Alton of Somasco: A Romance of the Great Northwest

by Harold Bindloss

CHAPTER XXIV

HALLAM TRIES AGAIN

There was frost in the valley when one clear morning Alton lay partly dressed in a big chair beside the stove at Somasco ranch. Outside the snow lay white on the clearing, and the great pines rose above it sombre and motionless under the sunlight that had no warmth in it, while the peaks beyond them shone with a silvery lustre against the cloudless blue. It was a day to set the blood stirring and rouse the vigour of the strong, and Alton felt the effect of it as he lay listening to the rhythmic humming of the saws. The sound spoke of activity, and raising himself a trifle in his chair he glanced at his partner with a faint sparkle in his eye.

"It's good to feel alive again," he said.

Seaforth's smile was somewhat forced, for he had reason for dreading the moment when his comrade would take an interest in the affairs of life again. There was something that Alton must know, and glancing at his hollow face he shrank from telling him.

The struggle had been a long one, for fever had once more seized Alton when he was apparently on the way to recovery, and there had been times when it seemed to Seaforth that two angels kept the long night watches with him beside his comrade's bed. One was terrible and shadowy, and stooped lower and lower and above the scarcely breathing form; the other bright and beautiful, an angel of tenderness and mercy, and if Seaforth was fanciful there were excuses for him. His endurance had been strained to the uttermost as day and night he kept his vigil, while the humanity of the girl who watched with him had become etherealized until her beauty was almost spiritual. The coldness had gone out of it, and now and then it seemed to the worn-out man that a faint reflection of a light that is not kindled in this world shone through the pity in her eyes. That spark was all that had been lacking, and Seaforth, who had doubted, bent his head in homage when it came, for it appeared to him that in sloughing off her pride and becoming wholly womanly the girl had reached out in her gentleness and compassion towards the divine. When at last the turning had been passed, and Alice Deringham went down with her father for a brief rest to Vancouver, she took Seaforth's limitless respect and gratitude with her, though it occurred to him that she had gone somewhat suddenly as though anxious to escape from the ranch. They were, however, to return that evening.

"I talked a good deal, Charley, when I was sick?" said Alton.

Seaforth smiled dryly. "There is no use in denying it, because you did," he said.

Alton's face grew clouded. "I'd have bitten my tongue right through if I'd known. There were one or two things I'd been through that would come back to me, things one would sooner forget."

Seaforth appeared thoughtful, but evidently decided that frankness was best. "There certainly were occasions when your recollections were somewhat realistic."

Alton groaned, and his face was a study of consternation. "Lord, what brutes we are," he said. "There was the trouble over the Bluebird claim down in Washington. Did I talk about that?"

Seaforth crossed over and sat down on the arm of his comrade's chair. His expression was somewhat whimsical, but there was a suggestion of tenderness in his eyes, for he saw the direction in which Alton's thoughts were tending, and that he should speak of such matters to him betokened the closeness of the bond between them.

"I don't think you need worry about it, Harry." he said.

"No?" said Alton sternly. "Are those the things you would like a dainty English lady who knows nothing of what we have to do now and then to hear?"

Seaforth smiled again as he said, "Miss Deringham struck me as an especially sensible young woman. Now you need not get savage, for I am speaking respectfully, but I fancy that Miss Deringham knows almost as much about the ins and outs of life as many bush ranchers of seventy. Young women brought up as she has been in the old country not infrequently do, and as it happened you mentioned nothing about that last affair in the bush; while though one or two incidents were somewhat startling, there are, I fancy, girls in the old country who would be rather inclined to look with approval on—the type of man she might have reason for supposing you to be. In any case, there was no word of any other woman."

Alton drew in his breath. "No," he said simply. "Thank God, there never was another."

Seaforth's expression perplexed his comrade, and his voice was a trifle strained. "Yes," he said. "That is a good deal to be thankful for, Harry."

Alton looked at him thoughtfully in silence for a space. Then he said, "I never asked you any questions about the old country, Charley, and I don't mean to now, but I have fancied now and then that you brought out some trouble along with you."

Seaforth glanced down at his comrade, smiling curiously. "I may tell you some time—but not now. You do well to be thankful, Harry, and do you believe that any woman would think the worse of you because you cut down the man who meant to take your life, you big, great-natured fool?"

Alton sighed. "Well," he said very slowly, "perhaps it is better over, because that and other things would have to be told; but though I had only an axe against his pistol I can't get that man's face out of my memory."

Seaforth's face was somewhat awry just then. "You can tell your story without a blush—if you think it necessary, but I have not the courage to tell mine—and the silence may cost me very dear," he said.

Alton seemed a trifle bewildered. "When you can I'll listen, but there's nothing you could tell me would make any difference between you and me."

