Chapter II: Part 2

The men crowded round. Cleaning the straws away he disclosed a layer of plump yellow grains covering the bottom of the shovel. As the sight met his eye McClure gave an involuntary start and his face grew dark. His voice was mollifying, however, when he spoke.

"That looks pretty bad, Smithers," said he quietly. "But you just happened to catch a shoal of grain thrown over on a bunch of straw. I'll bet you ten to one we haven't thrown over five bushels in the last three days."

But Smithers stood firm.

"You can't pull the wool here, McClure," was the menacing retort. "There is a heap of my stuff going over and you quit. Easy Murphy gave me a line on Grant's yield and he's beating me bad. My crop's as good as Grant's and you know it. Haul your Outfit off my farm."

Smithers was determined. For a moment McClure was silent. Then he spoke in an appeasing tone.

"I don't want to quit this job right now," said he. "I'll tell you what I'll do. Let me finish this run in my own way and if your yield doesn't equal Grant's I'll make up the shortage and not charge you a sou for your threshing. Is that square?"

Smithers turned the matter over deliberately.

"Make it law," said he shrewdly, "and I'll hook up with you."

"Agreed!" was the quick response. "I'll sign the papers to-night. Meet me at Reddy Sykes' at ten and we'll put it through."

"Go ahead on that condition," said Smithers, climbing into his wagon.

Quickly the men were in their places and the machine went roaring into the twilight. As McClure stood by the separator he signalled to Snoopy Bill.

"Let her rip, Bill," was his shout. "Crowd through a couple of thousand extra before to-morrow night."

Snoopy Bill passed the word and the engineer opened the throttle. The gang responded with a will and soon a great stream of straw was gushing from the blower.

At that moment Mary McClure was standing up in her stirrups with eyes fixed intently on a spur of the north bank of the Valley. As she watched, a yodling scream came over the rounded hilltops. She smiled delightedly. On the tip of the lofty spur she caught sight of a red flash that she knew instantly as the shining coat of a certain bay broncho.

"It is Flash with Margaret up!" was the pleased exclamation. "I believe she wants me."

Forming a horn with her hands she called back in the cry of the hills. The rider on the spur waved her gauntlet in reply, beckoning to the rider in the Valley. Instantly Mary turned Bobs into the trees, sending him up a steep bridle path to the left. In a few minutes the girls were together and they set out through the stubble to where the Valley Gang was finishing the wheat.

"We are just in time to see the move," said Margaret. "For you, of course, the engineer is the whole gang. You will be able to see Ned in action."

"And you will be absorbed in the rest of the gang, that is in the antics of the separator man," countered Mary.

"At present," laughed Margaret, "I am going to make a raid on your preserves and talk to Ned."

She rode up to the engine.

At that moment there was a boisterously gallant salute from the gang, accompanied by a vigorous waving of caps and the shrill scream of the engine. The girls acknowledged the reception by a gay flourish of gauntlets.

"We are going to time the move, Ned," shouted Margaret above the roar of the engine, showing him her watch. "Let us see what the Valley Outfit can do."

Drawing his watch from his pocket Ned blew the whistle, promptly gaining the attention of the whole gang. Waving his hand toward the site of the new setting, he lifted high his watch and pointed to Margaret. With a ringing cheer they accepted the challenge and addressed themselves to the race against time. One of the feats of a crack outfit is the swift move to a new setting without mishap or confusion.

Already the last stock teams have pulled away from the separator and are careering in wild race to the adjacent field. With the tossing in of the final shovelful of chaff the separator stands clean and naked above the stubble. As the last bit of wheat dribbles into the bag Ned signals the stop and Margaret lifts her watch aloft.

"It is up to the Valley crew now," comes the silvery challenge, and the boys respond with a merry shout and the address that marks the discipline of the gang.

As the fly-wheel slows up the pitchers deftly throw the belt, roll it up and hang it in place. At the same time the carriers are lowered and secured and the two waiting grain-teams hooked to the separator. Leaning well on the lines the drivers give the word. With a sharp gee and a steady pull they haul the mill up on the stubble and head in a curved line for the site of the new setting a quarter of a mile away. There a space has been already cleared and a circle of loaded stook-wagons is beginning to form, awaiting the arrival of the machine.

The feat par excellence of all the teaming about a threshing mill is that of pulling the engine out of the holes into which she has settled and over the intervening stubble. Usually two teams are detailed to this duty, but here the big tank team is sufficient. At the drop of the belt Easy Murphy hitched the grays. The two big beasts stand expectant. Seizing the lines Easy gives the inspiration of his invigorating brogue. Thrusting their great shoulders at the collars the team leans steadily forward. Straining with their mighty muscles they sink their toes deep into the turf. The traces stretch into tense, vibrating thongs. Hawing sharply the real pull commences. The mass begins to move. Swaying slightly as his horses' heads go down, Easy heartens them.

"Stiddy now, me beauties, and aisy ut is or the stubble wull be afthurr ticklin' the bellies uv ye."

Suddenly the wheels rise out of the holes and the heavy mass rolls along.

"Aye, 'tis an aisy waltz fer yez, me bantams!" crows the tankman as the big team swings through the soft muck with the weighty Old Lady in tow. At precisely the same instant the separator has made its start. Glancing at her watch Margaret is surprised to observe that barely a minute has elapsed.

Arriving at the cleared area the separator, under the guidance of Andy Bissett, circles to the east, coming up to position in the teeth of the wind. The engine takes a curve to the west, swinging east to meet it. With the separator in place and blocked, every man springs to his task. Carriers are swung into proper elevation, feeder and band-cutter's stands dropped and the belt run out to the engine.

