By Right of Purchase

"I'm afraid I could never quite understand these things," said Carrie.

"In one way it's simple. The world wants so much wheat, though the quantity varies, because there are places where they eat other things when it gets too dear. Now, you can get statistics showing how many million bushels they have raised here and there, and it's evident that, if it's less than usual, it's going to be dearer. On the other hand, if there's more than the world has apparently any use of, the men it belongs to have some trouble in selling it, and values come down. That's the principle, but there are men who make their living by shoving prices up and down, and they're able to do it sometimes against all reason. Now and then they half starve poor folks in Europe, and now and then they ruin farmers in the Western States and this part of Canada. They have millions of dollars behind them, and they're clever at crooked games. Still, it sometimes happens that Nature turns against them, and drowns them in floods of wheat; or, when they're squeezing the life-blood out of the farmers, it strikes men up and down the country that wheat was so cheap it ought to be dearer. Then, if the bears slacken their grip a little, men who like to gamble and have the money to spare, send their buying orders in, and the bears find it hard to get the wheat they have pledged themselves to deliver. That sends prices up and up."

"You think that is likely to happen?"

Leland looked very thoughtful. "I can't say. Nobody could. There's one significant thing. Prices are steady, though the wheat is coming in. You'll get considerably more than your two thousand pounds back if they go up. We could have a month in New York then, and you'd go to operas with that crescent glittering in your hair."

Carrie said nothing, for though she had not quite understood all he said, it was sufficiently clear that if prices went down she would never put the crescent on again. She had further reasons, too, for not desiring to discuss that subject. While she sat silent, Gallwey came in, and Leland, taking up a paper, handed it to him.

"That," he said, "is a little idea of mine, and, if we'd had any sense, we would have thought of it earlier. With the new country opening up to the North, the police bosses at Regina have their hands full. They don't want to be worried, and Sergeant Grier seems kind of afraid to admit he can't put the whisky boys down, or to pitch his reports too strong."

Gallwey nodded. "The same thing," he said, "has occurred to me all along. His attitude is comprehensible, and I have a certain sympathy with the folks at the head of the police. To attend to everything, they would want a brigade."

"Well," said Leland, drily, "I have no intention of getting my homestead burnt because it suits anybody's hand, and you'll start round to-morrow and get this petition signed by every responsible man. It's a plain statement of what we have been putting up with, and a delicate hint that there are folks among the Government's opposition who might find the information interesting in case the police bosses do nothing. I almost fancy that ought to put a move on them."

Gallwey smiled a little as he read the document, which, however, was worded with a tactfulness he had scarcely expected from his comrade. Leland's proceedings were, as a rule, rather summary and vigorous than characterised by any particular delicacy.

"I shall be away three or four days, at least," he said.

"Won't that be a little awkward? You are not very well just now."

Leland made a little impatient gesture. "I'll be all right again to-morrow."

His comrade did not contradict him, though he had some doubt upon the subject, and, sitting down, talked about other matters for several minutes, while, when he rose, he contrived to make Carrie understand it was desirable that she should find an excuse for going out soon after him. She did so, and came upon him waiting in the kitchen.

"He persists that there is nothing the matter with him, but I am a little anxious," she said. "You don't think he is looking well?"

Gallwey appeared thoughtful. "I scarcely fancy it is serious, but there is no doubt he has been worrying himself lately and doing a good deal too much. In fact, the strain is telling. Still, I dare say a little rest would do wonders. Couldn't you keep him in to-morrow?"

"Keep him in!" said Carrie, with a little expostulatory smile.

There was a twinkle in Gallwey's eyes. "It will probably be difficult, but I almost think, in your case, not absolutely impossible."

"Well, I will do what I can. It is rather a pity you have to go away."

The smile grew a trifle plainer in Gallwey's eyes. "As a matter of fact, and, although I am quite aware that there will probably be trouble about it, I am not going. One of the boys will have to ride round with the paper, instead of me. Still, you will have to decide how you can keep your husband in."

He went away and left her to grapple with the question, which, since Leland was a self-willed man, was a somewhat difficult one. It was some little while before there occurred to her a rather primitive device which appeared likely to prove effective. She had, however, not quite realised the inherent obstinacy of her husband's temperament.