Seaforth laughed mirthlessly. "I'm glad of that, but it wasn't you I was thinking of just then," he said. "Still it seems to me that we are both a little off our balance this morning, and may be sorry for it afterwards."

Alton rose up and moved somewhat stiffly towards the window, where he leaned against the log casing, looking out greedily upon the sunlit valley. Then he limped back to the table and rested both hands upon it.

"I figure it's because I haven't used it, but this leg doesn't feel the same as it used to," he said. "Did it strike you that I walked kind of stiffly?"

Seaforth knew that the moment he feared had come, but he felt his courage fail him and turned his head aside. "I was not watching you," he said.

Alton, who appeared a trifle perturbed, sat down, and glanced at the partly finished meal upon the table disgustedly. "Tell them to take those things away, and bring me something a man can eat. Then I want my long boots and the nicest clothes I have."

"They will not be much use to you. You're not going out for another week, anyway."

Alton laughed a little. "Well," he said, "we'll see. Bring me a good solid piece of venison, and take those things away."

He made an ample meal, dressed himself with wholly unusual fastidiousness, and when Seaforth left him for a few moments strode out of the room. One leg felt very stiff and he clutched the balustrade a moment when he came to the head of a short stairway, then stiffened himself, and, putting all the weight he could on the limb that was least useful, stepped forward resolutely to descend it. His knee bent suddenly under him, he clutched at the rails, and missed them, reeled and lost his balance, and there was a crash as Seaforth sprang out of his room. He was in time to see his comrade rise and lean against the logs at the foot of the stairway very white and grim in face, and shivered a little as he went down.

"What's the meaning of this, Charley ?" said Alton with an ominous quietness. "I just put my weight on my left foot—and down I came."

Again Seaforth shrank from his task. "You were warned not to try to walk much for a week or two."

"Pshaw!" said Alton with sudden fierceness. "There's more than that."

Seaforth laid his hand compassionately upon his comrade's shoulder.
"It had to come sooner or later—and I was afraid to tell you before.
You will never walk quite as well as you used to, Harry."

Alton clutched the balustrade, and a greyness crept into his face.
"I," he said very slowly, "a cripple—all my life!"

Seaforth said nothing, and there was a silence for almost a minute until Alton slowly straightened himself. "Well," he said quietly, "there is no use kicking—but this was to have been the best day of my life."

Seaforth understood him and saw his opportunity. "I don't think that will make any difference, Harry."

Alton seemed to choke down a groan. "I had so little before," he said.

Again Seaforth laid his hand upon his shoulder, "Shake yourself together, Harry. After all, I don't think it is the things that one can offer which count," he said. "Let me help you back."

Alton resolutely shook off his grasp, and moved very slowly and stiffly towards the living-room. "No," he said. "I'm not going back there any more. Get me a big black cigar, Charley—and then go right away."

Seaforth did as he was bidden, for there were many things which demanded his attention, but he glanced at his comrade as he went out, and the sight of the gaunt figure sitting very grim and straight in a chair by the window would return long afterwards to his memory.

"He takes it badly—and a little while ago I should have thought he was right," he said.

It was several hours later when Seaforth returned to the house, and found Mrs. Margery in a state of consternation.

"Where's Harry?" he said.

"'Way down to the settlement," said the woman. "Okanagan was fool enough to hoist him on a horse, and though I talked half-an-hour solid I couldn't stop him."

Seaforth smiled dryly. "I scarcely think you could. Harry is himself again. What has taken him to the settlement, anyway?"

The woman glanced at him contemptuously. "All men are fools," said she. "He went to meet that girl from the old country, and find out his mistake."

Seaforth said nothing, but went out in haste and saddled a horse, for although it had been apparent to him that there was no affection wasted between Alice Deringham and Mrs. Margery, her words had left him with a vague uneasiness.

In the meantime Alton dropped very stiffly from the saddle in front of Horton's hotel, and, limping up the stairway, found the man who kept it upon the verandah.

"Glad to see you coming round, Harry; but you're looking very white, and walking kind of stiff," he said.

"Yes," said Alton dryly. "I shall probably walk just that way all my life."

Horton made no attempt to condole with him. He knew Alton tolerably well, and felt that any sympathy he could offer would be inadequate. "Well," he said, "here's a letter Thomson brought you in from the railroad."

Alton tore open the envelope, and read the message with a faint relief, for it was from Deringham, and stated that an affair of business would prevent him returning to Somasco for some little time. Then he remembered that to delay a question which must be asked would but prolong the suspense.

"I'm going through to the railroad, but the ride has shaken me, and
I'll lie down and sleep a while," he said.

