Harding of Allenwood

by Harold Bindloss

"I found the turn awkward the last time, but I see you have made it a bit easier," he said. "Well, we'd better make a start."

Lance and one or two others joined them when they reached the top. Harding examined the wagon and harness, and Beatrice watched him with interest. He certainly lived up to his belief in efficiency, because she did not think he omitted any precaution he could have taken. There was something to admire in him as he quietly moved about beside the horses and the ponderous mass of iron. It would not be an easy matter to transport the load to the bottom of the gorge, but Beatrice felt that he was at his best when confronting a difficulty.

"The locked wheels won't hold her if anything goes wrong," he said. "Keep all the strain you can upon the rope."

They hooked it to the back axle, and Harding cautiously led the team down the incline while Devine went to the leading horses' heads, and the others checked the wagon with the tackle. The teams were obviously nervous, and the pole-horses now and then lifted their haunches to hold back the load, although they did not feel much of its weight. After some trouble Harding got the wagon round the first turning, taking the leaders up the side of the ravine in order to do so; but the trail ahead was steeper, and the big drop not far below. They chocked the wheels with logs while they moved the tackle, and Harding stood for a few moments, breathing heavily, as he looked down into the gorge. He could see the snowy trail wind for a short distance among the trees, and then it dipped out of sight beyond a turn. It was beaten hard, and here and there its surface caught a ray of light and flashed with an icy gleam. They were half-way down; but the worst was to come.

"It's an ugly bit," he cautioned Devine. "Hold the leaders in to the side of the hill."

They started, and as the weight came upon them the blocks screamed, and the men began to strain against the drag of the rope. Foot by foot they let it slip round the smooth trunk of a tree, while the women stood watching the tall figure at the pole-horses' heads. The powerful animals braced themselves back, slipping a yard or two now and then, while Harding broke into a run. The cloud of steam that hung over them grew thicker as the trees closed in; the tackle was running out and those who held it were panting hard, but they had rope enough to reach the next bend.

Then there was a crash and Kenwyne, reeling backward with those behind him, fell heavily into the snow while the broken wire struck the trees. A shout from Devine came up the hollow, and Hester clenched her hand as she saw him flung off by a plunging horse and roll down the trail. He dropped over the edge, but the wagon, lurching violently, went on, and for a few moments Harding, running fast, clung to the near horse's head. Then he let go; but instead of jumping clear, as the watchers had expected, he grasped the side of the wagon as it passed and swung himself up. They saw him seize the reins, standing upright behind the driving-seat; and then the wagon plunged out of sight among the trees.

Devine, scrambling to his feet, ran madly after it and vanished; and the men who had held the tackle picked themselves up and looked down in dismay. There was nothing they could do. The disaster must happen before they could possibly reach the scene. It seemed impossible that Harding could get round the next turn.

Beatrice cast a quick glance at Hester, and felt braced by her attitude. They were not emotional at Allenwood; but the prairie girl bore herself with a stoic calm which Beatrice had never seen equaled there. Her fiancé had narrowly escaped with his life, her brother was in imminent peril, yet her eyes were steady and her pose was firm. His danger could not be made light of, but the girl evidently had confidence in him. Beatrice imagined that Hester had her brother's swiftness of action, nevertheless she could wait and suffer calmly when there was nothing else to be done. After all, stern courage was part of the girl's birthright, for she was a daughter of the pioneers.

Beatrice did not know that her own face was tense and white. The accident had been unexpected and unnerving. She was shaken by its suddenness and by a dread she could not explain: it was no time for analysis of feelings. She was watching the trail with desperate concentration, wondering whether the wagon and its reckless driver would break out from the trees. In a moment they did appear—the team going downhill at a mad gallop, Harding lashing them with a loop of the reins. There is not often a brake on a prairie wagon, and as the chain that locked the wheels had obviously broken, Harding's intention was plain. He meant to keep the horses ahead of the iron load that would overturn the wagon and mangle the animals if it overtook them. This warranted his furious speed. But the trail was narrow and tortuous, and with the heavy weight spread over a long wheel-base, the wagon was hard to steer. Beatrice realized this, but in spite of her horror she felt a thrill of fierce approval.