Chapter XX: Dennis (9)

Dick little knew, as he spoke so authoritatively, that his father was already in possession of these facts. Within an hour of Dick's departure, Mr. Carteret was walking through the old mission church, chatting with my brother Ajax. From Ajax he learned that at San Clemente, not twenty miles away, was another mission of greater historical interest and in finer preservation than any north of Santa Barbara. Ajax added that there was an excellent hotel at San Clemente, kept by two Englishmen, Cartwright and Crisp. Of course the name Crisp tickled the parson's curiosity, and he asked if this Crisp were any relation to the late Tudor Crisp, who had once lived in or near San Lorenzo. My brother said promptly that these Crisps were one and the same, and was not to be budged from that assertion by the most violent exclamations on the part of the stranger. A synopsis of the Rev. Tudor's history followed, and then the inevitable question: "Who is Cartwright?" Fate ordained that this question was answered by a man who knew that Cartwright was Carteret; and so, at last, the unhappy father realised how diabolically he had been hoaxed. Of his suffering it becomes us not to speak; of his just anger something remains to be said.

He drove up to the San Clemente Hotel as the sun was setting, and both Dick and the 'Bishop' came forward to welcome him, but fell back panic-stricken at sight of his pale face and fiery eyes. Dick slipped aside; the 'Bishop' stood still, rooted in despair.

"Is your name Crisp?"

"Yes," faltered the 'Bishop.'

"The Rev. Tudor Crisp?"

"I--er--once held deacon's orders."

"Can I see you alone?"

The 'Bishop' led the way to his own sanctum, a snug retreat, handy to the bar, and whence an eye could be kept on the bar-tender. The 'Bishop' was a large man, but he halted feebly in front of the other, who, dilated in his wrath, strode along like an avenging archangel, carrying his cane as it might be a flaming sword.

"Now, sir," said Dick's father, as soon as they were alone, "what have you to say to me?"

The 'Bishop' told the story from beginning to end, not quite truthfully.

"You dare to tell me that you hatched this damnable plot?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did."

"And with the money obtained under false pretences you bought a saloon, you, a deacon of the Church of England?"

The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did."

"The devil takes care of his own," said the parson, looking round, and marking the comfort of the room.

"Not always," said the 'Bishop,' thinking of Dick.

"Well, sir," continued the parson, "I'm told that money can work miracles in this country. And, by God! if my money can sent you to gaol, you shall go there, as sure as my name is George Carteret."

"All right," said the 'Bishop.' "I--er--I don't blame you. I think you're behaving with great moderation."

"Moderation! Confound it! sir, are you laughing at me?"

"The Lord forbid!" ejaculated Crisp.

"Men have been shot for less than this."

"There's a pistol in that drawer," said the 'Bishop' wearily. "You can shoot if you want to. Your money can put me into gaol, as you say, and keep you out of it, if--if you use that pistol."

Mr. Carteret stared. The 'Bishop' was beginning to puzzle him. He stared still harder, and the 'Bishop' blushed; an awkward habit that he had never rid himself of. Now a country parson, who is also a magistrate, becomes in time a shrewd judge of men.

"Will you kindly send for my--for your partner?" he said suddenly. "Please sit or stand where you are. I think you'll admit that I have a right to conduct this inquiry in my own way."

Accordingly, Dick was sent for, and soon he took his stand beside the 'Bishop,' facing the flaming blue eyes of his father. Then Mr. Carteret asked him point blank the questions he had put to the other, and received the _same_ answers, the 'Bishop' entering an inarticulate demurrer.

"It appears," said Mr. Carteret, "that there are two ways of telling this story. One of you, possibly, has told the truth; the other has unquestionably lied. I confess," he added dryly, "that my sympathies are with the liar. He is the honester man."

"Yes," said Dick. "I'm about as big a blackguard as you'll find anywhere, but I'm your son all the same. Father--forgive me."

One must confess that Dick played his last trump in a masterly fashion. He knew that whining wouldn't avail him, or any puling hypocrisy. So he told the truth.

"Is that what you want?" said the father sarcastically. "Only that: my forgiveness and my blessing?"

Dick's bold eyes fell beneath this thrust.

"The man who drove me here," continued the father, "told me a curious story. It seems that Mr. Crisp here has toiled and moiled for many years, keeping you in comparative luxury and idleness. Not a word, sir. It's an open secret. For some occult reason he likes to pay this price for your company. Having supported you so long, I presume he is prepared to support you to the end?"

"He's my friend," said the 'Bishop' stoutly.

"My son," said the old man solemnly, "died six years ago, and he can never, _never_," the second word rang grimly out, "be raised from the dead. That man there," his voice faltered for the first time, "is another son whom I do not know--whom I do not want to know--let him ask himself if he is fit to return with me to England, to live with those gentlewomen, his sisters, to inherit the duties and responsibilities that even such wealth as mine bring in their train. He knows that he is not fit. Is he fit to take my hand?"

He stretched forth his lean white hand, the hand that had signed so many cheques. Dick did not try to touch it. The 'Bishop' wiped his eyes. The poor fellow looked the picture of misery.

"If there be the possibility of atonement for such as he," continued the speaker--"and God forbid that I should dare to say there is _not_--let that atonement be made here where he has sinned. It seems that the stoppage of his allowance tempted him to commit suicide. I did not know my son was a coward. Now, to close for ever that shameful avenue down which he might slink from the battle, I pledge myself to pay again that five pounds a month during my life, and to secure the same to Richard _Cartwright_ after my death, so long as he shall live. That, I think, is all."

He passed with dignity out of the room and into the street, where the buggy awaited him. Dick remained standing, but the 'Bishop' followed the father, noting how, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, his back became bowed and his steps faltered. He touched the old man lightly on the shoulder.

"May I take your hand?" he asked. "I am not fit, no fitter than Dick, but----"

Mr. Carteret held out his hand, and the 'Bishop' pressed it gently.

