A CRISIS
Winter came with the going of the last brigades of the geese. The sloughs and lakes froze, and the ground hardened to iron, ringing hollowly beneath hoofs, rumbling dully to wagon wheels. It was cold, but there was no snow in the valleys, though it lay white well down the flanks of the ranges. On the benchlands there was nothing to relieve the dark gloom of the firs, the bareness of the deciduous trees, the frost-burnt dead of the grasses.
Angus had seen little of Faith Winton. At the French ranch he felt like a cat in a strange garret. He had little or nothing in common with the French boys, and certainly nothing with the young men who made the place a hang-out. Though old Godfrey French was polite enough, Angus felt or thought he felt a certain cool contempt. Kathleen was the only one of the family with whom he was at ease.
He was now able to ride, and help round up the cattle for the winter. But to his annoyance there were several head which could not be found. Again they were steers, beef cattle. As in the case of the others, some years before, they seemed to have vanished utterly. Rennie was sure they had been rustled, and again he blamed the Indians. In the end he took his rifle and an outfit, and Angus knew that very little would escape his methodical combing. On top of his other hard luck Angus felt the loss badly. He was going to be very hard run for money. None too cheerfully he went at the various tasks of snugging up for the winter.
In these he had little or no assistance from Turkey. The youngster was absent more than ever, and, one morning when, instead of helping with fencing, he led out his mare saddled, Angus ventured remonstrance.
"There are a whole lot of things to do," he observed.
"No rush," Turkey returned. "Let 'em wait."
"I am not waiting."
"Well, I am," Turkey said, his tone suddenly truculent. "I've worked all summer and fall, and I want some fun. I'm going to have it, too."
"Perhaps I want some myself," Angus suggested, holding his temper.