Bindloss Harold
Thrice Armed

CHAPTER XVIII
ELEANOR SPEAKS HER MIND

The afternoon was hot and drowsily still when Merril drove his daughter down the dusty road which runs from New Westminster through the Fraser meadows. The team was a fast one, and the man, who had an appointment to keep in Vancouver, did not spare them. There were also reasons why he found rapid motion and the attention the mettlesome horses required a welcome distraction, for just then he was troubled with a certain sense of irritation which was unusual with him.

Merril was not a hot-tempered man; in fact, he owed his commercial success largely to the dispassionate coolness which rarely permitted his feelings to influence his actions, and it was characteristic of him that while he had a finger in a good many schemes the man himself never figured prominently in connection with any of them. His influence was felt, but he was in one sense rather an abstract force than a dominant personality. It was said of him that he always worked underground, and he certainly never made political speeches or favored the newspapers with his views; while, when the results of his unostentatious efforts became apparent in disaster to somebody, as they usually did, it generally happened that other men incurred the odium. There are, of course, financiers whose enterprises benefit the whole community, since they create new corn-fields and open mines and mills, but Merril's genius was rather of the destructive order, and it was not to anybody's advantage that he knew how to choose his time and instruments well. In person, he was little, somewhat portly, and very neatly dressed, a man who had never been known to lose his temper or force himself upon the citizens' attention.

Still, he was human, after all, and as he sat behind his costly team that afternoon he was thinking somewhat uneasily of the unexpected resistance certain land-jobbers in New Westminster had shown to his demands, and the attack on him which had just appeared in a popular journal. It was the second time the thing had happened, and, though he was not directly mentioned and the statements could scarcely be considered libelous, it was evident that a continuance of them would have the effect of turning the attention of those who read them upon his doings, which was just then about the last thing that he desired.

It accordingly happened that he drove a little faster than he generally did, until as the team swung out of a strip of shadowy bush he saw a jumper-sled loaded high with split-rails on the road close in front of him. He shouted to the man who walked beside the plodding oxen, never doubting that way would be made for him, especially as the teamster looked around. The oxen, however, went straight on down the middle of the road, and it was a trifle too late when Merril laid both hands upon the reins. In another moment there was a crash, and Anthea was almost shaken from her seat. When Merril swung himself down he saw that one wheel had driven hard against the jumper load. Then as he called to Anthea to move the team a pace or two, the patent bushing squeaked and groaned, and the wheel, after making part of a revolution, skidded on the road. The man who drove the oxen turned and favored him with a little sardonic grin.

"I hope the young lady's not shook too much," he said.

Anthea, who fancied it was with a purpose he confined this expression of regret, if, indeed, it could be considered such, to herself, was as a matter of fact considerably shaken and very angry.

"Why didn't you get out of the way when you heard my father shout?" she asked.

It was Merril at whom the man looked. "Well," he said reflectively, "I guess that load is heavy, and the oxen have been hauling hard since sun-up, while there's no reason why a rancher shouldn't use the road as well as anybody from the city. You should have pulled up sooner. Anyway, you're not going far like that."

Merril said nothing, though he could not very well have failed to notice the hint of satisfaction in the last remark. He very seldom put himself in the wrong by any ill-considered utterance, but Anthea was a trifle puzzled when he quietly walked to the horses' heads. She knew that the small ranchers are, for the most part, good-humored and kindly men, while, although she could not be certain that the one before them had contrived the mishap, it was evident that he had done very little to avert it. He made no further observation, and when he led his oxen into a neighboring meadow Merril told the girl to drive the horses slowly toward a ranch they could see ahead, and walked beside the wagon watching the wheel. It would turn once or twice and then stick fast and skid again; but they contrived to reach the ranch, and found a bronzed man in dusty jean leaning on the slip-rails.

"Have you a wagon-jack and a spanner?" asked Merril.

"I have," said the man, who made no sign of going for them.

"Then I should be obliged if you would lend me them," said Merril.

The man smiled dryly. "It can't be done. If that wheel won't turn, Miss Merril can come in and sit with my wife while you go somewhere and get it fixed. That's the most I can do for you."

