The air had grown very still again when Florence leaned on the veranda balustrade, gazing into the darkness, which was now intense. The brief shower of heavy rain had wet the grass, and waves of warm moisture charged with an odor like that of a hothouse seemed to flow about her and recede again, leaving her almost shivering in her gauzy dress, for between whiles it was by contrast strangely cold. She could hear Hunter calling to the horses, which apparently broke away from him now and then in short, savage rushes, but she could see nothing of him or them. Presently the sharp cries of one of the hired men broke in, and Florence, who felt her nerves tingling, became conscious of an unpleasant tension.

Then for a second, or part of it, the figures of moving men and beasts became visible, etched hard and black against an overwhelming brightness, as a blaze of lightning smote the prairie. The glare of it was dazzling, and when it vanished Florence was left gripping the balustrade, bewildered and wrapped in an intolerable darkness. After that a drumming of hoofs and a hoarse cry broke upon her ears, but both were drowned and lost in a deafening crash of thunder. It rolled far back into the distance in great reverberations, and while her light skirt fluttered about her in an icy draught another sound emerged from them as they died away.

It grew nearer and louder in a persistent, portentous crescendo, for at first it suggested the galloping of a squadron of horse, then a regiment, and at length the furious approach of a division of cavalry. Holding fast to the balustrade, she could even imagine that there were mingled with it the crash of jolting wheels and a clamor of wild voices as of a host behind pressing onward to the onslaught. The din was scarcely drowned by a tremendous rumbling that twice filled the air; and there was forced upon her a vague perception of the fact that it was a very real attack upon the things that enabled her to have the ease she loved. Wheat and cattle, stables and homestead must, it almost seemed, go down, and there were, as sole and pitiful defense, two men somewhere out in the darkness exposed to the outbreak of elemental fury. There was now no sign of her husband or his companion. It was quite impossible to hear any sound they made, and she stood quivering, until, loosing her hold of the balustrade with an effort, she ran down the steps.

"Elcot!" she cried.

No answer reached her. She knew it was useless to call, but an overmastering fear came upon her as she remembered the mad flight of the terrified horses, and she ran on a few paces over the wet grass, crying out again. Then she was beaten back, gasping, with her hands raised in a futile attempt to shield her face and her dress driven flat against her, as a merciless shower of ice broke out of the darkness. It swept the veranda like the storm of lead from a volley, only it did not cease; crashing upon the balustrade and lashing the front of the house, while the very building seemed to rock in the savage blast. She staggered back before it, too dazed and bewildered to notice where she was going, until she struck the wall and cowered against the boards. There was a narrow roof above her, but it did not keep off much of the wind-driven hail, and she could not be sure that the whole of it was now standing. The veranda was wrapped in darkness, for the lamp had blown out.

She never remembered how long she stood there. For a time, every sense was concentrated on an effort to shelter her face from the hail which fell upon her thinly covered arms and shoulders like a scourge of knotted wire. Then, faint and breathless, she crept forward toward where she supposed the door must be, and staggered into the unlighted room. She struck a chair, and sank into it, to sit shivering and listening appalled to the cataclysm of sound.

Then a terror which had been driven out of her mind for the last few minutes crept back. Elcot was out amid the rush of hurtling ice; and she knew him well enough to feel certain that he would stay in the paddock until the horses were secured. She could picture him trying to guide the maddened beasts out between the slip-rails, heading them off from the perilous fence they rushed down upon at a terror-stricken gallop, or, perhaps, lying upon the hail-swept grass with a broken limb. It was horrible to contemplate, and she became conscious of a torturing anxiety concerning the safety of the man for whose comfort she had scarcely spared a thought since she married him.

Though it was difficult, she contrived to shut the door and window, and to relight the lamp, and then she glanced round the room. Elcot's paper had fallen to pieces and had been scattered here and there, while a long pile of hail lay melting on the floor. She could understand now why she felt bruised all over except where the fullness of her dress had protected her, for she had never seen hail like this in England. The jagged lumps were of all shapes, and most of them seemed the size of hazelnuts. Then she became conscious that her hair was streaming about her face and that her dress clung saturated to her limbs. This, however, appeared of no moment, for her anxiety about her husband was becoming intolerable.