"I believe," said Mr. Carteret after a pause, "that you, sir, may live to be an honest man."

"I'll look after Dick," blubbered the 'Bishop,' sorely affected. "Dick will pan out all right--in the end."

But Dick's father shuddered.

"It's very chilly," he said, with a nervous cough. "Good-night, Mr. Crisp. Good-night, and God bless you."

XIX

A RAGAMUFFIN OF THE FOOTHILLS

Jeff looked ruefully at the hot dusty road which curled upward and in front of him like a great white snake. At the top of the grade, where some pines stood out against the blue sky, hung a small reek of dust concealing the figure of his late companion. As Jeff gazed, the reek melted away. The young man told himself that he was alone in the brush foothills, with a lame horse, and a body (his own) so bruised and battered that it seemed to belong to somebody else.

"Hello!" said a voice.

Jeff stared into the chaparral. Wild lilac and big sage bushes, flowering lupins and gilias, bordered the road, for spring was abroad in San Lorenzo county. A boy slipped through the lilacs.

"Jee-whiz!" said the boy. "You've hurt yourself."

"That's right," Jeff replied.

"How did it happen?"

"The plug crossed his feet in the dip yonder, and rolled plum over me. Say--do you want to earn an honest dollar?"

The adjective was emphasised, for none knew better than Jeff that the foothills harboured queer folk. The boy nodded.

"You must get a buggy, sonny."

"A buggy? Anything else? As if buggies grew in the brush-hills!"

Just then Jeff's sanguine complexion turned grey, and his eyes seemed to slip back into his head. The boy perceived a bulging pocket, out of which he whipped a flask. Jeff took a long drink; then he gasped out: "Thunder! you was smart to find that flask. Ah-h-h!"

"You're in a real bad fix," said the boy.

"I _am_ in bad shape," Jeff admitted. "If I'd known I was going to lose the use o' myself like this, I wouldn't ha' been so doggoned keen about my friend leavin' me."

"Your friend must be in a partic'lar hurry."

"He was that," Jeff murmured. A queer buzzing in his ears and an overpowering feeling of giddiness made him close his eyes. When he opened them, the boy had disappeared. Jeff saw that his horse had been tied up in the shade of a scrub-oak.

"That boy seems to have some sense," he reflected. "This is a knock- out, sure."

Again he closed his eyes. A blue jay began to chatter; and when he had finished his screed, a cock-quail challenged the silence. Very soon the wilderness was uttering all its familiar sounds. Jeff, lying flat on his back, could hear the rabbits scurrying through the chaparral. After an interminable delay his ears caught the crackle of dry twigs snapped beneath a human foot.

"Feelin' lonesome?"

"I'm mighty glad to see you again," Jeff admitted. "Ah, water! That's a sight better'n whisky."

He drank thirstily, for the sun was high in the heavens, and the road as hot as an oven.

"I reckoned you'd come back," Jeff continued.

"Why?"

"To earn that dollar." He eyed the lad's somewhat ragged overalls. "Say--what do they call ye to home?"

"Bud."

"Bud, eh? Short for brother. Folks got a fam'ly." He reflected that Bud's sister, if he had one, might be nice-looking. "Well, Bud, I'm under obligations to ye, for hitchin' up the plug in the shade. 'Twas thoughtful. Where ha' ye been?"

"I've been hunting Dad. But he's off in the hills. If I could get ye to our camp----"

"The plug'll have to do it. Unhitch him."

Bud untied the animal, who limped even more acutely than his master. Perhaps he lacked his master's grit. Jeff was the colour of parchment when he found himself in the saddle, whereon he sat huddled up, gripping the horn.

"Freeze on," said the boy.

"You bet," Jeff replied laconically.

Bud led the horse a few yards down the road, passing from it into the chaparral. Thence, through a tangled wilderness of scrub-oak and manzanita, down a steep slope, into a pretty cañon.

"Here we are."

A sudden turn of the trail revealed a squatter's hut built of rough lumber, and standing beneath a live-oak. A small creek was babbling its way to the Salinas River. The clearing in front of the hut was strewn with empty tins. A tumble-down shed encircled by a corral was on the other side of the creek. Jeff knew at once that he was looking at one of the innumerable mountain-claims taken up by Eastern settlers in the days of the great land boom, and forsaken by them a couple of years afterwards.

Jeff slid from the saddle on to his sound leg; then, counting rapidly the shining tins, he said reflectively:--

"Bin here about a month, I reckon."

"Yes--Mister--Sherlock--Holmes."

Jeff stared. The ragamuffins of the foothills are not in the habit of reading fiction, although lying comes easy to them.

"Kin you read?" said Jeff.

"I--_kin_," replied Bud, grinning (he had nice teeth). "Kin you?"

"I can cuff a cheeky kid," said Jeff, scowling.

"But you've got to catch him first."

The boy laughed gaily, and ran into the house, as Jeff sat down propping his broad back against a tree.

"Things here are not what they seem," Jeff murmured to his horse, who twitched an intelligent ear, as if he, too, was well aware that this was no home of squatter or miner. And who else of honest men would choose to live in such a desolate spot?

Presently the boy came back, carrying a feed of crushed barley. Then he unsaddled the horse, watered him, and fed him. Jeff grunted approval.

"You're earnin' that dollar--every cent of it." A delightful fragrance of bacon floated to Jeff's nostrils. Evidently provision had been made for man as well as beast.

"That smells mighty good," said Jeff.

Bud helped him to rise, but after one effort Jeff sank back, groaning.

"It's my boot," he explained. "See--I'm wearing a number eight on a number fifteen hoof. W-w-what? Pull it off? Not for ten thousand dollars. We'll cut it off."

Jeff produced a knife and felt its edge.

"It's sharp," he said, "sharp as you, Bud; but-doggone it! I can't use it."

Bud saw the sweat start on his skin as he tried to pull the injured foot towards him.

"S'pose I do it?" the boy suggested.