It accordingly happened that, when the crippled Jake was busy cleaning up the big general room early next morning, he was astonished to see Leland, attired in airy pyjamas, appear in the doorway. He raised his hand as though in warning, and glanced towards the other door. It occurred to Jake that he did not look well.

"Mrs. Nesbit's not around?" Leland asked.

Jake said she was in the cook-shed just then, and Leland sat down somewhat limply in the nearest chair.

"Slip up into Tom Gallwey's room, and bring me a suit of his clothes, the new ones he goes to the settlement in," he said. "That will square the deal, because I can't help thinking he had a hand in the thing."

"Where's your own?" asked Jake in evident bewilderment.

"That," said Leland, drily, "is just what is worrying me. But you do what I tell you quick before Mrs. Nesbit comes in."

Jake did as he was bidden, for there was a look in Leland's eyes which warned him that further questions would not be advisable; and, when he came back with the clothing, the latter dressed himself hastily, and, slipping out, made his way to the stable. He had some difficulty in putting the harness on the team, and was considerably longer over it than usual; but he managed to lead them out, and had reached the binder with them about the time Carrie and Eveline Annersly entered the room he had quitted. The first thing they saw was a suit of pyjamas lying on the floor, and the elder lady laughed as she turned to Carrie.

"I fancied you would find it a little difficult to keep Charley Leland in against his will," she said.

Carrie, who did not answer her, summoned Jake.

"Where is Mr. Leland?" she asked.

"I guess he's working in the wheat," said the man, with a grin.

Carrie appeared astonished, and Eveline Annersly laughed again. "Charley is a trifle determined, but there are, I almost fancy, lengths to which he would not go. He has probably borrowed someone's clothing."

"Did he leave any message?" asked Carrie, turning to the man.

"No," said Jake, reflectively. "I don't think he did. He wasn't coming back for his breakfast. I was to take it out to him, and he figured Tom Gallwey's store-clothes wouldn't look quite so new by sundown."

He went away, and Eveline Annersly smiled at her companion. "You'll simply have to put up with it," she said. "It really doesn't sound as if he was very ill."

In the meanwhile, Leland, after stopping some twenty minutes for breakfast, climbed into the binder's saddle and drove through the wheat until almost noon. He did not seem to see quite so well as usual, and his head ached almost intolerably. Gallwey's jacket also hampered him, until, tearing it off, he let it fall. It was afterwards found, ripped in several places by the knife and tied up in a sheaf. The day was fiercely hot, and the dust rose thick from crackling stubble and trampled soil, but Leland drove on, swaying now and then in his saddle, the perspiration dripping from him.

It was close upon the dinner hour, and the sun was almost overhead in a cloudless sky, when he approached a turning. The glare from the yellow wheat was dazzling, and the ironwork on the binder almost too hot to touch with the hand, and Leland once more found his sight grow blurred as he strove to turn his team. They did not seem to answer the guidance of the reins, and when the machine, turning short, ran in among the wheat, he raised himself a little as he called to them. That was the last thing he remembered.

The next instant, the man behind him saw him reel and topple from the saddle as the whirling arms came round. He pulled his team up, and, jumping down, ran as for his life; but, most fortunately, Leland's tired horses had stopped of their own accord in a pace or two, for, when the other man came up, their driver lay partly across the knife-sheath with his feet among the wheat. What could be seen of his face was darkly flushed, while the sleeve and breast of his dusty shirt were smeared with trickling red. The other man, startled as he was, had, however, sense enough to seize the near horse's head before he shouted to his comrades.

"Lay hold of the wheel, two of you," he said when several of them came running up. "Now get up, somebody, and pull the driving-clutch out. We don't want to saw him open."

He had kept himself in hand, but he gasped with relief when the deadly steel was thrown out of action. Then, still holding the horses, he directed the rest to drag Leland clear. It was a minute later when he pushed the others aside and bent over him. Leland lay limp and still in the dusty stubble, with eyes half closed, and a red trickle dripping into the thirsty soil beneath him. The man, who had seen a good many bad axe-wounds in the Ontario bush, rolled back the breast and sleeve of the torn shirt before he straightened himself and wiped his dripping face.

