On Christmas Day, Angus and Rennie found themselves alone on the ranch. Gus had gone to town, which meant that he would be drunk for some days. Turkey had not returned since he rode away, nor had Angus seen him, though he had learned that he was helping Garland to round up a drive or two of cattle and would probably feed a bunch through the winter for a grubstake.

The weather had turned mild. The day was warm as October, and the frost was coming out of the ground, for still there was no snow. Rennie was busy with preparations for an elaborate night dinner, but Angus was restless.

"I think I'll go out and look for that old buckskin cayuse," he said.

"He ain't worth lookin' for," Rennie returned; "but if you go, you better pack that old buffler coat."

But Angus did not take the old buffalo riding coat which had been his father's. He got into a pair of leather chaps and tied a mackinaw on the saddle.

The big horse wanted to go, and Angus let him. When he left the road it was to follow cattle trails, on which Chief sailed smoothly. Now and then he pulled up to listen for bells, but the buckskin was merely an excuse. He was an old sinner, with a habit of staying out as long as he could rustle feed. When Angus ran across him at last, late in the afternoon, he was with a band of half-wild, disreputable friends, from whom he had no intention of being separated. They knew every foot of every trail in a badly broken country, and Chief, though sure-footed, was not a stock horse. The continued twists and turns and brush worried him. He could not use his speed, and not knowing exactly what was expected of him, began to fret. After an hour of fruitless chase Angus gave it up and looked around to get his bearings.

He found himself up under a mountain in a rough country some fifteen miles from home. The sun was gone; and all over the north and west and overhead the sky was blue-black, trimmed with dirty gray. As he sat breathing Chief he could hear a far-off straining and sighing. A gust of cold wind drove past, and borne with it were white flakes.

Angus needed nobody to interpret these signs, and he cursed the buckskin and his own carelessness in neglecting to watch sun and sky. Real winter was opening with a blizzard, and from all indications it was going to be the real thing.

In five minutes the snowflakes had become a white blur. He could not see fifty yards ahead. Trails vanished. Landmarks were invisible. The air was full of drifting white. It was as if one had suddenly gone nearly blind, unable to see beyond a short radius. No man could hold a course with certainty. Constantly it grew colder, and the light began to fail.

Riding fast in the growing darkness was impossible. The cold began to nip his fingers through his light buckskin gloves, and his toes, for he was wearing leather boots and but a single pair of socks. He steered a general downhill course which he knew in time must intersect a wagon trail which led past the French ranch and thence home. The trouble was that in the darkness he might cross it. In that event it would be a case of spending the night out.

It grew utterly dark, save for a certain dim light which the snow seemed to hold. Warned by a growing numbness in his feet Angus dismounted and stamped the blood back into them. He decided that it must be below zero. On the brows of the benches the wind was bitter.

Just as he decided that he must have passed it, he came on the wagon trail. He mounted and gave Chief his head. But once more his feet began to numb. Again he got down and stamped the circulation going, but as soon as he began to ride again they numbed. To take off boots and rub was out of the question, so he sent Chief sailing into the blinding storm, trusting to luck to keep on the road.

After several miles of blind riding he saw the far flicker of a light which he knew must come from the French ranch. He had no wish to intrude on Christmas night, but he knew that unless he was to have badly frozen feet he must get to shelter at once. He struck the fence, followed it to the gate, and turned in.

The house, when he got close enough to see through the driving snow, was brightly lighted behind drawn blinds. The chords of a piano came to him, accompanying a strong, ringing baritone, and as he passed beneath the window the old, rousing, hunting chorus of "John Peel" crashed out.

A devil of a time to butt in, Angus reflected grimly, as he led Chief under the partial shelter of the house. No doubt there was a Christmas party on. However, it was no night to indulge in pride or shyness.

He could not leave Chief out in the storm, and an attempt to stable him himself would probably mean a battle with the dogs which slept in the stables. He banged on the door, and as no one answered stepped into the hall. After the temperature outside it seemed tropical, friendly with the smell of warmth and good tobacco. Being in a hurry, he did not stand on ceremony, but opened the door to his left just as the last notes of "John Peel" died. For a moment he blinked in the light like a storm-driven night bird.