"You've not got the nerve, Bud. Why, you're yaller as cheese, you poor little cuss."

"I'm not," said the boy, flushing suddenly.

He took the knife and began to cut the tough leather: a delicate operation, for Jeff's leg from knee to ankle was terribly swollen. Slowly and delicately the knife did its work. Finally, a horribly contused limb was revealed.

"Cold water--and plenty of it," murmured Jeff.

"Or hot?"

"Mebbee hot'd be better."

Bud disappeared, whistling.

"That boy's earning a five-dollar bill," said Jeff. "I'm a liar if he ain't as bright as they make 'em."

The hot water was brought and some linen.

"I feel a heap better," Jeff declared presently.

"How about dinner?"

"Bud, if ever I hev a son I hope he'll be jest like you. Say--you're earning big money--d'ye know it?--and my everlastin' gratitude."

"That's all right. Hadn't I better bring the grub out here? It's nice and cool under this tree."

Jeff nodded. The bacon and beans were brought out and consumed. Bud, however, refused to eat. He preferred to wait for his father. Jeff asked some questions, as he stowed away the bacon and beans.

"Your dad must be an awful nice man," said he.

"He's the best and smartest man in the State," said Bud proudly.

"Is he! And you two are campin' out for yer health--eh? Ye can't fool me, Bud."

"Oh!"

"I sized you up at once as a city boy."

"You're more than half right."

"I'm all right, Bud. In my business I have to be all right. Bless you, it don't do to make mistakes in my business."

"And what is your business?"

Jeff beamed. He was certainly a good-looking fellow, and warmed by food and, comparatively speaking, free from pain, he was worthy of more than a passing glance.

"I'm deputy-sheriff of San Lorenzo County," he declared, "and mighty proud of it."

"Proud of this yere county?" said the boy, "or proud of being dep'ty- sheriff?"

"By Jing! I'm proud o' both. The county's comin' along fine, and so'm I, Bud. It's a fact, sonny, that I'm held in high esteem as an officer. Why, my boss said to me this very day: 'Jeff,' says he, 'yer makin' a record.'"

"What sort o' record?"

Jeff flushed slightly. He was not in the habit of "tooting his own horn," as he would have put it, but the boy's face invited confidence.

"A record for dooin' my duty," he answered slowly. "'Tain't as easy as you might think for."

"No?"

"Not by no means. Ye see, Bud, in a new country 'tisn't only the real bad eggs that worries us. The community can deal with them. No, no, it's the good fellers gone wrong, the straight 'uns grown crooked, who keep us stirrin'. And, sometimes, when a friend, a neighbour, flies the track, an officer is kind o' tempted to look the other way. See?"

"And you don't look the other way?"

Jeff's strong chin stuck out, and his eyes sparkled "You bet I don't."

The boy eyed him attentively. The qualities conspicuous in the pioneer--energy, fortitude, grit, patience--shone finely out of Jeff's eyes.

"I like you, Jeff," said the boy, almost shyly.

"Shake," said Jeff. "I like you, Bud."

The two shook hands solemnly.

"Although I am a city boy," said Bud.

"But it beats me what yer doing--here?"

"Just camping. Dad's a botanist and an entomologist."

"Is that so?" Jeff's face shone. The presence of these strangers in the wild foothills was adequately explained. Then he laughed, showing strong, even teeth. "I'd like to meet your dad first-rate, and, Bud, I'd like even better to meet your sister."

He punched the boy in the ribs, chuckling to himself. The boy laughed too, freshly and frankly.

"Something like you, I reckon," said Jeff, "only cleaner and----"

"I'm as clean as they make 'em," Bud declared angrily.

"Keep your hair on, sonny. I'll allow yer as clean as they make boys, mebbee cleaner, but we're speaking o' girls. Have ye got her picture?"

"Whose picture?"

"Your sister's."

"Well, I declare! How do you know I've got a sister?"

"I know it," said Jeff. "Call it instinct. Didn't I tell ye that in my business I've got to jest naturally know things? I jump, Bud, where the ordinary citizen might, so ter speak, crawl."

The boy laughed gaily. Then he ran off, returning in a minute with a small leather case. Out of this he took a cabinet photograph, which he handed to Jeff. That gentleman became excited at once.

"I knew it--I knew it!" he exclaimed. "She's a--_peach_! Bud, I'm mighty glad ye showed me this. Jee--whiz! Yes, and like you, only ten thousand times better-lookin'. What's her name, Bud?"

"You don't want to know her name."

"I want to--the worst kind. My! Look at that cunning little curl! And her shape! You know nothing o' that yet, Bud, but I tell ye, sir, yer sister is put up just right according to my notions. Not too tall. Them strung-out, trained-to-a-hair, high-falutin girls never did fetch me. I like 'em round, and soft, and innocent. What's her name, sonny?"

"Sarah."

"Sairy! Bud, I don't believe that. Sairy! I never did cotton to Sairy. Yer pullin' my leg, ye young scallywag. The nerve! No--ye don't."

Jeff had stretched out a long, lean arm, and seized the boy by the shoulder in a grasp which tightened cruelly.

"Oh--oh!"

"Tell me her right name, ye little cuss, or I'll squeeze ye into pulp."

"Lemmee go! Dad calls her Sadie."

Jeff released the shoulder, grinning.

"Sadie--that's a heap better. I--I could love to--to distraction a girl o' the name o' Sadie."

"If Sadie were here----" Bud had removed himself to a respectful distance, and was now glaring at Jeff, and rubbing his bruised shoulder.

"I wish she was, I wish she was. You were saying, Bud----"

"I was saying that if Sadie were here, she'd fix you mighty quick."

"Would she? God bless her!" He stared sentimentally at the photograph.

"Yes, she would. She'd let you know that a girl may be round--an' soft--an' innocent--and a holy terror, too, when a big, blundering galoot of a dep'ty-sheriff talks o' loving somebody to whom he's never been introduced, and never likely to be, neither."

