Ranching For Sylvia Volume-554 by Harold Bindloss (chrome ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Scrub.  George Started As He Saw That She Had Roughly Indicated The

Figure Of A Man Lying Upon The Little Mound With A Rifle In His Hand.

It Struck Him That She Was Right.

"It's A Picture," Said The Constable; "But Why Did You Put That Fellow

Yonder?"

"Come And See."

They Followed Her To The Mound, And After An Inspection Of It, Flett

Nodded.

"You'd Make A Mighty Smart Tracker, Miss Grant.  I Was Against This

Mound Being The Firing Place, Because, To Get To It, The Fellow Would

Have To Come Out Into The Open."

"Would That Count?  It Was A Bull He Was After."

"It Was," Flett Agreed.  "This Fixes The Thing."

George Looked At Him Meaningly.

"Have You Made Up Your Mind About Anything Else?"

"Oh, Yes," Said Flett.  "It Was Done With Malicious Mischief.  If A

Poor White Or An Indian Meant To Kill A Beast For Meat, He Wouldn't

Pick A Bull Worth A Pile Of Money, At Least While There Was Common Beef

Stock About."

"Then What Do You Mean To Do?"

Flett Smiled.

"Sooner Or Later, I'm Going To Put Handcuffs On The Man Who Did This

Thing.  If You'll Give Me The Sketch, Miss Grant, I'll Take It Along."

Flora Handed It To Him, And He And Edgar Went Away Shortly Afterward,

Leaving George With The Girl.  She Sat Still, Looking Down At Him When

He Had Helped Her To The Saddle.

"I'm Afraid You Have A Good Many Difficulties To Face," She Said.

"Yes," Assented George.  "A Dry Summer Is Bad For Wheat On My Light

Soil, And That Is Why I Thought Of Going In For Stock."  He Paused With

A Rueful Smile.  "It Doesn't Promise To Be A Great Improvement, If I'm

To Have My Best Beasts Shot."

She Pointed To The West.  The Grass About Them Was Still Scorched With

Fierce Sunshine, But Leaden Cloud-Masses, Darkly Rolled Together With A

Curious Bluish Gleam In Them, Covered Part Of The Sky.

"This Time It Will Rain," She Said.  "We Will Be Fortunate If We Get No

More Than That.  Try To Remember, Mr. Lansing, That Bad Seasons Are Not

The Rule In Western Canada, And One Good One Wipes Out The Results Of

Several Lean Years."

Then She Rode Away, And George Joined Edgar.  He Felt That He Had Been

Given A Warning.  On Reaching Home, He Harnessed A Team And Drove Off

To A Sloo To Haul In Hay, But While He Worked He Cast Anxious Glances

At The Clouds.  They Rolled On Above Him In An Endless Procession,

Opening Out To Emit A Passing Blaze Of Sunshine, And Closing In Again.

The Horses Were Restless, He Could Hardly Get Them To Stand; The

Grasses Stirred And Rustled In A Curious Manner; And Even The Little

Gophers That Scurried Away From The Wagon Wheels Displayed An Unusual

And Feverish Activity.  Yet There Was Not A Drop Of Rain, And The Man

Toiled On In Savage Impatience, Wondering Whether He Must Once More

Resign Himself To See The Promised Deluge Pass Away.

It Was A Question Of Serious Import.  A Night's Heavy Rain Would

Consolidate The Soil That Blew About With Every Breeze, Revive The

Suffering Wheat And Strengthen Its Abraded Stalks Against Any Further

Attack By The Driving Sand.  Indeed, He Thought It Would Place The Crop

In Security.

He Came Home For Supper, Jaded, Dusty, And Morose, And Found That He

Could Scarcely Eat When He Sat Down To The Meal.  He Could Not Rest

When It Was Over, Though He Was Aching From Heavy Toil; Nor Could He

Fix His Attention On Any New Task; And When Dusk Was Getting Near He

Strolled Up And Down Before The Homestead With Edgar.  There Was A

Change In The Looks Of The Buildings--All That Could Be Done Had Been

Effected--But There Was Also A Change In The Man.  He Was Leaner, His

Face Was Getting Thin, And He Looked Worn; But He Maintained A Forced

Tranquillity.

The Sky Was Barred With Cloud Now; The Great Breadth Of Grain Had Faded

To A Leaden Hue, The Prairie To Shadowy Gray.  The Wind Had Dropped,

The Air Was Tense And Still; A Strange, Impressive Silence Brooded Over

Everything.

Presently Edgar Looked Up At The Clouds.

"They Must Break At Last," He Said.  "One Can't Help Thinking Of What

They Hold--Endless Carloads Of Grain, Wads Of Dollar Bills For The

Storekeepers, Prosperity For Three Big Provinces.  It's Much The Same

Weather Right Along To The Rockies."

