Bindloss Harold
Thurston of Orchard Valley

CHAPTER XIV
THE WORK OF AN ENEMY

It was a bitter morning when a weary man, sprinkled white with powdery snow, came limping into Thurston's camp, which was then pitched in the cañon. A pitiless wind swept down from the range side across the thrashing pines, and filled the deep rift with its shrill moaning which sounded above the diapason of the shrunken river. A haze of frost-dried snow infinitesimally fine, which stung the unprotected skin like the prick of hot needles, whirled before the wind and then thinned, leaving bare the higher shoulders of the hills, though a rush of dingy vapor hid the ice-ribbed peaks above. The cañon was a scene of appalling desolation, but few of the long-booted men who hurried among the boulders had leisure to contemplate it. The men were working for Geoffrey Thurston, who did not encourage idleness.

So the stranger came almost unnoticed into the center of the camp where Thurston saw him, and asked sharply, "Where do you come from, and what do you want?"

"I'm a frame-carpenter," answered the new arrival. "Got fired from the Hastings saw-mill when work slacked down. Couldn't find anybody who wanted me at Vancouver, so I struck out for the mountains and mines. Found worse luck up here; spent all my money and wore my clothes out, but the boss of the Orchard Mill, who took me for a few days, said I might tell you he recommended me. I'm about played out with getting here, and I'm mighty hungry."

Geoffrey looked the man over, and decided there was truth in the latter part of his story. "Take this spanner and wade across to the reef yonder," he said. "You can begin by giving aid to those men who are bolting the beams down."

The stranger glanced dubiously at the rush of icy water, thick with jagged cakes of frozen snow, then at his dilapidated foot gear, and hesitated. "I'm not great at swimming. It looks deep," he objected.

"You can walk, I suppose," Geoffrey answered. "If you do, it won't drown you."

The man prepared to obey. He had reached the edge of the water when Geoffrey called him. "I see you're willing, and I'll take you for a few weeks any way," he said. "In the meantime a rest wouldn't do you much harm, and the cook might find you something to keep you from starving until supper, if you asked him civilly."

"Thanks!" the man answered, with a curious expression in his face. "I am a bit used up, and I guess I'll see the cook."

Work proceeded until the winter's dusk fell, when a bountiful supper was served. The stranger, who did full justice to the meal, showed himself a capable hand when work was resumed under the flaring light of several huge lamps. That night two of his new comrades sat in the cook-shed discussing the stranger. One was James Gillow, whom Geoffrey had first employed at Helen's suggestion, and now replaced the man he formerly assisted. He was apparently without ambition, and chiefly remarkable for an antipathy to physical effort. Although he had a good education, he found that cooking suited him. He sat upon an overturned bucket discoursing whimsically, while Mattawa Tom, who acted as Thurston's foreman, peeled potatoes for him. The cook-shanty was warm and snug, and Gillow made those to whom he granted the right of entry work for the privilege.

"Strikes me as queer," said the big axeman, with a grin, when the cook halted to refill his pipe. "Strikes me as queer, it does, that some of you fellows who know so much kin do so little. Knowledge ain't worth a cent unless you've got the rustle. Now there's the boss. You talk the same talk, an' he can't well know more than you seem to do, but look where he is, while you stop right down at the bottom running a cook-shanty. Guess you were born tired, English Jim."

"I dare say you're right," answered Gillow. "Other folks in the Old Country have said the same thing, though they didn't put it so neatly. The fact is, some men, like Thurston, are born to wear themselves out trying to manage things, while I was intended for philosophic contemplation. He's occasionally hard to get on with, but since I came here, I'm willing to acknowledge that men of his species are useful, and I have struck harder masters in this great Dominion."

Mattawa Tom laughed hoarsely as he responded: "I should say! You found him hard the day you ran black lines all over his drawings and nearly burnt his shanty up, trying to prove he didn't know his business, when you was brim-full of Red Pine whiskey."

"It was poison," said Gillow, with unruffled good humor. "Several bottles of genuine whiskey would not confuse me, but I have sworn off since the day you mention, partly to oblige Thurston, who seemed to desire it, and because I can't get any decent liquor. But what do you think of our latest acquisition?"

