Part 28 (2/2)

_Jim McCloud_, of all men. Jim, who had been ahead of them all in his bitter vilification of the new policeman and, avowedly, the latter's worst enemy on the range. Only the _two_ of them there at the muskeg ...

evening, at that ... not another soul within sight or hearing. All the Sergeant needed to have done-if he had liked-was to sit in his saddle and just-_watch_.

Of what earthly use were all the many opportunities to rustle that showed up so invitingly at times while such a ruthlessly clever anomaly as he was stationed in the district? A man who seemed to possess endless disguises and hiding places and never to sleep; whose disquieting presence, supremely indifferent to weather conditions or darkness, was apt to upset all their calculations as to his whereabouts in a most sudden and undesirable fas.h.i.+on?

No-so long as _he_ was around, it was not worth the while risking ”a stretch in the 'Pen,'” even if owners _were_ a little lethargic and careless, at times, about getting their colts and calves branded. There must be ”snitches” in their midst, ”double-crossing” them, they argued darkly. _Must_ be-otherwise whence had he obtained the knowledge that had led to the undoing of so many? And, as this disturbing possibility continued to gain credence, the seeds of mutual distrust and apprehension were sown broadcast amongst them which, needless to say, was greatly beneficial to the rest of the law-abiding community.

If this altered state of affairs was highly satisfactory to Benton's commanding officer it was even more so to the Stock a.s.sociation, and the Sergeant was the recipient of many tributes of esteem and grat.i.tude from that sterling body for the good work that he had done.

PART II

CHAPTER XVI

”I was a stranger, and ye took me in:”

-_St. Matt_. XXV, 35

The long, bright May day had drawn to a close, and darkness was setting in, through which a few faint stars had begun to twinkle. Ah, here was a light at last; and a welcome sight it was to the tired girl, leading an equally tired, fat, old gray horse as, topping a rise in the trail, she beheld the visible signs of a habitation gleaming in the distance.

”Come on, Sam,” she coaxed cheerily, with a slightly impatient tug at the reins and quickening her pace. ”We'll soon be there, now, old boy, and you'll get a good long drink and a feed!”

Plodding wearily on, they stumbled over the ruts of a well-worn trail diverging at right angles from the one they were traversing, and which the girl instinctively took, guessing that it led to the dwelling whose beacon shone brighter and brighter with every nearing step.

Suddenly she pulled up short for, through a lull in the brisk night breeze-like an aeolian harp-there came to her astonished ears the unmistakable sounds of a piano. A fresh gust of wind carried it away next minute, though, and she moved forward again. Soon the shadowy outlines of a building became visible amid the surrounding gloom, and the music became distinct and real. Dropping the horse's reins, the girl stepped slowly and carefully towards the light, thrusting out her hands with experienced caution as she did so, fearful of encountering the customary strands of a barbed-wire fence. Meeting with no such obstacle, she drew nearer to the open window, absently humming a bar of ”The Bridal Chorus” from ”Lohengrin,” which air the invisible pianist had, with masterly improvisations, just drawn to a close.

Then she halted, paralyzed for the moment with astonishment-all her own musical instincts fully aroused-as a man's deep, rich baritone voice floated forth on the night air, singing a well-remembered song, but as _she_ had never heard it sung before. And, though not of a particularly sentimental temperament, she found it impossible to listen to the beautiful words on this occasion unmoved:

If I were hanged on the highest hill, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

I know whose love would follow me still, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

Entranced, she stood motionless. Whoever could this unknown vocalist with the magnificent voice be, singing ”Mother o' mine, O mother o'

mine” in the wilderness? The slow, deep, ineffable pathos of its last verse thrilled and touched her strangely:

If I were d.a.m.ned of body and soul, I know whose prayers would make me whole, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

As the song ended, she roused herself out of the dreamy reverie into which she had fallen and, moving forward again, peered through the window. But the light was between her and the singer and she could not see plainly. Retracing her steps, she approached the front entrance and knocked gently on the door. There came a crash of chords, a moment's silence, then a firm, decided step sounded inside and the door was opened. She caught only the vague impression of a man's form in the gloom, for the light was hidden from view in the back room; then a pleasant-unmistakably, a gentleman's voice-with a slightly imperious ring in it said:

”Good night, madam. Is anything the matter? Did you wish to see me?”

”I'm-I'm afraid I've lost my way,” she answered. ”I'm trying to get back to Mr. Trainor's ranch. I've not been in this district very long and I'm-I suppose I'm what you call 'a bit green' as yet at finding my way about on the prairie,” she added merrily.

He laughed at her last words. ”So,” he said. ”Seems a bit like it. Dave Trainor's lies about seven miles nor'east of here. You're riding, of course?”

”Oh, yes,” she said plaintively. ”But all the _decent_ horses are away on the spring round-up, and the only one I could get was old Sam, and he's _so_ fat and lazy and slow. It's too much like 'working your pa.s.sage' with him. That's the princ.i.p.al reason I'm out so late. I'd been to see Mrs. G.o.ddard, at the Bow View ranch, and her husband told me of a trail which he said would be shorter than the one I came by. He wanted to ride back with me, but I was full of self-confidence and thought I could make it alone all right. Consequence is-here I am, 'lost on the bald-headed,' as they say. Poor old Sam's pretty nearly played out for a drink and a feed-an'-an' so am I,” she continued frankly. ”I've walked an awful long way to ease him, for I'm not exactly what you'd call a feather-weight.”

Her humor was irresistible and infectious. ”All right,” he said gaily.

<script>