Jeff looked up in amazement.

"Why, Bud; why, sonny--ye're real mad! Why, you silly little whipper- snapper, ye don't think I'd talk that way if the young lady was around. Great Scot! Look ye here! Now--now I ain't goin' to hurt ye any. Come nearer. Ye won't? Well, then, don't! But, strictly between ourselves, I'll tell ye something, although it's agen myself. If your sister was here, right now, I--I'm so doggoned bashful--I wouldn't have a word to say--that's a fact."

"I wish she were here," said Bud, savagely.

"Now, Bud; that's a real nasty one. Ye don't mean that. Did I hurt yer shoulder, sonny?"

"Hurt it? I'll bet it's black and blue most already."

"I'll bet it ain't. Pull down your shirt, an' let's see. Black and blue? You air a little liar."

Bud slowly pulled up the sleeve of his faded blue jumper. Hand and wrist were burnt brown by the sun, but above, the flesh was white and soft. Just below the elbow flamed the red and purple marks left by Jeff's fingers.

"The shoulder's a sight worse than that," said Bud sulkily. Jeff displayed honest concern.

"Pore little Bud," said he, patting the boy's hand which lay in his own. "It is lucky fer me Miss Sadie ain't round. I reckon she _would_ fix me for this. And I shouldn't have a word for her, as I was tellin' ye. She'd think me the biggest kind of a mug."

So speaking, he picked up the photograph and half slipped it into the case.

"Twon't do fer me to look at her," he murmured; "but if ever there was a case----"

"Eh?"

"Never mind."

"What were you going to say?"

"Somethin' very fullish."

"Say it, Jeff. I'll not give ye away to Sadie. Honest, I won't."

"I believe," said Jeff solemnly, "that I've got it where the bottle got the cork. It's a curious sort o' feeling, not unpleasant, but kind o' squirmy."

"What in thunder are you at?"

"It's love, Bud--love at first sight. Now, mind--yer not to give me away. I'm in love end over end with your sister. Don't git mad! She'll never know it."

"Are you often taken this way?"

"Never before, by Jing! That's what's so queer. Mebbee I pitched on my head. Mebbee I'm delirious."

"Mebbee you always were--half-baked. Looks like it, I must say. Give me the case."

"Any more sisters, Bud? I reckon not. The mould must ha' been broke when Miss Sadie was born. One'll make trouble enough for we men. Is there another, Bud?"

"No."

"There's another picture in there."

"Yes--Dad's."

Now it chanced that as Jeff drew the portrait of Bud's father from the case the boy had turned, and so missed the amazing expression of surprise, dismay, horror, that flitted into Jeff's honest face, and for the moment distorted it. But when he spoke his voice was the same, and his features were composed.

"This is your--dad?"

"Yes. I call him a peach." "It's a fine head--sure," murmured Jeff.

Bud bent over him, eager to sing the praises of his sire. But, for the first time since man and boy had met, Jeff's face assumed a hard, professional look. Bud eyed him interrogatively.

"Does your leg hurt any?"

"N-n-o."

"I'll fetch some more hot water, if you say so."

"I'm feelin' a heap easier--in my leg."

He put the two photographs into the case, closed it, and handed it to Bud with a sigh.

"Maybe you will meet Sadie some day," said Bud, taking the case.

"Maybe," Jeff replied, with an indifference which made the boy stare. Jeff was gazing across the foothills with a queer steely glint in his blue eyes. Bud ran into the house.

Instantly, Jeff was alert. He pulled a tattered handbill from his pocket, smoothed it out, and read it with darkening brows. The bill offered a handsome reward for any information which would lead to the arrest of one Sillett, a defaulting assistant-cashier of a Santa Barbara bank. Sillett and his _daughter_ had disappeared in a springboard, drawn by a buckskin horse, and were supposed to have travelled south, in the hope of crossing the border into Mexico. At the head of the bill was a rough woodcut of Sillett. Jeff crumpled up the sheet of paper, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"It's him--sure 'nough," he growled. Then he gasped suddenly, "Jee- roosalem! Bud is a rosebud!"

He smiled, frowned, and tugged at his moustache as Bud appeared with some more hot water. Jeff blushed.

"You're real kind, but I hate to give ye all this trouble."

Bud, after bathing the swollen leg, glanced up sharply.

"You're as red as the king of hearts. You ain't going to have a fever?"

"I do feel kind o' feverish," Jeff admitted.

Bud lightly touched his forehead.

"Why, it's burning hot, I do declare."

Jeff closed his eyes, murmuring confusedly, "I b'lieve it'd help me some if you was to stroke my derned head."

Bud obediently smoothed his crisp curls. Jeff's forehead was certainly hot, and it grew no cooler beneath the touch of Bud's fingers.

"Hello!" exclaimed Bud, a few minutes later.

"Here's Dad coming across the creek."

* * * * *

Sillett advanced leisurely, not seeing the figures under the live-oak. He carried a tin box and a butterfly-net. He was dressed in the brown over-alls of Southern California, stained and discoloured by sun and tar-weed. His face, brown as the over-alls, had, however, a pinched look, and in his eyes lay a curious tenseness familiar enough to deputy-sheriffs. For the rest, he had a mild forehead, which he was wiping as he crossed the creek, a pleasant mouth, and a chin a thought too delicately modelled for a man. He walked soberly, with the dragging stride of a tired pedestrian. He was tall, thin, and angular.

Bud ran to meet him.

"We've comp'ny," he cried, indicating Jeff. Sillett quickened his step.

"Company?"

Sillett met Jeff's glance with a simple bow, and the inevitable remark, "Hurt yourself?"

Jeff explained. While describing his misadventure he decided that Bud could not be a party to the father's crime. Sillett asked for permission to examine the wounded leg Presently he asked Jeff to stand up.

"Oh, Dad!" protested Bud.

Jeff obeyed, glad to discover that he could stand upon the injured foot.

