While the foregoing was taking place in Pederstone’s smithy at Vernock, a scene of a different nature was being enacted in the Governor’s private office at Ukalla Prison.

Phil Ralston, somewhat refreshed from a scrubbing, a good sleep and two prison meals, had just been ushered into the presence of the man who held power almost of life and death over every unfortunate confined there.

Phil expected no mercy. His feelings were blunted by what he had already gone through, so the worst that might happen now did not worry him; for, when hope of relief entirely goes, what one has to face loses most of its terrors.

The well-fed, strong-jawed governor leaned over his desk and looked at his prisoner.

“Ay, Ralston! So you were a naughty boy and ran away!”

The young fellow did not reply.

“Look up, man! I’m not going to eat you.”

Ralston’s eyes met his calmly.

“Why did you run away?”

“Because my time was up, sir!”

“Of course it was! Hang it all!––that’s why I can’t understand your behaviour.”

The governor smiled in a manner that was meant to be reassuring––for, after all, he knew he had exceeded his limit and, if it were known, he might have difficulty in squaring himself.

“But you told me, sir, that I had still two weeks to serve.”

“What? I told you that? Why, man, you’re crazy. Wake up! You foolish fellow, don’t you know that the moment you made off, your discharge papers were lying on my desk all ready?”

“And you didn’t say I had two more weeks to serve?”

“No, damn it, no! How could I? Why, Johnston there had already been sent to the storage room for your belongings.

“Isn’t that so, Johnston?”

“Yes, sir!” nodded the chief jailer emphatically.

“Didn’t I tell you number three hundred and sixteen was due out that day?”

“Yes, sir! Remember distinctly, sir.”

Phil’s lip curled contemptuously, and, although he was in no mood for arguing under such conditions, he could not resist one more query.

“Why then did they go after me and bring me back, sir?”

“Why did they! Why do you think, you young fool? Do you imagine breaking out is the way to leave Ukalla Jail? What kind of an institution do you think we are running here? Do you fancy we are going to stand still to that kind of thing? What kind of respect have you for my good reputation anyway? You selfish bunch are all alike!

“Of course we went after you! Of course we brought you back, just to teach you manners, same as a school teacher calls back a scholar to shut the door he has left open.

“If you got your deserts you would be back there for a few months longer. If you don’t watch yourself when you get out, you’ll be back here again. Eh, Johnston!”

“Yes, sir! They generally do come back, sir,” 46 grunted that echo. “Seem to like us; can’t stay away, sir!”

“Now, Ralston! Here is your discharge. You’re free to go when you like. But Johnston will open the gate for you this time.”

In an overflow of weakness, Phil reeled at the unexpected news. He staggered against the Governor’s desk as he clutched at the paper.

That official smiled benignly. “Here is a present from the government, a cheque for fifty dollars for your faithful services––never absent, never late,” he grinned. “Johnston has your two grips in the hall with your stuff in them that they found in your shack at Carnaby.”

He held out his hand.

“Good-bye, Ralston! You’ve been a good lad here but for your one bad break fifteen months ago, and this one. Don’t come back.”

In half an hour, Philip Ralston was breathing the air of freedom in the inter-urban tram speeding toward Vancouver.

It was the spring of the year. His worldly wealth was fifty dollars. His clothes were some years behind the latest model, but they were decent enough, clean and serviceable.

He put up at a third-rate hotel on Cordova Street and spent one glorious week sleeping, eating, strolling the busy streets and lounging in the parks and on the beaches. He spoke to few, although he had of a necessity to listen to many. At the hotel in the evenings, several transients told him their story, hoping thereby to hear his own as a time-chaser, but Phil, true to the sobriquet he had earned at Ukalla, remained silent.

At the end of a week, after paying his bed and board, his fifty dollars had dwindled to thirty. He knew he could not afford to let it go much lower, otherwise the 47 detectives, who seemed forever spying on him, would be arresting him on a vagrancy charge. Vancouver was chuck-full of detectives, many of whom Phil knew by sight, while the others he sensed. And he loathed and abhorred their entire breed.