Ned stands on the rear of his engine with eye sighting along the fly-wheel. Now is the critical moment. An inch too much to right or left means the loss of minutes.

"Gee a little!" comes the crisp command. "Steady ahead! Let her swing to gee! Easy now! Hold!"

At the final order Easy Murphy brings his horses to a dead stop. Quickly the belt is slipped on and tautened. Every man stands in his place poised for work. Two short shrieks of the siren and the whole scene leaps into animation. Volumes of smoke belch from the funnel, the big belt speeds flapping along to the separator, starting the whirring of a maze of lesser belts and the spinning of countless pulleys. In a moment the cylinder is devouring an endless flood of sheaves. From the side of the mill the oats gush out while the straw rolls up over the carriers in a golden stream.

The girls ride up to the engine, admiration in their eyes.

"What time did we kill?" inquired Ned, smiling through his layers of grease.

"You made time," corrected Mary, flashing a bright smile down upon him. "That was wonderful work, quite worthy of the Valley Outfit."

"Time," said Margaret with official dignity, "is the surprising record of eight minutes and twenty seconds."

"I must let the gang know," said Ned in high elation. "That is a pretty decent record." Reaching out he blew eight screeching calls. The threshers paused long enough to respond with a trio of husky cheers. Then back they went with a will to the grind.

"What a furiously busy gang you have, Ned," was Mary's ingenuous observation, her eyes on the lively sight. "You all work as if we are to have a two-foot fall of snow, during the night. Why this haste?"

Ned smiled peculiarly and was silent. Margaret came quickly to his relief. She was aware of the exact situation and entirely disapproved, but she knew Ned wished to hold the truth from Mary.

"The Valley Outfit have been rushing along at this breakneck speed for the whole of October," said Margaret. "They are gambling, Mary. The boys have a wager that they can pile up a record output for the month. The trial winds up to-morrow night. Ned Pullar and his vaunted Valley Gang are a company of very foolish gentlemen."

"There are exceptions in the case, I suspect," insinuated Mary. "Our little Miss Grant exempts all tall, good-looking separator men. Hum!"

Ned laughed.

"Were it not for the dust," said he, "I would take you girls over for a chat with our rather handsome fellow. I have a hunch, however, that Margaret would scarcely enjoy it."

"What? The handsome fellow?" posed Mary mischievously.

"No. The dust," replied Ned.

"It is a little matter," agreed Margaret.

"The handsome fellow?" teased Ned.

"No. The dust," prompted Mary archly.

All three laughed.

"Here, White!" called Ned to his fireman. "You handle the throttle while I take the girls to the mill."

In spite of the dust the four-cornered interview though necessarily brief resolved itself into a charming "little matter." Andy was back in his place on top of the mill oiling near the carriers. Ned stood beside the girls, who were sitting their horses just beyond the cloud of dust. They were enjoying a few moments' contemplation of the lively scene before departure for the Grant homestead when suddenly a vivid light flashed red in the twilight, flaring on the sweating face of Lawrie, the big feeder. Instantly followed a loud metallic crashing. With a strange, muffled shout Lawrie threw up his hands and fell on the feed table, pitching forward into the jaws of the machine. An instant more and he must be seized by the deadly teeth of the whizzing cylinder.

At the blare of fire Ned uttered a cry of alarm and rushed toward the separator. Realizing Lawrie's horrible plight he shouted to White at the throttle and taking a lightning leap drew himself up on the separator above the whirring teeth. Already they were fanning the hair of the insensible feeder as his head settled nearer to the blurred shine of the hideous jaws. Reaching over, Ned seized the helpless man and lifted him by the sheer strength of his powerful arms out of the fangs of the machine. But the weight of his inert burden swinging suddenly overbalanced him. Poised over that maw of whirling death the two men hung for an awful instant as Ned fought to recover. But the weight was too much; Lawrie began to sink. It was evident the two men were falling back into the cylinder. A scream of terror leaped from the lips of the horror-stricken band-cutters. Then it was Ned felt his shoulder clutched in a mighty grip and he with his precious burden was dragged back to the roof of the mill.

"Thank God you were there, Andy!" exclaimed the big fellow breathlessly as they composed the huddled form of the unconscious Lawrie.

"A touch and go, Ned!" was the solemn rejoinder. "I did not know anything was amiss--until I heard your shout. It took me an instant to spot you in the dust. Lawrie's badly smashed."

And so it seemed, for the man's face was washed with blood.

Meanwhile White had shut down and willing hands helped them move the wounded man to the ground. Water was speedily applied and the blood sopped up, revealing a deep gash along the forehead gouged by some missile thrown out by the rotating cylinder. Under the steady bathing there were soon signs of returning consciousness. Slowly opening his eyes Lawrie was surprised to find Ned bending over him, looking at him with anxious, sober gaze. A gleam of intelligence crept into the man's face and he smiled faintly.

"Oh, yes!" he said reminiscently. "I remember. I felt it slip in and tried to draw it back but it got away." After a moment's pause he added: "I am afraid it has played hob with the cylinder and concave. Have you taken a look, Ned?"

"You Lawrie!" cried Ned, smiling at the game fellow. "It's the man first here, you know. How are you feeling?"

"O.K., Ned, though by gum I seem to have taken the count."

Recovering he rose on his elbow and looked around curiously. The gang were gathered about him, a circle of solemn faces. Giving a little laugh he said naively:

"What's got your goat, pals?"

"Shure 'tis the lucky, quare divil ye are," said Murphy, "till be dead wan minute and assistin' at your own post mortin the nixt."

A hearty laugh passed round the circle relieving the tension. No more was said, but Lawrie understood the grip of Ned's strong hand.

