The half-moon Barbara watched from her window floated slowly above the serrated tops of the dusky pines when Brooke groped his way through their shadow across a strip of the Englishman's swamp. The ranch which he was making for rose darkly before him with the willows clustering close up to that side of it, and he stopped and stood listening when he reached them. The night was very still, so still, indeed, that the deep silence vaguely troubled him. High above the climbing forests great ramparts of never-melting snow gleamed against the blue, and standing there, hot, breathless, and a trifle muddy, he felt their impressive white serenity, until he started at a faint rattle in the house. It ceased suddenly, but it had set his heart throbbing unpleasantly fast, though he was sensible of a little annoyance with himself because this was the case.

There was nothing he need fear, and he was, indeed, not quite sure that the prospect of facing a physical peril would have been altogether unpleasant then. Devine was away, the women were doubtless asleep, and it was the fact that he was about to creep like a thief into a house where he had been hospitably welcomed which occasioned his uneasiness. It was true that he only meant to acquire information which would enable him to recover the dollars he had been defrauded of, but the reflection brought him no more consolation than it had done on other occasions when he had been sensible of the same disgust and humiliation.

He was, however, at the same time sensible of a faint relief, for the position had been growing almost intolerable of late, and, though he shrank from the revelation, it seemed preferable that Barbara Heathcote should see him in the true light at last. This, it was evident, must happen ultimately, and now it would, at least, dispense with the hateful necessity of continuing the deception. He had also, though that appeared of much less importance then, met with further difficulties at the cañon, and he realized almost with content that Devine would in all probability pay him nothing for the uncompleted work. He did not wish to feel that he owed Devine anything.

In the meanwhile a little bent branch from which the bruised leaves drooped limply caught his eye, for he had trained his powers of observation following the deer at the ranch, and moving a trifle he noticed one that was broken. It was evident that somebody had recently forced his way through the thicket towards the house, and he wondered vacantly why anyone should have done so when a good trail led round the copse. The question would probably not have occupied his attention at any other time, but just then he was glad to seize upon anything that might serve to distract his thoughts from the purpose he had on hand.

He could not, however, stay there considering it, and following the bend of the willows he came to the door of the ranch kitchen, behind which the office stood, and once more he stopped to listen. There was nothing audible but the distant roar of the cañon, and, though nobody could see him, he felt his face grow hot as he laid one hand upon the door and inserted the point of a little steel bar in the crevice. Devine's office was isolated from the rest of the ranch, but Brooke felt that if anybody heard the sound he expected to make he would not be especially sorry. He would not abandon his project, but he could have borne anything that made it impracticable with equanimity.

The door, however, somewhat to his astonishment, swung open at a touch, and he crept in noiselessly with an even greater sense of degradation. The inmates of the ranch were, it seemed, wholly unsuspecting, and he whom they had treated with gracious kindliness was about to take a shameful advantage of their confidence. Still, he crossed the kitchen carrying the little bar and did not stop until he reached the office door. This stood ajar, but he stood still a moment in place of going in, longing, most illogically, for any interruption. The ranch seemed horribly and unnaturally still, for he could not hear the sound of the river now, until there was a low rustle that set him quivering. Somebody, it appeared, was moving about the room in front of him. Then a board creaked sharply, and with every nerve strung up he drew the door a trifle open.

A faint stream of radiance shone in through the window, but it fell upon the wall opposite, and the rest of the room was wrapped in shadow, in which he could just discern a dim figure that moved stealthily. It was evidently a man who could have come there with no commendable purpose, and as he recognized this a somewhat curious thing happened, for Brooke's lips set tight, and he clenched the steel bar in a fit of venomous anger. It did not occur to him that his own object was, after all, very much the same as the stranger's, and creeping forward noiselessly with eyes fixed on the dusky figure he saw it stoop and apparently move a book that stood on what seemed to be a box. That movement enabled him to gain another yard, and then he stopped again, bracing himself for the grapple, while the dim object straightened itself and turned towards the light.

