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<h2 class="newchapter">XIII THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD</h2> Stannard and a party from the hotel were in the mountains, and Laura and Mrs. Dillon one morning occupied a bench on the terrace. Mrs. Dillon had arrived a few days since, and when Stannard returned Laura was going back with her to Puget Sound. Dillon, sitting on the steps, tranquilly smoked a cigarette. Laura had engaged to marry him and he had refused to join Stannard's rather ambitious excursion to a snow peak that had recently interested the Canadian Alpine Club. So far as Dillon knew, nobody had yet got up the mountain, and if its exploration occupied Stannard and Jimmy for some time, he would be resigned. Jimmy was his friend, but on the whole Frank would sooner he was not about. "Two strangers went into the clerk's office some time since," Laura said presently. "One wore a sort of cavalry uniform. Do you know who they are?" "One's a subaltern officer of the Royal North-West Mounted Police," Dillon replied. "I expect the other's a small boss in the Canada forestry department, or something like that. Perhaps a careless tourist has started a bush fire." "They are coming out," said Laura, and added with surprise: "I think they want to see us." The men crossed the terrace and the young officer gave Laura an envelope. "I understand you are Miss Stannard and this is your father's." Laura nodded agreement and studied the envelope. The address was Stannard's and at the top was printed, Sports service. Taxidermy. "Perhaps you had better open the envelope," the officer resumed. Laura did so and pulled out a bill. "To preserving and mounting two big-horn heads— To packing for shipment—" The other man took the bill. He was a big brown-skinned fellow and his steady quiet glance indicated that he knew the woods. "Sure!" he said. "The charge for packing is pretty steep; but when you mean to beat the export-prohibition— Well, I guess this fixes it!" "What has Mr. Stannard's bill to do with you?" Laura asked in a haughty voice. "To begin with, he can't ship those heads out of Canada. Then it looks as if he killed the big-horn on a government game reserve." "Your statement's ridiculous," said Laura angrily. "My father is an English sportsman, not a poacher." "Anyhow, he killed two mountain sheep not long since." "You cannot force Miss Stannard to admit it," Dillon interrupted. "Not at all," the young officer agreed politely. "Still I think some frankness might pay. My companion is warden Douglas, from the reserve, and the game laws are strict, but it's possible some allowance would be made for tourists who did not know the rules. If Miss Stannard does reply, it might help." "Very well," said Laura. "My father and a party went shooting and he brought back two big-horn heads, but I'm satisfied he did not know he trespassed on a game reserve." "His partners were Leyland and Deering," warden Douglas remarked. "I expect they took a guide, although they didn't hire up the men at the hotel." "Mr. Leyland's man, Okanagan, went." Douglas looked at the officer and smiled meaningly. "Now I get it! I reckon Bob played them fellers." "Mr. Stannard is again in the mountains?" the officer said to Laura. "I don't urge you to reply, but although my duty's to find out all I can, I don't think your frankness will hurt your father." Laura said Stannard had gone to climb a famous peak and admitted that he had taken Okanagan. "They'll hit the range near the head of the reserve and a hefty gang could get down the Wolf Creek gulch," Douglas observed. "Looks as if Bob had gone back for another lot! I guess an English sport would put up fifty dollars for a good head." "Thank you, Miss Stannard," said the officer. "The department will claim the heads and perhaps demand a fine, but the sum will depend upon Mr. Stannard's statements. This, however, is not my business." He bowed and went off, but he stopped Douglas on the veranda. "If you want to go after the party, I'll give you trooper Simpson." "I'm going after Okanagan and I mean to get him," said Douglas grimly. "I reckon he fooled the tourists, but they've got to pay the fine. Can't you give me a bushman trooper? Okanagan's a tough proposition and he doesn't like me." The officer said he had not another man and must go off to make inquiries about a forest fire. He sent for his horse and the group on the terrace saw him ride down the trail. "I'm sorry for Father and know he'll hate to give up the heads; but I think the men were satisfied Jimmy's helper cheated him," Laura remarked. A few days afterwards, Stannard's party stopped one evening at a small, empty homestead. Thin forest surrounded the clearing, but on one side the trees were burned and the bare rampikes shone in the sun. In places the crooked fence had fallen down, tall fern grew among the stumps, and willows had run across the cultivated ground. For all that, the loghouse was good, and since the horses could not go much farther, Stannard resolved to use the ranch for a supply depot. On the rocks the climbing party could not carry heavy loads. When the sun got low they sat on the veranda and smoked. They did not talk much, and Jimmy felt the brooding calm was melancholy. Somebody, perhaps with high hope, had cleared the ground the forest now was taking back. Labor and patience had gone for nothing; the grass was already smothered by young trees. It looked as if the wilderness triumphed over human effort. "How long do you think its owner was chopping out the ranch? And why did he let it go?" Jimmy asked. "I reckon nine or ten years," Deering replied. "Maybe he speculated on somebody's starting a sawmill or a mine. Maybe the block carried a mortgage and he pulled out to earn the interest. As a rule, the small homesteader takes any job he can get, and when his wallet's full comes back to chop, but a railroad construction gang's the usual stunt and some don't come back. I expect the fellow was blown up by dynamite or a rock