Athabasca Bill E-Book

Bessie Marchant

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

In Alberta, Canada, young Fred’s family awaits the return of their father who is looking for a site for a new home for them. But just as he return, bloodhounds seeking the thief who stole a box containing hundreds of dollars trace the scent to Fred’s father. Fred sets out to find Athabasca Bill who may have information that will prove that his father is innocent. Elizabeth Marchant (1862–1941) was a prolific English writer who wrote in the style of the Victorian adventure novel. She was born in Petham in Kent and preferred to be known as Bessie. In many of her novels the lead characters in her books were very often female, although she did write books with male heroes. „Athabasca Bill: A Tale of the Far West” is a must-read for anyone in need for a dose of entertaining, worthwhile writing.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. OLD MAN ARLO’S DOGS

CHAPTER II. A GREAT SHOCK

CHAPTER III. THE MYSTERY GROWS

CHAPTER IV. WHERE WAS ATHABASCA BILL?

CHAPTER V. A STRANGE COINCIDENCE

CHAPTER VI. OLD MAN ARLO’S MONEY BAGS

CHAPTER VII. OLD MAN ARLO SHOWS A WAY OUT

CHAPTER VIII. THROUGH DENAREE’S LEAP

CHAPTER IX. THE TIDINGS FROM BLACK PINE PORTAGE

CHAPTER X. OUT OF THE WHIRLPOOLS

CHAPTER XI. STARTING IN PURSUIT

CHAPTER XII. ROUGH TRAVELLING

CHAPTER XIII. A BID FOR THE FARM

CHAPTER XIV. OLD ACQUAINTANCES

CHAPTER XV. MONTANA JENNY TAKES THE TRAIL

CHAPTER XVI. ‘FOLLOW MY LEADER’

CHAPTER XVII. A BAD NIGHT

CHAPTER XVIII. POTIPHAR’S FRAGMENT

CHAPTER XIX. MAKING THE BEST OF IT

CHAPTER XX. A FUTILE SEARCH

CHAPTER XXI. WOULD HE DIE?

CHAPTER XXII. THE CREDITORS OF SNEAKY MOSE TAKE POSSESSION

CHAPTER XXIII. WHAT THEY FOUND

CHAPTER XXIV. UNDER THE ASHES

CHAPTER XXV. THE EVE OF THE TRIAL

CHAPTER XXVI. JUST IN TIME

CHAPTER XXVII. A CURIOUS REVELATION

CHAPTER I. OLD MAN ARLO’S DOGS

The three Crawford boys, on their way home from school, paused as usual at Deerfoot Corner to listen to the deep-throated baying of old man Arlo’s bloodhounds, and to peer through the narrow openings in the high staked-fence with the hope of seeing the bent, wizened old fellow out with the dogs, practising their trade of man-hunting.

It was always a mystery to the boys, that old man Arlo should devote so much time and trouble to the training of his two bloodhounds, since no one in the district ever needed their services in tracking down thieves, or finding runaways, for he lived in a miserable fashion, and was always pleading poverty, yet spent enough on his dogs to have maintained himself in decent comfort.

The baying was coming nearer–plainly the hounds were on the trail, so in order to avoid accidents, they swarmed up into the lower boughs of some roadside trees to see the fun. As a rule, especially if Ella were with them, they took to their heels, racing at top speed down the slope through Golden Grove, and across Joe Armstrong’s lot, to their own holding at the far end of the valley.

But Ella was not at school to-day, and being unencumbered with a non-climber, they quickly made their way up to a safe roosting-place in the spreading boughs, then waited for the fun to begin.

“Why, there are three dogs to-day, and they are not hunting, but held in a leash!” exclaimed Fred, who by reason of his seniority and superior strength had climbed higher than the other two, and so caught sight of the dogs first.

“So he has,” cried Sam, peering through the yellowing leaves. “Then it must be true what Ross Johnson said about old man Arlo having bought a dog, that has come all the way from Montana, and can hunt a man through a crowded city street, yet never lose the trail. That is the one, that brown and white creature in the middle; easy to see which is the stranger, and, my word, but isn’t it a beauty too!” and he gave vent to a long, low whistle of admiration, craning his neck so far out through the branches, that it was almost a miracle he did not overbalance himself and fall out of the tree, in front of the whimpering hounds that were straining so eagerly at the leash, as if anxious to be free and away across country tracking down something or some one from sheer love of hunting.