"He kin work, which is more than you could, before the boss taught you," was the dry answer. "But there's something odd about him. You saw the outfit he came in with? Couldn't have swapped it with a Siwash Indian – well, the man has better clothes than you or I on underneath, and if he was so blame hard up, what did he offer Jake five dollars for his old gum boots for?"

"Afraid of wetting his feet. Most sensible person, considering the weather," remarked Gillow, indifferently.

"'Fraid of wetting his feet! This is just where horse sense beats knowledge. That fellow is scared of nothing around this camp. Hasn't it struck you the boss is going to put through a big contract in a way that's not been tried before, and that there are some folks who would put up a good many dollars to see him let down nicely?"

"Well?" Gillow questioned with a show of interest, and the foreman nodded sagaciously as he answered:

"Whoever busts the boss up will have to get both feet on the neck of Mattawa Tom first, and that's not going to be easy. I'll keep my eyes right on to that fellow."

Tom went out, and Gillow, awakening at midnight, saw that his blankets were still empty. The same thing happened several times, and it was well for Thurston that he had the true leader's gift of inspiring his followers with loyalty, for one night a week later the foreman, who had kept his own counsel, shook Gillow out of his slumber. The sleepy man, who groped for a boot to fling at the disturber of his peace, abandoned the benevolent intention when he saw his comrade's face under the hanging lamp.

"Don't ask no fool questions, but get your things on and come with me," Tom commanded.

Five minutes later Gillow, shivering and reluctant, turned out into the frost. It was a bitter night, and his breath froze upon his mustache. The snow and froth of the river glimmered spectrally, and when they had left the camp some distance behind, there was light enough to see a black figure crawl up a ladder leading to a wire rope stretched tight in mid-air above the torrent. A trolley hung beneath it by means of which men and material were hauled across the chasm.

"Get down here!" whispered Tom. "We'll watch him. If we should fall over any more of these blame rocks he'd see us certain."

Gillow was glad to obey, for, though there was faint moonlight, he had already cut one knee cruelly. It was bitterly cold beneath the boulder where he crouched in the snow, and when the black object, which worked its way along the bending cable, had disappeared in the gloom of overhanging rocks on the opposite shore, there was nothing to see but the tossing spray of the river. The stream was still a formidable torrent, though now that the feeding snows were frozen fast, it was shrunken far below its summer level. A good many minutes had passed with painful slowness when Gillow, who regretted that he had left the snug cook-shed, said:

"This is distinctly monotonous, and it's about time we struck back to camp. Guess that fellow has tackled too much Red Pine whiskey, and is just walking round to cool himself."

In answer the foreman grasped the speaker's shoulder, and stretched out a pointing hand. The moonlight touched one angle of the rock upon the opposite shore which encroached upon the frothing water, and the dark figure showed sharply against it. The figure vanished, reappeared, and sank from sight again. When this had happened several times Gillow remarked: "Perhaps we had better go over. The man's clean gone mad."

"No, sir!" objected Mattawa Tom. "No more mad than you. See what he's after? No! You don't remember, either, how mighty hard it was to wedge in the holdfasts for the chain guys stiffening the front of the dam, or how the keys work loose? There wouldn't be much of the boring machines or dam framing left if the chains pulled those wedges out. Catch on to the idee?"

Gillow gasped. The huge timber framing, which held back the river so that the costly boring machines could work upon the reef, cumbering part of its bed, had been built only with the greatest difficulty, and when finished Thurston had found it necessary to strengthen it by heavy chains made fast in the rock above. The sockets to which these were secured had been wedged into deep-sunk holes, but more than once some of the hard wood keys had worked loose, and Gillow could guess what would happen if many were partially set free at the same time.

"If he hammered three or four of those wedges clear it would only need a bang on another one to give the river its way," Gillow said excitedly. "Then it would take Thurston six months to fix up the damage, if he ever did, and nobody would know how it happened. The cold-blooded brute's in the maintenance gang?"

"Just so. A blame smart man, too!" asserted Mattawa Tom. "I guess the boss wouldn't want everybody to know. Rustle back your hardest and bring him along."