"Well," said Horton, "you know best, but you look a long way more fit to be sitting beside the stove up there at the ranch. That was a tolerably bad accident you had?"

Alton glanced at him sharply, but his voice was indifferent as he answered. "Oh, yes, I came to grief bringing in a deer, and lay out in the frost a good while before they found me. Have you had many strangers round here?"

Horton nodded. "The bush is just full of them—looking for timber rights and prospecting round the Crown lands—Hallam's friends, I think. There was one of them seemed kind of anxious about you lately."

Alton's eyes grew a trifle keener, but he was shaken and weary, and made a little gesture which seemed to indicate that he would ask questions later.

"You'll give the horse a light feed, and let me know when supper's on," he said.

It was dark when he mounted with Horton's assistance, and the horse plunged once or twice. Then it started at a gallop, and Alton had some difficulty in pulling it up, for the snow was beaten down and the trail was good. He had not been gone half-an-hour when Seaforth, whose horse was smoking, swung himself down before the hotel.

"Where's Harry?" he said.

"On the trail," said Horton. "I wanted to keep him, but he lit out a little while ago, and borrowed a rifle. What he wanted it for I don't know, but he wouldn't be lonely, anyway. One of the boys who was staying here pulled out for the railroad just before him."

"Did you know the man?" asked Seaforth with unusual sharpness.

"No," said Horton. "He was timber-righting, but I'd a kind of fancy
I'd once seen somebody very like him working round Somasco."

Seaforth said nothing further, but swung himself into the saddle and rode off at a gallop. He had been unsettled all day, and now it was with vague apprehensions he sent his heels home and shook the bridle.

In the meantime Alton was riding almost as fast, though the saddle galled him and he was stiff and aching. His senses also grew a trifle lethargic under the frost, but he knew there would be little rest for him until he reached Vancouver, and strove to shake off his weakness. The horse was, however, unusually restive, and would at times break into a gallop in spite of him where the trail was level, but Alton, who fancied there was something troubling the beast, was more than a little dubious of his ability to mount again if he got out of the saddle. Until that day he had not ventured outside the ranch.

The shadowy pines flitted by him, here and there the moon shone down, and the drumming of hoofs rang muffled by the snow through a great silence which was curiously emphasized when twice a wolf howled. Still, plunging and snorting now and then, the beast held pluckily on while the miles melted behind them, and midnight was past when Alton, turning, half-asleep, in his saddle, fancied he heard somebody riding behind him. For a moment his fingers tightened on the bridle, but his hearing was dulled by weakness and the numbing cold, and pressing his heels home he rode on into the darkness.

It would probably have occurred to him at any other time that the beast responded with suspicious readiness, but his perceptions were not of the clearest just then, which was unfortunate, because the trail led downwards steeply through black darkness along the edge of a ravine. The rain had also washed parts of it away, and no ray of moonlight pierced the vaulted roof of cedar-sprays. The drumming of hoofs rolled along it, there was a hoarse growling far down in the darkness below, and Alton strove to rouse himself, knowing that a stumble might result in a plunge down the declivity. He could dimly see the great trunks stream past him on the one hand, but there was only a gulf of shadow on the other.

Suddenly a flash of light sprang up almost under the horse's feet. The beast flung its head up, and next moment they were flying at a gallop down the winding and almost precipitous trail. Alton's strength had not returned to him, and he set his lips, realizing the uselessness of it as he shifted his numbed hands on the bridle. Twice the horse stumbled, but picked up its stride again, and the man had almost commenced to hope they might reach the foot of the declivity when it stumbled once more, struck a young fir, and reeled downwards from the trail.

It all happened in a moment, but there was just time enough for Alton to clear his feet from his stirrups, and though he was never quite sure what next he did he found himself sitting in the snow, shaken and dazed by his fall, while the horse rolled downwards through the shadows beneath him. He heard the brushwood crackle, and then a curiously sickening thud as though something soft had fallen from a height upon a rock. After that there was an oppressive silence save for a faint drumming that grew louder down the trail.

Alton unslung the rifle which still hung behind him, and crawled behind a big hemlock that grew out of the slope. He could hear nothing but the increasing thud of hoofs for a while, and then there was a sound that suggested stealthy footsteps in the darkness up the trail. Alton crouched very still and waited, but the footsteps came no nearer, and then pitching up the rifle fired in their direction at a venture. The sound ceased suddenly, and while the great trunks flung back the concussion it was evident that the rider was coming on at a furious gallop, and Alton rising sent out a hoarse cry, "Pull him before you come to the edge of the dip!"

The beat of hoofs sank into silence, and a shout came down. "Hallo.
Is that you, Harry?"

"Yes," said Alton. "Lead your beast down."

