It was half an hour later when the rest of the troopers arrived, and Stimson had some talk with their officer aside.
“A little out of the usual course, isn’t it?” said the latter. “I don’t know that I’d have countenanced it, so to speak, off my own bat at all, but I had a tolerably plain hint that you were to use your discretion over this affair. After all, one has to stretch a point or two occasionally.”
“Yes, sir,” said Stimson; “a good many now and then.”
The officer smiled a little and went back to the rest. “Two of you will ride after the other rascal,” he said. “Now look here, my man; the first time my troopers, who’ll call round quite frequently, don’t find you about your homestead, you’ll land yourself in a tolerably serious difficulty. In the meanwhile, I’m sorry we can’t bring a charge of whisky-running against you, but another time be careful who you hire your wagon to.”
Then there was a rapid drumming of hoofs as two troopers went off at a gallop, while when the rest turned back towards the outpost, Stimson rode with them, quietly content.
[CHAPTER XXIII—THE REVELATION]
Witham’s harvesting prospered as his sowing had done, for day by day the bright sunshine shone down on standing wheat and lengthening rows of sheaves. It was in the bracing cold of sunrise the work began, and the first pale stars were out before the tired men and jaded horses dragged themselves home again. Not infrequently it happened that the men wore out the teams and machines, but there was no stoppage then, for fresh horses were led out from the corral or a new binder was ready. Every minute was worth a dollar, and Witham, who had apparently foreseen and provided for everything, wasted none.
Then—for wheat is seldom stacked in that country—as the days grew shorter and the evenings cool, the smoke of the big thrasher streaked the harvest field, and the wagons went jolting between humming separator and granary, until the latter was gorged to repletion, and the wheat was stored within a willow framing beneath the chaff and straw that streamed from the shoot of the great machine. Witham had round him the best men that dollars could hire, and toiled tirelessly with the grimy host in the whirling dust of the thrasher and amidst the sheaves, wherever another pair of hands, or the quick decision that would save an hour’s delay, was needed most.
As compared with the practice of insular Britain, there were not half enough of them; but wages are high in that country, and the crew of the thrasher paid by the bushel, while the rest had long worked for their own hand on the levels of Manitoba and in the bush of Ontario, and knew that the sooner their toil was over the sooner they would go home again with well-lined pockets. So, generously fed, splendid human muscle kept pace with clinking steel under a stress that is seldom borne outside the sun-bleached prairie at harvest time, and Witham forgot everything save the constant need for the utmost effort of body and brain. It was even of little import to him that prices moved steadily upwards as he toiled.
At last it was finished, and only knee-high stubble covered his land and that of Maud Barrington; while—for he was one who could venture fearlessly and still know when he had risked enough—soon after it was thrashed out the wheat was sold. The harvesters went home with enough to maintain them through the winter; and Witham, who spent two days counting his gain, wrote asking Graham to send him an accountant from Winnipeg. With him he spent a couple more, and then, with an effort he was never to forget, prepared himself for the reckoning. It was time to fling off the mask before the eyes of all who had trusted him.