Читать книгу Whispering Leaves - Alex Philip - Страница 3

Table of Contents

BRUCE ARLEN felt that he had about reached his limit. Standing at the open office window he looked gloomily out into the hurry-scurry of Vancouver’s busy streets where tired, impatient humans jostled one another; all in a hunger for haste in a mad rush to gain a living, power, success and wealth.

He was sick of it all. Sick of city din and confusion; the shrill hootings of motor horns, raucous shouting of paper vendors, screeching tram-car wheels; all borne on a soot-laden air reeking with the smell of burning gasolene. He was tired of keeping up appearances; doing things he could not afford to do, things he did not want to do, things he ought not to do, because of what somebody, for whom he cared not a tinker’s damn, might think about it.

There passed before his mind the disordered pageant of days to come; inchoate, intangible days of money-grubbing in stuffy, over-heated offices; nights of airless theatres, gay parties when he would drink and smoke too much; when he would have to listen to the chitter-chatter of women, men’s loud, boring tones, never ceasing. He ran strong white fingers through his mop of curly brown hair, his face twisting in a grimace of disgust. How long could he stand it?

Had he known that his father’s friend, John Hickman, was a dealer in farm lands rather than a tiller of the soil, he would not have sold the old farm in Ontario—a farm wrested from the forest by his ancient forbears—and become a cog in the office machine of “Hickman & Company, Farm & Timber Brokers, Mortgages & Loans.”

Still, he should not complain. He had done well. Four years with the company had earned him the position of Assistant Manager with a generous salary. He had been consistently lucky in the stock market during the last few months and now he was engaged to Hickman’s daughter, Audrey.

The thought of Audrey brought a wry smile to Arlen’s lips. Artificial and luxury-loving, she was tireless in the pursuit of pleasure. Dances, parties, theatres, cabarets with the attendant late hours had brought lines about her young mouth and circles under her lovely eyes. He had tried to make her believe that the quest of happiness did not lie down such devious and twisting paths, but her habits were too strongly entrenched. His counsel was unheeded.

And there was Anton Czersky. Arlen frowned angrily. Audrey was with him too much. People would talk. He was nothing but a third-rate artist. A lion with a certain class of women but nothing but a damned gigolo. One of those foreigners with a spike moustache, a tight-fitting coat, who hovered about a girl, touching her here, there, some other place with his fingertips, putting on her cloak, crooking his back in a courtly bow, kissing her hand or dashing across the room to pick up a fallen handkerchief.

Why couldn’t Audrey be herself? Audrey’s father had carved a fortune out of nothing on the shores of Burrard Inlet, and being a rather rough fellow had produced the silken apotheosis of Audrey. But to her mind there was nothing romantic about that. She said that Anton Czersky gave her an intellectual stimulus, a sense of romance. That he had the charming manners of the old world. Arlen’s lips set in a firm straight line. He would have a serious talk with Audrey. She would have to drop this foreigner.

The previous evening he had ’phoned Audrey of a killing he had made in stocks. She had seized upon this as an excuse for another party. They had finished up at a roadhouse. Audrey had danced every dance, missed few drinks, and had distinguished herself by taking the drummer’s place in the orchestra, and with Anton at the wheel they had started home in the early, rosy sunlight. He had felt Audrey’s tired weight in his arms, had looked down at her lovely face and seen her eyes dull and heavy with fatigue. There had been no sense in going to bed. He had undressed, taken a cold shower and come straight to the office. He leaned his elbows on the desk and pressed his palms to his aching eyes. What a life! Arlen’s gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Audrey’s voice.

“Hello, old dear,” she greeted him brightly. “How goes the battle?”

The girl filled the room with a heady perfume. She touched her lips lightly to Arlen’s cheek. Arlen’s face clouded as he saw the slender, immaculately clad figure of Audrey’s satellite, Anton. Audrey held out a languid white hand.

“Cigarette, please, Bruce.”

Before Arlen could accede to her request Anton was bending over her with cigarette case and lighter. She sat sidewise on a chair, one knee mounted on the other, and puffed at her cigarette.

Arlen found himself staring at her. He had never seen her look more beautiful. Her short skirt fitted snugly about her slim, graceful hips; adhered to her as though it were glued. And there were her long lashes, each individual lash curled by itself, black with mascara. The ends of her wind-blown bob curled like black commas on her cheeks, two to a cheek. Her mouth was too red, too perfect. She was a work of art, an ornamental tempting thing.