"We must fix that cut, Lawrie," said he, looking helplessly about. "This dirt will never do."

The moment the girls realized the accident they had dismounted and assumed the official duties of Red Cross first aid. Mary McClure smiled at Ned's words. She had already arrived at a solution. Rising from her place beside Lawrie she spoke.

"Ned," said she curiously, "have you a knife?"

"Here," was the prompt response as he produced a jack-knife.

"Margaret, you take it," said the girl, "and if the Valley Gang will close their eyes for a minute I'll direct you what to do."

At the words she lifted her skirt daintily, revealing the snowy white edge of the petticoat beneath. With dancing eyes the gang made the right about turn and Lawrie decided on an immediate snooze. A few minutes later his brow was bound with a clean bandage and he was making his way shakily to the feed-board. Calling a farewell the fair riders rode away over the stubble, followed by the applause of the grateful fellows.

Meanwhile at the machine there were interesting developments. Jean Benoit, who was working in on the shakers, gave a sudden shout and popped up out of the separator holding something in his hand. It was a heavy wrench. He examined it in a puzzled manner for a moment then handed it to Easy Murphy. The tool was minus one of its jaws. On the remaining jaw some initials had been punched, but they had been almost obliterated through the recent offices of a file.

"Dat no Valley wrench!" exclaimed Jean.

"Probably one of Grant's left on the stock during the binding," said Ned.

Easy Murphy shook his head sceptically.

"Ah!" was his fierce cry as he tipped the tool at a new angle to the light. "So I think. By the Howly St. Paddy! Take a look, Ned. Can you see?"

Ned took a look and there in the bright shine of the filed surface were good traces of the punch marks forming plainly the letters, R-M. Over him swept an ominous conviction. Without a word he placed the wrench carefully in the tool-box.

"'Tis the hand uv Snoopy Bill," said Easy Murphy darkly. "And 'tis his foul plot near did fer Lawrie and Ned." Clenching his hands he dropped suddenly into a vengeful silence.

A desire for revenge swept through the gang like an electric shock. Even Ned's cool eyes emitted a dangerous glare. Andy Bissett saw the dire change in his companion. Laying his hand on Ned's shoulder he said quietly:

"Ned, it's a dastardly trick but Lawrie will be well in half an hour. It's up to the Valley Outfit to call the bluff and play the winning card. Half a dozen teeth are gone in the concave and several others twisted. The cylinder is about as bad. With fast work it will mean only a two-hour stop. Let us finish strong."

"Very well!" agreed Ned. But his face did not resume its usual imperturbable demeanour.

There was no more threshing that night. Morning found them out an hour earlier, however, pounding grimly ahead, bent on recovering the lost time. As Ned stood at the throttle, a masterful shadow in the gray dawn, he thought over the adventure of the night before. It seemed to hold some sinister portent. Easy Murphy had in the meantime recounted to him the episode with Snoopy Bill Baird. Two more heavy tools had been discovered in one of the loads. Suddenly he became conscious of the malignant nature of the foe with whom he was striving. His jaw set tightly and a mighty resolution shot from his eyes. Unconsciously he opened the throttle and the power throbbed with a fresh leap along the great belt. As he did so a vision flitted unexpectedly before him. He saw Mary McClure standing amid the gang, her eyes alight with laughter while she held her skirt daintily lifted to disclose the snowy fabric for Lawrie's wound. Suddenly his face lost its seriousness and he laughed delightedly.

"Mary!" he cried softly.

Shutting off the throttle he curbed the engine in her impulse to race.

"I guess we have a bunch of pressure left, Old Lady," said he confidently, as he guided her into steadiness. The thing of power steamed on into the strenuous day while the thing of will threw down the challenge of youth.

*V*

*AT THE WATER-HOLE*

Easy Murphy shaded his eyes from the sun as he gazed eagerly over the prairie. After a prolonged look he remarked:

"Begobs, I belave he's coming!"

A further scanning of the landscape elicited a cry of satisfaction.

"Nick's headin' fer the howl all right," said he elatedly.

The Irishman was standing on the tank, his hand on the pump-handle. He had backed the grays into a pool fed by a small creek that here expanded into a miniature pond some dozen yards across. In Western threshing the tankman draws his water from the nearest hole or stream. For some days both Easy and Nick Ford, the McClure tankman, had been filling their tanks at the same pool.

Nick Ford was known familiarly as Boozey Ford, a self-explanatory sobriquet. Whiskey aside, he was one of the most reliable tankers along the Valley. With whiskey by his side his water-wagon was apt to receive a diluted attention.

As the days sped by the struggle between the two outfits became intense. The two tankmen were nearing the point of interpersonal complications in their heated conversations on the issue. Easy Murphy was feeling irrepressibly loquacious on this occasion, for he had not met Boozey since the affair of the R-M wrench. However, as Nick drove up he began a foxy approach, greeting him in a friendly manner.

"Nick! How is the wur-r-rld using you?" was his opening.

"So, so!" was Nick's no less friendly response.

"Ye'll be afthurr faylin' a demi-semi-quaver in yer boots, Nick, since till-night's the night the Valley Outfit take the candy from the kid."

"There's sure going to be a lark to-night," agreed Nick. "We'll have a howling time putting the kibosh on your little, old Outfit. You mark my words, Murphy, when Jack Butte hands out his estimates you'll freeze stiff. I'll bet you even money we lick you by a thousand."

"Just cover that wee trifle," said Easy, revealing a ten-dollar bill.

"Sorry to rob you, Murphy," said Nick, "but it's awfully decent of you to accommodate me. We'll hand it to Butte just before the curtain goes up."

