It was but two days from Christmas. Phil and Sol Hanson had been striving hard to cope with an accumulation of work so that they might be clear of it during the holiday season. Sol, in fact, had been slaving at nights as well as during the day, until even he was bordering on a physical exhaustion.

Jim Dalton, that evil genius, came into the smithy during a temporary absence of Phil’s, proffered Sol a drink from the inevitable bottle which he always seemed to have hidden somewhere about his person, and Sol was too weak to refuse.

By the time Phil got back Sol had disappeared.

For the first time since her marriage, Betty’s love and influence had failed to anchor her big, weak husband.

From past experience, Phil knew that it was useless going after the big fellow, who required only a few hours to end his carousal. He failed to return to the smithy that evening, so Phil locked up and rode home. He did not call in at Sol’s home, for he hoped that the Swede would find his way there within a few hours more.

Next morning, Phil had to open up again.

Betty called in, flooded in tears. Sol had not been home. Phil counselled her to go back and wait in her little cottage for the return of her husband, for he did not wish her to be a witness of his usual reaction. She departed, but whether or not she took Phil’s advice, he did not know.

About eleven o’clock, Sol staggered in, helpless, but good-natured as usual. The heat of the smithy soon did its work and the big fellow curled himself up in a corner, among some empty sacks, and dropped off to sleep.

It was the awakening that Phil dreaded, but risky as he knew it would be, he determined to give Sol a chance and leave him to wake up, without sending out to inform Royce Pederstone, who was home for a week to participate in the Christmas festivities, and the Mayor,––whose combined duty it was to see that Sol was properly secured against doing anyone any bodily injury.

But Phil’s good intentions were not allowed to fructify.

Brenchfield and Royce Pederstone rode into the yard together, as if they had been aware of every move of Sol’s.

They ordered Phil to lock the front door and come out by the back way. Phil pleaded Sol’s cause for a little, but only got called a sentimental fool for his kindly feelings; and he had no recourse but to obey instructions, for Brenchfield and Royce Pederstone had almost unlimited power in regard to Sol’s permanent freedom or confinement.

Brenchfield pitched some chunks of coal at Sol through the broken window. Sol woke with a start, cursed in a mixture of Swedish and English, then, with that terrible madness upon him––which Phil had witnessed only once before but would never forget,––he sprang for the back door, as Phil got round the gable-end of the smithy.

Sol wrestled for a few seconds with the back door and finally tore it completely from its hinges. He darted out into the yard, hurling the broken woodwork full at Brenchfield as the latter was swinging his lariat. Hanson followed his missile and, for a short space, it looked as if the Mayor’s last moment had arrived. But numbers 275 counted again and, fortunately for the big Swede, he could not be in two places at once. Royce Pederstone’s rope landed deftly over his head and brought him to earth gasping for breath, half strangled.

Brenchfield recovered. His rope whirled in the air and tightened over Sol’s uptilted legs. The rest was easy. Shortly afterwards, Hanson, foaming at the mouth and shouting at the pitch of his voice, was trussed securely to the stanchions supporting one of the barns.

The Mayor and Royce Pederstone were still inside the barn, and Phil was standing in the yard, when poor, little, distraught Betty came anxiously round the building, still on her quest for her man. She heard Sol’s voice, and her eyes grew wide and shone in fear and anger. She darted toward the out-house. Phil tried to stop her, but it was useless. Inside she went, and when she surveyed the scene before her––the two strong, calculating men standing watching her husband whom she loved with all the strength of her robust little being, and he roped and hog-tied like some wild animal––her whole womanly nature welled up and overflowed.

“What have you done?” she cried fiercely, her voice weakening as she went on. “Solly, dearie,––my own Sol!”

And Sol cursed, and shrieked, and struggled, unheeding. She ran forward to him and placed her arms about his great neck where the veins were swollen almost to bursting point. She patted his huge, heaving, hairy chest. She wiped away the perspiration from his forehead and the white ooze from his lips. She laid her face gently against his, tapping his cheek with her fingers; crooning to him and kissing him as she would a baby.

Slowly the big fellow melted under her influence. His struggling gradually ceased. Betty kept on calling his name again and again. Her tears dropped on to his 276 upturned, distorted face, and those tears did what knotted lariats and wooden beams had failed to do––they brought peace and sanity back to the eyes of big Sol Hanson.

His head cradled back in his Betty’s arms and he panted, looked up at her, and, after a few minutes, smiled crookedly.

“Loosen them ropes!” Betty commanded of Brenchfield and Royce Pederstone.

“We daren’t do it,” answered the Mayor.

“You loose them quick,” she cried again, “or I’ll kill you.

“Them fellows is skeered you’ll hurt them, Sol. Tell them Solly you won’t touch ’em,––will you, Solly?”

Sol shook his head.

Phil came forward to do the needful. At the same instant, Royce Pederstone’s good sense took in the situation better than Brenchfield’s dogged mind could.

“Guess we might take a chance, Graham!” he said quietly.

“You ain’t takin’ any chances with my Solly. Give me a knife and beat it, both of you. I ain’t skeered o’ my man.”