It was five minutes later when Seaforth found him leaning against a tree with the rifle in his hand.

"What was the shooting for, and where's your horse?" said he.

Alton appeared to laugh softly and venomously, and his voice jarred upon the listener. "Down there, and stone dead. The last drop's most of a hundred feet," he said.

"But how did he get there?" and Seaforth felt a little chill strike through him.

Alton grasped his arm, and his voice was harsher still. "This is the second time."

"Good Lord!" said Seaforth, who understood him, huskily.

"Well," said Alton, "I think the thing's quite plain. If we could get down to the poor beast I figure we'd find something that had no business there under the girth or saddle. The rest is simpler—a little coal oil or giant powder, and—just at the turning yonder—a lariat across the trail. That man knows his business, Charley."

"Good Lord!" said Seaforth once more. "It's devilish, Harry. You're not going to tell anybody, and repeat the mistake you made?"

"Yes," said Alton grimly. "That's just what I figure on doing."

"But," and Seaforth's horror was evident, "he may try again. There are more than the Somasco ranchers who would be sorry if—he was successful—Harry."

Alton laughed, but the grating cachination sent a shiver through his companion. "Yes," he said, "I think he will, and that's why I'm waiting. He may give himself away the third time, and then it will be either him or me."

Seaforth stood silent for almost a minute. "If you would only listen to me—but of course you will not. Can't you see that you are in the way of somebody who stands behind that man?"

"Yes," and Alton's smile was now quietly grim. "It don't take much genius to figure out that. Before I'm through I'll know just who he is, and all about him."

Once more Seaforth was silent a space. Then he spoke very slowly.
"Are you sure you're wise?"

Alton gripped his comrade's arm so that he winced with pain. "It's the second time you've asked me that," he said. "There will not be room for you and me in this province if you ask it me again."

Seaforth shook his grasp off. "You are my partner, Harry, and the only friend I have. God send you safe through with it. Now, is there any use in looking for the fellow with the lariat?"

"No," said Alton in his usual voice. "There isn't. He would have been waiting up there ready to whip the thing away, and by this time he has doubled back down the trail. If you met a man riding along quietly what could you do to him?"

"It's devilish," said Seaforth, as a fit of impotent anger shook him.

"Oh, yes," said Alton languidly. "Still, there isn't much use in slinging names, and I'm kind of tired. Help me up into your saddle, and lead the beast by the bridle. We'll head for Gordon's."

CHAPTER XXV

ALTON IS SILENT

There is a ridge of rising ground on the outskirts of Vancouver City where a few years ago a pretty wooden house stood beneath the pines. They rose sombrely behind it, but the axe had let in the sunlight between the rise and the water, and one could look out from the trim garden across the blue inlet towards the ranges' snow. To-day one would in all probability look for that dwelling in vain, and find only stores or great stone buildings, for as the silent men with the axes push the lonely clearings farther back into the forest the Western cities grow, and those who dwell in them increase in riches, which is not usually the case with the axeman who goes on farther into the bush again.

Still, one moonlight evening, when Alton waited upon its verandah, cigar in hand, the house stood upon the hillside, picturesque with its painted scroll-work, green shutters, colonnades of cedar pillars, and broad verandahs. Its owner was an Englishman who had prospered in the Dominion, and combined the kindliness he still retained for his countrymen with the lavish hospitality of the West. He knew Alton by reputation, and having business with him had made him free of his house when he inquired for Deringham, who was his guest, during the former's absence in the State of Washington. That was how Alton came to be waiting for dinner in company with a young naval officer. Deringham and his daughter had returned during the day, but they had driven somewhere with their hostess and not come back as yet.

Alton had seen Commander Thorne for the first time that day, but some friendships are made rapidly and without an effort, and he was already sensible of a regard for his companion. He was a quiet and unobtrusive Englishman, with the steadiness of gaze and decisiveness of speech which characterized those who command at sea, and had discovered that he had, notwithstanding the difference in their vocations, much in common with rancher Alton.

"Yes," he said. "It is very good of you, and if we stay at Esquimault I will come up and spend a day or two among the deer. Atkinson told us what a good time he had with you, but we were a trifle astonished to see the fine wapiti head he brought back with him."

There was a faint twinkle in the speaker's eyes which Alton understood, for Atkinson, who was not an adept at trailing deer, had shot more than a wapiti. Still, he was not the man to allude to the misadventures of his guest.

"He killed it neatly—a good hundred yards, and in the fern," he said.

"Well," said Thorne with a little laugh, "you were with him, and know best. You had, however, a tolerably mixed bag on that occasion?"

Alton checked a smile. "A wapiti, a wood deer—and sundries."