"'Tis a great pleasure till contribute," agreed Easy light-heartedly. Then he added slyly, "By the way, Nick, did ye miss anny tools from yer tool-chist lately?"

"Not that I know of," was the frank reply.

"Shure we found wan uv Rob McClure's wrenches in our separator yisturr-day."

Nick's interest perceptibly increased.

"'Tis not the act uv a gintleman, but a dirty trick uv Snoopy Bill Baird, and 'tis achin' I am till spile the impudint jaw of the Snoopy wan fer the same foul act."

Nick's blood began to sweep into his animated face. But the other continued:

"Howld yer timper, lad. I'm not afthurr blamin' you, Nick. Yer as innocent as the lambs in the spring."

His voice grew sweet as honey and he made a suspicious motion to his breast pocket.

"We'll just have a wee dthrop as gintlemen together on the head uv the divilmint, and part--frinds."

He drew an amber-coloured flask from his pocket.

"'Tis the rale Irish, Nick. Be afthurr washin' down a swate swallow."

He extended the bottle convivially.

Nick took in the sight with fascinated and thirsty eyes. All hostility magically vanished and a supreme joy capered shamelessly into his face.

"Don't care if I do," said he, with a too casual unconcern. "Dad, that's prime stuff!" was his genuine approval as he handed back the flask.

"Shure I'm afthurr sayin' the same mesilf. Yer over modest, lad. Take a sip that wull tingle the toes uv ye."

So gracious a pressure was not to be resisted, and Nick responded with a ready acquiescence that left nothing to be desired. Easy emulated in pantomime, tipping the flask adroitly but permitting no drop to pass his lips. Taking another "sensation," Nick scurried off to his own tank and began pumping vigorously. Soon, however, he felt the desire for still another touch and was back at the flask. Easy Murphy kept the bottle supplied from some mysterious source about his person. So the best part of an hour passed and signs began to appear that Nick was rivalling the tanks in the quantity of liquid he was carrying. In the meantime Easy had leisurely filled his own tank. Suddenly The Mogul, McClure's giant engine, sounded the water call. Nick recognized the signal and, dropping the pump-handle, seized the lines and started off, urging his amazed horses in a line of patter that was new to them. As he drove away Easy slipped down off his own wagon and, stealing craftily after, tapped the bung of Nick's tank with a stone. One or two skillful knocks and the peg fell out, letting the water away in a heavy gush. Throwing the bung into the grass, Easy climbed up on his tank and followed.

Ahead drove Nick, supremely unconscious of the fact that his tank was fast emptying. When they reached the road-allowance he became suddenly confused. His trail lay directly across the road and into a field. His horses would have taken the right way, but Nick pulled them up sharply. His eyesight was temporarily impaired. He could see only the good road running east and west. Pulling on the left line, he turned into the east. Yet he was not sure, and drew up his horses once more. His tongue was thick as he called back:

"Hello, Eashy! (hic) Ish the trail (hic) all right?"

"Shure and indade it is that," came the wily response. "Go right ahead to yer outfit, Nick, man. It's a foine road, the smoothest in the howl counthry."

With a flourish of his whip Nick sent the unwilling team on down the road. Crossing the road-allowance, Easy entered the oat-field through the wire fence and made straight for his own machine. As he hit the stubble trail he heard the Mogul whistle impatiently for water. A moment later she called again. Turning around, he looked at Nick. He, too, had heard the urgent calls and was standing up driving like Jehu. The tank was now empty and the horses responded by breaking into a smart trot. The sight was hugely entertaining to the watcher. He slapped his thigh, shouting in unholy glee.

"Be the wake uv me grandmother!" he cried exultingly, "it's now we get back the swate and precious minutes they filched by their rascalities uv yisterday."

Away in the distance Nick was driving like mad while the Mogul tattooed her calls for water with an angry insistence that drove him from her at accelerated speed. The circumstance was too much for the delighted Irishman. Laughing till the tears rolled down his cheeks he called after the disappearing Nick:

"Go it, me hearty! Kape it up, bye, and ye'll soon reach the broad Atlantic. Begobs! Call in at Winnipeg. They're shy on water-wagons in the Gateway uv the Gowlden Wist."

Never a word of the matter did he give to his young boss as he emptied his tank in preparation for the next trip. His wickedly radiant face attracted Ned, however, stirring his curiosity.

"What's tickling you, Easy? Been filling your boiler at Louie's tank?"

"Niver the dthrop, Ned. Not wanct since the twilfth uv July have I shined up till the dementin' crathur. 'Tis the whistle uv the Mogul that's drivin' me tipsy. Somehow the thirsty screamin' uv it tickles me since uv the rediculous."

"Rob's engine is out of water. She's been callin' for over half an hour," observed Ned, looking over the stubble at the rival outfit. "Indeed, Easy, she's hung up. Their blower is stopped."

At an unusual hearty chuckle from the tankman, Ned eyed him sharply, a suspicion leaping into his mind.

"Shtopped's the wurrd!" exclaimed Easy in feigned surprise, shading his eyes the better to study the Mogul. "Rob wull be afthurr havin' a brathin' spell. May it last a wake."

Ned's eyes detected an unusual excitement on his companion's averted face. His suspicion took a sudden definite form.

"Easy," said he seriously, "you are mighty pleased about something and yet not at all surprised. Let me into the secret."

"Shure 'tis plazed I am this minute, Ned, and the most astonished critter on the Valley Gang."

"Steady, lad," cautioned Ned. "You can't fool me. You know more about the water shortage at Rob's outfit than Rob himself. What's keeping Nick?"

