At the end of the small open glade the pack-horses dragged about their ropes. A short distance in front, the thick timber stopped and a mountain spur went up to the dim white peaks. The sun had gone and the sky was calm and green. One heard a river brawl and a faint wind in the trees. Deering lay in the pine needles and rubbed his neck.

"The mosquitoes are fierce. Throw some green stuff on the fire and make a smoke," he said. "I don't want to get up."

Jimmy, sitting on a log, pushed green branches into the flames, and then turned his head and looked about. Two Indians were cutting poles and putting up a tent. In the gaps between the trunks the gloom got deep, and although the sharp top of the spur was distinct, Jimmy only saw a few small pines and junipers. Stannard and Okanagan Bob, who had gone up in the afternoon to look for a line to the high rocks, were not coming yet. The horses could not go farther and in the morning the hunting party would leave them behind.

"They recently let me join a highbrow mountain club; but when I start for the rocks I hesitate," Deering resumed. "To boost two hundred pounds up crags and glaciers is a strenuous job, and I allow I'd sooner Stannard had brought the hotel guides. When I camp I like two blankets and a square meal. A good guide can carry a lot of useful truck."

"Their charges are high and Okanagan claims he knows the big-horn's haunts."

"Somehow I reckon Bob knows too much," Deering rejoined. "Well, I allow to let you break your neck wouldn't pay Stannard."

"In one sense, it wouldn't cost him much," said Jimmy, with a laugh. "You see, I insured my life in his favor some time since."

"Ah," said Deering, thoughtfully. "That was when he took you down to Vancouver?"

"I went down. The plan was mine. After I fell into the gully, I saw Stannard ran some risk."

Deering grinned. "I like you, Jimmy! You're sure an honest kid." Then his glance got keen and he resumed: "Say, are you going to marry Laura?"

"Miss Stannard refused to marry me," Jimmy replied in a quiet voice. "But we were talking about the insurance. I rather urged Stannard – "

"Exactly! Stannard's a highbrow Englishman," said Deering, but somehow Jimmy thought his remark ironical. "Well, you urged, and since Stannard is not rich, he agreed? Perhaps the strange thing is, he was able to lend you a pretty good sum. Do you know where he gets the money?"

"I don't know. It's not important."

"Oh, well! You have insured your life and Miss Laura has refused you! She's a charming girl, but since I don't see her helping you run a bush ranch, perhaps her refusal was justified. However, I think somebody's coming down the ridge."

Not long afterwards Stannard and Bob reached the camp and Stannard said, "We have found a line and we'll start at daybreak. Bob now declares he expects a reward for each good head we get."

"You can promise him his bonus. If we shoot a big-horn, we're lucky; the tourist sports have scared them back to the North," Deering remarked.

They got supper and went to bed. The spruce twigs were soft and the Hudson's Bay blankets were warm, but for a time Jimmy did not sleep. The tent door was hooked back and the night was not dark. He saw the smoke go up and the mist creep about the trunks. Sometimes a horse broke a branch and sometimes the river's turmoil got louder, but this was all and Jimmy missed the cow-bells that chimed at Kelshope ranch.

Perhaps it was strange, but Laura's refusal had not hurt him very much. In fact, he began to feel that so long as she did not marry Dillon he would be resigned. Now Jimmy came to think about it, Deering's hint that she attracted Frank to some extent accounted for his resolve to marry Laura. Anyhow, Laura was his friend, and Stannard had used tact. He was quietly sympathetic and soon banished Jimmy's embarrassment. Then the noise of the river got indistinct and Jimmy thought he heard cow-bells ring. Branches cracked and somebody called, "Oh, Buck! Oh, Bright!"

At daybreak Bob sent off two Indians to wait for the party at another spot. He and an Indian carried heavy loads, but all carried as much as possible, because Bob declared the party was rather large for good hunting and refused to take another man. When they stopped at noon Deering's face was very red and Jimmy was satisfied to lie in the stones while Bob brewed some tea.

After lunch they pushed through a belt of timber. The trees were small, but some had fallen and blocked the way. Others, broken by the wind, had not reached the ground and the locked branches held up the slanted trunks. Where the underbrush below was thick, one must crawl along the logs.