The Mayor opened his jack-knife and handed it to Betty. He and Royce Pederstone went into the yard together. Phil stood watching by the barn door.

Shortly afterwards, Sol came out, his big hand clasped over Betty’s little one. He looked away from the men in the yard, shame-facedly, but Betty’s eyes shone defiance and her head kept up, and the two lovers walked on to the highway and along in the direction of their own home.

“Well I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Pederstone. “It takes a woman every time to know how to handle a man.”

Brenchfield scoffingly curled his lip.

“Coming my way, Graham?”

“Not yet awhile,” said the Mayor; “I want to see Ralston here about a little matter that’s been on my mind for a while.”

Phil was already back working on the furnace bellows and stirring his irons in the red-hot coals.

Mayor Brenchfield came over to him, his fat but handsome face leering a little under his bushy eyebrows.

“So, Philly,––you’re still earning your daily bread by the sweat of your blooming brow!”

The young man looked his tormentor over contemptuously, and continued his work without comment.

“Gee, but some men are damned fools though!” continued the other.

“And some are damned curs,” answered Phil.

Brenchfield bit his lip, then grinned.

“Say, Phil!––I’m sorry for all I did. Honest, I am. I want you to forget the past and forgive me. I treated you, as you say, like a cur. I’m willing to make amends and do the right thing by you as far as that is humanly possible. You and I were brought up together, Phil. That should count some.”

“It should,” agreed Phil, in a non-committal way, wondering what was behind this change of front on the part of Brenchfield.

“I am willing to have my holdings appraised and to make you a present of one half.”

“You mean you are willing to let me have the half that belongs to me?”

“If you care to put it that way,––yes!”

“Half of the proceeds of your theft?”

“Oh, forget that! Can’t you have a little sense, if only in your own interests?”

Phil smiled.

“I was always a bit of a fool, Brenchfield, where my own interests were concerned. But I am gaining wisdom as I go along.”

“Then, in heaven’s name, take this chance when it is offered you. No man can do more than I am willing to do now. You won’t have to work another stroke in your life.”

Phil’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Gee,––but that would be a pleasant prospect,––I don’t think!”

Brenchfield held out his hand. “Is it a go?”

Phil was almost convinced by the sincere ring in Brenchfield’s voice. He glanced into the latter’s face, but the Mayor’s eyes failed to play up to the sound he had put into his voice.

“Do you honestly mean all you say?” asked Phil.

“Every word of it!”

“Well,––since you have raised the white flag, here are my terms:––

“I don’t want a cent of your money. Sell out and turn every nickel you have over to somebody or some institution that needs it. Come with me before a magistrate and make an honest confession, and take your chance of a new start, like a man would do. I’ll shake hands then and call it quits, but not until.”

The Mayor glared at Phil as if he considered the latter had suddenly become bereft of his reason.

“Oh, pshaw!” he exclaimed in disgust, turning on his heel, “no use bargaining with a lunatic.”

“Wait a bit!” cried Phil. “If I accept all you offer, what do you want in return?”

“Nothing!––nothing but that little piece of paper I was fool enough to leave lying about a few years ago.”

“In other words,––your price is the proof of my innocence and your own guilt.”

“The question of innocence and guilt has been settled between you and me long ago. You paid the price;––why not take your share of the proceeds?”

Phil shook his head.

“No!” blurted Brenchfield angrily, “but you prefer to use the cipher note for blackmail and to satisfy your own dirty designs for revenge when your own time comes.”

Phil pointed to the door.

“Get out!––and don’t bring up this subject to me again. I am sick of it––and you.”

Suddenly the Mayor laughed in relief, and he snapped his thumb and forefinger under Phil’s nose.

“Go to it! Do your worst!” he exclaimed. “I’ve found out all I wanted to find. You are an arrant bluffer, Phil Ralston, but you’re not quite smart enough. You haven’t got that note. Damn you!––you never had it for longer time than it took you that morning to burn it.

“It was ashes before the police came.

“Now, Philip Ralston,––it was you who committed the crime you got rightly jailed for. You didn’t get half what was coming to you, dirty thief and blackmailer that you are. You should have had ten years–––”

Brenchfield got no further. Phil was on him quick as an avalanche. The Mayor, in his haste to get out of the way, toppled backward against the anvil. Phil’s left arm shot out and finished the job. He caught Brenchfield straight on the point of the chin, sending him hurtling head first over the anvil and on to the floor on the other side.

Phil vaulted over on top of him, but when he saw the huddled form, limp and insensible, and the face livid and drawn, his better judgment flashed through and mastered his terrible anger. He caught the inert Mayor 280 by the arms, dragged him across the soft flooring of hoof shavings and metal-dust, to the outside, slinging him unceremoniously on to the heap of broken iron beside the frozen horse-trough. He next went back into the smithy, damped down the fires, dipped a pail into the vat––filling it with water––then shut up shop, for it was growing dark and near to the usual closing time. He went into the yard and looked over his still senseless but heavily breathing antagonist. He dashed the icy contents of the pail contemptuously over the head and shoulders of Brenchfield, tossing the empty receptacle on the ground. He next loosened his horse from the stall in the barn, mounted and rode down town to Morrison of the O.K. Supply Company to purchase the balance of the supplies he and Jim required for their next day’s Christmas dinner––their first Christmas dinner on a ranch; Phil’s first Christmas dinner in six outside of a prison.

