I devoutly wished that a telegram would come from Winnipeg to let me know if Boyd Madras, under his new name, could be found. I was a hunter on a faint trail.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE STRINGS OF DESTINY
When Phil’s pal left us he went wandering down the hillside, talking to himself. Long afterwards he told me how he felt, and I reproduce his phrases as nearly as I can.
“Knocked ‘em, I guess,” he said, “with that about Jo Brackenbury.... Poor Jo! Stuck together, him and me did, after she got the steel in her heart.”... He pulled himself together, shuddering.... “Went back on me, she did, and took up with a cursed swell, and got it cold—cold. And I? By Judas! I never was shut of that. I’ve known women, many of ‘em, all countries, but she was different. I expect now, after all these years, that if I got my hand on the devil that done for her, I’d rattle his breath in his throat. There’s things that clings. She clings, Jo Brackenbury clings, and Phil Boldrick clings; and they’re gone, and I’m left to go it alone. To play the single hand—what!—by Jiminy!”
He exclaimed thus on seeing two women approach from the direction of the valley. He stood still, mouth open, staring. They drew near, almost passed him. But one of them, struck by his intense gaze, suddenly turned and came towards him.
“Miss Falchion! Miss Falchion!” he cried. Then, when she hesitated as if with an effort of memory, he added: “Don’t you know me?”
“Ah,” she replied abruptly, “Sam Kilby! Are you Sam Kilby, Jo Brackenbury’s friend, from Samoa?”
“Yes, miss, I’m Jo Brackenbury’s friend; and I’ve rowed you across the reefs with him more than once I guess so! But it’s a long way from Apia to the Rockies, and it’s funny to meet here.”
“When did you come here—and from where?”