She was so perfect that there were times when he felt that he would like to run both hands through her sleek coiffure and wash her face and lips. She was beautiful without the aid of make-up.

Arlen drew in his breath. She was marvellous. Here he was, frayed and worn, while she appeared as fresh as a newly opened flower. Yet he knew that she had slept only a few hours. How did she do it? Youth—the buoyancy of youth! That was it. He was too old for her. He was thirty-four and she was fourteen years his junior. The thought gave him a sudden pang.

The girl spoke drawlingly.

“I want you to cash a cheque for me, Bruce.” She smiled ruefully. “I woke up dead broke this morning.”

“Little wonder,” Arlen said shortly. “You were throwing money at the roadhouse entertainers.”

Audrey raised her fine brows. “Oh, was I? I must have been well spiffled.”

She pulled a small cheque book from out a gold mesh bag. Vanity case, cigarette holder and lighter clattered down on the desk. She produced a small pen from the miscellany and wrote the cheque.

Arlen, watching her with a meditative eye, saw that for all the girl’s seeming freshness her nerves were jumpy. The slim white hand holding the pen was shaky.

“Audrey,” he said abruptly, “you’ve got to cut out this crowd you’re associating with. Give up drinking and smoking so much and get to bed at a reasonable hour.”

She smiled with studied languor. “Is that a command?” she exacted.

“Yes, if you want to put it that way,” was his curt reply.

She sat silent a moment, as though she were giving the matter serious consideration. But when she looked up at him there was a humorous gleam in her dark eyes.

“All right, Bruce, I’ll do just that little thing for you. I’ll listen to the bedtime tales and then toddle off to my little bed.”

“Don’t be flippant,” he retorted with a sharpening note of impatience in his voice. “I’m serious.”

The humorous light left the girl’s eyes. Her red lips tightened. “Be yourself, Bruce. You’re talking nonsense. You know very well that I can never go to such an extreme.”

“I’m through,” he solemnly asserted.

“Don’t be silly,” she reproved him. “After all, we haven’t only ourselves to consider. We’d have to give up all our friends and all social life. How could we do that?”

“Easily enough,” he replied sharply. “There are thousands of people who lead sane and sensible lives. Why stay in a rut? Why be like a flock of sheep? I’m fed-up!”

The girl’s display of temper was short lived. She laughed gaily.

“Hope you don’t start on the straight-and-narrow right away. As you know, we are invited to the Hewart’s tonight and when they entertain it’s some party.”

Arlen flung out his arms in a gesture of disgust.

“Good Lord! Another night. I’m not going.”

His eyes rested on the slender figure of the immaculate Anton who sat with gloved hand caressing a malacca cane, a smile of lofty tolerance playing about his thick, red lips.

That smile, which was almost a sneer, aroused an unreasonable anger in Arlen. He gestured toward the foreigner. “Take your little retriever with you and count me out,” he foolishly said.

Owing to Czersky’s limited command of the English language he did not catch the full import of Arlen’s remark, but he knew that something derogatory had been said about him and a dangerous glint flashed momentarily from his dusky eyes.

Audrey got to her feet, a heightened colour showing beneath the rouge.

“Bruce, what’s wrong with you today? You’re not only stupid, but you are positively rude.”

Suddenly she became aware that Arlen looked tired and careworn—positively ill. She noticed the harassed look in his eyes, the colourless face, the hard lines about his mouth and the droop of his broad shoulders.

Arlen felt Audrey’s soft arms about his neck, her warm body close to his own. “Bruce, dear,” she said gently, “you’re not yourself. Let’s not quarrel, please.”

He looked down into the lovely eyes that held a trace of tears. Certainly she was a sweet thing when in this mood. A lovely adorable thing. He had been a boor.

She pulled his head down and kissed him. “You’ll go tonight, won’t you, darling?” she implored.

“All right, all right.” Arlen surrendered listlessly.

Audrey picked up her bag from the desk. “Come on, Anton, let’s go places. See you tonight, old dear,” she added over her shoulder to Arlen.

Bruce sank wearily down to a chair by the window. Across the street a tiny park, bordered with trees, its green sod clipped to a velvety smoothness, shimmered under the rays of spring sunshine. An errant breeze set the leaves rustling and charged with the perfume of opening buds drifted through the open window. The young man’s nostrils drew in the sweet air lovingly.

