Produced by Al Haines

ALTON OF SOMASCO

A Romance of the Great Northwest

By HAROLD BINDLOSS

Author of

"Winston of the Prairie," "The Dust of Conflict,"
"The Cattle Baron's Daughter," "The Young Traders,"
etc.

With Illustrations

By R. MARTINE REAY

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1905

BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

This Edition Issued in March, 1906.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

      I  THE FIRST ENCOUNTER
     II  AT TOWNSHEAD'S RANCH
    III  HARRY THE TEAMSTER
     IV  HALLAM OF THE TYEE
      V  THE HEIR OF CARNABY
     VI  MISS DERINGHAM MAKES FRIENDS
    VII  ALTON BLUNDERS
   VIII  HALLAM'S CONFEDERATE
     IX  MISS DERINGHAM FEELS SLIGHTED
      X  THE UNDELIVERED MESSAGE
     XI  CONFIDENCE MISPLACED
    XII  IN VANCOUVER
   XIII  THE SOMASCO CONSOLIDATED
    XIV  THE COMPACT
     XV  ON THE TRAIL
    XVI  CAUSE FOR ANXIETY
   XVII  ALONE
  XVIII  IN THE WILDERNESS
    XIX  FOUL PLAY
     XX  THE NICKED BULLET
    XXI  OKANAGAN'S ROAD
   XXII  MISS DERINGHAM DECIDES
  XXIII  THE AWAKENING
   XXIV  HALLAM TRIES AGAIN
    XXV  ALTON IS SILENT
   XXVI  WITHOUT COUNTING THE COST
  XXVII  THE FORCE OF CALUMNY
 XXVIII  ALTON FINDS A WAY
   XXIX  THE PRICE OF DELAY
    XXX  SEAFORTH'S REINSTATEMENT
   XXXI  "THE THIRD TIME"
  XXXII  ALTON HOLDS HIS HAND
 XXXIII  MISS DERINGHAM'S CONFESSION
  XXXIV  THE CONSUMMATION

ALTON OF SOMASCO

CHAPTER I

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

It was snowing slowly and persistently, as it had done all day, when
Henry Alton of Somasco ranch stood struggling with a half-tamed Cayuse
pony in a British Columbian settlement.  The Cayuse had laid its ears
back, and was describing a circle round him, scattering mud and snow,
while the man who gripped the bridle in a lean, brown hand watched it
without impatience, admiringly.

"Game!" he said.  "I like them that way.  Still, it isn't every man
could seize a pack on him, and you'll have to let up three dollars on
the price you asked me."

Now three dollars is a considerable proportion of the value of an
Indian pony fresh from the northern grass lands, with the devil that
lurks in most of his race still unsubdued within him, but the rancher
who owned him did not immediately reject the offer.  Possibly he was
not especially anxious to keep the beast.

"Oh, yes," said a bystander.  "He's game enough, and I'd ask the boys
to my funeral if I meant to drive him at night over the lake trail.
After being most kicked into wood-pulp Carter hasn't any more use for
him, and I'll lay you a dollar, Alton, you and your partner can't put
the pack on him."

Perhaps the Cayuse was tired, or desirous of watching for an
opportunity, for it came to a standstill, snorting, with its wicked
eyes upon the man, who laughed a little and shoved back the broad hat
from his forehead as he straightened himself.  The laugh rang
pleasantly, and the faint twinkle in Alton's eyes was in keeping with
it.  They were grey, and steady when the light sank out of them, and
the rest of the bronzed face was shrewd and quietly masterful.  He wore
a deerskin jacket fancifully embroidered, blue canvas overalls, and gum
boots to the knee, while, though all of them needed repair, the attire
was picturesque, and showed its wearer's lean symmetry.  The man's age
was apparently twenty-five, and eight years' use of the axe had set a
stamp of springy suppleness upon him.  He had also wrested rather more
than a livelihood from the Canadian forest during them.

All round him the loghouses rose in all their unadorned dinginess
beneath the sombre pines, and the largest of them bore a straggling
legend announcing that it was Horton's store and hotel.  A mixed
company of bush ranchers, free prospectors, axemen, and miners lounged
outside it in picturesque disarray, and high above rose a dim white
line of never-melting snow.

"Well," said Alton, "it's time this circus was over, anyway, and if
Carter will take my bid I'll clinch that deal with you.  Have the pack
and seizings handy, Charley."

The rancher nodded, and Alton got a tighter grip on the bridle.  Then
the Cayuse rose upright with fore-hoofs lifted, and the man's arm was
drawn back to strike.  The hoofs came down harmlessly, but the fist got
home, and for a moment or two there was a swaying and plunging of man
and beast amidst the hurled-up snow.  Then the Cayuse was borne
backwards until the vicinity of the hotel verandah left no room for
kicking, and another man hastily flung a rope round the bundles he
piled upon its back.  He was also tolerably capable, and in another
minute the struggle was over.  The Cayuse's attitude expressed
indignant astonishment, while Alton stood up breathless, with his
knuckles bleeding.

"I'll trouble you for that dollar, and I'll keep him now," he said.
"Can you wait until I come down next week, Carter?"

"Oh, yes," said the rancher.  "Your promise is good enough for a year
or two."

The speaker was a sinewy bushman in curiously patched overalls with a
bronzed and honest face, and he turned aside with a little gesture of
dislike, when a man of a very different stamp pushed by him.  The
latter wore a black felt hat and a great fur-lined coat, while his face
was pale and fleshy and his eyes were cunning.  His appearance
suggested prosperity and a life of indulgence in the cities, and when
he stopped in front of Alton the latter would have lost little by any
comparison between the pair.  The pose of his sinewy figure and the
clear brownness of his skin spoke of arduous labour, sound sleep, and
the vigour that comes from a healthful occupation.  The steady
directness of his gaze and quiet immobility of his face also conveyed
an indefinite suggestion of power and endurance, and there was a
curious grace in his movements when he turned courteously towards the
stranger.

"You soon fixed him, packer," said the city man.

Alton laughed.  "The boys mostly call me rancher," said he.  "Still, it
don't count for much, and I do some packing occasionally."

"That's all right," said the stranger sharply, for there was something
in Alton's answer which made him inclined to assert his dignity.
"Everybody seems to be a rancher hereaway, and you mayn't be too proud
to put through a job for me."

Alton nodded, and glanced at the speaker questioningly.

"No.  If it would fit in," he said.

"I'm Hallam," said the other man.  "Hallam and Vose, of the Tyee
mineral claim.  They've been fooling things up yonder, big pump's given
out, and I've a few hundred pounds of engine fixings back at the
railroad I want brought in by to-morrow."

Alton glanced at the pack-beasts waiting unloaded outside the store,
and shook his head.  "I'm sorry I can't trade with you," he said.  "You
see, I've promised another man to pack up some stores for him."

Hallam made a gesture of impatience.  "Then you can let him wait," he
said.  "This deal will pay you better.  You can put your own price on
it."

Alton's eyelids came down a little, and the stranger seemed to find his
glance disconcerting.  "You don't seem to understand.  I promised the
other man to bring up his things," he said.

"Well," said Hallam, "come along into the shanty yonder, and have a
drink with me.  We may fix up some way of getting over the difficulty."

"Sorry!" said Alton with a suspicious quietness.  "I don't drink much,
anyway, and then only with the boys who know me."

"Hey!" said Hallam.  "You are talking like a condemned Englishman."

"I can't help that," said Alton.  "I am a Canadian, but if you want
another reason, it wouldn't suit me to drink with you, anyway.  You
see, you didn't do the square thing with one or two friends of mine who
worked on the Tyee."

He turned on his heel, and Hallam, who was a man of some importance in
the cities, gasped with astonishment and indignation.

"What is that fellow?" he said.

The man laughed, and answered him in the bushman's slowest drawl.  "You
don't know much, or you wouldn't ask," said he.  "He's Alton of
Somasco, but if he lives long enough he will be one of the biggest men
in this country."

Hallam said nothing, but there was a curious look in his face which
puzzled the rancher.  It suggested that he had heard of Alton, and
something more.

Meanwhile Alton entered the store, where the man who kept it pointed to
a litter of packages strewn about the floor and sundry bags upon the
counter.

"That's Townshead's lot, and those are Thomson's things," he said, and
turned aside to listen to a rancher who came in smiling.

Alton took up a big cotton bag marked Townshead, tossed it aloft and
caught it, and then shook his head dubiously.  "That's rather too light
for ten pounds.  You want to try her on the scales again," he said.

The storekeeper, who was also a magistrate, grinned good-humouredly.
"It's good enough for the money, anyway," said he.  "But what's the
matter with the Tyee dollars, Harry, that you wouldn't do Hallam's
packing?"

Alton glanced at him gravely.  "I think not," said he.  "Put another
pound or two into her, and I'll pay you on your invoice for the last
lot you sent me.  Otherwise I'm going to whittle down that bill
considerably.  You see Townshead is too shaky to come down, and he
can't live on nothing."

"And the Lord knows when he'll pay you," said the storekeeper.  "It's a
good twelve months since he sent a dollar to me."

Alton laughed a little.  "I can wait," he said.  "Fill that bag up
again.  Get hold of the truck, Charley."

Charles Seaforth, who was apparently younger, and certainly a trifle
more fastidious about his attire than his comrade, shouldered a flour
bag, and twenty minutes later he and Alton tramped out of the
settlement with three loaded beasts splashing and floundering in front
of them.  It was almost dark now, though a line of snow still glimmered
white and cold high up beyond the trees until the trail plunged into
the blackness of the forest.  Then the lights of the settlement were
blotted out behind them, the hum of voices ceased, and they were alone
in the primeval silence of the bush.  The thud and splash of tired
hoofs only served to emphasize it, the thin jingle of steel or creak of
pack-rope was swallowed up and lost, for the great dim forest seemed to
mock at anything man could do to disturb its pristine serenity.  It had
shrouded all that valley, where no biting gale ever blew, from the
beginning, majestic in its solitary grandeur and eternally green.  Pine
and hemlock, balsam and cedar, had followed in due succession others
that had grown to the fulness of their stature only in centuries, and
their healing essence, which brings sound sleep to man's jaded body and
tranquillity to his mind, had doubtless risen like incense when all was
made very good.

Now Alton loved the wilderness, partly because he had been born in it,
and because he had a large share of the spirit of his race.  He had
also seen the cities, and they did not greatly please him, though he
had watched their inhabitants curiously and been taught a good deal
about them by what he read in books, which to the wonder of his
associates he would spend hardly-earned dollars upon.  It was more
curious that he understood all he read, and sometimes more than the
writer apparently did, for Alton was not only the son of a clever man,
but had seen Nature in her primitive nakedness and the human passions
that usually lie beneath the surface, for man reverts a little and the
veneer of his civilization wears through in the silent bush.

Thus he plodded on contentedly on his twelve-mile march, with the snow
and the mire beneath it reaching now and then to his knee, until his
companion stopped beside a little bark shanty and lighted a lantern.

"Thomson's dumping-place already," he said, pulling a burst cotton bag
out of the sack of sundries upon the Cayuse pony's back.  "Some of it
has got out, and Jimmy was always particular about the weight of his
sugar.  Well, the rest of it must be in the bottom somewhere, and if
you'll hold the sack up I'll shake it into my hat."

Alton's hat was capacious, and he had worn it during the two years
which had elapsed since his last visit to Vancouver, but it did not
seem to occur to him that it was in any way an unusual receptacle for
sugar.  His companion, however, laughed a little as he stirred the
sticky mass round with his wet fingers.

"There is no use giving him our tobacco and matches in," said he.
"Here are the letters Mrs. Neilson gave me at the post-office, too."

Alton took the letters, and his face grew a trifle grim under the
flickering light of the lantern as he thrust them crumpled into his
pocket.  "From England, and they will keep," he said.  "There's nobody
I'm anxious to hear from in that country.  Now we'll go on again,
Charley."

The Cayuse, however, objected, and there was a struggle before Alton
convinced it that resistance would be useless, while presently the
trail grew steeper and the roar of water came out of the darkness
before them.

"This," said Alton gravely, "is a great country, but it's mighty
unfinished yet, and it kind of hurts me to see all that power wasted."

"Wasted?" said Seaforth, smiling.  "Don't the salmon swim in it, and
the bear and deer come down to drink?"

"Oh, yes," said Alton.  "And sometimes the Siwash wash themselves in it
too, but that's not the question.  This earth wasn't made for the bear
and deer, and they've thousands of poor folks they can't find a use for
back there in the old country.  Isn't that so, Charley?"

Seaforth, who was a young Englishman of good upbringing, laughed.  "I
have no reason for doubting it," said he.  "In any case, none of my
worthy relations had any use for me.  Still, I don't see the connection
exactly."

"No?" said Alton.  "Well, it's simple.  We have the gold and silver,
and the coal and iron, too, while it don't strike one that these
forests were put here just to look pretty."

"The metals you allude to take some trouble in getting out," said
Seaforth dryly.

Alton nodded.  "Of course," he said.  "That's what man got his brains
for, and the one difference between a white man and a Siwash is that
he's always striking for something better."

Seaforth laughed.  "You are trying to get at something, as usual," said
he.

"Yes," said Alton gravely.  "I generally am.  Well, I can see what we
don't want of these forests sailing sawn up to China, and this river
sprinkled with sawmills and wood-pulp factories.  Then I can hear the
big dynamoes humming, and the thump of the mine stamps run with the
current the men who put them down will get for nothing.  What we're
wasting round Somasco is going to feed ten thousand people by and by."

"It's a big idea," said Seaforth reflectively.  "Still, I don't know
that if it were ever put through the place would look any prettier--and
the question is, who's going to set the whole thing running?"

