The Hound From The North

Grey laughed loudly, but there was no mirth in his hilarity. It was a heartless, nervous laugh.

“Easy, Robb, don’t get on your high horse,” he said presently. Then he became silent, and a sigh escaped him. “I had to make the suggestion,” he went on, after a while. “You are the only man I dared to trust. Confound it, if you must have it, I’m sorry!” The apology came out with a jerk; it seemed to have been literally wrung from him. “Try and forget it, Robb,” he went on, more quietly, “we’ve known each other for so many years.”

Robb was slightly mollified, but he was not likely to forget his companion’s proposition. He changed the subject.

“Talking of Winnipeg, you know I was up there on business the other day. I had a bit of a shock while I was walking about the depôt waiting for the train to start.”

“Oh.” Grey was not paying much attention; he was absorbed in his own thoughts.

“Yes,” Robb went on. “You remember Mr. Zachary Smith?”

His companion looked up with a violent start.

“Well, I guess. What of him? I’m not likely to forget him easily. There is just one desire I have in life which dwarfs all others to insignificance, and that is to stand face to face with Mr. Zachary Smith,” Grey finished up significantly.

“Ah! So I should suppose,” Robb went on. “Those are my feelings to a nicety. But I didn’t quite realize my desire, and, besides, I wasn’t sure, anyhow. A man appeared, just for one moment, at the booking-office door as I happened to pass it. He stared at me, and I caught his eye. Then he beat a retreat before I had called his face to mind–you see, his appearance was quite changed. A moment later I remembered him, or thought I did, and gave chase. But I had lost him, couldn’t discover a trace of him, and nearly lost the train into the bargain. Mind, I am not positive of the fellow’s identity, but I’d gamble a few dollars on the matter, anyway.”

“Lord! I’d have missed fifty trains rather than have lost sight of him. Just our luck,” Grey exclaimed violently.

“Well, if he’s in the district, we’ll come across him again. Perhaps you will have the next chance.” Robb pushed his chair back.

“I hope so.”

“It was he, right enough,” Robb went on meditatively, his cheery face puckered into an expression of perplexity. “He was well dressed, too, in the garb of an ordinary citizen, and looked quite clean and respectable. His face had filled out; but it was his eyes that fixed me. You remember those two great, deep-sunken, cow-eyes of his–” Robb broke off as he saw Grey start. “Why, what’s up?”

Grey shook himself; then he gazed straight before him. Nor did he heed his companion’s question. A strongly-marked pucker appeared between his eyebrows, and a look of uncertainty was upon his face. Robb again urged him.

“You haven’t seen him?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Grey.

“What do you mean?”

“I have just remembered something. I came across a–stranger the other day. He was wrapped in furs, and I could only see his eyes. But those eyes were distinctly familiar–‘cow’-eyes, I think you said. I was struck with their appearance at the time, but couldn’t just realize where I had seen eyes like ’em before.” Then he went on reflectively: “But no, it couldn’t have been he. Ah–” He broke off and glanced in the direction of the window as the jangle of sleigh-bells sounded outside. “Here’s our cutter. Come on.”

Robb rose from his seat and brushed the crumbs from his trousers. There came the sound of voices from the other side of the door.

“Some of the boys,” said Robb, with a meaning smile. “It’s early for ’em.”

“I believe this is your doing,” said Grey sulkily.

Robb nodded in the direction of the window. “You’ve got a team. This is no ‘one-horsed’ affair.”

The door opened suddenly and two men entered.

“Oh, here he is,” said one, Charlie Trellis, the postmaster, with a laugh. “Congratulate you, Grey, my friend. Double harness, eh? Tame you down, my boy. Good thing, marriage–for taming a man.”

“You’re not looking your best,” said the other, Jack Broad, the telegraph operator. “Why, man, you look as though you were going to your own funeral. Buck up! Come and have a ‘Collins’; brace you up for the ordeal.”

“Go to the devil, both of you,” said Grey ungraciously. “I don’t swill eye-openers all day like you, Jack Broad. Got something else to do.”

“So it seems. But cheer up, man,” replied Broad imperturbably, “it’s not as bad as having a tooth drawn.”

“Nor half as unpleasant as a funeral,” put in Trellis, with a grin.

Grey turned to Robb.

“Come on,” he said abruptly. “Let’s get. I shall say things in a minute if I stay here.”

