Read Ebook: The Valley of Gold: A Tale of the Saskatchewan by Howarth David Taylor Henry Weston Illustrator

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Ebook has 1543 lines and 63477 words, and 31 pages

While the man started off to carry out his bidding he whipped out his check book and filled in a form. As Snoopy Bill spied the amount he let out a low whistle.

"Two thousand!" he exclaimed. "Rob, you're a la-la."

McClure handed the book to Pullar. Ned read it with immobile face. Amid a deep silence the crowd pressed around the bosses. Would Pullar call the bluff?

The year of which we write was the fall of nineteen hundred. The smoke of the tractor was rarely seen in the land. Of the gas-power machine there was no sign whatever. For five years Ned had swung steadily along the Valley's brow with his twenty-horse, thirty-six inch portable mill, threshing the line of farmers rimming the northern bank of The Qu'Appelle. If a farmer got Pullar's mill it assured him a straight crew, a quick, clean job and all his grain. The Valley Gang was thoroughly workmanlike, the crack outfit of the Pellawa stretches.

This supremacy was now disputed. Some ten years before McClure had come from the East with bags of money and bushels of confidence, not to mention a stock of real ability. He was keen to get and heady and aggressive in the getting. Three years before he had entered the threshing game and pitched in with his usual gusto. One of his first moves was to cross the Valley and make a bold raid on Pullar's run. But his effort failed. Pullar's line of jobs remained intact. He managed to pick up a few farmers thrown on the threshing market through the defunct condition of their syndicate machine. Since Pullar's outfit was full up for a big season the cluster of jobs fell to McClure. The farmers of the Pullar run threw out some banter and an occasional jab resenting the attempt of McClure to cut in. This nettled McClure and was the small beginning of a bitter rivalry. Smothering his chagrin McClure set to work to build up a gang that would lower the colours of the Valley Outfit. At the end of the season it was found that Pullar's bushelage had far exceeded that of the rival machine. The following year repeated their fortunes. Then McClure startled Pellawa by exchanging his portable outfit for an immense forty-inch separator driven by a thirty-horse tractor steam power, of course. The new machine was equipped with self-feeder, self-bagger and cyclone blower. Adding extensively to his run he put on a large gang and began the season with everything in his favour.

Though facing alarming odds, Pullar took up the gauge in his quiet way. Rumours of record days by both machines drifted about the settlement with the result that the annual threshing derby began to show a tendency toward even money. The interested public pricked up its ears, enjoying the come-back of Ned. This popularity, with the complication of a three-day boose fest, was responsible for McClure's insulting challenge.

Ned was still scanning the check when Jack Butte appeared in the doorway.

"Just in time, Jack!" greeted Ned with a grin. "Hold this money for McClure. We are hooking up for a two-hand game, gang for gang."

There was a roar of applause from the Valley threshers. Above the noise rose the voice of Easy Murphy. He was performing the sailor's hornpipe before the shifty form of Snoopy Bill.

"Come across wid yer dust," challenged Murphy. "Fifty till fifty we skin ye aloive!"

"Taken!" was the eager acceptance. "Here, Butte's the dough. You can hand it back when the cows come home."

Butte was deluged with wagers.

"Hold your horses!" cried he, lifting protesting hands. "Two at a time. Come along quietly and we'll fix it all snug."

Taking out his note-book he made punctilious entry of all stakes. His task completed he took the trouble to plainly restate conditions.

He paused, reading the faces of the bosses and their men with keen eyes.

"This game's to be run on the square. Do you get me?"

"Right-o!" agreed McClure. "We'll shear these lambs on Hallowe'en."

Ignoring the jibe Ned Pullar pointed to the checks wedged in the pile of bills. They were McClure's and his own. Speaking quietly to Butte he said:

"You'll cash those papers and re-bank the whole amount in your own name?"

"Exactly!" replied Butte, flashing sharp eyes at the young boss.

"Good!" was the low response.

Taking a step nearer McClure, Pullar fastened his eyes on the face of his enemy. The lips of the older man were parted about to make some insulting fling when he bit his tongue. Ned's eyes were smiling but behind the smile glittered an ominous light that made McClure strike an attitude of defense. He retreated a step, watching the other. In an instant the air was electric. There was a shout from the Valley men and they leaped up beside their boss.

"Since this little deal is satisfactorily arranged, McClure," said Ned casually, "it may occur to you that your cows need milking. At any rate, the Valley Gang have taken a sudden whim to be alone. Think it over. We'll give you exactly one minute to get out. If you are here sixty seconds hence we'll maul you a little and--throw you out."

Ned took his watch from his pocket while the Valley Gang let out a defiant and joyful shout.

There was a malignant growl from the belligerent gang across the room at the sudden challenge. Rage swept over them but they made no move to close with their taunting enemies. The Valley men flung jeer and jibe in wild effort to provoke a charge. Hissing a terrible oath McClure turned to his men. What he saw decided him. Pointing to the door he addressed them.