"I suppose the man who wouldn't let us pass back yonder is a friend of yours?" and Merril looked hard at him.

"That's so. Runs this ranch with me. Guess you've seen me once before, though it was your clerk I made the deal with. That's why we're here on rented land making 'bout enough to buy groceries and tobacco. You know how much the ranch you bounced us out of was worth to you. Anyway, you can't have that jack and spanner."

Anthea flushed with anger, but she saw that her father was very quiet.

"Well," he said dryly, "they belong to you, but I'm not sure it wouldn't have been as wise to let me have them."

The rancher laughed. "You don't hold our mortgage now, and if I could get hold of that newspaper-man I could give him a pointer or two. Seems to me he's getting right down on to the trail of you. Are you coming in out of the sun, Miss Merril?"

"Certainly not," said Anthea; and the man took out his pipe and quietly filled it when Merril told her to walk the horses on again.

Though she was a trifle perplexed by what she had heard, it seemed to her that her father's attitude was the correct one, and she seldom asked unnecessary questions. She had lived away from home a good deal since the death of her mother when she was very young, but her father had always been indulgent, and she had cherished an unquestioning confidence in him. It was also pleasant to know that he was a man of mark and influence, and one looked up to by the community. Of late, however, several circumstances besides the newspaper attacks on him had seemed to cast a doubt upon the latter point, but she would not entertain it for a moment, or ask herself whether there was anything to warrant them. It was reassuring to remember her father's little smile when she had ventured to offer him her sympathy; but she could not help admitting that there must, at least, have been some cause for the rancher's rancor. The man, she felt, would not have displayed such vindictive bitterness without any reason at all. She, however, decided that he had no doubt made some imprudent bargain with her father, and was unwarrantedly blaming the latter for the unfortunate result of it.

They went on in silence, and Merril, who walked beside the wagon, shook the wheel loose now and then when the horses stopped, until they reached Forster's homestead. The rancher greeted Anthea pleasantly, but she felt that there was a subtle change in his manner when he turned to her father, who explained their difficulty.

"The trouble is that I have rather an important appointment in Vancouver this afternoon," said the latter.

"My wife is there now with our only driving wagon, or I would offer to take you over," said Forster. "I can, however, lend you a saddle-horse, and Miss Merril could stay with Miss Wheelock until we see what can be done with the wagon. If necessary, I will drive her across when my wife comes back."

Merril thanked him, and presently moved away toward the stable with the hired man while Forster led Anthea to the house, and left her in the big general room where, as it happened, Eleanor Wheelock sat sewing. The green lattices outside the open windows were partly drawn to, but the shadowy room was very hot, and the little air that entered brought the smell of the pines with it. It was not the aromatic scent they have at evening, but the almost overpowering smell filled with the clogging sweetness of honey the afternoon sun calls forth from them. The ranch was also very still, and for no evident reason Anthea felt the drowsy quietness weigh upon her. Her companion said nothing to break it, but sat near the window sewing quietly, and Anthea became sensible of a faint shrinking from the girl, though she would have liked to overcome it for reasons she was not altogether willing to confess to herself.

Eleanor Wheelock's face looked almost colorless by contrast with her somber dress, and there was a curious hardness in it, while Anthea, who remembered Leeson's speech in the Shasta's cabin, wondered whether she were making the very dainty garment for herself, since it was suggestive of wedding finery.

"That should be very effective," she said at length. "You intend to wear it?"

Eleanor looked up from her sewing. "Yes," she said, "I believe I shall."

Something in her voice struck Anthea as out of place in the circumstances, for one does not sew bitterness into wedding attire, while the suggestion of uncertainty which the speech conveyed was more curious still. Anthea felt there must be something more than the loss of her father to account for her companion's attitude; but that was naturally a thing she could not mention.

"I think I could venture to offer you my sympathy in what you have had to bear," she said. "I was very distressed to see the brief account in the newspaper."

Eleanor laid down her sewing, and looked at her steadily. "Why should you be?"

It was a disconcerting question, and asked with a still more disconcerting insistency. Anthea could not very well say that she did not know, nor yet admit that the news had grieved her because of her sympathy with Jimmy. Still, though she shrank from her, she desired this girl's good-will, and she compelled herself to an effort.

