“Never mind, mother. He’s come at an opportune moment. I want a messenger to go over to Lakeville. He’ll do. I’m sending word to Alice Gordon. I want her to come here for the harvesting. Alice must get very sick of living at Ainsley, in spite of the fact of her beau living there. I’ve a good mind to tell her to bring him out here. Shan’t be long, dear; I’ll join you directly. Where are you? In the wash-house?”
The girl ran off, letting her skirt fall as she went The mother passed on to the wash-house, muttering to herself as she went.
“La, if he were only like her. But there, the Lord ordains, and them as brings their offspring into the world must abide the racket. But it goes hard with a man about the house who idles. Mussy-a-me, he ain’t like his poor father. And I’m not goin’ to give him no extra dollars to fling around in Winnipeg. He’s too fond of loose company.”
The old lady continued to mutter audibly until she reached the wash-house door, where she disappeared just as the object of her thoughts led his horse out of the barn, jumped on its back, and rode away.
It was noon when Hervey reached Owl Hoot. He had been there several times lately, sometimes at George Iredale’s invitation, but generally at his own. He had his own particular reasons for cultivating the owner of Lonely Ranch, and those reasons he kept carefully to himself. This unworthy son had only been at Loon Dyke Farm for little more than four months, and during that brief period he had plainly shown what manner of man he was.
Even the doting affection of his mother had not blinded that simple soul to his shortcomings. Each month since his coming he had steadily overdrawn his allowance to no inconsiderable extent. His frequent visits to Winnipeg had always ended in his return home with pockets empty, and an accumulation of debts, of which he said nothing, left behind him. Then came the inevitable request for money, generally backed up by some plausible excuse, and Hephzibah’s cheque-book was always forthcoming on these occasions. But though, hitherto, she had not failed him, he saw by her manner that the time was not far distant when her sweet old face would become curiously set, and the comely mouth would shut tight, and the cheque-book would remain locked in her wardrobe, while he poured his flimsy excuses on stone-deaf ears.
He understood his mother. She would do much, perhaps far too much for her children, but she would not allow herself to be preyed upon; she was too keen a business woman for that. Besides, his accumulation of debts was now so great that all he was able to bleed her for would be but a drop in the ocean. In Winnipeg he posed as the owner of Loon Dyke Farm, and as such his credit was extensive. But now there were clamourings for settlements, and Hervey knew that gaming debts and hotel bills must be met in due course. Tradesmen can wait, they have redress from owners of property, but the others have no such means of repaying themselves, therefore they must be paid if he wished to remain in the district. Now he meant to raise what he required from Iredale. He had recognized the fact that Iredale was in love with 146 Prudence, nor was he slow to appreciate the possibilities which this matter suggested as a money-raising means. Yes, Hervey intended that Iredale should pay for the privilege of enjoying his sister’s society. Money he must have, and that at once.
It was a wild, desolate region which he rode through on his way to Lonely Ranch. No one, finding themselves suddenly dropped into the midst of those wood-covered crags and clean-cut ravines, the boulder-strewn, grassless land, would have dreamed that they were within half-a-dozen miles of the fertile prairie-lands of Canada. It was like a slum hidden away in the heart of a fashionable city. The country round the mysterious Lake of the Woods is something utterly apart from the rest of the Canadian world, and partakes much of the nature of the Badlands of Dakota. It is tucked away in the extreme south-eastern corner of Manitoba, and the international boundary runs right through the heart of it.
Lonely Ranch was situated in an abrupt hollow, and was entirely lost to view in a mammoth growth of pinewoods. Years ago a settlement had existed in this region, but what the nature of that settlement it was now impossible to tell. Local tradition held that, at some far-distant period, the place had been occupied by a camp of half-breed “bad-men” who worked their evil trade upon the south side of the American border, and sought security in the shelter of this perfect hiding-place. Be that as it may, it was now the abode of George Iredale, rancher. He had built for himself a splendid house of hewn logs, and his outbuildings––many of them 147 the restored houses of the early settlers––and corrals formed a ranch of very large dimensions.