Nerving herself for an effort, she moved toward the door. It was flung back upon her when she lifted the latch, and she staggered beneath the blow. Then, panting hard, she forced it to again and went back limply to her chair. It was utterly impossible for her to face that hail. She had the will to do so, and she was no coward, but the flesh she had pampered and shielded failed her, which was in no way astonishing. Wheat-growers, herders, police troopers, and, unfortunately, patient women learn that the body must be sternly brought into subjection to the mind by long repression before one can face wind-driven ice, snow-laden blizzard, or the awful cold which now and then descends upon the vast spaces of western Canada.

In a few more minutes the uproar subsided. The drumming on the walls and roof suddenly ceased and the wind no longer buffeted the house. The tumult receded in gradations of sinking sound, until at last there was silence, except for the drip from the veranda eaves. It was shortly broken by quick footsteps and Florence turned toward the door as Hunter came in.

His face showed where the hail had beaten it, for his hat had gone; the water ran from him, and one hand was bleeding. He looked limp and exhausted, but what struck her most was the sternness of his expression.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

Hunter glanced down at his reddened hand.

"Nothing to speak of. I got a rip from the fence somehow, and one leg's a little stiff; one of the horses must have kicked me. Guess I'll know more about it to-morrow."

"And the horses?"

"We managed to get them out. But what were you doing outside? Your dress is dripping."

Florence hesitated. It seemed extraordinary that while she had seldom felt the least diffidence in dealing as appeared expedient with any of the men she had known, she was unable to inform her husband that she had been driven into the storm by anxiety for his safety; but somehow she could not get the words out. She recognized that it had never occurred to him that she could have been actuated by any motive of this kind, though she was forced to own that, considering everything, this was no more than natural. The thought brought a half-bitter smile into her eyes.

"I was on the steps when the hail began, and I could scarcely get back into the house," she said. "Can it have done very much harm?"

Hunter made a gesture of dejection.

"That's a point I'm most afraid to investigate, and it can't be done to-night. In the meanwhile, hadn't you better get those wet things off?"

His preoccupied manner indicated that he was in no mood for conversation, and Florence left him standing moodily still. It was some minutes before he felt chilly and went upstairs to change his clothes, but he came back almost immediately and took some papers and a couple of account books from a bureau. After this he lighted his pipe and sat down to make copious extracts, with a view to discovering how he stood. He had no great trouble in ascertaining his liabilities, for he was a methodical man, but it was different when he came to consider what he had to set off against them. He had counted on his wheat crop to leave him a certain surplus, but it now seemed unfortunately probable that there would be no harvest at all that year. Admitting this, he busied himself with figures in an attempt to discover how far it might be possible to convert what promised to be a crushing disaster into a temporary defeat, and several hours slipped by before any means of doing so occurred to him. His expenses had been unusually heavy, there were many points to consider and balance against each other, and a gray light was breaking low down on the rim of the prairie when at length he rose and thrust the books back into the bureau. The night's labor had at least convinced him that if he were to hold his own during the next twelve months it could be only by persistent effort and stern economy, and he had misgivings as to how his wife would regard the prospect of the latter.

On going out on to the veranda a few minutes later he was astonished to hear footsteps behind him, and when he turned and waited Florence came out of the doorway.

"I heard you moving and I came down," she said. "Are you going to look at the wheat?"

"Yes," replied Hunter. "I'm afraid there won't be very much of it to see."

The light was growing a little clearer and Florence noticed the weariness of his face. He seemed to hold himself slackly and she had never seen him fall into that dejected attitude. The man was, however, physically jaded, for a day of severe labor had preceded the struggle in the paddock and the hours he had spent in anxious thought, and he had, as he was quite aware, a heavy blow to face.

"May I go with you?" she asked hesitatingly.

"Why?"

The question was not encouraging, nor was his manner, and Florence felt reluctant to explain that her request had been prompted by a desire to share his troubles. She was conscious that a statement to this effect would probably appear somewhat astonishing, as she had never offered to do anything of the kind hitherto.