Whispering Leaves!

The sound of clicking typewriters and the roar of city traffic seemed to fade, and swiftly a mental panorama unfolded. He saw the big poplar trees on the crest of the hill by the old farm; himself, a lad, stretched on his back under the canopy of spreading limbs, gazing up through the tracery of stirring leaves at the sky above. Hither he was wont to come for solace from boyish worries, real or fancied. In his visioning he saw himself in later years when the death of his father had forced him to give up an agricultural course at college. He had lain at the foot of the old tree, and, as in the days of childhood, the witchery of whispering leaves—like the counsel of a gentle friend—had proved an anodyne to his saddened spirit.

Yesterday he had taken his bi-yearly physical examination. His doctor had told him what he already knew. Exercise, fresh air and more sleep.

He would go away, he told himself, let the work go hang, get out of the turmoil and the rut in which he had placed himself—go somewhere away from everything.

He was planning, sitting there, feeling sick and empty and yet filled with intolerant anger with himself and everything in general when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

“Snap out of it, young feller!”

Startled, Arlen sprang nervously to his feet.

A thick-set, muscular individual, wearing a frilled buckskin coat, a wide sombrero in his hand, grinned amiably up at him. In age he was perhaps thirty-five or thereabouts. His grey eyes were wide set, his skin a deep brown, his nose uptilted, together with his protruding jaw lent him an undeniable air of pugnacity. He was a type of man dangerous to cross, Bruce decided in his first quick inventory. The smell of liquor emanated from the stranger.

The visitor jerked his thumb toward the counter.

“Girl told me that the head Shylock was out—that you’d look after me.” His appraising eyes swept over Arlen’s tall form. “Great hulking hop-toads!” he ejaculated. “You’re sure a husky guy to be a swivel chair dude. You’d ought to be holding a plough or swinging an axe. Ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Arlen flushed. He was about to make an angry retort when he saw the twinkle in the warm grey eyes and the smile on the wide, kind mouth.

“Maybe you’re right,” Arlen agreed.

The man in the buckskin coat held out a thick, muscular hand. “Shake,” he invited with a friendly grin.

Arlen looked down at his own hands. Hands once as thick and brown as those of the man standing before him, now soft and white as a woman’s.

He drew out a chair for the visitor. “What can I do for you?”

“My name’s Tom Logan. What I want to know—. Gosh, but it’s hot in here.” He wiped his perspiring face with a soiled red handkerchief—“What I want to know first is if there’s been a big, red-headed guy in here with a long snoot, an Indian face long enough to eat out of a nose-bag and eyes like a rat?”

“I don’t think so,” Arlen replied, smiling broadly.

“Good! I got ahead of him then. I beat it out in a hurry. Great thundering gosh how I did travel.”

“Here’s Mr. Hickman,” Arlen announced.

The head of the firm crossed the floor to his private office. Logan’s eyes followed the corpulent figure until the door closed.

“So that’s old money-bags,” he chuckled. “Funny that most all them guys with plenty of dough have bay windows. He looks like a big, fat toad that’d just filled his tummy.” He came to his feet and braced his shoulders. “Well, here’s where he swallers another gnat. Can I go into the lion’s den? All right. I’ll leave the door open so’s he can kick me out.”

Arlen stared moodily out of the window. Farm loans. He hated the words. They were ominous words—words that brought sleepless nights and lines of care on the faces of the hardy tillers of the soil. Day after day he had seen weather-beaten, horny-handed, stoop-shouldered men nervously awaiting their turn to enter the office where Logan now sat. They entered with an air of eager hopefulness but many emerged crestfallen, despondent, eyes filled with apprehension.

Through the open door of the inner office voices came above other sounds. Hickman was talking.

“Hasn’t been any sale for timber in there for years. Why do you want it now?” he asked shrewdly.

There was no guile in Logan’s make-up.

“There’s tie camps opening up and they’ll soon be coming into Cayuse Lake ’cause they’re running short of tie timber along the railroad,” was the honest answer.

Hickman sat for a while in meditation.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said finally. “It’s so far away that I don’t want to be bothered with collecting as the timber is taken off, but I’ll sell it all for cash.”

“How much?” Logan asked anxiously.