Brooke could hear nothing but the throbbing of his heart, and for a moment his eyes grew hazy; but that passed, and he saw the man hold up an object that was very like a tin case. He moved again nearer the light, and Brooke sprang forward with the bar swung aloft. Quick as he was, the stranger was equally alert, and stepped forward instead of back, while next moment Brooke looked into the dully glinting muzzle of a pistol.

"Stop right where you are!" a voice said.

Brooke did as he was bidden, instinctively. Had there been any unevenness in the voice he might have risked a rush, but the grim quietness of the order was curiously impressive, and for a second or two the men stood tense and motionless, looking at one another with hands clenched and lips hard set Brooke recognized the intruder as a man who wheeled the ore between the mine and stamps, and remembered that he had not been there very long.

"What do you want here?" he said, for the silence was getting intolerable.

The man smiled grimly, though he did not move the pistol, and his eyes were unpleasantly steady.

"I was going to ask you the same thing, but it don't count," he said. "There's a door yonder, and you have 'bout ten seconds to get out of it. If you're here any longer you're going to take tolerably steep chances of getting hurt."

Brooke realized that the warning was probably warranted, but he stood still, stiffening his grasp on the bar, for to vacate the position was the last thing he contemplated. Barbara Heathcote was in the ranch, and he did not remember that she had also two companions then. Nor did he know exactly what he meant to do, that is, while the stranger eyed him with the same unpleasant steadiness, for it was evident that a very slight contraction of his forefinger would effectually prevent him doing anything. Then while they stood watching each other breathlessly for a second or two a door handle rattled and Brooke heard a rustle of draperies.

"Look behind you!" said the stranger, sharply.

Brooke, too strung up to recognize the risk of the proceeding, swung round almost before he heard him, and then gasped with consternation, for Barbara stood in the entrance holding up a light. She was, however, not quite defenseless, as Brooke realized when he saw the gleaming pistol in her hand. Next moment his folly, and the fact that the stranger had also seen it, became evident, for there was a hasty patter of feet, and when Brooke turned again he had almost gained the other door of the room. Barbara, who had moved forward in the meanwhile, however, now stood between him and it, and turning half round he raised the pistol menacingly. Then with hand clenched hard upon the bar Brooke sprang.

There was a flash and a detonation, the acrid smoke drove into his eyes, and he fell with a crash against the door, which was flung to in front of him. He had, as he afterwards discovered, struck it with his head and shoulder, but just then he was only sensible of an unpleasant dizziness and a stinging pain in his left arm. Then he leaned somewhat heavily against the door, and he and the girl looked at each other through the filmy wisps of smoke that drifted athwart the light, while a rapid patter of footsteps grew less distinct. Barbara was somewhat white in face, and her lips were quivering.

"Are you hurt?" she said, and her voice sounded curiously strained.

"No," said Brooke, with a little hollow laugh. "Not seriously, anyway. The fellow flung the door to in my face, and the blow must have partly dazed me. That reminds me that I'm wasting time. Where is he now?"

Barbara made a little forceful gesture. "Halfway across the clearing, I expect. You cannot go after him. Look at your arm."

Brooke turned his head slowly, for the dizziness he was sensible of did not seem to be abating, and saw a thin, red trickle drip from the sleeve of his jean jacket, which the moonlight fell upon.

"I scarcely think it's worth troubling about. The arm will bend all right," he said. "Still, perhaps, you wouldn't mind very much if I took this thing off."

He seized the edge of the jacket, and then while his face went awry let his hand drop again.

"It might, perhaps, be better to cut the sleeve," he said. "Could you run this knife down the seam? The jean is very thin."

The girl's hand shook a little as she opened the knife he passed her, and just then a cry came down faintly from one of the rooms above. Barbara swung round swiftly, and moved into the corridor.

"Nothing very dreadful has happened, and I am coming back in a minute or two, but whatever you do don't come down," she said authoritatively, and Brooke heard a door swing to above.

Then she came towards him quietly, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Keep still, and I will not be long. Katty is apt to lose her head," she said.

Her fingers still quivered a little, but she was deft in spite of it, and when the slit sleeve fell away Brooke sat down on the table with a little smile.

