Kitabı oku: «The Greater Power», sayfa 19

He filled his pipe again, and Nasmyth looked at him with relief in his eyes.

CHAPTER XXVIII
A PAINFUL DUTY

Three months had slipped away since the evening on which Wheeler had discussed the subject of shingle-splitting with his companions. Nasmyth stood outside the shanty in the drenching rain. He was very wet and miry, and his face was lined and worn, for the three months of unremitting effort had left their mark on him. Wheeler had secured the timber rights in question, and that was one difficulty overcome, but Nasmyth had excellent reasons for believing that the men who had cast covetous eyes upon the valley had by no means abandoned the attempt to get possession of at least part of it.

He had had flood and frost against him, and his money was rapidly running out. A wild flood swept through the cañon. The heading was filled up, so that no one could even see the mouth of it, and half the rock he had piled upon the shingle had been swept into the rapid, where it had formed a dam among the boulders that could be removed only at a heavy expenditure of time and powder when the water fell. He was worn out in body, and savage from being foiled by the swollen river at each attempt he made, but while the odds against him were rapidly growing heavier he meant to fight.

A Siwash Indian whom he had hired as messenger between the cañon and the settlement had just arrived, and Gordon, who stood in the doorway of the shanty, took a newspaper out of the wet packet he had brought. Gordon turned to Nasmyth when he opened it.

“Wheeler’s getting ahead,” he said. “Here’s his announcement that his concern is turning out a high-grade cedar shingle. That’s satisfactory so far as it goes. I don’t quite know how we’d have held out if it hadn’t been for the money we got from him for running the logs down.” Then his voice grew suddenly eager. “Try to get hold of the significance of this, Derrick: ‘We have got it on reliable authority that certain propositions for the exploitation of the virgin forest-belt beyond the Butte Divide will shortly be laid before the Legislature. It is expected that liberal support will be afforded to a project for the making of new waggon-roads, and we believe that if the scheme is adopted certain gentlemen in this city will endeavour to inaugurate a steamboat service with the Western inlets.’” He waved his hand. “When this particular paper makes an assertion of that kind, there’s something going on,” he added. “It’s a sure thing that if those roads are made, it will put another thirty or forty cents on to every dollar’s worth of land we’re holding.”

“Exactly,” replied Nasmyth, whose tense face did not relax. “That is, it would, if we had run the water out of the valley; but, as it happens, we haven’t cut down very much of the fall yet, and this thing is going to make the men we have against us keener than ever. They’re probably plotting how to strike us now. Get those letters open.”

There was anxiety in his voice, and Gordon started when he had ripped open one or two of the envelopes.

“This looks like business,” he remarked, as he glanced at a letter from a lawyer who had once or twice handled Nasmyth’s affairs in the city. “It’s from Phelps. He says he has been notified that, unless an agreement can be arrived at, proceedings will be taken by a man called Hames, who claims to hold one hundred acres on the western side of the valley, to restrain you from altering the river level. Atterly–he’s the man we’ve heard from already–it seems, is taking action, too.”

“Hames?” repeated Nasmyth. “I’ve never heard of him. Any way, he can’t hold land on the western side. We haven’t sold an acre.” He stopped a moment, and looked hard at Gordon. “That is, I haven’t sanctioned it, and I believe there’s nobody holding a share in the project who would go back on us.”

Gordon made a gesture indicating his doubt in the subject, and they looked at each other for half a minute.

“I’m afraid I can’t go quite as far as that,” he replied, and laughed harshly. “As it stands recorded, the land could be transferred to anyone by Waynefleet. Any way, it seems to be in his block. Phelps cites the boundary-posts.”

Nasmyth closed one hand tight. Waynefleet, who had found the constant wetting too much for him, had left the cañon a week or two before this morning, on which it was evident a crisis of some sort was near. He had complained of severe pains in his back and joints, and had sent them no word after his departure.

“Is there anything from him?” asked Nasmyth.

Gordon picked out an envelope and opened it. “Here’s a note from Miss Waynefleet. She desires you to ride across at once.”

With a troubled face Nasmyth stood still in the rain another minute.

“I’ll take the pack-horse and start now,” he said after a brief silence. “When I have seen Miss Waynefleet, I’ll go right on to Victoria.” He turned and gazed at the river. “If one could get into the heading by any means, I’d fire every stick of giant-powder in it first. Unfortunately, the thing is out of the question.”

