The Homesteaders: A Novel of the Canadian West

by Robert J. C. Stead

Travers was not in the least deceived as to Riles' high-mindedness, but he realized that the man was the guest of his employer, and he decided not to press the point. Gardiner and Riles went to the house, and Jim presently saddled his own horse and rode out on the prairie. He had already lunched, and it was Gardiner's custom to cook for himself when at home.

Inside, the two men were soon seated at a meal which Gardiner hastily but deftly prepared. They ate from plates of white enamelled ware, on a board table covered with oilcloth, but the food was appetizing, and the manner of serving it much more to Riles' liking than that to which he had been subjected for some days. The meat was fresh and tasty; and the bread and butter were all that could be desired, and the strong, hot tea, without milk but thick with sugar, completed a meal that was in every way satisfactory. Riles' eyes, when not on his plate, were busy taking in the surroundings. The log walls were hung with mementoes, some of earlier days and some of other lands, and throughout the big room was a strange mixture of elegance and plainness. At one end were rows of shelves, with more books than Riles had ever seen, and above stood a small piece of statuary worth the price of many bushels of wheat.

Gardiner noted the interest of his guest, and smiled quietly to himself. He supposed that Riles had the usual notions about the Far West—a notion that here he was on the outer-most rim of the finer civilization of even the Middle West. But he knew also that this plain log building contained furnishings and decorations altogether beyond anything that Riles had ever seen or heard of—things, indeed, so far removed from the life of the hard-working farmer that they might have come from another world than his own. When the meal was finished Gardiner swept the soiled dishes into a big galvanized iron tub, there to await attentions from Jim at a convenient season, and invited Riles to look about the house.

They entered another room, immediately to the north of the large apartment which served all general housekeeping purposes. The floor was of plain boards, smooth with the riding-boots of many years, and in the centre lay the skin of a great bear. An old-fashioned carved table, of some size, and three leather chairs, were the principal furniture. Two swords hung diagonally across the far wall, and above them was an old flag, discoloured with sun and rain. Ancient firearms decorated the walls, and odd pieces of strange clothing hung about in profusion.

"This is His Nibs' drawing-room," said Gardiner. "This junk you see about you has been gathered from the corners of the earth during the last few centuries. In there"—indicating another room through a door to the left—"is his bedroom—a regular museum of stuff running to no end of money, if you went to buy it. He has a couple of pictures worth more than a quarter-section of land, and that mat you see through the door—a prayer-rug he calls it, though he don't use it much for that—is worth over five hundred dollars."

Gardiner enjoyed the look of amazement that slowly spread over Riles' face. "He's been stuffin' you," said Riles at length, thinking of his own extravagance when he paid ninety cents a yard for a carpet for their front room at home. "He's been stuffin' you sure. There ain't no mats worth any money like that."

"It's gospel," said Gardiner. "Why, man, he has a set of chess worth more than the best team on your farm, and that statue affair up there—you simply couldn't buy it. The place is just bristling with valuables of one kind and another."

But Riles appeared suddenly agitated. He seized Gardiner by the arm, saying, "If this stuff's worth's much as you figure, why don't we make a clean-up here, when the duke, or whatever he is, is away? That'd be safer, wouldn't it?"

"No, it wouldn't. It'd be easy enough to get away with the stuff, but how'd you turn it into money? The police would get you sure on a game like that. Of course, if you should decide to go in for culture, without the 'agri' ahead, you might like to have the prayer-mat for your own knees. No, you can't put over anything like that. And now we better be getting down to business."

Gardiner drew a couple of chairs up to the carved table, opened a drawer, and produced writing materials. "We can't get a letter away to Harris any too soon. Nothing like making hay while the sun shines, you know, and if he gets out here before we put our plan up to him, it would be natural enough for him to want to see the mine-owner himself. So hitch yourself to that pen there, and let us see what kind of a hand you are at fiction."