"If you must have a reason, I'm as anxious to see what damage the hail has done as you are. It can't very well affect you without affecting me."

"Yes," agreed Hunter, "that's undoubtedly the case. I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me and the homestead for the next twelve months. It's quite likely that there'll be very few new dresses, either."

Florence endeavored to keep her patience. It was not often that she felt in a penitent mood, and he did not seem disposed to make it any easier for her.

"Do you suppose new dresses are a matter of vital importance to me?" she asked.

"Well," answered Hunter, "since you put the question, several things almost lead me to believe it."

He turned abruptly toward the steps.

"If you are coming with me, we may as well go along."

They crossed the wet paddock together, and now and then Florence glanced covertly at her husband's face. It was set and anxious, but there was no sign of surrender in it. She had, however, not expected to see the latter, for she knew that Elcot was one who could, when occasion demanded it, make a very stubborn fight.

At length they stopped and stood looking out across what at sunset had been a vast sea of tall, green wheat. Now it had gone down, parts of it as before the knife of a reaper, while the rest lay crushed and flung this way and that, as though an army had marched through it. Lush blades and half-formed ears were smashed into the mire and the odd clusters of battered stalks that stood leaning above the tangled chaos only served to heighten the suggestion of widespread ruin.

Florence watched her husband, but she did not care to speak, for there are times when expressions of sympathy are superfluous. When he walked slowly forward along the edge of the grain she followed him, without noticing that her thin shoes were saturated and her light skirt was trailing in the harsh wet grass. The ground rose slightly, and stopping when they reached the highest point he answered her inquiring glance.

"It looks pretty bad," he said. "Some of it – a very little – may fill out and ripen and we might get the binders through it, but the thing's going to be difficult."

"Will this hit you very hard, Elcot?"

Hunter turned and looked at her with gravely searching eyes, and she shrank from his gaze while a warmth crept into her face.

"Oh," she broke out indignantly, "I'm not thinking – now – of what I might have to do without. Still, I suppose it was only natural that you should suspect it."

The man's gesture seemed to imply that this was after all a matter of minor importance, and it jarred on her.

"Well," he answered, "I guess I can weather the trouble, though it will mean a long, stiff pull and a general whittling down of expenses. I spent most of last night figuring on the latter, and I've got my plans worked out, though it was troublesome to see where I was to begin."

Florence's heart smote her. Her allowance was a liberal one, but she knew it would only be when every other expedient had failed that he would think of touching that. It would have been a relief to tell him he could begin with it, but she remembered Nevis's loan. The thought of that loan was becoming a burden, and she felt that it must be wiped off somehow at any cost.

"Yes," she sympathized, "it must have been difficult. You don't spend much money unnecessarily, Elcot."

He did not answer, and she glanced at his hands, which were hard and roughened like those of a workman. There was an untended red gash which the fence had made across the back of one. Another glance at his clothing carried her a little farther along the same line of thought, for his garments were old and shabby and faded by the weather.

"Anyway," he said, apparently without having heeded her last observation, "I'm thankful I have no debts just now."

It was an unconscious thrust, but Florence winced, for it wounded her, and she began to see how Nevis had with deliberate purpose strengthened the barrier between her and her husband. What was more, she determined that the man should regret it. Why she had ever encouraged him she did not know, but there was no doubt that she was anxious to get rid of him now. She would have made an open confession about the loan then and there, but the time was singularly inopportune. It was out of the question that she should add to her husband's anxiety.

"After all, it doesn't often hail," she encouraged him. "Another good year will set you straight again."

The man seemed lost in thought, but he looked up when she spoke.

"We can make a bid for it," he replied. "I must have bigger and newer machines. Like most of the rest, I've been too afraid of launching out and have clung to old-fashioned means. There will have to be a change and a clearance before next season."

It was very matter-of-fact, but Florence knew him well enough to realize what it implied. Defeat could not crush him; it only nerved him to a more resolute fight, for which he meant to equip himself at any sacrifice with more efficient weapons. Again she was conscious of a growing respect for him.

