Читать книгу Prescott of Saskatchewan - Harold Bindloss - Страница 12

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Colston and his party had been gone a fortnight when Prescott called at the Jernyngham homestead one afternoon and found its owner sitting moodily in the kitchen, which presented a chaotic appearance. Unwashed plates and dishes were scattered about, the wood-box was overturned and poplar billets strewed the floor, there was no fire in the rusty stove, and the fragments of a heavy crock lay against the wall. The strong sunlight that streamed in emphasized the disorder of the room.

“I was passing and thought I’d come in,” Prescott explained. “Where’s Mrs. Jernyngham? The look of the place gives one the idea that she’s not at home.”

“It’s never remarkably tidy.” Jernyngham broke into a rueful smile. “I believe she started for the settlement when I was at work in the summer fallow this morning. The fact that the horse and buggy are missing points to it.”

“But don’t you know whether she has gone or not?”

“I don’t,” said Jernyngham. “She didn’t acquaint me with her intentions. As I see she has taken some things along, it looks as if she meant to visit Mrs. Harvey at the store. They’re friends now and then.”

His manner was suggestive, though he looked more resigned than disturbed, and Prescott, glancing at the shattered crock, ventured a question which he feared was not quite judicious:

“How did you break that thing?”

“It ought to be a warning. I didn’t break it; it was meant to break on me. Ellice flung it at my head a day or two ago, and fortunately missed, though as a rule she’s a pretty good shot. I suppose it’s significant that neither of us troubled to pick up the pieces.”

Prescott looked sympathetic, and hesitated, with his half-filled pipe in his hand.

“Shall I go, Cyril? I want to make Sebastian before it’s dark.”

“Sit still,” Jernyngham told him. “I’m in an expansive mood, and I’ve a notion that I’m not far off a crisis in my affairs. Ellice has been fractious lately; I seem to have been getting on her nerves, which perhaps is not surprising.”

Prescott made no comment and after sitting silent a few moments Jernyngham resumed:

“I was rather rash when I ventured to remonstrate about a bill. Ellice pointed out, with justice, that so long as I slouched round and let Wandle rob me, I’d no right to grumble at her for buying a few things. Most unwisely I maintained my point and”—he indicated the broken crock and littered table—“you see the consequences.”

“Wandle is a bit of a rogue,” said Prescott, choosing the safest topic. “I’ve told you so.”

“You have. For all that, he’s useful and I don’t mind being robbed in moderation; I’m a man who’s accustomed to losing things.” His half-mocking tone grew serious. “I wrote to my people, as soon as Colston left, telling them I’d determined to remain in Canada; but if it wasn’t for Ellice, I think I’d quit farming.”

Prescott smoked in silence for a while. Jernyngham had made a costly sacrifice, chiefly on the woman’s account, and Prescott felt sorry for him.

“Perhaps I’d better get on,” he said after a while.

For a few moments Jernyngham looked irresolute, and then he got up.

“I’ll come with you to Sebastian. I think I’d have gone earlier, only Ellice had the horse and rig, and Wandle’s using the wagon team. It’s no doubt my duty to sue for peace.”

They set out shortly afterward and reaching Sebastian late in the evening drove to the livery-stable, where Jernyngham called the man who took Prescott’s team.

“I suppose you have my horse?” he asked.

“Sure,” said the fellow, looking at him curiously. “Mrs. Jernyngham said we’d better keep him until you came in. She left a note for you with the boss; he’s in the hotel.”

Jernyngham crossed the street, followed by his companion, and Prescott noticed that the loungers in the bar seemed interested when they came in. Two of them put down their glasses and turned to fix their eyes on Jernyngham, a third paused in the act of lighting his pipe and dropped the match. Then the owner of the livery-stable looked up in a hesitating manner as Jernyngham approached him.

“I believe you have a message for me,” Jernyngham said abruptly.

“That’s so,” the man rejoined gravely. “I’ll give it to you outside.”

They left the bar, and when they stood under the veranda, Jernyngham tore open the envelope handed him. A moment later he firmly crumpled up the note it had held.

“When did she leave?” he asked in a harsh voice.

The liveryman regarded him sympathetically.

“By the afternoon East-bound. I’m mighty sorry, Cyril—guess you know it isn’t a secret in the town.”

Jernyngham’s face grew darkly flushed.

“Then you can tell me whom she went with?”

“The drummer who was selling the separators. Bought tickets through to St. Paul. Told Perkins he wasn’t coming back here; nothing doing on this round.”

The man tactfully moved away and Jernyngham turned to Prescott, speaking rather hoarsely.

“She’s gone—that’s the end of it!”

He dropped into one of the chairs scattered about and a few moments later broke into a bitter laugh.

“It would have been more flattering if she had chosen you or Wandle instead of that blasted weedy drummer. Still, there the thing is, and it has to be faced.” Then he surprised his companion, for his voice and expression became suddenly normal. “Go in and get me a cigar.”

He lighted it carefully when it was brought to him and leaned back in his chair.

“Jack,” he said, “I’ve got to hold myself in hand—if I start off on the jag now, it will be a dangerous one. Have you noticed that I’ve been practising strict abstinence since Colston left?”