Too many were the stories he had heard from fellow prisoners at Ukalla, who had tried honestly to take up some definite occupation after leaving jail, only to be hounded from position to position by these interfering sleuths who fancied it their duty to inform the erstwhile employer that the man who was working for him was an ex-jailbird and consequently should have a keen eye kept on him for a while. The inevitable, of course, followed; for what employer could afford to have an ex-convict on his staff?

And so, Phil did not attempt to secure work in Vancouver. He had a horror of the rush and buzz of the city anyway.

Policemen were everywhere; on the sidewalks watching everybody and everything; at the street corners directing the traffic.

Self-consciousness made Phil feel guilty almost. These men gave him the creeps, innocent of all guilt though he was. His one desire was to get as far away from them and all things connected with them as was possible.

He sat on a seat in the park one afternoon, trying to decide his future.

He thought of Graham Brenchfield, now Mayor of Vernock, evidently wealthy beyond Phil’s wildest dreams. He remembered the old partnership pact and the five hundred dollars he paid for it––five years, a pool and a straight division of the profits. He put his hand in his pocket, took out his money and counted it over;––twenty-four dollars and fifteen cents.

He laughed. But his laugh was void of merriment, for he had vowed solemnly to himself in prison that some day he would get even with Graham Brenchfield. And, so far as Brenchfield was concerned, the iron was still in Phil Ralston’s soul.

As he sat there, the vision of an angel face came back to him; the picture of a girl of small frame, fairy-like, agile, bending over him as he lay faint and wounded on the floor of her little bungalow up on the hill overlooking Vernock. And it settled his mental uncertainty.

He would go back there! It was a free and bracing life in that beautiful Valley, and, God knows! that was what he required after five years of confinement. He could pick up his strength while at work on the farms, or among the orchards, or on the cattle ranges. Lots of things he could do there!

No one would know him,––no one had seen him before but she and Brenchfield. She would never recognise him––shaved and clean––for the broken, ragged wretch whom she had befriended. As for Brenchfield––he would know Phil anywhere, in any disguise, but Phil knew how to close his mouth tighter than a clam.

Besides, there was the settlement to be made between Brenchfield and himself.

Yes!––Vernock was the place of all places for Phil Ralston.

He went back to the hotel, dressed himself in the best clothes he had, paid his score and packed his grips. And that night he was speeding eastward.

On the following afternoon he landed at the comparatively busy little ranching town of Vernock, where he had decided to try out his fortune.

He left his grips at the station and sauntered down the Main Street. There were few people about at the time and all were evidently too intent on their own particular 49 business to pay much attention to a new arrival. He passed a commodious-looking hotel, built of wood, typically western in style, with hitching posts at the side of the road, a broad sidewalk and a few steps up to a wide veranda which led into an airy and busy saloon.

For want of anything better to occupy his attention, Phil strolled in. He called for a glass of beer at the bar. While waiting service, he took in his surroundings.

Several men were lounging at the bar talking loudly, smoking, spitting carelessly and drinking. At a table, near the window, a long-legged, somewhat wistful-looking young man, with prominent front teeth and a heavy mop of auburn hair, was sitting in front of a glass of liquor, gazing lazily into the vacant roadway. From an adjoining room off the saloon rough voices rose every now and again in argument over a poker game which was in progress there between a number of men who appeared to be in off some of the neighbouring ranches.

As Phil surveyed the scene, a man galloped up to the hotel entrance, tossed his reins over his horse’s head and jingled loudly into the saloon. He was clean-cut, dark-skinned and red-haired, and walked with a swinging gait. He shouted the time of day to the bar-tender, as he kept on into the inner room where the card game was in progress.

Phil guessed him for the foreman of the cattlemen inside and conjectured that he had been giving them some instructions regarding their departure, but passed the incident from his mind as quickly as it had cropped up: and he was still slowly refreshing himself when half a dozen rough-looking men tumbled out of the card-room.

