In the winter the Bar Q outfit in the foothill ranch had dwindled down to eight men. These were all riders, men who "rode the fences" and kept them in repair; men who rode the range, and made the rounds of the fields, counted and kept account of the cattle remaining on the ranch, and reported sick or crippled cattle to the veterinary surgeon maintained at the ranch.

The breeding stock had been despatched to the prairie ranch in the fall, where they were especially housed and cared for. The beef stock, three-year-old steers, were also disposed at the grain ranch, where they were fed on chop and green feed and hay, to fatten them for the spring market.

The purebred heifers and cows had their own home at Barstairs, where also was the camp of the purebred bulls.

At the foothill ranch only the younger stuff was left, the yearling and rising two-year-old heifers and steers, and these sturdy young stuff "rustled" over the winter range, finding sufficient sustenance to carry them through the winter. The cook car was closed, and the men "batched" in the bunkhouses but came to the main ranch house for bread, butter and general supplies.

Nettie, long ignorant of her condition, had from day to day passed out the supplies to the men, unconscious of and indifferent to their scrutiny. She failed to realize that what had become apparent to her mistress, had also been revealed to the cunning eyes of the Bar Q "hands."

Bunkhouses in a ranching country are breeding places for the worst kind of gossip and scandal, to which disgusting commerce men even more than women are addicted. It was, therefore, not long before Nettie's name became first whispered and then carelessly bandied among them. At her name eyes rolled, winks and coarse laughter were the rule where but a little while ago she had been the object of admiring respect and aspiration.

Cyril Stanley's name was also on each man's tongue, and they all took it for granted that he was responsible for Nettie's condition. A change in their manner toward the girl followed the loose talk about her; there were certain meaning looks, a new familiarity of speech, and presently worse than that. "Pink-eyed" Tom, a man whose dirty boasts concerning women were a source of endless fun among the men, came to the house one day for a side of bacon. He followed Nettie into the big storeroom, where the Bar Q meat supply hung. As she passed the bacon to him, Pink-Eye managed to seize her hand, and with a broad grin, he squeezed it, and attempted to draw her to him. It was only a momentary grasp, but with the chuckle that went with it the girl understood and turned first deathly white and scarlet with anger.

"Guess you ain't used to man-handling—oh, no!" said Tom, and as she fiercely withdrew from his grasp, he laughed in her face, with an ugly meaning leer that set her heart frantically beating.

She flew from the storeroom to the kitchen, and stood with her back pressed against the door, holding it closed. A sickening fear of the whole race of men consumed her. She longed to escape to some place beyond their sight or ken where she might at least hide herself and be allowed the boon of suffering unmolested and unseen. She had a passionate longing to escape from the Bar Q—to leave forever the hateful place where she had been so cruelly betrayed, where she had suffered almost beyond endurance. But the thought of leaving Mrs. Langdon hurt her more than the thought of staying, and her mind wandered in the hopeless search of a solution to her appalling problem. She thought of her friend "Angel" Loring, with her cropped hair and men's clothing, and for the first time comprehended what might drive a woman to do as the Englishwoman had done.

"A bad report runs a thousand miles a minute," says an oriental proverb. Certainly that is true of a ranching country. From bunkhouse to farm and ranch house raced the tale of a girl's fall; it was a morsel of exciting news to those dull souls shut in by the rigid hand of the winter.

On the first Chinook day, women harnessed teams to democrats and single drivers to buggies, and took the road to Bar Q. Never had that ranch been favored with so many visitors. Neither Nettie nor her mistress suspected that their guests had come to see for themselves whether there was truth in the story concerning the girl which had percolated over the telephone and been carried by riders intent upon retailing the latest sensation of the foothills. Caste exists not in a ranching country like Alberta, save among a few rare and exclusive souls, and a hired girl on a ranch has her own social standing in the community, especially if she is that rarity, a pretty girl. So Nettie's plight was of as supreme an interest to the ranch and farm wives as if instead of a poor servant girl she had been any prosperous farmer's daughter. Hired girls are potential wives for the best of the ranchmen, and many a farmer's wife has begun her career on a cook car.

Nettie, cutting cake and brewing tea in the kitchen, paused, tray in hand, white-faced, behind the door, as the voices of the women close at hand floated through.

"Looked me right in the face, innocent as a lamb, and she——"

"She's six months gone if a day."

"Seem's if she might've gone straight, being the oldest in the family. You'd thought she'd want to set an example to her little brothers and sisters."

"Pshaw! she should worry."

"Ain't girls awful today!"

"When you told me on the 'phone, I couldn't b'lieve it, and I come along on purpose to make sure for myself."

"Well, now you see, though I'm not used to havin' my word doubted."

"Why, Mrs. Munson, I hadn't the idea of questioning your word; but I thought as you hadn't seen for yourself, and got it third-hand."

"I got it straight—straight from Batt Leeson, and he ought to know after workin' more'n ten years at the Bar Q."

"Personally, I make a point of standing up for the girl."

The voice this time was a shade gentler, but it was also flurried and apologetic.

"You know as well as I do, Mrs. Young, if a girl acts decent, men let her alone. You can tell me!"

