The Hound From The North Part 15

Ten miles from Ainsley and the wide open sea of snow proclaimed the prairie in its due form. Not a tree in sight, not a rock, not a hill to break the awful monotony. Just one vast rolling expanse of snow gleaming beneath the dazzling rays of a now warming sun. A hungry coyote and his mate prowling in search of food at a distance of half-a-mile looked large by reason of their isolation. An occasional covey of prairie chicken, noisily winging their way to a far-distant bluff, might well be startling both to horses and driver. A dark ribbon-like flight of ducks or geese, high up in the heavens, speeding from the south to be early in the field when the sodden prairie should be open, was something to distract the attention of even the most pre-occupied. But Grey was oblivious to everything except the trail beneath him, the gait of his team, and his scheme for advancement. The sun mounted higher, and the time pa.s.sed rapidly to the traveller. And, as the record of mileage rose, the face of the snow-clad earth began again to change its appearance. The undulations of the prairie a.s.sumed vaster proportions. The waves rose to the size of hills, and the gentle hollows sank deeper until they declined into gaping valleys.

Here and there trees and small clumps of leafless bush dotted the view. A house or two, with barn looming largely in the rear, and spidery fencing, stretching in rectangular directions, suggested homesteads; the barking of dogs--life. These signs of habitation continued, and became now more frequent, and now, again, more rare.

The hills increased in size and the bush thickened. Noon saw the traveller in an "up-and-down" country intersected by icebound streams and snow-laden hollows. The timber became more heavy, great pine trees dominating the more stunted growths, and darkening the outlook by reason of their more generous vegetation. On the eastern extremity of this belt of country stood the school-house of Leonville; beyond that the undulating prairie again on to Loon d.y.k.e Farm.

Leslie Grey looked at his watch; the hands indicated a near approach to the hour of one. He had yet three miles to go to reach his destination. He had crossed a small creek. A culvert bridged it, but the snow upon either side of the trail was so deep in the hollow that no indication of the woodwork was visible. It was in such places as these that a watchful care was needed. The smallest divergence from the beaten track would have precipitated the team and cutter into a snow-drift from which it would have been impossible to extricate it without a smash-up. Once safely across this he allowed the horses to climb the opposite ascent leisurely. They had done well--he had covered the distance in less than six hours.

The hill was a ma.s.s of redolent pinewoods. It was as though the gradual densifying of this belt of woodland country had culminated upon the hill. The brooding gloom of the forest was profound. The dark green foliage of the pines seemed black by contrast with the snow, and gazing in amongst the leafless lower trunks was like peering into a world of dayless night The horses walked with ears p.r.i.c.ked and wistful eyes alertly gazing. The darkness of their surroundings seemed to have conveyed something of its mysterious dread to their sensitive nerves.

Tired they might be, but they were ready to shy at each rustle of the heavy branches, as some stray breath of air bent them lazily and forced from them a creaking protest.

As the traveller neared the summit the trail narrowed down until a hand outstretched from the conveyance could almost have brushed the tree-trunks.

Grey's eyes were upon his horses and his thoughts were miles away.

Ahead of him gaped the opening in the trees which marked the brow of the hill against the skyline. He had traversed the road many times on his way to Loon d.y.k.e Farm and knew every foot of it. It had no beauties for him. These profound woods conveyed nothing to his unimpressionable mind; not even danger, for fear was quite foreign to his nature. This feeling of security was more the result of his own lofty opinion of himself, and the contempt in which he held all law-breakers, rather than any high moral tone he possessed. Whatever his faults, fear was a word which found no place in his vocabulary. A nervous or imaginative man might have conjured weird fancies from the gloom with which he found himself surrounded at this point. But Leslie Grey was differently const.i.tuted.

Now, as he neared the summit of the hill, he leant slightly forward and gathered up the lines which he had allowed to lie slack upon his horses' backs. A resounding "chirrup" and the weary beasts strained at their neck-yoke. Something moving in amongst the trees attracted their attention. Their snorting nostrils were suddenly thrown up in startled attention. The off-side horse jumped sideways against its companion, and the sleigh was within an ace of fouling the trees. By a great effort Grey pulled the animals back to the trail and his whip fell heavily across their backs. Then he looked up to discover the cause of their fright. A dark figure, a man clad in a black sheepskin coat, stood like a statue between two trees.

His right arm was raised and his hand gripped a levelled pistol. For one brief instant Grey surveyed the apparition, and he scarcely realized his position. Then a sharp report rang out, ear-piercing in the grim silence, and his hands went up to his chest and his eyes closed.