“Hullo, old man Arlo, where are you off to now?” piped out Johnny, the youngest of the three boys, in his shrill treble; he always wanted to know other people’s business, and never scrupled to ask for information on the subject.

As a rule the old man was taciturn, and loth to gratify the curiosity of people, but to-day he was nearly as eager and excited as his dogs.

“I’m going to Millet–there has been a big robbery from the railway depôt, and the inspector has sent for me to bring my dogs to help ’em in tracking the thieves; so I’m reckoning that them wrong-doers are pretty nigh as good as convicted already,” replied the old man, with a knowing wink, and a vicious pull at the leash, for the dogs were straining at it so hard that they nearly dragged him off his feet in their eagerness to go forward.

“When was the robbery?” called out Fred. “I was over at the depôt with our team yesterday, and I heard no talk of anything having been taken then, nor did there seem anything much to steal except a few empty freight cars, and nobody would want bloodhounds to track them with, I should think.”

“Ah, it doesn’t ever do to judge by appearances,” retorted the old man, with a sly chuckle. “There was a little box standing in one corner of the office, that was worth double the value of every freight car on the depôt, and it is that box that was stolen last night, the thief getting clear away, and nobody none the wiser until this mornin’.”

“What was in the box?” piped Johnny, whilst Sam whistled again, in wonder this time that anything so valuable should be left in the office, instead of being locked away in the safe.

“They say the box was chock full of dollars–five hundred of ‘em, and they’d been labelled nails, so that no one should suspicion them for anything of more value. I reckon the thief that went for to steal that box o’ nails made eyes as big as glass marbles when he saw what that box had in it really.”

“Will your dogs be able to catch the thief?” called out Johnny, more shrilly than before, for the old man was moving on again, the straining of the hounds serving to tow him along.

But he turned to nod in token of assent, at the same time grimacing so hideously that the boys shivered in spite of themselves, because his face was so full of malevolence, and his reputation matched his appearance.

They watched until a bend in the road hid him from sight, then, with a little start of recollection, Fred began to scramble down from his perch among the branches. “Come along, boys, we must run for it now, for we’ve wasted quite ten minutes, and I promised mother I’d be home early to do the milking, because Dolty Simpson has to go to the mill this afternoon.”

Away raced the three boys like the wind, Johnny’s short legs twinkling along in the rear of the other two, as he made plucky efforts to keep up.

It was fairly easy going as they pelted down Golden Grove, but part of the way across Joe Armstrong’s lot was very rough and heavy, so that Sam and Johnny speedily dropped behind, though Fred raced on, taking the short way across the potato-patch when their own land was reached, jumping the rows in a series of quick bobbing leaps like a kangaroo.

The Crawford homestead was only a small square house, standing in an enclosure, around which were built other houses and sheds, all of the same rough unpainted wood. A belt of spruce firs and hardy larches on the north broke the worst violence of the wind from that quarter, sheltering the young apple and pear trees planted there. It was a bare dreary-looking spot, but the Crawfords loved it because it was home, and a pang shot through Fred’s heart as he neared it, knowing as he did that in all probability this time next year would see the old place in the hands of strangers, whilst they would be settled further away in the wilds, where land could be had for next to nothing.

Just as he reached the fence, over which he was preparing to take a flying leap to save time, instead of going round to the gate, a rosy-faced girl came rushing out of the house, and flung her hands up in joyful gesticulation about something or other, whilst she shouted something Fred could not hear.

“What is it?” he panted, thinking at first his sister was reproaching him for coming home late.

“Father has come home from Athabasca,” she shouted again, her voice plainly audible this time.

“Hurrah!” cried Fred in a rather broken-winded fashion, owing to his want of breath, then without staying to shout the good news to Sam, who was ever so far behind, whilst Johnny was not even in sight, he rushed on towards the house.

“When did father come, Ella, and where is he now?” he panted, tugging at the strap of his bookbag, and nearly wrenching it asunder in his haste to get it off.

“He is out in the barn, I think; here, I will take your bag, and oh, Fred, he has found a place that he likes, so we shall have to go,” she cried, catching her breath in a sharp little sob.

“Where?” he demanded quickly, pausing for her answer, whilst his heart gave a painful bound.

“He will tell you; I don’t think the place has got a name yet, but it is somewhere by the Wabamun Lake, beyond Stony Plain and Spruce Grove,” said Ella, in a tone which seemed to imply that the prospect was anything but inviting.