Fifteen minutes later Thurston took his place behind the boulder, and, because the light was clearer now, he could dimly see the man swinging a heavy hammer, against the rock. He knew that the miscreant, whose business was to prevent the possibility of such accidents, need only start a few more keys, which he would probably do when the dam was clear of men, and many thousand dollars' worth of property and the result of months of labor would be swallowed by the river. His face paled with fierce anger when he recognized this fact.

"I want that man," he declared with shut teeth. "I want him so badly that I'd forfeit five hundred dollars sooner than miss him. Slip forward, Gillow, as much out of sight as you can, and hide yourself on the other side of the ladder. Mattawa and I will wait for him here, and among us three we ought to make sure of him."

Gillow, who stole forward stooping, swore softly as he fell over many obstacles on the way. The man they wanted became visible, ascending another ladder across the river. Then, hanging in the suspended trolley, he moved, a black shape clear against the snow – along the wire which stretched high across the gulf. While the others watched him, his progress grew slower on reaching the hollow, where the cable bent slightly under the weight at its center. Suddenly the car's progress was checked altogether, and it began to move in the opposite direction more rapidly than before, while Thurston sprang to his feet.

"Slack the setting up tackles, Gillow. Hurry for your life," he shouted. "He'll cast the cable loose and be off by the Indian trail into the ranges, if he once gets across."

Gillow ran his best, where running of any kind was barely possible even by daylight. He knew that his master was slow to forgive those whose carelessness thwarted any plan, and that, while taking the easier way over instead of crawling round a ledge, he had probably alarmed the fugitive. He reached the foot of the ladder. Climbing up in a desperate hurry, he cast loose the end of the tackle by means of which the cable was set up taut, but neglected in his haste to take a turn with the hemp rope about a post, which would have eased him of most of the strain.

"Got him safe!" cried Tom from Mattawa, scrambling to the top of the boulder, as the curve of the wire rope high above their heads increased. In spite of the fugitive's efforts, the trolley from which he was suspended ran back to the slackest part of the loop that sagged down nearer the river. Thurston, who watched him, nodded with a sense of savage satisfaction. He did not for a moment believe that, of his own initiative, any workman would have made a long journey or would have run considerable personal risk to do him an injury. That was why he was so anxious to secure the offender.

The curve grew rapidly deeper, until the rope stretched into two diagonals between its fastenings on either shore. Then the trolley descended with a run towards the river, and Geoffrey ran forward, shouting, "The weight's too much for Gillow. Bring along the coil of line from the tool locker, Tom. Hurry, I don't want to drown the rascal."

What had happened was simple. The cook, endeavoring to take a turn of the line too late, had failed, and the hemp ran through his half-frozen fingers, chafing the skin from them. Seeing Thurston floundering in his direction over the boulders, he valiantly strove to check it, regardless of the pain until it was whipped clear of his slackening grasp and the trolley rushed downwards towards the torrent. Thurston was abreast of it before it splashed in, and had just time to see its occupant, still clutching the rope, drawn under by the sinking wire, before he plunged recklessly into the foam.

The water was horribly cold, and the first shock left him gasping and almost paralyzed. The stream was running fast, and rebounding in white foam from great stones and uneven ledges below. But the distance was short, and Thurston was a strong swimmer, so almost before the man had risen, he was within a few yards of the struggling figure. Hardly had Geoffrey clutched the man before Mattawa Tom, who had, meantime, run down stream, whirling a coil of line, loosed it, and the folds, well directed, shot through the air towards Geoffrey, uncoiling as they came. By good fortune Thurston was able to seize the end and to pass it around them both, when – for Gillow had by this time joined his companion – the two men blundered backwards up the contracted beach, and Thurston and the fugitive were drawn shorewards together, until their feet struck bottom.

Breathless and dripping, they staggered out, and, because Geoffrey still clutched the stranger's jacket, the man said:

"Mightily obliged to you! But you can let up now there's no more swimming. I couldn't run very far, if it was worth while trying to."

"You needn't trouble to thank me," was the answer. "It wasn't because I thought the world would miss you that I went into the water; but I can't expect much sense from a half-drowned man. Do you think the rest of the boys have heard us, Tom?"

The foreman glanced towards the tents clustered in the mouth of a ravine above, and seeing no sign of life there, shook his head, whereupon Geoffrey directed:

"Take him quietly to the cook-shed, and give him some whiskey. I've no doubt that in spite of my orders you have some. Lend him dry clothes, and bring him along to my shanty as soon as he's ready. Meantime, rouse the maintenance foreman, and, if any wedges have worked loose, let him drive them home."