In a few moments he was scrambling up the gully, and Gordon, who went into the shanty and lighted his pipe, sat gazing at the letters very thoughtfully. They had no money to spare for any legal expenses. Indeed, he was far from sure they had enough to supply them with powder and provisions until their task was accomplished. During the long grim fight in the cañon they had borne almost all that could be expected of flesh and blood, and it was unthinkable that the city man, who sat snug in his office and plotted, should lay grasping hands upon the profit. Still, that seemed possible now that somebody had betrayed them.

Meantime, Nasmyth had swung himself into the pack-saddle, and, in the rain, was scrambling up the rocky slopes of the divide. He had not changed his clothing, and it would have availed him little if he had, since there was a long day’s ride before him. The trail was a little easier than it had been, for each man who led the pack-horse along it had hewn through some obstacle, but it was still sufficiently difficult, and every here and there a frothing torrent swept across it. There were slopes of wet rock to be scrambled over, several leagues of dripping forest thick with undergrowth that clung about the narrow trail to be floundered through, and all the time the great splashes from the boughs or torrential rain beat upon him. In places he led the pack-horse, in places he rode, and dusk was closing in when he saw a blink of light across Waynefleet’s clearing. In another few minutes he had led the jaded horse into the stable, and then, splashed with mire, and with the water running from his clothes, had limped to the homestead door.

Nasmyth opened the door and saw Laura Waynefleet sitting by the stove. She started as he came in.

“I have been expecting you,” she said. She gave him her hand and her eyes met his with a look of anxiety. She noticed his appearance of weariness and the condition of his clothing. “I can get you something dry to put on,” she added.

“No,” said Nasmyth, “you must not trouble. I would be quite as wet again, soon after I leave here. If I can borrow a horse, I must push on to the railroad in an hour.”

“To-night?” asked Laura. “After riding in from the cañon, it’s out of the question. Besides, you could never get through the Willow Ford. Listen to the rain.”

Nasmyth sank wearily into the nearest chair, and heard the deluge lash the shingled roof.

“I’m afraid it must be done,” he declared.

Laura laid supper upon the table, and insisted that he should eat before she made any reference to the object she had in hand. Then, while he sat beside the stove with his clothes steaming, she looked at him steadily, and a little colour crept into her face.

“I wonder if you can guess why I sent for you?” she said.

“Where is your father?” Nasmyth asked abruptly.

“In Victoria. He left six days ago. I suppose he sent you no word that he was going.”

“No,” answered Nasmyth very dryly, “he certainly didn’t. I don’t think I could have expected it from him.”

He sat silent for almost a minute, looking at her with a troubled air, and though Laura was very quiet, her manner was vaguely suggestive of tension. It was Nasmyth who broke the silence.

“I believe you have something to tell me, Miss Waynefleet,” he said. “Still, I would sooner you didn’t, if it will hurt you. After all, it’s rather more than possible that I can arrive at the information by some other means.”

The tinge of colour grew plainer in Laura’s face, but it was evident that she laid a firm restraint upon herself. “Ah!” she cried, “it has hurt me horribly already. I can’t get over the shame of it. But that isn’t what I meant to speak of. I feel”–and her voice grew tense and strained–“I must try to save you and the others from a piece of wicked treachery.”

She straightened herself, and there was a flash in her eyes, but Nasmyth raised one hand.

“No,” he protested, almost sternly, “I can’t let you do this. You would remember it ever afterwards with regret.”

The girl seemed to nerve herself for an effort, and when she spoke her voice was impressively quiet.

“You must listen and try to understand,” she said.

“It is not only because it would hurt me to see you and the others tricked out of what you have worked so hard for that I feel I must tell you. If there was nothing more than that, I might, perhaps, never have told you, after all. I want to save my father from a shameful thing.” Her voice broke away, and the crimson flush on her face deepened as she went on again. “He has been offering to sell land that can’t belong to him,” she asserted accusingly.

Nasmyth felt sorry for her, and he made an attempt to offer her a grain of consolation.

“A few acres are really his,” he said. “I made them over to him.”

“To be his only if he did his share, and when the scheme proved successful,” Laura interrupted. “I know, if he has sold them, what an opportunity of harassing you it will give the men who are plotting against you. Still, now you know, you can, perhaps, break off the bargain. I want you to do what you can”–and she glanced at him with a tense look in her eyes–“if it is only to save him.”