And, as he jogged homeward over the hard, frozen snow––his saddlebags on either side choking full of good things to eat––he tried, again and again, but without success, to discover at which point in his conversation with Brenchfield he had given himself away and thereby disclosed to him that his cipher confession was a myth.

And Graham Brenchfield, as he took the back lanes home,––after having regained his scattered senses and put his upset toilet into half-respectable shape––cursed himself for his folly and wished that what he had tried to draw Ralston on were really true; that the document he so much dreaded and desired to possess were really ashes long since strewn to the winds.

But he could not be certain on the point, for Phil had not sufficiently betrayed himself; so he cursed again and made up his mind that there was only one course now 281 open to make surety doubly sure;––and Phil Ralston or any others who tried to come in his path must accept the consequences of their folly and rashness.

Phil reached the ranch in good time and, considering all he had gone through, in fairly good spirits. He stabled the horse, and after brushing three or four of Ah Sing’s black cats from the door-step he went inside, greeting Jim in his usual hearty way.

The table was set in the kitchen and the pots were steaming on the stove top, all ready for the evening meal.

Jim was in the adjoining room, apparently absorbed over some of his alleged literary work. He raised his head as Phil greeted him, but his face remained solemn. He kept at the table while Phil washed and dried his face and hands. Phil went in to him at last and sat down on the bed watching Jim intently.

“Come on, old cock!” he cried, “wake up. These dime ‘bloods’ are getting your goat. Cut loose from them––it’s Christmas Eve, and, glory be! we are not in the workhouse.

“Hullo!––what have you been doing with my old gum boots? Gee,––I haven’t seen them for a dog’s age.”

That gave Jim his opening. He rose and went over to the bed, holding out his hand to his partner.

“Phil, old boy, if you get angry with me I’m going to be dog-goned sorry. I’ve got something on my chest and I’ve got to get it off.

“You won’t get mad!”

The big, rugged, raw-boned Scot caught Phil in his arms and hugged him as if he were a sweetheart.

Usually so undemonstrative, Phil was taken aback at Jim’s behaviour; and Jim, immediately ashamed for his 282 outward show of emotion, sat down beside Phil and looked at the floor between his legs.

Phil clapped him on the back and Jim drew himself together.

“How long ago is it since you had these boots on, Phil?”

“Oh,––I guess I haven’t had them on since before–––” He reddened. “Oh!––four or five years, maybe. They never fitted me very well.”

“My own broke on the soles yesterday and I simply had to have something of the kind when cleaning out the stable to-day, so I hunted out yours from your old kit bag.”

“You’re heartily welcome to them, Jim,––if that is all.”

Jim turned a curious glance at Phil.

“You good old scout!” he said. Then he changed quickly. “Och,––what’s the use o’ me beating about. Phil,––that––that fell out of the toe of one of the boots when I was trying to get them on.”

He held out a dirty, crumpled piece of paper.

Phil took it from him and looked it over casually.

“It was twisted up, almost to the size of a marble.”

Suddenly Phil’s face took on an ashy hue and he gasped.

“Great God; I––I–––”

He jumped up, then caught at the bed-post for support as he tried to gather his wits and to quiet his wildly thumping heart.

“You––you–––It is all right, Jim,” he stammered. “It is of no importance.”

Jim rose and placed his arm round his chum.

“Phil, old chap,––it isn’t any good to pretend. I’m an interfering lout, I know, and I shouldn’t have done it. I have made out all that it says, and, oh God!––but 283 you’re a game sport––even if you have been a darned fool about it.”

Phil stood helpless.

“Heavens!” continued Jim, “five years in jail for that pig! And you never split on him. The dirty sewer-rat!

“I remember every point of that case now. Being a lawyer, I followed it closely. It struck me as one of purely damned, damning circumstantial evidence and it interested me at the time.”

“And––and you found this in––in my old boot?” asked Phil, pulling himself up.

“Ay!––and pretty nearly didn’t pay any heed to it. I unrolled it without thinking, then the queer mix-up of letters and numbers got me. I wasn’t so very busy––I never am when something crops up that attracts the curiosity part of me. I wondered what it could all mean. I sat down there and got it in two hours, beginning at the end and working backwards. I should have stopped, laddie, when I got a certain length, but it dealt with you and I didn’t think I would be right in stopping.

“Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘Gold Bug’ gave me the incentive for deciphering such like conundrums. I found it easy enough starting in with his method of deduction.

“You’re no’ angry wi’ me, Phil?” asked Jim, taking refuge in his favourite Doric.

“No––no––I’m not, Jim! I meant to––to tell you––someday. I––this has caught me unexpectedly and I can’t just think right. But I thought this had been burned long ago. Brenchfield thinks so too. The police had these boots all the time I was in jail, and they didn’t discover it.

“Let’s sit down, Jim! I’ve got to tell you all about it now. Supper can wait. We’ll both feel the better for it afterwards.”

They sat down together on the bed in that little back room.