"God knows," said Alton gravely.  "But somebody will, and if I live
long enough I'll make a shot at it.  Oh, yes, it's very pretty as it
is, but the greatest thing in this world is man, and it was made as it
is for him to master."

"You have curious notions for a Canadian bush rancher," said Seaforth.
"You are, however, really an Englishman, aren't you?"

"No," said Alton grimly.  "My father used to be, but he was too much of
my way of thinking and they fired him out of the country.  It's a thing
I don't like to talk of, Charley, and just now I'm a low-down packer
hauling in a pile of truck I'll never get paid for.  Steady, come up.
There's nothing going to hurt you, Julius Caesar."

The snarling and spitting of a panther came out of the darkness, and it
was only by main force Alton dragged the Cayuse past.  Then he laughed
a little.  "It's a pity we didn't bring a rifle along," he said.
"Panthers must have been made for something, or they wouldn't be here,
but it's a beast a white man has no kind of use for."

It was an hour later, and snowing fast, when they climbed out of the
valley and floundered over shale and slippery rock amidst scattered
pines to the forking of the trail.  One arm of it dipped again, and
wound through a deep sheltered hollow to the Somasco ranch, the other
ran straight along the hillside to Townshead's dwelling.  The hillside
was also steep, the beasts were tired, and the trail was very bad.
Seaforth glanced at his comrade when they stopped a moment, and saw him
dimly, tugging at the Cayuse's bridle, through the snow.

"It's a long way to Townshead's.  Still, I think we can make it out,"
he said.

Alton laughed.  "We have got to.  There's not generally too much to eat
at that house, and they'll want the things," he said.

There was another struggle with the Cayuse, which appeared reluctant to
face a treacherous ascent whose slope was somewhat steeper than the
pitch of an average roof, but once more Alton conquered, and they
dragged the beasts up, and then floundered on doggedly beside them,
seeing nothing but a dim pine or two through the snow.  Now and then
there was a rattle and a rush beneath them, followed by a faint splash,
and Seaforth shivered a little, knowing that the shingle they dislodged
had plunged into a lonely lake lying far below.  Still Alton said
nothing, but floundered on, apparently as cheerfully as though he would
be well paid for the risk he ran, until he crawled down into the
sliding whiteness, when a hide strip burst and some of Townshead's
packages were scattered about the face of a precipitous declivity.

Seaforth held his breath a moment as, gripping the bridle of a
trembling beast, he watched him until the dim moving figure sank into
the snow.  He could hear the wash of the unfrozen lake, and knew there
was no foothold on the slippery rock which sloped almost sheer to it
through the darkness close beneath.  Then a voice came up, "Wasn't
there a dry goods package of some kind, Charley?"

"There was," shouted Seaforth.  "But come up with what you've got, and
leave it."

A faint laugh answered him, and through the moaning of the pines he
caught the words, "If it's not over the edge here, I'm going to get the
thing."

Seaforth said nothing further.  He knew his comrade too well, and could
picture him clinging by hand and heel as he crawled along the brink of
the declivity with the lake below, and gasped from relief when once
more a dim whitened object lurched up out of the snow.

"Got them all," said Alton cheerfully.  "That last one was just on the
edge, and it took some thinking before I could get at it.  Still, I
guessed it was some kind of dress stuff for the girl, and if we lost it
it might be a long while before she got another."

They relashed the packages and went on again, floundering through
steadily deepening snow, until once more the roar of water met them as
they dipped into a hollow.  It grew louder rapidly, and presently Alton
pulled the Cayuse up on the brink of a river.  It came down frothing
out of a haze of sliding snow, tumbling with a hoarse growl about the
great dim boulders, whirled and tossed in a white confusion down the
wild race of a rapid, and was lost again.  How far the other bank was
there was nothing to show, for even the scattered pines behind the men
were hidden now, and Seaforth stared at the tumult of froth before him
very dubiously.

"She's pretty full to-night," he said.  "It has got to be attempted,
but I'm not quite sure how we're going through."

Alton laughed a little, and brought his hand down on the Cayuse pony's
flank.  "Well, if you'll come along behind me you will see," said he.

Seaforth was waist-deep next minute, and the water was horribly cold.
Then he was washed against a boulder, and fancied that one of the
pack-beasts kicked him in its floundering.  In any case one knee seemed
to grow suddenly useless, but he was not very sure of anything just
then, for a burst of spray filled his eyes, and the bottom appeared to
slip from under him.  He found foothold again in a moment or two, and
dimly saw Alton's head and shoulders above the back of a plunging
beast, while another was apparently swimming somewhere between them.
Then the one Seaforth led stumbled, and they went away down stream
together, clawing for a foothold with the shingle slipping under them,
until there was a thud as they brought up against another boulder.  As
he was not sensible of any especially painful blow Seaforth decided
that it was the pony which had struck the rock, and had just come to
this decision when his feet were swept from under him, and, still
clinging to the bridle, he was pressed against the stone while the
river frothed and roared about him.

Once more he felt that it was horribly cold, and flung a wet arm about
the rock, but the power seemed to go out of him, and he wondered
vacantly whether the pony would be able to extricate itself and him.
It floundered spasmodically for a while, and then lay still.  How long
this continued Seaforth did not know, but it was more than twelve hours
since he had left Somasco, and he had plodded up and down steep
hillsides, over rock and boulder, and through deep mire and snow, most
of the time, while there are limits to the domination the will of any
man may exercise over his worn-out body.

Seaforth had commenced to realize, still with a curious absence of
concern which was possibly the result of cold and fatigue, that as the
pony could not help him it might be too late very soon unless he made a
vigorous effort to help himself, when he heard a shout, and something
came slowly through the sliding whiteness in his direction.  Then there
was another shout, and when somebody dragged the pony clear of the
boulder he held on by the bridle and went floundering waist-deep up
stream.  The water, however, now sank rapidly, and soon he was clear of
it to the knee.  Then there was a clatter of hoofs on slippery rock,
and he lurched dripping and gasping into the partial shelter of the
pines.  Somebody smote him on the shoulder, and he heard Alton's voice,
"Get hold and hustle.  We'll fetch Townshead's in an hour or so."

CHAPTER II

AT TOWNSHEAD'S RANCH

It was chilly and damp in the log-walled living-room of the Townshead
homestead, which stood far up in a lonely valley amidst the scattered
pines.  The room was also bare and somewhat comfortless, for the land
was too poor to furnish its possessor with more than necessities, and
Townshead not the man to improve it much.  He lay in an old leather
chair beside the stove, a slender, grey-haired man with the worn look
of one whose burden had been too heavy for him.  His face was thin and
somewhat haggard, his long, slender hand rather that of an artist than
a bush rancher, and his threadbare attire was curiously neat.  He wore
among other somewhat unusual things an old red velvet jacket, and there
was a little cup of black coffee and a single cigar of exceptional
quality on the table beside him.

Townshead was, in fact, somewhat of an anachronism in a country whose
inhabitants exhibit at least a trace of primitive and wholesome
barbarity.  One could have fancied him at home among men of leisure and
cultivated tastes, but he seemed out of place in a log-built ranch in
the snow-wrapped wilderness swept by the bitter wind.  Perhaps he
realized it, for his voice was querulous as he said, "I wonder if you
have forgotten, Nellie, that we were sitting warm and safe in England
five years ago tonight."

Nellie Townshead looked up quickly over her sewing from the other side
of the stove, and for a moment there was something akin to pain in her
eyes.  They were clear brown eyes, and it was characteristic that they
almost immediately brightened into a smile, for while the girl's face
resembled her father's in its refinement, there was courage in it in
place of weariness.

"I am afraid I do, though I try not to, and am generally able," she
said.

Townshead sighed.  "The young are fortunate, for they can forget," he
said.  "Even that small compensation is, however, denied to me, while
the man I called my friend is living in luxury on what was yours and
mine.  Had it been any one but Charters I might have borne it better,
but it was the one man I had faith in who sent us out here to penury."

Townshead was wrong in one respect, for it was the weakness of an
over-sensitive temperament which, while friends were ready to help him,
had driven him to hide himself in Western Canada when, as the result of
unwise speculations, financial disaster overtook him.  His daughter,
however, did not remind him of this, as some daughters would have done,
though she understood it well enough, and a memory out of keeping with
the patter of the snow and moaning of the wind rose up before her as
she looked into the twinkling stove.  She could recall that night five
years ago very well, for she had spent most of it amidst lights and
music, as fresh and bright herself as the flowers that nestled against
her first ball dress.  It was a night of triumph and revelation, in
which she had first felt the full power of her beauty and her sex, and
she had returned with the glamour of it all upon her to find her father
sitting with his head in his hands at a table littered with business
papers.  His face had frightened her, and it had never wholly lost the
look she saw upon it then, for Townshead was lacking in fibre, and had
found that a fondness for horses and some experience of amateur
cattle-breeding on a small and expensive scale was a very poor
preparation for the grim reality of ranching in Western Canada.

Presently his daughter brushed the memories from her, and stood,
smiling at the man, straight and willowy in her faded cotton dress with
a partly finished garment in her hands, which frost and sun had not
wholly turned rough and red.

"Your coffee will be getting cold.  Shall I put it on the stove?" she
said.

Townshead made a little grimace.  "One may as well describe things
correctly, and that is chickory," he said.  "Still, you may warm it if
it pleases you, but I might point out that, indifferent as it is,
preserved milk which has gone musty does not improve its flavour."

The girl laughed a little, though there was something more pathetic
than heartsome in her merriment.  "I am afraid we shall have none
to-morrow unless Mr. Seaforth gets through," she said.  "I suppose you
have not a few dollars you could give me, father?"

"No," said Townshead, with somewhat unusual decisiveness; "I have not.
You are always asking for dollars.  What do you want them for?"

"Mr. Seaforth has packed our stores in for a long while, and we have
paid him nothing," said the girl, while a little colour crept into her
face.

Townshead made a gesture of weariness.  "The young man seems willing to
do it out of friendship for us, and I see no reason why we should not
allow him, unless he presumes upon the trifling service," he said.  "To
do him justice, however, he and his comrade have always shown
commendable taste."

The girl smiled a little, for considering their relative positions in a
country where a man takes his station according to his usefulness the
word "presume" appeared incongruous.  "Still, I should prefer not to be
in their debt," she said.

"Then we will free ourselves of the obligation with the next remittance
Jack sends in," said Townshead impatiently.

The girl's face grew troubled.  "I am afraid that will not be for some
little time," she said.  "Poor Jack.  You surely remember he is lying
ill?"

"It is especially inconvenient just now," said Townshead querulously.
"It has also been a sore point with me that a son of mine should hire
himself out as a labourer.  I am sorry I let him go, the more so
because the work upon the ranch is getting too much for me."

Nellie Townshead said nothing, though she sighed as she pictured the
young lad, who had been stricken by rheumatic fever as a result of
toiling waist-deep in icy, water, lying uncared for in the mining camp
amidst the snows of Caribou.  She did not, however, remind her father
that it was she who had in the meanwhile done most of the indispensable
work upon the ranch, and Townshead would not in any case have believed
her, for he had a fine capacity for deceiving himself.

In place of it she spread out some masculine garments about the stove
and coloured a trifle when her father glanced at her inquiringly.  "The
creek must be running high and Mr. Alton and his partner will be very
wet," she said.  "I am warming a few of Jack's old things for them.
They cannot go back to Somasco to-night, you know."

"I confess that it did not occur to me," said Townshead languidly.
"No, I suppose one could scarcely expect them to, and we shall have to
endure their company."

A faint sparkle that had nothing to do with laughter crept into the
girl's eyes, for there were times when her father tried her patience.
"I wonder if it occurred to you that we shall probably starve to-morrow
unless Mr. Alton, who is apparently not to be paid for it, makes what
must be a very arduous march to-night?" she said.

"I'm afraid it did not," said Townshead, with a fine unconcern.  "I
think you understand, my dear, that I leave the commissariat to you,
and you have a way of putting things which jars upon one occasionally."

A little trace of colour crept into the girl's cheek, but it faded
again as she sat down beside the stove.  Still, now and then she
pricked her fingers with the needle, which she had not done before, and
finally laid down the fabric and laughed softly.  "There is," she said,
"something distinctly humorous in the whole position."

"You," said her father, "had always a somewhat peculiar sense of
humour."

"Well," said his daughter with a slight quiver of her lips, "I feel
that I must either cry or laugh to-night.  Do you know there is
scarcely enough for breakfast in the house, and that I am dreadfully
hungry now?"

Townshead glanced at her reproachfully.  "Either one or the other would
be equally distasteful to me," he said.

The girl sighed, and turned away to thrust a few small billets into the
stove.  She chose them carefully, for the big box whose ugliness she
had hidden by a strip of cheap printed cotton was almost empty.  The
hired man, seeing no prospect of receiving his wages, had departed
after a stormy interview, and shortly after his son followed him.
Townshead discovered that sawing wood was especially unsuited to his
constitution.  Then the girl increased the draught a little and
endeavoured to repress a shiver.  The house was damp for want of proper
packing, and the cold wind that came down from the high peaks moaned
about it eerily.  It was also very lonely, and the girl, who was young,
felt a great longing for human fellowship.