"Same thing happened to me once," Sillett remarked. "The tight boot caused more than half the trouble. Sit down, Mr.----?"

"Wells. Jefferson Wells."

"Thank you. My name is--of no service to you. And this is my daughter --Sarah. Run away, Sadie."

Jeff, watching the daughter, thought her confusion the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

"You are a cowboy, I presume?" said Sillett, as Bud disappeared. Not waiting for Jeff's answer, he went on fluently: "I'm sure I can trust you; you have an honest face, sir. I'm collecting certain plants and butterflies, but--I have other reasons for camping out. My daughter has played the boy, because a boy is safe in these wild hills; an unprotected girl might be molested. We will do what we can for you. You, I am sure, will respect this confidence."

Sillett played his trumps boldly, not knowing that he was speaking to a deputy-sheriff. Jeff said nothing. Sillett, after asking if the horse had been fed and watered, followed his daughter into the hut. Jeff groaned to himself. "Mighty soon I'll be wishing I'd never been born!"

However, assured that he was alone, he carefully examined his six- shooter, and began to reckon what chances there were for and against arresting Sillett single-handed. Ordinarily, he was quick enough at such calculations, but Bud introduced confusion into every sum. "I'm in an awful hole," reflected the unhappy Jeff.

The hole became a bottomless pit when Bud appeared in a pretty linen frock, and asked him demurely how he fared.

"You're looking worse," she said.

Changing her dress, she had cast off with the rough overalls such rugosities of manner, speech, and intonation as belonged to the ragamuffin of the foothills. Poor Jeff assumed his "society" manner and accent.

"If I'd only known," he began lamely.

"You never suspected?"

A note of anxiety escaped Jeff's ears.

"N-n-no. Of course not. Why, think how I handled you."

Sadie blushed.

"I'll forget everything," she whispered, showing a couple of dimples, "and we'll begin all over again, Mr.--Wells."

His confusion, which she attributed to bashfulness, encouraged the shameless coquette to add: "Maybe you liked me better as Bud?" Jeff was scarlet as he replied: "I liked Bud first-rate, but Bud'll remember what I said about his sister." Then he quite spoiled the effect of this happy phrase by adding hurriedly: "Say, I'd just as lief you didn't tell your father that I am a deputy-sheriff."

Sadie raised her dark brows.

"I thought you were so proud of that."

"I tooted my own horn, like a tenderfoot."

"But I liked what you said, Mr. Wells. That's the part I shan't forget. About doing your duty, you know. Dad would like that too. He's done his duty, has Dad--always."

"I'll allow he's done his duty by you."

She laughed gaily; then, seeing with a woman's quick eyes that the man was in pain, she said for the second time, "I know you're feeling worse, Mr. Wells."

A wiser than Jeff would have assented to this. Jeff rose hastily and walked a few paces.

"I'm most well," he declared irritably.

"Then what ails you?"

Jeff sat down again, smiling nervously.

"Well, Miss Sadie, I was thinking of the cruellest thing in this cruel world."

"My! What's that?"

"Why do the innocent suffer for the sins o' the guilty?"

"You do fly the track." She paused, gazing first at Jeff's troubled face, and then at the scene about them. The enchantress, Spring, had touched all things with her magical fingers The time had come when

"Half of the world a bridegroom is,
And half of the world a bride."

Very soon--within a month at most--the creek which ran so joyfully to the great ocean yonder would have run altogether out of sight, leaving a parched and desolate watercourse in its place. The grass, now a vivid green, bespangled with brilliant poppies, would fade into premature age and ugliness. The trees would have assumed the dust- covered livery of summer. The birds would be mute.

Sadie shrugged, protestingly, her slender shoulders.

"Suppose we talk of something else this lovely day?"

But Jeff paid no attention. In a crude, boyish fashion he had come to a decision.

"Shall I tell you a story?"

"Oh, please!"

"It happened to a friend of mine, a man I knew real well."

"A love story, Mr. Wells?"

"There's love in it, Miss Sadie."

"I'm glad of that."

"This man, my friend, he was a brother deputy o' mine, came to be twenty-six without ever falling in love."

"My! He must have been hard-hearted--your friend."

"Mebbee. Well, one fine day he met his mate----"

"What was she like?"

"Like? Why, she was the sweetest thing on earth. I'd as lief try to describe a day such as this----"

"Oh! I know what's coming. You fell in love with your friend's sweetheart. Poor Mr. Wells!"

Jeff ignored this interruption.

"I was saying that my friend met _his_ mate, nobody's else's, and though he'd never met her before, by Jing! he knew right off she was his mate."

"Love at first sight."

"That's right. Love at first sight."

Sadie's face and figure perceptibly relaxed. Her eyes softened delightfully. With parted lips she seemed to hang upon Jeff's next words.

"Unfortunately, she was the daughter of a thief."

"A thief!"

"That ain't the right word. Embezzler, I reckon, would fit better. Leastwise, he'd made away with other folks' money, meanin' to put it back, no doubt, if he happened to strike the right lead. Luck was dead against him. Mind ye, he was a good citizen enough, as Westerners go. I don't deny that he'd average up as well as most. I remember the case well, because I read about it in the papers. The dry years had bust him, and the most of his friends too. Some o' these friends he'd helped. He was on their notes of hand, ye understand?"

He glanced at her sharply. Would she understand? Would she guess? No. In the pure, clear eyes upturned to his he read pity, sympathy interest--nothing more. She nodded.

"When times mended in Southern California he thought he saw his chance to get back all he'd lost: just one o' those dead sure shots which will miss fire. He'd not a cent of his own, so he borrowed, without askin' leave, a few hundreds, that was all, jest a few hundreds from somebody else."

"He was a--thief," said Sadie calmly.

"It's too hard a word that. Now then, I'm getting to the point. My friend, deputy-sheriff like me, found himself in this hell of--I mean in this terrible tight place. He was sent to arrest the father of the girl he loved."

"Oh-h-h!"

