CHAPTER XXV
A COUNTERSTROKE
Langside's farm was duly put up at auction, together with a valuable team which he hired out to his neighbors when he left the place, a few implements and a little rude furniture. The sale was held outside, and when George arrived upon the scene during the afternoon a row of light wagons and buggies stood behind the rickety shack, near which was an unsightly pile of broken crockery, discarded clothes and rusty provision cans. It was characteristic of Langside that he had not taken the trouble to carry them as far as the neighboring bluff. In front of the bluff, horses were picketed; along the side ran a strip of black soil, sprinkled with the fresh blades of wheat; and all round the rest of the wide circle the prairie stretched away under cloudless sunshine, flecked with brightest green.
A thin crowd surrounded the auctioneer's table, but the men stood in loose clusters, and George, walking through them, noticed that the undesirable element was largely represented. There were a number of small farmers, attracted by curiosity, or perhaps a wish to buy; but these kept to themselves, and men from the settlement of no fixed profession who worked spasmodically at different tasks, and spent the rest of their time in the Sachem, were more plentiful. Besides these, there were some strangers, and George thought the appearance of several was far from prepossessing.
It was a glorious day. There was vigor in the warm breeze that swept the grassy waste; the sunshine that bathed the black loam where the green blades were springing up seemed filled with promise; but as the sale proceeded George became sensible of a vague compunction. The sight of the new wheat troubled him—Langside had laboriously sown that crop, which somebody else would reap. Watching the battered domestic utensils and furniture being carried out for sale had the same disturbing effect. Poor and comfortless as the shack was, it had, until rude hands had desecrated it, been a home. George felt that he was consenting to the ruin of a defenseless man, assisting to drive him forth, a wanderer and an outcast. He wondered how far the terrors of loneliness had urged Langside into his reckless courses—homesteaders scattered about the wide, empty spaces occasionally became insane—but with an effort he overcame the sense of pity.
Langside had slackly given way, and, choosing an evil part, had become a menace to the community; as Grant had said, he must go. This was unavoidable, and though the duty of getting rid of him was painful, it must be carried out. George was usually unsuspicious and of easy-going nature up to a certain point, but there was a vein of hardness in him.
Once or twice the auctioneer was interrupted by jeering cries, but he kept his temper and the sale went on, though George noticed that only a few strangers made any purchases. At length, when the small sundries had been cleared off, there was a curious silence as the land was put up. It was evident that the majority of those present had been warned not to bid.
The auctioneer made a little speech in praise of the property, and paused when it fell flat; then, while George wondered what understanding the creditors had arrived at with Grant, a brown-faced stranger strode forward.
"I've been advised to let this place alone," he said. "I suppose you have a right to sell?"
"Yes, sir," replied the auctioneer. "Come along, and look at my authority, if you want. It's mortgaged property that has been foreclosed after the creditors had waited a long while for a settlement, and I may say that the interest demanded is under the present market rate. Everything's quite regular; no injustice has been done. If you're a purchaser, I'll take your bid."
"Then I'll raise you a hundred dollars," said the man.
There was a growl of dissatisfaction, and the stranger turned to the part of the crowd from which it proceeded.
"This is an open auction, boys. I was born in the next province, and I've seen a good many farms seized in the years when we have had harvest frost, but this is the first time I ever saw anybody try to interfere with a legal sale. Guess you may as well quit yapping, unless you mean to bid against me."
There was derisive laughter, and a loafer from Sage Butte threw a clod. Then another growl, more angry than the first, broke out as Grant, moving forward into a prominent place, nodded to the auctioneer. His rugged face was impassive, and he ignored the crowd. A number of the farmers strolled toward him and stood near by with a resolute air which had its effect on the others, though George saw by Grant's look of surprise that he had not expected this. Another man made a bid, and the competition proceeded languidly, but except for a little mocking laughter and an occasional jeer, nobody interfered. In the end, the stranger bought the land; and soon afterward Grant walked up to George.
"I want the team, if I can get it at a reasonable figure; they're real good beasts with the imported Percheron strain strong in them," he said. "It will be a while before they're put up, and I'd be glad if you could ride round and let Flora know what's keeping me. I'd an idea she expected there might be some trouble to-day."