Thorne laughed again. "I wonder if you have forgotten the hog? You see, Atkinson told us one night at mess, and I was inclined to fancy he came near including you in the bag."

Alton's face was suspiciously grave, but his answer strengthened the incipient friendship between the men.

"It is a little difficult for a stranger to distinguish things in the bush."

Thorne nodded. "You had Deringham and Miss Deringham staying with you?"

"Yes," said Alton. "They are connections of mine, and Miss Deringham did a good deal for me when I was sick a little while ago. You knew them in the old country?"

There was, though he strove to suppress it, something in his voice which caused the naval officer to glance at him sharply. "Oh, yes," he said. "I knew them—rather well."

The men's eyes met, and both were conscious that the words might have been amplified, while it was with a slight abruptness they returned to the previous topic and discussed it until there was a rattle of wheels in the drive. Then Forel, their host, came out upon the verandah, and there was a hum of voices as several people descended from the vehicle beneath.

Mrs. Forel came up the stairway first with Alice Deringham, and when a blaze of light shone into the verandah from the open door Alton saw the girl draw back for a second as her eyes rested upon his companion. She, however, smiled next moment, and Alton did not miss the slight flush of pleasure in the face of Commander Thorne. He was also to meet with another astonishment, for Deringham and Seaforth came up the stairway next together, and Thorne dropped his cigar when he and the latter stood face to face.

"Charley! Is it you?" he said.

Seaforth stood quite still a moment looking at him, and then, being possibly sensible that other eyes were upon him, shook hands.

"Yes," he said. "I heard the gunboat was at Esquimault, but did not expect to see you."

Then there was a somewhat awkward silence, and Alton fancied that both men were relieved when Mrs. Forel's voice broke in, "Jack, you will look after the men, but don't keep them talking too long. We picked up Mr. Seaforth, and there are one or two more of our friends coming."

Alton followed his host, wondering at what he had seen. It was evident that Miss Deringham had not noticed him, and he fancied she had been for a moment almost embarrassed by the encounter with Thorne. That and what the man had told him had its meaning. He had also noticed that when the latter greeted his comrade there had been a constraint upon both of them, but decided that what it betokened did not concern him.

Returning he found Mrs. Forel waiting for him, and having been born in a Western city her conversation was not marked by English reticence or the restraint which is at least as common in the Canadian bush.

"Dinner is ready, and you will have to talk to me and the railroad man during it," she said. "I had thought of making you over to Miss Deringham until Commander Thorne turned up. Jack and he are great friends, but he didn't seem able to get over here, until he heard Miss Deringham was staying with us."

Alton laughed a little. "Now what am I to answer to that? Miss
Deringham was very good to me."

The lady fancied that his merriment was a trifle forced. "You will just sit down, and eat your dinner like a sensible man," she said. "You are a Canadian and not expected to say nice things like those others from the old country. They don't always do it very well, and, though Jack is fond of them, they make me tired now and then."

Alton took his place beside her, and speedily found himself at home. Save for the naval officer and two English financiers the men present had a stake in the future of that country, and as usual neither they nor their womenkind considered it out of place to talk of their affairs. They were also men of mark, though several of them who now held large issues in very capable hands had commenced life as wielders of the axe. Most of them had heard of Alton of the Somasco Consolidated, and those who had not listened with attention when he spoke, for it was evident that they and the rancher had the same cause at heart. Alice Deringham noticed this, and, though he was not conscious of it, little Alton did that night escaped her attention.

She saw that while he rarely asserted himself, these men, whom she knew were regarded with respect as leaders of great industries, accepted him as an equal when they had heard him speak, but that caused her less surprise than the fashion in which he adapted himself to his surroundings. She had already discovered that he was a man with abilities and ambitions, but she had only seen him amidst the grim simplicity of the Somasco ranch, and now there was no trifling lapse or momentary embarrassments to show that he found the changed conditions incongruous. His dress was also different, but he wore his city garments as though he had worn nothing else, and there was, she fancied, an indefinite stamp of something which almost amounted to distinction upon him that set him apart from the rest. Even Seaforth wondered a little at his comrade, but both he and Alice Deringham overlooked the fact that Alton had not spent his whole life at Somasco ranch.

He, on his part, as the girl was quite aware, glanced often at her. She did not, however, meet his gaze, for once Alton was on the way to recovery, she had left the ranch somewhat hastily, and there had been as yet no defining of the relations between them, while neither she nor her father were cognizant of the actual cause of his wound. In the meanwhile she made the most of Thorne, and by degrees Alton lost his grip of the conversation. He had never seen Alice Deringham attired as she was then, and, for his hostess had made the bravest display possible, the profusion of flowers, glass, and glittering silver which it seemed appropriate that she should be placed amidst, in a curious fashion troubled the man. This, he knew, was a part of the environment she had been used to, and he sighed as he thought of the sordid simplicity at Somasco. There was also Commander Thorne beside her, and the naval officer was one upon whom the stamp of birth and polish was very visible. This man, he surmised, would understand the thoughts and fancies which were incomprehensible to him, and was acquainted with all the petty trifles which are of vast importance to a woman in the aggregate.