This prolonged exclamation sadly puzzled Jeff, whose claim to consideration at the hands of many friends was a guileless transparency of purpose, a candour and simplicity unhappily too rare. Now, his climax, so artfully introduced, provoked nothing more satisfactory than this "Oh-h-h!"

"Well," continued Jeff, gazing almost fiercely into Sadie's eyes, "my friend found the father, and he knew that he could arrest him, or he could earn the everlastin' gratitude of the girl by letting him escape--and _helping_ him to escape."

"And what did your friend do?" Sadie asked quietly.

"What do you think he did, Miss Sadie?"

"Did the girl know that her father was a thief?"

"She was as innocent as Mary's little lamb."

"I don't know what your friend did," said Sadie, in a clear, emphatic voice, "but I do know what he ought to have done. His first duty was to his State."

Jeff stared, and then laughed.

"To his State. That's so. Yes, yes; and that's how my friend acted. He did arrest the father, and the daughter--why, o' course, she never spoke to him again."

"It's a sad story," said Sadie, after a pause. "I'm sorry you told it to me to-day, because----" her voice faltered.

"Yes," said Jeff, "because----"

"Because it has been so pleasant to-day-for me, I mean."

She looked down, blushing. Jeff seized her hand. Sadie tried, not very hard, to pull it away. Jeff felt the muscles relaxing, the slight form swayed towards him. Suddenly he released her.

"O, my God!" he exclaimed. "You are right, I feel in all my bones you're dead right. I ought to do my duty. I'm feeling and behaving like a madman."

Sadie stared at him in troubled silence. She believed that in losing his heart the poor fellow had lost his wits also. Yet she was sensible that love for her lay at the root of his distress. And his pain, for his suffering was pitiful to behold, puckered her brows, twisted her lips. With a soft cry she touched timidly his shoulder.

"If you think," she smiled faintly, "that because we've only known each other a few hours, I----"

Jeff laughed. The laugh hurt the girl, so that she shrank from him. So engrossed were the pair that neither marked Sillett as he opened the door of the hut. He advanced a couple of steps, smoking a pipe, and then paused, astonished, as Jeff's next words reached him.

"Look at here," he burst out. "That story----It's my own story. I left San Lorenzo yesterday afternoon to arrest your father. The sheriff an' me knew he was somewhere in these foothills."

"You have come to arrest--Dad?"

"That's it."

She stared at him confusedly, trying to recall his story. Jeff waited.

"You called him a thief. Dad--a thief! How dare you? How dare you? It's a lie, or--or," she faltered, "or a mistake."

"No mistake," said Jeff wretchedly.

He had risen. Man and maid stared fiercely into each other's faces. Behind them, Sillett stood quietly observant, but his right hand stole down to his pocket.

"Hold up your hands!" he said sharply.

Jeff and the girl sprang apart. Sillett had levelled a pistol at the deputy-sheriff, repeating his words with one addition: "_Quick!_" Jeff raised his hands.

"He carries a 'gun,'" said Sillett to his daughter. "Take it from him."

She obeyed. Her face was white as milk, but not with fear. The man who held the pistol had ceased for the moment to bear any resemblance to her father, but assuredly he was the defaulter whom Jeff Wells and the sheriff sought. The expression upon his face revealed that, if nothing else. Sadie removed the pistol and brought it to Sillett.

"In the hut, on a nail behind the door, is a piece of cord. Fetch it!"

She fetched it.

"Tie his hands behind his back. Tie 'em good and firm. Take your time. Make a job of it. That's it. Now, then, hitch the loose ends round that scrub-oak. That's right. Now go into the house, and slip into your overalls. We'll be shifting camp in less than half-an-hour."

"Dad!"

"Well?"

"It's true, then?"

He smiled grimly.

"Yes--it's true. Get a move on you. Mr. Wells and I are going to have a little talk."

She walked slowly towards the hut; then suddenly she turned, flying back on nimble feet.

"Dad," she said quickly. "Mr. Wells will help us, if you ask him, if-- if _I_ ask him." She approached Jeff. "I told you that your duty was to the State," she continued, "but I take that back. Do you hear? Save Dad! I don't care what he has done to others, he's always been so good to me. And if you will help us, I--I----"

"Sadie!"

Sillett's voice was very harsh.

"Yes, Dad."

"Leave us. Not a word, child. Go!"

She moved away, the tears trickling from her eyes. Nothing was said till the door had closed behind her; then Jeff broke the silence, in a voice with a strange rasp to it.

"I _will_ help you, Mr. Sillett."

Sillett thrust his weapon into his pocket, and came close to the speaker, eyeing him attentively. An impartial observer might have pronounced the younger man to be the defaulter.

"You'll help me--eh? How?"

"I can get you safe into Mexico."

"Can you?"

"At a word from me the sheriff'll be huntin' somewheres else. See?"

"I see."

"Don't think you'll squeeze through without me. I reckon you've a springboard and a buckskin in the barn over there?"

"Maybe."

"The officers are looking for that buckskin in every little burg between Santa Cruz and San Diego. You can't pack your grub and blankets a-foot. I can supply everything. Nobody'll suspect me."

"Why not?"

"Because--because o' my record."

"Oh. It's a clean one, is it?"

"It is that."

"Sadie cottoned to you right away. Because she sized you up as straight, I surmise."

The speaker smoked silently for a moment; Jeff held his tongue, but his cheeks were red and hot.

"Sadie may sour on me now," said the father heavily.

"Sour on you, Mr. Sillett! Not she."

Sillett frowned. Then he opened a knife and slashed the cord which bound Jeff. The fingers which held his pipe were trembling.

"You'll let me fix things?" said Jeff, in a low voice.

"And then--suppose--suppose Sadie soured on you?"

"I'll risk that," Jeff answered slowly. "She's more'n likely to."

"Um."

"You're going to give me a free hand?"

"No."

The monosyllable burst from his lips with a violence that indicated the rending asunder of strong barriers.