“That,” replied Nasmyth quietly, “is, for quite another reason, the object I have in view. I would like you to understand that I have guessed that he had failed us already. It may be some little consolation. Now, perhaps, you had better tell me exactly what you know.”

Laura did so, and it proved to be no more than Nasmyth had suspected. Letters had passed between Waynefleet and somebody in Victoria, and the day after he left for that city two men, who had evidently crossed him on the way, arrived at the ranch. One said his name was Hames, and his conversation suggested that he supposed the girl was acquainted with her father’s affairs. In any case, what he said made it clear that he had either purchased, or was about to purchase from Waynefleet, certain land in the valley. After staying half an hour, the men had, Laura understood, set out again for Victoria.

When she had told him this, Nasmyth sat thoughtfully silent a minute or two. Her courage and hatred of injustice had stirred him deeply, for he knew what it must have cost her to discuss the subject of her father’s wrongdoing with him. He was also once more overwhelmingly sorry for her. There was nobody she could turn to for support or sympathy, and it was evident that if he succeeded in foiling Hames, it would alienate her from her father. Waynefleet, he felt, was not likely to forgive her for the efforts she had made to save him from being drawn into an act of profitable treachery.

“Well,” he said after a moment’s thought, “I am going on to Victoria to see what can be done, but there is another matter that is troubling me. I wonder if it has occurred to you that your father will find it very difficult to stay on at the ranch when the part he has played becomes apparent. I am almost afraid the boys will be vindictive.”

“I believe he has not expected to carry on the ranch much longer. It is heavily mortgaged, and he has been continually pressed for money.”

“Has he any plans?”

Laura smiled wearily. “He has always plans. I believe he intends to go to one of the towns on Puget Sound, and start a land agency.” She made a dejected gesture. “I don’t expect him to succeed in it, but perhaps I could earn a little.”

Nasmyth set his lips tight, and there was concern in his face. She looked very forlorn, and he knew that she was friendless. He could hardly bring himself to contemplate the probability of her being cast adrift, saddled with a man who, it was evident, would only involve her in fresh disasters, and, he fancied, reproach her as the cause of them. A gleam of anger crept into his eyes.

“If your father had only held on with us, I could have saved you this,” he observed.

There was a great sadness in Laura’s smile.

“Still,” she replied, “he didn’t, and perhaps you couldn’t have expected it of him. He sees only the difficulties, and I am afraid never tries to face them.”

Nasmyth felt his self-control deserting him. He was conscious of an almost overwhelming desire to save the girl from the results of her father’s dishonesty and folly, and he could see no way in which it could be done. Then it was borne in upon him that in another moment or two he would probably say or do something that he would regret afterwards, and she would resent, and, rising stiffly, he held out his hand.

“I must push on to the railroad,” he said, and he held the hand she gave him in a firm clasp. “Miss Waynefleet, you saved my life, and I believe I owe you quite as much in other ways. It’s a fact that neither of us can attempt to disregard. I want you to promise that you will, at least, not leave the ranch without telling me.”

Laura flashed a quick glance at him, and perhaps she saw more than he suspected in his insistent gaze, for she strove to draw her hand away. He held it fast, however, while his nerves thrilled and his heart beat furiously. He remembered Violet Hamilton vaguely, but there came upon him a compelling desire to draw this girl to whom he owed so much into his arms and comfort her. They both stood very still a moment, and Nasmyth heard the snapping of the stove with a startling distinctness. Then–and it cost him a strenuous effort–he let her hand go.

“You will promise,” he insisted hoarsely.

“Yes,” answered Laura, “before I go away I will tell you.”

Nasmyth went out into the blackness and the rain, while Laura sat trembling until she heard the beat of his horse’s hoofs. Then she sank lower, a limp huddled figure, in the canvas chair. The stove snapped noisily, and the pines outside set up a doleful wailing, but, except for that, it was very still in the desolate ranch.

Nasmyth rode on until he borrowed a fresh horse from a man who lived a few miles along the trail. There was a cheerful light from the windows as he rode into a little settlement, and the trail to the railroad led through dripping forest and over a towering range, but he did not draw bridle. He was aching all over, and the water ran from his garments, but he scarcely seemed to feel his weariness then, and he pushed on resolutely through the rain up the climbing trail.