fell on him. Anyhow, when you hit a deserted ranch, the owner's story is something like that. Canada's not the get-rich country land boomers state." Then Deering turned to Stannard. "Did you find a good line to the ridge from which we reckon to make the peak?" "I found a line I think will go. You follow the ridge until a big buttress breaks the top some distance above the snow level. A col goes down to a glacier and one might get across to another ridge that would help us up the peak. Still I doubt if our map's accurate, and my notion is to climb the buttress." Deering took the map. "Good maps of the back country are not numerous, but if the col's where you locate it, I reckon the old-time miners shoved up the glacier when they came in from the plains. Some made the Caribou diggings from Alberta long before the railroad was built." "Their road was rough," said Stannard and lighted his pipe. He was not keen to talk. For one thing, he was tired, and he did not yet know where to get the sum he needed. The sum, however, must be got. So long as he belonged to one or two good clubs and visited at fashionable country houses, the allowance on which he lived would be paid; but if he did not satisfy his creditor he must give up his clubs and would not be wanted at shooting parties. By and by Deering turned to Bob, who was cleaning a rifle. "We have guns. Have you got a pit-light?" Bob grinned. "You can't use a pit-light. Some cranks at Ottawa allow they're going to carry out the law." "It depends," said Deering dryly. "I wouldn't go still-hunting if I thought a game-warden was about, but we oughtn't to run up against a warden in this neighborhood. Anyhow, I see the deer come down to feed on the fresh brush, and some venison would help out our salt pork. Say, have you got a light?" "I've got one," Bob admitted. "We brought some candles, and I guess I could cut two or three shields from a meat can." "Then you can get to work," said Deering, and turned to the others. "The sport's pretty good. You hook a small miner's lamp in your hat and pull out the brim, but you can use a candle and a bit of tin. Since the lamp's above the tin shield, the deer can't see you. They see a light some distance from the ground and, if you're quiet, they come up to find out what it's doing there. When their eyes reflect the beam, you shoot." "I don't suppose we'd run much risk, but a still-hunt is poaching and I doubt if it's worth the bother," Stannard replied carelessly. "When you start poaching, you don't know where to stop. Not long since we shot two big-horn on a game reserve," said Deering with a laugh. "The strange thing is, although I quit ranching for the cities, I want to get back and play in the woods. Give me an ax and a gun and I'm a boy again. Say, let's try the still-hunt!" The others agreed and after supper the party waited for dark. The green sky faded and the trees were very black. Then their saw-edged tops got indistinct and gray mist floated about the clearing in belts that sometimes melted and sometimes got thick. The resinous smell of the pines was keen and all was very quiet but for the turmoil of the river. An owl swooped by the house, shrieked mournfully, and vanished in the gloom. At length Jimmy fixed his candle in a rude tin shield, felt that his rifle magazine was full, and waited for Bob to take the others to their posts. So long as they went away from him, all he saw was a faint glimmer, but sometimes one turned at an obstacle and a small bright flame shone in the mist. It looked as if the light floated without support and Jimmy could picture its exciting the deer's curiosity. One could not use a pit-lamp in the tangled bush, but the clearing was some distance across and the deer came to feed on the tender undergrowth that had sprung up since the trees were chopped. After a time Bob returned, but now Jimmy must go to his post he admitted he would sooner go to bed. He was tired and still-hunting with a light was forbidden; besides, they had not long since poached on a game reserve. Had not Deering bothered them, Jimmy thought Stannard would not have gone, but in the woods Deering's mood was a boy's. The packers and the horses were in a barn some distance back among the trees, and they had not got a light at the house. Somehow the quiet and gloom were daunting, but to hesitate was ridiculous and Jimmy went off with Bob. In North America, trees are not cut off at the ground level and the clearing was dotted by tall stumps. Fern grew about the roots, and tangled vines and young willows occupied the open spaces. At a boggy patch the grass was high, and a ditch went up the middle and into the bush. The ditch was deep and Jimmy knew something about the labor it had cost. To see useful effort thrown away disturbed him and he speculated about the lonely rancher's stubborn fight. The man was gone; perhaps he knew himself beaten before he went, and the forest reclaimed the clearing. They crossed the ditch and Bob stationed Jimmy behind a big stump at the edge of the trees. He said quietness was important, and if Jimmy left his post and did not take his light, he might get shot. Moreover, he must not shoot unless he saw a deer's eyes shine; he must wait until he thought the animal near enough and then aim between the two bright spots. He might soon get a shot, but he might wait until daybreak and see nothing. Then Bob went off and Jimmy was sorry he could not light his pipe. The night was cold and waiting behind the stump soon got dreary. Sometimes the mist was thick and sometimes it melted, but one could not see across the clearing and nothing indicated that the others were about. Jimmy did not know their posts; he imagined Bob had put them where they would not see each other's lights. He wondered whether the deer would soon arrive. If he did not see one before his candle burned out, he would lie down at the bottom of the stump and go to sleep. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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