Easy found a matter for precipitate occupation in the barrel he was filling and did not reply at once. He was seized with sudden panic, for he had caught sight of Ned's face. The unsmiling eyes filled him with trepidation. When he at length looked up Ned's clear eyes looked through him. For once the garrulous Irishman was speechless while a blush flamed slowly over his brown face.

"Tell me," said Ned simply.

Hitching his overalls nervously and somewhat forcefully, Easy let a broad, sheepish grin play on his ample face. He attempted jocularity.

"'Tis a lugoobrius confession ye'll be draggin' out uv me wid the third degree uv yer blazin' eye."

"Tell me," repeated Ned.

"Wull," said Easy, scratching his head with obvious regret, "since 'tis implacabul ye are, I'll make it short and swate. Nick and yer humble sarvint meets at the mud puddle. We pass the complimints uv the sayson, git intill a small fracas uv the tongue and out uv it by the bottle. We had a wee dthrop. That is, Nick had. Thin he took another and another, et cetra and so on. Nick was oncommon thirsty. In a wurrd, I filled Nick till the neck and pulled the bung uv his tank. The one is impty and the other full. 'Tis the Mogul and mesilf knows which and,--yersilf, begobs, since ye tapped me wires. To sum up fer ye, me inquisitive frind, Rob's tank is impty and his tankman full, and the pair uv thim is headin' fer salt water at a spankin' trot. 'Tis comin' till the blackgards if ye ask Easy Murphy."

Easy stood before his boss with hanging head. His confession had not stimulated any risible emotions in Ned. Ned, on his part, said nothing, but stood looking for a little at the culprit, a kindly light mingling with the flash of his eyes. Then he stepped over to his engine and, seizing the whistle-cord, gave it a jerk, blowing the one sharp shriek that signals stop. Instantly the work ceased and the outfit slowed to rest. Amid the shouts of the men demanding the cause of the stop, Easy Murphy ran swiftly to Ned.

"Ye're not afthurr killin' the outfit," cried he, a peculiar pleading in his voice.

"Easy," said Ned quietly, "the Valley Outfit is running this little jig on the square. Not a wheel turns on this mill until McClure makes up every minute we've killed for him."

The Irishman looked into Ned's face. There had been the glimmer of an accusing look but it was gone. In its place was something big and honest that hushed the angry protest about to leap forth. Their eyes held for a moment, then the tankman's fell while the flush swept his face once again.

"I'll explain to the boys," said Ned, moving away toward the separator.

"No, lad," cried Easy, impulsively seizing his arm. "'Tis the hot curse I was nearly givin' ye. Ye're too white, Ned, fer a divil the loikes uv wan Easy Murphy. Shure 'tis right ye are, though I'm hatin' the idea. I'll hike till the mill and make me diplomatical defince before the gang. Sind me carcas till Belfast whin the boys git through wid ut."

Making a comical grimace, he set off to the separator to do the hardest thing he had ever attempted.

The men listened silently while Easy made his brief and self-accusative explanation. At the abrupt conclusion there resulted a most awkward pause. The gang were dumb at the unexpectedness of it. Each man was torn by several desires. He wanted to laugh, to howl, in fact. But something fine in him rendered him mute. There was a great admiration for their game boss and an even greater admiration for their game and artful culprit. The embarrassment had about reached the explosive point when Jean Benoit let out a scream.

"Ze res' do moche good, I tink," said he, shaking with laughter. "Wan, two, tree cheer on de boss an' dees ver bad Irish fellow."

At his words there broke out a jolly shout while the gang lay back on the straw and laughed to their heart's content.

Through the long wait there was not a murmur.

Meanwhile in McClure's gang consternation reigned. The last drop of water had been sucked up by the inspirator and the water was sinking in the glass. The men were perched on all vantage points on the lookout for the delinquent. No sign of him could they discover.

"Get Smithers to haul these barrels filled at the slough," directed McClure to Snoopy Bill, pointing to the barrels about the engine. "They'll keep her going until I can find that blankety Nick."

McClure had barely set off on his quest when one of the teamsters called the attention of the gang to the sudden "hang-up" of the Valley machine. As an hour passed and there was no sign of the Valley men resuming work, Snoopy Bill and his companions grew jubilant to a degree.

Nearly two hours later McClure appeared riding the tank and towing his buggy, in which lay the inebriate tanker.

A few minutes after, the Mogul was driving ahead under full pressure, joined shortly by the distant hum of the Valley Gang. Into the dark they raged, fighting ahead until eight, when the defiant whistles of the rival engines told that the great run was over.

*VI*

*THE THRESHING CHAMPIONS*

Louie Swale's restaurant was full, choked with threshers agog for the result of the great struggle. Almost every individual present had a stake involved. The building was a uniquely composite plant, comprising department store, cafe, bar, club, all under the solitary genius of the rotund and active Swale. He combined the offices of proprietor, manager, floor-walker, bartender, chef, cashier, possessing an innocent smile of friendliest amenity and the obsequious deportment of a suave head-waiter. He had certain periodic fines to meet for the vending of ancient beverages that fell without the code. These he paid promptly with sanguine light-heartedness. Louie Swale was universally liked, as are all good fellows whom careless Nature throws into life incomplete in the entire central osseous system of the vertebrate. He was a fat, juicy, even companionable earthworm.