Her father presently took up a book, and there was silence only broken
by the rattle of loose shingles overhead and the soft thud against the
windows of driving snow, while the girl sat dreaming over her sewing of
the brighter days in far-off England which had slipped away from her
for ever.  Five years was not a very long time, but during it her
English friends had forgotten her, and one who had scarcely left her
side that memorable night had, though she read of the doings of his
regiment now and then, sent her no word or token.  A little flush crept
into her cheek as, remembering certain words of his, she glanced at her
reddened wrists and little toil-hardened hands.  She who had been a
high-spirited girl with the world at her feet then, was now one of the
obscure toilers whose work was never done.  Still, because it was only
on rare occasions that work left her leisure to think about herself, it
had not occurred to her that she had lost but little by the change.
The hands that had once been soft and white were now firm and brown,
the stillness of the great firs and cedars had given her a calm
tranquillity in place of restless haste, and frost and sun the clear,
warm-tinted complexion, while a look of strength and patience had
replaced the laughter in her hazel eyes.

Suddenly, however, there was a trampling in the snow and a sound of
voices, followed after, an interval by a knocking at the door.  It
swung open, and two whitened objects loaded with bags and packages
strode into the room.  The blast that came in with them set the lamp
flickering, and sent a chill through the girl, but she rose with a
smile when rancher Alton stood, a shapeless figure, with the moisture
on his bronzed face, beside the stove.

"Take those things through into the kitchen, Charley," he said.  "I
think we've got them all, Miss Townshead.  I hope, sir, you are feeling
pretty well."

Townshead made some answer with a slight bend of his head, but Alton
appeared a trifle dubious when the girl offered him hospitality.

"I'm afraid the beasts are used up, or I wouldn't think of it," he said.

Nellie Townshead's eyes twinkled as she glanced at him.  "Could you not
have put it in another way?" she said.

Alton laughed, and brushed his fingers across the top of the stove.
"Well, it doesn't sound quite right, but after all the meaning's the
great thing," he said.  "This place isn't warm enough for you, Miss
Nellie."

He turned and walked to the wood-box, and after glancing into it
carefully straightened out its covering.  Then he strode towards the
door, and stopped a moment before he opened it.  "Excuse!" he said
simply.  "No, don't you worry; I know just where the saw and lantern
are, and Charley, who comes from the old country, can talk to you for
me."

He went out in another moment, but the fact that he was very weary did
not escape the attention of the girl, who also noticed the absence of
any unnecessary questions or explanations.  Alton was, she knew
already, one who did things the better because he did them silently.
Still, it was Seaforth whom, when nobody observed her, her eyes rested
most upon.

It was half an hour before the former returned with a load of scented
firewood upon his back, and, saying nothing, filled the box with it,
packing each piece where it best fitted deliberately but swiftly; then
he passed through the room into an adjoining one, and returned attired
picturesquely in Jack Townshead's overalls, which were distinctly too
small for him.  By this time supper was ready, and Seaforth, also
dressed in borrowed garments, seated at the table, but though Miss
Townshead had not lost the stamp of refinement she brought with her
from England.  and her father was dignified and precise, Alton showed
no embarrassment.  He also listened patiently to Townshead's views on
ranching and the mining prospects of that region, though he was already
looked up to as a master of the former industry, and contrived
meanwhile that the girl made a good meal instead of attending to him.
When it was finished he unfolded a carefully wrapped up packet, and
took an envelope out of it, though Miss Townshead noticed that several
others he laid down were crumpled and wet.

"Here is a letter for you," he said.

He glanced at the girl questioningly as she took it up, and fingered
one of the envelopes upon the table.  "Excuse?" he said.

Nellie Townshead smiled and nodded, and then, knowing that the
communication handed her was of no importance, watched him covertly as
he tore open a long blue envelope.  There were documents inside it, and
the man's fingers shook a little as he spread out one of them.  Then
bewildered astonishment crept into his eyes, and was replaced by a
flash of something very like anger, after which his face grew suddenly
impassive, and he thrust the documents all together into his pocket.

"Get up, Charley, and bring the tray along," he said.

Miss Townshead glanced at him sharply.  "What do you wish to do?" she
said.

"Wash up," said Alton simply.  "I don't know how you fix these things
in England, but this is a good Canadian custom.  Stir around, Charley."

"But," said the girl, "you don't know where the things are."

"Well," said Alton, smiling, "I figure I can find them."

He laid the cups and dishes on the tray, gave it to Seaforth, and
disappeared down a passage carrying the kettle, but not before Miss
Townshead had noticed that while his comrade, who had apparently been
used to the smoother side of life in England, displayed some
awkwardness, everything the big rancher did seemed appropriate, and,
because removing plates is not a man's task, she wondered at it.  They
came back presently, and by that time the girl, who had opened some of
the packages, held a roll of fabric upon her knee.

"If you can find a splash anywhere I'll forfeit a dollar.  Charley's
good at mopping up," said Alton gravely.  "I'm afraid that stuff's a
little wet, but it was the Cayuse's fault.  He started in kicking and
burst the rope, you see."

"It would have been wetter if it had gone into the lake," said Seaforth.

"The lake?" said the girl.

Seaforth nodded.  "Yes," he said.  "It was on the Tyee trail the pony
commenced kicking."

The girl looked up sharply, and there was a subdued brightness in her
eyes, for she had more than once shivered when leading her horse along
that perilous trail.  Alton felt for his comrade's leg under the table
and kicked it grievously.

"There wasn't any trouble, and the snow was soft," said he.  "You're
going to make a dress of that stuff, Miss Nellie?"

"Yes," said the girl.  "I could, however, wish the stuff was better."

Alton smiled gravely.  "Of course!" he said.  "Still, it don't count
for much.  You would look like a picture in anything."

Nellie Townshead glanced at him sharply, and for a moment there was a
faint sparkle in her eyes, for she had a trace of temper.

"Whatever made you say that?" said she.

Alton laughed.  "I really don't quite know.  I just felt I had to," he
said with a naive simplicity.  "I wouldn't have done it if I had
thought it would vex you."

After this he listened while his comrade talked--and Seaforth on
occasion could talk gracefully--until at last he said, "England's not
so very big, Miss Nellie.  I wonder if you know a place called Carnaby."

"Yes," said the girl.  "I once went to see rather a fine old hall
there."

"Carnaby Grange?" said Alton quietly.

"Yes," said the girl with a trace of curiosity.  "We spent some little
time in the grounds.  They lie deep in the woods, and there is a famous
rose garden."

"Yes," said Alton.  "All kinds of roses.  And the old place?  Tell me
about it!"

"Is very picturesque," said the girl.  "It looked quiet and grey, and
almost stately under its ivy that autumn day, but I could scarcely
describe it you.  You have nothing like it in Canada."

"No," said Alton gravely.  "I have seen nothing like it in Canada.  But
wasn't there a lake?"

The girl glanced at him curiously.  "There was," she said.  "I remember
it lay shining before us between the woods.  It was very beautiful,
quieter and calmer than our lakes in Canada."

A slight flush crept through the bronze in Alton's face, which grew a
trifle grim, and a light into his eyes.  "There is a lake at Somasco
where you can see the white peaks lie shining, and the big Wapiti come
down to drink," he said.  "There are cedars and redwoods about it which
except for a few in California, haven't their equal in the world, but
there's nothing about that lake or valley that's quiet or calm.  It's
wild and great and grand.  No.  They've nothing of that kind in the old
country.  Are not Abana and Pharfar better than all the waters of
Israel?"

"Apposite!" said Townshead.  "You apparently read the Scriptures?"

"Sometimes," said Alton simply.  "They get hold of me.  Those old
fellows went right down to the bed rock of human nature back there in
Palestine, and it strikes me there's no great difference in that
between now and then."

"When," said Townshead smiling, "I was a King in Babylon."

"No," said Alton reflectively.  "You're a little late on time.  The
Christian slave don't quite fit in."

Townshead glanced at him sharply, and said nothing, for the rancher had
once or twice already somewhat astonished him.

"Well," said Alton, "tell me, Miss Nellie, were the lilies where the
ashes hung over the lake?  I want to know all about Carnaby."

The girl seemed somewhat thoughtful, and a trifle astonished, but she
made the best use of her memory, and Alton listened gravely.  "Yes," he
said.  "I seem to see it.  The rose garden on the south side, the big
lawn, and the lake.  There's a little stream on the opposite side of it
that comes down through the fern from the big beech wood."

"But," said the girl, "how could you know that?"

"I think I must have dreamt it," said Alton gravely.  "Or perhaps my
father told me.  He used to talk of Carnaby, and I feel I know it well."

The girl stared at him in her wonder.  "But what is Carnaby to you?"
she said.

Alton rose up, and stood still a moment, somewhat grim in face.  "It
should have been my father's, and now when I don't know that I want it,
I think it's mine," he said.  "Anyway, I'm kind of tired, and I think
I'll turn in.  Excuse me."

He went out, and Nellie Townshead glanced at his comrade.  "Do you know
what he means?" she said.

Seaforth smiled and shook his head.  "I've never seen Harry taken that
way before," he said.  "Still, we'll hope he'll be better to-morrow.
He has been through a good deal to-day."

Miss Townshead did not appear contented, but she changed the topic.
"Then what did you mean when you spoke about the dress packet?"

"I'll tell you," said Seaforth, "if you don't tell Harry.  Well, when
the packet slipped down to the edge of the big drop I'm not sure that
the price of two ranches would have induced most men to follow it."

"But why did Mr. Alton go?" said the girl, with an expression which was
not quite the one the man had expected to see in her face.

Seaforth smiled.  "He may have fancied you wanted it.  Anyway, Harry is
a little obstinate occasionally, and when a thing looks difficult he
can't resist attempting it.  In the language of my adopted country
that's the kind of man he is.  Now I think I had better go after him,
because I fancy he wants soothing after that last speech of his."

HARRY THE TEAMSTER

The sun was on the hill slopes, and there was a dazzling glare of snow,
when Miss Alice Deringham stood with her travelling dress fluttering
about her on the platform of the observation car as the Pacific express
went thundering down a valley of British Columbia.  The dress, which
was somewhat dusty, had cost her father a good deal of money, and the
hat that was sprinkled with cinders had come from Paris; while the
artistic simplicity of both had excited the envy of the two Winnipeg
ladies who, having failed to make friends with Miss Deringham during
the journey, now sat watching her disapprovingly in a corner of the
car.  The girl was of a type as yet not common in Western Canada,
reserved, quietly imperious, and annoyingly free from any manifestation
of enthusiasm.  She had also listened languidly to their most racy
stories with a somewhat tired look in her eyes.

They were, however, fine eyes of a violet blue, and gold hair with a
warmer tinge in it clustered about the broad white forehead, while the
rest of the girl's face was refined in its modelling, if a trifle cold
in expression and colouring.  Miss Deringham was also tall, and as she
stood with one little hand on the rail and the other on the brim of the
hat the wind would have torn away from her, her pose displayed a
daintily-proportioned figure.  The girl was, however, as oblivious of
her companions as she was of the dust, and her eyes were at last keen
with wonder.  She had seen nothing which resembled the panorama that
unrolled itself before her as the great mountain locomotives sped on
through the primeval wilderness, and the wild beauty of it left a
deeper mark on her because her Canadian journey had been more or less a
disappointment.

Alice Deringham had tasted of the best that England had to offer in the
shape of sport and scenery, art and music, and had grown a little tired
of it all; while, when her father had announced his intention of
crossing the Canadian Dominion, partly on an affair of business and
partly for the benefit of his health, she had gladly accompanied him in
the hope of seeing something new.  Deringham was a promoter and
director of English companies, but his daughter having the fine disdain
for anything connected with finance which occasionally characterizes
those who have never felt the lack of money, asked him a few questions
concerning one object of his journey.  She only knew that the Carnaby
estate, which would in the usual course have reverted to her, had been
unexpectedly willed to the son of a man its late owner had
disinherited, on conditions.  The man, it appeared, was dead, and
Deringham desired to see whether any understanding or compromise could
be arrived at with the one son he had left behind in Western Canada.

To become the mistress of Carnaby Hall would have pleased Alice
Deringham, but, as she had already realized there was no great hope of
that, she had prepared to enjoy her Canadian journey.  It had, however,
fallen short of her expectations.  Ontario reminded her of southern
Scotland, and there was nothing to impress one who had seen the
Highlands when the cars ran into the confusion of rock and forest, lake
and river, along the Superior shore.  Winnipeg in no way appealed to
her, and she grew weary as they swept out past straggling wooden towns
into the grass lands of the West.

The towns rose stark from the prairie in unsoftened ugliness, and there
was nothing to stir the imagination in the great waste of sun-bleached
grass.  Day by day, while the dust whirled by them, and the gaunt
telegraph posts came up out of the far horizon and sank into the east,
they raced across the wide levels.  The red dawns burned behind them,
the sunsets flamed ahead, and still there was only dust and grass,
chequered here and there with bands of stubble, while driving grit and
ugliness were the salient features of the little stations they stopped
at.

Miss Deringham had read enough to learn that pistol and bandolier had
long gone out of fashion in Western Canada, where, indeed, they had
rarely formed a necessary portion of the plainsman's attire, but she
had expected a little vivid colour and dash of romance.  The
stock-riders she saw at the station were, however, for the most part
dress in faded jean, and many of them appeared to speak excellent
English, while the wheat-growers rode soberly in dusty and dilapidated
wagons.  Still the romance was there, though in place of the
swashbuckling cavalier she found only quiet, slowly-spoken men, with
patience most plainly stamped upon their sun-darkened faces.  Their
hands were hard with the grip of the bridle and plough-stilt in place
of the rifle, and the struggle they waged was a slow and grim one
against frost and drought and adverse seasons.

There was, however, a transformation when she awoke one morning and
found the Rockies had been left behind, and they were roaring down
through the passes of British Columbia.  This was a new, and apparently
unfinished, world, a land of tremendous mountains, leagues of forests,
such as her imagination had never pictured, and untrodden heights of
never-melting snow.  Glacier, blue lake, river droning through shadowy
canons, rushed by, and the glamour of it crept into the heart of the
girl, until as they swept down into the valley with a river two
thousand feet below, she felt she was at last in touch with something
strange and new.