"I'll get off; but there's a mower yonder I would like. Will you buy it for me, if it goes at a fair price?"
"Certainly," promised Grant. "Tell Flora to give you supper; and if you ride back afterward by the trail, you'll meet me and I'll let you know about the mower."
George rode away shortly afterward, and Grant waited some time before he secured the team, after rather determined opposition. Finding nobody willing to lead the horses home, he hitched them to the back of his light wagon and set off at a leisurely pace. When he had gone a little distance, he overtook a man plodding along the trail. The fellow stopped when Grant came up.
"Will you give me a lift?" he asked.
The request is seldom refused on the prairie, and Grant pulled up his team.
"Get in," he said. "Where are you going?"
"North," answered the other, as he clambered up. "Looking for a job; left the railroad yesterday and spent the night in a patch of scrub. Heard there was stock in the bluff country; that's my line."
Grant glanced at the fellow sharply as he got into the wagon and noticed nothing in his disfavor. His laconic account of himself was borne out by his appearance.
"It's quite a way to the first homestead, if you're making for the big bluffs," he said. "You had better come along with me and go on in the morning."
"I'll be glad," responded the other. "These nights are pretty cold, and my blanket's thin."
They drove on, and after a while the stranger glanced at the team hitched behind the vehicle.
"Pretty good beasts," he remarked. "That mare's a daisy. Ought to be worth a pile."
"She cost it," Grant told him. "I've just bought her at a sale."
"I heard the boys talking about it when I was getting dinner at the settlement," said the stranger carelessly. "Called the fellow whose place was sold up Langside, I think. There's nothing much wrong with the team you're driving."
Grant nodded; they were valuable animals, for he was fond of good horses. He was well satisfied with his new purchases and knew that Langside had bought the mare after a profitable haulage contract during the building of a new railroad. His companion's flattering opinion made him feel rather amiable toward him.
It was getting near dusk when they entered a strip of broken country, where the ground was sandy and lolled in low ridges and steep hillocks. Here and there small pines on the higher summits stood out black against the glaring crimson light; birches and poplars straggled up some of the slopes; and the trail, which wound through the hollows, was loose and heavy. The moist sand clogged the wheels and the team plodded through it laboriously, until they came to a spot where the melted snow running into a depression had formed a shallow lake. This had dried up, but the soil was very soft and marshy. Grant pulled up and glanced dubiously at the deep ruts cut in the road.
"There's a way round through the sand and scrub, but it's mighty rough and I'm not sure we could get through it in the dark," he said.
"S'pose you double-yoke and drive straight ahead," suggested the other.
"I see you have some harness in the wagon."
Grant considered. The harness, which had been thrown in with his purchase, was old and short of one or two pieces; it would take time and some contriving to hitch on the second team, and the light was failing rapidly. When he had crossed the soft place, there would still be some rough ground to traverse before he reached the smoother trail by which George would be riding.
"It might be as quick to go round," he replied.
"No, sir," said his companion, firmly. "There's a blamed steep bit up the big sandhill."
Suspicion flashed on Grant; the man had led him to believe he was a stranger to the locality, and it was significant that he should insist upon their stopping and harnessing the second team.
"That's so," he returned. "Guess you had better get down and see if it's very soft ahead."
The fellow rose with a promptness which partly disarmed Grant's suspicions, and put his foot on the edge of the vehicle, ready to jump down. Then he turned swiftly and flung himself upon the farmer, crushing his soft felt hat down to his chin. Grant could see nothing, and while he strove to get a grip on his antagonist he was thrown violently backward off the driving seat. The wagon was of the usual high pattern, and he came down on the ground with a crash that nearly knocked him unconscious. Before he got up, he was seized firmly and held with his shoulders pressed against the soil. He struggled, however, until somebody grasped his legs and his arms were drawn forcibly apart. It was impossible to see, because the thick hat was still over his face and somebody held it fast, but he had an idea that three or four men had fallen upon him. They had, no doubt, been hidden among the brush; the affair had been carefully arranged with his treacherous companion.