Alton's heart grew heavy as he watched them, noticing the passing smile of comprehension that came so easily and expressed so much, and heard through the hum of voices the soft English accentuation which by contrast with his own speech seemed musical. He knew his value in the busy world, but he also knew his failings, and the knowledge was bitter to him then. There were so many little things he did not know, and he saw himself, as he thought the girl must see him—uncouth, which it was impossible for him to be, crude of thought, over-vehement or taciturn in speech, a barbarian. The misgivings had troubled him before, but they were very forceful now, and at last he was glad when Mrs. Forel smiled at him.

"You have been watching Miss Deringham, and neglecting me," she said.

For a moment Alton looked almost confused, and the lady laughed as she continued. "Very pretty and stylish, isn't she? Now we have pretty girls right here in Vancouver, but I fancy they can still give us points in one respect in the old country. You think that is foolish of me? Well, I wouldn't worry to tell me so; I think Commander Thorne could do it more neatly."

"He is apparently too busy," said Alton. "Still, I fancy if you asked him he would support me."

Mrs. Forel smiled mischievously, "Well, though one could scarcely blame you, jealousy wouldn't do you any good. Those two were great friends in the old country."

"That," said Alton, "is a little indefinite."

"Of course, but I don't know anything more," said his companion. "Lieutenant Atkinson, who knew them both, told me. Thorne wasn't rich, you see, but he comes of good people, and not long ago somebody left him all their money. Quite romantic, isn't it? Still, don't you think Miss Deringham would be thrown away upon anybody less than a baronet."

Alton did not answer, but his face grew somewhat grim as once more he glanced across at Thorne. This, he thought, was a good man, and he had all that Alton felt himself so horribly deficient in. In the meanwhile Mrs. Forel was looking at Seaforth, who was talking to the wife of an English financier.

"I like your partner, and he is from the old country, too," she said.
"Of course you know what he was over there?"

It was put artlessly, but Alton's eyes twinkled. "I'm afraid I don't, though I've no doubt Charley would have told me if I'd asked him," he said. "He is a tolerably useful man in this country, anyway, and that kind of contented me."

The lady shook her head at him reproachfully. "And I thought you were slow in the bush," said she. "Still, Thorne will know."

Alton fancied his hostess intended to be kind to him, but he was glad when the dinner was over and he gravitated with the other men towards Forel's smoking-room. There, as it happened, the talk turned upon shooting and fishing, and when one or two of the guests had narrated their adventures in the ranges, one who was bent and grizzled told in turn several grim stories of the early days when the treasure-seekers went up into the snows of Caribou. There was a brief silence when he had finished, until one of the Englishmen said:

"I presume things of that kind seldom happen now?"

"I don't know," said Seaforth, who spoke in the Western idiom. "We have still a few of the good old-fashioned villains right here in this country, and that reminds me of a thing which happened to a man I know. He was a quiet man, and quite harmless so long as nobody worried him, but generally held on with a tight grip to his own, and he once got his hands into something another man wanted. That was how the fuss began."

There was a little pause, during which Alton glanced bewilderedly at his comrade, and Deringham glanced round as he poured himself out a whisky and seltzer.

"It's not an uncommon beginning," said Forel. "What was the end?"

"There isn't any," said Seaforth, "but I can tell you the middle. One day the quiet man, who was living by himself way up in the bush, went out hunting, and as he had eaten very little for a week he was tolerably hungry. Well, when he had been out all day be got a deer, and was packing it home at night when he struck a belt of thick timber. The man was played out from want of food, the deer was heavy, but he dragged himself along thinking of his supper, until something twinkled beneath a fir. He jumped when he saw it, but he wasn't quick enough, and went down with a bullet in him. His rifle fell away from him where he couldn't get it without the other man seeing him, and he was bleeding fast, but still sensible enough to know that nobody would start out on a contract of that kind without his magazine full. It was a tolerably tight place for him—the man was worn out, and almost famishing, and he lay there in the snow, getting fainter every minute, with one leg no use to him."

Seaforth looked round as though to see what impression he had made, and though all the faces were turned towards him it was one among them his eyes rested on. Deringham was leaning forward in his chair with fingers closed more tightly about the glass he held than there seemed any necessity for. His eyes were slightly dilated, and Seaforth fancied he read in them a growing horror.

