The tour of the Bar Q purebred bulls had been a disastrous and costly one. From city to city, at a staggering expense, went the prize herd, from which extraordinary things had been expected. Wherever they touched it was their misfortune to be turned back or shunted farther afield. That winter the country was suffering from the fearful scourge, which having stricken down its victims by the thousands in Europe had passed over the sea to America.

Then there was a time when the Bar Q herd was condemned by a harassed and irritated authority who, upon the diagnosis of an incompetent veterinary surgeon, pronounced the cattle to be suffering from foot and mouth disease, and an order was issued for the slaughter of the entire herd, and the burning of all sheds, cars or other houses in which they had been penned. Bull Langdon found himself held indefinitely in the States, as he fought by injunction proceedings the destruction of his herd, which would have meant an incalculable loss—even ruin—to him.

The adjournments and delays, the long, drawn-out legal processes, kept the herd in the States from December till February, and when at last they were freed the penned-in brutes were in a deteriorated condition. Their long confinement, the unaccustomed traveling, and the lack of proper care, made the once smooth bulls difficult to handle and dangerous, so that by the time the herd was ready to start back for Canada more than one of the "hands" who had come to the States with them deserted the outfit rather than risk looking after the uncertain animals on tour.

Bull Langdon, raging and fretting over the enforced delays in the States, harassed by his losses and his failure to obtain a showing of the famous herd, was in a black mood when at last the outfit reached Barstairs.

Here fresh trouble awaited him. Of all the bulls, the Prince had proved the most dangerous and erratic of temper; his ceaseless bellowing and attempts to break loose had done much to make the outfit unpopular throughout their travels. Always uncertain and dangerous, back at Barstairs he became well-nigh uncontrollable, and there was no "hand" of the entire outfit, save Cyril, who dared approach the raging beast, as behind heavily barred fences he ranged up and down restlessly, calling his resounding cries to the cattle that he could smell even if he could not see them in adjoining pastures, and something of the wild spirit of the animal appealed to his owner, whose own pent-up rage seemed to find vent in a savage roaring voice. A kindred spirit bound them together. Often, when the exasperations of the tour threatened to overwhelm him, he would go to where the Prince ranged up and down within the narrow space of his shed bellowing and moaning his demands for freedom. At such times Bull Langdon, from the other side of the bars, would call to the bull, not soothingly, but in a tone of encouragement, as though cheering and "rooting" for the rebellious brute.

"Go to it!" he would snarl through the bars. "Let 'em know you're here! Keep 'em awake. Make their nerves jump. Go to it, bull!"

Up to the time of their return to Barstairs, Cyril Stanley had looked after the animal, and so long as he was at hand the Prince remained fairly well under control. But Cyril, who had been silent and morose all through the tour in the States, suddenly decided, once back in Canada, to quit the outfit. The cattleman received his quiet request to be relieved of his job with consternation and fury.

What did he want to leave for? Hadn't he had his pay raised four times already? Hadn't he got $500 he'd been promised? He had practically full charge of the herd already, and the foreman's job and wages would belong to him before spring.

But neither bluster nor curses moved him, and the offer of increases in wages, heavy bonuses and enormous salary were steadily refused. Money meant nothing now to Cyril. He was heartily sick of the whole business. He felt the restlessness that comes to a man as soon as he feels himself free again and on his native soil, and longs to be moving along the trail. To roam from place to place seemed all that was left to him since his dream of a home had been shattered, and long absence had not cured him of the sickness of love. He had had enough of cattle. He was done with ranching, and when the Bull demanded just what it was that he proposed to do, he answered after a thoughtful pause: "Think I'll hike for Bow Claire. Plenty of work there, I guess. The river'll be high when the snows begin to melt, and they'll be wantin' 'hands' and loggers at the camp."

