Pederstone the blacksmith––or, to give him his full name which he insisted on at all times, John Royce Pederstone––was busy on his anvil, turning a horse shoe. His sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders and his lithe muscles slipped and rippled under his white skin in a rhythm of harmony. His broad chest was bare as his arms, and his chubby apple-red cheeks shone with perspiration which oozed from his every pore. He was singing to himself in happy unconcern about his being a jovial monk contented with his lot. Two horses were tied inside the shop waiting to be shod, chafing and pawing in their impatience.

Pederstone’s right-hand man, Sol Hanson, a great chunk of a bachelor Swede, was at the back door swearing volubly because an iron tire refused to fit the wooden rim of a cart wheel to his satisfaction.

Horseshoes, ploughs, harrows, iron gates and cart and buggy wheels of all kinds were lying about in disorderly profusion.

The noonday sun was pouring in aslant at the front door, while at the back door, away from Hanson, a Russian wolf-hound was stretched out lazily gnawing at a bone which it held between its fore paws.

The furnace fire was blazing, and Pederstone’s anvil was ringing merrily, when suddenly the melodious sounds were interrupted by a deep growl and then a yelp of pain from the hound as it sprang away from the spurred 37 boot of a great, rough, yet handsome figure of a man of the cowboy type, who came striding in, legs apart, dressed in sheepskin chaps.

“Say, Ped!––ain’t you got that hoss o’ mine shod? Can’t wait all day in this burg!”

The smith stopped suddenly and glared at the newcomer.

“None of that Ped stuff, you untamed Indian! Mr. Royce Pederstone to you and your kind; and, if you don’t like it and can’t wait your turn, take your cayuse out of here and tie her up at the back of the hotel for an hour or two. You’re not half drunk enough yet to be going back to Redmans Creek.”

“All right, Mister-Royce-Pederstone––but I ain’t Indian, and don’t you forgit it. The fact that I git all the booze I like from Charlie Mac settles that in this burg.”

It was a sore point with the newcomer, for at least three-quarters of him was white, and part of it first-class white at that.

He took off his hat.

“Ever see an Indian with hair like that?”

He pushed a tousled head of flaring red hair under the blacksmith’s nose. He struck his chest dramatically with his fist.

“Donald McTavish McGregor, that’s my name. And I’m off to take your advice, but you can keep the mare till she’s shod.”

He swaggered out.

At the door he had to side-step––much to his disgust––to get out of the way of one, Ben Todd, who was not in the habit of making way for anyone but a lady. Todd was the Editor and Manager of the Vernock and District Advertiser, the man behind most of the political moves in the Valley. He was a hunchback, with a brain that 38 always seemed to have a “hunch” before any other brain in the country started to wake up.

“Hullo, John!” shouted Todd.

“Fine day, Ben!” returned Pederstone.

“See the Government’s turned down the new Irrigation Scheme!”

“What?” shouted Pederstone. “The mean pikers!”

“Guess it’s about time we had a new Government, John!”

“Yes!––or at least a new member for the Valley,” returned the smith.

“Well,––there’s truth in that, too. And, as you’re President of the Association, why don’t you get the boys to change their man? The one we’ve got has been too long on the job. Seems to think he’s in for life.”

“The trouble is, Ben,––who could we get that would be an improvement?”

“Why not have a try at it yourself, John, at the coming election?” suggested the editor as a feeler.

“What!––me?” exclaimed the smith in surprise, viewing the serious look on the face of the bearded hunchback.

“Sure!––why not?”

“It isn’t a question of why not,” laughed Royce Pederstone, “but rather one of WHY.”

“Because we want you,” returned the editor. “You’re one of us, and you know what this Valley requires better than any other.”

Royce Pederstone was silent.

“Would you run if we put you up?” pursued Ben Todd.

“Might,” grinned the smith, “but I won’t say where I’d run to.”

“But straight goods?”

“No, siree! Not for me! A bit of ranching and 39 my work here in the shop keeps me busy enough. In fact, I’ve been thinking lately that I would like to give up this strenuous labour in the smithy.”

Ben Todd was about to pursue the subject further when they were interrupted by the approach of a horse, which pulled up abruptly at the front door. A beautiful, full-blooded mare, of tremendous proportions, reared high in the air, then dropped to a stand-still as docile as a lamb.

Mayor Brenchfield, groomed to perfection in leggings and riding breeches, slid to the ground, thrust his reins through a hitching ring and stepped inside, thus providing the third side of an interesting triangle for conversation.

They had been talking for some fifteen minutes, when the conversation veered to the subject that had been uppermost in everyone’s mind in the neighbourhood of Vernock for many weeks past.

“I see the Assizes have got through with their work at last,” put in Ben Todd.

Brenchfield’s eyebrows moved slightly.

“Yes?”

“Loo Yick, the chink, is to hang.”

“You bet,––the yellow skunk! Imagine a fine girl like Lottie Mays being done to death by that; and every man that ever saw her just crazy for her.”

“Well!––Lottie and her kind take chances all the time. Somebody generally gets them in the finish,” put in Royce Pederstone. “She wasn’t content with her price, but stole his wad as well. The town would be better quit of the bunch.”

“Guess you’re right,” agreed Brenchfield. “But it does seem a pity we can’t cut down in the number of Chinamen we have in the Okanagan.”

“Yes!” put in Todd, “but you know who brought them 40 here. You fellows with the ranches, looking for cheap help, did it.”

He laughed. “And, by God, you got it with a vengeance; and all that goes with it. They’re likely to rout us out of house and land before they’re through with us. You will have one high-U time getting them out,––believe me.”