"I'm afraid I have been a drag on you, Elcot, but in this case you can count upon my doing – what I can."

He scarcely seemed to hear her, and she realized with a trace of bitter amusement that her assurance did not appear of any particular consequence to him.

"I have teams enough," he continued, picking up the course of thought where he had broken off. "Anyway, one should get something for the old machines."

Florence set her lips as they turned back toward the house. This was a matter in which she evidently did not count; but there was no doubt that in the light of past events the man's attitude was justified. It would be necessary to prove that he was wrong, and, with Nevis's loan still to be met, that promised to be difficult.

"Elcot," she said, "I don't think I've told you yet how sorry I am."

He looked at her in a manner which implied that his mind was still busy with his plans.

"Yes – of course," he replied.

CHAPTER XXI
A POINT OF HONOR

Florence Hunter sat in her wagon in front of the grocery store at Graham's Bluff waiting until the man who kept it should bring out various goods she had ordered. Though a fresh breeze swept the surrounding prairie the little town was very hot, and it looked singularly unattractive with the dust blowing through its one unpaved street. In one place a gaily striped shade, which flapped and fluttered in the wind, had been stretched above the window of an ambitious store; but with this exception the unlovely wooden buildings boldly fronted the weather, with the sun-glare on their thin, rent boarding and the roofing shingles crackling overhead, as they had done when they had borne the scourge of snow-laden gales and the almost Arctic frost. They were square and squat, as destitute, most of them, of paint as they were of any attempt at adornment; and in hot weather the newer ones were permeated with a pungent, resinous smell.

Where Florence sat, however, the odors that flowed out of the store were more diffuse, for the fragrance of perspiring cheese was mingled with that of pork which had gained flavor and lost its stiffness in the heat, and the aroma of what was sold as coffee at Graham's Bluff. Florence, indeed, had been glad to escape from the store, which resembled an oven with savory cooking going on, though after all it was not a great deal better in the wagon. The dust was beginning to gather in the folds of her dainty dress, the wind plucked at her veil, and the fierce sun smote her face.

On the whole, she was displeased with things in general and inclined to regret that she had driven into the settlement, which she had done in a fit of compunction. Hitherto she had contented herself with sending the storekeeper an order for goods to be supplied, without any attempt to investigate his charges, but now, with Elcot's harvest ruined it had appeared her duty to consider carefully the subject of housekeeping accounts. She rather resented the fact that her first experiment had proved unpleasant, for she had shrunk from the sight of the slabs of half-melted pork flung down for her inspection, and having hitherto shopped only in England and eastern Canada she had found the naïve abruptness of the western storekeeper somewhat hard on her temper. Retail dealers in the prairie settlements seldom defer to their customers. If the latter do not like their goods or charges they are generally favored with a hint that they would better go somewhere else, and there is an end of the matter. It really did not look as if much encouragement was held out to those who aspired to cultivate the domestic virtues. At length the storekeeper appeared with several large packages.

"You want to cover this one up; it's the butter," he cautioned. "Guess you're going to have some trouble in keeping it in the wagon if the sun gets on to it. Better bring a big can next time, same as your hired man does."

The warning was justified, because when the inexperienced customer brings nothing to put it in, butter is usually retailed in light baskets made of wood, in spite of the fact that it is addicted to running out of them in the heat of the day. The man next deposited a heavy cotton bag in the wagon, and while a thin cloud of flour which followed its fall descended upon Florence he laid his hands on the wheel and looked at her confidentially.

"I guess if your husband meant to let up on that creamery scheme you would have heard of it," he suggested.

"Yes," replied Florence; "I don't think he has any intention of doing so."

The man made a sign of assent.

"That's just what I was telling the boys last night. There were two or three of them from Traverse staying at the hotel, and when we got to talking about the hail they allowed that he'd have to cut the creamery plan out. I said that when Elcot Hunter took a thing up he stayed with it until he put it through."

His words had their effect on Florence. This, it seemed, was what the men who dealt with Elcot thought of him. After a few more general observations about the creamery her companion went back into his store, and as he did so Nevis came out of a house near by. He stopped beside her team.