"In any case, I was sincerely sorry," she said. "Although I only met you that evening on board the Shasta, one could say as much without presuming. Besides, when we were away in the Sorata your brother did a good deal to make the cruise pleasant for Nellie Austerly and me."

"When he was Valentine's deck-hand?" and Eleanor looked at her with a little sardonic smile. "You no doubt allowed him to forget it occasionally, and Jimmy was grateful. In fact, he admitted as much to me. He was always foolishly impressionable."

Anthea felt her face grow warm, and though she was as a rule courageous, she was glad that she sat in the shadow. In several respects her companion's last suggestion appeared almost insufferable.

"Perhaps I laid myself open to this," she said. "It is seldom wise to make advances until one is reasonably sure of one's ground, but I do not understand why you should resent a few words spoken out of friendliness."

The little hard glint grew plainer in Eleanor's eyes. "Then I think you should do so. There is a very convincing reason why friendliness – of any kind – would be very unfitting between you and me – or, for that matter, between you and Jimmy."

Anthea would not ask the question that suggested itself, for it seemed to her, as, crushing down her anger, she sat and watched her companion, that the latter had been waiting for this opportunity. There was no mistaking the meaning of the thrill in her voice or the spot of color in her cheek, while the reference to Jimmy had its significance. She felt that the girl wished to hurt her.

"You admitted that you read the newspapers?" said Eleanor abruptly.

"Ah!" said Anthea; "I think I know what you mean by that. Naturally, I cannot discuss those libels with you."

"Libels!" and Eleanor laughed. "If you can believe them that, one would almost envy your credulity. Presumably your father has never mentioned our name to you?"

Anthea was somewhat startled, for, though Merril certainly had not done so, she remembered the momentary expression of his face when Forster had mentioned Miss Wheelock. She also remembered Jimmy's attitude on the evening she met him at Austerly's, and the suggestion of distance in Forster's manner to her father. It seemed that there were others as well as the rancher who did not believe the statements made in the paper to be libelous.

"He has not," she said very quietly. "Still, as I said, these are subjects I cannot discuss with everybody."

"And yet you were anxious to know why friendliness was out of the question between you and me! Well, I admit that I find a certain pleasure in telling you, and it isn't quite unnatural. You read how my father – Jimmy's father – died, but you do not know how he came to be living in that sordid shanty, an infirm and nerveless man. Your father slowly ruined him, wringing his few dollars out of him one by one, by practices no honorable man would condescend to, until there was nothing more he could lay his grasping hands upon. When that happened my father was broken in health and courage, and only wished to hide what he felt, most foolishly, was shameful poverty. There wore other things – things I cannot tell you of – but they make it clear that your father is directly responsible for my father's death."

She stopped abruptly and took up her sewing, but her face looked very grim and vindictive in its dead pallor, for the spot of color had faded now, and presently she flung the dainty fabric down again and looked steadily at her companion. Neither of them spoke for almost a minute, and once more Anthea felt the stillness of the ranch-house and the heavy honey-like smell of the pines curiously oppressive. She believed in her father, or had made up her mind to do so, which was, however, perhaps not quite the same thing; but she could not doubt that Eleanor Wheelock was firmly persuaded of the accuracy of the indictment that she had made. The passionate vindictive thrill in her voice had been absolutely genuine, and Anthea recognized that it could not have been so without some reason. Then Eleanor spoke again.

"You may wonder why I have told you this – though I am not quite sure that you do," she said. "Well, you at least understand why I resent your sympathy, and if I had any other purpose it may perhaps appear to you when you think over what you have heard."

Anthea rose at last, and turned toward her quietly, but with a certain rigidity of pose which had its significance. She stood very straight and looked at her companion with big, grave eyes.

"You have, at least, said all I care to listen to," she said.

"And I think sufficient," said Eleanor, with a bitter smile.

Then, and it was a relief to Anthea, Forster came in, and dropped into a chair.

"I fancy Jake will fix that wheel; but he may be an hour yet, and it's very hot," he said. "I don't want to break off your talk, but perhaps you could make us some tea, Miss Wheelock. I don't feel like waiting until supper."