Presently the hoot of the whistle came ringing up the pass, wheels
screamed discordantly, and the pines below flitted towards them a
trifle more slowly.  Then, as they swung rocking round the face of a
crag and a cluster of wooden buildings rose to view, Deringham came out
upon the platform.  He was a tall, slightly-built man, with a pallid
face and keen but slightly shifty eyes, and bore the unmistakable stamp
of the Englishman.

"That must be our alighting-place, and I am not sure how we are to get
on," he said.  "It is, I understand, a long way to Somasco, and when we
get there I really do not know whether we shall find any accommodation
suitable for you.  It might have been better if you had gone on to our
friends, the Fords, at Vancouver."

Alice Deringham laughed a little.  "I don't think you need worry.  Mr.
Alton will, no doubt, take us in," she said.  "A little primitive
barbarity would not be unpleasant as a novelty."

A trace of something very like anger crept into Deringham's eyes.  It
was not very perceptible, for he seldom showed much of what he felt,
but his daughter noticed it.  "It is somewhat unfortunate that we shall
probably have to avail ourselves of the young man's hospitality," he
said.  "You understand, my dear, that he is a kinsman of your own, and,
unless he can be persuaded to relinquish his claim, the owner of
Carnaby.  Still, I have hopes of coming to terms with him.  The charges
upon the land are very burdensome."

Alice Deringham's face grew a trifle scornful.  "You will do your
best," she said.  "The thought of one of these half-civilized axemen
living at Carnaby is almost distressful to me.  In fact, I feel a
curious dislike to the man even before I have seen him."

There was another hoot of the whistle, a little station grew larger
down the track, and here and there a wooden house peeped out amidst the
slowly-flitting trees.  Then the cars stopped with a jerk, and Miss
Deringham stepped down from the platform.  Her first glance showed her
long ranks of climbing pines, with a great white peak silhouetted hard
and sharp above them against the blue.  Then she became conscious of
the silver mist streaming ethereally athwart the sombre verdure from
the river hollow, and that a new and pungent smell cut through the
odours of dust and creosote which reeked along the track.  It came from
a cord of cedar-wood piled up close by, and she found it curiously
refreshing.  The drowsy roar of the river mingled with the panting of
the locomotive pump, but there was a singular absence of life and
movement in the station until the door of the baggage-car slid open,
and her father sprang aside as her trunks were shot out on to the
platform.  A bag or two of something followed them, the great engines
panted, and the dusty cars went on again, while it dawned upon Alice
Deringham that her last hold upon civilization had gone, and she was
left to her own resources in a new and somewhat barbarous land.

There were no obsequious porters to collect her baggage, which lay
where it had alighted with one trunk gaping open, while a couple of men
in blue shirts and soil-stained jeans leaned upon the neighbouring
fence watching her with mild curiosity.  Her father addressed another
one somewhat differently attired who stood in the door of the office.

"There is a hotel here, but they couldn't take you in," said the man.
"Party of timber-right prospectors came along, and they're kind of
frolicsome.  They might find you a berth on the verandah, but I don't
know that it would suit the lady.  It mixes things up considerable when
you bring a woman."

Deringham glanced at his daughter, and the girl laughed.  "Then is
there any means of getting on to Cedar Valley?" she said.

The man slowly shook his head.  "You might walk, but it's close on
forty miles," he said.  "Stage goes out on Saturday."

Deringham made a gesture of resignation.  "I never walked forty miles
at once in my life," he said.  "Can you suggest anything at all?  We
cannot well live here on the platform until Saturday."

"No," said the man gravely.  "I don't figure I could let you.  Well,
now I wonder if Harry could find room for you."

He shouted, and a man who was carrying a flour-bag turned his head and
then went on again until he hove his load into a two-horse wagon, while
Miss Deringham noticed that although the bag was stamped 140 lbs. the
man trotted lightly across the metals and ballast with it upon his
shoulders.  Then he came in their direction, and she glanced at him
with some curiosity as he stood a trifle breathless before them.  He
wore a blue shirt burst open at the neck which showed his full red
throat, and somewhat ragged overalls.  The brown hair beneath his broad
felt hat was whitened with flour, and his bronzed face was red with the
dust.  Still he stood very straight, and it was a good face, with broad
forehead and long, straight nose, while the effect of the solid jaw was
mitigated by something in the shape of the mobile lips.  The grey eyes
were keen and steady until a sympathetic twinkle crept into them, and
Miss Deringham felt that the man understood her position.

"Well," he said.  "What's the difficulty?"

The station agent explained laconically, and the stranger gravely took
off his battered hat.  "My wagon's pretty full, but I can take you
through," he said.

"It would be a favour," said Deringham, taking out a roll of bills.  "I
should, of course, be glad to recompense you for your trouble."

For a moment the man's eyes closed a trifle, then he laughed, and Miss
Deringham noticed that there was nothing dissonant in his merriment.
"Well," he said lightly, "there will be plenty time to talk of that.
These are your things, miss?"

The girl nodded, and wondered when, heaving up the biggest trunk as
though it weighed nothing at all, he laid it carefully in the wagon,
because she remembered having to fee two hotel porters lavishly for
handling it in Liverpool.  He stopped, however, and glanced at the
second one with a faint trace of embarrassment.  It had burst open, and
several folds of filmy fabric projected.

"My hands are floury.  You might be able to shut it up," he said.

Miss Deringham stooped over the box that he might not see her face.  It
was merely the skirt of an evening dress which had displayed itself,
but she had guessed what the man was thinking, and remembering his
excuse was not displeased with him.  When the box was in the wagon she
took out a dollar, and then for no special reason put it back again.
The man was a bush teamster, but she did not feel equal to offering him
a piece of silver.  She swung herself up into the wagon with her foot
in his hand, and wondered whether it could be by intent that he stood
bare-headed while she did it.  Then her father climbed in, and the man
at the station laughed as he said, "What's the odds, Harry, you don't
spill the whole freight on the dip to the ford?"

The teamster, who made no answer, shook the reins, and they went
lurching over a horrible trail down the valley, while Miss Deringham
delightedly breathed in the scent of the cedars and felt the lash of
snow-chilled wind bring the blood to her face.  She, however, wished
that the bundle of straw which served as seat would not move about so
much, and fancied her father would have been more comfortable had he
not been menaced by a jolting piece of machinery.  Their progress was
rudely interrupted presently, for the teamster standing upright reined
the horses in on their haunches, and the girl saw a line of loaded
ponies straggling up the winding trail.  One of the men who plodded
behind them glanced at the driver of the wagon with an ironical grin,
and Miss Deringham saw a warmer colour creep into the sun-darkened
cheek.  This was, she fancied, a man with a temper.

"Now," he said, and then stopped suddenly.  The other man's grin became
more pronounced.  "You can start in," he said.  "We're not bashful."

The teamster said nothing, but a faint twinkle replaced the anger in
his eye, when as they started again Miss Deringham glanced at him
questioningly.  "That," he said, "wasn't quite fair to me.  They knew I
couldn't talk back, you see."

Miss Deringham laughed, and when an hour or two later he pulled the
horses up beside a lake and made one or two alterations to enhance her
comfort, glanced at him again.

"Did you come out here from England?" said she.

The man's face grew a trifle grim.  "No," he said gravely.  "Whatever
could have made you think that of me?"

There were reasons why the girl could not explain, and the man
stretched out an arm with a little proud gesture that became him
curiously.  "I am a Canadian first and last," said he.  "Isn't this
country good enough for anybody?"

Miss Deringham was forced to admit that it apparently was.  A blue lake
gleaming steely blue in the sunlight stretched away before them between
the towering firs, and beyond it lay an entrancing vision of great
white peaks.

"You do not like England, then?" said she.

The teamster smiled a little.  "That," he said, "is not a fair question
to ask me.  You and your father live there, don't you?"

Miss Deringham felt that she had trespassed, but was astonished that
this teamster should have wit enough to silence her with a compliment.
She also decided that he should not have the opportunity again.

They went on, winding along steep hillsides, splashing through
sparkling rivers, and lurching through the dim shadow of the bush,
until when the saffron sunset flamed along the peaks they came to the
head of a long declivity.  On the one hand the snow towered in awful
white purity, on the other scattered firs sloped sharply down into a
hollow until they were lost in the fleecy vapours that streamed athwart
them.  "Sit tight," said the teamster.  "It's eight miles to Hobart's
ranch, and there's no time to lose if we're going to get in there
to-night."

He shook the reins, and the girl clutched the side of the wagon as she
felt the lash of the wind and noticed how the firs rushed past.  It was
jolting horribly, and she was relieved when as the trail grew steeper
she saw the man tightening his grip on the reins and heard the grating
of the brake.  It ceased suddenly, one of the horses stumbled, then
flung up its head, and they were going down faster than ever, while the
man had flung his shoulders back and was dragging at the reins.  It
dawned upon Miss Deringham that something had gone wrong and the team
were running away.

There was now only white mist beneath them and the roar of water.
Trees came whirling up out of it, rock and bush swept past, while now
and then the wheels hung almost over the edge of the declivity, and the
girl could look down upon the sombre firs in the haze below.  After one
glance, however, she felt that it would not be well for her to do so.
Suddenly one of the horses stumbled again, and the teamster flung her
father the reins.  "Get hold," he said.  "Line's in the trace-hook."

He was over the front of the wagon next moment, and the girl gasped as
she saw him crawl out with an arm across the back of one of the
galloping horses and his knees on the pole.  It looked horribly
dangerous, and probably was, for the wagon was lurching furiously down
the declivity.  Then he leaned out and downwards over the horse,
clawing at something desperately, and Miss Deringham would have shut
her eyes if she could have done so.  In place of it she stared
fascinated at the clinging figure while the trees flashed past, until
it was evident that the man had accomplished his task.  How he got back
she did not know, but he was once more on the driving-seat when his
voice reached her breathlessly.

"Get a good hold.  I'm going to put them at the hill when I can," he
said.

They swept on until the hillside sloped more gently on the one hand,
and the teamster flung, himself backwards, dragging at the reins.  The
wagon, tilting, swung partly round, then there was a horrible lurching,
and the lathered beasts were floundering up a slope, smashing down the
undergrowth and fern, until the vehicle stopped suddenly with a crash.
The man sprang down and Miss Deringham and her father lost no time in
following him, while when at last the team stood still trembling, he
crawled out from under the wagon and turned to them.

"That brake never was much good," he said.  "One of the beasts
stumbling jerked the line into the hook there, and the fore-wheel beam
gave out when we struck the tree.  I'm most afraid we'll have to stop
right here tonight!"

"But that, as you will realize, is quite impossible," said Deringham,
glancing towards his daughter.

The man nodded.  "It looks that way now, but you wait until I've fixed
things up," said he.  "Then if you feel like walking eight miles I'll
go on with you."

The girl noticed the swift orderliness of all he did as she watched him
take out the horses and tether them, tear down armfuls of cedar-twigs,
and then pack them between some flour-bag's and the side of the wagon,
over which he stretched a strip of waterproof sheeting.  Then he made a
fire, disappeared into the mist, and coming back with the kettle,
strode into the bush again.  In the meanwhile Deringham, looking into
the wagon, pointed to the twigs.

"Do you think you could sleep there?" he said.

The girl glanced at the twigs.  They looked soft and springy, and had a
pleasant aromatic fragrance, while the covering sheet was thick.

"I know I could not walk eight miles," she said.  "Where has our
accomplished companion gone to?"

Deringham laughed.  "To look for something for supper in the bush, I
believe," he said.  "I also fancy if there is anything eatable in the
vicinity he will find it."

The snows above had lost their brilliancy, and it was dark below, when
the teamster returned with several fine trout which he skewered upon a
barberry stem.  He also brought a deerhide bag from the wagon, and
presently announced that supper was ready, while Alice Deringham, who
long afterwards remembered that meal, enjoyed it considerably more than
she would have believed herself capable of doing a few days earlier.
She had travelled far in search of something new, and this was the
first time she had tasted the biting green tea with the reek of the
smoke about it from a blackened pannikin.  Grindstone bread baked in a
hole in the ground was also a novelty, and the crumbling flakes of
salmon smoked by some Siwash Indian a delicacy, while she wondered if
it was only the keen mountain air which made the flesh of the big trout
so good, or whether it owed anything to skilful cookery.

There was also, by way of background, the glow of the fire flickering
athwart the great columnar trunks which ran up into the dimness above
her, and the cold glimmer of the snows with a pale star beyond them
when the red flame sank, while the hoarse roar of an unseen river
emphasized the silence.  At first she felt there was something unreal
and theatrical about it all.  The light that blazed up and died, awful
serenity of the snow, and the vast impenetrable shadows filled with
profound silence, seemed all part of a fervidly-imagined spectacle; but
as the silence deepened and gained upon her the position was reversed,
and she seemed to feel that this was the reality, the environment man
was created for, and she, wrapped in the tinsel of civilization, out of
place in the primeval wilderness.  Her father, immaculate as ever in
his travelling tweeds, with his lean, pallid face, also jarred upon the
picture, and Harry the teamster, bronzed by frost and sun, with the
stain of the soil upon him, alone a part of its harmonies.  They seemed
no longer harsh and barbaric, but vast and subtle, and she felt she
must go back to the simplicity she had laid aside before she could
grasp their meaning.

It was the man who first broke the silence.  "I was wondering if you
would like a cigar, sir?" he said.