On the other side of the timber an avalanche had swept the slope, carrying down soil and stones, and the party was forced to cross steep rock slabs. Jimmy carried a rifle, a blanket, and a small bag of flour and admitted that he had got enough. To pitch camp at sunset behind a few half-dead spruce was a keen relief.

They had not a tent and the cold was keen, but where one can find wood one can build a shelter. Supper was soon cooked and when they had satisfied their appetite all were glad to lie about the fire. Some distance above them, untrodden snow, touched with faint pink by the sunset, glimmered against the green sky. Below, rocks and gravel went down to the forest, across which blue mist rolled. Sometimes a belt of vapor melted and one saw a vast dim gulf and a winding line that was a river. The austere landscape rather braced than daunted Jimmy. He knew the Swiss rocks and the high snows called.

Two days afterwards Jimmy, one afternoon, got his first shot at a mountain-sheep. Until the big-horn moved, it looked like a small gray stone, but it did move and when it vanished they studied the ground. There was no use in trying a direct approach, but the rocky slope was broken and Bob imagined they could climb a gully and come down near the animal farther on. They must, however, take their loads, because he had not yet found a spot to pitch camp.

To climb the gully, embarrassed by a heavy pack, and a rifle, was hard, and for some time afterwards they crawled across the top of a big buttress. When they reached another gully the sun was gone, but Bob thought they would find the sheep not far from the bottom. He said two might go, and when they had spun a coin Stannard and Jimmy took off their packs.

The gully was very steep and they used some caution. Near the bottom Jimmy slipped and might have gone down had not Stannard steadied him. Bob, carrying the glasses, went a short distance in front. At the bottom he got behind a stone and presently waved his hand.

When Jimmy reached the spot he saw a horseshoe slope of rock and gravel that fell sharply for five or six hundred feet and then stopped, as if at the edge of a precipice. He thought if the big-horn went down there, they must let it go. Then Bob touched his arm and indicated a spot level with them, but some distance off. Something moved and Jimmy, taking the glasses, saw it was a sheep.

"Your shot. Use a full sight; it's farther than you think," said Stannard in a low voice, and when Jimmy had pulled up the slide he rested the rifle barrel on the rock.

His arm was on the stone; he knew he ought to hold straight, but the shot was long and the hole in the telescopic sight was small. Perhaps he was too keen, for although Stannard had got a noble head, he himself had not yet fired a shot, but when he began to pull the trigger his hand shook. He stopped and drew his breath, and the sheep moved.

"He's going," said Bob, and Jimmy crooked his finger.

The rifle jerked. In the distance, a small shower of dust leaped up and the sheep jumped on a stone. In a moment it would vanish and Jimmy savagely snapped out the cartridge. Then he saw a pale flash and knew the report of Stannard's English rifle. The sheep plunged from the stone, struck the ground, and began to roll down the incline. Its speed got faster and Jimmy thought it went down like a ball. In a few moments it would reach the top of the precipice, and if it plunged across they would not find its broken body. Then it struck a rock and stopped, so far as one could see, a few yards from the edge. Stannard gave Bob his rifle and picked up the glasses.

"A fine head! Call Deering, Jimmy. I think we can get down."

Jimmy thought not, but he shouted and Deering arrived and studied the ground.

"Looks awkward, but perhaps we can make it."

"You have got to make it! You don't want to leave a sheep like that about," said Bob.

Stannard gave him a keen glance, but Deering said, "Let's try; I've brought the rope. If you'll lead, Stannard, I'll tie on at the top. We'll leave Jimmy."

"Since I missed my shot, I ought to go," Jimmy objected.

"My weight's a useful anchor and you're not up to Stannard's form," Deering rejoined and they put on the rope.

They started and Jimmy lighted his pipe. He had wanted the noble head and Stannard had got another, but Jimmy was not jealous. Although Stannard had hardly had a moment before the sheep went off, he had seized the moment to shoot and hit. In the meantime, however, the others were getting down the slope and Jimmy used the glasses.

The job was awkward. Sometimes the stones ran down and Stannard hesitated; Deering stopped and braced himself, ready to hold up his companions. Bob was at the middle of the rope and, so far as one could see, was satisfied to follow Stannard. They reached the sheep, and Bob got on his knees by the animal. His knife shone and after a few minutes he gave Stannard the head.