There were nearly a dozen men besides the Frenches, and among them he recognized Chetwood. Kathleen was swinging around from the piano, laughing up at the singers. Tobacco smoke eddied blue around the hanging lamps. A couple of card tables were going. After the hours of cold and darkness and the sting of the wind-driven snow, it seemed to Angus extraordinarily warm and cosy and comforting.

Kathleen was the first to catch sight of the snow-plastered apparition in the doorway.

"Why, Angus!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Angus said, "but I got caught back on the range, and my feet are touched a little. If I can put up my horse—"

But Gavin French rose from his card game.

"Larry will look after your horse. You come along with me out of this heat."

Angus stumped after the blond giant down the hall and into a back kitchen, where he unlaced his boots while Gavin brought in a dishpan of snow.

"Toes and heels," the big man observed as he rubbed briskly. "It's no night for leather boots. It's close to fifteen below now, and a wind with it. Feel the blood starting yet?"

Angus felt the welcome tingle of returning circulation and continued the rubbing himself, while Gavin brought him his own moccasins and a pair of heavy woolen socks. As he was putting them on Kathleen entered.

"If you were caught on the range you haven't had anything to eat. I've got something ready in the dining room. You can go back to your game, Gan. I'll look after him."

"Don't bother about me," Angus said.

"I'm not. Come along and eat."

He followed her into the dining room where the table was spread with a substantial cold meal. She sat down with him.

"Now, see here," he said, "this is not right. I'm taking you away from your guests—"

"You're one of them," she laughed.

"An unbidden one."

"But a very welcome one. Don't be silly."

Angus ate and drank, and the food and hot coffee warmed him through.

"And now," said Kathleen, "we'll join the festive throng."

But Angus balked. He was not dressed for such things. He preferred to stay out in the kitchen.

"Angus Mackay, you make me tired!" Kathleen told him. "What do I care about your clothes? You're still thinking of yourself as an unbidden guest, after I've told you you're more than welcome. I'm not going to let you sit out in the kitchen like an Indian. Come along, now, like a good boy."

As there was no way out of it, Angus followed her, feeling very conscious of his worn riding-clothes. But as everybody was playing cards nobody cast more than a casual glance in his direction, save Faith Winton, who rose and came toward them.

"Kathleen, I've driven my unfortunate partner nearly crazy. He's too polite to tell me what he thinks of my play, but see how wistfully he's looking at you."

Kathleen laughed.

"Well, take care of Angus, then. And keep his mind off his clothes. He's worrying because he isn't dressed like a head waiter." With a nod she left them and seated herself at the vacant table.

"They were relieved to get rid of me," Faith Winton laughed. "Shall we sit down and talk? I haven't seen you for weeks. Why didn't you come to see me once in awhile?"

"I wanted to, but somehow—"

"Never mind excuses. When I get a place of my own perhaps you will be more neighborly. I've made up my mind to build a house on my ranch in the spring."

She told him her plans. She would have a cottage built, buy a few head of stock and some chickens, break a few acres as a start and set out fruit trees. Between the rows she would grow small fruits, feed, vegetables. When the trees came into bearing she would have an assured, definite income.

Angus listened in grim silence. He had heard it all before from the hopeful lips of new settlers. Theoretically, so many bushels may be grown to the acre, a tree so many years old will bear so many boxes of fruit. This is quite unassailable, proven by actual experience, by incontestable data, set out in reports which are the gospel of the new and especially the inexperienced settler. He seizes these facts avidly, but overlooks or refuses to consider a number of other things, such as drought, hail, frosts early or late, winter-killed trees, pests, poor years, low prices, and a hundred other factors which taken together make those actually used entirely misleading. But the one big factor which the inexperienced invariably refuse to consider at all, is that inexperience itself.

"I don't want to discourage you," he said, "but you know, don't you, that you can't do this work yourself. Hiring will eat up your profit."

"But there must be a margin. You hire men yourself."

"I hire two men to about three hundred acres. You are thinking of hiring about one man for ten. At that rate I should have thirty men, and the land wouldn't pay for them."

"But I could hire a man as I needed him, and what improvements I make will increase the value of the place. And when I get more cleared—"

Metaphorically, Angus threw up his hands. It was no use. Also it was impossible to tell her the truth about the property under the circumstances. With actual experience she might give up the idea. All he could do was to make the experiment as cheap as possible for her.