Deringham glanced at the Indian-wrought case, which was singularly
artistic, somewhat dubiously, but remembering that something was due to
their host, drew a cigar out and lighted it.  He said nothing for a
minute, and then turned to the teamster.

"Wherever did you get cigars of that kind from?  They are far better
than any I could find in Winnipeg," he said.

Miss Deringham noticed the man's eyes close a trifle, and fancied that
very little would call the steely sparkle she had seen when the
pack-ponies blocked the trail into them.

"Well," he said quietly, "a friend of mine sent them me, and I believe
they came from Cuba.  We don't raise cigars of any kind in British
Columbia."

Miss Deringham saw her father's face, and felt quietly amused.  He
could, she knew, assume a manner which went far to carry him smoothly
through discontented share-holders' meetings, but it seemed that the
men who dwelt in the wilderness were at least as exigent as those who
dwelt in London.  Deringham, however, glanced at the speaker.

"The least said is often the soonest mended, but if you think----" he
said.

The teamster laughed.  "It should come from me, but the fact is I was
worrying about that wagon and forgot," he said.  "Now, if there is
anything I can tell you about this country."

"I wonder," said Alice Deringham, "whether you know Mr. Alton of
Somasco."

"Oh, yes," said the man, with a little smile.

"You have worked for him possibly?" said the girl.

Harry the teamster nodded.  "Considerably harder than I ever did for
anybody else," he said.

The next question required some consideration, and he appeared to
ruminate over it.  "You mean what kind of man he is?" he said.  "Well,
he's not very much to look at, and there are a good many things he
don't know."

"So I should have fancied," said the girl, more to herself than the
listener, and wondered whether it was an effect of the firelight or the
curious twinkle had once more flashed into his eyes.  "You do not seem
to like him?" she said.

The man looked into the fire.  "The trouble is I know how mean he is,"
he said.

"Mean?" said the girl.  "That is niggardly?"

"No," said Harry; "I don't think he's niggardly.  It's another word for
low down in this country.  You see he has always had to work hard for a
living, and never had time to teach himself the nice little ways you
folks have in England.  He's just a big rough rancher who has fought
pretty toughly for his own hand, and that's apt to take the gentleness
out of a man, and make him what you would call coarse and brutal."

The girl seemed to shiver.  "Is there nothing to say on the other
side?" she said.

"Well," said the teamster reflectively, "I think he means well, and
never took more than his right from any man, while there are people who
would as soon have his word as its value in dollar bills."

"You seem to know him suspiciously well," said Miss Deringham sharply.

"I do," said Harry simply, as he stood up.  "Anyway, as well as most
people.  You know where I fixed your bed up, sir, when you want to turn
in.  There's nothing in this bush, miss, that would hurt you."

He stepped back into the shadows, and the camp seemed lonely without
him, while as the girl shivered in the cold wind, Deringham glanced at
her curiously.

"Well?" he said.

Then the red crept into his daughter's cheeks and a sparkle Into her
eyes.  "It will take a very long time to get used to.  I could almost
hate the man," she said,

"It is hard to lose one's inheritance," said Deringham dryly.

The flush grew a trifle plainer in his daughter's cheek.  "It is not
the value of the land," she said.  "But think of such a man, a brutal,
cattle-driving boor, ruling at Carnaby where my mother lived."

"Still," said Deringham, "the value is not inconsiderable, and Carnaby
would have been yours some day."

The girl made a gesture of impatience.  "That is not my complaint," she
said.  "I could have let it pass without bitterness to an Englishman
who would have lived in it in accordance with the traditions of his
race, but this man----"

"Will no doubt cut down the timber, open the fireclay pits, and
desecrate the park with brickworks," he said.  "That is, unless he has
convivial proclivities, and, finding himself ostracized, fills Carnaby
with turf and billiard-room blacklegs."

The girl ground her heel viciously into the mould.  "Have you any
reason for going into these details?" she said.

Deringham watched her closely.  "I only wished you to understand the
position, and to remember that you and I are both to some extent at the
mercy of our rancher kinsman," he said.

He left her presently to seek the couch the teamster had prepared for
him, and Miss Deringham retired to the wagon.  She found the bed of
cedar-twigs comfortable, but it was some time before she slept and
dreamed that a stranger dressed in coarse blue jean was holding high
revel in the Carnaby she loved.  She was awakened by the howl of a
wolf, and lay still shivering, until she saw the tall, dusky figure of
the Canadian approach the fire and stand there as if on guard with the
red light upon him.  Then with a curious sense of security she went to
sleep again.

CHAPTER IV

HALLAM OF THE TYEE

The morning was still and warm when the driver of the wagon pulled up
his team where four trails met in the shadow of the bush.  Miss
Deringham had somewhat to her astonishment passed the night very
comfortably and enjoyed the breakfast their companion provided.  The
bracing cold of sunrise, when all the bush was steeped in fragrance and
a wonderful freshness came down from the snow, had also brought her a
curious exhilaration, as well as a tinge of colour into her cheeks, and
now she was sensible of a faint regret and irritation when the man
glanced towards her deprecatingly.

"It would please me to drive you straight through to the settlement,
but there's a load of things I want at Calhoun's up yonder," he said.

He pointed to a trail that turned off sharply, and the girl glanced at
her father somewhat blankly.  "And what are we to do?" said she.

"Well," said the man, "you can wait here until Barscombe comes along.
He'll be riding in to the settlement presently, and would be glad to
take you for a dollar or two."

"But we might have to wait a long time," said the girl with a trace of
imperiousness.  "It would suit us considerably better to go on with
you."

"Sorry!" said the man gravely.  "I can't take you.  Calhoun's a busy
man, and he'll be waiting up at the ranch for me.  I told him I was
coming."

There was now no doubt about the colour in Miss Deringham's face.  Few
of her wishes bad been denied her hitherto, and most of the men she had
met had been eager to do her bidding, while the scarcely qualified
refusal of this one came as a painful astonishment.  The fact that she
should be left in the lonely forest to avoid keeping some rude rancher
waiting was distinctly exasperating.

Deringham, however, smiled a little as he took a wallet from his
pocket.  "I can understand it, because I am also a busy man when I'm at
home," he said.  "It is a question of the value of your time and Mr.
Calhoun's apparently?"

Though he possibly did not realize it Deringham's tone was a trifling
condescending, and there was something in it which suggested that he
believed anything could be bought with money.  He was, however, a
little astonished when the man regarded him gravely out of eyes that
closed a trifle.

"That's just where you're wrong," said he.  "If I could have taken you
on to save the lady waiting it would have pleased me.  As it is, I
can't, you see."

He said nothing more, but dismounting pulled the boxes out of the wagon
and laid some travelling wraps upon one of them, while Miss Deringham
affected not to see what he was doing.  "And how long will it be before
Barscombe passes?" said she.

"It can't be more than two hours," said the teamster quietly.  "All you
have to do is to sit there and wait for him."

He took off his broad hat when the others alighted, and Miss Deringham
noticed there was a trace of courtliness in his simplicity.  Then he
strode past her father, who was taking something out of his wallet, and
swung himself lightly into the wagon.  He spoke to the team, there was
a creak and rattle, and next moment the vehicle was lurching down the
trail.  Deringham stood still a moment, his fingers inside the wallet
and mild wonder in his eyes, and then smiled a little as his daughter
turned towards him.  There was a faint pink flush of anger in her
cheeks.

"The dollar does not appear to retain its usual influence in this part
of Canada," he said dryly.  "Possibly, however, the man was too
embarrassed by your evident displeasure to remember his hire."

Miss Deringham saw the twinkle in her father's eyes and laughed a
little.  "I don't think he was," she said.  "Had that been the case one
could have forgiven him more easily.  Well, I wonder how long Barscombe
will keep us waiting."

Deringham made a whimsical gesture of resignation.  "In the meantime I
notice that our late conductor has arranged a comfortable seat for
you," he said.

The girl sat down, and looked about her.  It was very still in the
bush, and the sound of running water drifted musically out of the
silence.  From somewhere in the distance there also came a curious
drumming which she did not know then was made by an axe, but it
presently ceased, and the song of the river rose alone in long drowsy
pulsations.  In front of and behind her stretched the rows of serried
trunks which had grown to vastness of girth and stateliness with the
centuries, and the girl, who was of quick perceptions, felt
instinctively the influence of their age and silence.  There was, it
seemed, something intangible but existent in this still land of shadow
which reacted upon her pleasantly after the artificial gaieties and
glitter of surface civilization.  Her impatience and irritation seemed
to melt, and the time slipped by, until she was almost drowsy when with
an increasing rattle another wagon came jolting down the trail.

Its driver pulled up, and regarded them with placid astonishment, but
he was amenable to the influence of Deringham's wallet, and they took
their places in the vehicle.  There was nothing remarkable about the
man, and he ruminated gravely when as they stopped to let the horses
drink Deringham asked him a question concerning their late companion.

"It might have been Thomson," he said.  "A big man, kind of solid and
homely?"

"No," said Miss Deringham reflectively.  "I should scarcely describe
him as homely."

"Well," said the other, "if you told me the kind of wagon I might guess
at him."

Deringham described the vehicle as well as he was able, and the
stranger nodded.  "That's Jimmy Thomson's outfit all right," said he.
"What did he charge you?"

Miss Dillingham laughed.  "It is curious that he charged us nothing,"
said she.

"Well," said the stranger gravely, "that was blame unlike Jimmy.
There's only one man in this country would do that kind of thing, and
as he hasn't a wagon to fit what you're telling me, it couldn't he him."

Miss Deringham had purposed asking who the man in question was, but the
driver started his team just then, and an hour later drove them into
the sleepy settlement and carried their boxes into Horton's hotel.  He
gravely invited Deringham to drink with him, and appearing mildly
astonished went about his business when the latter declined.  Deringham
smiled at his daughter.

"There are, as one might expect, men of somewhat different type in this
country, but I prefer the first one," said he.

Miss Deringham also fancied that she did so, though she did not admit
it, and that evening was made acquainted with yet another and more
different one.  Horton as usual served supper at six o'clock, and all
his guests were expected to partake of reasty pork, potatoes,
flapjacks, green tea and fruits at the same table.  To this he made no
exception, and would not have done so for the premier, and when a small
company of axemen and free prospectors filed in Deringham and his
daughter took their places amidst the rest.

The room was long and bare, boarded with rough-sawn cedar, and
furnished chiefly by the benches that ran down either side of the plain
table; but the aromatic smell of the wood was stronger than that of
stale tobacco, and the company avoided more than quietly respectful
glances at the daintily-dressed Englishwoman.

They were quiet men with grave and steady eyes, and though they ate as
if feeding was a serious business, and they had no time to waste, there
was nothing in their converse that jarred upon the girl.  Indeed, she
saw one break off in a story whose conclusion she fancied might not
have pleased her when a comrade glanced at him deprecatingly.  In
another ten minutes they filed out again, and Deringham smiled at his
daughter.  "What do you think of them?" he said.

The girl laughed.  "Ostriches," she said.  "Of course, I guess your
thoughts.  You were wondering if my kinsman resembles them.  How long
do we stay here?"

Deringham glanced at her covertly, and noticed the faint sparkle in her
eyes and the scornful set of her lips.  "That depends," he said,
"partly upon our kinsman's attitude, for if he offered us hospitality
we should probably stay a little.  You were also right, my dear, as
usual."

The girl's pose grew a trifle more rigid, and the fingers of one hand
seemed to close vindictively.  "It is grotesque--almost horrible, isn't
it?" she said.

Her father nodded.  "It might be," he said.  "Still, as you know, the
Carnaby affairs are involved, and there is a possibility of contesting
his claim under the somewhat extravagant will.  It is not altogether
improbable that I shall find means of persuading him to stay here with
his cows and pigs."

Deringham slightly accentuated part of the sentence, and again a faint
tinge of colour crept into the face of the girl and vindictiveness into
her eyes, for she understood him.  The man who had on his deathbed
bequeathed Carnaby to his grandson had driven out the young man's
father years ago, and approaching dissolution had possibly somewhat
clouded his faculties when he made the will.  Deringham, who had
married into the Alton family, and figured as a legatee, was, with the
exception of the disinherited, the nearest of kin, and it had been
generally expected that Carnaby would fall to his daughter; but perhaps
in an endeavour to treat both sides fairly, its dying owner had, in the
face of his lawyer's protests, inserted one clause which, for financial
reasons, rendered a second union between the houses of Alton and
Deringham distinctly advisable.  There was, however, a high spirit in
the girl, and she looked at her father steadily.

"But you were left the money, or most of it?" she said.

"Yes," said Deringham grimly.  "I was left the money."

The girl asked nothing further, for there was something in the man's
face which warned her not to press that subject.  She knew that her
father had long acted as financial adviser to the late owner of
Carnaby, but it was not astonishing that Deringham had not told her he
had exceeded the discretion allowed him, and been singularly
unfortunate in his speculations.

She rose, and a man who like themselves had finished his meal leisurely
followed them outside into the verandah.  He smiled as he drew out a
chair for the girl, and then sat down opposite her father with a card
in his hand.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Deringham.  I'll introduce myself," said he.

Deringham took the card handed him, and glanced with an air of quiet
indifference at the stranger, while his daughter looked apparently
straight past him towards the climbing pines.  Nevertheless, she had
seen the man, and was not pleased with him.  He had a somewhat fleshy
face, beady black eyes with a boldness in them that was more akin to
insolence than courage, and a full-lipped, mobile mouth.  His dress was
correct enough, though he wore a somewhat ample ring with a diamond in
it, and his watchchain was too heavy and prominent, but there was a
suggestion of coarseness about him.  Her father, leaning forward in his
chair with an air of languid curiosity, the card in his slender
fingers, appeared his antithesis, and yet the girl fancied there was a
resemblance in the expression of the two faces.  She also felt her
dislike for the stranger increased when she saw for the first time the
look of greed and cunning in his face reflected in that of her father.
She had hitherto only pictured him as a skilful financier, but now she
saw qualities she had never suspected in him revealed as by a daring
caricature.