“Come on fellows! Drinks all round, Mack! Don’t miss a damned man in the room. Everybody’s havin’ one on me.”

The speaker hitched up his trousers, blew out a mouthful 50 of chewing tobacco and waved his arm invitingly.

The counter loungers gathered round in expectation, as the proprietor and his assistant busied themselves filling the welcome order.

“Hi, Wayward!” he continued, shouting over to the long-legged man sitting by the window. “What-ya drinkin’?”

There was no answer.

“Oh, hell!––he’s up in the clouds. Take him over a Scotch and soda, Pete.”

Phil looked up in time to intercept a wink between the speaker and one of his gang.

“Hello, stranger! Just blowed in?”

“Yes!” answered Phil. “I am just off the train.”

“Stayin’ long?”

“Possibly!”

“All right,––what’s your poison? It’s my deal and your shout.”

“Nothing for me, thanks!” replied Phil. “I’ve all I require here.”

The broad-shouldered, clean-limbed fellow came over closer to Phil.

“Say, young man,––’tain’t often Don McGregor stands drinks all round, but when he does ’tain’t good for the health to turn him down. You’ve got to have one on me, or you and me ain’t goin’ to be friendly,––see.”

Phil looked him over good-naturedly and smiled.

“Oh, all right; let her go!” he answered. “I’ll have a small lemonade.”

“What?” exploded the man who called himself Don McGregor.

A shout of laughter came from everyone in the bar-room.

“Didn’t you ask me to name my drink?” put in Phil.

“Sure!”

“Well––I’ve named it.”

“No, you ain’t! Lemonade ain’t a drink: it’s a bath.”

More merriment greeted the sally.

Phil flushed but held down his rising temper. He had had five years’ experience of self-effacement which stood him in good stead now.

“You’re not trying to pick a quarrel with me?” he inquired quietly.

“Me? Not on your life! I ain’t pickin’ scraps with the likes of you. But, for God’s sake, man,––name a man-sized drink and be quick. The bunch is all waitin’.”

Phil immediately changed his tactics.

“Thanks!” he answered. “I’ll have a Scotch.”

“That’s talkin’.”

The bar-tender came over with a bottle in his hand. “Say when!” he remarked to Phil.

“Keep a-going,” put in Phil. “Up,––up!”

McGregor stood and gaped.

“That’s ’nough!” said Phil easily, as the liquor was brimming over.

The bar-tender pushed along a glass of water. Phil pushed it back.

At a draught he emptied the liquor down his throat. It burned like red-hot coals, for he was unused to it, but he would have drunk it down if it had cremated him.

McGregor had made a miscalculation and he appeared slightly crestfallen as he turned from Phil and talked volubly to his comrades.

While they conversed, McGregor backed gradually, as if by accident, until he was almost touching Phil. Finally he got the heel of his boot squarely on Phil’s toe, and he kept it there, pressing harder and harder every second, still talking loudly to those around him and apparently all oblivious of his action.

Even then Phil had no definite notion that it was not 52 merely the clumsy accident of a half-intoxicated cowboy.

At last he poked the man in the back.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but when you are finished with my foot I should like to have it.”

“What’n the––Oh!” exclaimed the red-haired man, grinding his full weight on Phil’s toe as he got off. “Was I standin’ on you? Hope I didn’t hurt you!” he grinned maliciously.

The pain was excruciating, but still Phil forebore with an effort, accepting the man’s half-cocked apology.

Suddenly a new diversion appeared in the shape of a half-witted boy of about twelve years of age, who slouched in evidently on the look-out for any cigar ends that might be lying about the floor.

The boy was clad raggedly and wore a perpetual grin.

“Hullo, Smiler!” cried one of the men. “Come and have a drink.”

The boy shook his head and backed away.

McGregor made a grab at him and caught him by the coat collar. He pulled the frightened youngster to the counter and, picking up a bottle of whisky, thrust it under the lad’s nose.