Eleanor went out, and Anthea found it cost her an effort to talk tranquilly to Forster. She liked the man, but her mind was busy, and had there been any means available she would gladly have escaped from him. It was evident that Eleanor Wheelock believed what she had told her. The rancher who had kept his jumper in the way was as clearly persuaded that Merril had injured him, and it was conceivable that the newspaper-man also believed his statements warranted. If they were right, her father must have treated several people with considerable harshness, but she could not bring herself to admit that – at least, just then. She naturally did not know Eleanor Wheelock had foreseen that once her doubts were aroused, enlightenment would presently follow. Then there was the latter's veiled suggestion that she was attracted by Jimmy Wheelock, and had condescended to cajole or encourage him. Had she been alone, her cheeks would have tingled at the thought of it, for in one respect the notion was intolerable. Still, though it cost her an effort, she contrived to discourse with Forster, until at last the hired man announced that the wheel was fixed, and, thanking the rancher for his offer to accompany her, she drove on to Vancouver alone.

CHAPTER XIX
WOOD PULP

The fresh northwest breeze that crisped the Inlet swept in through the open ports and set the cigar smoke eddying about the table, when Jimmy sat with Jordan and another man in the Shasta's little stern cabin. Looking forward through the hooked-back door, he could see the lower yards and serried shrouds of a big iron ship that was lying half-loaded on the Shasta's starboard side. Beyond her there rode a little schooner with reefed mainsail and boom foresail thrashing, while the musical clinketty-clank of her windlass betokened that she was just going to sea. Jimmy's face grew a trifle hard as he heard it, for she was the Tyee.

Jordan sprawled on a settee not far away, and a burly, red-faced Briton who commanded the iron ship sat opposite to Jimmy, cigar in hand. The latter had the faculty some people possess of making friends, and, though they had after all seen very little of him, the shipmaster's manner was confidential.

"If the canners who are loading me had kept their promise I'd be driving south with the royals on her before this breeze instead of lying here," he said. "My broker doesn't know when they mean to send the rest of the cases down either, and it seems it's only now and then a mail goes up that coast. In fact, I've almost made up my mind to run round to the Columbia. I believe the packers would load me there."

"Port charges and tugs are expensive items," said Jordan thoughtfully. "Vancouver freights are tolerably good, and it might pay you to wait a week or so. You see that schooner on your quarter? She's going up to the cannery now."

The skipper made a little impatient gesture. "How long's she going to be getting there with a head-wind? Besides, all she could bring down would be nothing to me. I wouldn't have stayed so long, only that confounded broker told me a man called Merril was sending a steamer up."

"Then, since the schooner belongs to him, I guess he has changed his mind. How long would you wait for a steamboat load?"

"A week," said the skipper – "not a day more. I believe I could fill up on the Columbia, and, as there's not another vessel offering for the United Kingdom here, it would please me to feel that the canners would have to keep their salmon."

Jordan flashed a warning glance at Jimmy. "Well," he said, "it seems to me that if you will wait the week, you are going to get your freight. I can't tell you exactly why, but I wouldn't break out my anchor for another eight days if I were you."

"I can take a hint as well as another man;" and the skipper rose. "In the meanwhile, I'll go ashore and stir up that broker again. You'll have a head-wind if you're going north, Mr. Wheelock. Expect you to come off and feed with me when you're back again. Good luck!"

Jordan went with him to the gangway, and then came back and smiled at Jimmy.

"It's just as well you made the New Cannery people a half-promise you'd call this trip," he said. "Now I guess you've got to keep it. Things fit in. Merril, as usual, hasn't played a straight game with those packers. Took their transport contract, and when that headed off anybody else from going there, he sends the Tyee up instead of the steamboat. You'll be at the cannery two days ahead of her, anyway, and there's no reason why you shouldn't get every case they have on hand."