"Very sorry to trouble you," he said. "I don't know much about these things, but the artery evidently isn't cut, and I don't think the bone is touched. That means there can't be very much harm done. Would you mind tying my handkerchief tightly round it where I've laid my finger?"

Barbara, who did so, afterwards sat down in the nearest chair, for she felt a trifle breathless as well as somewhat limp, and there was an embarrassing silence, while for no very apparent reason they now avoided looking at one another. A little filmy smoke still drifted about the room, and a short steel bar, a tin case, and a litter of papers lay between them on the floor. There were red splashes on one or two of the latter.

"The man must have dropped them," said Barbara, quietly, though her voice was still not quite her usual one. "He, of course, brought the bar to open the door with."

Brooke did not answer the last remark.

"I fancy he dropped them when he flung the door in my face," he said.

"Of course!" said Barbara. "He had his hands full."

The point did not seem of the least importance to her, but she was shaken, and felt that the silence which was growing significant would be insupportable. Then a thought struck her, and she looked up suddenly at the man.

"But, now, I remember, you had the bar," she said.

"Yes," said Brooke, very simply, though his face was grim. "I certainly had."

The girl had turned a little so that the light shone upon her, and he saw the faint bewilderment in her eyes. It, however, vanished in a moment or two, but Brooke decided that if he guessed her thoughts correctly he had done wisely in admitting the possession of the bar.

"Of course! You hadn't a pistol, and it was, no doubt, the only thing you could find," she said. "I'm afraid I did not even remember to thank you, but to tell the truth I was too badly frightened to think of anything."

Brooke nodded comprehendingly, but Barbara noticed that the blood was in his cheeks and he smiled in a very curious fashion.

"I scarcely think I deserve any thanks," he said.

Barbara made a little gesture. "Pshaw!" she said. "You are not always so conventional, and both I and Grant Devine owe you a great deal. The man must have been a claim-jumper, and meant to steal those papers. They are – the plans and patents of the Canopus."

She stopped a moment, and then, seeing Brooke had noticed the momentary pause, continued, with a little forced laugh and a flush in her cheeks, "That was native Canadian caution asserting itself. I am ashamed of it, but you must remember I was rather badly startled a little while ago. There is no reason why I should not tell – you – this, or show you the documents."

Brooke made a little grimace as though she had hurt him physically.

"I think there is," he said.

The girl stared at him a moment, and then he saw only sympathy in her eyes.

"I'm afraid my wits have left me, or I would not have kept you talking while you are in pain. Your arm hurts?" she said.

"No," said Brooke, drily. "The arm is, I feel almost sure, very little the worse. Hadn't you better pick the papers up? You will excuse me stooping to help you. I scarcely think it would be advisable just now."

Barbara knelt down and gathered the scattered documents up, while the man noticed the curious flush in her face when one of them left a red smear on her little white fingers. Rising, she held them up to him half open as they had fallen, and looked at him steadily.

"Will you put them straight while I find the band they were slipped through?" she said.

Brooke fancied he understood her. She had a generous spirit, and having in a moment of confusion, when she was scarcely capable of thinking concisely, suggested a doubt of him, was making amends in the one fashion that suggested itself. Then she turned away, and her back was towards him as she moved slowly towards the door, when a plan of the Canopus mine fell open in his hand. The light was close beside him, but he closed his eyes for a moment and there was a rustle as the papers slipped from his fingers, while when the girl turned towards him his face was awry, and he looked at her with a little grim smile.

"I am afraid they are scattered again," he said. "It was very clumsy of me, but I find it hurts me to use my left hand."

Barbara thrust the papers into the case. "I am sorry I didn't think of that," she said. "Even if you don't appreciate my thanks you will have to put up with my brother-in-law's, and he is a man who remembers. It might have cost him a good deal if anybody who could not be trusted had seen those papers – and now no more of them. Take that canvas chair, and don't move again until I tell you."

Brooke made no answer, and Barbara went out into the corridor.

"Will you dress as quickly as you can, Katty, and come down," she said. "I don't know where you keep the decanters, and I want to give Mr. Brooke, who is hurt a little, a glass of wine."