“Here, kid;––big drink! Ginger-beer;––good stuff!”

The boy caught the bottle in his hands, tilted it and took a gulp. Then he coughed and spluttered, and spat it out, almost dropping the bottle as McGregor, laughing hilariously, laid hold of it.

“Come on, Smiler!––you got to finish this. Say, Stitchy,––let’s make him drunk. Here!––you hold him.”

The boy made that inarticulate cry which dumb people make when seized suddenly with fear.

Only then did it strike Phil Ralston that the lad was dumb, as well as half-witted.

The man whom McGregor addressed as Stitchy caught the boy and held him securely by the arms, tilting his head 53 backward until he was unable to move. McGregor brought the bottle and was on the point of forcing the helpless Smiler to open his mouth, when the bottle was sent flying out of his hands and he staggered back against the counter from a blow on the side of the face from Phil’s fist.

“Leave the boy alone!” he cried angrily, his face pale as he laboured to stifle his excitement.

He had refrained from interfering as long as he could, well knowing his present physical weakness and what a mix-up might mean to him if the police happened along, but this ill-treatment was a little more than he could stand, despite all possible consequences.

The moment Smiler was released, the boy ran to the door and away.

Meantime, McGregor pulled himself together and began to laugh as if from his stomach.

“I guess that means a scrap,” he grunted.

“Not that I know of,” put in Phil. “But I like to see fair play. The youngster wasn’t hurting you.”

For answer McGregor unbuckled his belt and handed it to his friend called Stitchy, spitting noisily on the saw-dusted floor.

The hotel proprietor jumped over the counter and interfered.

“There’s going to be no rough-house here. If you fools want to fight get out on the back lot where there’s plenty of room. Come on,––out you go! The whole caboodle of you!”

He and his assistant––both burly men––cleared the bar.

Phil was among the last to leave, and, in a faint hope of avoiding trouble, he turned aside, but McGregor sprang after him and laid hold.

“Not by a damn-sight!” he cried. “Here, stick them up!”

He feinted round Phil, then ran in on him. Phil had no alternative. He put up his arms, jumped aside and dealt the cattleman a stiff blow on the mouth.

The crowd gathered round and made a ring. For a time, Phil more than held his own, getting in blow after blow, while McGregor tried his best to come to grips.

“Don’t ever let him get his arms round you,” cautioned a friendly voice, the owner of which Phil had no time to note.

The stout-chested cattleman had no science, but he possessed an unlimited amount of vital energy and strength. Phil had science, but nothing else to back it up.

The ultimate issue was beyond all question and Phil knew it, for five minutes had not gone ere he was gasping for breath and had black specks floating in hundreds before his vision. He sprang aside and circled time and again, trying to avoid his antagonist’s determination to get to grips, but at last, just after a particularly close escape, someone pushed him suddenly from behind and, before he was aware of it, two great arms were round him crushing the life out of him. He struggled frantically, but felt like a puppy-dog in the paws of a grizzly. He was whirled round and round till he grew dizzy. He was crushed and hugged until he became faint. When his bones were cracking and the very life seemed oozing out of him, he felt himself suddenly catapulted somewhere in glorious release, then his senses gave way and he remembered no more for a time.

When he came to, he was lying on the bar-room floor. Someone, whose face he recollected, was bending over him, holding up his head and mopping his brow with a wet cloth. He looked into the face and remembered it. It was the long-legged man with the mop of wavy, auburn hair, whom he had noticed sitting by the window in abstraction a short time before.

“Getting better, old man?” said the young fellow good-naturedly, grinning and showing his great, strong, prominent teeth.

Phil muttered a few inarticulate words of thanks and tried to rise. The lanky man helped him up, led him over to a bench, set him down and then sat down beside him.

“Sorry I didn’t interfere sooner. Might have saved you that rough handling,” said the stranger. “But to tell you the truth, I thought you were going to eat Rob Roy McGregor up. Guess you could, too, for you handle your fists better than any man I have ever seen;––but you’re just as weak as a half-drowned kitten. What’s the matter; been boozing?”