“It’s a common enough story, Jim. I was born in Toronto. There were four of us, my dad, my mother, my little sister Margery and myself. A happier quartette no one ever heard of. But my mother died suddenly. To my mind, she took all the fun of life with her. Dad moved us to Texas, where he became engaged in some mining or oil projects. A year after my mother’s death, he married again. I did not understand a thing about it, until he told me I had a new mother. In a fit of boyish resentment, I packed my clothes together, took my small hoard of savings, went into my little sister’s bedroom one night as she lay asleep, kissed her, cried over her, and ran away.

“Silly, Jim,––wasn’t it? But from that day to this I have not seen a relative of mine.

“I worked my way north, back into Canada, to Campbeltown, where I remembered having visited the Brenchfields as a little fellow with my mother. Brenchfield’s mother and mine had been school companions in the old days. I had had a good time on that earlier visit and the memory of it, more than anything else, prompted me to make for Campbeltown again.

“Mrs. Brenchfield showed me every kindness and made a home for me. She or her husband must have sent word to my dad, who evidently decided to let me cool my heels. He mailed me a draft for three hundred dollars and promised a further hundred dollars a month for my keep and education during the time I preferred to deny myself of the pardon and loving welcome that would await me any time I cared to return home. That was where the mistake was made. Jim, he should have insisted on my being returned home at once and when I got home he should have given me a right good hiding.

“I indignantly returned his draft and wrote him declining all aid from one whom I, in my juvenile heroics, felt I could no longer respect as a father.

“Gee!––what fools we are sometimes! And how often have I longed and ached to hear from my dear old dad again! But I was proud, and I fear I am still a little that way.

“I was thrown into the constant companionship of Graham Brenchfield and despite our great dissimilarity in make-up and his three years’ advantage over me in age, we got on well together. He was different then.

“The Brenchfields educated me, as they did Graham. I put it all down, for a long time after, to the great goodness of their hearts, but I have had every reason to believe lately that they were secretly in receipt of that hundred dollars a month which I so dramatically declined from my dad. I feel certain now that it was my stay with the Brenchfields that so materially aided them in the education of their own, for they had little enough money in their own right for educational purposes.

“I pulled up on Graham at school and in a few years we were ready to start out to conquer the world. It was then that we decided on the Great Adventure to the Golden West, in search of fame and chiefly fortune.

“Youthful-like, we made a vow. We were to work together if we could, but, no matter what took place, we were to meet at the end of five years, pool our profits and make a fair divide.

“Brenchfield had five hundred dollars in cash. I had a similar amount coming to me from a farmer named Angus Macdonald in payment of two summers’ work I had put in on his place. Macdonald promised to send the money on to me at a certain date and, as his name and word were gold currency in and around Campbeltown, we set out on Graham Brenchfield’s five hundred. 286 We got to Vancouver, did odd jobs there for a bit; then Graham got something more promising to do on a cattle ranch in the Okanagan Valley and he left me clearing land in Carnaby, in the suburbs of Vancouver.

“Well, Jim,––Brenchfield had been only a few months gone, when I received letters from him urging me to send along the money I had coming from Angus Macdonald, as he had obtained a month’s option on some land in which he declared there was a positive fortune. As it turned out, Brenchfield was right in his surmise, as he seemed to be in almost everything else he touched for years following. It was ranch property, evidently right on the survey line of a new railroad. He was wildly excited over it in all his letters. Macdonald’s money was due, but it did not come to hand, so I had to keep on putting Brenchfield off and meantime I made a draft on Macdonald, putting it through the Carnaby branch of the Commercial Bank for collection. Three days before Brenchfield’s option was up he dropped in on me unexpectedly, by the first inter-urban train one morning. At that time, I was living by myself in a little rented two-roomed shack a few hundred yards outside of Carnaby.

“Graham Brenchfield raged and ranted in a terrible way, getting purple in the face in his disappointment and anger. He called Macdonald all the skin-flinting names he could think of and incidentally expressed himself of my unbusiness-like qualities. I told him what I had done, how I had written to Macdonald repeatedly, wired him and finally drawn on him; that I had called at the bank until Maguire the banker got sick at the sight of me and declared I haunted him like a damned ghost.

“I left Brenchfield that morning in my place, promising to be back by noon. I worked for two hours, then left off for fifteen minutes to run over to the bank, for 287 I had a hunch that there was something there. Maguire the Agent was in a nasty mood.

“He declared there was nothing for me. I told him he hadn’t looked to see, and I waited around, whistling and shuffling my feet till he got exasperated. It was the end of the month and he was busy, so perhaps I should have been more considerate, but I was nineteen years old then and consideration did not weigh very heavily on me. Besides, I was badly in need of the money.

“He finally threatened to throw me out for the ‘kite-flier’ I evidently was. That angered me; I picked up a heavy ruler and threatened to knock his head in. At last, my eye caught sight of the postal stamp of Campbeltown on a letter among his unopened mail lying on the counter. And, sure enough, it contained Macdonald’s payment. I got the money from Maguire and left immediately, as happy as a king.