"Willard Hallam," Deringham read aloud.  "Hallam and Vose.  Land and
mining agents.  Advances made on mineral claims."

"Yes," said the stranger, smiling.  "That's me."

Deringham made no comment, but laid the card down beside him.  "I
wonder," he said indifferently, "how you came to know me."

The chilling evenness of his voice seemed to irritate the other man,
and Alice Deringham was conscious of a faint amusement as she glanced
at them.  Deringham in his tweed travelling attire, which, worn with
apparent carelessness, seemed to hang with every fold just where it
should be, was wholly at his ease, and there was a trace of
half-expressed toleration in his thin, finely-cut face, while Hallam
appeared to become coarse and embarrassed by comparison.  He probably
did not feel so, for diffidence of any kind is not common in the West,
but he may have realized that in any delicate fencing the advantage
would lie with Deringham.  Both, producing nothing and living upon the
toil of their fellows, played the same game, but, while the stakes and
counters are very similar, one played it in Vancouver and the other in
London, where a more subtle finesse is demanded from the players.

Hallam, however, smiled.  "I don't know that you will be pleased when I
tell you, but this should explain things," he said.  "Of course, since
your company took hold out here I have heard of you."

Deringham took the Colonial Journal handed him, glanced down a
paragraph, and passed it to his daughter.  "Your maid!" he said.  "I
fancied it was a mistake to part with her, my dear.  It is evident she
has not gone home."

Alice Deringham unconsciously drew herself up a trifle, as her eyes ran
down the column.  It was headed "Another missing heir," and ran: "We
are getting used to having our railroad-shovelling and trail-cutting
done by scions of the British aristocracy, and seldom ask them what
they did in the old country so long as they behave themselves decently
in this one.  Twice recently, as mentioned in these columns, the
successor to an English property of some value was discovered, in the
one case peddling oranges, and in the other digging a rancher's
ditches, while now we have another instance in the Somasco valley.  It
appears that long ago there was a family quarrel at Carnaby, England,
and though we do not know what it was all about, the owner of what we
understand is an encumbered estate turned out his son, who had the good
sense to come out to this country, where he did pretty well.  He died
and left a son, Mr. Henry Alton, well known in the Somasco district,
who appears to be a credit to the country which took his father in.
The owner of Carnaby dying later, left the ancestral property to him,
and, as in this case there does not seem to be a wicked uncle, Mr.
Deringham, the next of kin and a distinguished London financier who
has, we believe, had some dealings in local mines, has come out to look
for him.  Mr. Alton of Somasco will probably stop right where he is if
he is the sensible man his neighbours seem to think him."

"That's correct?" said Hallam, glancing at Deringham.

"I knew who you were when I saw you."

"Yes," said Deringham.  "The taste is questionable, but I can't deny
its comparative accuracy."

"Then," said Hallam, "Alton stands between you and this Carnaby
property?"

"I believe so," said Deringham quietly.

"It's a big estate?" said Hallam, and Alice Deringham, who knew his
capabilities, wondered when her father would effectually silence this
presumptuous stranger.  In the meanwhile he, however, showed no
intention of doing so.

"No," he said languidly.  "It is a small one, and heavily in debt.  I
presume you know rancher Alton by the interest you show in him?"

"Yes," said Hallam, "and I don't like him."

Deringham scarcely glanced at his daughter, but she realized that her
presence was not especially desired, and when she rose and went back
into the building her father glanced steadily at Hallam.

"I wonder why you told me that," he said.

Hallam laughed.  "Well, I generally talk straight, and I feel like
that," he said.  "Now, they don't keep anything that doesn't burn a
hole in you here, and I've a bottle of English whisky.  Don't see any
reason why you shouldn't take a drink with me?"

"No," said Deringham indifferently.  "I am, however, a somewhat
abstemious man."

Hallam went into the building and returned with a cigar-case and a
bottle.  The contents of both were good, and Deringham sat languidly
glancing over the curling smoke towards the glimmering snow.  It
towered white and cold against a pale green, shining high above
climbing pines and dusky valley, while the fleecy mist crept higher and
higher athwart the serried waves of trees that fell to the river
hollow.  Alice Deringham saw it, and drinking in the wonderful
freshness that came down from the peaks and permeated the silence of
the valley, realized a little of that great white rampart's awful
serenity.  She also wondered vacantly what the two men on the verandah
were talking about; but in this she was wrong, for Hallam, overcharged
with Western vivacity, was talking, and her father waiting quietly.

"No," said the former, returning to the subject with an affectation of
naive directness.  "I don't like Alton, and I figure he don't like me.
Nothing wrong with the man that I know of, but I'm not fond of anybody
who gets in my way, and Alton of Somasco has taken out timber rights
all over the valley where we're running the Tyee.  He got in with his
claim a day or two ahead of me."

"A capable man?" said Deringham quietly.

"Oh, yes," said the other.  "He's capable, so far as he sees, but the
trouble is he doesn't see quite far enough.  Now, there's not room
enough for two men with notions round about Somasco, and a one-horse
rancher can't fight men with money, so Alton's got hold of a good deal
bigger contract than he can carry through.  Anyway, now I've told you
what I think of your relation, you can if you feel like that let right
go of me."

Deringham smiled a little.  "This," he said, "is the best whisky I have
tasted in Canada."

Hallam laughed.  "Well," he said, "I'm glad I met you, especially as
you'll no doubt stop here a little, and size up the mineral resources
of the country.  There's lots of information lying round that should be
useful to you.  Anyway, you made a big mistake when you took up the
Peveril.  Dropped a good many dollars that time, didn't you?"

Deringham's face grew a trifle grim.  "As you probably know just what
the mistake cost us there is no use in me denying it," said he.

"Well," said Hallam sympathetically, "one can't always come out on top,
and if you're stopping down at Vancouver I may be of some use to you,
and you to me.  If you'll come up to-morrow I'll show you the Tyee, and
I've something better still up the valley."

"I'm sorry," said Deringham indifferently; "I'm going through to
Somasco!"

Hallam glanced at him steadily.  "Of course you are," said he.  "Well,
I've told you nothing Alton doesn't know, and I've letters to answer.
You'll excuse me?"

Deringham rose with him, and strolling along the verandah together they
stopped a moment at the door, close by where Alice Deringham sat at an
open window.  It was growing dark now, but the last of the afterglow
was flung down into their faces by the snow, and it seemed to the girl
that the resemblance between them had grown stronger.  Her father's
appeared a trifle less refined in its chiselling than it had been, and
there was a look which did not please her in his eyes.  It suggested
cupidity and cunning in place of intellectuality.

"Well," said Hallam, "you'll call on me at Vancouver anyway, and it's
possible we may be some use to each other."

The hint of a confidence or understanding between them which the man's
tone conveyed irritated the girl, but she saw that her father did not
resent it.  "Yes," he said.  "If I think I can benefit by your
co-operation in any way I will not fail to let you know."

Hallam went in, and Deringham leaned upon the verandah balustrade
smoking tranquilly while the shadows that left the rolling mist behind
crept higher and higher up the climbing pines until at last they
touched and smeared into dimness the ethereal snow.  Then the girl rose
with a shiver and turned towards her father as Horton lighted the big
lantern at the door.  Deringham's face was, she fancied, a trifle
haggard.

"I wonder why you have borne with that man so long," she said.

Deringham smiled a little.  "There are many kinds of men, and
presumably all of them are useful in their place," said he.

CHAPTER V

THE HEIR OF CARNABY

The sun was dipping towards the black ridge of firs on the shoulder of
a hill when Deringham and his daughter rode down the winding trail into
the Somasco valley.  The girl gazed about her with eager curiosity, but
the man who rode in silence apparently saw nothing, and it was only
when his horse stumbled into a rut that he glanced round for a moment
abstractedly.  Deringham had much to occupy his mind just then, for
while it was generally understood that he had made the journey at a
physician's recommendation, he had reasons for choosing British
Columbia to recuperate in.

He still retained control of the finances of Carnaby with the
concurrence of the trustees, who were country gentlemen of no business
capacity, and as it suited the family lawyer to remain on good terms
with him nothing more than a very perfunctory account of his
stewardship had been demanded.  The late owner of Carnaby had been a
man of simple tastes and unbending pride, who had a faint contempt for
his kinsman, and refrained from inquiries respecting finances while
there was no stoppage of supplies.  There were one or two men who
suspected that Deringham had profited by his relative's supineness, but
it was only a vague surmise, and they did not know that the legacy
bequeathed him had little more than an apparent value.  Deringham had
been unfortunate in his latest ventures, and could foresee considerable
difficulty in extricating himself from a distinctly unpleasant position
if the new heir decided to take immediate possession of his property.
The latter had, however, shown no great desire to do so, and Deringham
had accepted a commission from the trustees to ascertain his intentions.

A company of which he was one of the promoters had also invested
somewhat unhappily in Western mines, and Deringham, who purposed to see
what could be done with the depreciated securities, intended that the
expenses of his sojourn in the mountain province should be borne by the
shareholders.  He had acquired considerable facility in the art of
managing them, but the owner of Carnaby was an unknown quantity and
Deringham was anxious.

Presently his daughter reined in her pony.  "Stop a moment, father.
That must be the ranch," she said.

The man drew bridle, and for a moment forgot his perplexities as he
gazed at the scene before him.  Far down in the valley lay a still blue
lake with a great white peak shining ethereally at its northern end.
Dark pines rolled about it, growing smaller and smaller up the hillside
until they dwindled with spires clean cut against the azure into a
gossamer filigree.  Between them and the water stupendous forest
shrouded all the valley, save where an oblong of pale verdure ran back
from the fringe of boulders and was traversed by the frothing streak of
a river whose roar came up hoarsely across the pines in long pulsations.

That was all Deringham saw at first sight, but he realized that it was
very beautiful, and then commenced to note details with observant eyes.
There was a sawmill beside the river, for he could faintly hear a
strident scream and see the blue smoke drifting in gauzy wisps across
the hill.  The square log-house which stood some little distance from
the lake looked well built and substantial, and the road that wound
through the green oblong had been skilfully laid with rounded strips
sawn off the great fir-trunks.  Sleek cattle stood apparently ready for
dispatch in a corral, the yellowing oats beyond them were railed off by
a six-foot fence, and behind the rows of sawn-off stumps which ringed
about the clearing great trunks and branches lay piled in the confusion
of the slashing.  Deringham was not a farmer, but he was a man of
affairs, and all he saw spoke to him of prosperity that sprang from
strenuous energy and administrative ability.

"You are very silent," said his daughter.  "What are you thinking?"

Deringham laughed a little, somewhat mirthlessly.  "It occurs to me
that whatever our unknown relative may be he is a good rancher, if this
is his handiwork," he said.  "Well, we shall see him very shortly."

The girl's fingers tightened a little on the switch she held.  "We know
what we shall find," she said with a gesture of cold disdain.  "It
would be so much easier if he had only been an educated Englishman!"

"Still," said Deringham dryly, "since we are ousted from Carnaby I do
not see that it makes any great difference."

Miss Deringham's eyes sparkled, and a spot of colour tinged her cheeks.
Her mother had been one of the Altons who had long been proud of
Carnaby, and the instincts of the landholding race were strong within
her.

"No?" she said, with a little scornful inflection.  "And you could look
on while a cattle-driving boor made himself a laughing-stock at
Carnaby?"

Deringham smiled again.  "I am," he said, "inclined to feel sorry for
the Canadian, but you will at least be civil to him."

Miss Deringham made a little gesture of impatience.  "You do not
suppose I should be openly resentful?" she said.

Her father still appeared ironically amused.  "I do not know that it
would be necessary, but I fancy the Canadian will have cause to regret
he is an Alton," he said.  "No doubt it would be some solace to you to
make him realize his offences, but I scarcely think it would be
advisable."

Then they rode down into the valley, through oatfields, and between the
tall fir-stumps that rose amidst the fern, under the boughs of an
orchard, and up to the square log-house.  Nobody came out to receive
them, or answered their call, and Deringham, dismounting, helped his
daughter down, and tethering the horses passed through the verandah
into the house.  The long table in the big log-walled room they entered
was littered with unwashed plates.  Torn over-alls and old knee-boots
lay amidst the axes and big saws in one corner, the dust was heavy
everywhere, and rifles and salmon-spears hung upon the walls.  There
was no sign of taste or comfort.  Everything suggested grim utility,
and the house was very still.  The girl, who was tired, sat down with a
little gesture of dismay.

"This is worse and worse," she said.

Deringham, who was fond of his daughter, laid a hand upon her shoulder
reassuringly.  "You can go on to Vancouver when you wish," said he.
"Sit still and rest, while I see if there is anybody about."

He strolled round the homestead, and noticed that log barns and stables
were all well built, while presently he found a man plucking fowls in a
galvanized shed.  There was a row of them before him, all without
heads, while an ensanguined axe close by indicated the fashion of their
execution.  He glanced at Deringham a moment, and then fell to work
again.

"Oh, yes, this is Somasco, and the finest ranch this side of the
Fraser," he said.  "Can you see Mr. Alton?  Well, I figure he's busy,
and you had better wait a little.  Get hold of this.  It's your supper."

Deringham recoiled a pace when a somewhat gory fowl struck him on the
knee, and then sat down on a pile of cedar-wood staring at the speaker.
"I wish to see Mr. Alton as soon as possible," he said.