The store carried a thorough line from roots to ribbons, occupying the front section of the building. Out of the store one wandered into a long room, low and rectangular, where Louie dispensed the quaffable and edible mysteries of his bar-cafe. The rear apartment was a blind room some twenty feet square, containing a few rough chairs and a round table covered with a green baize cloth. A well-thumbed pack on the centre of the table was the only purposeful article visible. There were two doors, both provided with heavy bars on the inside. One opened into the outshed; the other into the bar. This door was locally renowned as The Green Baize Door, and was believed to secrete behind its baize-covered panels a barrel of mysteries unco', cabalistic and otherwise. Since it was windowless, two dirty lamps did duty night and day. Obviously, when the "Square Room" was occupied seriously the Green Baize Door was to be found shut. At such times a peculiar knock was the sesame.

Store and cafe were crowded with men anxious to hear the momentous decision of Jack Butte. Suddenly there arose a stamping and shouting. The stakeholder had climbed up on a table and was calling order. Glasses were set down and cards stacked.

"Gentlemen!" he cried. "There is a little preliminary or two I must pull off before I can announce the winner of the threshing bout between Rob McClure and Ned Pullar. Whatever the result, I appeal to the winners and losers to take their medicine. I want the word of both bosses that they will not stand for any sorehead business or rough house. I'll not hand out the totals until I get that word."

Butte paused significantly.

"Go ahead," said Ned, with a grin. "We'll be good."

"Agreed!" exclaimed McClure. "My gang is no bunch of squealers. Spit it out."

"Thank you, gentlemen," said Butte. "That is satisfactory. But there is another matter. Before I hand out the stakes I want you to choose two rank outsiders from this crowd who shall go into the Square Room with me and verify my figures. When they have made an audit I will come out and give you the facts."

Speedily the arrangement was effected and the three men went in behind the Green Baize Door.

During the interim Easy Murphy shuffled close to Snoopy Bill Baird. Grinning insolently into his face he addressed him in a cavernous stage whisper.

"How's the buttercups, Snoopy?" said he. "Ye did not consarn yersilf wid a second bokay."

Andy Bissett, standing near, placed his hand deterringly on Easy's shoulder.

"Steady, lad!" he whispered. "Ned's given his word. Keep in line."

Snoopy Bill ruffled instantly at the thrust. With a quick snatch at his breast pocket he drew out a bunch of bills and fluttered them flauntingly in Easy's face.

"How about a bokaa-y of these nice green shamrocks?" said he, with an exasperating laugh. "Have you the eye for a fresh fifty?"

"Indade, and they are the purty flowers," was the quick response. "They're to be had fer the pickin'. I'm wid ye, Snoopy."

Quickly he covered the bet, placing the stake with a bystander. The incident stimulated an emulation in the crowd, and by the time Butte appeared again the excitement had risen to the point of explosion.

"Hold your horses for a little!" he cried, smiling into the glaring eyes of the gamesters. "I'll go right to the point. For a month past these two gangs have been hammering away to roll up a big total, and I want to tell you they have done it. The gangs have worked twenty-seven full days and have made the record runs of the Pellawa country."

Butte's deliberate manner was too slow for his strained audience.

"Cut the talk, Jack! Cough up the totals!" yelled a voice.

"Hear, hear!" came an applauding roar.

"To resume," said Butte, bowing pleasantly, "in estimating the oats I reduced them to a total weight and then dividing by sixty, found the equivalent in weight of wheat. The total is therefore stated in terms of wheat. This was agreed upon by the two bosses. Rob McClure's machine has turned out a total of seventy thousand, eight hundred and twenty-one bushels."

At the announcement the McClure gang and their partisans lifted a shout of elation. Above the ensuing hubbub rose the brogue of Easy Murphy:

"Shure, Johnny Butte, 'tis a swell towtal. But ye'll hev till open yer mug wider, begobs, whin ye give the Valley count."

In spite of the extreme tension a boisterous roar greeted the defy.

"Against this," said the stakeholder amid a breathless silence, "the Valley Outfit have rolled up the huge total of seventy-one thousand, nine hundred and fifty-five bushels----"

His words were drowned in a wild ringing cheer. Led by Murphy's deep bass roar, the Valley Outfit let go. As the rumpus died down Andy Bissett lifted his cap and shouted:

"Three cheers for Rob McClure's gang. They made a great run."

Ere they could raise the shout McClure yelled:

"No! Saw off your blankety howl. We want none of it. You doped one of my men or you would never have turned the trick."

Easy Murphy's lips were framing a reply when Ned spoke up.

"I want to state," said he with quiet deliberateness, "that as far as my knowledge goes, the Valley Gang has run this thing as straight as a whip. I appeal to Jack Butte. Do we win on our merits?"

A chorus of applause greeted Ned's words.

"Gentlemen!" replied the stakeholder. "This game has been run on the square. My figures have been verified and are open to the public. The Valley Outfit are the undisputed champions of The Qu'Appelle. Come up to the counter and I'll pay over the cash."

The convivial spirit ran high as the wagers were collected. In the rear of the room McClure and his men held angry concourse. Suddenly they pushed their way to the counter. McClure spoke loudly, his face and eyes aflame.

"Come, Swale," commanded he. "We set up the drinks for the house. Make it hard stuff all round."

His manner was offensive. Ostensibly the host, he was really the bully. The Valley Outfit made no move to accept the proffered treat. Ned Pullar stepped up to his sullen opponent.

"No, Rob McClure!" was his crisp exclamation, accompanied by a flash of indignant eyes. "We don't drink with gentlemen who insult us in the same breath. The Valley Outfit, with their little thirty-six inch mill, beat you to a frazzle. You'll never have a chance like this again, for next fall will find The Qu'Appelle Champions capering about the finest mill on the Pellawa plains. You look, Rob, almost mad enough to fight. Very well. I have given Jack Butte my word to keep quiet. The Valley Outfit is going to get out and leave you the whole house. If you want to mix up with us, don't let us get away. If you are afraid of mussing up Louie's joint we'll wait for you outside. Meanwhile, will you accommodate us, gentlemen, by clearing away from that door?"