Then it looked as if they disputed, but Bob got up and began to drag the sheep to the edge. Jimmy was puzzled, for stones were plunging down and it was plain the fellow ran some risk. One could not see his object for resolving to get rid of the headless body. After a minute or two he pushed the sheep over the edge and the party began to climb the slope.

They got to the top, and going up the gully, after a time found a corner in the rocks and pitched camp. Bob and the Indian had carried up a small quantity of wood and when they cooked supper Stannard remarked: "I expect you're satisfied nobody in the valley could see our fire?"

"Nobody's in the valley, anyhow," said Bob.

"Then, my seeing smoke was strange," Stannard rejoined.

"But suppose somebody had camped in the trees? Why shouldn't the fellow see our fire?" Jimmy inquired.

"Perhaps Bob will enlighten you," said Stannard coolly.

"Ah," said Deering, "he didn't mean to leave the sheep around, and although I didn't get his object for pushing the body off the rocks, I reckon it went down a thousand feet into the timber – " He stopped and looking hard at Bob resumed: "What was your object?"

Bob's dark face was inscrutable.

"I saw smoke. When we got busy, I calculated the game-warden had located at the other end of the range."

"You greedy swine!" said Stannard, and Deering began to laugh.

"Jimmy doesn't get it! Well, Bob meant to earn his bonus, and since he took us shooting on a government game reserve, I admit his nerve is pretty good. Anyhow, I won't grumble because I haven't killed a big-horn. Stannard's may cost him two or three hundred dollars."

"Why did you play us this shabby trick, Bob?" Jimmy asked in a stern voice.

Bob gave him a rather strange look.

"I sure wanted the bonus and the reserve is new. I allowed I'd beat the warden and you wouldn't know. He got after me another time and I had to quit and leave a pile of skins."

"You wanted to get even?" Deering remarked and turned to Stannard. "What are you going to do about it? In a way, the thing's a joke, but our duty's obvious. We ought to give up the heads and take Bob along to the police."

Stannard said nothing, but Jimmy imagined he did not mean to give up the heads. Bob's calm was not at all disturbed.

"Shucks!" he said. "You're pretty big, Mr. Deering, but I reckon the city man who could take me where I didn't want to go isn't born. Why, you can't get off the mountains unless I help you fix camp and pack your truck!"

"I don't like packing a heavy load," Deering admitted. "We'll talk about it again, and in the meantime you had better take the frying-pan from the fire. I hate my bannocks burned."

XII
STANNARD FRONTS A CRISIS

At Kelshope ranch fodder was scarce and so long as the underbrush was green Jardine let his cattle roam about. The plan had some drawbacks, and Jardine, needing his plow oxen one afternoon, was forced to search the tangled woods. Sometimes he heard cow-bells, but when he reached the spot the animals were gone. A plow ox is cunning and in thick timber moves much faster than a man.

Jardine, however, was obstinate and for an hour or two he pushed across soft muskegs and through tangled brushwood. When at length he stopped he saw he had torn his new overalls and broken an old long boot. Besides, he hated to be baffled and since he could not catch the oxen he could not move some logs.

When he got near the ranch he stopped. Somebody was quietly moving about the house, as if he wanted to find out who was at home, and Jardine, advancing noiselessly, saw it was Bob. He admitted he had expected something like that, for Bob's habits were not altogether a white man's. Jardine imagined he did not know Margaret had gone to the railroad.

Had he found his team, he might have given Bob supper and sent him off before Margaret arrived, but he had not found the team and Bob's creeping about the house annoyed him. In the Old Country Jardine was a poacher, but he sprang from good Scottish stock and he hated to think Bob bothered Margaret. Moving out of the shadow, he went up the path.

He did not make a noise, but Bob turned, and Jardine thought had the fellow been altogether a white man he would have started. Bob did not start. His look was calm, like an Indian's, and his pose was quiet.

"Hello!" he said. "I reckoned you'd gone after your plow team."

"Ye didna reckon I'd come back just yet!"