"No," he repeated. "One of us, Jefferson Wells, must be an honest man. I ain't going to whine about the luck, but I stole--I stole--for her. I wanted to give her what she'd always had from me: a pretty home, nice clothes, a good time. And what's the result?" He laughed hoarsely. "This,--this hut, those overalls, beans and bacon to eat, and now--now--the knowledge that her dad is a thief. Well, she's cottoned to you. I read it in her face. Quick work, they'd say back East, but in this new country folks have to think quick and act quick. I can think quick and act quick. You want her?"

"Worse than I ever wanted anything in my life."

"You can take care of her?"

"I am well fixed. A nest-egg in the bank, a good salary, and a pair of arms that can carry a heavier load than she'll ever be."

Sillett nodded; then he spoke very deliberately: "I'm going back to Santa Barbara to face the music. I shall give myself up. Hold on--let me finish! I know something of women, and Sadie is the daughter of a good mother. It's lucky she's dead, poor soul! Don't you ever dare to tell Sadie _that you weakened_. When she lies awake nights--and she will--it may comfort her some to think that her husband is an honest man. I'm going to hit the trail now. When Sadie comes out o' there, tell her with my love, that I've left her in your charge."

XX

DENNIS

The odd thing was that his name was really Dennis. In the West, Dennis stands genetically for the under dog, for the man who is left. His name is--Dennis! Why? The man in this story was christened Dennis, and, being a native son of the Golden West, he took particular pains to keep the fact a secret from the "boys." When he punched cattle on our range he was known as "Kingdom Come" Brown, because, even in those days, it was plain to tenderfeet that physically and intellectually D. Brown, cowboy, was not likely to inherit the kingdoms of the earth.

Ever since he had been breeched ill-fortune had marked him for her own. Nevertheless, he was rich in the possession of a temperament which soared like a lark above suffering and disappointment. He believed steadfastly that his "turn" would come. "It ain't goin' to be like this yere--always," was a phrase familiar to us. To this we replied, "Not much!"

In our hearts we, too, believed that the turn would come, but that, humanly speaking, it would occur in the sweet by-and-by. Hence the nickname. The hardest nuts admitted that Brown was travelling upon the rough road which leads upwards. His golden slippers were waiting for him--sure! He set an example which none followed, but which all, in sober moments, commended. He neither drank nor swore. He remained faithful to the memory of a woman who had married somebody else. For her sake he sold his horse and saddle, and became a lumber-man. The losing of his Mamie was, of course, the heaviest of his many bludgeonings. She was a simple soul, like D. Brown, inured to hard work, and at the mercy of a drunken father, who had perilously escaped by the very skin of his teeth from the clutches of Judge Lynch. To give to Mamie a home had been the consuming desire of poor Dennis. For this he pinched and saved till, at last, the needful sum lay snug in a San Lorenzo bank. Then the bank "bust"!

Without a word to Mamie, Dennis drifted away to some distant range, and before he was seen again Tom Barker had appeared. Why Tom, a big, brutal lumberman, desired to marry Mamie, no longer young, never pretty, penniless, and admittedly fond of Dennis, must remain a mystery. Why Mamie married Tom is a question easily answered. Tom was "boss" of a logging-camp, and none had ever denied his Cæsarean attributes. He had the qualities and vices conspicuously absent in Dennis. He was Barker, of Barker's Inlet. The mere mention of his name in certain saloons was enough to put the fear of God into men even bigger than himself. A sort of malefic magnetism exuded from every pore of his skin. When he held up his finger Mamie crawled to him. She believed, probably, that she was escaping from a drunken father, and she knew that Tom could and would supply many things for which she had yearned--a parlour, for instance, possibly a piano, and a silk dress. She would have taken Dennis without these amenities, but Dennis had fled to the back of Nowhere without even saying good-bye.

Months after the marriage Dennis came back. Ajax described the wedding and the subsequent flitting to Barker's Inlet. Dennis listened, stroking his too thin, straggling moustache. Next day he sold his horse and saddle.

When he appeared at Barker's Inlet and asked for a job, Tom Barker smiled. He had heard of Dennis, and he knew that Mamie had given to Dennis what never would be given to him--the love and confidence of a simple woman. Into his savage bull-head crept the determination to torment these two unsophisticated creatures delivered by Fate to be his slaves, and as such at his mercy.

Accordingly, Dennis was engaged.

Tom's position at the inlet must be defined. Some years before he had been known as a timber-cruiser--that is to say, a man who "locates," during his wanderings through forests primeval, belts of timber which will be likely to allure the speculative lumberman. Barker, therefore, had discovered the inlet which bore his name, and in consideration of his services, and with a due sense of his physical and mental qualifications, he had been appointed boss of the camp by the real owners--a syndicate of rich men, who knew that logs were worth ten dollars a thousand feet, and that the man to make them so was Tom Barker. The syndicate wisely gave Tom a free hand, knowing that, in everything which concerned the working of men and machinery to the limit, Tom would begin at the point where their less elastic consciences might leave off. The syndicate, therefore, remained in Victoria, or Vancouver, or San Francisco, and said of Tom that he was a rustler from "Way back, and as lively as they make 'em."

It will be guessed that Tom's principal difficulty was engaging men. Having engaged them, he was certain to get plenty of work out of them, and they couldn't leave till they had earned sufficient money to take themselves elsewhere. All the boys came to Tom stoney-broke; otherwise they would never have "signed on." To be treated like a hog, to root assiduously for Tom, or to starve, stared several able-bodied men in the face. One genial Californian remarked, "It's a choice between Death and Damnation."

You will now understand why Tom smiled when Dennis Brown asked for a job.

He knew that Dennis was a cow-puncher, and not a star performer on his own pitch, and he had only to look at the man to realise how unfitted he was for the rough work of a logging-camp. A derisive chuckle gurgled from his huge, hairy throat as he growled out--

"Say! This ain't like teachin' Sunday-school."

