"were they--real dead, daddy? couldn't we--can't we do anything?" horror stared from tressa's eyes; she was trembling from head to foot. "i thought you or--or adrian were under it, and i almost fell over. i'd have fainted if i hadn't thought you might need me."
the big man laid his arm across the shaking shoulders and drew her to him.
"i guess it was adrian before your old dad."
"no--i don't think so." she continued naively: "adrian's so quick; i don't think he'd be caught like that. it was you i thought of--too."
he smiled a little wistfully. "that's right, little girl, be honest. we all had it--once. when your mother was alive there was no one counted but 'jim.' god, if i could hear her say it now! . . . 'jim.'" he lingered over the word, repeating it in reverent whisper. "it was 'jim' kept me straight them days. . . . just the little word 'jim.' i've always thought if i could die with that in my ears, perhaps there might--might open up a bit of a chance for the big rough fellow who hasn't had much chance to get away from things that make men rougher. . . . 'jim.' now i'll have to kick out without it."
the girl in his arms was frightened of him when he talked that way; and it was happening more frequently in these days of worry. she had scarcely known her mother, except through the lips of her daddy, but the woman who touched only the fringes of her memory was to her, as to him, a being not quite of this earth.
"'jim,'" she whispered, scarce knowing she said it.
his arms closed convulsively, and she could feel his beating heart.
"say it to me--sometimes--won't you, little girl?" he whispered.
but she was suddenly conscious of treading sacred ground.
"i don't think i can, daddy. it's mother's, mother's own. you're my daddy, and there's nothing as good as that to me."
he smiled lovingly down on her, tossing aside his depression.
"and a daddy couldn't have anything better--no, not if he searched this whole wide canada through from terminal to terminal. i'm just about the luckiest dog this side heaven.
'just one girl,
there is just one girl;
there may be others, i know,
but they're not my pearl.
sun or rain,
she is just the same;
i'll be happy forever with
just one girl.'"
the song was coarse and toneless, but he knew no other way of voicing it, and she noted nothing of its crudeness.
"daddy, you're a base deceiver."
she was wagging an accusing finger before his eyes, and he blinked in exaggerated concern.
"o' course," he admitted, "i don't say i've had much chance with more than one. this job of mine is death to gallivanting. i wouldn't know how to look at a woman now--not in a way that would mean she was more to me than one of the same sex as the best little girl in the world."
but the silently accusing finger continued to wag.
"honest, i don't know what you mean."
"what about the cow-girl last year that you bought the horses from?"
he chuckled deep in his throat.
"shucks! i know a pretty girl when i see one, that's all. i knew how to appreciate that skin of hers, and her riding, and the way she lifted her feet when she walked, and how she wore her clothes--though they weren't much, were they? and i bet they don't half prize her where she comes from. a chap like me who's known the two best women in the world can spot a real pippin any time; and he sort of owes it to the world to pass the message along. shucks, girl! you didn't think--say, you didn't think i was sidling up to her, or anything like that? all i did was to touch her arm. i wanted to see if they were all alike, like yours. and look what she gave me!"
he made a grimace and drew a finger along a dim line cutting down his cheek.
"she couldn't have been the nice girl i thought," he reflected, "or she wouldn't have got on her high-and-mighty just for a little thing like that."
"anyway," sighed the girl, snuggling deeper in his arms, "i was real proud of you when she brought that quirt across your face, and your cheek all bleeding, and it looked as if your eye was gone. you just laughed and borrowed my handkerchief."
he laughed again now. "you didn't think i'd slam at her with one of these big fists, did you? i believe i kind of enjoyed wiping away the blood."
"and you paid her every cent without a word."
"o' course! that hadn't anything to do with our little tiff. didn't i owe the money? i got them horses cheap enough, goodness knows! i'd take a thousand of them any day in the week she trotted 'em along. easiest way to make a fortune i know."
tressa eased herself away to look gravely in his face. "did you ever think those horses might be stolen ones?"
"not more'n i could help," he grinned. "it wasn't any of my business; she offered them at a reasonable price--"
"you set the price."
"the buyer always does, my dear--when he can. ten dollars was only a starter; i'd have given five times as much. they've been the best horses i've had." he stopped with a sudden inspiration. "say, come to think of it, they're the very ones we've been losing lately. looks as if some one else is a good judge of horseflesh."
"i hope they don't touch doll and prince. surely nobody would come right up here to our own stable!"
"not while big jim torrance and booze don't get mixing company too free. you didn't used to think so much of doll--but that was before she was broke. you're getting your riding legs pretty quick, i say. we'll sell them before we pull out. they're real prairie horses; they wouldn't be happy down east. just the same," he murmured, after a long pause, "i'd give a week's pay to know who got them horses. perhaps the camps out west needed brightening up their horse-power, and they've done it at my expense. if we could have got on the trail of the last lot that nearly went over the rapids--but there's nobody can trail in this camp." he smote his knee with a loud smack. "by hickory! why didn't i think of the indian before?"
"peter maverick?"
"sure. the only indian we got. he did me a good turn to-day on that trestle. never saw an indian couldn't follow a trail, if there was whisky or a horse at the end of it . . . and i never saw a likelier one than mavy. might be worth my while to get in ahead of the mounted police. they had to be told, you know."
"did you tell them how you got the horses, daddy?"
the big man looked grieved. "do you think your dad has lost all his senses? but this smashing of things was getting too common, and they'd have found out about the horses and wondered why i hadn't called them in. i don't think they'd favour buying strange horses at ten dollars a head and trying to look innocent about it. it isn't any use arguing with them--but you got common sense. you wouldn't suspect your old dad of receiving stolen property--at ten per; but them mounted police will ask for a birth certificate for every blessed one. i haven't time to look into the pedigree of every horse i buy. i'm busy. the police are so unreasonable when it comes to law."
"that's why," he went on, after a thoughtful silence, "i'd like to steer them off the horse question. there's lots else for them to do. . . . why didn't i think of mavy before?"
he went to the edge of the bank and whistled. ten minutes later conrad was with them.
"koppy got them repairs done yet?"
"pretty nearly," replied the foreman.
"when the indian can get away, send him up . . . or maybe we'd better wait till after hours--if he wouldn't ask overtime."
"you'll never find him after hours; he doesn't sleep in the camp. wanders off somewhere in the bush. he has about as much use for white trash as you have."
"send him right away then."