"Well," he said, "when the winter breaks up, if you're of the same mind, I'll do your breaking and disking for you, if you like, and seed it down to something. I can clean out the spring and run a ditch and fix it for irrigating. You needn't bother with water from the creek for a few acres. While I'm about it I might as well do the fencing and fork out the sods for a garden patch. When the sleighing is good I'll haul over a few loads of well-rotted manure."

"Thank you," she said, "but—"

"Oh, that's all right," Angus continued. "I guess you don't know much about planting trees and garden truck. I'll attend to that. I may as well order your seeds while I'm getting my own. I can run a cultivator through the garden now and then in the evenings. I can fix you up with all the tools you'll need. Then I can give you a milk cow, a nice quiet—"

"Wait, wait!" she interrupted as Angus began to think of other items. "What are all these things and all this work going to cost?"

"Cost?" Angus echoed blankly. "Why, nothing, of course. They don't amount to anything."

"Don't they? It seems to me you're calmly arranging to do all my work yourself—the work you said I'd have to hire done."

"These are just a few little chores for a neighbor. Nobody would think of charging for them. We sort of swap work about here."

"But what work could I do for you?"

"Huh!" Angus hesitated, at a loss for an answer. "Oh, lots of things. You could—er—um—yes, of course you could."

"You can't think of one single thing I could do!"

"You could pick berries," said Angus struck by a brilliant thought. "Yes, you could do that better than any man. I always have a lot more than I can use, and you could put up all you needed for the winter."

"And you think giving me fruit would pay for—p-pay for—"

She broke off, and Angus saw to his utter amazement that her eyes were full of tears, as she bent her head.

"Whatever is the matter?" he whispered. "Is it anything I've said?"

"It's—it's everything you've said," she murmured. "Don't say anything for a minute, please."

So Angus kept silence, sorely puzzled, and in a few moments she looked him in the face with eyes still misty and a little, tremulous smile.

"Yes, it's everything. I couldn't stand it. Nobody else has really offered to help me. The boys think it's a joke, and Kathleen thinks I'm mildly crazy. And then you, a stranger—"

"I'm not. And I might as well put in my spare time helping you."

"You have no spare time, and I know it. I must pay for what you do."

"All right. I'll send you a bill."

"For a fraction of what the work is worth!" she scoffed. "Not that way, Angus Mackay!"

"Any way you like," Angus said, knowing that he could make it up to her.

"Very well—and thank you. I'll be an independent ranch lady—unless I sell the place."

"Has any one made you an offer?"

"No. I would rather not sell, anyway."

"You have your title deeds all in order, in case you should want to sell?"

"I suppose so. Uncle Godfrey would attend to that."

"He has the title papers?"

"Yes. I never saw them. I don't know much about such things. Father told me Uncle Godfrey had them all."

Angus dropped the subject. He could not very well suggest that she take a look at these papers. Faith Winton on her part appeared satisfied. Presently she suggested music and went to the piano. Lying back in a chair Angus watched the soft curve of her cheek, her clean-cut profile, the certain touch of her fingers on the keys. Absently his gaze wandered to the card players. He had no idea of the stakes, but the players were tense, absorbed. Faith Winton, glancing at him, marked his expression.

"What are you thinking of?" she asked without interrupting the play of her fingers.

"I was wondering how on earth these people can sit playing cards all night."

"I hate this," she said. He looked at her in surprise. "All of it. It's not like Christmas night. It's not even sociability. It's gambling, pure and simple. Uncle Godfrey and Kathleen will stop presently, but the boys will play till morning."

Shortly, the first half of her prediction was verified. The games broke up. Godfrey French apologized perfunctorily. Time was when he would have spent the night in such good company, but now he was no longer young. With him went Faith and Kathleen.

With their going the business of the evening began in earnest. A quartet stuck to bridge, but the rest embarked on a poker game. Scotch circulated briskly.

Angus, very much out of it, sat and smoked, regarding the players idly. He noted that the French boys—Blake was absent—drank very little. On the other hand, some of the players drank a good deal. But finally he lost interest. He became sleepy and dozed in his chair.

He was awakened by loud voices. The poker game had broken up; the players were on their feet.