“Before going home to break the good news to Brenchfield, I returned to my job in order to tell Macaskill the foreman that I intended taking the afternoon off. When I got there, they used me to clear off some fallen timber from the right-of-way and that delayed me quite a bit. I didn’t see Macaskill, so left without saying anything in particular to anyone.

“When I got back home, Brenchfield was sitting at the kitchen table with his head resting on his hands. He had been writing on a sheet of paper. I ran over to him and clapped my hand on his back. I threw my roll of bills on the table right under his nose. He stared at the bundle stupidly, then sprang up with an oath on his lips. Jim, I can see it all again as if it had taken place ten minutes ago. I can hear him word for word as if my mind had become for the time being a recording phonograph.

“I could see at a glance that there was something very 288 far wrong. His eyes were bloodshot and he was deathly white.

“‘Good God!’ he cried, pushing his fingers through his hair.

“‘Graham,––whatever is the matter with you?’ I asked. ‘You surely haven’t been drinking? You’re ill.’

“He laughed.

“‘I’m all right! Nothing wrong with my health! Guess it’s my morals that have gone fluey. So you got the money? My God!––if I’d only known that.”

“He put his hand in his back pocket, drew out a bundle of bills and tossed it on the table beside mine. It was money, Jim,––money by the heap.

“‘Good heavens, man!––where did you get it?’ I cried.

“‘Ay!––you may well ask. I had to have it––you know; so I went out and got it. Stole it––or rather, borrowed it when the other fellow wasn’t looking. See that over there!’ He pointed to a basin on the wash-stand. ‘Look inside, Phil. It’s red. Look at your shirt lying in the corner there. It’s bloody too. God!––the damned stuff is still all over me. It sticks like glue. It won’t come off.’

“His voice was gradually getting louder, so I went to him and clapped my hand over his mouth. I cautioned him to be quiet. For the first time in my memory, Graham Brenchfield broke down and cried like a baby. Little wonder,––for it was his first great offence against society and law.

“I led him to a chair and sat quietly beside him until the worst of his wildness seemed to be over.

“‘Graham,––you must pull yourself together,’ I said. ‘Tell me what it is you have done. Maybe it is not so bad. Maybe we can fix it up.’

“‘Phil, I got tired waiting for you and went out 289 three-quarters of an hour ago,’ he replied. ‘I went over the fields to the village. I didn’t mean any wrong then. I had no thought of it. I went the back way toward the bank. The back door was open and I looked in. The banker was figuring. There was money––stacks of it. The sight of the damned stuff made me crazy. I had little hope of you getting yours. It seemed an easy way. Something gripped me and I saw nothing after that but the money. There was no one about. I crept in, and under that counter that lifts up. He never saw or heard me. I picked up something––a poker, a ruler maybe. God only knows what it was! I hit him over the head with it. It didn’t drop him. I had to hit him again and again. Then blood spurted. He fell on the floor. I grabbed as much money as I thought I needed and I came away hoping to get out from here before you got back. I was just writing to you now to tell you what I had done. I put it in the old cipher we made up together at school. I knew you’d fathom it and understand. It is on the table there.

“‘Now you’ve come back,’ he continued. ‘They’ll be after me. What am I to do, Phil? It’ll break the dad’s and mother’s hearts if the police get me for this. Honest, Phil!––I didn’t mean to. I can’t think right. You tell me what to do. You fix it up and get me away from here.’

“He was on the point of breaking down again, Jim, when I brought him up with a jerk.

“‘I can help any man but a murderer,’ I said. ‘You didn’t kill Maguire?’

“‘No, no! I swear it,’ he answered. ‘The knocks I gave him could not kill him.’

“‘Well, if he dies, Graham, I’ll have to tell. If he doesn’t, you can bank on me. Your folks have been too good to me for me to forget and we’ve been too good 290 friends for me to give you away. Does anybody know you are in Carnaby?’ I asked further.

“‘Not a soul,’ he said.

“‘Has anyone seen you here?’

“‘Not that I know of!’

“‘Quick then,’ I cried. ‘Take this money Angus Macdonald sent. It’s ours. There are five hundred dollars. That’s all you need to meet your present obligations. Leave the blood money where it is. I’ll put it in an envelope and some time late to-night I’ll drop it, unaddressed, into the bank letter-box. They’ll never guess what has happened, and, if Maguire recovers and they get their money back, no one––no one but you, Graham––will be any the worse for it.’

“This was one time that Brenchfield allowed himself to be advised and led.

“‘Here,––take the back way,’ I went on, ‘the way you came, through the timber. Walk till you get to Newtown, then drop on to a Vancouver car and in. Then up the main line by to-night’s train, and lie quiet.’

“Brenchfield stopped at the door and offered me his hand.

“‘You won’t hold a grudge against me for this?’ he asked.

“‘Never a grudge!’ I said.

“‘You won’t let it interfere with our plans for the future, Phil?’

“‘No,––for you’ll have learned your lesson.’

“‘And we’re still partners?’

“I wasn’t quite so sure about that part of it, but a look in Brenchfield’s face made me relent.

“‘Partners,––yes, Graham,––if you still wish it,’ I said.

“‘Wish it,––sure I wish it, Phil.’

“‘Right-o.’