He remembered very little of that ride afterwards, or what he thought about during it. The strain of the last few minutes he had passed at Waynefleet’s ranch had left him dazed, and part of his numbness, at least, was due to weariness. Several times he was almost flung from the saddle as the horse scrambled down a slope of rock. Willow-branches lashed him as he pushed through the thickets, and in one place it was only by a grim effort that he drove the frightened beast to ford a flooded creek. Then there was a strip of hillside to be skirted, where the slope was almost sheer beneath the edge of the winding trail, and the rain that drove up the valley beat into his eyes. Still he held on, and two hours after sunrise rode half asleep into the little mining town. There was a train in the station, and, turning the horse over to a man he met, he climbed, dripping as he was, into a car.

CHAPTER XXIX
A FUTILE SCHEME

There was bright sunshine at Bonavista when Nasmyth, who had been told at the station that Acton had arrived from Victoria the day before, limped out from the shadow of the surrounding Bush, and stood still a moment or two, glancing across the trim lawn and terrace towards the wooden house. The spacious dwelling, gay with its brightly painted lattice shutters, dainty scroll-work, and colonnades of wooden pillars, rose against the sombre woods, and he wondered with some anxiety whether Mrs. Acton had many guests in it. He had no desire to fall in with any strangers, for he was worn out and aching, and he still wore the old duck clothing in which he had left the cañon. It might, he fancied, be possible to slip into the house and change before he presented himself to Mrs. Acton, though he was by no means sure that the garments in the valise he carried in his hand were dry. He could see nobody on the terrace, and moved forward hastily until he stopped in consternation as he crossed one of the verandas. The sunlight streamed in, and Mrs. Acton and Violet Hamilton sat upon the seat which ran along the back of it. The girl started when she saw him, and Nasmyth stood looking down on her, worn in face and heavy-eyed, with his workman’s garb clinging, tight and mire-stained, about his limbs. There was, however, a certain grimness in his smile. He had seen the girl’s start and her momentary shrinking, and it occurred to him that there was a significance in the fact that it had not greatly hurt him.

“I must make my excuses for turning up in this condition,” he apologized. “I had to start for the railroad at a moment’s notice, and it rained all the way, while, when I reached it, the train was in the depôt. You see, my business is rather urgent.”

Mrs. Acton laughed. “Evidently,” she said. “I think we were both a trifle startled when we saw you. I should be sorry to hear that anything had gone seriously wrong, but you remind one of the man who brought the news of Flodden.”

Nasmyth made a quick gesture of denial. “Well,” he announced bravely, “our standard is flying yet, and I almost think we can make another rally or two. Still, I have come for reinforcements. Mr. Acton is in?”

“He is. As it happened, he came up from Victoria yesterday. I believe he is discussing some repairs to the steamer with George just now. I’ll send you out a plate of something and a glass of wine. You can’t have had any lunch.”

Mrs. Acton rose, and Nasmyth, who sat down, looked at Violet with a smile. She was evidently not quite at ease.

“You really haven’t welcomed me very effusively,” he remarked.

The girl flushed. “I don’t think I could be blamed for that,” she returned. “I was startled.”

“And perhaps just a little annoyed?”

The colour grew plainer in Violet’s cheeks. “Well,” she averred, “that isn’t so very unnatural. After all, I don’t mind admitting that I wish you hadn’t come like this.”

Nasmyth glanced down at his attire, and nodded gravely. “It’s certainly not altogether becoming,” he admitted. “I made that hole drilling, but I fancied I had mended the thing. Still, you see, I had to start on the moment, and I rode most of twenty-four hours in the rain. I suppose”–and he hesitated while he studied her face–“I might have tidied myself at the depôt, but, as it happened, I didn’t think of it, which was, no doubt, very wrong of me.”

“It was, at least, a little inconsiderate.”

Nasmyth laughed good-humouredly, though he recognized that neither his weariness nor the fact that it must manifestly be business of some consequence that had brought him there in that guise had any weight with her. He had, after all, a wide toleration, and he acknowledged to himself that her resentment was not unreasonable.

“I’ve no doubt that I was inconsiderate,” he said. “Still, you see, I was worried about our affairs in the cañon.”

“The cañon!” repeated Violet reproachfully. “It is always the cañon. I wonder if you remember that it is at least a month since you have written a line to me.”

Nasmyth was disconcerted, for a moment’s reflection convinced him that the accusation was true.