Fred whistled softly, but said nothing in answer, only rushed away to the barn to find his father, who had been away in the wilds prospecting for a fresh place of settlement ever since the close of harvest.

Maitland Crawford was a man with a passion for the wilderness pure and simple, and when a district became fairly settled, he felt crowded, and, longing for elbow room, yearned for a new location beyond the bounds of civilization.

It had not been an easy matter to take up new ground whilst the children were babies, but now that Fred was turned fifteen, and Johnny, the youngest, nearly nine, this obstacle seemed in a fair way of being removed, and so Mr. Crawford had set to work in good earnest on the task of finding a new home.

He was busy sharpening a saw when Fred entered the barn, but turned to greet his son with a bright smile, and a warm nod of greeting.

“I’ve got home again, you see, sonny; and, what is more, I’ve found what I have been looking for.”

“Ella said you had dropped on a place you liked out by Wabamun Lake,” Fred replied, with as much interest as he could muster on the spur of the moment, for he would not disappoint his father if he could help it, distasteful as he found the prospect of a change.

“Yes, that I have; it is rather rough at present, but when we’ve a house built, it will be a snug location, I can tell you; wood and water in plenty, and more game than you boys will manage to shoot in the next ten years. I saw a black bear the night I spent in a shack on the lake shore; but there, I mustn’t begin talking of all I’ve seen and done, or I shall not be finished with this saw by supper-time,” and Mr. Crawford turned back to his saw with a resolute air.

“I must stir round too, for I’ve got to milk, because Dolty has gone to the mill,” Fred said, his face brighter now, and his voice eager, because of that mention of black bear.

There was over an hour of steady hard work got through before he had a chance to talk with his father again; by that time it was dark, and they were all washing their hands for supper, at the little sink out on the back porch, when Johnny, who was polishing his face very hard with a rough towel, asked shrilly–

“May I have that little wooden box that is out in the barn, father?–I mean the one you brought home with you to-day?”

“I don’t know what box you mean, Johnny; but certainly I did not bring it home with me to-day,” replied Mr. Crawford, turning to enter the kitchen where supper was spread.

“Then I wonder how it came there,” went on Johnny, in a puzzled tone; “I asked Dolty Simpson if he had put it in the barn, but he did not know anything about it, and it wasn’t there last night when I went to look for the eggs.”

“What box are you speaking of, Johnny?” asked Celia, coming out just then from her bedroom, where she had been lying down most of the day with a bad headache. In age she came midway between Ella and Sam, but owing to her severe headaches and general weakness, was often compelled to stay away from school for weeks at the stretch.

“It is a nice little wooden box with a lid and a fastening, and it has “copper nails’ printed in big letters on the top; I found it hidden away behind the big board, where the two speckled hens mostly lay their eggs,” explained Johnny, at some length.

“I know, I saw it there when I rushed out to the barn, after father came home, to look for eggs for supper,” remarked Ella, who was hovering between the stove and the table busy with cooking. “I thought father had brought the box, because he went to the barn before he came indoors, but I forgot about it again until now.”

“We will step out to the barn and have a look at it after supper, for certainly a box could not walk into the barn, having no legs,” rejoined Mr. Crawford, with an easy laugh. “But supper is the first consideration.”

“Yes, indeed it is,” replied his wife; “for I expect you have not had very many comfortable meals during the last few weeks.”

“I think I could reckon them up on the fingers of one hand,” Mr. Crawford said, with a laugh, as he took his place at the table.

Then the children began to clamour for the story of his adventures, so that the supper-time seemed likely to be prolonged indefinitely. Dolty Simpson, the hired man, had gone home, and the father and mother were alone with their children, a re-united family once more; and no one was willing to break the spell of happiness by making a move to leave the table, until Mrs. Crawford said that it was high time Sam and Johnny went to bed. The latter began to clamour then for the little wooden box to be brought from the barn, and Mr. Crawford, reaching for his cap, said he would go and fetch it, when there came the sounds of dogs baying in the distance.

“Why, I believe it must be old man Arlo’s bloodhounds on the trail!” exclaimed Fred, starting up in surprise.

CHAPTER II. A GREAT SHOCK

“Old man Arlo’s dogs?” echoed Mr. Crawford, in great bewilderment. “What would he be doing with them out at this time of night? It is so dark that you can hardly see your hand, if you hold it up in front of your face, and it would be but little lighter out in the open.”