The other man looked up again, and grinned.  "You'd better not," said
he.  "Harry Alton's a bit short in temper when he's busy, and if you're
peddling anything it would be better if you saw him after supper.  Then
if you can't make a deal you can go on to-morrow.  There's plenty good
straw in the barn."

Deringham was not especially flattered at being mistaken for a peddler,
nor had the prospect of sleeping on straw any great attraction for him,
but he had a sense of humour, and, being desirous of acquiring
information, took up the fowl.

"Do you put up every stranger who calls here, and give him a fowl for
supper?  What am I to do with this one?" he said.

"Now, where did you come from?" said the other.  "That's just what we
do.  A fowl's not much for a man, anyway, and Harry will eat two of
them when he's hungry.  What are you going to do with it?  Well, you
can, pull the feathers off it, and fix it for cooking, unless you like
them better with their insides in."

Deringham gravely pulled out four or five feathers, and then, finding
it more difficult than he had expected, desisted.  "Mr. Alton is
apparently not married," he said.

The man grinned.  "No, Harry knows when he's well off, and it would
take a woman with a mighty firm grip to manage him," said he.  "Still,
there's one or two of them quite ready to see what they could make of
him, but Mrs. Margery scares them off when they come round bringing him
little things, and Harry's a bit pernicketty.  His father was a duke or
something in the old country."

"Mrs. Margery?" said Deringham inquiringly.

"Yes," said the other.  "She's not here just now, but she keeps the
house for him.  I help round and do the cooking."

Deringham, who could adapt himself to his surroundings, nodded.  "That
is what you would consider a soft job in this country?"

"Well," said the man grimly, as he pointed to the deformation of one
lower limb, "I am not fond of it, but it's about all I'm good for now.
That's where the axe went in, and anybody but Harry Alton might have
fired me.  It was my own blame foolishness, too, but when the doctor
told him Harry comes to me.  'You needn't worry about one thing,
anyway.  There'll be a job for you just so long as you're wanting it,'"
says he.

"He does that kind of thing sometimes?" said Deringham curiously.

"No, sir," said the other dryly.  "He does it every time, but the devil
himself wouldn't squeeze ten cents out of Harry if he didn't want to
give it him.  But how long are you going to be stripping that fowl?"

"As I'm afraid it would take me all night, I would prefer to give you a
half-a-dollar to do it for me," said Deringham.

The man straightened himself a little, and Deringham received another
surprise.

"Patent medicines and hair-growers are up?" said he.

"I don't quite understand," said Deringham quietly.

"No?" said the other.  "Well, you will do presently unless you get
right out of this shanty.  I'm fit to make my wages yet, if I've only
got one handy leg, and I can put my mark on any blame peddler who talks
that way to me."

"I'm sorry," said Deringham gravely.  "I have, you see, just come from
England, where folks are not always so well paid as you seem to be.  I
think I will look for Mr. Alton.  Can you tell me where he is?"

The man, who appeared a trifle mollified, pointed to the bush.  "He's
yonder, but if he scares you, you needn't blame me," he said.

Deringham picked his way amidst the six-foot fir-stumps girdled with
tall fern, over a breadth of white ashes and charcoal where the
newly-won land lay waiting for the plough, in and out amidst the chaos
of trunks that lay piled athwart each other all round the clearing, and
stopped close by three men who were making an onslaught on a majestic
tree.  Its topmost sprays towered two hundred feet above them, and the
great trunk ran a stupendous column to the vault of dusky green above.
It was, however, the men who most attracted Deringham's attention, and
he stood for a moment watching them.

Two were poised on narrow boards notched into the tree a man's height
from the ground, and one was huge and swarthy, so that the heavy axe he
held seemed a toy in his great gnarled hand.  The other, whose figure
seemed in some respects familiar, stooped a little with the bright axe
blade laid flat in one palm as though he were examining it, and
Deringham, who could not see his face, turned towards another who sat
at the foot of the tree sharpening a big saw.  His overalls were in
tolerable repair, while from an indefinite something in his face and
the way he wore them Deringham set him down as an Englishman.  Still,
he did not think he was an Alton.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Henry Alton is?" he said.  The young man
nodded.  "Harry!" he said.

Then the man on the plank above turned round, and Deringham felt
inclined to gasp as he stood face to face with the new heir to Carnaby.
The man was grimed with dust and ashes.  His blue shirt rolled back to
the shoulders left uncovered arms that were corded like a smith's, and
was rent at the neck so that Deringham could see the finely-arched
chest.  The overalls, tight-belted round the waist, set off the
solidity of his shoulders and the leanness of the flank, while with the
first glance at his face Deringham recognized the teamster who had
driven them through the bush.

He stood poised on the few inches of springy redwood looking down upon
him with a grimly humorous twinkle in his eyes, but through the smears
of perspiration and the charcoal grime Deringham now recognized the
expression of quiet forcefulness and the directness of gaze which was
his birthright.

"Mr. Henry Alton?" he said.

"Yes," said the other quietly.

There was a moment's embarrassing silence, for Alton said nothing
further, and Deringham gazed at the man he had journeyed three thousand
miles to see.

"I should like a little talk with you," he said presently.

"Can't oblige you," said the other.  "I couldn't spare more than a
minute now for a railroad director.  You can tell me anything you want
after supper."

Deringham lost a little of his usual serenity.  "My business is of some
importance," he said.

Alton smiled grimly.  "I can't help that.  So is mine," said he.  "A
lawyer, by the stamp of you.  Well, you're trailing the wrong man,
because I don't owe anybody money.  We'll put you up to-night, and you
can look for him to-morrow."

"I have come from Carnaby, England," said Deringham, watching the
effect upon the man.  "You are, I presume the grandson of its late
owner."

This shot got home, but the effect was not altogether what Deringham
had anticipated, for Alton's big hands tightened on the axe and his
face grew very stern.  "I'm not proud of the connection, anyway," he
said.  "Alton of Somasco is good enough for me."

"But," said Deringham quietly, "I have come to talk things over with
you.  Tristan Alton left you Carnaby."

Alton straightened himself a little and flung out an arm, while
Deringham recognized the Alton pride as with a sweeping gesture he
pointed to wide lake, forest-shrouded hillside, and the clearing in the
valley.

"He turned out my father because he knew his mind, and now when there
is no one else leaves me the played-out property.  Thank God, I don't
want it, while that's all mine," he said.  "What brings you here to
talk of Carnaby?"

Deringham smiled a little.  "The executor sent me, and I have come a
long way," said he.  "When I tell you that I am Ralph Deringham you
should know me."

Alton nodded gravely.  "Then you can tell me all about it after supper,
and we'll have plenty time for talking, because you'll stay a while
with me," he said.  "If you'll go back to the house you'll find some
cigars that might please you in the bureau.  Sorry I can't come with
you, but I'm busy.  Are you ready, Tom?"

He turned, and swung up the axe while the big bushman swept his blade
aloft, and Deringham watched them curiously.  Alton swayed with a
steely suppleness from the waist, and the broad wedge of steel flashed
about his head before it came down ringing.  The man had a few inches
of springy wood which bent and heaved beneath him to stand upon, but
the great blade descended exactly where the last chip had lain, and
when it hissed aloft again that of the silent axeman dropped into the
notch it made.  Deringham knew a little about a good many things,
including sword-play, and he realized as he watched the whirl and flash
of blades, precision of effort, and exactitude of time, that this was
an example of man's mastery over the trenchant steel.

Presently the man with the saw rose and touched his shoulder.  "I fancy
we had better draw aside a little," he said.  "She will come down in
another minute just here."

Now Deringham had seen trees wedged over and drawn down by ropes in
England, and wondered a little when the man pointed to the spot where
he was standing.

"If you don't resent the question, how do you know?" he said.

The other man laughed a little.  "Harry told me, and he's seldom more
than a foot out," he said.

There was a groaning of fibres as Deringham drew aside, but the two
figures on the springy planks still smote and swung, until
simultaneously they flung the axes down and, sprang.  Then the great
fir quivered a little, toppled, lurched, and fell, and the hillside
resounded to the thud it made.  It also smote the trembling soil just
where the man with the saw had indicated.  Then Alton signed to his
assistant, and strode away with the axe on his shoulder towards another
tree.  The saw-sharpener laughed a little as he sat down again.

"Now you have had your say it would be better if you waited until after
supper," he said.  "You see, one thing at one time is quite enough for
Harry, and he really isn't in the least uncivil when you understand
him.  Still, it's no use trying to make him listen when he doesn't want
to."

"That," said Deringham dryly, "was always one of the characteristics of
his family.  You are presumably an Englishman?"

The other man laughed a little.  "Yes," he said, "I'm Charles Seaforth,
better known to the boys here as the Honourable Charley, though I have
no especial right to the title, and am fortunate in holding a small
share in the Somasco ranch, which I owe to my partner's generosity."

"Do I understand that he gave it you?" said Deringham.

Seaforth nodded.  "You would be near the mark if you came to that
conclusion."

"And is Mr. Alton in the habit of making similar presents?" said
Deringham.

Seaforth glanced towards the sinewy figure with the glinting axe, and
smiled again.  "That," he said quietly, "is one of the most generous
men in the Dominion of Canada, but I should not care to be the man who
attempted to take advantage of him."

Deringham said nothing further, though he was sensible of a slight
uneasiness, and presently went back to the house to rejoin his
daughter, while the dusk was creeping across the valley when the men
from the sawmill and clearing came home, and Deringham led his daughter
out when he heard Alton's voice in the verandah.  The latter and his
partner were together, and the girl at first felt a slight sense of
relief as her glance fell upon Seaforth, who stood with his wide hat in
his hand.  He was, for that country, somewhat fastidious in dress, his
eyes were mildly humorous, and his face was pleasant, while he had not
as yet wholly lost the stamp of the graceful idler he had brought with
him from England.

"This," said Deringham with the faintest trace of irony, "is our
kinsman, Mr. Henry Alton of Carnaby.  You have seen him already.  My
daughter Alice, Mr. Alton!"

The girl stood still a moment, and glanced at Seaforth, whom she could
not recollect having seen before, with something that suggested not
altogether unpleased surprise in her face.  His appearance and attitude
disarmed her, but as she was about to speak to him the other man moved
so that the fading light fell full upon him.  He stood, tall and almost
statuesque in his torn overalls, with the misty pines rolling up the
hillside behind him, and a big axe in his hand--a type, it seemed to
her, of Western barbarity--and a red spot, faint but perceptible, rose
into her cheeks as he bent his head.  Then she came near forgetting
what was due to both of them in her astonishment and anger.

"You!" she said.

"Yes," said the axeman gravely.  "Still, your father made a little
mistake.  I'm Alton of Somasco."

Then he turned and moved forward with a gesture that was almost
courtly.  "You are very welcome to this poor house of mine," he said.

CHAPTER VI

MISS DERINGHAM MAKES FRIENDS

The Homeric supper was over, and Miss Deringham, who, sitting next to
Alton at the head of the long table, had watched the stalwart axeman
feed with sensations divided between disgust and wonder, was talking to
Seaforth on the verandah, when her father sat by a window of the room
his kinsman called his own.  There were survey maps, tassels of oats,
and a great Wapiti head upon the wall, while Alton himself lay almost
full length in a deerhide chair.  The window was open wide, and the
vista of lake, pine-shrouded hillside, and snow, framed by its log
casing, steeped in nocturnal harmonies of silver and blue.  Out of the
stillness came the scent of balsam, and the sighing of a little breeze
amidst the pines.

Deringham held a good cigar, and there was a cup of coffee beside him,
while he was not wholly sorry that they sat in darkness.  He had
realized that Alton of Somasco was by no means a fool, and waited his
questions with some anxiety.  The rancher, however, had apparently no
present intention of asking any.

"So they've been wondering when I am coming over," he said
reflectively.  "I don't know that I'll come at all."  Deringham looked
down at his cigar to cover his astonishment.  "But you are an Alton of
Carnaby," he said.

"Yes," said Alton slowly.  "But that is one of the things I want to
forget.  You see they drove my father out because he had the grit to
marry the woman who loved him instead of another one who had the money,
but you know all that?"

Deringham nodded, and Alton's face showed grim in the moonlight as he
continued: "But what you don't know is how he fought his way uphill in
this country, and what my mother suffered helping him.  Oh, yes, I can
remember her well, gentle, brave, and patient as she was, and know what
it must have cost her to camp down alone in the bush, and fight through
the hard winter in the ice and snow.  Well, she was too good for this
world, and she just faded out of it before the good time came.  I think
they must have a special place for women of her kind in the other one."

Deringham only nodded again, because this type of man was new to him,
and he had learned to keep silent when in doubt; but Alton's big right
hand closed into a fist.

"And now, when I have Somasco, the man who had not a dollar for his
only son leaves me Carnaby," he said.  "There.  Look out and see.
Timber, lake and clearing, cattle, mills, and crops, the finest ranch
in the district.  My father commenced it, and I have finished.  The
Almighty made him a man, and he wouldn't sell his birthright to loaf
his days away, overfed, at Carnaby."

Alton dropped his cigar, and laughed a little.  "Well, I'm talking like
a fool again.  There are times when I can't help it.  It's a way of
mine."

Deringham sat still smoking, and thinking rapidly.  He had never had
dealings with a man of this description before, but while he surmised
that Alton of Somasco might under some conditions prove himself a
headstrong fool, it was evident that there were limits to his folly.
The man's handiwork spoke for him, and his energy and intentness had
not escaped Deringham's attentions, while the occasional utterances
that might have appeared bombastic coming from other men were redeemed
in his case by the tone of naive sincerity and imperious ring.
Deringham was becoming conscious of a vague respect for and fear of his
companion.