"I didn't know you were in the settlement," he said, and his manner implied that had he been acquainted with the fact he would have sought her out.

Florence glanced at him sharply as she gathered up the reins. The man seemed disposed to be more amiable than he had shown himself on the last occasion, but she now cherished two strong grievances against him. He had cunningly saddled her with a debt which was becoming horribly embarrassing, and he had given her husband a hint that she had dealings of some kind with him. As the latter course was, on the face of it, clearly not calculated to earn her gratitude, she surmised that he must have had some ulterior object in adopting it.

"I've been buying stores," she answered indifferently.

"That's a new departure, isn't it?" Nevis suggested. "You generally contented yourself with sending in for them."

Florence did not like his tone, and he seemed suspiciously well informed about her habits. This indicated that he had been making inquiries about her, and she naturally resented it. She disregarded the speech, however.

"I suppose you're here on business?"

"Yes," answered Nevis, and there was something significant in his manner; "I thought it wiser to look up my clients after the hail we had two nights ago. It's going to make things very tight for many of the prairie farmers."

"And a disaster naturally brings you on the field. Rather like the vultures, isn't it?"

She was about to drive on, but Nevis suddenly laid his hand on the rein.

"I think you ought to give me a minute or two, if only to answer that," he said with a laugh. "You compared me to a pickpocket not long ago, and I'm not prepared to own that you have chosen a very fortunate simile now."

"No? After the fact you mentioned it struck me as rather apposite; but I may have been wrong. The point's hardly worth discussing, and I'm going on to the hotel."

She had expected him to take the hint and drop the rein, but he showed no intention of doing so, and it suddenly dawned on her that he meant to keep her talking as long as possible. Everybody in the settlement who cared to look out could see them, and she had no doubt that the women in the place were keenly observant. It almost seemed as if he wished the fact that they had a good deal to say to each other to attract attention, with the idea that this might serve to give him a further hold on her. It was an opposite policy to the one he had pursued when she had driven him across the prairie some time ago, but the man had become bolder and more aggressive since then.

"Will you let that rein go?" she asked directly.

Nevis did not comply, and though he made a gesture of deprecation the look in his eyes warned her that he meant to let her feel his power.

"Won't you give me an opportunity for convincing you that I'm not like the vultures first? You see, they gather round the carrion, and I don't suppose you would care to apply that term to the farmers in our vicinity. Most of them aren't more than moribund yet."

It struck Florence that he was indifferent as to whether she took offense at this or not; and he was undoubtedly determined to stick fast to the rein. There were already one or two loungers watching them, and, if he persisted, she could not start the team without some highly undesirable display of force. The man, she fancied, realized this, and an angry warmth crept into her face. Then, somewhat to her relief, she saw Thorne strolling down the street behind her companion. He wore a battered, wide gray hat, a blue shirt which hung open at the neck, duck trousers and long boots, and though he was freely sprinkled with dust he looked distinctly picturesque. What was more to the purpose, he seemed to be regarding Nevis with suspicion, and she knew that he was a man of quick resource. In any case, the situation was becoming intolerable, and she flashed a quick glance at him. She fancied that he would understand it as an intimation that he was wanted, and the expectation was justified, for although she had never been gracious to him he approached a little faster. In the meanwhile Nevis, who had seen nothing of all this, talked on.

"There are, of course," he added, "people who are prejudiced against me; but on the other hand I have set a good many of the small farmers on their feet again."

"Presumably you made them pay for it?"

The man had no opportunity for answering this, for just then Thorne's hand fell heavily upon his shoulder.

"You here, Nevis?" he cried.

Nevis dropped the rein as he swung around and Florence wasted no time in starting her team. As the wagon jolted away down the rutted street Nevis, standing still, somewhat flushed in face, gazed at Thorne.

"Well," he demanded, "what do you want?"

Thorne leaned against the front of the store with sardonic amusement in his eyes.

"Oh," he replied, "it merely occurred to me that Mrs. Hunter wished to drive on. I thought I'd better point it out to you."