“‘And whatever happens between you and me, in five years’ time we’ll pool everything we have, as we promised, and make a fair divide?’

“‘Yes, yes!––all right! For heaven’s sake get away quickly. You’re wasting precious time, and time with you is everything. One can never tell.’

“‘When will you come up to the Okanagan?’ he asked next.

“‘Just as soon as this blows over and I get squared away. Maybe in three weeks’ time––not later than a month.’

“We shook hands and I watched him as he hurried away across the fields.”

Phil stopped and looked into space.

“Go on, go on, man,” exclaimed Jim, his face tense.

“After that, the first thing that caught my eye was Brenchfield’s note on the table. I had the key to it in my mind, so it was easy enough to decipher. You have it Jim, word for word:––

“‘Dear Phil,

I have gone back to Vernock. I have borrowed the money I needed and I fear I have hurt the banker in the borrowing. Forgive me, but there was no other way out. Whatever you hear, keep silent. Join me as soon as you can. Burn this.

Graham Brenchfield.’”

“Pretty damning stuff, Jim, even if it is in cipher. Well, the last I remember of that note was crumpling it up till it was a mere nothing at all. I must have tossed it away unconsciously and it got lodged in the toe of my gum boot, although I always felt certain within myself till now that I had burned it along with every other scrap of paper I could find in the shack coming from Brenchfield. My next job was to cover up all other traces he 292 had left behind. There was the basin of discolored water on the wash-stand. I threw the water out at the back door and scoured the basin. I next put the stolen money in a large blue envelope and thrust it between my trunk and the wall, out of sight until I should be able to get rid of it through the bank letter-box when night came. I thought I was through then, when I found my dirty shirt in the corner––the twin of the one I was then wearing. It was smeared with blood-stains. Evidently Graham had used that first on his hands, and the water afterwards. I held up the tell-tale garment between my fingers, intending to set it ablaze in the stove. I changed my mind, for shirts were shirts in those days and somewhat scarce. I decided to give it a thorough washing instead. Somewhere, I had heard that hot water would not remove blood-stains, so I emptied some cold water into the basin and got my soap ready to begin. I was just in the act of dipping the shirt into the water when the screen door rattled and three men stepped into the kitchen. My heart jumped, for one of them was Jim Renfrew, Carnaby’s Police Chief. The other two I guessed as plain-clothes men from Vancouver.

“‘Sorry to disturb you, Ralston,––but we want you at the Station for a few minutes. You don’t mind coming, eh!’ asked Renfrew.

“‘What do you want me for?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, come and see!’ said the Chief. ‘Just want to ask you something about something! We won’t eat you.’

“Two of them laid hands on me and before I knew just exactly how it happened, cold metal snapped over my wrists and held me secure. The stained shirt was snatched out of my hand. I turned angrily, but a wrench of the handcuffs pulled me up.

“‘Cut that out now! Come along quiet! Shut your 293 trap, and say nothing you might be sorry for later. Come on!’

“One of the plain-clothes men remained behind, while the other and the Chief took me through the town to the local jail.

“It was some little time before I grasped the awful seriousness of my position and began to realise how events which I had never thought of might possibly involve me in this affair at the bank. I was totally ignorant of how much the police knew; that was the straining and nerve-racking part.

“The following morning I was brought before the local magistrate, charged with attempted murder and robbery, and was immediately committed for trial to the Assizes. And that evening, handcuffed between two policemen, I was transferred to the Provincial Prison at Ukalla, to await trial.

“God alone knows what I suffered during all that dreadful time, Jim, but I had made up my mind that it was my duty to take the blame on myself, for Brenchfield would never have committed the crime had I fulfilled my share of the bargain at the outset and put my money in when it was due. I thought of the goodness of the Brenchfields, of all they had done for me, of what it would mean to them if Graham were convicted. I only dreamed of a few months’ imprisonment at the outset, so I decided I would keep my mouth shut.

“During all the time I remained awaiting trial, no one visited me but a parson and an exasperated lawyer who had been appointed to defend me, but who could get nothing out of me.

“I was tried. I refused to speak, and in so doing, I hadn’t the ghost of a chance for liberty.

“Macaskill the foreman swore that I had been absent from my work for a time on the morning of the assault; 294 I had been expecting money which hadn’t arrived and I seemed badly in need of it.

“Doctor Rutledge of Carnaby had stopped at the door of the bank that morning and had seen me inside. He had heard Maguire and I in dispute and had heard further my threat to crack Maguire over the head with the very ruler with which the assault had been committed.

“Maguire, swathed in bandages but apparently little the worse, recounted our dispute. He swore that I had committed the assault on him, as it had happened just after he had paid over the money to me and turned back to his work.

“Chief Renfrew and his two detectives had caught me, red-handed, in my shack, washing my blood-stained shirt––a shirt similar to the one I was wearing at the time of my arrest. They even found the entire proceeds of the theft in a blue envelope behind my trunk; although they had to admit having been unable to trace the additional five hundred dollars which Maguire stated he had given to me.

“It was great stuff, Jim. Circumstantially damning as could be. They gave me five years in hell for my share in it, also a nice long harangue from the judge about behaving myself when I came out.”