Hickman named the sum and Logan’s face fell.

“I can’t do it,” he said disconsolately.

Hickman came to his feet. “Well, it’s the only way I will dispose of it. It’s no use—”

Logan interrupted, his voice eager.

“See here now! Sit down a minute. I want that timber. I’ve got two-hundred and fifty bucks. I’ll give you all I make trapping next winter, which will be six or seven hundred dollars, and I’ll give you a mortgage on my ranch and give you ten per cent and—”

Hickman held up a restraining hand.

“Where is your place?”

Logan leaned over the map spread on the desk. Hickman placed a pudgy finger on the spot the trapper indicated.

The buckskin-clad figure sat down opposite the owner of the timber and spoke animatedly. “It’s a dandy place. I got over three acres cleared and two slashed and a cabin and—”

“Why, man alive!” Hickman interposed. “Your place must be over one hundred miles from the railroad and you want me to loan—”

“Yes, I know,” Logan interjected. “But they’ll extend the motor road in there some day.”

“How long have you had this place?”

“Five years.”

“How much could you sell it for right now?” Hickman questioned sharply.

“Don’t believe I could get much for it right now,” Logan gloomily admitted.

“There you are,” said the man behind the desk, with an air of finality. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands across his ample stomach. “What’s the matter with you fellows,” he went on rather testily. “You’re all pretty much the same. You’ve been on this place five years and have only cleared three acres. Why don’t you get out and hustle and clear your land?” He tapped the map with his finger. “That land of yours isn’t worth three dollars an acre.”

For all his belligerent appearance Logan was, ordinarily, of a bashful and retiring disposition, but when under the influence of alcohol he became utterly transformed. When sober the mere thought of entering Hickman’s big offices would have given him inward qualms. As Logan said of himself: “When I’m sober I hate to ask for my mail, but when I’ve had a few shots I’d kick the Premier off his seat and make a speech before the House.” When in his cups the point between cheerful grins and flaming anger was dangerously balanced.

To Hickman, Logan’s ranch was simply an infinitesimal spot of land on the map of the Cariboo. But to the owner it was a home. A loved spot on God’s green earth on which he had lavished years of torturing labour. Pulling stumps, digging ditches, trapping through the long cold winters, working at odd jobs for other ranchers, scrimping, saving, while he dreamed of wide fields, snug farm buildings and lowing herds of cattle.

Logan sprang to his feet, overturning the chair.

“Three dollars an acre!” he blazed, his eyes twin points of flame. “Get out and hustle, you say. Why you—you pot-bellied hippopotamus, I’d like to see you put in a year at it! If you were a younger man I’d—” He flung himself angrily from the room.

“Well, that’s that,” Logan grunted. He slumped dejectedly to a chair at Arlen’s desk and mopped his perspiring face. “By gorry, but the air in here is awful,” he complained, then relapsed into a gloomy silence, calloused fingers twitching and eyes staring into nothingness.

Logan’s evident distress touched a responsive chord in Arlen’s heart. “You’re not very diplomatic,” he gently chided him.

“I’ll tell the cock-eyed world I ain’t. I’ve sure scrambled the eggs. But a feller can’t stand everything.” He sprang to his feet and began pacing the room excitedly. “Holy mackinaw, ain’t it hell! That guy is going to get ahead of me. I’d turn yegg if I thought I could stick up somebody with a wad of dough.”

“Sit down and tell me all about it,” Arlen suggested.

“It’s the timber on a part of the Lee place—Lightning Creek Ranch,” Logan began earnestly. “It’s one of the oldest and was the best ranch in the Cariboo, and the Lees are old-timers. Been there since the early days. It used to be an up-and-coming place, with store, post-office and the finest bred cattle and racehorses in the country. Jim Lee and his wife both died and since then the place has gone to the devil. Old man Lee—Jim’s father—is nutty over mining. Putters away at a hole in the mountains and has been selling the land piece by piece to buy dynamite and grub.

“This man Hendricks—that I was telling you about—has only been in the country a few years. He’s got pots of money and is trying to grab everything in sight. Wants to be king over all of us. He bought about a quarter of Lightning Creek Ranch for a song and pretty soon he’ll bamboozle old man Lee out of the whole place.