Nevis glanced at him savagely and then strode away, which was, indeed, all that he could do. An altercation would serve no useful purpose, and his antagonist was notoriously quick at repartee.

Thorne proceeded toward the wooden hotel and crossing the veranda he entered a long roughly boarded room, where he found Alison and Mrs. Farquhar as well as Florence Hunter waiting for supper. Mrs. Farquhar told him that supper would be served to them before the regular customers came in for theirs. They chatted a while and then a young lad appeared in the doorway and stopped hesitatingly.

"I'm sorry if I'm intruding," he apologized. "I meant to have supper with the boys, and Symonds didn't tell me there was anybody in the room."

Thorne turned to Mrs. Farquhar, and she smiled.

"Then unless you would prefer to take it with the boys, Dave, there's no reason why you should run away," he said.

He led the lad toward Alison when Mrs. Farquhar had spoken to him.

"I think you will remember him, Miss Leigh. He's the young man who boiled the fowls whole at the raising."

Alison laughed and shook hands with him, but after a word or two with her he looked at Thorne significantly and moved a few paces toward the door.

"Did you know that Winthrop was in the neighborhood?" he whispered.

Alison still stood near them and Thorne fancied that she started slightly, which implied that she had overheard, though why the news should cause her concern was far from clear to him.

"I didn't," he said sharply. "It's a little difficult to believe it now. You're quite sure?"

"I saw him," the lad persisted. "I was riding here along the trail and I'd come to the ravine. It's quite likely the birches had hidden me, for when I came out of them he was sitting on the edge of the sloo on the south side, near enough for me to recognize him, eating something. The next moment he rolled over into the grass and vanished."

"Then you didn't speak to him?"

"He was too quick. It looked as if he didn't want me to see him, and I rode on. I had to call at Forrester's and I found Corporal Slaney there. One or two things he said made it clear that he hadn't the faintest notion that Winthrop was within a mile or two of him."

He was apparently about to add something further when Thorne looked at him warningly. They were standing near the entrance, the approach to which led through the veranda, and the next moment Nevis walked into the room.

"Have you been picking up interesting news?" he asked. "I believe I caught Winthrop's name."

It was spoken sharply, in the expectation, Thorne fancied, that his companion, taken off his guard, would blurt out some fresh information; but the lad turned toward Nevis with an air of cold resentment.

"I was talking to Mr. Thorne," he replied.

Nevis laughed, though Thorne noticed that he did not do it easily.

"Well," he said, "I'm sorry if I interrupted you."

Then he turned toward the others as if he had just noticed them.

"I didn't know that Symonds had placed the room at your disposal; I've no doubt that will excuse me."

Nobody invited him to remain, but he withdrew gracefully, and when he had gone Thorne led the lad out on to the veranda. It was unoccupied, but as it stood some little height above the ground he walked to the edge of it and looked over before he spoke.

"Now, Dave, I want you to tell me one or two things as clearly as you can."

The lad answered his questions, and in a minute or two Thorne nodded as if satisfied. Then he pointed to the room.

"Go in and talk to Mrs. Farquhar. Keep clear of Nevis, and ride home as soon as you can after supper. If you feel compelled to mention the thing, there's no reason why you shouldn't to-morrow. It won't do much harm then."

He went down the steps and along the street, and when he came back some time later he found Alison waiting for him on the veranda.

"So you heard what Dave told me? I thought you did," he said.

"Yes," assented Alison. "The question is whether Nevis heard him too."

"He certainly heard part, but there are one or two things he can't very well know. For instance, it was Slaney's intention to ride in to the railroad as soon as he'd had supper."

"Forrester's place must be at least two leagues from here," commented Alison.

"About that," Thorne agreed with a smile. "It's far enough to make it exceedingly probable that anybody who started from this settlement when he'd had his supper would only get there after Winthrop had gone."

"But Nevis might send a messenger immediately."

Thorne shook his head.

"It strikes me as very unlikely that he'd get any one to go. There are only one or two horses in the place, and I've been round to see the men to whom they belong."