"I know it ain't," said Dennis cheerfully. But his heart sank at the mention of the Sunday-school. Long ago he had taught in a Sunday- school. It was simply awful to think that the piety of a too ardent youth was now to be held up to the ridicule of the boys.

"I believe your name is--Dennis?" continued the boss of Barker's Inlet.

"It is," our unhappy friend admitted.

"Go up to the bunk-house," commanded Tom, "and tell Jimmy Doolan, with my regards, to take particler care of yer. I'll speak to him later." Then, as Dennis was moving off, he added, in a rasping voice: "You an' my wife is acquainted, eh? Wal, when you've dropped your blankets, come up to the house and say howdy."

Dennis went up to the house. There was one house at the inlet: a four- roomed frame building with three coats of paint on it and a red roof. It stood some distance from the collection of shacks and cabins at the mouth of the Coho River, and it overlooked some of the most glorious scenery in the world. In front stretched the Sound, a silver sea just dimpled by the soft spring breeze. To right and left, and behind, lay the forest--that silent land of the North, illimitable as space, everlastingly green when the snows had melted, shadowy, mysterious, terrible!

As Dennis approached the house he heard a terrific sound--the crash of a felled and falling tree--some giant who had held his own in the struggle for existence when William the Norman ruled in England. And then, from all points of the compass, the echoes, in varying cadence, repeated that tremendous, awe-inspiring sound--the last sobbing cry of a Titan.

A moment later Mamie received him and ushered him into the parlour, where a small piano, a table of shellwork, and crimson plush curtains challenged the interest and curiosity of all who were privileged to behold them. "Let me take yer hat," said Mamie.

The hand she held out trembled slightly. Dennis perceived that she was thinner and paler.

"Yer well fixed," he murmured. "An' happy as a clam, I reckon?"

"I'd oughter be happy," said Mamie dubiously. Then she added hastily, "Never expected to see you in a logging-camp."

"No? Wal, I kinder wondered how you was makin' it. You don't look extry peart, Mis' Barker. Lonesome for ye, ain't it?"

Already he knew that except for a few squaws she was the only woman in the camp.

"I don't mind that," said Mrs. Barker.

Something in her tone arrested his attention. Stupid and slow though he was, he divined that Mamie's thin, white cheeks and trembling hands were not caused by lonesomeness. He stared at her intently, till the blood gushed into her face. And then and there he knew almost everything.

"Got a baby?" he asked thickly.

She answered savagely, "No, I haven't, thank God!"

Above the chimneypiece hung an enlarged photograph of her husband, taken a couple of days after his wedding. Mr. Barker had faced the camera with the same brutal complacency which distinguished all his actions. He smiled grimly, thrusting forward his heavy lower jaw, inviting inspection, obviously pleased to exhibit himself as a ferocious and untamed animal. Through the sleeves of his ill-cut black coat the muscles of his arms and shoulders showed bulgingly. The ordinary observer, looking at the photograph for the first time, would be likely to reflect: "Here is a ruffian who needs a licking, but he has not got it yet."

"How's paw?" said Mamie.

"Las' time I seen the old man he was paralysed drunk, as usual."

"Yes, he would be that," assented Mamie indifferently.

After this, conversation languished, and very soon the visitor took his leave. When Mamie handed to him his hat she said awkwardly, "You never told me good-bye"; and to this indictment Dennis replied laconically, "Holy Mackinaw! I couldn't."

Those who know the wilder portions of this planet will understand that all was said between these two weaklings who had loved each other dearly. Dennis returned to the bunk-house. Mamie ran to her bed-room and cried her eyes out.

Within a week the camp knew two facts concerning the newcomer. His name was--Dennis! And he had loved Tom Barker's dough-faced wife!

Tom's selection of his first instrument of torture indicated subtlety. He bought from a Siwash Indian the most contemptible-looking cur ever beheld at the inlet, and he christened the unfortunate beast--Dennis. There was a resemblance between dog and man. Each, in the struggle for existence, had received more than his due share of kicks, and the sense of this in any animal manifests itself unmistakably. And each, moreover, exhibited the same amazing optimism, which is, perhaps, a sure sign of a mind not quite balanced.

Dennis, the dog, followed his new master wherever he went. Tom would introduce him with the remark, "His name is Dennis, _too_." And if Dennis, the man, happened to be present, Tom would swear at the dog, calling him every evil name which came to the tip of the foulest tongue in British Columbia. Always, at the end of these commination services, Tom would say to Dennis, the man, "I an't a-speakin' to you, old socks, so keep yer hair on."

That the cow-puncher (who, in his day, must have carried a "gun") did keep on his hair became a topic of talk amongst the boys, confirming a conviction that Dennis had been aptly named. Certainly he lacked backbone and jawbone. Moreover, change of skies brought to him no change of luck. Within a fortnight he was badly hurt, and obliged to remain in bed for nearly a week.

"I got mixed up with a log," he explained to Mamie. "It bruk loose, an' I didn't quite get outer the way. See?"

"Me, too," whispered Mamie. "Same trouble here--'zactly."

Twice while he lay upon his back she brought to the bunk-house a chocolate layer cake and some broth. Upon the occasion of her third visit she came empty-handed, with her too pale eyes full of tears, and her heart full of indignation.

"I ain't got nothing," she muttered. "Tom says it's his grub."

"That's all right," replied Dennis, noting that she walked stiffly. "But, look ye here; he ain't been wallopin' ye, has he?"

"Yes, he has. When he was through I tole him I'd sooner have his blows than his kisses any day."

"I hadn't oughter hev come here," said Dennis.

"Never saw the sun shine till you did," murmured Mamie.

At this he tried to take her hand, but she evaded his grasp. Then, with an extraordinary dignity, looking deep into the man's eyes, she said slowly: "I tole you that because it's God's truth, and sorter justifies your comin'; but I aim ter be an honest woman, and you must help me to remain so."

With that she flitted away.