"I tell you, Willoughby," Gerald French was saying, "you are quite mistaken. Nothing of the sort happened.

"I saw it," Willoughby maintained doggedly.

"You are a guest," said Gerald, "but don't abuse your privileges."

"I am aware of my obligations as a guest," Willoughby retorted, "but they do not include allowing myself to be rooked at cards."

Instantly Gerald struck him hard across the mouth and Willoughby lashed back. Another guest sought to interfere. Young Larry pushed him back.

"Keep out!" he said. "Mind your own business."

"Keep your hands off me!" the other returned, and caught at his arm.

Larry pinned him, and somebody else tried to pull him loose. Larry came loose with remarkable alacrity, and did so hitting with both hands. Gavin, pushing forward, was caught by two men. Instantly a rough-house started.

Angus sat where he was, taking no part. He saw Chetwood plunge into the fray and go back from a straight punch. Gavin shook off three men as a bear shakes clear of a worrying pack, and as he did so another man who had caught up a chair, swung it at his head. The big man partially dodged the blow, wrenched the chair away and brandished it high. As he did so he emitted a short, deep roar of anger.

Fearing that somebody might be seriously hurt, Angus decided to interfere. He leaped forward and caught the chair as it poised for a moment aloft.

"Don't do that," he said. Gavin's ordinarily cold eyes were blazing.

"Keep out of this," he said. "It's nothing to you." As he spoke he tried to wrench the chair free; but Angus' grip held. Letting go himself, the big man clinched him.

Angus felt himself caught in a tremendous grip; but the wrench and heave that followed did not pluck him from his footing. He locked his long arms around Gavin, and the arch of his back and the sinews of his braced legs held against him.

Suddenly Gavin gave ground, swung and tripped with the heel. Angus felt himself going, but he took his man with him. They rolled over and over. By this time Angus had lost all his indifference. For the first time since his full strength came upon him, he was putting it all forth against a man as strong or stronger than himself. And then he became aware that nobody else was fighting. Gavin's grip loosened.

"Let go, Mackay," he said. "Cut it out now."

Then Angus saw Kathleen. She had slipped on some clinging thing of blue and lace, and her hair in its night braids hung to her waist. Her face was pale and her eyes stormy with anger.

"Well," she said, "gentlemen!"

She accented the word with bitter irony. Her eyes swept over them disdainfully, resting for a moment on Angus.

"All right, Kit," Gavin said. "You can go back to roost."

"If you're quite through!" she said. "Otherwise I'll stay."

"Oh, we're through," Gavin assured her.

Without another word Kathleen left the room. Behind her there was utter silence for a moment. Then with one accord the guests moved toward the door. Gavin halted them.

"No," he said, "you can't go till this blizzard blows out. Don't be damned fools just because we've had a row. Mackay will tell you what it's like outside. Now we'll leave you alone, because you probably want it that way." He turned to Angus who stood apart from the rest, and lowered his voice. "You're a good, skookum man, Mackay. I half wish Kathleen hadn't butted in."

"So do I," Angus returned. The big man smiled.

"No hard feelings on my part," he said. "I'd just like to see which of us was the better man. I never hooked up with anybody as husky as you. You're not like these blighters." His eyes rested on his guests with utter contempt. "You were right in catching that chair. I might have hurt somebody. Thanks. Good night."

Left alone, Angus after telling the others that in his opinion it would be folly to venture out before daylight, established himself in his corner, where Chetwood presently joined him.

"Pleasant evening, what?" he observed. He grinned.

"I didn't know you were back."

"Just got in the other night, and intended to look you up to-morrow."

"Do it, anyway."

"I wanted to ask you if you could do with another man on your ranch?"

"Not till spring."

"Wages secondary object. Primary one a Christian home for an honest but inexperienced young man whose funds are not what they should be."

"Who is he?"

"His full name is Eustace William Fitzroy Chetwood. But he would answer to 'Bill.'"

"You?" Angus exclaimed. "You're joking."

"Not a bit of it. I have the best of reasons for asking. Tell you about them some time. To-night is my last night of the gay life. Thought I might win a little money, but instead of that I lost. I am an applicant for work."

"You're welcome. I can't pay much, but the meals come regularly."

"That's very good of you," Chetwood acknowledged. "I'll move my traps out to-morrow."