"I Wasn't Considering The Three Provinces," Said George.

"No," Retorted Edgar.  "Your Attention Was Confined To The Improvement

The Rain Would Make In Sylvia Marston's Affairs.  You're Looking

Forward To Sending Her A Big Check After Harvest."

"So Far, It Has Looked More Like Facing A Big Deficit."

"You Mean Your Facing It."

George Frowned.

"Sylvia Has Nothing Except This Land."

"It Strikes Me She's Pretty Fortunate, In One Way.  You Find The

Working Capital And Bear The Loss, If There Is One.  I Wonder What

Arrangements You Made About Dividing A Surplus."

"That," Said George, "Is A Thing I've No Intention Of Discussing With

Anybody But My Co-Trustee."

Edgar Smiled; He Had Hardly Expected To Elicit Much Information Upon

The Point, Having Failed To Do So Once Or Twice Already.

"Well," He Said, "I Believe We'll See The Rain Before An Hour Has

Passed."

Soon After He Had Spoken, A Flash Leaped From Overhead And The Prairie

Was Flooded With Dazzling Radiance.  It Was Followed By A Roll Of

Thunder, And A Roar As The Rain Came Down.  For A Few Moments The Dust

Whirled Up And There Was A Strong Smell Of Earth; Then The Air Was

Filled With Falling Water.  George Stood Still In The Deluge,

Rejoicing, While The Great Drops Lashed His Upturned Face, Until Edgar

Laughingly Pushed Him Toward The House.

"As I'm Wet Through, I Think I'll Go To Bed.  At Last, You Can Rest

Content."

George, Following His Example, Lay Down With A Deep Sense Of

Thankfulness.  His Cares Had Gone, The Flood That Roared Against The

Board Walls Had Banished Them.  Now That Relief Had Come, He Felt

Strangely Weary, And In A Few Minutes He Was Sound Asleep.  He Did Not

Hear The Thunder, Which Broke Out Again, Nor Feel The House Shake In

The Rush Of Icy Wind That Suddenly Followed; The Ominous Rattle On Roof

And Walls, Different From And Sharper Than The Lashing Of The Rain,

Began And Died Away Unnoticed By Him.  He Was Wrapped In The Deep,

Healing Slumber That Follows The Slackening Of Severe Mental And Bodily

Strain; He Knew Nothing Of The Banks Of Ragged Ice-Lumps That Lay

Melting To Lee Of The Building.

It Was Very Cold The Next Morning, Though The Sun Was Rising Above The

Edge Of The Scourged Plain, When Edgar, Partly Dressed And Wearing Wet

Boots And Leggings, Came Into The Room And Looked Down At George

Compassionately.

The Brown Face Struck Him As Looking Worn; George Had Flung Off Part Of

The Coverings, And There Was Something That Suggested Limp Relaxation

In His Attitude; But Edgar Knew That His Comrade Must Bear His Load

Again.

"George," He Said, Touching Him, "You Had Better Get Up."

The Man Stirred, And Looking At Him Became At Once Intent As He Saw His

Face.

"Ah!" He Exclaimed.  "Something Else Gone Wrong?"

Edgar Nodded.

"I'm Sorry," He Answered Simply.  "Put On Your Things And Come Out.

You Had Better Get It Over With."

In Three Or Four Minutes George Left The House.  Holding Himself

Steadily In Hand, He Walked Through The Drenched Grass Toward The

Wheat.  On Reaching It, He Set His Lips Tight And Stood Very Still.

The Great Field Of Grain Had Gone; Short, Severed Stalks, Half-Buried

In A Mass Of Rent And Torn-Up Blades, Covered The Wide Stretch Of Soil

Where The Wheat Had Been.  The Crop Had Been Utterly Wiped Out By The

Merciless Hail.  Edgar Did Not Venture To Speak; Any Sympathy He Could

Express Would Have Looked Like Mockery; And For A While There Was

Strained Silence.  Then George Showed Of What Tough Fiber He Was Made.

"Well," He Said, "It Has To Be Faced.  After This, We'll Try Another

Plan; More Stock, For One Thing." He Paused And Then Resumed: "Tell

Grierson To Hurry Breakfast.  I Must Drive In To The Butte; There's A

Good Deal To Be Done."

Edgar Moved Away, Feeling Relieved.  George, Instead Of Despairing, Was

Considering New Measures.  He Was Far From Beaten Yet.

It Was A Fine September Afternoon And Sylvia Reclined Pensively In A

Canvas Hammock On Herbert Lansing's Lawn With One Or Two Opened Letters

In Her Hand.  Bright Sunshine Lay Upon The Grass, But