“No!” replied Phil. “I seldom drink.”

“Lucky you!” put in the big fellow. “Sick then?”

“Yes!––I––I’m just recovering from a severe illness,” answered Phil, for want of a better excuse.

“Just come into town?”

“I came in off the noon train.”

“Any friends?”

“No!”

“Say!––you don’t mind me cross-examining you this way, old man? I––I kind of like your looks.”

A big smile went over the face of the stranger, wrinkling and puckering it amusingly.

“What’s your name? Mine’s Jim Langford. They call me Wayward,––because I am. I’m a B. Sc. of Edinburgh University; a barrister, by profession only; lazy; fond of books and booze; no darned good; always in trouble; sent out here for the good of my health and for the peace of mind of the family, after a bit of trouble; had ten thousand dollars to start with; spent it all before I woke up. I get fifty dollars a month to keep away from the Old Land.

“Have you a place to sleep to-night? Got any baggage?”

“No!” said Phil, in answer to the second last question. “I haven’t had time to look around yet. My baggage is at the station.”

“Come then! Let’s get your stuff. My landlady has a spare room. I guess she’ll be glad to let you have it. She’s a decent sort, too.”

Phil hesitated a moment.

“If you haven’t got the money, that won’t matter.”

“I have a little;––a very little,––enough for a few days. I’m up here to find work.”

“Well,––come along with me for the time being,” said Langford.

“All right!” assented Phil. And the two walked up Main Street together, up toward the railway tracks, past the barn Phil had hidden in on his first, unofficial visit to Vernock.

“How,––how did you manage to beat off those cowpunchers?” asked Phil.

“Easy as breathing! I once punched the heart out of that rotter McGregor. Beat a man once, good and plenty, and it isn’t hard beating him again. And that doesn’t only refer to fighting, either. But say! if I didn’t know you were a stranger hereabout, I would have said Rob Roy’s picking on you was a put up job.”

A pang shot through Phil at the suggestion, and it set him wondering.

“First thing you’ve got to do, young fellow, is to get up your strength and go back and lick the stuffing out of that scum. If you don’t, your life won’t be worth living in Vernock.”

Phil laughed.

“That’s straight goods!” returned Langford, his Scottish burr turning the Western phrase strangely.

“Well––I don’t mind if I do,” said Phil.

They called in at the railway depot, and Phil got his two grips.

“Ralston!––what kind of business do you follow? Hope you aren’t a pen-pusher, because pen-pushing isn’t for you for some time to come. What you need is something out in the open. You seem to have played merry hell with your constitution. I’m skin and bone myself, but I’m not the fattening kind. I’m built for speed. Now your frame’s made for muscle and flesh, and you haven’t a pick of meat on your entire carcass.”

Phil smiled in an embarrassed kind of way.

“Don’t mind me,” continued Langford. “You’ll get on to my way after a bit. What’s your line of trade?”

“Well, to be honest,” said Phil, “I haven’t any. I came out here to try anything. I’m an M.A. of Toronto University; have substituted in school; can clear land if I get my own time to it; have a pretty fair knowledge of accounting; but haven’t done much of anything so far. I used to be a good athlete.”

It was Langford’s turn to smile.

“Another poor, hand-fed chicken out of the University incubator, who can do everything but what he is meant to do––lay eggs, golden ones. Say, Ralston, the world is full of us and we’re little or no damned good. We know too much, or think we do, to be contented with the pick and shovel game, and we don’t know enough––because we think we know it all already––to get down to the steady grind year in and year out, at some business that might ultimately bring us to an armchair job. So we go along with our noses to the ground snuffing for a convenient hole to crawl into.

“Oh, well!” he exploded, “who the devil wants to be tied up body and soul to some corporation all his life, for the sake of making a little money that somebody else is going to go to the dogs over after you have gone?”