Part 12 (1/2)

”Your house is going up and you have cleared some ground,” she said. ”It looks as if you had not slouched.”

”Oh, well,” said Jimmy modestly, ”your father reckoned I must push ahead before the frost began; but if we have made some progress, I imagine Bob is mainly accountable.”

”Do you like Okanagan?”

”I don't know,” Jimmy replied in a thoughtful voice. ”He stays with his job, and puts it over, but he doesn't talk. Unless he's chopping and you hear his ax, you don't know where he is. He _steals_ about. In fact, the fellow puzzles me. What's his proper business?”

”Bob's a trapper. To get valuable skins you must go far North, but the black bear are pretty numerous and sometimes a cinnamon comes down the rocks. Then tourists give a good price for a big-horn's head. I reckon Bob's wad was getting big, until the politicians resolved to see the game laws were carried out. Now you must buy a license before you shoot large animals, and you may only shoot one or two. Then reserves are fixed where you may not shoot at all. The belt across the range is a reserve and the game-warden made some trouble for Bob. Perhaps this accounts for his hiring up with you.”

”Do you like the fellow?”

Margaret hesitated. She did not like Bob, but she did not mean to enlighten Jimmy. Sometimes Bob came to Kelshope and when he fixed his strange glance on her she got disturbed.

”Well,” she said, ”if I wanted a loghouse put up or the timber wolves cleared off, I'd send for Okanagan; but I'd stop there. He's not the sort I'd want for a friend.”

”You imply, if you were a rancher, you wouldn't want him for a friend?”

Margaret's eyes twinkled. ”Why, of course, I implied something like that.”

”But Bob goes to Kelshope, and Mr. Jardine suggested my hiring him.”

”My father's a bushman,” said Margaret, rather dryly. ”His habit's not to get stung; but we'll let it go. What about your chickens?”

Jimmy had sent for some poultry, and so long as Margaret was willing to stop, he was satisfied to talk about his flock. Sometimes the bush was lonely and to sit opposite Margaret had charm. She banished the loneliness and gave his rude fireside a homely touch. By and by, however, she got up.

”I have stopped some time and you ought to get busy.”

She would not take his help to mount. She seized the bridle, stroked the cayuse, and was in the saddle. The horse plunged into the fern, Margaret waved her hand and vanished, but for a few minutes Jimmy smoked and pondered.

He thought Margaret harmonized with the quiet, austere woods, but although she talked like a bush girl, he wondered whether she had not done so in order to baffle him. Anyhow, he hoped she would come back and cook his breakfast another time. He could not see Laura Stannard beating up dough for flapjacks by his fire. Laura's proper background was an English drawing-room. She had grace and charm, and on the hotel terrace Jimmy was keen about her society. Then Laura was a good sort and he owed her much; the strange thing was, although she had stated he ought to follow a useful occupation, she did not approve his ranching experiment. In fact, she had urged him to go back to the cotton mill.

Jimmy admitted he was rather hurt because she was willing for him to go.

Now, however, her picture began to get indistinct. The bush called and Laura did not harmonize with the woods.

Then Jimmy remembered Margaret had brought him some letters and when he pulled out an envelope with an Indian stamp, his look was anxious. Sir James, however, stated that his London agents would send a check on a Canadian bank, and when Jimmy wanted to stock his ranch his bills would be met. Sir James remarked that to buy cattle was better than to bet on horses that did not win, and chopping trees was not, by contrast with some other amus.e.m.e.nts, very expensive. Moreover, if Jimmy got tired, he could sell the ranch. He added that he was presently going to j.a.pan and afterwards to England by the Canadian Pacific line. When he crossed Canada, he would stop and look his nephew up.

Jimmy liked his uncle's rather dry humor, and admitted that some of his remarks were justified, for when Jimmy went to the races his luck was bad, but he put the letter in his pocket and picked up his ax. For some time he had talked and smoked and, unless he hustled, the s.h.i.+ngles he wanted would not be split by dark.

X

LAURA'S REFUSAL

Smoke rolled about the clearing and dry branches snapped in the flames.

A keen wind fanned the blaze and in places the fire leaped up the trees and resinous needles fell in sparkling showers. Okanagan Bob went about with a coal-oil can, and Jimmy drove the red oxen that hauled loads of brush. Jimmy's face was black, his hand was burned, and his s.h.i.+rt was marked by dark-edged holes, but his mood was buoyant. The fire had got firm hold and advanced steadily across the belt of chopped trunks and branches bushmen call the _slas.h.i.+ng_. When it burned out Jimmy thought only half-consumed logs would be left. A good _burn_ ought to save him much labor.

Perhaps his keenness was strange. To clear a ranch is a long and arduous job that he was not forced to undertake; but he was keen. His occupation, so to speak, had got hold of him. Moreover he felt, rather vaguely, it was a test of his endurance and pluck. Since he left the cotton mill he had loafed and squandered; now he had got a man's job, and when the job was carried out he would know himself a man.

By and by he stopped the oxen in front of the house. A few yards off Deering notched the end of a log. He wore long boots, overall trousers and a torn s.h.i.+rt. His face was red, but his big body followed the sweep of the ax with a measured swing and the s.h.i.+ning blade went deep into the log. Deering had arrived a few days before to arrange about a hunting excursion.