At the words he brushed past McClure, who stood glowering at him with eyes that streamed a liquid hate. For all his rage McClure was held from battle by a subtle enervation that baffled him.

"The Valley Outfit will leave at once," was Ned's cry as he flung open the door. With his hand on the knob he waited for his men to pass out before him. With surprising promptitude they complied. Easy Murphy was the last to leave. Pausing on the threshold he turned about.

"'Tis a braw bunch ye are, McClure, wid yer blower bunged and yer engine buckin'. Begobs, I cud put the howl gang uv ye till slape on a wathurr wagon. Come out intill the moonlight."

With that he went out, followed by a flying flask and the curses of McClure.

"Good-night, gentlemen!" said Ned, a mocking light in his eye. "We'll hang around outside for ten minutes or so. If you can make it, why--the Valley Outfit would be delighted."

Once out among his men they urged him to go back. But he shook his head.

"No, lads!" he said firmly. "I do not want to fight. If they come out we'll sail in. I think I've something better than even a good fight. I'll put you next when we pull away from Louie's."

The ten minutes passed. The door opened once but shut again. The Valley Gang hooted derisively. They waited five minutes longer. McClure had evidently passed up the challenge. Though his men knew it not, Ned was intensely relieved. He could scarcely understand. The fact was McClure apprised the situation exactly notwithstanding his rage. He was no coward; nor was he a fool. He knew that gang for gang Ned had him beaten in more ways than in the mere threshing. Let the Valley Outfit pull off its bluff. He would nurse his chagrin and strike--later.

When Ned got his men well out of ear-shot he addressed them in a sudden light-heartedness that surprised them.

"I want to thank you, lads, for holding yourselves so wonderfully when I know you were itching to get your hands on McClure and his oary-eyed crew. This is a great night. We've threshed Rob McClure twice to-night. We've out-milled him for a month and gathered in the wager and we've handed him a mighty hard punch by forcing him and his gang to funk. We are now going to pull off a little stunt that will be remembered for many a day along The Qu'Appelle. Easy will come with me. The rest of you get back to the caboose with Andy. He'll put you next. We'll meet you there at eleven o'clock. You will all remember that to-night's Hallowe'en."

By a mighty effort of self-restraint the men acceded to Ned's request to leave the village. Eleven o'clock found them waiting with Andy, all agog for the next move.

*VII*

*HALLOWE'EN ON THE QU'APPELLE*

At eleven o'clock McClure and his men staggered out of Swale's joint. For half an hour they prowled the streets, alarming the village with their wild whoops. At twelve they scrambled into their grain wagon and tore down the main street at a furious pace. Out to Smithers they raced, a roistering company of drunken fools.

Ned and Easy, posted among the poplars in the grove north of the barn, saw them ride into the barnyard. In the light of the moon the two men could see them tumbling out of the wagon, sprawling over each other, noisy and ill-humoured.

"I see Rob at the heads uv the horses," said Easy. "He niver goes home whin he's rale well pickled."

"We've got the whole crew at home, then," whispered Ned. "We are in luck. Come, let us round up the boys."

Slipping quietly away, they arrived at their own caboose.

Andy and the rest were awaiting them. Briefly Ned rehearsed his plans and was gratified to find them primed and ready to the last detail. In a few moments they set out for McClure's caboose. They carried planks, ropes, hammers and spikes, while Easy Murphy brought up the rear with his huge span of grays. The team was shrouded in great dark blankets with black nets covering their light heads. Each man was masked with his bandanna handkerchief, giving the marauders the appearance of a gang of bandits or a lynching posse.

At the edge of the grove they paused and listened intently. Not forty yards away stood the caboose with its crew of quarrelsome men. A confusing dialogue of altercations was in progress. After a time the men settled into their bunks, where the bibulous debate was drowsily maintained, finally simmering to the thick-tongued harangue of one persistent individual.

At a signal from Ned the Valley Outfit crept noiselessly upon their unsuspecting prey. Arrived at the caboose they made a swift survey. The farmstead was quiet. Smithers and his men were sound asleep. No interruption from that quarter. The caboose was the usual midget bunkhouse, a rectangular box on truck chassis with a bow roof. At the tongue end was a door. In the other end near the roof was a tiny window, too small for the exit of a man's body. Andy and his men stole around to the rear of the caboose. Striking one end of the plank solidly into the ground, they placed the other against the middle of the door. Two men held it in place while two swung their weight on it, holding the door shut as with a vise. McClure and his men were trapped. Quickly a stout plank was placed across the top of the door and nailed with five-inch spikes to the corner posts. Another plank was nailed similarly across the bottom, perfectly sealing the caboose.

By this time a commotion had arisen within. Snoopy Bill could be heard shaking the men and dragging them out of their bunks. Above the tumult soared McClure's heavy voice, disclosing in the angry vehemence of his curses a swift conclusion as to the identity of the assailants. Outside in the moonlight frolicked the masked figures. The excitement was intense. At Ned's desire all audible speech was to be suppressed. Easy Murphy was in his element and wanted to holler.

"Be the ghost uv me grandfahthurr!" he whispered to Jean Benoit. "'Tis the happiest hour since Oi left Owld Oireland."

Amid ill-suppressed laughter the freak proceeded. Backing his horses to the tongue, Easy speedily hitched on and pulled out of the barnyard. Long before Smithers and his men could wake and realize what had happened the big grays had spirited away the caged crew, surrounded by the triumphant body-guard of Valley threshers.