Her face stony, her head held high, Nettie pushed the door open with her foot, and came in with the tray. She silently served them, but her glance flickered toward her mistress, who was leaning forward listening to the whispered words of Mrs. Peterson, cringing toward the rich cattleman's wife. For the first time since she had known her, Mrs. Langdon's voice sounded sharp and cold.

"I'll thank you not to repeat a nasty tale like that. Nettie Day has just as much right to have a child as you have."

"Why, I'm a married woman," blurted the outraged farm wife.

"How do you know Nettie isn't married?"

Chairs were hunched forward. The circle leaned with pricked-up ears toward the speaker.

"Is she, now?"

"Well, that accounts for it!"

"You couldn't make me believe Nettie was that kind. We all thought—well, you know how girls carry on today. I'm sure you'll excuse us. We're all li'ble to make mistakes."

The Inquisition turned to Nettie.

"My word, Nettie Day, why didn't you let us know? What on earth did you want to keep it secret for? The whole country'd turned out to Chivaree for you. We haven't had a marriage in a year, and Cyril Stanley is mighty popular with the boys."

Nettie's gaze went slowly around that circle of faces. She wanted to make sure that all might hear her words.

"I ain't married to Cyril Stanley, and he done me no wrong. You got no right to talk his name loose like that."

An exclamatory silence reigned in the room. Mrs. Langdon, her cheeks very flushed, was sitting up, her bright eyes, like a bird's, scanning the faces of her visitors.

"Nettie," her thin, piercing voice was raised, "you forgot my tea, and—and—maybe you ladies'll excuse me today. I'm not well, you know."

For the first time since she had become a convert to her strange philosophy she was admitting illness; but she was doing it in another's behalf.

As the last of the women disappeared through the door, and before the murmur of their voices outside had died out, Mrs. Langdon made a motion of her hands toward Nettie, and the girl ran over, dropped on her knees by the couch and hid her face in her mistress's lap.

"Nettie, don't you mind what they say. Women are terribly cruel to each other. I don't know why they should be, I'm sure, for I believe that we all have in us the same capacities for sinning, only most of us escape temptation. It's almost a gamble, isn't it, Nettie; and I'm so sorry, poor child, that you should have been the one to lose." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'll confess something to you now, Nettie. I—yes, I—almost——"

"If you're goin' to say something against yourself," said Nettie hoarsely, "I don't want to hear it. You ain't capable ever of doing anything wrong."

On the road, the carriages were grouped together. Their occupants leaned out and called back and forth to each other.

"What do you know of that?"

"I'm certainly surprised at Mrs. Langdon. I didn't think she'd hold to anything like that."

"I did, and I'm not a bit surprised. I could've told you a thing or two. Birds of a feather flock together, and she——"

Voices were lowered, as another woman's reputation was pulled to shreds.

"Well, Mrs. Munson, you don't say so."

"I certainly do."

"I remember when the Bull first married her. Sa-ay, there was all kinds of talk. Ask anyone who was here in them times."

Murmurs and exclamations, and a woman's voice rumbling out a tale that should never have been told.

"Would you've believed it! And she so sweet and sly of tongue."

"Still waters run deep. You can't trust them quiet kind. I had it direct from Jem Bowers. You know Jem. He was right along when it happened. They were shut in that schoolhouse for two whole days, and the door locked and bolted. The Bull himself asked Jem to go for the missionary, and everyone knows Jem was one of the witnesses at the Langdon wedding. Said she looked just like a little scared bird, and her eyes were all screwed up with crying, so I guess doin' wrong did bring her no happiness."

"Well, I'd never have believed it if you hadn't told me. I'm going to hustle right off now. I want to stop and see Mrs. Durkin on my way. She couldn't get off to come, as they've had the mumps up to their house, and I promised to let her know, and I'll bet her tongue's hangin' out waitin'."

"Well, don't say I said it."

"I won't. I'll say I got it from—from—I'll not name the party. Get ap, Gate! My, that mare's smart."

"I like geldings for driving. They aren't so quick, but they're dependable and strong. Good-by. Will you be at the box social?"

"Sure, what's it for?"

"Oh, them sick folks in the east. Did you hear that that plague sickness they got in the States has sneaked across to Canada, and everybody's scared nearly to death. They've got it awful out in Toronto and Montreal."

"Didn't know it was as bad as that."

"It's something awful out east I heard. My husband brought home a paper from Calgary, and they had the whole front page in headlines about it. Them Yankees brought it in with them when they run away to escape from it in their own country. Wish they'd stay home and look after their own sicknesses, 'stead of coming across the line and carrying it along with them. Others have been flying out west here, and they say if we don't look out, first thing we know Calgary'll have it, and then—well, it'll be our turn. I heard they were shipping all the sick ones out of the city to the country."

The women looked at each other waveringly, licking their lips and turning white with dread. They drew their rugs closer about them and said they had to be off, as it was getting dark and they didn't want to catch cold, and no one ever knew when a change might blow up in the weather and that cloud off to the north looked mighty threatening. In the sudden panic of the approaching plague, Nettie was for the time being forgotten. The clatter and rattle of their wheels was heard along the road, as with whip and tongue they urged their horses homeward.