“And Pierre Qu’appelle got sent down for ten years.”

“Guess that ends the wholesale thieving that has been going on around Vernock these last five years.”

“Hope so!” exclaimed the Mayor. “But you can’t always sometimes tell.”

“Pierre didn’t have the ghost of a chance; caught with the goods on him,” remarked Todd.

“Seems funny to me that he should play a lone game, though,” said Royce Pederstone.

“Not when you know the bunch he gangs with,” remarked Ben Todd. “They’re generally all in it, and one man takes the risk and the blame. He’ll get his share kept for him till he comes out again.

“Morrison of the O.K. Supply Company says he has had over seven thousand dollars’ worth of feed and flour stolen from his warehouses inside of six months. The Pioneer Traders never give out what they lose.”

“You, yourself, have lost quite a bit, haven’t you, Brenchfield?” put in Pederstone.

“Yes!––from time to time, but I could never lay my finger definitely on the shortage. My records have been faulty in the past, but I’m going to keep a better watch on it for the future.”

“Well!” returned the smith, “the fewer of Pierre Qu’appelle’s thieving kind we have in the community, the better for all of us.”

“We pretty nearly had a newcomer of the same brand when you were at Enderby, John.”

“So I heard! How did it finish, Ben? I heard they got him. How did they manage it?”

“Better ask the Mayor,” said the editor guardedly. “He ought to know how these things finish. Who was the man, Graham? How did the chase end?”

“Oh!” muttered Brenchfield, “it was some runaway from Ukalla. He landed in here under a freight train, and the detectives were riding in the caboose and he didn’t know it.”

Todd laughed.

“Pretty good copy! What else?”

“He gave them the slip. They got in touch with me later. We set off on a hunt. Found the fellow in a barn. But he got out at the skylight window and made a run for it.”

“The poor devil! He deserved to get away after that,” remarked the editor.

“Pretty nearly did, too! One of the detectives winged him on the B. X. Road,” lied the Mayor. “He beat us to it for a time. I went home to bed after a bit, but I heard later that they fell in with their man looking for food in Chinatown in the early morning. He led them another chase up over the high road and down the Kickwillie Loop to the lake. He got into a rowing boat and made out into the middle of the water. The detectives got into Murray’s gasoline launch and were soon within hailing distance of him. But the beggar was game, although he must have been half-dead by that time.

“When he saw it was all up, he took off the coat, or sweater, or whatever it was he was wearing, wrapped it round the little anchor in the boat, undid the rope and plumped the lot into the lake.”

“What on earth did he do that for?” asked Pederstone.

“Oh, I guess he got the clothes from someone up here and didn’t wish to implicate them.”

“By gosh! but he was game,” put in Ben Todd. “Darned if I wouldn’t like a shake of his hand for that!”

The editor turned, and his expression changed. He raised his hat.

“Eh,––excuse my language, Miss Pederstone. I,––I didn’t know you were there.”

The talk stopped abruptly, as Eileen Pederstone came forward into the centre of the shop.

“Hello, Eilie, dear!” cried her father. “Dinner time already? and my work miles ahead of me, while we gossips are going at it like old wives at market. Why,––what’s the matter, lass?”

The girl’s face showed pale in the light of the forge fire and her eyes were moist.

She pulled herself together.

“Nothing, daddy! I was just feeling sorry for that poor young fellow Mr. Brenchfield was telling about.”

“Tuts!” exclaimed Todd, “don’t waste your sorrow, Eileen. Why,––he wasn’t a young fellow. He was an old, grey-haired, cross-eyed, yellow-toothed, dirty, wizened-faced, knock-kneed specimen of a jailbird escaped from Ukalla. Look up the Advertiser Thursday, you’ll see.”

“Oh no, he wasn’t; he––he,––Mr. Brenchfield–––” Eileen stopped. “Didn’t I hear you say he was a young man, Mr. Brenchfield?” she asked, endeavouring to cover up her confusion, turning her big eyes full on the Mayor.

“Why, eh––yes! I did mention something about him being young,” gallantly agreed Brenchfield.

“Did––he––get––away?” inquired Eileen desperately.

Brenchfield busied himself adjusting his leggings. Eileen put her hand on his arm.

“Did he get away, Mr. Brenchfield?” she asked again.

“Better finish the yarn, Graham!” said Royce Pederstone. “Eilie is like others of her sex; you can’t shake her once she gets a grip.”

“Well!” resumed Brenchfield uneasily, “as far as I can learn the man jumped out of the rowing boat as the launch came up on him. He tried to swim for it. He evidently knew how to swim, too;––but he was weak as a kitten. The detectives played him. When he was thoroughly exhausted, they let him sink.”

“The beasts!” exclaimed Eileen, her body aquiver with sudden anger.

“Guess I had better stop this stuff!” said Brenchfield.

“No, no! Don’t mind me. Go on!”

“He came up––and they let him sink again. Next time he came up, they fished him out, because he might not have come up again.

“The fellow came to after a bit. You see, that kind won’t kill. So I guess he is now safely back home, in his little eiderdown bed, getting fed with chicken broth;––home in Ukalla jail, where he belongs.

“Little boys always get into trouble when they run away from home, eh, Ben!” laughed Brenchfield.

The coarse humour didn’t catch on.

Eileen Pederstone laid her basket on the smithy floor, threw a look of contempt into the youthful Mayor’s face and walked out with her head high.

“One for his nobs!” laughed Ben Todd. “And, damn it!––you cold-blooded alligator!––she served you rightly.”