“That ’ud be something new for you,” called out Broad, as the two men left the room.

The door closed on his remark and he turned to his companion.

“I’m sorry for the poor girl,” he went on. “The most can-tankerous pig I ever ran up against–is Grey.”

“Yes,” agreed the other; “I can’t think how a decent fellow like Robb Chillingwood can chum up with him. He’s a surly clown–only fit for such countries as the Yukon, where he comes from. He’s not particularly clever either. Yes,” turning to the waitress, “the usual. How would you like to be the bride?”

The girl shook her head.

“No, thanks. I like candy.”

“Ah, not vinegar.”

“Nor–nor–pigs.”

Broad turned to the grey-headed postmaster with a loud guffaw.

“She seems to have sized Grey up pretty slick.”

Outside in the hall the two men donned their furs and over-shoes. Fortunately for Grey’s peace of mind there was no one else about. The bar-tender was sweeping the office out, but he did not pause in his work. Outside the front door the livery-stable man was holding the horses. Grey took his seat to drive, and wrapped the robes well about him. It was a bitterly cold morning. Robb was just about to climb in beside him when a ginger-headed man clad in a pea-jacket came running from the direction of the Town Hall. He waved one arm vigorously, clutching in his hand a piece of paper. Robb saw him first.

“Something for me, as sure as a gun. Hold on, Grey,” he said. “It’s Sutton, the sheriff. I wonder what’s up?”

The ginger-headed man came up breathlessly.

“Thought I was going to miss you, Chillingwood. A message from the Mayor. ‘Doc’ Ridley sends word that the United States marshal has got that horse-thief, Le Mar, over the other side. You’ll have to make out the papers for bringing him over. I’ve got to go and fetch him at once.”

“But, hang it, man, I can’t do them now,” exclaimed Robb.

“He’s on leave of absence,” put in Grey.

“Can’t be helped. I’m sorry,” said the sheriff.

“It’s business, you know. Besides, it won’t take you more than an hour. I must get across to Verdon before noon or it’ll be too late to get the papers ‘backed’ there. Come on, man; you can get another cutter and follow Grey up in an hour. You won’t lose much time.”

“Yes, and who’s going to pay the damage?” said Robb, relinquishing his hold on the cutter’s rail.

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders.

“You’ll have to stay,” he said conclusively.

“I suppose so. Grey, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” replied Grey coldly. “It’s not your fault. Well, good-bye. Don’t bother to follow me up.”

“Damn!” ejaculated the good-hearted Robb, as the cutter moved away.

“Going to get married, ain’t he?” said the sheriff shortly, as Grey departed.

“Yes.” And the two men walked off in the direction of Chillingwood’s office.

And Grey drove off to his wedding alone. He was denied even the support of the only man who, out of sheer good-heartedness, would have accompanied him. The life of a man is more surely influenced by the peculiarities of his own disposition than anything else. When a man takes to himself a wife, it is naturally a time for the well-wishes of his friends. This man set out alone. Not one God-speed went with him. And yet he was not disturbed by the lack of sympathy. He looked at life from an uncommon standpoint, measuring its scope for the attainment of happiness by his own capacity for doing, not by any association with his kind. He was one of those men who need no friendship from his fellows, preferring rather to be without it. Thus he considered he was freer to follow his own methods of life. Position was his goal–position in the walk of life he had chosen. Could he not attain this solely by his own exertions, then he would do without it.

The crisp, morning air smote his cheeks with the sting of a whip-lash as he drove down the bush-lined trail which led from the Rodney House to the railway depôt. It was necessary for him to cross the track at this point before he would find himself upon the prairie road to the Leonville school-house, at which place the ceremony was to be performed. The “gush” of the horses’ nostrils sounded refreshingly in his ears as the animals fairly danced over the smooth, icy trail. The sleigh-bells jangled with a confused clashing of sounds in response to the gait of the eager beasts. But Grey thought little of these things. He thought little of anything just now but his intended despoiling of the owner of Lonely Ranch. All other matters were quite subsidiary to his one chief object.

Once out in the open, the horses settled down into their long-distance stride. Here the trail was not so good as in the precincts of the village. The snow was deeper and softer. Now and then the horses’ hoofs would break through the frozen crust and sink well above the fetlocks into the under-snow.