Urging his horses to a trot, Easy turned into the west road and bowled along merrily over ruts and stones to the fierce accompaniment of the pandemonium from within. Once a head unwisely protruded itself through the small opening only to receive a smart rap and to be instantly drawn in.

"Head across the Northwest Cut," directed Ned. "We'll run them up on Bald Hill, where they can get a good view of the lake."

When the brow of the Cut was reached Easy reined in his horses.

"Shall we cross be the thrail," said he in a loud whisper to Ned, "or shall we bounce sthraight on over the rocky road till Dublin?"

"Give them the rocky road," was Ned's grim response.

"Begobs, yer a darlin'!" cried Easy, with a muffled whoopee as he swung the grays off the prairie down the side of the Cut.

Then began a half-mile of rocking and tossing, pitching over hillocks, boulders, badger holes and stumps, the caboose lurching about like a ship in a heavy sea and thoroughly churning up its human contents. The little bunkhouse became hideously vocal as execrations came forth, vengeful chorus from its tormented interior. Easy's eyes seemed to have uncanny vision for holes and hidden logs and jolting rocks, while the big grays, alarmed by the outrageous tumult, snorted wildly, plunging through everything with irresistible force.

The weird passage of the gulch was at length accomplished, winding up on the windy skull of Bald Hill.

"They'll have a very fine stretch of the valley to look into from here," said Andy with a grin, as his eyes took in the sweep of the hill.

"Indade, 'tis rale illigint," said Easy. "Rob wull be chargin' a nickel a pape from the bay window above."

"Unhitch the grays, Easy," said Ned, his eyes darting mischief. "We are not going to leave the caboose here. The fun is about to begin."

Ned's remark was cryptic. "If we are not going to leave them here, why unhitch?" was the query in every mind.

"Ah, Ned! 'Tis a darlin' I said ye wuz!" exclaimed Easy, seized by a sudden inspiration. He had tumbled to Ned's dark design. "Ye wull be afthur shootin' the shoot wid our frinds in the packin'-box?" was his sly guess.

"Hats off to our little boss!" cried Andy softly, shaking with laughter.

"By gar, dat cabooze yump on de lake lak beeg eggspress! Ha!" Jean forthwith "went up" venting his ecstasy in a series of handsprings.

When he came down he did what the rest were doing. He took a swift, keen glance at the hill. The slope fell rapidly away, dropping evenly hundreds of feet to the sandy shingle of the beach over a quarter of a mile away. Through a wide gap in the shore bluffs could be seen the silver shimmer of the waves. There could be but one end to the proposed flight of the caboose,--the cold, white bosom of the lake.

With deliberate thoroughness the Valley men made their preparations. The horses unhitched, the tongue of the caboose was roped high and locked firmly so that it could have no side swing. Then the men took their places about the wheels and rear.

"Just a minute!" whispered Ned. "One of you lads had better pull a watch on this thing. This old bus is in for her record run."

A chorus of subdued laughs rose above the noise emanating from the interior of the doomed vehicle.

"Shoulders to the wheels!" was Ned's low order. "Now, all together! Send her a-kiting."

Every man got down with a will and a smothered yo-heave started the caboose down the slope. With a final united shove they sent it away from their hands in mad career toward the lake. Down the hill it sped, swaying in its course like a drunken man, but heading straight for the water. In fearfully accelerated speed it shot over the short sand beach and crashed in the gleaming waves. Carried along by its great momentum it charged the lake like a racing motor-boat, throwing a huge prow wave as it ran into the deep water. Weighted with its heavy truck and human freight it sank almost half-way to the roof before coming to a standstill.

While the caboose sped down the hill the perpetrators of the deed watched its flight in breathless interest. As it plunged into the water a cheer roared down the hillside.

Meanwhile in desperate rage and no small alarm McClure with his gigantic strength had torn a hole in the roof and thrusting his shoulders upward broke through and climbed out just as the car came to rest in the bed of the lake. Looking up the moonlit hill he could plainly see the group of men crowning its height and caught the cheer that swept down. No word, however, escaped him. Thoroughly sobered, the full significance of the daring lark burst upon him, sealing his lips. There were times when Rob McClure was unexpectedly silent. Reaching down he helped his men one by one out to safety. Soon the roof was black with men.

"Dey some leetle drown rat!" exclaimed Jean Benoit, shaking with laughter at the sight. "What dey goin' to do?"

Through the quiet air came the answer. It was McClure's voice.

"I guess there is nothing else for it," said he.

Instantly came the sound of a splash. Other splashes followed and then could be seen a straggling line of dark figures plunging through the surf.

"Now let them have it," cried Ned.

With all the vigour of seventeen pairs of powerful lungs they lifted cheer after cheer.

"Enough!" cried Ned at last. "This beats a fight. We have licked the whole gang without anybody getting mussed up. The cold water will help to sober them."

A moment later Bald Hill was bare.

*VIII*

*THE RIVAL BOSSES*

McClure sat in his office nursing his choler, with a face bitterly inexorable. The routine of threshing moved on. Looking through the window, as upon a former occasion, he saw the two lines of smoke trailing off together over the fields. The sight caused a tightening of jaws. For an hour he had sat moodily thus, plunged in gloom.

The loss of the heavy wager was not desirable and the defeat galled. But it was not this that caused the baleful smouldering within the eyes. He tossed away the stake with the sang-froid of the gamester. He would get it back when the luck turned. The thing that incensed him was not the utter rout but the manner of it. His shoulders had been pinned to the mat by the swift address of an antagonist he had despised. The conviction sank in upon him that this young and resourceful foe had toyed with him. This levity was the barb that inflamed the wound.