Jimmy made a sign of comprehension, and Jordan lighted another cigar before he opened the paper he had brought with him. "Now and then the little man gets a show, though it's usually when the big one isn't quite awake," he said. "You sit still there, and listen to this. 'The Provincial Legislature at length appears to recognize that its responsibilities are not confined to fostering the progress of the bush districts, and one contemplates with satisfaction a change in the policy which has hitherto incurred a heavy expenditure upon roads and bridges for the exclusive benefit of the ranchers. Now that retrenchment in this direction appears to be contemplated, there should be money to spare for equally desirable purposes.'"

He threw down the paper. "I guess that's going to cost Merril a pile, especially as the member for the district in which he is starting his wood-pulp mill shows signs of going back on him. From what the boys are saying, Merril has a pull on the man, but it seems his party has a stronger one."

"I don't quite understand," said Jimmy.

Jordan laughed softly. "It's interesting. Shows how things are run. Merril bought up a mortgage on a half-built wood-pulp mill which the men who began it couldn't finish, and fixed things so that by and by it belonged to him and two or three of his friends. Well, that mill was put where it is because they've a head of water that will give them power for nothing, and spruce fit for making high-grade pulp, but it's not on the railroad and not near the coast. The question is how to get their product out. There are big mills between them and the lake they could put a steamer on, and they'll have to lay down a wagon-road, underpinning a good deal of it on the mountain-side, and cutting odd half-miles of it out. That's going to cost them more than putting up their mill."

"Then how did they expect to hold their own with the mills now running?"

Jordan chuckled. "By getting the Province to make their road for them. Merril has influential friends, and one of them who went up not long ago discovered that there was a high-class ranching district behind the mill; it only wanted roads to bring the settlers in."

Then his face grew grave, and he sat silent a minute, or two before he spoke again.

"Jimmy," he said, with a very unusual diffidence, "there's a thing that is worrying me. It doesn't strike me as quite fitting that Eleanor should see so much of that blame Ontario man in Merril's office. He has been over twice in the last fortnight to Forster's ranch."

"Do you expect me to tell her so?"

"I do not. Guess she'd make you feel mean for a month after if you did. I want you to remember, all the time, that I'm sure of your sister – but I don't like the man. He had to get out of Toronto – and they're talking about him already in the saloons. Seems to me she's playing a dangerous game in fooling him."

"Fooling him?"

"That's so. He put some money into Merril's business, and it's quite likely he knows a little of his hand. Eleanor has made up her mind to know it, too."

Jimmy flushed. "The thing must be stopped."

"Well," said Jordan ruefully, "that's how I feel, but the trouble is I don't quite know how it can be done. For one thing, I'm going to run up against that Toronto man, though I don't expect Eleanor to be nice to me after it."

"You can't think she has any liking for him?"

Jordan turned on him with a snap in his eyes. "I don't. If I did, I should not have mentioned it to you. Guess I'd stake my life any time on Eleanor's doing the straight thing by me. It's what those – hotel slouches will say about her I don't like to think of; and you have to remember she'd go through fire to bring down the man who ruined your father. In one way, that's natural – but the thing has been worrying me."

Just then there was a splash of approaching oars, and Jordan rose. "That's the mate with your papers, and I guess I'll go," he said. "Get every case of that salmon – and remember what I've told you if you hear of any trouble between Eleanor and me. It won't be due to jealousy, but because I've spoiled her hand."

He left Jimmy, who remembered what he had seen in Eleanor's face the night she had talked to him of Merril, thoughtful when he rowed away. It appeared very probable that she would make things distinctly unpleasant for her suitor if he rashly ventured to interfere with any project she might have in view. Jimmy, in fact, felt tempted to sympathize with Jordan.

In a few minutes, however, he proceeded to take the Shasta out, and drove her hard all that night into a short head-sea. She had left the comparative shelter of Vancouver Island behind, and was rolling out with whirling propeller flung clear every now and then, head on to the big, white-topped combers, when as he stood dripping on his bridge a schooner running hard materialized out of the rain and spray. Jimmy pulled the whistle lanyard, and the man behind him hauled his wheel over a spoke or two; but the schooner came on heading almost for him, and rolling until her mastheads swung over the froth to weather. Her mainboom was down on her quarter, and she had only her foresail set and a little streaming jib.