“I suppose they want to work the trail while it is fresh,” answered Fred. “Old man Arlo told us there had been a robbery from the railway depôt at Millet, and that he had been sent for to bring his dogs to track the thief. He would have had about time to go to Millet and come back again, if he stepped out briskly, that is, and the dogs were towing him along at a great pace when we saw him as we came home from school.”

“I thought they only used bloodhounds when some big crime had been committed, like murder, for instance,” said Ella, with a rather frightened face, coming to the door to peep out under her father’s arm at the blackness of the night.

“I expect they are using the dogs now to save the expense of sending for a detective,” said Mr. Crawford carelessly, putting his arm closer round her, and stooping to kiss her hair. “I came through Millet myself early this morning, but I heard nothing of the robbery. I ought to have been home a good bit sooner, but I was so dead tired, that when I sat down in that little wood bordering Pearson’s lot, to eat my breakfast, I fell asleep, and didn’t wake for nearly five hours.”

“Poor, dear daddy! Didn’t you go to bed at all last night?” asked Ella, in great concern, as she nestled closer in the arm that enfolded her.

“No, nor yet for a good many previous nights. It was cooler walking at night, and so I slept a bit in the day-time, when the sun saved the cost of blankets in keeping me warm; it will be a real treat to sleep in a bed to-night, and I don’t mean to be late in getting there, but first we will go and get that box from the barn that Johnny is so excited about. Have you got the lantern, Fred?”

“Yes, father; here it is,” answered the boy, coming forward with a lighted hurricane lantern, and the two went off together, Mr. Crawford coughing badly as he stepped out into the chill night air.

“Maitland, Maitland, put your comforter round your throat, or you will be getting bronchitis,” called Mrs. Crawford, who had come to stand beside her daughter in the doorway.

“All right, mother,” rang out the cheery response. “But I can’t do it, by reason that I gave it away to a poor fellow who was sleeping rough last night, and I haven’t screwed my courage up high enough to confess to my wrong-doing yet,” he said to Fred, with a merry laugh, and little dreaming the misery that act of kindly charity was to bring to him and his.

“One of the girls can make you another, but you ought not to be out in the night air without something warm round your throat,” Fred said, as he flashed the light of his lantern in at the doorway of the barn. His father had a delicate chest and throat, which made some little care necessary on winter or autumn nights.

Mr. Crawford did not reply at the moment; he was groping his way past a pile of hen-coops, to where the big board was leaning against the wall of the barn; then stooping down and feeling about with his hand, he presently drew forth the wooden box which had so excited Johnny’s envy and admiration. It was well made and strong, but quite empty, and except the words “copper nails,” had nothing about it to explain its use, or serve as a means of identification.

“Well, this is funny!” exclaimed Mr. Crawford, backing out from the neighbourhood of the coops, to where Fred stood with the lantern on the threshold of the barn. “I’m certain I never saw the box before–have you, sonny?”

“No, father,” replied Fred with decision, and then there came flashing into his head what old man Arlo had said about the box of nails that was stolen from the railway depôt, and which had contained something so much more valuable than mere nails. It was on his tongue to speak of it, and to express a wonder whether the thief had brought the box to hide it in their barn, with the intention of diverting suspicion from the proper quarter.

But the words were never spoken, for as they stood there just outside the barn door, both absorbed in the mystery of the box, there came the sound of a panting breath close at hand, then a lithe brown and white body with gleaming eyes sprang out of the darkness, and with a roar like an enraged lion, sought to fix its fangs in Mr. Crawford’s throat.

Taken by surprise as he was, however, he was yet too quick for the creature; thrusting his arm forward in a wild instinctive effort at self-preservation, he caught the animal’s grip on the leather sleeve of his short jacket.

Before Fred, who seemed half paralyzed with fear, could spring forward to his father’s rescue, two more dogs rushed out of the darkness to assist the first in dragging their quarry to the ground, but at the sound of Mr. Crawford’s voice, as he shouted to his son, they suddenly commenced to fawn upon him with every appearance of love and affection, though the hound which had seized him first still clung to his arm with a fierce, unrelenting grip, growling horribly, as if daring the unfortunate victim to strike a blow in his own defence.

Mr. Crawford, however, stood quite still, talking in soothing, friendly fashion to the two dogs which crouched fawning at his feet, but not attempting to irritate the creature that had its fangs fixed in his sleeve.