Brooke protested, but Barbara laughed as she said, "It will really be a kindness to Katty, who is now, I feel quite sure, lying in a state of terror, with everything she dare reach out to get hold of rolled about her head."

It was three or four minutes later when Mrs. Devine appeared, and Barbara turned towards her, speaking very quietly.

"There is nothing to be gained by getting nervous now," she said. "A man came in to steal Grant's papers about the mine, and Mr. Brooke, who saw him, crept in after him, though he had only a little bar, and the man had a pistol. I fancy Grant is considerably indebted to him, and we must, at least, keep him here until one of the boys brings up the settlement doctor."

Brooke rose to his feet, but Barbara moved swiftly to the door and turned the key in it.

"No," she said, decisively. "You are not going away when you are scarcely fit to walk. Katty, you haven't brought the wine yet."

Brooke sat down again, and making no answer, looked away from her, for though he would greatly have preferred it he scarcely felt capable of reaching his tent. Then there was silence for several minutes until Mrs. Devine came back with the wine.

"You are going to stay here until your arm is seen to. My husband would not be pleased if we did not do everything we could for you," she said.

XVIII.
BROOKE MAKES A DECISION

It was the second morning after the attempt upon the papers, and Brooke lay in a basket chair on the little verandah at the ranch. In spite of the settlement doctor's ministrations his arm was a good deal more painful than he had expected it to be, his head ached; and he felt unpleasantly lethargic and limp. It, however, seemed to him that this wound was not sufficiently serious to account for this, and he wondered vaguely whether it resulted from too strenuous physical exertion coupled with the increasing mental strain he had borne of late. That question was, however, of no great importance, for he had a more urgent one to grapple with, and in the meanwhile it was pleasant to lie there and listen languidly while Barbara talked to him.

The sunshine lay bright upon the climbing pines which filled the listless air with resinous odors, but there was restful shadow on the verandah, and wherever the eye wandered an entrancing vista of gleaming snow. Brooke had, however, seen a good deal of snow, and floundered through it waist-deep, already, and it was the girl who sat close at hand, looking, it seemed to him, refreshingly cool and dainty in her loose white dress, his gaze most often rested on. Her quiet graciousness had also a soothing effect upon the man who had risen unrefreshed after a night of mental conflict which had continued through the few brief snatches of fevered sleep. Brooke felt the need of moral stimulant as well as physical rest, for the struggle he had desisted from for the time was not over yet.

He was tenacious of purpose, but it had cost him an effort to adhere to the terms of his compact with Saxton, and it was with a thrill of intense disgust he realized how far it had led him when he came upon the thief, for there was no ignoring the fact that it would be very difficult to make any great distinction between them. It had also become evident that he could not continue to play the part Saxton had allotted him, and yet if he threw it over he stood to lose everything his companion, who was at once a reproach to him and an incentive to a continuance in the career of deception, impersonated. Her society and his few visits to the ranch had shown him the due value of the refinement and congenial environment which no man without dollars could hope to enjoy, and re-awakened an appreciation of the little amenities and decencies of life which had become scarcely more than a memory to him. With the six thousand dollars in his hands he might once more attain them, but it was now evident that the memory of how he had accomplished it would tend to mar any satisfaction he could expect to derive from this. He could, in the meanwhile, neither nerve himself to bear the thought of the girl's scorn when she realized what his purpose had been, nor bid her farewell and go back to the aimless life of poverty. One thing alone was certain. Devine's papers were safe from him.

He lay silent almost too long, watching her with a vague longing in his gaze, for her head was partly turned from him. He could see her face in profile, which accentuated its clean chiselling, while her pose displayed the firm white neck and fine lines of the figure the thin white dress flowed away from. He had also guessed enough of her character to realize that it was not to any approach to physical perfection she owed most of her attractiveness, for it seemed to him that she brought with her an atmosphere of refinement and tranquillity which nothing that was sordid or ignoble could breathe in. Perhaps she felt his eyes upon her, for she turned at last and glanced at him.

"I have been thinking – about that night," she said.