"You're a nice man," commented Mattawa Tom, surveying the stranger disgustedly as the man stood with the water draining from him in the cook-shed. "Here, get into these things and keep them as a present. I wouldn't like the feel of them after they'd been on to you."

"That's all right!" was the cool answer. "I expect the game's up, and I'm quite ready to buy them of you. By the way, partner, you helped your boss to pull me out, didn't you? As I said before, I'm not great on swimming."

"I'm almost sorry I had to," said Mattawa Tom, who was a loyal partisan. "But don't call me 'partner,' or there'll be trouble."

The stranger laughed, as, after a glass of hot liquor, he arrayed himself beside the banked-up stove, and presently marched under escort towards Thurston's wood and bark winter dwelling. Mattawa Tom followed close behind him with a big ax on his shoulder.

"I might be a panther you'd corralled. How do you know I haven't a pistol in my pocket, if it was any use turning ugly?" the prisoner inquired.

"I'm quite certain about you, because your pistol is in my pocket," was the dry answer, and Tom chuckled. "You weren't quite smart enough when you slipped off your jacket."

From the door of his shanty, Thurston called them, and Mattawa, thrusting his prisoner in, proceeded to mount guard close outside until Thurston reappeared to ask angrily:

"What are you doing there?"

"I figured you might want me, sir. That man's not to be trusted," answered Tom, and Thurston laughed as he said:

"Go back, see that the maintenance man has made a good job of the wedges, and if any of the boys should ask questions you'll tell them – nothing," Geoffrey commanded. "You don't suppose I've suddenly grown helpless, do you?"

Mattawa Tom withdrew with much reluctance, and it was long before any person knew exactly what Geoffrey and the stranger said to each other, though Gillow informed his comrade that the captured man said to him, by way of explanation before sleeping:

"Your boss is considerably too smart a man for me to bluff, and I've kind of decided to help him. Shouldn't wonder if he didn't beat my last one, who would have seen me roasted before he'd have gone into a river for me. I'm not fond of being left out in the rain with the losing side, either, see? It's not my tip to talk too much, and I guess that's about good enough for you."

"You're going to help him!" commented Gillow, ironically. "All things considered, that's very kind of you."

Next morning Thurston, who summoned the cook and foreman before him, said: "I want you two to keep what happened last night a close secret, and while I cannot tell you much, I may say that the man who will remain in camp was, as you have no doubt guessed, only the cat's paw of several speculators, whom it wouldn't suit to see our employer, Savine, successful."

"But mightn't he try the same game again?" asked Mattawa, and Thurston answered:

"He might, but I hardly think he will. I intend to keep him here under my own eyes until I want him. There's no particular reason why you shouldn't see that he earns his wages, Tom. Gillow, it's perhaps not wholly unfortunate you dropped him into the river."

"Kind of trump ace up your sleeve!" suggested Mattawa, and his master answered with a smile:

"Not exactly. The other side is quite smart enough to know who holds the aces; but I fancy the complete disappearance of this few-spot card will puzzle them. Now, forget all about it. I wouldn't have said so much, but that I know I can trust you two!"

CHAPTER XV
A GREAT UNDERTAKING

Except for the wail of a wet breeze from the Pacific and the moaning of the pines outside, there was unusual quietness in the wood-built villa looking down upon the valley of the Hundred Springs on the night that the American specialist came up to consult with Savine's doctor from Vancouver. The master of High Maples had been brought home unconscious, some days earlier, and had lain for hours apparently on the point of death. During this time it was Thurston who took control of the panic-stricken household. It was he who telegraphed Thomas Savine to bring his wife. He had sent for the famous American physician and had allayed Helen's fears. When the girl's aunt arrived he had prevented that lady from undertaking the cure of the patient by her own prescription. Geoffrey's temper was never very patient, but he held it well in hand for Helen's sake.