“Well,” he confessed, “I have certainly been shamefully remiss. Of course, I was busy from dawn to sunset, but, after all, I’m afraid that is really no excuse.”

The girl frowned. “No,” she said, “it isn’t.”

It was a slight relief to Nasmyth that a maid appeared just then, and he took a glass of wine from the tray she laid upon a little table.

“To the brightest eyes in this Province!” he said, when the servant had gone, and, emptying the glass, he fell upon the food voraciously.

It was unfortunate that in such unattractive guise he had come upon Violet, and the fashion in which he ate also had its effect on her. In the last thirty hours he had had only one hasty meal, and he showed a voracity that offended her fastidious taste. He was worn out and anxious, and since all his thoughts were fixed upon the business that he had in hand, he could not rouse himself to act according to the manner expected of a lover who returns after a long absence. It was, however, once more borne in upon him that this was significant.

Violet, on her part, felt repelled by him. He was gaunt and lean, and the state of his garments had shocked her. His hands were hard and battered. She was very dainty, and in some respects unduly sensitive, and it did not occur to her that it would have been more natural if, in place of shrinking, she had been sensible only of a tender pity for him. Perhaps there were excuses for her attitude. She had never been brought into contact with the grim realities of life, and it is only from those whom that befalls that one can expect the wide sympathy which springs from comprehension. Nasmyth, lounging at Bonavista with amusing speeches on his lips and his air of easy deference, had been a somewhat romantic figure, and the glimpses of the struggle in the Bush that he had given her had appealed to her imagination. She could feel the thrill of it when she saw it through his eyes with all the unpleasantly realistic features carefully wiped out, but it was different now that he had come back to her with the dust and stain of the conflict fresh upon him. The evidences of his strife were only repulsive, and she shrank from them. She watched him with a growing impatience until he rose and laid his empty plate aside.

“Well,” he observed, “you will excuse me. I must see Mr. Acton as soon as I can.”

It was not in any way a tactful speech, and Violet resented it. The man, it seemed, had only deferred the business he had on hand for a meal. She looked at him with her displeasure flashing in her eyes.

“In that case,” she said, “I should, of course, be sorry to keep you away from him.”

Nasmyth gazed at her curiously, but he did not reply. He went away from her. A few minutes later when he entered Acton’s room he was attired in conventional fashion. His host shook hands with him, and then leaned back in a chair, waiting for him to speak, which he did with a trace of diffidence.

“My object is to borrow money,” he explained frankly. “I couldn’t resent it in the least if you sent me on to somebody else.”

“I’ll hear what you have to say in the first case,” replied Acton. “You had better explain exactly how you stand.”

Nasmyth did so as clearly as he could, and Acton looked at him thoughtfully for a moment or two.

“I’ve been partly expecting this,” he observed. “It’s quite clear that one or two of the big land exploitation people have a hand in the thing. I guess I could put my finger right down on them. You said the man’s name was Hames?”

Nasmyth said it was, and Acton sat thinking for several minutes.

“It seems to me that the folks I have in my mind haven’t been quite smart enough,” he declared at length. “They should have put up a sounder man. As it happens, I know a little about the one they fixed upon. Mr. Hames is what you could call a professional claim-jumper, and it’s fortunate that there’s a weak spot or two in his career.”

Acton paused, and Nasmyth waited in tense expectancy until the older man turned to him again, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I almost think I can take a hand in this thing, and to commence with, we’ll go down to Victoria this afternoon and call on Mr. Hames,” he added. “If he has bought that land, it will probably be registered in his name. The men you have against you are rather fond of working in the dark. Then we come to another point–what it would be wisest to do with Waynefleet, who went back on you. You said he had a mortgage on his ranch. You know who holds it?”

Nasmyth said he did not know, and Acton nodded. “Any way,” he rejoined, “we can ascertain it in the city. Now, I guess you would like that man run right out of the neighbourhood? It would be safest, and it might perhaps be done.”

Nasmyth was startled by this suggestion, and with a thoughtful face he sat wondering what was most advisable. He bore Waynefleet very little good-will, but it was clear that Laura must share any trouble that befell her father, and he could not at any cost lay a heavier load upon her. He was conscious that Acton was watching him intently.

“No,” he objected, “I don’t want him driven out. In fact, I should be satisfied with making it impossible for him to enter into any arrangement of the kind again.”