"You really shouldn't," said Brooke, who felt suddenly uneasy. "It isn't worth while."

Barbara smiled. "That is a point upon which opinions may differ, but I understand your attitude. You see, I have been in England, and you apparently believe it the correct thing to hide your light under a bushel there."

"No," said Brooke, drily, "at least, not all of us. In fact, we are not averse from graciously permitting other folks, and now and then the Press, to proclaim our good deeds for us. I don't know that the more primitive fashion of doing it one's self isn't quite as tasteful."

Barbara shook her head. "There are," she said, "several kinds of affectation, and I am not to be put off. Now, you are quite aware that you did my brother-in-law a signal service, and contrived to get me out of a very unpleasant, and, I fancy, a slightly perilous situation."

The color deepened a little in Brooke's face, and once more he was sensible of the humiliation that had troubled him on previous occasions, as he remembered that it was by no means to do Devine a service he had crept into the ranch. It was a most unpleasant feeling, and he had signally failed to accustom himself to it.

"I really don't think there was very much risk," he said. "Besides, you had a pistol."

Barbara laughed softly. "I never fired off a pistol in my life, and I almost fancy there was nothing in the one in question."

"Didn't you notice whether there were any cartridges in the chamber?"

"No," said Barbara. "I'm not sure I know which the chamber is, but I pressed something I supposed to be the trigger, and it only made a click."

Brooke glanced at her a trifle sharply. "You meant to fire at the man?"

"I'm afraid I did. Was it very dreadful? He was there with an unlawful purpose, and I saw his eyes grow wicked and his hand tighten just as you sprang at him. Still, I was almost glad when the pistol did not go off."

She seemed to have some difficulty in repressing a shiver at the recollection, and Brooke sat silent for a moment or two with his heart throbbing a good deal faster than usual. He could guess what that effort had cost his companion, and that it was his peril which had nerved her to overcome her natural shrinking from taking life. Perhaps Barbara noticed the effect her explanation had on him, and desired to lessen it, for she said, "It really was unpleasant, but I remembered that you had come there to ensure the safety of my brother-in-law's property, and one is permitted to shoot at a thief in this country."

Brooke, who could not help it, made a little abrupt movement, and felt his face grow hot as he wondered what she would think of him if she knew the purpose that had brought him there. The fact that she seemed quite willing to believe that one was warranted in firing at a thief had also its sting.

"Of course!" he said. "I am, however, inclined to think you saved my life. The man probably saw your hand go up and that made him a trifle too precipitate. Still, perhaps, he only wanted to look at your brother-in-law's papers and had no intention of stealing anything."

Barbara, who appeared glad to change the subject, smiled.

"Admitting that, I can't see any great difference," she said. "The man who runs a personal risk to secure a wallet with dollar bills in it that belongs to somebody else naturally does not expect commendation, or usually get it, but it seems to me a good deal meaner thing to steal a claim by cunning trickery. For instance, one has a certain admiration for the train robbers across the frontier. For two or three road-agents – and there are not often more – to hold up and rob a train demands, at least, a good deal of courage, but to plunder a man by prying into his secrets is only contemptible. Don't you think so?"

Brooke winced beneath her gaze.

"Well," he said slowly, "I suppose it is. Still, you see there may be excuses even for such a person."

"Excuses! Surely – you – do not feel capable of inventing any for a claim-jumper?"

Brooke felt that in his case there were, at least, one or two, but he had sufficient reasons for not making them clear to the girl.

"Well," he said, "I wonder if you could make any for a train-robber?"

Barbara appeared reflective. "We will admit that the dishonesty is the same in both cases, though that is not quite the point. The men who hold a train up, however, take a serious personal risk, and stake their lives upon their quickness and nerve. They have nobody to fall back upon, and must face the results if the courage of any of the passengers is equal to theirs. Daring of that kind commands a certain respect. The claim-jumper, on the contrary, must necessarily proceed by stealth, and, of course, rarely ventures on an attempt until he makes sure that the law will support him, because the man he means to rob has neglected some trivial requirement."