On the night in question, Geoffrey anxiously awaited the physician's verdict. He was in the library with Thomas Savine, and had made spasmodic attempts to divert the attention of the kindly, gray-haired gentleman from the illness of his brother. At last, when the tension grew almost unbearable, Thomas Savine said:

"They cannot be much longer, and we'll hear their verdict soon. I'm trying to hope for the best, Thurston, knowing it can't be good all the time. This has been a blow to me. You see we were a one-man family, and it was Julius who started off all the rest of us. He must have been mighty sick of us several times after he married, but he never showed a sign of impatience. What a man he was – tireless, indefatigable, nothing too big for him – until his wife died. Then all the grit seemed to melt right out of him, and during the last few years I knew, what mighty few people besides yourself know now, that Julius was just a shadow of what he had been. He held all the wires in his own hands too long, and, as he hadn't an understudy with the grit to act by himself, I was glad when he took hold of you."

"He has always been a generous and considerate employer," interposed Geoffrey. "But I had better leave you. I hear the doctors coming."

Savine laid a detaining grasp upon his arm with the words: "I want you right here. It's your concern as well as mine."

The two doctors entered, and the one from Vancouver said:

"I will let my colleague express his opinion, and may say that our patient admitted to him a complicating weakness which I had suspected. I wish we had better news to give you, but while it was your brother's wish that Mr. Thurston should know, I should almost prefer first to communicate with his own family."

"You can both speak right out; only be quick about it," Thomas Savine told him.

"It is tolerably simple, and while I sympathize with you, I must not disguise the truth," said the keen-eyed, lean-faced American. "Though Mr. Savine will partly recover from this attack, his career as an active man is closed. His heart may hold out a few years longer, if you follow my instructions, or it may at any time fail him – if he worries over anything, it certainly will. In any case, he will never be strong again. Mental powers and physical vigor have been reduced to the lowest level by over-work and excessive, if intermittent, indulgence in what I may call a very devilish drug – a particular Chinese preparation of opium, not generally known even on this opium-consuming coast. Under its influence he may still be capable of spasmodic fits of energy, but while each dose will assist towards his dissolution, I dare not – at this stage – recommend complete deprivation. I have arranged with your own adviser as to the best treatment known to modern science, but fear it cannot prove very efficacious. That's about all I can tell you in general terms, gentlemen."

"It is worse than I feared," said Thomas Savine, leaning forward in his chair, with his elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands. Before the two doctors withdrew, the Canadian said:

"He is anxious to see Mr. Thurston, and in an hour or so it could do no harm. I will rejoin you shortly, Mr. Savine."

The door closed behind them, and Thomas Savine looked straight at Thurston as he observed: "I know little about his business, but shall have to look into it for his daughter's sake. You will help me?"

"Yes," replied Geoffrey. "It seems out of place now, but I cannot honestly co-operate with you without mentioning a conditional promise your brother made to me. Perhaps you can guess it."

"I can," said Savine, stretching out his hand. "I won't say that I hadn't thought Helen might have chosen among the highest in the Dominion just because it wouldn't be true, but you'll have my good wishes if you will see my poor brother through his immediate difficulties at least. You had Mrs. Savine's approval long ago." After a pause, he added, "There is one part of Julius's trouble Helen must never know."

The two men's fingers met in a grip that was more eloquent than many protestations, and Geoffrey went out into the moaning wind and, bareheaded, paced to and fro until he was summoned to the sick man's room. The few days that had passed since he had seen his employer had set their mark upon Savine. The sick man lay in his plainly-furnished room. With bloodless lips, drawn face, and curiously-glazed eyes, he was strangely different from his usual self, but he looked up with an attempt at his characteristic smile as Geoffrey approached. At a signal, the nurse slipped away.

"I asked them to tell you, so you might know the kind of man I am," said Savine. "You have got to exercise that partnership option one way or another right now. It is not too late to back out, and I wouldn't blame you."

"I should blame myself to my last day if I did, sir," answered Geoffrey, trying to hide the shock he felt, and Savine beckoned him nearer.

"It's a big thing you are going into, but you'll do it with both eyes wide open," he declared. "For the past few years Julius Savine has been a shadow, and an empty name, and his affairs are mixed considerably. Reckless contracts taken with a muddled brain and speculation to make up the losses, have, between them, resulted in chaos. I'm too sick to value what I own, and no accountant can. I ran things myself too long, and no one was fit to take hold when I slackened my grip. But there's still the business, and there's still the name, and the one man in this province I can trust them to is you. I should have let go before, but I was greedy – greedy for my daughter's sake."