Now the thick bush, which surrounded the village, gave place to a sparser covering of scattered bluffs, and the grey-white aspect of the country became apparent. The trail was well marked as far as the eye could reach–two great furrows ploughed by the passage of horses and the runners of the farmers’ heavy “double-bobs.” Besides this, the colour was different. There was a strong suggestion of earthiness about the trail which was not to be observed upon the rolling snow-fields of the surrounding prairie.

The air was still though keen, and the morning sun had already risen well above the mist of grey clouds which still hovered above the eastern horizon. There was a striking solemnity over all. It was the morning promise of a fair day, and soon the dazzling sunshine upon the snow would become blinding to eyes unused to the winter prairie.

But Grey was no tenderfoot. Such things had no terrors for him. His half-closed eyes faced the glare of light defiantly. It is only the inexperienced who gaze across the snow-bound earth, at such a time, with wide-open eyes.

The bluffs became scarcer as mile after mile was covered by the long, raking strides of the hardy horses. Occasionally Grey was forced to pull off the trail into the deep snow to allow the heavy-laden hay-rack of some farmer to pass, or a box-sleigh, weighted down with sacks of grain, toiling on its way to the Ainsley elevator. These inconveniences were the rule of the road, the lighter always giving way to the heavier conveyance.

Ten miles from Ainsley and the wide open sea of snow proclaimed the prairie in its due form. Not a tree in sight, not a rock, not a hill to break the awful monotony. Just one vast rolling expanse of snow gleaming beneath the dazzling rays of a now warming sun. A hungry coyote and his mate prowling in search of food at a distance of half-a-mile looked large by reason of their isolation. An occasional covey of prairie chicken, noisily winging their way to a far-distant bluff, might well be startling both to horses and driver. A dark ribbon-like flight of ducks or geese, high up in the heavens, speeding from the south to be early in the field when the sodden prairie should be open, was something to distract the attention of even the most pre-occupied. But Grey was oblivious to everything except the trail beneath him, the gait of his team, and his scheme for advancement. The sun mounted higher, and the time passed rapidly to the traveller. And, as the record of mileage rose, the face of the snow-clad earth began again to change its appearance. The undulations of the prairie assumed vaster proportions. The waves rose to the size of hills, and the gentle hollows sank deeper until they declined into gaping valleys. Here and there trees and small clumps of leafless bush dotted the view. A house or two, with barn looming largely in the rear, and spidery fencing, stretching in rectangular directions, suggested homesteads; the barking of dogs–life. These signs of habitation continued, and became now more frequent, and now, again, more rare. The hills increased in size and the bush thickened. Noon saw the traveller in an “up-and-down” country intersected by icebound streams and snow-laden hollows. The timber became more heavy, great pine trees dominating the more stunted growths, and darkening the outlook by reason of their more generous vegetation. On the eastern extremity of this belt of country stood the school-house of Leonville; beyond that the undulating prairie again on to Loon Dyke Farm.

Leslie Grey looked at his watch; the hands indicated a near approach to the hour of one. He had yet three miles to go to reach his destination. He had crossed a small creek. A culvert bridged it, but the snow upon either side of the trail was so deep in the hollow that no indication of the woodwork was visible. It was in such places as these that a watchful care was needed. The smallest divergence from the beaten track would have precipitated the team and cutter into a snow-drift from which it would have been impossible to extricate it without a smash-up. Once safely across this he allowed the horses to climb the opposite ascent leisurely. They had done well–he had covered the distance in less than six hours.

The hill was a mass of redolent pinewoods. It was as though the gradual densifying of this belt of woodland country had culminated upon the hill. The brooding gloom of the forest was profound. The dark green foliage of the pines seemed black by contrast with the snow, and gazing in amongst the leafless lower trunks was like peering into a world of dayless night The horses walked with ears pricked and wistful eyes alertly gazing. The darkness of their surroundings seemed to have conveyed something of its mysterious dread to their sensitive nerves. Tired they might be, but they were ready to shy at each rustle of the heavy branches, as some stray breath of air bent them lazily and forced from them a creaking protest.

As the traveller neared the summit the trail narrowed down until a hand outstretched from the conveyance could almost have brushed the tree-trunks.