"I guess he has come off quite fortunate, in one way. There's no big vessel cut, or it would spout," he said. "The first thing to do is to get him out of the sun, and it's not very far to the house."

They picked him up, and four of them carried him to the homestead as gently as they could. At the door they met Carrie. She closed one hand hard, and turned very white when the men, who stopped, stood gasping a little and looking at her stupidly, with their burden hanging limply between them. Then, while she struggled with a numbing sense of horror, the leader awkwardly took off his hat.

"I guess it's nothing very bad. He's cut in two places, and the binder hit him on the head, but a man of his kind will soon get over that," he said. "Now, I know quite a little about cuts and things, and, if you'll send for Mrs. Nesbit, we'll soon fix him up. Get a move on, boys. Mrs. Leland will show you where to take him."

The words had a bracing effect. Carrie shook off her first terror, and, though she was trembling, went up the stairway in front of them. She was almost afraid to look round at the men, who stumbled noisily with their burden. Still, she felt a little easier when, in the course of half an hour, the Ontario man managed to stop most of the bleeding with a few simple compresses, and to get Leland, who had not opened his eyes yet, into bed. He turned to Carrie, who was standing close by with a tense, white face.

"I guess all he got after he fell off the binder is not going to worry him much, but I don't know what he had before," he said. "It might have been sunstroke, and it might just as well have been something else. He was kind of shaky all the morning. Anyway, I'll tell Tom Gallwey, and he'll send some one of the boys in to the railroad to wire for a doctor."

He went out, and Carrie was left in the darkened room kneeling by her husband's side, while Tom Gallwey drove the fastest team at Prospect furiously across the prairie. He did not send another man, but went himself, and the horses he drove had reason to remember that journey.

CHAPTER XXVIII

CARRIE'S RESPONSIBILITY

Carrie Leland spent two very anxious days before a doctor, from one of the larger settlements down the line, arrived in company with Gallwey, who drove him in from the station. The latter had, during the journey, favoured Gallwey with his professional opinions as to the cause of Leland's illness. As soon as he reached the homestead he was shown into the sick-room. Leland, who had recovered consciousness after the first few hours, submitted to a lengthy examination with a patience which somewhat astonished his comrade, after which the doctor, who asked him a few questions, nodded as though satisfied.

"I have no great fault to find with anything the man did who attended to you in the first place." he said. "In fact, I have seen considerably worse dressings. A bushman, I presume?"

Leland looked at him languidly out of half-closed eyes. "He's not going to be sorry. It would be more to the purpose if you told me what was the matter with me."

"An abrasion on your forehead, and a bruise on the back of your head which should apparently have been sufficient to produce concussion of the brain," the doctor said. "Then your arm is cut half across, and, if the knife hadn't brought up on a bone, you would probably not have survived the wound on your breast. I almost think that is quite enough."

"Anyway, it's not quite what I mean. The cuts will heal. What made me turn dizzy and fall off the binder? I've never had anything of that kind happen to me before."

The doctor smiled drily. "Well," he said, "in similar circumstances you will in all probability have it happen again. It rests with yourself to decide whether you like it. Speaking generally, it's the result of worry and trying to work a good deal harder than it's fit for you to work. To be a little more definite, you have had what one might call incipient sunstroke on the top of it, and, though I don't know how you fell on the binder, the thump you got had its effect upon your brain. That's almost as near as one can get to it in every-day language."

Leland laughed. "The question is, when can I get up?"

"It depends upon yourself. If you lie quite still and don't worry about anything, I will consider the matter, when I come back again."

Leland could extract nothing more definite from him, and, when he went out, Carrie took him into her sitting-room.

"There is nothing to be anxious about," he said. "The surgical aspect of the case is in no way serious, and I'll leave you an antiseptic dressing and mail you some medicine. I don't know when I can get back, but it will be a week, anyway; so, if there is any change that seems to make it advisable, you will wire me from the depôt. What your husband needs is absolute quiet. He is on no account to be worried about any business."