"It is comprehensible." Geoffrey spoke with conviction. "So far as I can serve you, you can command me."

"I know it," was the answer. "What's more, I feel it in me that you will not lose by it. Lord, how hard it is, but there's no use whining when brought up sharp by one's own folly. But see here, Geoffrey Thurston, if Helen will take you willingly I can trust her to you; but if, when I go under, she looks beyond you, and you attempt to trade upon her gratitude or her aunt's favor, my curse will follow you. Besides, if I know Helen Savine, she will be able to repay you full measure should you win her so."

For just a moment the old flame of quick anger burned in Geoffrey's eyes. Then he responded.

"I regret you even imagine I could take an dishonorable advantage of your daughter. God forbid that I should ever bring sorrow upon Miss Savine. All I ask is a fair field and the right to help her according to her need."

"Forgive me!" returned Savine. "Of late I have grown scared about her future. I believe you, Thurston; I can't say more. I felt the more sure of you when you told me straight out about what was born in you. Lord, how I envied you! The man who can stand those devils off can do most anything. It was when my wife died they got their claws on me. I was trying to forget my troubles by doing three men's work, but you can't fool with nature, and I'd done it too long already. Anyway, when I couldn't eat or sleep, they had their opportunity. At first they made my brain work quicker, but soon after I fell in with you I knew that, unless he had a good man beside him, Savine's game was over. But I wouldn't be beaten. I was holding on for Helen's sake to leave her a fortune and a name.

"All this is getting monotonous to you but let me finish when I can." Savine waited a moment to regain his breath. "I cheated the nurse and doctor to-day, and I'll be very like a dead man to-morrow. You must go down to my offices and overhaul everything; then come right back and we'll see if we can make a deal. I'll have my proposition fixed up straight and square, but this is the gist of it. While doing your best for your own advantage, hold Julius Savine's name clean before the world, win the most possible for Helen out of the wreck, and rush through the reclamation scheme – which is the key to all."

"As you said – it's a big undertaking, but I'll do my best," began Geoffrey, but Savine checked him.

"Go down and see what you make of things. Maybe the sight of them will choke you off. I'll take no other answer. Send Tom to me," he commanded.

It was the next day when Geoffrey had an interview with Helen, who sent for him. She was standing beside a window when he came in. She looked tall in a long somber-tinted dress which emphasized the whiteness of her full round throat and the pallor of her face. The faint, olive coloring of her skin had faded; there were shadows about her eyes. At the first glance Geoffrey's heart went out towards her. It was evident the verdict of the physicians had been a heavy shock, but he fancied that she was ready to meet the inevitable with undiminished courage. Still, her fingers were cold when, for a moment, they touched his own.

"Sit down, Geoffrey. I have a great deal to say to you, and don't know how to begin," she said. "But first I am sincerely grateful for all you have done."

"We will not mention that. Neither, I hope, need I say that Miss Savine of all people could never be indebted to me. You must know it already."

Helen thanked him with her eyes as she sank into the chair he wheeled out so that the light left her face in shadow. Geoffrey stood near the window framing and he did not look directly towards her. Helen appreciated the consideration which prompted the action and the respect implied by his attitude.

"I am going to ask a great deal of you, and remind you of a promise you once made." There was a little tremor in her voice. "You will not think it ungracious if I say there is no one else who can do what seems so necessary, and ask you if you do not consider that you owe something to my father. It is hard for me, not because I doubt you, but because – "

Geoffrey checked her with a half-raised hand. "Please don't, Miss Savine – I can understand. You find it difficult to receive, when, as yet, you have, you think, but little to give. Would that make any difference? The little – just to know that I had helped you – would be so much to me."

Again Helen was grateful. The look of anxiety and distress returned as she went on.

"I dare spare no effort for my father's sake. He has always been kindness itself to me, and it is only now that I know how much I love him. Hitherto I have taken life too easily, forgetting that sorrow and tragedy could overtake me. I have heard the physician's verdict, and know my father cannot be spared very long to me. I also know how his mind is set upon the completion of his last great scheme. That is why, and because of your promise, I have dared ask help of – you."