The next moment the eyes, dull, almost unseeing, opened again, he swayed forward as though in great pain, then with an effort he flung himself backwards, settling himself against the unyielding back of the seat; his face looked drawn and grey, nor did he attempt to regain the reins which had dropped from his hands. The horses, unrestrained, broke into a headlong gallop; fright urged them on and they raced down the trail, keeping to the beaten track with their wonted instinct, even although mad with fear. A moment later and the sleigh disappeared over the brow of the hill.

All became silent again, except for the confused, distant jangle of the sleigh-bells on the horses' backs. The dark figure moved out on to the trail, and stood gazing after the sleigh. For a full minute he stood thus. Then he turned again and swiftly became lost in the black depths whence he had so mysteriously appeared.

CHAPTER VIII

GREY'S LAST WORDS

Rigid, hideous, stands the Leonville school-house sharply outlined against the sky, upon the summit of a high, rising ground. It stands quite alone as though in proud distinction for its cla.s.sic vocation.

Its flat, uninteresting sides; its staring windows; its high-pitched roof of warped shingles; its weather-boarding, innocent of paint; its general air of neglect; these things strike one forcibly in that region of Nature's carefully-finished handiwork.

However, its cheerless aspect was for the moment rendered less apparent than usual by reason of many people gathered about the storm-porch, and the number and variety of farmers' sleighs grouped about the two tying-posts which stood by the roadside in front of it An unbroken level of smooth prairie footed one side of the hill, whilst at the back of the house stretched miles of broken, hilly woodland.

The wedding party had arrived from Loon d.y.k.e Farm. Hephzibah Malling had gathered her friends together, and all had driven over for the happy event amidst the wildest enthusiasm and excited antic.i.p.ation.

Each girl, clad in her brightest colours beneath a sober outer covering of fur, was accompanied by her attendant swain, the latter well oiled about the hair and well bronzed about the face, and glowing as an after-effect of the liberal use of soap and water. A wedding was no common occurrence, and, in consequence, demanded special mark of appreciation. No work would be done that day by any of those who attended the function.

But the enthusiasm of the moment had died out at the first breath of serious talk--talk inspired by the non-appearance of the bridegroom.

The hour of the ceremony was close at hand and still he had not arrived. He should have been the first upon the scene. The elders were agitated, the younger folk hopeful and full of excuses for the belated groom, the Minister fingered his great silver timepiece nervously. He had driven over from Lakeville, at much inconvenience to himself, to officiate at the launching of his old friend's daughter upon the high seas of wedded life.

The older ladies had rallied to Mrs. Malling's side. The younger people held aloof. There was an ominous grouping and eager whispering, and eyes were turned searchingly upon the grey trail which stretched winding away towards the western horizon.

The Rev. Charles Danvers, the Methodist minister of Lakeville, was the central figure of the situation, and at whom the elder ladies fired their comments and suggestions. There could be no doubt, from the nature and tone of these remarks, that a panic was spreading.

"It's quite too bad, you know," said Mrs. Covill, an iron-grey haired lady of decided presence and possessing a hooked nose. "I can't understand it in a man of Mr. Grey's business-like ways. Now he's just the sort of man whom I should have expected would have been here at least an hour before it was necessary."

"It is just his sort that fail on these occasions," put in Mrs.

Ganthorn pessimistically. "He's just too full of business for my fancy. What is the time now, Mr. Danvers?"

"On the stroke of the half-hour," replied the parson, with a gloomy look. "My eyesight is not very good; can I see anything on the trail, or is that black object a bush?"

"Bush," said some one shortly.

"Ah," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the parson. Then he turned to Mrs. Malling, who stood beside him staring down the trail with unblinking eyes. Her lips were pursed and twitching nervously. "There can have been no mistake about the time, I suppose?"

"Mistake? No," retorted the good lady with irritation. "Folks don't make no mistake about the hour of their wedding. Not the bridegroom, anyway. No, it's an accident, that's what it is, as sure as my name's Hephzibah Malling. And that's what comes of his staying at Ainsley when he ought to have been hereabouts. To think of a man driving forty odd miles to get married. La' sakes! It just makes me mad with him.

There's my girl there most ready to cry her eyes out on her wedding morning, and small blame to her neither. It's a shame, and I'm not the one to be likely to forget to tell him so when he comes along. If he were my man he'd better his ways, I know."

No one replied to the old lady's heated complaint. They all too cordially agreed with her to defend the recalcitrant bridegroom. Mr.

Danvers drew out his watch for at least the twentieth time.

"Five minutes overdue," he murmured. Then aloud and in a judicial tone: "We must allow him some margin. But, as you say, it certainly was a mistake his remaining at Ainsley."

