A Man of Two Countries

by Alice Harriman

But that was over. To turn to less reprehensible and underhand ways would be easy, he was sure. Or, if he found that the old ways of accomplishing his purpose were more profitable, he would exercise them on bigger projects in Montana. He had made a fortune in the Whoop Up Country. Now he intended to increase it in the development of Montana's resources. He proposed to marry and rear a family, as became a prosperous and respected citizen.

Dreams of statehood were beginning to waken into hope of reality among the sturdy men who dwelt in the territory, and during this journey south Burroughs confided to Bill his ambition to sit in the United States Senate. Fortune had favored him so far. All that was necessary to further his ambitions was to be as shrewd and cautious as he had been hitherto, and all things should be his—with Bill's help. Bill listened—that was his rôle for the time being. But he thought well of the plans, and said so before his chief referred to quite another subject—Pine Coulee and the boy. Here Bill found no words.

Burroughs opined that the episode with Pine Coulee was nothing. She was a fool to expect him to continue their relations simply because there was a child. He would see that they did not suffer. Really Sweet Oil Bob felt a glow of self-approval as he talked. But few men in the Whoop Up Country gave a thought to the comfort of the squaws when they left them. And as for the children—let them go with their mothers! It was the easiest thing imaginable.

To Danvers it seemed that half the population of Fort Macleod was leaving, since Scar Faced Charlie had departed months before, and Toe String Joe had been dishonorably discharged and gone out of the country. Only the loyal O'Dwyer remained, and to him he sometimes spoke of Fort Benton friends. To Eva he wrote with every outgoing mail, and watched eagerly for a sign from her when a chance freighter should bring the Fort Benton mail. Then fever broke out in the barracks and Danvers spent his nights caring for the others and had little time for thought. His splendid constitution seemed able to bear any amount of fatigue, and he boasted that the loss of sleep was nothing—that he preferred to talk to some one—he had not enough to do to keep busy!

But he overestimated his strength, and when a mail was brought with no letter from Eva the disappointment and anxiety told on his already overtaxed constitution. O'Dwyer was the last to convalesce, and even he was no longer in need of constant attention. With the relaxing of the strain came Philip's utter collapse. The fever was on him, and for weeks he talked deliriously of English lanes, of his sister Kate, of his rise in the service, but never of Eva Thornhill. It was as if some psychic power guarded his lips and loyally preserved his secret.

The spring flowers were budding when he again breathed the outer air, and it was a gaunt figure which sat in the lee of the stockade one day in May and took the package of letters brought from Fort Benton.

At last! Eva's first letter lay in his hand. He forgave her the long silence. The winter had been unusually severe and to the irregularity of the mails he ascribed his love's apparent defection. With trembling fingers he opened the thin envelope. The letter had no heading.

"I have told father of my promise to you. He refuses absolutely to sanction it and declares I shall never marry an Englishman. I now agree with father that it would be very unwise. I hate the army, and you say you will never leave it. It is best that we understand each other at once, and very fortunate that we agreed not to speak of our engagement. I have not heard from you in three months, and so I presume you are tired of it and as glad to break as I am."

That was all. The dazed convalescent remembered that his letter was mailed the very day that he went to the hospital, and his promise of silence made it impossible to ask another to notify her of his condition. Fate's cruelty bit deep. The heartlessness of Eva's dismissal pierced his soul. Mechanically he took up a letter from his sister.

"Dear brother Philip," her letter began. "We have written and written. What has become of you these last months? Haven't you received the solicitor's letters or mine, telling you of father's sudden death, and the discovery that we are almost penniless—all the fortune gone?"