"I think I can promise that," said Carrie. "Still there are his letters. If I don't give him any, it will certainly make him restless, and, as most of them are about the price of wheat and accounts, I'm afraid they would scarcely be likely to soothe him."

The doctor appeared a trifle uncertain, and flashed a swift glance at Eveline Annersly, who sat not far away. Like most of his profession, he was acquainted with the little shortcomings of human nature, and was quite aware that there are men whose wives would probably be none the happier if supplied with an insight into all their husband's affairs. He was too young to conceal very successfully what he was thinking, and, though he was, perhaps, not altogether conscious of it, he looked to Eveline Annersly for guidance. She said nothing, but there was, he fancied, comprehension and an answer in her little smile.

"Well," he said, "I might suggest that you open them and keep back anything that seems likely to disturb him."

In a few more minutes, Mrs. Nesbit came in to announce that a meal was awaiting him. When he went out, Eveline Annersly smiled again as she glanced at her companion.

"That man is painfully young," she said. "I suppose you are not afraid of opening Charley's letters?"

"No," said Carrie with a little flash in her eyes. "Why should I be?"

"Well," said Eveline Annersly, reflectively, "one would almost fancy that when Jimmy marries, he would sooner his wife did not see everything that came for him. It was a letter that first made the trouble between Captain and Ada Heaton. In such cases, it not infrequently is."

Carrie turned upon her with a red spot in her cheek. "You will succeed in making me angry presently. You know there is nothing Charley would keep from me."

"That, I think, is saying a good deal; but, while you are no doubt right, my dear, any one who had only seen you in England would be inclined to wonder what had happened to you lately. If I had suggested anything of the kind once upon a time, you would only have looked at me with chilling disdain, but now a word against Charley Leland brings a flash into your eyes. That, however, is by the way. I wonder if you have heard that Heaton has at last taken proceedings?"

"I haven't. I never hear from home."

"I have had a letter and a paper. The decision was in his favour. There was practically no defence. There couldn't very well have been in face of the disclosures, and, while I had a certain sympathy with Ada at first, I have none now."

Carrie sat silent a minute, a faint flush in her face. Then she suddenly raised her head.

"Aunt," she said, "I suppose you don't know it was about Ada that Charley and I quarrelled? In fact, it was on her account I nearly drove him away from me altogether. In that, too, it seems that I was wrong. I wonder sometimes how he ever forgave me, or why I have so much I never deserved to have at all."

She said nothing further, and went out presently. That afternoon and for several subsequent days, she opened Leland's letters, finding nothing that must be kept back from him. But one evening, however, she sent for Gallwey when he came in from harvesting, and, signing him to sit down, handed him a letter from the Winnipeg broker.

"Will you tell me what you think I ought to do?" she said. "You will see that the man must have an answer."

Gallwey studied the letter carefully for several minutes. When he laid it down, he felt a certain sympathy with Mrs. Leland, though he fancied she would show herself equal to the occasion.

"It's rather unfortunate it should have come just now," she said. "Still, it is here, and I want your views."

Gallwey looked thoughtful. "The thing is rather a big one. As I daresay you know, there are different kinds of wheat, but our hard red is rather a favourite with millers. There is, it seems, a man who, subject to one or two conditions about samples being up to usual grade, is willing to buy about half the crop from Charley at a cent the bushel more than he previously offered. I wonder if you quite grasp the significance of that."

"Prices are rising?"

"Not necessarily, though they are certainly steadier. This man may have orders for some special flour for which our grade of red is preferable, though he could, of course, get other wheat which would, no doubt, do almost as well. Still, prices have, at least, stiffened. It is what is called a rally, and it may last a week or so, though it is somewhat strange it should happen now, when everybody has wheat to sell."

He stopped a moment. "If you sell this wheat, and prices fall, you will have made an excellent bargain, though the figure doesn't cover expenses. On the contrary, if prices go up, you will have thrown a good deal of money away. You have to bear in mind that it represents about half the crop, which makes it evident that a good deal depends upon a right decision."

"Have you any idea what prices will do?"