Meanwhile, Bull Langdon found his hands full. Those were the days of labor unrest when there were a dozen employers in the employment offices for every employee; when wages were soaring; when men looked the "bosses" squarely in the face, and made their own terms. The cattleman had returned at a time when labor was so scarce and independent in Alberta, that many of the farmers were forced to do their own work, or grub together with other farmers on shares. It is certain that there was not a ranchman in the country willing to work with Bull Langdon. Even those he had formerly been able to tyrannize over gave him a wide berth; never had the Bar Q been so short-handed, and the departure of Cyril, who was invaluable among the purebred, was a real disaster to the Bull camp.

For some time Langdon had been beset with an almost insensate craving for Nettie Day. All the time he had been in the States she had never been wholly absent from his mind, though the anxieties of the tour had kept his desire for the girl in check; but once back in Canada, his mind reverted to her incessantly.

As he stood watching Cyril Stanley disappear at a slow lope over the hills, it occurred to him that he might be making for Bar Q and Nettie, and the thought gave him pause. The idea that Nettie and Cyril should come together again was more than he could stand. The blood rushed madly to his head, and everything went red before his eyes.

Batt Leeson, a hand who had served directly under Cyril, was the second-best upon the place; he could be trusted to look after the cattle, and was known to be a conscientious workman, although he had never yet been entrusted with any position of authority. When Cyril's job was offered him, therefore, he was rather afraid and hesitant. However, there was no foreman at this time at the Bull camp, which had been stripped for the trip to the States, and there was no other man in the outfit fit to be one.

The Bull considered the possibility of Cyril's changing his mind and returning to Bar Q. He knew what logging in the lumber camps meant, and that though the work would not daunt the young man, the food and the dirt would. The daily association with them "damn dirty forriners," as Bull named the Russian loggers, would soon be too much for a white man, he decided, and counted upon Cyril's return.

When he left the camp he was by no means easy in his mind about his cattle. He took the trail for Bar Q in his big car, racing ahead in the teeth of a veritable cyclone, but the good car held its straight course gallantly. It was late at night when Bull Langdon reached the ranch in the foothills, and the noise of his arrival could not be heard above the gale. When he saw that light in the kitchen, he came warily upon the place. Sniffing the air like a bloodhound tracking down his prey, he cautiously approached the kitchen where Nettie's light still burned. Concealed in the darkness of the living room his greedy eyes devoured the girl as she moved about the room busy at the great range. All thought was swept from his mind, leaving only the mad desire to crush in his arms once again the girl who awakened in him this overmastering passion.

Meanwhile, Cyril Stanley had mechanically turned his horse's head toward the foothills. He had no definite purpose in mind; he was vaguely conscious of being hungry for a sight of Nettie. His long absence had not cured him; he loved the girl as deeply as on that first day when their eyes had met across the space of the poor D. D. D. shack, and the room was full of laughter.

How pretty she had looked, in spite of her shabby dress; how her hair had shone in the sun! How gentle and sweet and good she had been to her little brothers and sisters! Even the strange woman in the C. P. R. shack had melted before Nettie's shy effort to help her in those days, reflected the unhappy Cyril. No one could have resisted her, and he told himself that it was small wonder that he had "fallen so hard" for her. He had seen many women in the big cities of America, but had found no face like Nettie's. No, he wouldn't change his girl for any girl in the States. And as in his thought he called her "his," he awoke suddenly to the realization that Nettie was "his" no longer; someone had stolen her heart from him! Yet such a longing was on him to see the beloved face again, that he resolved to risk her displeasure by going to Bar Q before burying himself in the deep woods at the lumber camp.

On the road he fell in with a couple of riders from the hill country, and their suggestive gossip aroused him somewhat from his gloom, for he caught the girl's name and the sneer that came into their voices caused him to sit up abruptly, his hat pushed back, and his eyes full of dangerous interrogation. They protested they had only been "stringing" him, and rode rapidly off. What they had hinted was that the quicker the girl at Bar Q was married, the better, and that he, Cyril Stanley, had come back only just in time.