Prescott, not knowing how to regard his ironic calmness, said nothing, and Jernyngham continued:

“It’s a bitter pill. I was very fond of her once, and there’s not much consolation in reflecting that she’ll probably scare the fellow out of his wits the first time she breaks out in one of her rages.” Then his voice grew regretful. “Ellice’s far from perfect, but she’s much too good for him.”

Remembering that it was on the woman’s account his friend had remained on the prairie, Prescott made a venture:

“Since she has gone, it’s a pity she didn’t go a few weeks earlier.”

“That doesn’t count,” declared Jernyngham. “She has cause to blame me as much for marrying her—one must try to be just. I thought of her when I determined to stay, but my own weaknesses played as big a part in deciding me.”

He sat silent a while, and then indicated his surroundings with a contemptuous sweep of his hand—the dirty sidewalk strewn with cigar ends and banana peelings, the straggling houses with their cracked board walls and ugly square fronts, the rutted street down which drifted clouds of dust.

“Jack,” he said, “I’m very sick of all this, and I can’t face the lonely homestead now Ellice’s gone. I must have a change and something to brace me; something that has a keener bite than drink. Think I’ll take a haulage job on the new railroad, where there ought to be rough and risky work, and I’ll leave this place to-night. Come across with me to Morant’s, and I’ll see what I can borrow on the land.”

The sudden unreasoning decision was characteristic of him, but Prescott expostulated.

“You can’t clear out in this eccentric fashion; there are a number of things to be settled first.”

“I think I can,” Jernyngham retorted dryly. “It’s certain that I can’t stay here.”

He took his companion with him to call on a land-agent and mortgage-broker, and when they left the office Jernyngham had a bulky roll of bills in his pocket.

“Jack,” he requested, “you’ll run my place and pay Morant off after harvest; if Wandle gets his hands on it, there’ll be very little left when I come back. You may have trouble with him, but you must hold out. Charge me with all expenses and pay as much of the surplus as you think I’m entitled to into my bank when you have sold the crop. Now if you’ll come into the hotel, I’ll give you a written authority and get Perkins to witness it.”

Prescott demurred at first, but eventually yielded because he believed his friend’s interest would need looking after in his absence. After some discussion they agreed on a workable scheme, which was put down in writing and witnessed by the hotel-keeper. Then Jernyngham borrowed a saddle and sent for his horse.

“I’ll pull out for the railroad now; it’s cooler riding at night and there’s a good moon,” he said. “As I’ll pass close to your place, you may as well drive so far with me.”

They set off, Prescott seated on the front of his jolting wagon, Jernyngham riding as near it as the roughness of the trail permitted, with a blanket and a package of provisions strapped to his saddle. He was wearing a hat of extra-thick felt and uncommon shape which had been given him by a man who had broken his journey for the purpose of seeing the country when returning from Hong Kong by the Canadian Pacific route. Soon after they left Sebastian, a young trooper of the Northwest Police dressed in khaki uniform came trotting up in the moonlight and joined them.

“Where are you off to, Jernyngham?” he asked, glancing at the rolled up blanket. “Looks as if you meant to camp on the trail.”

“I’ll have to, most likely,” said Jernyngham. “I’m leaving the farm to Prescott for a while and heading for Nelson’s Butte on the new road.”

“What are you going to do there?”

“Thought I’d pick up a horse or two at one of the ranches I’ll pass and apply for a teaming job. Contractor was asking for haulage tenders; he’s having trouble among the sandhills and muskegs.”

“Then you’ll be taking a wad of money along?”

Jernyngham assented and the trooper looked thoughtful.

“Now,” he cautioned, “there’s a pretty tough crowd at Nelson, and though we stopped any licenses being issued, we’ve had trouble over the running-in of liquor. Then you have a long ride before you through a thinly-settled country. You want to be careful about that money.”

“The settlers are to be trusted.”

“That’s so, but we have reason to believe the rustlers are at work in the district; seem to have been going into the liquor business, and I’ve heard of horses missing. Now that the boys have stopped their branding other people’s calves in Alberta and corralled their leaders, it looks as if the fellows were beginning the game in this part of the country.”

“Thanks,” said Jernyngham. “I may as well take precautions. How would you recommend my carrying the money?”

The trooper made one or two ingenious suggestions as to the safest way of secreting the bills, and Jernyngham, dismounting, carried them out. Soon afterward the trooper struck off across the plain, and the others, riding on, met a farmer who spoke to them as he passed. At length Prescott pulled up his team at the spot where his companion must leave the trail.

“I’ll do what I can with the land, Cyril, and keep an account,” he said. “You might write and let me know how you are getting on.”

They shook hands and Jernyngham trotted away, while Prescott sat watching him for a minute or two. Man and horse were sharply outlined against the moonlit grass. Jernyngham looked very lonely as he rode out into the wilderness. He could hardly have been happy, Prescott thought, in his untidy and comfortless house at the farm; but, after all, it had been a home, and now he was rudely flung adrift. It was true that the man was largely responsible for the troubles that had fallen upon him, but this was no reason for refusing him pity, and Cyril had his strong points. He had staunchly declined to profit by a felicitous change of fortune out of consideration for the relatives who had once disowned and the woman who had deserted him. Jernyngham had been a careless fool, and Prescott suspected that he was not likely to alter much in this respect, but he did not expect others to pay for his recklessness when the reckoning came. Then Prescott started his team.