She drove the latter into the back of a big gray-and-white sea as she went by, and when she hove it high once more while the water sluiced along her deck, Jimmy, who could look down at her from his bridge, recognized her as a vessel that had once belonged to his father. She drove past with a drenched object clinging desperately to her wheel, and Jimmy smiled as she vanished into the rain again, for it seemed to him that, as his comrade had said, fortune favored the little man now and then. Merril had evidently sent two schooners up to the cannery, but the Tyee was some sixty miles astern of the Shasta, and it was clear that the skipper of the other vessel could no longer thrash her to windward in that weather. There was, he believed, a good deal of salmon at the cannery, and all he had to do was to take the Shasta there.

It was, however, not particularly easy. The breeze freshened steadily, until she put her forecastle under and hove her stern out at every plunge, while her propeller shook her in every plate as it whirred in empty air. A man could scarcely venture forward along her brine-swept deck, and at times when Jimmy had to cling to the bridge-rails for his life she rolled until all her rail was in the sea. He was battered and blinded by flying spray, and when the black night came he could not see an arm's-length in front of him; but the telegraph still stood at full-speed, and the Shasta resolutely butted the big foaming seas. At last she ran in among the islands, where there was smoother water, and Jimmy was rowed ashore, red-eyed, half-asleep, and aching in every limb, when he had brought her up off a certain icy, green-stained river. As it happened, the man in charge of the cannery on its bank was unusually pleased to see him, though he did not say so. He gave Jimmy a cigar in his office, and when they sat down looked at him thoughtfully.

"It's rather a long way up here, and it will cost you a little in coal if you mean to make your usual trip," he said. "I don't think I made you any definite promise."

Jimmy smiled. "Still, I said I would call."

"Then I wish some of the other people with whom we trade were as punctilious. I suppose you expect something now you're here?"

"I do," said Jimmy. "In fact, I almost fancy it's going to suit you to fill me up."

"I think I mentioned we had a standing arrangement with Mr. Merril."

"You did," said Jimmy cheerfully. "He's sending you up two schooners. It will be a week before they are here. I passed one of them yesterday running back for shelter, and the other's – anyway – sixty miles astern of her."

"The wind may change, and they wouldn't be long getting here with sheets slacked away."

"It won't change," said Jimmy. "Look at your glass. That rise means northerly weather."

The canner appeared to consider. "Well," he said, "I gave you a few cases once or twice, and, though we have an arrangement with Merril, I can fill you up one hatch now at the rate you fixed."

"I can't trade on those terms. The rate in question was a special cut. We made it to get in ahead of Merril; but when the time came, you didn't give us an opportunity for tendering for your carrying. In fact, I hear he's getting more than I did. That, however, does not directly concern me, and you no doubt understand your own business; but I should like to mention that the Agapomene's skipper will not wait a day longer than next Thursday."

The canner looked hard at him. "You will excuse my asking if that is a sure thing?"

"You mean am I talking quite straight?" and a suggestive dryness crept into Jimmy's tone. "I can only say that the man, who did not know I was coming here, assured me of it just before I went to sea. It would, of course, be easy for you to wait and find out whether you could believe me. Only the fact that you had done so would naturally place you in a difficulty, since the Agapomene would have gone to sea, and there isn't another vessel offering."

"Well?" said the canner.

Jimmy smiled at him. "I want two things – every case you have ready, and a rate equal to what you're giving Merril. It is not very much, after all. As you know, since Merril's schooners can't get here until there is a change of wind, I could strike you for double."

The canner sat silent a moment or two, and then laughed good-humoredly. "To be quite straight, the last was what I expected. Now, I'm not the only man in this concern, and the people who have the most say are, as usual, in Victoria. I know why they made the deal with Merril, and while, as you say, that does not concern you, it didn't quite please me. Anyway, he hasn't kept his arrangement, and has put the screw on us in several ways; so if you'll warp your boat in we'll heave the cases into her. There's just another thing. Come back when you lighten her, and if this run of fish lasts I'll do what I can to make it worth your while."

Jimmy thanked him, and went out to bring the Shasta alongside the little wharf, after which he went to sleep, though almost every other man on board was kept busy stowing salmon-cases all that night.