business."

"Then we'll get down to it. I have put in a record on the Canopus mine. I guess you know your patent's not quite straight on a point or two."

"You're quite sure of that?"

"The Crown people seem to be. Now, I can't draw back my claim without throwing the mine open to anybody, but I'm willing to hold on and trade my rights to you when I've got my improvements in. Of course, you'd have to make it worth while, but I'm not going to be unreasonable."

Devine laughed a little. "There was once a jumper who figured he'd found the points you mentioned out. He wanted eight thousand dollars. Would you be content with that?"

"No," said Saxton, drily. "I'm going to strike you for more."

There was silence for a moment or two, and Brooke leaned forward a little as he watched his companions. Saxton was a trifle flushed in face, and his dark eyes had an exultant gleam in them, while the thin, nervous fingers of one hand were closed upon the edge of the table. His expression suggested that he was completely satisfied with himself and the strength of his position, for it apparently only remained for him to exact whatever terms he pleased. Devine's attitude was, however, not quite what one would have expected, for he did not look in the least like a man who felt himself at his adversary's mercy. He sat smiling a little, and trifling with his cigar.

"Well," he said, reflectively, "I guess the man I mentioned was sorry he asked quite as much as he did. What is your figure?"

"I'll wait your bid."

Devine sat still for several moments, with the little sardonic smile growing plainer in his eyes, and Brooke, who felt the tension, fancied that Saxton was becoming uneasy. There was a curious silence in the room, through which the whirr of an elevator jarred harshly.

"One dollar," he said.

Saxton gasped. "Bluff!" he said. "That's not going to count with me. You want a full hand to carry it through, and the one you're holding isn't strong enough. Now, I'll put down my cards."

"One dollar," said Devine, drily.

Saxton stood up abruptly, and gazed at him in astonishment, with quivering fingers and tightening lips. "I tell you your patent's no good."

"I know it is."

Again there was silence, and Brooke saw that Saxton was holding himself in with difficulty.

"Still, you want to keep your mine," he said.

"You can have it for what I asked you, and if you can clear the cost of working, it's more than I can do. The Canopus was played out quite a while ago."

Even Brooke was startled, and Saxton sat down with all his customary assurance gone out of him. His mouth opened loosely, he seemed to grow suddenly limp, and his cigar shook visibly in his nerveless fingers.

"Now," he said, and stopped while a quiver of futile anger seemed to run through him, "that's the last thing I expected. What'd you put up that wire sling for? I can't figure out your game."

Devine laughed. "It's quite easy. You have just about sense enough to worry anybody, or you wouldn't have dumped that ore into the Dayspring, and worked off one of the richest mines in the province on to me. Well, when I saw you meant to strike me on the Canopus, I just let you get to work because it suited me. I figured it would keep you busy while I took out timber-rights and bought up land round the Dayspring. Nobody believed in Allonby, and I got what I wanted at quite a reasonable figure. I'm holding the mine and everything worth while now. There's nothing left for you, and I guess it would be wiser to get hold of a man of your own weight next time."

Saxton's face was colorless, but he put a restraint upon himself as he turned to Brooke.

"You knew just what this man meant to do?"

"Oh, yes," said Devine, drily. "He told me quite a while ago. You're going? Haven't you any use for that dollar?"

Saxton said nothing whatever, but the door slammed behind him, and Brooke, who, in spite of Devine's protests, went back to the Dayspring that evening, never saw him again.

XXVIII.

BROOKE DOES NOT COME BACK.

Devine went home a little earlier than usual after Saxton left him, and dusk was not far away when he sat recounting the affair in his wife's drawing-room. She listened with keen appreciation, and then looked up at him.

"But where is Brooke?" she said.

Devine smiled. "I guess he's buying mining tools. You can't keep that man out of a hardware store," he said. "I wanted to bring him back, but he was feeling better, and made up his mind to go out on the Atlantic express. He asked me to make his excuses, as he had fixed to meet an American machinery agent, and wasn't quite sure he could get round."

"Perhaps it is just as well," said Mrs. Devine, who appeared reflective. "Do you think you are wise in encouraging that man to come here, Grant?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it that. I brought him. He didn't want to come."

"You are, of course, quite sure?" and Mrs. Devine's smile implied that she, at least, was a trifle incredulous. "Hasn't it struck you that Barbara----"

"So far as I've noticed lately, Barbara didn't seem in any way pleased with him."

Mrs. Devine made a little impatient gesture. "That," she said, "is exactly what I don't like. It's a significant sign. Barbara wouldn't have been angry with him--if it was not worth while."

"You said nothing when he came to the ranch, while we were at the mine."

"The man was pleasant company, and there was, it seemed to me, very little risk of a superior workman attracting Barbara's fancy."

Devine laughed. "I guess I was of no great account when you married me."

"Pshaw!" said Mrs. Devine. "Anyway, you hadn't plotted to steal a mine from the people I belonged to."

Devine's eyes twinkled. "It showed his grit, and 'most anything is considered square in a mining deal. Besides, there were the six thousand dollars Slocum took out of him."

"I am quite aware that such transactions are evidently not subject to the ordinary code, but, seriously, if you would be content with Harford Brooke as my brother-in-law, it is considerably more than I would be. We don't even know why he left the Old Country."

"Well," said Devine, drily, "I guess I have a notion. I've been finding out a good deal about him. But get on with your objections."

"Barbara has a good many dollars."