Gallwey made a little gesture. "To be frank, I haven't, and I should shrink from mentioning it if I had. There are thousands of people up and down this country trying in vain to reason it out, and I have no doubt that some of the keenest men in the business find the same difficulty. I daren't advise you."

Carrie sat silent for at least a minute, and then looked at him gravely.

"If I sell, we shall not cover expenses; if I hold, we may be ruined altogether or it might pour hundreds of dollars into Charley's bank?"

"Yes," said Gallwey. "That is it exactly."

Again there was silence, and then Carrie looked up with a little sparkle in her eyes. "Charley's not so well to-day, and this would certainly make him ill again. It seems I must not shrink from the responsibility. When he does not know exactly what to do, it is the boldest course that appeals to him. Write the man in Winnipeg that I will not sell a bushel."

Gallwey rose and made her a little inclination. "It shall be done," he said. "I wonder if one might venture to compliment you on your courage?"

Now the thing was decided, Carrie Leland sat still, somewhat limp, and pale in face again.

After that, some ten days passed uneventfully until the doctor came back. He did not appear particularly pleased with Leland's condition, and repeated his instructions about keeping him quiet and undisturbed. He left Carrie anxious, for she could not persuade herself that her husband was looking any better. He was, however, rapidly becoming short in temper, and, soon after the doctor had gone, she had another struggle with him. Entering the room quietly, she found he had raised himself on the pillows and was looking about him.

"If you would tell me where my clothes are, I'd be much obliged," he said. "That man's no good at his business. I'm going to get up."

He made an effort to rise then and there. With some difficulty, Carrie induced him to lie down again. He listened to what she had to say with evident impatience, and then shook his head.

"I'm to keep quiet, and not worry. There's no sense in the thing," he said. "How can I help chafing and fuming when I have to lie here, while everything goes wrong, and nobody will tell me what is being done? I felt a little dizzy just now, or you wouldn't have got me back again, but I'm going to make another attempt to-morrow. You have to remember that when I get up I get better. I've never been tied up like this before, and the only thing that's wrong with me is that I've had a doctor."

Carrie contrived to quiet him, though she did not find it easy. When at last he had gone to sleep she went out, meeting Gallwey in the hall. He glanced at her with a little sympathetic smile.

"I came upon the doctor riding away," he said. "It appears that Charley has been telling him frankly what he thought of him. I suppose he has been trying to get up again?"

Carrie said he had, and Gallwey appeared to consider.

"Well," he said, "it might, perhaps, help to keep him quiet if you let him know that the appeal to the police authorities has been considered favourably. I met Sergeant Grier, and he told me that they have sent him half a dozen more troopers. He seems tolerably confident that he can lay hands on the rustlers' leaders, though he was in too much haste to tell me how it was to be done. By the way, I'm afraid you will have to get Charley to write a cheque in a day or two. We'll have to pay the Ontario harvesters shortly."

He left her relieved, at least, to hear that Grier saw some prospect of putting the outlaws down, but another couple of weeks had passed before she heard anything more of him or them. In the meanwhile, the Sergeant, as he had indeed expected, met with a good many difficulties. He was supplied with plentiful information concerning the outlaws, but the trouble was that he could not always decide how much of it was meant to be misleading until he had acted upon it. After a week's hard riding, during which his men had very little sleep, he found himself one night with six of them rather more than sixty miles west of Prospect. He had that day surrounded what he had been told was one of the whisky boys' coverts in a big bluff, and "drawn a blank," a thing that had happened once or twice already. The horses were dead weary, the men worn-out, so he decided to camp where he was in a thick growth of willows. A cooking fire was lighted, and when the men had eaten, all but two, who were left to watch the horses, lay down, rolled in their blankets.

It was about an hour before the dawn when Trooper Standish paced up and down on the outskirts of the bluff. He had been in the saddle under a hot sun most of twelve hours the previous day, and now felt more than a little shivery as well as weary. A little breeze came sighing out of the great waste of plain, and the chill of it struck through his thin, damp clothing, in which he had ridden and slept. Trooper Standish was also more than a little drowsy, though he would not have admitted it. In fact, few men are capable of very much, either in the shape of effort or watchfulness, at three o'clock in the morning.