“Father, what shall I do to help you?” cried Fred, in a voice quivering with horror, for this sudden attack out of the blackness of the night seemed to have robbed him of the resourceful courage which usually stood him in such good stead.

“Nothing. Stand quite still, and don’t anger the beast, until its master comes up; I expect I happened to cross its trail, and so am the victim of an ugly mistake. Ah, here they come!” ejaculated Mr. Crawford, as the flickering lights of lanterns, and the sound of men’s voices, came round the angle of the barn.

“Ah, the good dog has got him, sure enough!” cried an eager, rasping voice, then dim forms came plunging forward, and a man with a heavy hand gripped Maitland Crawford by the arm, saying gruffly–

“So the beast ran you, down, mister; well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk, and seeing you’ve been found out, why, you’d best come along quietly; it will pay in the end, you know.”

“No, I don’t know; and I tell you plainly, officer, that I don’t intend budging a foot from here until I know what it is I am accused of, and the nature of the evidence leading to this attempt at arrest; I am surely entitled to so much consideration in a free country like this. But I will thank you to call off this brute of a dog,” said Maitland Crawford, in a steady tone.

“Why, surely it ain’t never you, Mr. Crawford?” cried the thin, rasping voice of old man Arlo, in dismayed query, as he came up panting heavily, and holding his lantern high, in order that he might see clearly the face of the captive.

“It certainly is no one else. But are you going to call the dog off, or must I kill the beast in self-defence?” demanded Mr. Crawford impatiently.

“Down, Jenny; down, lass; good dog; leave it alone!” cried old man Arlo, seizing the hound by the collar, and slipping the leash through it, dragged the creature away by main force, though it whimpered and cried, struggling vainly to maintain the grip of its prey; but there was a quivering horror in the old man’s tone, and when the dog was securely fastened, he exclaimed in consternation, “It surely wasn’t never you what took them things from the depôt?”

“I may be able to deny the charge with more force, when I know to what it is you are referring,” replied Mr. Crawford; and then he turned again to the man who was holding him in custody, demanding the explanation that was so tardy in coming.

That individual began at once to tell, in a jumbled and half-incoherent fashion, of the robbery at the depôt on the previous night, when a third man, who had been silent hitherto, chanced to flash the light of his lantern on the box which Mr. Crawford had been to the barn to fetch, but which the onslaught of the dog had flung from his grasp on to the ground.

“Why, here’s the very identical box what had the dollars in it!” he cried out excitedly. “Why, we’ve caught him red-handed and in the act, as you may say.”

“So it is; now, who would have thought it?” and the burly inspector, who had Mr. Crawford in his grip, let go his hold in sheer amazement for a moment, whilst he peered at the wooden box Johnny had wanted so badly. Then he said in a serious tone, “I’m afraid I must lock you up to-night, Mr. Crawford; for taken altogether, the case against you seems uncommon clear. That box labelled “copper nails,’ but containing in reality five hundred dollars, was stolen from the railway depôt at Millet some time during last night.”

“But father didn’t know the box was here until the children told him, and they only found it in the barn by accident. Father has been away for weeks, and only came home this afternoon,” burst out Fred, with impetuous haste.

“Of course, if Mr. Crawford can prove an alibi, will let him go to-morrow with an apology, but we can’t do without the pleasure of his company to-night nohow,” replied the burly inspector.

“I should like to know how it was suspicion fastened itself on me to begin with, apart from that box, I mean,” Mr. Crawford said, with a nod of his head in the direction of the box, which the third man had appropriated, and was holding with as jealous care as if it still contained the five hundred dollars.

“We found a scarf, a sort of long woollen comforter, lying in the office, as if the thief had dropped it by accident; there was a cap, too, but that was so soaking wet we thought it wouldn’t hold scent, so trusted to the scarf. Then we sent a message to old man Arlo to bring his dogs along, and giving the scarf to the brutes for scent, they brought us straight here and pulled you down,” explained the officer.

“Only one dog tried it on; look at the other two,” said Mr. Crawford, pointing to the two hounds that lay resting at his feet, one of them licking his boot in an affectionate fashion.