Grey’s eyes were upon his horses and his thoughts were miles away. Ahead of him gaped the opening in the trees which marked the brow of the hill against the skyline. He had traversed the road many times on his way to Loon Dyke Farm and knew every foot of it. It had no beauties for him. These profound woods conveyed nothing to his unimpressionable mind; not even danger, for fear was quite foreign to his nature. This feeling of security was more the result of his own lofty opinion of himself, and the contempt in which he held all law-breakers, rather than any high moral tone he possessed. Whatever his faults, fear was a word which found no place in his vocabulary. A nervous or imaginative man might have conjured weird fancies from the gloom with which he found himself surrounded at this point. But Leslie Grey was differently constituted.

Now, as he neared the summit of the hill, he leant slightly forward and gathered up the lines which he had allowed to lie slack upon his horses’ backs. A resounding “chirrup” and the weary beasts strained at their neck-yoke. Something moving in amongst the trees attracted their attention. Their snorting nostrils were suddenly thrown up in startled attention. The off-side horse jumped sideways against its companion, and the sleigh was within an ace of fouling the trees. By a great effort Grey pulled the animals back to the trail and his whip fell heavily across their backs. Then he looked up to discover the cause of their fright. A dark figure, a man clad in a black sheepskin coat, stood like a statue between two trees.

His right arm was raised and his hand gripped a levelled pistol. For one brief instant Grey surveyed the apparition, and he scarcely realized his position. Then a sharp report rang out, ear-piercing in the grim silence, and his hands went up to his chest and his eyes closed.

The next moment the eyes, dull, almost unseeing, opened again, he swayed forward as though in great pain, then with an effort he flung himself backwards, settling himself against the unyielding back of the seat; his face looked drawn and grey, nor did he attempt to regain the reins which had dropped from his hands. The horses, unrestrained, broke into a headlong gallop; fright urged them on and they raced down the trail, keeping to the beaten track with their wonted instinct, even although mad with fear. A moment later and the sleigh disappeared over the brow of the hill.

All became silent again, except for the confused, distant jangle of the sleigh-bells on the horses’ backs. The dark figure moved out on to the trail, and stood gazing after the sleigh. For a full minute he stood thus. Then he turned again and swiftly became lost in the black depths whence he had so mysteriously appeared.

CHAPTER VIII

GREY’S LAST WORDS

Rigid, hideous, stands the Leonville school-house sharply outlined against the sky, upon the summit of a high, rising ground. It stands quite alone as though in proud distinction for its classic vocation. Its flat, uninteresting sides; its staring windows; its high-pitched roof of warped shingles; its weather-boarding, innocent of paint; its general air of neglect; these things strike one forcibly in that region of Nature’s carefully-finished handiwork.

However, its cheerless aspect was for the moment rendered less apparent than usual by reason of many people gathered about the storm-porch, and the number and variety of farmers’ sleighs grouped about the two tying-posts which stood by the roadside in front of it An unbroken level of smooth prairie footed one side of the hill, whilst at the back of the house stretched miles of broken, hilly woodland.

The wedding party had arrived from Loon Dyke Farm. Hephzibah Malling had gathered her friends together, and all had driven over for the happy event amidst the wildest enthusiasm and excited anticipation. Each girl, clad in her brightest colours beneath a sober outer covering of fur, was accompanied by her attendant swain, the latter well oiled about the hair and well bronzed about the face, and glowing as an after-effect of the liberal use of soap and water. A wedding was no common occurrence, and, in consequence, demanded special mark of appreciation. No work would be done that day by any of those who attended the function.

But the enthusiasm of the moment had died out at the first breath of serious talk–talk inspired by the non-appearance of the bridegroom. The hour of the ceremony was close at hand and still he had not arrived. He should have been the first upon the scene. The elders were agitated, the younger folk hopeful and full of excuses for the belated groom, the Minister fingered his great silver timepiece nervously. He had driven over from Lakeville, at much inconvenience to himself, to officiate at the launching of his old friend’s daughter upon the high seas of wedded life.

The older ladies had rallied to Mrs. Malling’s side. The younger people held aloof. There was an ominous grouping and eager whispering, and eyes were turned searchingly upon the grey trail which stretched winding away towards the western horizon.

The Rev. Charles Danvers, the Methodist minister of Lakeville, was the central figure of the situation, and at whom the elder ladies fired their comments and suggestions. There could be no doubt, from the nature and tone of these remarks, that a panic was spreading.