Bob smiled, but his eyes got narrower and his mouth went straight. He was a big man and carried himself like an athlete.

"Well," he said, "I allowed Miss Margaret was around and I'd wait a while."

Jardine wondered whether Bob meant to annoy him. As a rule the fellow was not frank and now his frankness was insolent.

"If ye come another time, ye'll come when I'm aboot. What have ye in yon pack?"

"Berries," said Bob, opening a cotton flour bag. "I reckoned Miss Margaret wanted some. Then I brought a pelt; looked the sort of thing to go round her winter cap."

In the woods, the Indians dry the large yellow raspberries and Bob had brought a quantity to the ranch before. Now he pulled out a small dark skin that Jardine imagined was worth fifty dollars. The value of the present was significant.

"Ye can tak' them back. We have a' the berries we want."

"Anyhow, I guess Miss Margaret would like the skin."

"She would not. Margaret has nae use for ony pelts ye bring."

For a few moments Bob was quiet. Then he said, "Sometimes I blew in for supper and you let me stay and smoke. When you put up the barn, you sent for me to help you raise the logs. The English tenderfoot hadn't located in the valley then."

The blood came to Jardine's skin. To some extent Bob's rejoinder was justified; but Jardine had not until recently imagined Margaret accounted for the fellow's coming to the ranch.

"When we put up the barn ye got stan'ard pay. I allow ye're a useful man to handle logs, but I'm no' hiring help the noo."

"You reckoned me your hired man?" said Bob in an ominously quiet voice. "That was all the use you had for me?"

"Just that!" Jardine agreed. "Margaret has nae use for ye ava'."

"Then, if you reckon you're going to get my highbrow English boss for her, you're surely not very bright. His sort don't marry – "

"Tak' your pack and quit," said Jardine sternly. "Get off the ranch, ye blasted half-breed!"

Bob was very quiet, but his pose was alert and somehow like a hunting animal's. Perhaps instinctively, he felt for his knife. Jardine's ax leaned against a neighboring post. If he jumped, he could reach the tool, but he did not move. For a moment or two they waited, and then Bob picked up the flour bag and went down the path. Jardine went to the kitchen and lighted his pipe. Bob was gone, and Jardine hardly thought he would come back, but he was not altogether satisfied he had taken the proper line. Indian blood ran in Bob's veins; an Indian waits long and does not forget. For all that, Jardine did not see himself warning Leyland and enlightening Margaret.

A week afterwards, Stannard one evening occupied a chair at his table on the terrace. He had returned from the mountains with two good big-horn heads and nothing indicated that the game-warden knew the party had poached on the reserve. Stannard, however, was not thinking about the hunting excursion. The English mail had arrived and sometimes he studied a letter and sometimes looked moodily about.

Laura, Dillon, and two or three young men were on the steps that went down to the woods. Laura wore her black dinner dress and Stannard thought she had not another that so harmonized with her beauty. Dillon obviously felt her charm. He was next to Laura, and since it looked as if the others were ready to dispute his claim to the spot, Stannard imagined Frank would not have occupied it unless Laura meant him to remain.

After a time Stannard pushed the letter into his pocket and gave himself to gloomy thought, until Deering came along the terrace and asked him for a match.

"You look as if you were bothered," Deering remarked.

"Sometimes one is bothered when one's mail arrives."

"That is so," said Deering, with a sympathetic nod. "Opening your mail is like dipping in a lucky bag; your luck's not always good. I got some bills in my lot."

"I got a demand for a sum I cannot pay. I expect you haven't two thousand dollars you don't particularly need?"

Deering laughed. "Search me! All I've got above five hundred dollars you can have for keeps. Looks as if you must put the fellow off."

"He's obstinate and unless I can satisfy him it might be awkward for me."

"Then, you had better try Dillon. The kid's rich and sometimes generous," Deering remarked. "In a sense, he's mine, but since you're up against it, I'll lend him to you."

He went off and Stannard frowned. For him to be fastidious was ridiculous, but Deering's frankness jarred. Still he needed a large sum, and although he could borrow for Jimmy, he could not borrow for himself; the fellow who supplied him was a keen business man. Stannard lived extravagantly, but the money he used was not his, and unless he justified the speculation supplies would stop. So far, the speculation had paid and he owned he ought not to be embarrassed. The trouble was, he squandered all he got.

