Prescott of Saskatchewan Part 17

"Yes," Curtis admitted regretfully; "that's the trouble. It isn't quite so easy being a policeman as folks seem to think. Now we'll ride along and call on the hardware man."

They mounted and soon afterward saw a buggy emerge from the short pines on the crest of a distant rise, whereupon Curtis rode hard for a poplar bluff, which he kept between himself and the vehicle.

"Looks like Wandle coming back," he said to Stanton, who had followed him. "I can't see any reason he should know we've been prospecting round his place."

Reaching the settlement they visited the hardware dealer, who remembered having sold Jernyngham a small cheap cash-box about twelve months earlier. On being shown the bent-up iron, he expressed his belief that it was the article in question.

A day or two after the corporal's discovery, the mail-carrier left some letters at the Prescott homestead, and when it was getting dusk Gertrude strolled out on the prairie, thinking of one she had received. After a while Prescott joined her and she greeted him with a smile.

"My team was looking a bit played out and the boys will be able to keep the separator gang going as long as they can see," he said.

"Do you feel that you have to make excuses for stopping work, after twelve hours of it?" Gertrude asked.

"Yes," he laughed; "I do feel something of the kind. There's so much to do and the days are getting shorter fast."

He glanced at her with appreciation. She wore a thin, black dress made after the latest London mode, which showed to advantage the graceful lines of her tall figure; the Jernynghams, who seldom departed from an established custom, changed their attire every evening. Gertrude had on no hat, and the fading light shone into her face. It was finely cut but cold, the features unusually good. She was a handsome woman, but she lacked warmth and softness.

"I'm in a difficulty," she told him. "Perhaps you can help--you're a man of many resources."

"I'll be glad to do what I can."

"We are expecting a visit from three old friends of ours who heard in America of the trouble we are in and want to see us. What can we do with them?"

"I haven't room," Prescott answered. "But let me think--Leslie has quite a big house, and it's only three miles from here. Now that he will have got rid of the harvesters, he might be willing to take your friends in.

He and his wife are pleasant people; but I think you met her."

"Yes. I knew you wouldn't fail us," Gertrude said gratefully. "But, after all, I feel inclined to wish they were not coming."

There was an elusive something in her tone which did not escape Prescott's notice.

"Why do you wish that?" he asked.

"Oh," she said, "it's difficult to explain, but we have got used to the mode of life here: the few people we meet seem to understand our feelings, and we have learned to trust them. Strangers would rather spoil it all; in a sense, their visit would be an intrusion."

Prescott realized that this was complimentary to him. She had made it clear that he was not a stranger, but one of the people she trusted. The effect was to render him somewhat embarra.s.sed, but Gertrude resumed:

"I think we owe you a good deal. I don't know what we should have done had we fallen into less considerate hands."

"I'm yours to command," he replied; and they walked on in silence for a while, Gertrude glancing at him un.o.btrusively now and then.

She did not believe her brother dead--Prescott had rea.s.sured her; and now she felt strongly attracted by the rancher. She had thrown off the restraints in which she had long acquiesced; she was driven by a pa.s.sion which was rapidly overpowering her.

"You don't suggest that the Leslies should take us all," she said.

"No," Prescott answered gravely; "I'd rather keep you and your father here."

"Then you're no longer anxious to get rid of us?"

He colored.

"That's true. I begin to feel I'm one of the party. Then, you see, Leslie's pretty talkative and agrees with Curtis. He might have a bad effect on your father; he might even shake your confidence."

"Oh," she begged, "don't labor the explanation. You are one of the party and our friend."

Prescott bowed.

"I'll try to make that good. I'm going off to look for your brother in a few more days, but it will cost me something to leave the homestead now."

He had spoken the truth. Until lately the man had been bereft of all the amenities of life, but he had now grown to appreciate the society of cultured people; the task of cheering and encouraging his guests had become familiar; he might even have been drawn to the beautiful woman he had comforted had not his heart been filled with the image of Muriel.

"But after the summer's hard monotonous work, a change must be nice," she suggested.

"Yes; in a way. The trouble is that I must leave my guests."

Gertrude's eyes grew soft as they rested on him.

"We shall miss you," she murmured. "But you must go and find out all you can; I'm afraid the mystery and suspense are breaking my father down."

They walked on in silence for a while, and then Svendsen appeared near the homestead, waving his arm.

"Looks as if I were wanted," Prescott remarked; "I believe there's a wagon to be fixed. Will you excuse me? I'll ride over and have a talk with Leslie in the morning."

CHAPTER XI

A REVELATION

The sun had just dipped, leaving a rim of flaring color on the edge of the vast plain, when Prescott sat smoking on the stoop of the Leslie homestead a week after his evening walk with Gertrude. Leslie and his wife were simple people from Ontario, who had prospered in the last few years. Their crops had escaped rust and hail and autumn frost, and as a result of this, the rancher had replaced his rude frame dwelling with a commodious house, built, with lower walls of brick and wood above, in a somewhat ornate style copied from the small villas which are springing up on the outskirts of the western towns.

Leslie, an elderly, brown-faced man, sat near Prescott; the Jernynghams, who had driven over to welcome his friends, were inside, talking to Mrs.

Leslie.

"Guess you don't know much about the English people we're expecting?"

Leslie asked.

"No," said Prescott; "only that they're friends of the Jernynghams. I don't think I've even heard their names yet."

"Mrs. Leslie knows," rejoined the farmer; "I forget it. I feel kind of sorry now that she agreed to take them in, but you made a point of it, and if the man's not so blamed stand-offish, I'll have somebody to talk to."

"I wouldn't talk too much about Cyril Jernyngham."

Leslie looked hard at him.

"There's one point, Jack, where I can't agree with you--you're the only man in this district who doesn't believe Jernyngham's dead. It strikes me that you know more about the thing than you have told anybody yet."