"He crawled away into the bush?" said somebody.

"No, sir," said Seaforth, "he just wriggled into the undergrowth and waited for the other man."

"Waited for him?" said Forel.

"Yes," said Seaforth. "That is what he did, and when the other man came along peering into the bushes, just reached out and grabbed him by the leg. Then they both rolled over, and I think that must have been a tolerably grim struggle. There they were, alone, far up in the bush, and probably not a living soul within forty miles of them."

Seaforth stopped again and reached out for his glass, while he noticed that Deringham emptied his at a gulp and refilled it with fingers that seemed to shake a trifle.

"And your friend got away?" said somebody.

"No, sir," said Seaforth. "It was the other man. The one I knew had his hand on the other's throat and his knife feeling for a soft place when his adversary broke away from him. He did it just a moment too soon, for while he was getting out through the bush the other one dropped his knife and rolled over in the snow. He lay there a day or two until somebody found him."

Seaforth rose and moved towards the cigar-box on the table. "And that's all," he said.

"Dramatic, but it's a little incomplete, isn't it?" said the Englishman.

Seaforth smiled somewhat dryly, and once more glanced casually towards Deringham. "It may be finished by and by, and I fancy the wind-up will be more dramatic still," he said. "You see the man who would wait for his enemy with only a knife in his hand while his life drained away from him, is scarcely likely to forget an injury."

There was silence for several moments which was broken by a rattle, and a stream of whisky and seltzer dripped from the table.

"Hallo!" said Forel. "Has anything upset you, Deringham?"

Deringham stood up with a little harsh laugh, dabbing It the breast of his shirt with his handkerchief.

"I think the question should apply to my glass, but the room is a trifle hot, and my heart has been troubling me lately," he said.

Forel flung one of the windows open. "I fancy my wife is waiting for us, gentlemen, and I will be with you in a few minutes," he said.

Alton and Seaforth were almost the last to file out of the smoking-room, and when they reached the corridor the former turned upon his comrade with a glint in his half-closed eyes.

"You show a curious taste for a man raised as you have been in the old country," he said. "Now what in the name of thunder made you tell that story?"

Seaforth smiled somewhat inanely. "I don't know; I just felt I had to.
All of us are subject to little weaknesses occasionally."

Alton stopped and looked at him steadily. "Then there will be trouble if you give way to them again. And you put in a good deal more than I ever told anybody. Now you haven't brains enough to figure out all that."

Seaforth laughed good-humouredly. "It is possibly fortunate that Tom has," he said.

"Tom—be condemned," said Alton viciously, and Seaforth, seeing that he was about to revert to the previous question, apparently answered a summons from his host and slipped back into the smoking-room.

Alton waited a moment, and then moved somewhat stiffly towards a low stairway which led to a broad landing that was draped and furnished as an annex to an upper room. One or two of the company were seated there, and he hoped they would not notice him, for while he could walk tolerably well upon the level a stairway presented a difficulty. He had all his life been a vigorous man, and because of it was painfully sensitive about his affliction. Just then Mrs. Forel came out upon the landing, and when the girl she spoke to turned. Alton saw that Alice Deringham was looking down on him. For a moment there was a brightness in his eyes, but it faded suddenly, and while his knee bent under him he set his lips as with pain. Then he stumbled, and clung to the balustrade. For a moment he dare not look up, and when he did so there was a flush on his forehead which slowly died away as he saw the face of the girl.

She had also laid her hand as if for support upon the balustrade, for it was unfortunate she had not been told that one effect of Alton's injury would be permanent. At the commencement of their friendship she had been painfully aware of what she considered his shortcomings, but these had gradually become less evident, and something in the man's forceful personality had carried her away. Possibly, though she may not have realized it, his splendid animal vigour had its part in this—and now dismay and a great pity struggled within her. It was especially unfortunate that when Alton looked up the consternation had risen uppermost, for the man's perceptions were not of the clearest then, and he saw nothing of the compassion, but only the shrinking in her eyes.

His face grew a trifle grey as he straightened himself with a visible effort and limped forward, for he was one who could make a quick decision, while to complete his bitterness Thorne came up behind him and slipped an arm beneath his shoulder.

"You seem a little shaky, I'll help you up," he said. "An axe-cut?
The effect will probably soon wear off."

Alton understood that Thorne was talking to cover any embarrassment he may have felt, but was not especially grateful just then. "No," he said; "a rifle-shot."

He fancied that Thorne was a trifle astonished, and remembered Seaforth's story, but they had gained the head of the stairway now, and he looked at Alice Deringham as he added, "And the effect will not wear off."