"Mistake--mistake, indeed," Mrs. Malling retorted, with all the scorn she was capable of. "He's that fool-headed that he won't listen to no reason. Why couldn't he have stopped at the farm? Propriety-- fiddlesticks!" Her face was flushed and her brow ominously puckered; she folded her fat hands with no uncertain grip across the slight frontal hollow which answered her purpose for a waist. Her anger was chiefly based upon alarm, and that alarm was not alone for her daughter. She was anxious for the man himself, and her anxiety found vent in that peculiar angry protest which is so little meant by those who resort to it. The good dame was on pins and needles of nervous suspense. Had Grey suddenly appeared upon the scene doubtless her kindly face would have at once wreathed itself into a broad expanse of smiles. But the moments flew by and still the little group waited for the coming which was so long delayed.

Three of the young men approached the agitated mother from the juvenile gathering. Their faces were solemn. Their own optimism had given way before the protracted delay. Tim Gleichen and Peter Furrers came first, Andy, the ch.o.r.eman, brought up the rear.

"We've been thinking," said Tim, feeling it necessary to explain the process which had brought them to a certain conclusion, "that maybe we might just drive down the trail to see if we can see anything of him, Mrs. Malling. Ye can't just say how things have gone with him. Maybe he's struck a 'dump' and his sleigh's got smashed up. There's some tidy drifts to come through, and it's dead easy to get dumped in 'em.

Peter and Andy here have volunteered to go with me."

"That's real sensible of you, Tim," replied Mrs. Malling, with an air of relief. She felt quite convinced that an accident had happened. She turned to the minister. In this matter she considered he was the best judge. Like many of her neighbours, she looked to the minister as the best worldly as well as spiritual adviser of his flock. "Like as not the boys will be able to help him?" she suggested, in a tone of inquiry.

"I don't think I should let them go yet," the man of the cloth replied. "I should give him an hour. It seems to me it will be time enough then. Ah, here's Mrs. Gurridge," as that lady appeared in the doorway. "There's no sign of him," he called out in antic.i.p.ation of her inquiry. "I hope you are not letting the bride worry too much."

"It's too dreadful," said Mrs. Ganthorn, as her thoughts reverted to Prudence waiting in the school-ma'am's sitting-room.

"Whatever can have happened to him?"

"That's what's been troubling us this hour and more," snapped the girl's mother. She was in no humour to be asked silly questions, however little they were intended to be answered.

She turned to Sarah. In this trouble the peaceful Sarah would act as oil on troubled waters.

Sarah understood her look of inquiry.

"She's bearing up bravely, Hephzibah. She's not one of the crying sort. Too much of your Silas in her for that. I've done my best to console her."

She did not say that she had propounded several mottos more or less suitable to the occasion, which had been delivered with great unction to the disconsolate girl. Prudence had certainly benefited by the good woman's company, but not in the way Sarah had hoped and believed. It was the girl's own sense of humour which had helped her.

Mrs. Malling turned away abruptly. Her red face had grown a shade paler, and her round, brown eyes were suspiciously watery. But she gazed steadily down the trail on which all her hopes were set. The guests stood around in respectful silence. The party which had arrived so light-heartedly had now become as solemn as though they had come to attend a funeral. The minister continued to glance at his watch from time to time. He had probably never in his life so frequently referred to that faithful companion of his preaching hours. Tim Gleichen and Peter Furrers and Andy had moved off in the direction of the sleighs.

The others followed Mrs. Malling's example and bent their eyes upon the vanishing point of the trail.

Suddenly an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n escaped one of the bystanders. Something moving had just come into view. All eyes concentrated upon a black speck which was advancing rapidly in a cloud of ground snow. Hope rose at a bound to wild, eager delight. The object was a sleigh. And the speed at which it was coming down the trail told them that it was bearing the belated bridegroom, who, conscious of his fault, was endeavouring to make up the lost time. Mrs. Malling's round face shone again in her relief, and a sigh of content escaped her. Word was sent at once to the bride, and all was enthusiasm again. Then followed a terrible shock. Peter Furrer, more long-sighted than the rest, delivered it in a boorish fashion all his own.

"Ther' ain't no one aboard of that sleigh," he called out. "Say, them plugs is just boltin'. Gum, but they be comin' h.e.l.l-belt-fer-leckshuns."

Every one understood his expression, and faces that a moment before had been radiant with hope changed their expression with equal suddenness to doubt, then in a moment to apprehension.

"You don't say----" Mrs. Malling gasped; it was all she could say.