Cyril turned this over heavily in his mind, shaking his head as though the problem were beyond him, but he changed his course away from the hill, deciding to spend a few days at his homestead. He would stay in the little house he had built for Nettie; he wanted to look over the place that was to have been their home. He would go to Bar Q later. At least, Nettie would not refuse to bid him good-by.

As he rode along, his hat over his eyes, smarting tears bit at the lids, and the heart of the lad who used once to go singing along the trail and about his work was heavy as lead within him.

At the homely little cabin, faith and confidence in Nettie seemed to come back to him; perhaps her strange behavior had all been some hideous mistake. Perhaps she had been merely angry at his going to Barstairs. Well, a girl had a right to be angry, and maybe she had gotten over it by now. There was no accounting for a girl's moods, he reasoned; he "wasn't no saint himself" to hold anything against her. If only Nettie would smile at him again he would forget all he had suffered during all those cruel months. If only she would look at him and speak to him as she used to do. Nettie! His girl! His own, out of all the world. It had been love at first sight; so much they had always agreed on, and she had been fond of repeating that it was also a love that would never die. She had meant it then, as they sat hand in hand amongst the berry bushes, with the evening sunlight on the tree-tops glistening like moon rays on the whispering leaves.

The longer Cyril stayed there gazing around the cabin that was filled with things Nettie herself had helped him to make, the stronger grew his hope and faith. A new exhilaration suddenly possessed him, making him feel that life was worth living again. He looked with a new warmth and kindness upon the world, and not even the slowly gathering storm that darkened the March day could quell his mounting spirits.

He was whistling and bustling about the shack when he heard a hanging upon the door, and opened the door to find Dr. McDermott standing there. He greeted his old friend with unaffected delight, for the doctor was always associated in his thoughts with Nettie, whom he had brought into the world in the best day's work he ever accomplished, so thought Cyril.

"Hello, doc. Gee, it's great to see your good old mug again. How'd you know I was back? How're you?"

But the old doctor was scowling at him like an angry bulldog, underlip thrust out, and his face puckered into lines of unmistakable disapproval; worse still, he was pointedly refusing Cyril's proffered handshake.

"No, sir," he said, "I'll not shake hands with a scallawag. Not till he's done the right thing, by gad!"

"Wow, doc! What's bitin' you?"

"Lad," said Dr. McDermott sternly, "I'm not here on any pleasure call. I've come as a matter of duty, mon to mon to ask—to demand—that you do the right thing by that puir lass."

"Lass? Who do you mean?"

"You know domned well who I mean. None other, mon, but Nettie Day."

At the mention of that name Cyril's face turned suddenly gray and stern.

"There are certain things I don't discuss with no man, doc. One of them's—Nettie. I don't let no man talk to me about her. Some coyotes on the road stopped me, and started to blat some stuff about her, but they shut up tight enough and gave me the heels of their broncs before they'd barely got started with that line of talk. And I ain't lettin' even an old friend like you say anything about Nettie. What's fallen between her and me is our affair."

Dr. McDermott's fist came heavily down upon the table.

"Lad, ye're going to marry that girl, if I have to shove you by your neck to the parson."

A light flamed in the boy's face; his eyes widened as he stared incredulously at the doctor.

"I say," he said, all but weeping for joy, "that's a good joke on me. Is that what you're drivin' at, doc? Marry her! Say, I'd marry Nettie Day this blessed minute if she'd have me!"

"Very good, lad. You'll have your chance. I've got her now at Miss Loring's. I'll go myself after the missionary, if you'll lend me a horse. Trail's not fit for a car. I'll do my best to get back first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, you'll have a chance to get your house in shape. You'll want it to shine for that wife and baby of yours."

"That wi—and— Say, what's the joke, anyway?"

The doctor was now in better humor. His errand had been highly successful, and after all a lad was only a lad, and he liked young Cyril Stanley. There was good stuff in Cyril—good Scotch stuff.