He weighed Deering's plan. Dillon's father was rich and indulged the lad. Stannard had stopped at his ambitious house on Puget Sound, and imagined the old lumber man approved Laura. In fact, the drawback to Deering's plan was there. Stannard had not bothered much about Laura and was willing for his wife's relations to undertake his duty, but he did not mean to put an obstacle in her way. She must make a good marriage; after all, her aunts were poor.

By and by the group on the steps broke up and Laura came to Stannard's table. He noted that her eyes sparkled and her color was rather high. It looked as if she had triumphed over another girl; Stannard admitted the others were attractive, but none had Laura's charm.

"You have soon forgotten Jimmy," he remarked.

"No," said Laura, "I have not forgotten Jimmy. Although I did not want him for a lover, he's my friend. But he really was not my lover. That accounts for much."

"Yet I imagine, if he had been persuaded to go back to the cotton mill – "

Laura blushed, but she gave Stannard a steady look. "I liked Jimmy, Father, and I was not altogether selfish. I felt he ought to go back."

"To lead a young man where he ought to go is rather an attractive part," Stannard remarked. "Jimmy wanted to marry you. What about Frank Dillon?"

"Ah," said Laura. "Frank is not as rash as Jimmy! Jimmy doesn't ponder. He plunges ahead."

"You imply that Frank uses caution."

"Oh, well," said Laura, smiling, "perhaps I use some reserve."

Stannard thought her voice was gentle, and turning his head, he studied Dillon. The young fellow stood at the top of the steps as if he wanted to follow Laura, but waited for her to indicate that he might. Stannard reflected with dry amusement that Laura kept her lovers in firm control. Frank was rather a handsome fellow and Stannard knew him sincere and generous. Perhaps it was strange, but a number of the young men he admitted to his circle were a pretty good type. Although Stannard was not bothered by scruples, he was fastidious.

"But I want to know – It's important," he said. "Suppose Frank is as rash as Jimmy? Will you refuse him?"

Laura blushed, but after a moment or two she looked up and fronted her father.

"Why is it important for you to know?"

Stannard hesitated. He had not used his daughter for an innocent accomplice, and had she married Jimmy he would have tried to free the lad from his entanglements. Now, if she loved Frank, he must not embarrass her.

"Well," he said, "I rather think I must give you my confidence. I need money and it's possible Frank would help."

"Oh, Father, you mustn't use Frank's money!" Laura exclaimed and, since her disturbance was obvious, Stannard's curiosity was satisfied. "He's your friend and trusts you," she resumed. "I think you ought to force Deering to leave him alone."

For a few moments Stannard was quiet. Laura loved Frank; at all events she was willing to marry him, and it looked as if she knew more about her father than he had thought. Well, Laura was not a fool.

"Sometimes your tact is rather marked," he said. "I wonder whether you really think Deering a worse friend for Frank than me? However, we'll let it go. If you marry the young fellow, he, of course, ought not to be my creditor."

Laura gave him a grateful look and when she replied her voice was apologetic. "Perhaps I wasn't justified, but I felt I was forced – I mean, I didn't want you to bother Frank, and one cannot trust Deering."

"I imagine I see," Stannard rejoined. "Well, perhaps Deering's a better sort than you think. He stated, rather generously, that he would lend me Frank, but if it's some comfort, I'll engage not to bother the young fellow."

"You're a dear!" said Laura with a touch of emotion.

Stannard shrugged. "I have not carried out my duty and you do not owe me much, but after all it was for your sake I sent you to your aunts. Since your father was a bad model, I hoped your mother's sisters would help you to grow up like her. Well, since I long neglected you, I must not now put an obstacle in your way."

"You are kind," said Laura. "Perhaps I'm cold and calculating. I know my shabbiness, but I did not love Jimmy and I think I do love Frank."

She touched Stannard's arm gently and went into the hotel. A few moments afterwards, Dillon crossed the terrace and went up the steps. Stannard smiled, but by and by threw away his cigar and knitted his brows. He thought he need not bother about Laura, but he saw no plan for meeting his importunate creditor's demands.