During this long, clear-cut, passionless recital, Jim Langford had sat beside Phil, glooming into space, his face like chiselled grey granite.

“My God!” he exclaimed at last and only his lips moved.

“Yes, Jim,––and Graham Brenchfield sat among the spectators all through the trial, heard me sentenced, rose and went out into his merry world without as much as a twitch of his eyelid for Phil Ralston.

“Ah, well! it’s over and done with. But can you blame me, Jimmy, for a little bitterness in my heart 295 against that fine gentleman for his cowardice and treachery?”

“Blame you,” exclaimed Jim, passionately. “Great God! if he had done this with me, Phil, I would have schemed and plotted till I succeeded in getting him away to some lonely shack, then I would have tied him up and cut little pieces out of him every day till there was nothing left of him but his sense of pain and his throbbing black heart.”

Phil laughed, rose and stretched himself.

“That’s just the penny-dreadful part of you talking, Jim; the Captain Mayne Plunkett. You know quite well you wouldn’t do anything of the kind.”

But Jim was in no mood for flippancy.

“Sit down!” he commanded. “Now that you have told me so much, tell me everything. We are in this together now and I want to know what has passed between you and that scum since you came up here.”

“You know the most of it; there isn’t much more to tell,” said Phil, but obedient to his friend’s wishes, he sat down again and starting in with his first meeting, as a fugitive, with Eileen Pederstone, he told of all the attempts that Brenchfield had made on his life, of his wild schemes and endeavours to recover this very paper that lay on the counterpane beside them, the existence of which Phil had been unaware but had bluffed and double-bluffed at in order to keep Brenchfield in his place. Right down to what had taken place that afternoon in the forge––not a detail did Phil miss out––and last of all, he confided to Jim the great longing in his heart that had been with him since first he had met Eileen Pederstone, and the hope that some day, after he had honestly achieved, he might be privileged to tell her what his feelings were toward her.

“If you are not altogether an idiot,” answered Jim 296 bluntly, “you will tell her the very next time you meet her. Does the lassie know that you were jailed for something you didn’t do?”

“No,––I––I didn’t tell her that. But she is aware that we met some time in the past:––that there is some kind of secret between Brenchfield and me.”

“Are you going to have that two-faced hypocrite arrested?” asked Jim.

“No, siree!”

“And why not, pray?”

Phil gave Jim all his reasons “why not,” and, despite Jim’s cajolings and threatenings, he remained obdurate on the point.

“Well,” exclaimed Langford at last, “you’re positively the sentimentalest ass I ever met. But maybe after all you are right. Brenchfield has had this thing eating at his liver like a cancer for six years now and the longer it eats the worse he’ll suffer. He is on the down-grade right now, or else I am sadly mistaken. He is up to the ears in it with the worst crooks in the Valley:––cattle rustlers, warehouse looters, horse thieves, jail birds, bootleggers and half-breeds. Some of these fellows some day are going to get sore with him. Oh, you may be sure his sins are going to find him out;––and the higher he goes the farther he will have to fall.

“It certainly will be one hell of a crash when it comes, and Jimmy Langford hopes to be there with bells on at the funeral of Mayor Brenchfield and his hoggish ambitions.”

Phil crumpled up the paper in his palm.

“Here!” cried Jim. “What are you doing that for?”

Phil smiled a little sadly.

“I suppose you will be putting it in the stove next?”

“I guess so!”

“Well, you’d better guess again. It is just like the 297 crazy thing you would try to do in one of your soft moments. Give it to me! I’ll take mighty good care of it. It is all that may lie between your guilt or innocence some day, even if it is after Brenchfield is dead and gone to his well-earned reward. A whole lot hinges on that little bit of paper. It has got to be kept good and secure. Come on, softy,––hand it over!”

“If I do, will you promise never to use it in any way unless I consent, or unless I am not in a position to give you either my assent or dissent?”

“Yes!––I promise that.”

“There you are then.” Phil handed it to Langford, who opened a pocket in his belt and put it carefully inside.

“Guess we might have a bite of supper now,––eh, what!”

They drew in to the table; and that Christmas Eve supper was almost hilarious, for now there was no shadow between, and it meant an intense relief to both.

When the supper was nearing its end, Ah Sing, accompanied by two of his faithful feline devil-chasers, came in. He seemed somewhat sadder and more bland than usual.

“What’s the matter, Sing?” queried Jim.

“Oh,––me plenty mad,––me feel heap swear.”

He sat down very disconsolately, and the cats took immediate advantage of the shining moment by rubbing and purring pleasantly round and against their master’s legs.

“Tell us about it then. We savvy, Sing.”

“Oh,––my wifee––you know––she allee way live China. She make me angly. My fliend in China he send me photoglaph Chinee girlie. Me want get another wifee,––see!”

Sing handed over a picture of a typical country Chinese maid.

“Gee!––she’s a fine looker,––isn’t she, Phil?” exclaimed Jim with a wink, handing it over for Phil to examine.

“You bet she is!” conceded Phil.

Sing did not seem to enthuse.

“Oh, may be! Not too bad! Not velly muchee good! She thirteen year old. Her father he want me pay two hundled and fifty dollar for me catch her. I no likee velly much. I catch another. See! That one, she fourteen;––she cost four hundled dollar.”