Cyril, taking the doctor's remark for one of the coarse jokes commonly cracked in that countryside at the time of a wedding, laughed half-heartedly, but the words stuck queerly in his mind. To change the subject, he said:

"Doc, what do you suppose ever possessed Nettie to treat me as she did? When I got back from Barstairs—let me see, that was last October—no, a bit before that—What does she do but run away from me, and when I chased after her, she turned me down dead cold. Said she'd changed—wasn't the same, and a—and—she simply sent me packing—made me think someone'd cut me out with her and——"

Cyril broke off. The memory of that time was still an open wound in his mind.

"I don't blame her a bit," blustered the doctor, in assumed anger. "If it wasn't for that baby now, she'd do better to send you packing altogether. What's the matter with you young people today? Can't you hold back like respectable folk? Don't you realize that even though you marry the gell now, she'll always be branded with the shame of this thing; and it's not only the lass to be considered, there's the innocent child—the baby to consider."

"That's the third or fourth time that you've said that word. What do you mean, anyway? What baby? Whose?"

"Whose? Why, your own, lad—yours and Nettie's."

"Mine and—Have you gone plumb crazy, doc?"

"Not I, lad. I helped bring your child into the world this morning, and Nettie's resting quiet now, and waiting for you, I have no doubt. Now, lad——"

He broke off, for something in the look and motion of Cyril Stanley stopped him from further reproach.

"I've no intention of being hard on you. Young blood—is—young blood, and I was young myself once."

Cyril had staggered back, like one mortally struck. Slowly the truth had dawned upon him, and with the realization that Nettie had been false to him, something primitive and furious seemed to shake the foundations of his being; something that was made up of outrage and ungodly hatred.

"So—she's—got—a baby, has she?"

"A wee lad——"

"And you come to me—to me to get a name for it!"

"To you? Who else?"

"Who else?" jeered the lad frantically. "Ask her!"

Dr. McDermott recoiled before the savage glare in the young man's eyes, and slowly he began to realize the truth. He was stunned by the thought that another man than Cyril had been the cause of the girl's downfall. Who could it be? Slowly he turned the matter over in his mind, rejecting one by one each of the possible men he could think of, till at last the great sinister figure of the Bull loomed up before his mind's eye. He began clearly to recall a certain day at Bar Q when he had caught the evil expression of the cowman's face as, behind his wife's back, he followed Nettie Day with his greedy, covetous eyes.

Dr. McDermott's shoulders seemed to bend as if a great burden lay upon them, and he looked long and searchingly at the furious boy before him. When he spoke his voice was shaken with emotion.

"The Lord help you, lad!" he said. "The Lord help us all in our deep trouble. Give us sober and humble hearts. Teach us to bear as best we can the iniquities of the wicked who beset us. Amen."

The sound of the door closing fell like a lash on Cyril Stanley's brain. Alone with his frenzy and despair, he looked wildly round as if to find some outlet for his feelings. A great ax lay on the floor near the out-kitchen door, and the young man seized it and swung it high in his hand. It crashed down upon the table, splintering it in two. Again and again the ax descended until everything he had bought for Nettie Day lay in fragments about the room. Then he took from the storeroom a five-gallon can of kerosene, and emptied it deliberately over the floor.

He put on chapps, sheepskin, fur cap and spurs, tied up a few other necessaries in a bundle and walked heavily to the door. Outside, he smashed the windows and a gale of snow flew into the wrecked house. Lastly, he struck a match and, guarding the flame, he knelt in the doorway and threw it into a pool of kerosene.

The flames around the floor crept like snakes, then leaped up the walls, and from the piles of broken chairs and tables went roaring to the roof.

The house went up in a furious blaze. Long after Cyril Stanley had disappeared into the great timber country the smoke of his burning homestead rose above the blanket of snow, until the smoldering ruins were buried under the soft whiteness and covered from the eyes of the world. But later on the sunshine of the spring would melt the shroud away and reveal where his love lay ruined on the prairie.