Thorne passed through with the others into the lighted room, and Alton stood silent before the girl. She was a trifle pale, and though the pity for him was there, it is possible that she had understood him, and she was very proud. Thus the silence that was perilous lasted too long, and her voice was a trifle strained in place of gentle as she said, "I am so sorry."

Alton, who dared not look at her, now bent his head. "You are very kind—still, it can't be helped," he said. "I think Mrs. Forel is coming back for you. Somebody is going to sing."

Their hostess approached the doorway, and Alice Deringham found words fail her as she watched the man, though she knew that the silence was horribly eloquent. It was Alton who broke it.

"You had better go in. I"—and he smiled bitterly—"will wait until the music commences and they cannot notice me."

The girl could stay no longer, though at last words which would have made a difference to both of them rose to her lips, but Alton waited until he could slip into the room unnoticed, and heard very little of the music. During it Mrs. Forel managed to secure a few words with Thorne.

"You seem to have made friends with rancher Alton," she said.

Thorne smiled a little. "Yes," he said. "Of course I know little about him, but I think that is a man one could trust."

The lady nodded, for he had given her an opportunity. "You know more about his partner?"

Thorne's manner appeared to change a trifle, which Mrs. Forel of course noticed. "Yes," he said.

The lady thoughtfully smoothed out a fold of her dress. "Well," she said with Western frankness, "I want to know a little about him, too."

Thorne smiled as he saw there was no evading the issue. "So I surmised from what your husband asked me. Seaforth was considered a young man of promise when I knew him in England, and his family is unexceptional. His father, however, lost a good deal of money, which presumably accounts for Charley having turned Canadian rancher."

Mrs. Forel turned so that she could see her companion. "That is not what I mean, and I think I had better talk quite straight to you. Now I like Mr. Seaforth and Mr. Alton, too, and as Jack is mixed up in some business of theirs and they are going to stay down in Vancouver we shall probably see a good deal of them. Jack, however, is sometimes a little hasty in making friends, and I want to know the other reason that brought Mr. Seaforth out from the old country."

"You fancy there is one?" Thorne said quietly.

"Yes. Lieutenant Atkinson made a little blunder one night when he spoke of him."

"Atkinson never had very much sense," Thorne said dryly. "I, however, fancied a man took his standing among you according to what he did in this country."

"Yes," said Mrs. Forel. "The trouble is that the man who has crossed the line once may do so again. Well, you see who these people are, and if he meets them here it means that I vouch for him."

Thorne sighed. "If Atkinson has blundered, I am afraid that I must speak. Now I don't think you need be afraid of Seaforth crossing that line again. He was not worse than foolish and somebody victimized him, but he has had his punishment and borne it very well—while if you knew the whole story you would scarcely blame him."

"And that is all you can tell me?"

"Yes," said Thorne, very quietly. "Still, I can add that if Charley ever comes back to the old country I—and my mother and sisters—would be glad to welcome him."

"That I think should be sufficient," said Mrs. Forel, who was acquainted with Commander Thorne's status in the old country.

It was a little later when Alton glanced towards Thorne, who was talking to Alice Deringham. "I could get on with that man," he said. "You knew him, Charley?"

"Oh, yes," said Seaforth with a curious expression. "He is a very good fellow, and has distinguished himself several times. Somebody left him a good deal of money lately."

Alton seemed to sigh. "Well," he said slowly, "he is to be envied.
They wouldn't have much use for him in your navy if he was a cripple."

The party was breaking up before Alton had speech with Alice Deringham again, and as it happened the girl had just left Commander Thorne. Alton spoke with an effort as one going through a task. "I never thanked you yet for what you did for me," he said.

The girl smiled, though her pulses were throbbing painfully. "It was very little."

"No," said Alton gravely. "I think I should not have been here now if you had not taken care of me, and I'm very grateful. Still"—and he glanced down with a wry smile at his knee, which was bent a trifle—"it was unfortunate you and the doctor did not get me earlier. There are disadvantages in being—all one's life—a cripple."

As fate would have it they were interrupted before Miss Deringham could answer, and Alton limped down the stairway very grim in face, while Thorne appeared sympathetic when he overtook him. "That wound of yours is troubling you?" he said.

"Yes," said Alton dryly; "I'm afraid it will. Now I was a trifle confused when you helped me. Did I tell you how I got it?"

Thorne remembering Seaforth's story answered indifferently, "I concluded it was an axe-cut."

He passed on, but Alton had quick perceptions, and made a little gesture of contentment. "He is almost good enough, anyway," he said wearily.

When all the guests had gone Deringham came upon his daughter alone.
"I noticed Mr. Alton was not effusive," he said.

"No," said the girl languidly, though there was a curious expression in her eyes. "I do not remember that he told much beyond the fact that he would be a cripple—all his life. He mentioned it twice."