“In that case, I guess we’ll try to buy up his mortgage,” remarked Acton. “Land’s going to be dearer in that district presently.”

Nasmyth looked at him with a little confusion. “It is very kind, but, after all, I have no claim on you.”

“No,” agreed Acton, with a smile, “you haven’t in one way. This is, however, a kind of thing I’m more at home in than you seem to be, and there was a little promise I made your uncle. For another thing”–and he waved his hand–“I’m going to take a reasonable profit out of you.”

Nasmyth made no further objections, and they set out for Victoria that afternoon. Hames was, however, not readily traced; and when, on the following morning, they sat in Acton’s office waiting his appearance, Nasmyth was conscious of a painful uncertainty. Acton, with a smile on his face, leaned back in his chair until Hames was shown in. Hames was a big, bronze-faced man, plainly dressed in city clothes, but there was, Nasmyth noticed, a trace of half-furtive uneasiness in his eyes. Acton looked up at him quietly, and let him stand for several moments. Then he waved his hand toward a chair.

“Won’t you sit down? We have got to have a talk,” said Acton. “I’ll come right to the point. You have have been buying land.”

Hames sat down. “I can’t quite figure how that concerns you,” he replied. “I’m not going to worry about it, any way.”

“I want that land–the block you bought from Waynefleet.”

“It’s not for sale,” asserted Hames. “If you have nothing else to put before me, I’ll get on. I’m busy this morning.”

Acton leaned forward in his chair. “When I’m in the city, I’m usually busy, too,” he said; “in fact, I’ve just three or four minutes to spare for you, and I expect to get through in that time. To begin with, you sent Mr. Hutton a note from your hotel when my clerk came for you. He never got it. You can have it back unopened. I can guess what’s in the thing.” He handed Hames an envelope. “Now,” he went on, “you can make a fuss about it, but I guess it wouldn’t be wise. Hutton doesn’t know quite as much about you as I do. I’ve had a finger in most of what has been done in this Province the last few years, and it’s not often I forget a man. Well, I guess I could mention one or two little affairs that were not altogether creditable which you had a share in.”

Hames laughed. “It’s quite likely.”

“Still, what you don’t know is that I’m on the inside track of what was done when the Hobson folks jumped the Black Crag claim. There was considerable trouble over the matter.”

Nasmyth saw Hames start, but he apparently braced himself with an effort.

“Any way,” replied Hames, “that was ’most four years ago, and there’s not a man who had a hand in it in this Province now.”

Acton shook his head. “There’s one. I can put my hand on your partner Okanagon Jim just when I want to.”

There was no doubt that Hames was alarmed.

“Jim was drowned crossing the river the night the water broke into the Black Crag shaft,” he declared.

“His horse was, and the boys found his hat. That, however, is quite a played-out trick. If you’re not satisfied, I can fix it for you to meet him here any time you like.”

Hames made a motion of acknowledgment. “I don’t want to see him–that’s a sure thing! I guess you know it was fortunate that Jim and two or three of the other boys got out of the shaft that night. Well, I guess that takes me. If Jim’s around, I’ll put down my cards.”

“It’s wisest,” advised Acton. “Now, I’m going to buy that land Waynefleet sold from you–or, rather, he’s going to give you your money back for it. You can arrange the thing with Hutton–who, I believe, supplied the money–afterwards as best you can.”

Nasmyth fancied Hames was relieved that no more was expected from him.

“I guess I’m in your hands,” observed Hames.

“Then,” Acton said, “you can wait in my clerk’s office until I’m ready to go over with you to Waynefleet’s hotel.”

Hames went out, and Acton turned to Nasmyth. “He was hired with a few others to jump the claim he mentioned, and there was trouble over it. As usual, just what happened never quite came out, but that man left his partner to face the boys, who scarcely managed to escape with their lives that night. The man who holds Waynefleet’s mortgage should be here at any moment.”

The man arrived in a few minutes. After he had sat down and had taken the cigar Acton offered him, he was ready to talk business.

“You have a mortgage on Rancher Waynefleet’s holding in the Bush,” said Acton. “I understand you’ve had some trouble in getting what he owes you.”

The man nodded. “That’s certainly the case,” he said. “I bought up quite a lot of land before I laid down the mill, but after I did that I let most of it go. In fact, I’m quite willing to let up on Waynefleet’s holding, too. I can’t get a dollar out of him.”