"Cowards!" he snarled. "Get out!"

With a slouching alacrity they obeyed, vanishing through the door in swift and ignominious retreat. McClure passed after them without a word.

"Tin seconds till spare, the lucky divils!" cried Easy Murphy regretfully.

At his rueful words the Valley Outfit lifted a victorious roar, following McClure and his men with shouts of derision.

Ten minutes later as Ned Pullar stood in the pool-room door a white horse dashed by, cantering along the slushy street. Astride swayed the form of a girl clothed in a slicker. Beneath her quaint hood flashed the light of brown eyes. Their quick glance caught his salute. She acknowledged the greeting by a dainty tip of her head and the faintest of smiles.

The slight recognition sent his blood atingle. In a moment she disappeared about a building. The vision of the girl remained with him and a shadow contended with the pleasure the sudden meeting had brought into his face. Finally the shadow triumphed and a deeply troubled look came into his eyes.

"Ah, Mary!" he reflected. "Where will this day's work lead us?"

The girl was Mary McClure, only child of his avowed enemy.

The wind drifted along the valley crisp with the breath of the harvest dawn. It blew gently over the prairies flowing in from the west. Speeding valleyward a horse and rider zigzagged in easy canter through the shrublands. They clung to the deep paths of the buffaloes, dug long years ago by countless droves threading their way to the stream in the great ravine.

It was the girl's delight to "trail" these grass-grown ruts through the dense groves hanging shaggily to the south banks. In a little they ran out on a high shoulder of The Qu'Appelle. Here the bare hill was ribbed with the parallel paths to the number of seven or eight that slipped over the ravine crest, disappearing a few paces below into a thick grove of stunted oak. Halting the eager broncho, the girl let her eyes rest on the valley.

It was a pretty gulf cleaving the prairie for a width of two or three miles and winding out of sight into the blue distance. There was visible the shine of lakes and their linking streams. Under the amber light of the autumnal sunrise the valley was pricked out into a landscape of gold. The bank upon which they stood swept away to the southeast in a forest crescent wonderful with the variegated leafage of the searing year. Paling greens, bright yellows, faint oranges mingled with browns and buffs and the brilliant wines and reds. Falling away from their feet the colourful forest was a charming Joseph's coat, but in the spacious distance its mottled glory blent into the russet-yellow of the prairie autumn.

The north bank rose beyond, walling the ravine in a billowy rank of great, rounded hills bald as the skull of the golden eagle and seamed with dark lines of wooded gulches. Here and there along the crests hung over the edges of the great, harvest blanket, strips of wheat fields studded with their nuggets of brown stooks. In the blue radiance above drifted a fleet of soft clouds with creamy breasts and fringes of amber fire. On the floor of the valley lay a lake spread out in a broad silver ribbon that rose to the skyline for miles into the west.

For many minutes she revelled in the ecstasy of gleaming morning and golden valley, her cheeks bitten to roses by the tanging wind-drift. At length she granted release to her impatient horse and let him dash down into the trees. Under their branches she drew him to a walk and, leaving the selection of their trail to the petulant Bobs, abandoned herself to the alchemy of the harvest woods.

Passing slowly through the depths of a grove of white-stemmed poplars they ran out into a tiny glade. Here The Willow, a pretty brook, dammed by industrious beavers, gathered itself into a little pond before its last wild rush to the lake. As they cleared the trees Bobs pricked up his ears and quickened his step, giving a low whinny. His rider glanced curiously ahead, surprised to see a horseman in the pool. Her face changed suddenly from surprise to pleasure. The horse was sipping the cool water. The rider was Ned Pullar.

"Mary!" he cried delightedly, sending his horse through the stream. "This is my lucky day. Darkey and I have been haunting Willow Glade for an hour past hoping just this, but never dreaming that you and Bobs would really show up."

"How did you know I was coming?" demanded the girl happily.

"I did not know," was the reply. "I only knew this to be one of your favourite haunts on a Sunday morning and conceived a long chance of meeting you here. It was necessary to have a personal talk with you. This morning I determined to see you before the day was gone."

"Are you in trouble, Ned?" cried the girl suddenly, a soberness driving the pleasure from her face.

"Very great trouble, Mary," said Ned. "Do you not know?"

Deeply he searched the eyes looking into his. He could tell by the innocence, the solicitude of them that they had not learned the thing he feared. He was greatly relieved.

"What is it, Ned?" was her anxious query. "I have heard of no trouble."

"Perhaps it is only a cloud over the sun," was the reply. "It may pass by. Indeed you have brightened things a lot for me already. Let us breathe our broncs while we talk it all over."

Slipping from his saddle he assisted her to dismount. Taking charge of the horses he secured them to adjacent trees and followed to where she had seated herself on a gnarled log at the foot of the little falls.

"I have a little surprise for you," said he, throwing himself on the leaves at her feet. "I am not returning to college this fall."

Her eyes opened wide, expressing a mystified incredulity.

"Sad but true!" was his reiteration.

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