Two days later, he was busy in front of his homestead putting together a new binder which had just arrived from the settlement. It was the latest type of harvesting implement and designed to cut an unusually broad swath. While he was engaged, the trooper he had met when accompanying Jernyngham rode up with a corporal following. He stopped his horse and glanced at the binder with admiration.

“She’s a daisy, Jack; I guess she cost a pile,” he said. “Where did you get the money to buy a machine of that kind?”

“It wasn’t easy to raise it,” Prescott replied. “But I’ll save something in labor—harvest wages are high—and I’ve long wanted this binder. When Trant came round from the implement store yesterday morning I thought I’d risk the deal. Will you wait for dinner?”

“No, thanks,” the corporal broke in. “We’re making a patrol north; just called to look at your guards. Several big grass fires have been reported in the last few days.”

Prescott pointed to the rows of plowed furrows which cut off his holding from the prairie. The strip of brown clods, which was two or three yards in width, seemed an adequate defense, and after a glance at it the corporal nodded his satisfaction.

“Good enough,” he said. “We’ll take the trail.”

He trotted away with his companion and it was evening when they rode along the edge of a ravine which pierced a high tract of rolling country. The crest of the slope they followed commanded a vast circle of grass that was changing in the foreground from green to ocher and silvery white. Farther back, it ran on toward the sunset, a sweep of blue and neutral gray, flecked with dusky lines of bluffs, interspersed with gleaming strips of water, but nowhere in the wide landscape was there a sign of human habitation. Small birches and poplars, with an undergrowth of nut bushes, clothed the sides of the ravine, but some distance ahead it broadened out and the stream that flowed through it turned the hollow into a muskeg. There harsh grass and reeds grew three or four feet high, hiding the stretch of mire.

The police were young men with deeply bronzed faces, dressed in smart khaki uniform with broad Stetson hats of the same color.

“What’s that?” exclaimed Corporal Curtis, pointing to an indistinct object lying among a patch of scrub some distance off.

“Looks like a hat,” replied Private Stanton. “Some settler prospecting for a homestead location must have lost it.”

“You jump at things!” said the corporal. “How’d the man lose it? Guess it wouldn’t drop off without his knowing it, and with the sun we’ve been having he’d want it pretty bad. He wouldn’t throw it away, when he knew he couldn’t get another. We’ll go along and see.”

They dismounted a minute or two later and made a startling discovery. The hat was a good one, but in one place the soft gray felt had been crushed and partly cut as though by a heavy blow. On turning it over, they saw that the inside was stained a dull red.

“Blood!” said Curtis significantly, and swept a searching glance about. “More of it,” he added. “See here—on the brush.”

Moving forward, they found a succession of crimson spots and splashes on the leaves of the willow scrub and withering grass.

“Picket the horses. Stanton; we’ve got to look into this,” the corporal said.

“I’d better lead them back a piece,” responded his companion. “We don’t want to muss up things by making fresh tracks.”

When he had done so, they set about the examination systematically. They were men who lived, for the most part, in the open, and made long journeys through the wilds, sleeping where they could find shelter in ravine or bluff. Such things as a broken twig, a bruised tuft of grass, or a mark in loose soil had a meaning to them, and here they had plentiful material to work upon. Counting footprints and hoofmarks, measuring distances, they constructed bit by bit the drama that had taken place, but half an hour had passed before they sat down to talk it over and took out their pipes. The afterglow shone about them; their hands and thoughtful faces showed the same warm color as the brown grass in the ruddy light. In the hat lay a five-dollar bill and a coat button.

“There were two men here,” Curtis remarked. “Both were mounted and came up the trail from the settlement, but it looks as if the first one had picketed his horse and started to make camp when the other joined him.”

“That’s so,” Private Stanton agreed.

“Then there was trouble, but the men didn’t clinch. One fellow hit the other with something heavy enough to drop him in his tracks, then got into the saddle and rode off, leading the other horse.”

The evidence on which he arrived at this conclusion was slender, but Stanton signified assent.

“Well,” he said, “where’s the hurt man?”

“I’ve a notion he’s in yonder muskeg. The other fellow could have packed him there on the led horse—the blood spots point to it—though he might have hid him farther on in a bluff. It’s getting too dark to search now; we’ll try to-morrow. But I guess we know who he is.”

“Sure,” said Stanton. “I’ll swear to the hat. Chaffed Jernyngham about it one day, and he put it in my hands and said there wasn’t another of the kind in the country. A man from Hong Kong gave it to him.”

Curtis took up the bill.

“Five dollars, Merchants’ Bank, and quite clean; not been issued long. We’ll find out if they’ve a branch at Regina or Saskatoon and trace up the fellow they paid it to. The button doesn’t count—quite a common pattern. Now if you’ll fill the kettle at the creek, I’ll start a fire. We’ll camp near the birch scrub yonder.”