“He’s the guy I been trying to get ahead of on this tie timber business. There’s the finest bunch of tie timber on the Lee place that I ever saw. Old Lee sold it for almost nothing and somehow Hickman got hold of it, and now I suppose Hendricks will grab it off.”

“What’s the soil on the Lee place, and how much is cleared?” Arlen asked interestedly.

Logan’s eyes sparkled. “The richest soil you ever stuck a plough into. There was about five-hundred acres cleared but some of it has gone wild. There’s lots of good pasture with all kinds of Government grazing land if you want it. She’s some country,” Logan went on enthusiastically. “A lake forty miles long with lots of fish, and there’s all kinds of game in the hills.” His face glowed. “Prettiest country God ever made.”

Bruce Arlen felt the contagion of Logan’s enthusiasm. Love for the soil was a heritage handed down to him by his pilgrim fathers. Five hundred acres cleared and going to waste! He felt a strange ferment in his blood; a restless stirring, a warm glow that brought a surge of colour to his cheeks.

Logan spoke wearily. “It’s hell! I wouldn’t care so much if it wasn’t for the little girl. She’s killing herself trying to keep the place going.”

“A woman in the case, eh?” Arlen asked quizzically.

Logan’s tanned face took on a deeper colour. He fumbled nervously with his wide hat. “It’s Anne—Lee’s grand-daughter,” he replied.

“How much will it take to buy this timber?” Arlen asked.

There was a look of hopelessness on Logan’s face as he named the sum.

Arlen tilted his chair and gazed meditatively at the ceiling. Why not? He trusted this man Logan. It would be a good investment. It was a cinch that if he kept on gambling in the stock market he would sooner or later meet with disaster. He could not keep winning forever.

For an interval there was a wordless silence. Logan rolled a cigarette with thick but deft fingers and took a deep inhalation. “Well,” he sighed resignedly, “guess I better beat it for home.”

Arlen held up a detaining hand. “Wait until I come back.” He reached for his hat and hurriedly left the room.

Twenty minutes later he was back at his desk. He glanced about him, drew a package from his pocket and slid it across to Logan.

“There’s the money to buy the timber. Have the papers made out in your name and you can transfer to me at another time.”

Logan sat with mouth agape, astonishment written large on his features. He stared at the package, then at the man opposite him. His eyes suddenly narrowed.

“Why in the name of sanctified sanity are you doing this?” he breathed.

Arlen met the boring eyes squarely. “I’ll be darned if I know, unless it’s because I think you’re on the square and that I don’t want this man Hendricks to get it.”

The hard look in Logan’s eyes faded. “By gorry,” he muttered, his voice vibrant with suppressed excitement. “By gorry—” He stuck out his hand and Bruce winced under the pressure of Logan’s powerful fingers.

Logan picked up the money. “Won’t have to leave the door open this time,” he chuckled.

He returned a few minutes later, his face beaming, and placed a receipt on the desk.

“Was afraid that the old man wasn’t going to let me in, but when he saw that wad of bills I was more afraid that he would kiss me. Look here, when you coming up to see our country and look over your timber?”

“It won’t be long. I want to get away for a holiday.”

“Good!” Logan said heartily. Then with words tumbling from his lips he talked glowingly of the wonders of the Cariboo.

Over Logan’s shoulder Bruce saw a big, swarthy man enter. After a word with the girl at the counter the newcomer advanced towards Hickman’s office. At once Bruce recognized the man as Hendricks. Not that Logan’s description had been accurate—far from it. The man was undoubtedly of striking appearance.

He was powerfully built, huge shoulders, thick limbed, and he carried himself with an arrogant air of self-confidence. His eyes were black and close set, with peculiar rings around the iris that gave to them a wild look. The hooked nose and high cheek bones gave his face a hawk-like expression. Aggressiveness was his dominant characteristic.

As Hendricks came nearer Arlen stared in astonishment. The man’s hair was almost red while his skin and eyes were as dark as an Indian’s. He had never before seen such a peculiar combination.

“Yes, sir,” Logan was saying, “I’ll show you a country that’ll make you think you’re dreaming. A country—”

Hendricks gave a surprised start as Logan turned.

“Hello, Logan,” he said shortly.

Logan stiffened. His eyes were like steel but his face broke into a mirthless grin.

“Well, well, if here ain’t the self-announced King of the Cariboo. Come for your little pound of flesh, eh?”