The second picture was that of a decidedly prettier girl with a much more refined appearance than the first.

“Oh, she best. Sure thing!” said Jim.

“Yes,––she pletty good.”

“You catch her, Sing?”

Sing shook his head ruefully.

“No!––I no catch her. Make me heap swear. I save up four hundled dollar; I send allee money my wifee. I tell her buy that one for me,––see!

“She send me letter. I get him to-day. She tell me she get money, but she no buy other wifee for me. She buy house and ten acres land. Next time I go China, I tell her ‘Damn!’––see. I plenty heap swear.”

“I think she was a darned good judge,” remarked Phil, as he and Jim laughed loudly.

But Ah Sing could not see the joke nor could he grasp wherein came his wife’s good wisdom.

“What l’matter, you laugh?” he said. “Chinaman first wifee, she boss;––second wifee she do allee work. I catchee second wifee help my first wifee––see!”

“Pshaw! That’s all right for a bluff, Sing, but it won’t go down,” cried Phil. “Come on;––cheer up, and have a drink! This is Christmas time.”

“What you got?” asked Sing, brightening,––“Scotchee whisky?”

“No siree! This is none of your sheebeens,” replied Phil.

“You catchem sam souey?” returned Sing, his voice high and piping. “Sam souey pletty good.”

“No sam souey,––you tough nut! Here!”

Phil handed the Chinaman a bottle of lemonade. Sing’s face fell.

“Ah,––no good! He cleam soda.”

“Well––what’s the matter with it? I suppose you want something with a kick in it.”

“Kick? No savvy kick! Allee same, cleam soda you pullem cork––plup––whee––phizz––he jump out all over and he run allee way down stair before you catchem.

“Feed’m chicken cleam soda. No good Chinaman!”

“Yes,––you slit eyed Mongolian! That reminds me,” exclaimed Jim, his mouth half-full of apple-pie. “Talking about chickens,––what you do with all our chickens?”

“Chickens? No savvy!” innocently commented Sing, as he replaited and tied the black silk cords at the end of his pig-tail.

“You savvy all right,––you son-of-a-gun!

“Phil,––when we came here there were thirty-six chickens in our pen. We’ve had two to eat ourselves. I counted only fourteen there to-day. That’s twenty chickens gone somewhere.”

Ah Sing still shook his head.

“I know, I savvy!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Coyote catchem!”

“Coyote hell!” shouted Jim.

“Ya,––you bet! Coyote hell evely night. You hear’m?”

“Sure we hear them. The darned brutes howl and 300 laugh and keep us off our sleep every night the moon is up.”

“Well!––coyote catchem,” was all Sing would say.

“Yes!––and I suppose coyote leave bones in the garbage heap at your back door? Look here, Sing!––next time Chinese coyote take any more chicken, I fill him up buck shot out of that gun. No more chicken for you,––see!”

“All light!” conciliated the wily Chinaman, rising to go now that the discussion had come a bit too near home for his comfort. “I tell you quick next time coyote come––you fill him belly buck shot, heap plenty.”

Two hours later, when the moon came up, the coyotes certainly provided entertainment. They howled and laughed, taunting an old terrier dog which belonged to the ranch and had neither the speed nor the inclination to try its mettle against its vicious enemies. It growled and barked a-plenty, but the coyotes sensed their safety and ventured the closer and yelped the louder in sheer deviltry.

Jim and Phil got down their guns, in the hope of bagging at least one of the brutes, but before they got outside, a wild frightened squawking and a tremendous to-do of fluttering told its own story. They raced round, but by the time they got to the rear of the house the squawking was quite a bit away, and the moon, ere it shot behind a cloud, showed two distant, shadowy forms scurrying quickly over the hill with their kill.

Phil fired a shot, but it did not seem to take any effect.

“I guess we put too much blame on poor old Sing after all,” said Jim, “but I could have sworn he was meddling with these hens. I never knew the chink yet that could resist a chicken coop. He’s even worse than the nigger is for that.

“I can hear music down at Sing’s now; let us go quietly along and see what he is up to.”

They went on to Sing’s shack and peeped cautiously in at the window.

The Chinaman was sitting in a chair before his stove, scraping away on a Chinese fiddle, bringing the most unearthly cat-calls from the thing and singing to himself in a thin falsetto voice.

“He’s nothing if he is not musical,” remarked Jim.

Suddenly Sing stopped and laid down his fiddle. He rose, opened the oven door and brought out two beautifully roasted chickens, laid the pan down on top of the stove and rubbed his hands in pleasant anticipation.

“Well I’ll be darned!” whispered Jim.

“And we blamed it on the coyotes,” answered Phil. “Let us go in and scare the daylights out of him.”

For a moment Jim seemed inclined to follow Phil’s suggestion, but he relented.

“Och!––what’s the good? The poor deevil hasna a body to make frien’s o’, nor a thing to do to keep himsel’ out o’ mischief. Besides it is Christmas Eve. Let us bide in the spirit o’ it and leave the poor heathen to enjoy himsel’ for this once.

“Come on up hame to our virtuous cots!”