"Then it is admissible to steal, so long as you do it openly and take a personal risk? Still, I believe I have heard of claim-jumpers being shot, though I am not quite sure that it happened in Canada."

Barbara laughed. "They probably deserved it. It is not admissible to steal under any circumstances, but the safer and more subtle forms of theft are especially repellent. Now, I think I have made out my case for the train-robber, but I cannot see why you should constitute yourself an advocate for the claim-jumper."

Brooke contrived to force a smile. "It is," he said, "often a little difficult to make sure of one's motives, but we can, at least, take it for granted that the man who robs a train is the nobler rascal."

Barbara, who appeared thoughtful, sat silent awhile. "It was fortunate you arrived when you did that night," she said, meditatively. "Still, as you could not well have known the man meant to make the attempt, or have expected to find anybody still awake at the ranch, it seems an almost astonishing coincidence."

Though he surmised that no notion of what had brought him there had entered his companion's mind, Brooke felt hot to the forehead now, for he was unpleasantly sensible that the girl was watching him. An explanation that might have served also suggested itself to him, but he felt that he could not add to his offences.

"It certainly was," he said, languidly. "I have, however, heard of coincidences that were more astonishing still."

Barbara nodded. "No doubt," she said. "We will let it go at that. As you may have noticed, we are now and then almost indecently candid in this country, but I agree with my brother-in-law who says that nobody could make an Englishman talk unless he wanted to."

"Silence is reputed to be golden," said Brooke, reflectively, "and I really think there are cases when it is. At least, there was one I figured in when some two or three minutes' unchecked speech cost me more dollars than I have made ever since. It happened in England, and I merely favored another man with my frank opinion of him. After a thing of that kind one is apt to be guarded."

"I think you should cultivate a sense of proportion. Can one make up for a single mistake in one direction by erring continually in the opposite one? Still, that is not a question we need go into now. You expect to get the rope across the cañon very shortly?"

"Yes," said Brooke, whose expression changed suddenly, "I do."

"And then?"

Brooke, who felt the girl's eyes upon him, and understood what she meant, made a little gesture. "I don't know. I shall probably take the trail again. It does not matter greatly where it may lead me."

There was a curious little vibration he could not quite repress in his voice, and both he and his companion were, under the circumstances, silent a trifle too long, for there are times when silence is very expressive. Then it was Barbara who spoke, though she felt that what she said was not especially appropriate.

"You will be sorry to go?"

Brooke looked at her steadily, with his lips set, and, though she did not see this, his fingers quivering a little, for he realized at last what it would cost him to leave her. For a moment a hot flood of passion and longing threatened to sweep him away, but he held it in check, and Barbara only noticed the grimness of his face.

"What answer could I make? The conventional one demanded scarcely fits the case," he said, and his laugh rang hollow.

"But the dam will not be finished," said Barbara, who realized that she had made an unfortunate start.

Again Brooke sat silent. It seemed folly to abandon his purpose, and he wondered whether he would have sufficient strength of will to go away. It was also folly to stay and sink further under the girl's influence, when the revelation he shrank from would, if he persisted in his attempt to recover his dollars, become inevitable. Still, once he left the Canopus he must go back to a life of hardship and labor, and, in spite of the humiliation and fear of the future he often felt, the present was very pleasant. On the other hand there was only scarcity, exposure to rain and frost, and bitter, hopeless toil. He sat very still with one hand closed, not daring to look at his companion until she spoke again.

"You say you do not know where the trail may lead you, and you do not seem to care. One would fancy that was wrong," she said.

"Why?"

Barbara turned a little, and looked at him with a faint sparkle in her eyes. "In this province the trail the resolute man takes usually leads to success. We want bridges and railroad trestles, forests cleared, and the valleys lined with roads. You can build them."

Brooke shook his head, though her confidence in him, as well as her optimism, had its due effect.

"I wish I was a little more sure," he said. "The difficulty, as I think I once pointed out, is that one needs dollars to make a fair start with."

"They are, at least, not indispensable, as the history of most of the men who have done anything worth while in the province shows. Isn't there a certain satisfaction in starting with everything against one?"