Hendricks’ rimmed eyes narrowed. “Got some of your booze courage,” he growled, then passed on to Hickman’s office.

The big man returned almost immediately. His face flushed with anger he strode to the desk and stood glowering down at Logan.

“Logan, I don’t like you and never did like you. I’ve let you alone because I like bigger game when I fight, but now that you’ve butted into my affairs I’ll put you on my list. I’ll get you for this. You knew that I was coming down to buy that timber.”

Logan stood up. He shook a wrathful finger close to the big man’s nose.

“It’ll take more than a chechako like you to pin the Order of the Boot on me or any of us old-timers in the Cariboo.” He snapped his fingers derisively. “You’ll get me, eh? Why, you ain’t got guts enough to stick a can-opener into a tin of bully beef. I’m not big enough game for you to fight? Slipped it over on you today, didn’t I? And just to show you that I ain’t the dumb-bell you think I am, I’ll ask you a question.” He moved closer to Hendricks. “How’s everything in Blind Gulch?” He gave the last two words a queer emphasis and there was a dancing devil in his eyes.

The effect on Hendricks was electrical. His shoulders hunched together; one of his eyelids drooped wickedly. He rested his hands on the desk—enormous, hairy hands, and glared at Logan.

There was a little silence, the men eyeing each other like dogs before they spring. Office sounds ceased. All eyes were upon the two belligerent men. There was a scraping of chairs and the murmur of voices.

The big man spoke through his teeth.

“I know why you bought this timber. You’re struck on the girl. And you won’t open your yap about this other matter for the same reason. I’ve got the old man under my thumb. And,” his voice was venomous, “from what I hear about her she’s lucky to have you. A drunken, five-acre squatter will make a good mate for her.”

Logan’s thick body shook with passion; his eyes flamed.

“You’re a dirty cur and a liar!”

Bruce leaped to his feet but before he could intervene Logan’s right arm cut the air in a terrific upper-cut. Hendricks threw up his arms in a posture of defense—but too late. The smaller man’s fist struck him full on the mouth and while the huge arms were still raised Logan’s left caught him fair on the jaw and sent him staggering.

Girls shrieked and there was a rush of feet. Hendricks righted himself with a curse and charged his adversary like a bull-moose. With the speed of a wildcat Logan sprang forward and hurled himself at the oncoming man. They met with an impact that sent the smaller man reeling against the desk which overturned with a crash. Following up his advantage Hendricks swung viciously with his right and missed. With a straight, diving tackle Logan threw his arms about his opponent’s legs and Hendricks’ huge body hit the floor with a thud that shook the room.

At the first sounds of combat Hickman ran from his office in terrified haste. He now stood with upraised arms in the centre of the room and in an outraged voice called upon his staff to separate the fighters.

In a writhing heap the combatants collided with a table, sending wire baskets, letters and desk equipment to the floor. A hat-rack toppled against a typewriter which fell with a thumping clatter.

By this time Bruce and a half dozen clerks were upon the struggling men and by sheer force of numbers tore them apart.

With two men clinging to either arm Hendricks ceased his struggles. His lip was laid open in a ghastly cut from which trickled a crimson stream. He glared at Logan who was being propelled toward the hall by two men.

Bruce felt a faint prickling at the base of his skull, a feeling curiously akin to fear when he saw the mad light in Hendricks’ eyes. There was murder in those glittering orbs.

“I’ll—I’ll fix you for this!” Hendricks panted.

Logan swung his head. His lips parted in a sneer.

“You’ve put me in the big game class now, eh? You big brute! You’ve got a yellow streak a yard long. You know where to find me when—” The rest of the sentence was lost as he was forced into the hall, and the door closed.

Near closing time Bruce Arlen again sat down by the open office window. He drew in a great breath of fresh air. He wondered if he had forgotten what a hayfield smelt like, opening buds of poplar on opaline country air sweeping through the tops of pine trees.

The afternoon sun slanting down from the British Columbia heavens cast a reddish light over the small park. The trees now stood straight and silent in the stirless air.

He swung his eyes to the north. There, beyond the mystic haze that heralded the coming dusk, lay that far-famed and romantic land—the Cariboo. Five-hundred acres cleared and going to waste! A struggle with the soil! The call of the land—adventure. An upsurge of elation swept over him. He would do it. Whirling about, he hurried to Hickman’s office.