“It’s quite too bad, you know,” said Mrs. Covill, an iron-grey haired lady of decided presence and possessing a hooked nose. “I can’t understand it in a man of Mr. Grey’s business-like ways. Now he’s just the sort of man whom I should have expected would have been here at least an hour before it was necessary.”

“It is just his sort that fail on these occasions,” put in Mrs. Ganthorn pessimistically. “He’s just too full of business for my fancy. What is the time now, Mr. Danvers?”

“On the stroke of the half-hour,” replied the parson, with a gloomy look. “My eyesight is not very good; can I see anything on the trail, or is that black object a bush?”

“Bush,” said some one shortly.

“Ah,” ejaculated the parson. Then he turned to Mrs. Malling, who stood beside him staring down the trail with unblinking eyes. Her lips were pursed and twitching nervously. “There can have been no mistake about the time, I suppose?”

“Mistake? No,” retorted the good lady with irritation. “Folks don’t make no mistake about the hour of their wedding. Not the bridegroom, anyway. No, it’s an accident, that’s what it is, as sure as my name’s Hephzibah Malling. And that’s what comes of his staying at Ainsley when he ought to have been hereabouts. To think of a man driving forty odd miles to get married. La’ sakes! It just makes me mad with him. There’s my girl there most ready to cry her eyes out on her wedding morning, and small blame to her neither. It’s a shame, and I’m not the one to be likely to forget to tell him so when he comes along. If he were my man he’d better his ways, I know.”

No one replied to the old lady’s heated complaint. They all too cordially agreed with her to defend the recalcitrant bridegroom. Mr. Danvers drew out his watch for at least the twentieth time.

“Five minutes overdue,” he murmured. Then aloud and in a judicial tone: “We must allow him some margin. But, as you say, it certainly was a mistake his remaining at Ainsley.”

“Mistake–mistake, indeed,” Mrs. Malling retorted, with all the scorn she was capable of. “He’s that fool-headed that he won’t listen to no reason. Why couldn’t he have stopped at the farm? Propriety– fiddlesticks!” Her face was flushed and her brow ominously puckered; she folded her fat hands with no uncertain grip across the slight frontal hollow which answered her purpose for a waist. Her anger was chiefly based upon alarm, and that alarm was not alone for her daughter. She was anxious for the man himself, and her anxiety found vent in that peculiar angry protest which is so little meant by those who resort to it. The good dame was on pins and needles of nervous suspense. Had Grey suddenly appeared upon the scene doubtless her kindly face would have at once wreathed itself into a broad expanse of smiles. But the moments flew by and still the little group waited for the coming which was so long delayed.

Three of the young men approached the agitated mother from the juvenile gathering. Their faces were solemn. Their own optimism had given way before the protracted delay. Tim Gleichen and Peter Furrers came first, Andy, the choreman, brought up the rear.

“We’ve been thinking,” said Tim, feeling it necessary to explain the process which had brought them to a certain conclusion, “that maybe we might just drive down the trail to see if we can see anything of him, Mrs. Malling. Ye can’t just say how things have gone with him. Maybe he’s struck a ‘dump’ and his sleigh’s got smashed up. There’s some tidy drifts to come through, and it’s dead easy to get dumped in ’em. Peter and Andy here have volunteered to go with me.”

“That’s real sensible of you, Tim,” replied Mrs. Malling, with an air of relief. She felt quite convinced that an accident had happened. She turned to the minister. In this matter she considered he was the best judge. Like many of her neighbours, she looked to the minister as the best worldly as well as spiritual adviser of his flock. “Like as not the boys will be able to help him?” she suggested, in a tone of inquiry.

“I don’t think I should let them go yet,” the man of the cloth replied. “I should give him an hour. It seems to me it will be time enough then. Ah, here’s Mrs. Gurridge,” as that lady appeared in the doorway. “There’s no sign of him,” he called out in anticipation of her inquiry. “I hope you are not letting the bride worry too much.”

“It’s too dreadful,” said Mrs. Ganthorn, as her thoughts reverted to Prudence waiting in the school-ma’am’s sitting-room.

“Whatever can have happened to him?”

“That’s what’s been troubling us this hour and more,” snapped the girl’s mother. She was in no humour to be asked silly questions, however little they were intended to be answered.