“Ah, old Ruby would sooner pull me down, than stick a tooth in you, Mr. Crawford, and it’s about the same with Smiler; they’ve long memories, them bloodhounds, and they don’t forget in a hurry when a person has been good to them. But it is a mistake, Mr. Crawford; I am quite sure it was a mistake to arrest you,” said old man Arlo, in tremulous agitation.

“That is my own opinion also, only, unfortunately, I don’t seem able to prove it,” replied Mr. Crawford, with a sigh of impatience, for he was very tired, and it was distinctly worrying to be met by a charge like this on the first day of his return, more especially as from the nature of his wanderings, he might find some difficulty in establishing an alibi; then he asked abruptly, “Have you the scarf here? I should like to see it.”

“Here it is,” said the officer, pulling from his pocket a knitted muffler of grey wool.

“I thought so,” groaned Mr. Crawford, when he had inspected the scarf by the light of the lanterns; “that is, or was, my comforter, but I gave it away last night to a poor fellow that I thought was worse off than myself, and this is what has come of it.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, Mr. Crawford, ‘pon my word I am; it makes things so much more awkward for you. There don’t seem no more to be said about it though, and so I suppose we’d better be moving. The moon will be up in less than another hour, so we shan’t find it quite so dark going back to Millet,” the officer said, with great concern in his tone, being honestly sorry for the farmer, who had borne such a good character before.

It was on Mr. Crawford’s tongue to say that he must go indoors and make some sort of an explanation to his wife before letting the law take its course, when there came the sound of Ella’s voice calling to him from the back porch, “Father, dear father, when are you coming indoors, or do you mean to stay out in the barn all night?”

He shivered then as if smitten with sudden ague, and said in a low, hurried tone to Fred, “I can’t face telling them; you’ll have to do it for me, sonny. The hardest bit of work you ever set your hand to, I guess, but you’ll do it for my sake. Tell them, if you like, that I’m called away on sudden, unexpected business to-night, and you can leave the details to the morning.”

“But, father, they will feel so bad about it, if you go without a word; and, besides, I’m coming too; they will lock us up together, then we can talk things over a bit,” said Fred, tumbling his words out in a great hurry.

“Go in quietly, then, and ask your mother to come out here, but don’t let the children come, for they would begin to cry, and I–I don’t think I could bear it,” Mr. Crawford replied, in a low, choked tone.

CHAPTER III. THE MYSTERY GROWS

Mrs. Crawford, although slight and frail in appearance, was endowed with more courage than most women; so when Fred called her out from the warm, lighted kitchen that night, into the chill darkness of the night, and told her of his father’s arrest, she did not scream or faint, as a weaker woman might have done; but after a short gasp, as if the tidings of disaster had taken her breath away, said bravely–

“You must certainly go with your father to-night, Fred, and then if he is not released after examination to-morrow, you must come home to me, and we will see what is best to be done.”

“Mother, you’re a real brick!” cried Fred fervently, as he piloted her round the angle of the barn, to where the little group of men and boys awaited his coming.

She smiled faintly, and slipped a trembling hand through his arm to steady her steps.

“Most people have the capacity in them for rising to the occasion, whatever the occasion may be, and I would not add another straw to your father’s burden of care just now,” she whispered, just as they reached the group waiting for them in the shelter of the barn wall.

Mr. Crawford shook off the grip of the inspector’s hand, and moving a step forward, took his wife in his arms.

“My poor Emily, if only I could have spared you this sorrow! But you don’t believe I took those things, do you?” he asked, with a yearning pain in his voice.

“Of course I don’t. What do you take me for, Maitland, if you think I would join the ranks of doubters at the first breath of suspicion?” she cried indignantly. “Why, I wouldn’t believe you guilty though all the world declared you so, if only you told me yourself that you were innocent.”

“As I am,” he replied quickly; then went on in a slower, graver tone, “but it is easy to see that I shall have considerable trouble in proving it, for the evidence against me looks overwhelming. The finding of the stolen box in my barn, the fact that my woollen comforter was found on the floor of the room from whence the box was stolen, and then the bloodhounds running me down in this fashion, will all tell against me at the examination.”

“Never mind,” she said, in brave, encouraging tones. “And don’t be depressed even if you are committed for trial, Maitland. Being innocent, it is next to impossible that you should be brought in guilty, since there is a God in Heaven to protect the weak and champion the cause of those who have no helper. The children and I can run the farm for a few weeks, as we have done since you have been away in Athabasca; and I will take care that Dolty Simpson has no chance to loaf round, wasting his time.”