"We are apparently no nearer the answer to my question," he said at
length.

"No," said Alton, smiling.  "This thing will take some thinking over.
Carnaby isn't exactly what you call a rich property?"

"It is heavily encumbered," said Deringham, almost too eagerly.

Alton nodded, "Still, it must be worth a little, and would give the
folks who lived there a standing in the old country?"

"Yes," said Deringham thoughtfully, and was once more astonished by his
companion's answer.

"Well," he said slowly.  "I was thinking about your daughter.  All
this, it seems to me, is mighty rough on her.  It would hurt her to be
turned out of Carnaby?"

"Isn't that beside the question?" said Deringham with a trace of
stiffness.

Alton took up another cigar and lighted it.  "I don't quite know that
it is," he said.  "You see, I remember a good deal what my mother had
to put up with, and it has made me kind of sorry for women who have to
do without the things they have been used to.  Now Miss Deringham has
had a pretty good time in the old country?"

Deringham moved his head very slightly.  "I scarcely think we need go
into that, but it is incontrovertible that the loss of Carnaby would
make a difference to her," he said.

Alton sat silent a space, and then while Deringham wondered, smiled a
little.  "And she might have kept it but for a very little thing that
happened a month or two ago," he said.  "If the juniper-twigs had
broken it would have saved considerable trouble to everybody.  I was
back there in the mountains looking for a silver lead, you see."

"Silver mines are, I understand, not always profitable to the man who
finds them, and I should have fancied you had already sufficient scope
for your energies," said Deringham dryly.

Alton laughed, but there was a trace of grimness in his voice.  "If I
once get my stakes in on the lead this one's going to be, and if I
could get the dollars I could do a good deal for Somasco," he said.
"We want roads and mills, the biggest orchard in the province, and a
fruit cannery, and we're going to have them presently.  That's why I
wanted the silver."

"You did not find it then?" said Deringham, who was not unwilling to
follow his companion from the former topic.

"No," said Alton, "not that time, but I will by and by.  Well, there
was a good deal of snow up in the ranges, and my feet got away from me
one evening when we were crawling along the edge of a gully.  There was
a river and big boulders some five hundred feet below, and I slipped
down, clawing at the snow, until I grabbed a little bunch of juniper
just on the edge.  Part of it tore up, but I got a grip of a better
handful, and hung on to it, with most of me swinging over the gully.
Charley was stripping off the pack-rope on the slope above, and he was
mighty quick, but I knew that bush was coming away with me, and didn't
think he could be fast enough.  I didn't feel exactly happy, but while
I've read that folks think of some astonishing things when they're
starting out on the long trail, it wasn't that way with me.  I could
only remember there was a man I'd never got even with who'd badly
cheated me."

[Illustration:  "There was a river and big boulders some five hundred
feet below."]

Deringham felt a little shiver run through him, for there was a grim
vindictiveness in the speaker's tone, and he felt that Alton of Somasco
would not lightly forgive an injury.

"You managed to crawl up?" he said.

"No," said Alton simply, "I didn't.  I lay there watching Charley, and
felt the bush drawing out, until the rope came down and Charley hauled
me up.  It would have made a big difference to Miss Deringham if he'd
been a second or two longer.  Well, we'll have lots of time for
talking, because you're out for your health, and we'll keep you right
here until we see what Somasco can do for you, and just now I see Miss
Deringham alone on the verandah."

He rose, and left Deringham sitting by the window.  The moon had swung
higher now, and the lake was a blaze of silver, but Deringham scarcely
noticed it or the ethereal line of snow.  In place of it he saw a
shadowy figure hanging between earth and heaven with tense fingers
gripping a little bush, while a river frothed down the black hollow
five hundred feet below, and remembered that even in that moment the
man who hung there regretted he could not repay somebody who had
cheated him.  Then he rose and moved once or twice up and down the
room, his fancy still dwelling upon the picture.  If the juniper-twigs
had yielded it would have made a great difference to him as well as his
daughter.  He sat down again presently and stared at the valley, seeing
nothing as he remembered that Alton of Somasco might go back to the
ranges again, and then with an effort shook the fancies from him.  They
were not wholesome for a man hemmed in by difficulties as he was then.

In the meanwhile his daughter stood with one hand on the verandah
balustrade, listening to the song of the river which came sonorously
through the shadows of the bush.  She also breathed in the scent of the
firs, and found it pleasant, but it was instinctively she did so, for
her thoughts were also busy.  Alice Deringham had noticed her father's
fits of abstraction as well as the anxiety in his face, and had no
great difficulty in connecting them with the loss of Carnaby.  She was
also fond of him, for Deringham had shown only his better side to her,
and sensible of a very bitter feeling towards the man who had
supplanted him.  In addition to this, she remembered the faint
amusement in his eyes when he noticed the glint of a silver coin she
held half-covered in her hand, and her pulses throbbed a little faster.
The man had placed her in a ridiculous position, and had he guessed her
feelings towards him he would probably not have made his appearance as
he did just then.

The boards creaked behind her, and turning partly round she
straightened herself with a slow sinuous gracefulness, and stood drawn
up to her full height looking at the newcomer.  He stood still a moment
with veiled admiration in his eyes, and this was not altogether
surprising in one who had dwelt for the most part far remote from
civilization in the lonely bush.  Alice Deringham had been considered
somewhat of a beauty in London, and it was possible that she knew the
pale moonlight and the harmonies of blue and silver she stood out
against enhanced the symmetry of her outline.  The man stood watching
her with his head bent a trifle, but Miss Deringham evinced a fine
indifference.  She had formed a somewhat mistaken estimate of him
already.

"I want to tell you that I'm sorry," he said.

The girl fancied she understood him, and it increased her anger, for
the fact that this barbarian of the bush should venture to express pity
for her was galling.  Still, she had no intention of admitting it, and
regarded him inquiringly with a half-contemptuous indifference which
she had found especially effective with presumptuous young men in
England.  Somewhat to her astonishment it apparently had no result at
all, for Alton returned her gaze gravely and without embarrassment.

"I don't understand," she said.

"I was hoping you would, because I felt I must tell you, and I'm not
good at talking," said the man.  "I can't help seeing that you are
vexed with me."

If Alton had intended to be conciliatory he had signally failed,
because Miss Deringham had no intention of admitting that anything he
could do would cause her anger.

"I am afraid you are taking things for granted," she said.

Alton smiled gravely, and the girl noticed that he accepted the onus of
the explanation she had forced upon him.

"I really don't think you should be," he said.  "I can't help being
Tristan Alton's grandson, you see, and we are some kind of relations
and ought to be friendly."

Miss Deringham laughed a little.  "Relations do not always love each
other very much," said she.

"No," said Alton.  "Still, I think they should, and, even if it hurts,
I feel I've got to tell you I'm sorry.  If you would only take it, it
would please me to give you back Carnaby."

The girl almost gasped with astonishment and indignation.  "That is a
trifle unnecessary, since you know it is perfectly impossible," she
said.

She had at last roused the man, for the moonlight showed a darker
colour creeping into his tan.  "I don't usually say more than I mean,"
he said.  "Now we shall never understand each other unless you will
talk quite straight with me."

Alice Deringham had not lost her discretion in her anger, and, since
there was no avoiding the issue, decided it would be preferable to
blame him for the lesser of his offences.

"Then," she said coldly, "it was somewhat difficult to appreciate the
humour of the trick you played upon us.  You may, however, have
different notions as to what is tasteful in the Colonies."

Again the darker colour showed in Alton's bronzed forehead, but he
spoke gravely.  "I don't think that's quite fair," he said.  "I am what
the Almighty made me, a plain bushman who has had to work too hard for
his living to learn to put things nicely, but I never came down to any
meanness that would hurt a woman, and there isn't any need for a dainty
English lady to point out the difference between herself and me."

"There may be less difference than you seem to fancy," said the girl a
trifle maliciously.  "You are Alton of Carnaby."

"Pshaw!" said the man with a little gesture of pride and impatience,
which Miss Deringham was forced to admit became him.  "I'm Alton of
Somasco, and nobody gave it me.  I won it from the lake and the forest
that comes crawling in again--but I'm getting off the trail.  I didn't
know your father was coming here, and hadn't any notion who you were."

"That's curious, because he wrote to tell you," said the girl.

Alton flushed a little, for he was somewhat quick-tempered, and too
proud to be otherwise than a veracious man.  "Well," he said slowly, "I
have the honour of telling you I didn't get the letter.  There's a
place called Somasco down in Vancouver."

Miss Deringham decided that she had ventured sufficiently far.  Indeed,
on subsequent reflection she was forced to admit that she had gone
farther than was quite seemly, which somewhat naturally increased her
displeasure against the man.  In the meanwhile she, however, made a
little gracious gesture.  "Then I don't think the explanation was
necessary," she said.

Alton laughed a little, and held out his hand.  "Do you know I'm
thankful that's over once for all, and now we can be friends," he said.
"There are lots of things I can show you in the valley, and a good deal
more that you can teach me."

Alice Deringham could not afterwards quite decide why she shook hands
with him, for she had no intention of teaching him anything, just then;
but she did, and felt as the hard brown fingers closed upon her own
that the friendship of this curious man could in time of necessity be
relied upon.  In any case, and obeying some impulse, she shook off her
chilliness, and asking questions about the district evinced a gracious
interest in all he had to tell her, while presently induced by his
naive frankness she smiled at him as she noticed him regarding her
gravely.

"I presume a dress of this kind is scarcely suitable for the bush," she
said.

Alton laughed.  "I wasn't looking at the dress, though it's a very
pretty one," he said.  "You see, except my mother and Miss Townshead, I
have never spoken to an English lady."

"But you must have been very young when you lost her," said the girl.

Alton took off his hat, and pointed to a hillside shrouded with sombre
firs.  "Yes," he said quietly.  "She sleeps up there, and in a little
while my father followed her.  He was lonely without her, and because
of what she had done for him, proud of his countrywomen.  He often used
to talk about them."

"And," said Alice Deringham, "you wondered if he was mistaken?"

Alton made a little gesture that in a curious fashion implied a wide
chivalric faith.  "No," he said gravely, "I believe he was right."

Miss Deringham felt a faint warmth creep into her cheek, and it was not
because the speech might have been deemed a personal compliment.  She
saw a little deeper into the man's nature than that, and, if she had
not, the tone of grave respect would have enlightened her.  Then she
turned with a little sense of relief as Deringham came out upon the
verandah.

"I am pleased to see you and Mr. Alton have made friends," he said, and
the girl, who noticed a faint twinkle in his eyes, turned quietly and
looked down the valley as she remembered one odious clause in the will.

She rose early next morning, and flinging the window open to let in the
glorious freshness heard a commotion below, while as she wondered as to
the cause of it several pairs of old boots went gyrating over the
balustrade of the verandah.  A dilapidated saddle followed them, and
then a cloud of dust rolled up, while she saw the new owner of Carnaby
appear somewhat scantily attired out of the midst of it.  He had a
brush in one hand and seemed disturbed about something.

"Where the brimstone does Mrs. Margery keep the scrubbing soap?" he
said.

Nobody answered him, and he moved back into the dust, while Seaforth
was coming up the stairway carrying a mop and pail when a big empty
oilcan smote him upon the chest.  He dropped the pail and leaned a
moment, gasping and dripping, against the balustrade.

"You might notice where you're throwing things," he said.

The dust rolled more thickly, and Alton's voice came out of it.  "I
hadn't time to be particular, and a sensible man would have got out of
the way of it.  Don't stand there, anyway, but help me fix this place
fit for a lady before Miss Deringham gets up.  Then you're going
through to the railroad with the new pack-horse to wire for Mrs.
Margery after breakfast."

"I don't think I am," said Seaforth.  "Not on Julius Caesar, anyway.
He will need a little more taming before I'm fit to ride him."

"Then," said Alton, laughing, "I guess you can shove him, because
you'll want a horse to bring up the things you're going to wire
Vancouver for, and Tom's off with the teams up the valley.  Fetch some
more water, and start in with the scrubbing.  I don't want Miss
Deringham to guess we've been doing anything unusual."

"If she doesn't hear you," said Seaforth, "she must be very deaf."

"Now," said Alton regretfully, "I never thought of that.  Sit right
down, Charley, and take your boots off."

"I am going to the well first," said Seaforth, who retired grinning,
and Miss Deringham laughed softly as she heard the cautious movements
of a big barefooted man floundering about clumsily with a brush or mop.

When she came down to breakfast, however, she was a little astonished.
The room was swept, and garnished with cedar sprays, while though it
smelled of some crude soap the aromatic sweetness of balsam was present
too, and there were signs of taste in its decoration and the
disposition of the splendid fruit upon the table.  Alton had not
plucked it all, and the golden apples and velvety peaches lay with
their soft tinting enhanced amidst the leaves.  When he came in, bright
of eye and apparently glowing from a plunge in the river, she glanced
at him with quiet amusement.

"You have been improving the place wonderfully," she said.

"You are pleased with it?" said the rancher, and the girl noticed the
contentment in his eyes when she smiled approvingly.

"I think," she said, "it is very pretty."

CHAPTER VII

ALTON BLUNDERS

Deringham spent several weeks at Somasco without arriving at any
understanding with its owner.  This, however, did not cause him any
great concern, because he had at his doctor's recommendation decided on
a somewhat lengthy absence from England, and found himself regaining
health and vigour with every day he passed in the pleasant valley.  He
was also desirous of gaining time, because he had left negotiations for
the formation of a company to take over an enterprise he was interested
in in train, and, while these could proceed as well without him, a
favourable termination would, by relieving him from immediate financial