"Open his jacket; try the inside pocket," cried one; and he felt hands fumbling about him. Then there was a disappointed exclamation. "Check-book; that's no good!"
The farmer made a last determined effort. After having long ruled his household and hired men as a benevolent but decidedly firm-handed autocrat, it was singularly galling to be treated in this unceremonious fashion, and if he could only shake off the hat and get a glimpse of his assailants he would know them again. Moreover, he had brought a roll of bills with him, in case he should make some small purchases. He was, however, held firmly, and the hands he had felt dived into another pocket.
"Got it now!" cried a hoarse voice. "Here's his wallet; seems to have a good wad in it!"
Grant, though he was generally sternly collected, boiled with fury. He felt no fear, but an uncontrollable longing to grapple with the men who had so humiliated him.
"Guess, I'll fix you up!" came an angry voice when Grant managed to fling off one pair of hands.
Then he received a heavy blow on the head. Somebody had struck him with the butt of a whip or riding quirt. The pain was distressing; he felt dazed and stupid, disinclined to move, but he retained consciousness. There were sounds to which he could attach a meaning: a rattle of harness which indicated that his driving team was being loosened, a thud of hoofs as the heavier Percherons were led away. In the meanwhile he could still feel a strong grasp on his shoulder, holding him down, and once or twice a man near him gave the others sharp instructions. Grant made a languid effort to fix the voice in his memory, but this was difficult because his mind worked heavily.
At length the driving team was unyoked—he could hear it being led away—but the ache in his head grew almost intolerable and his lassitude more intense. For a while he had no idea what was going on; and then a hoarse cry, which seemed one of alarm, rang out sharply. There was a patter of running feet, a thud of hoofs on the soft soil, and, breaking through these sounds, a rhythmic staccato drumming. Somebody was riding hard across the uneven ground.
Gathering his languid senses, Grant suddenly moved his head, flinging the hat from his face, and raised himself a little, leaning on one elbow. There was no longer anybody near him, but he could see a man riding past a shadowy clump of trees a little distance off, leading a second horse. Closer at hand, another man was running hard beside one of the Percherons, and while Grant watched him he made an effort to scramble up on the back of the unsaddled animal, but slipped off. Both these men were indistinct in the dim hollow, but on a sandy ridge above, which still caught the fading light, there was a sharply-outlined mounted figure sweeping across the broken ground at a reckless gallop. It must be Lansing, who had come to the rescue. Grant sent up a faint, hoarse cry of exultation. He forgot his pain and dizziness, he even forgot he had been assaulted; he was conscious only of a burning wish to see Lansing ride down the fellow who was running beside the Percheron.
There was a patch of thick scrub not far ahead which it would be difficult for the horseman on the rise to break through, and if the fugitive could succeed in mounting, he might escape while his pursuer rode round; but Lansing seemed to recognize this. He swept down from the ridge furiously and rode to cut off the thief. Grant saw him come up with the fellow, with his quirt swung high, but the figures of men and horses were now indistinct against the shrub. There was a blow struck; one of the animals reared, plunged and fell; the other went on and vanished into the gloom of the dwarf trees.
Then Grant, without remembering how he got up, found himself upon his feet and lurching unsteadily toward the clump of brush. When he reached it, Lansing was standing beside his trembling horse, which had a long red gash down its shoulder. His hands were stained and a big discolored knife lay near his feet. There was nobody else about, but a beat of hoofs came back, growing fainter, out of the gathering dusk.
George looked around when the farmer joined him, and then pointed to the wound on the horse.
"I think it was meant for my leg," he said. "I hit the fellow once with the thick end of the quirt, but he jumped straight at me. The horse reared when he felt the knife and I came off before he fell. When I got up again, the fellow had gone."
Grant felt scarcely capable of standing. He sat down heavily and fumbled for his pipe, while George turned his attention to the horse again.
"Though it's only in the muscle, the cut looks deep," he said at length. "I'd better lead him back to your place; it's nearer than mine."
"I'd rather you came along; I'm a bit shaky."
"Of course," said George. "I was forgetting. Those fellows had you down. Are you hurt?"
"They knocked me out with something heavy—my whip, I guess—but I'm getting over it. Cleaned out my pockets; went off with both teams."
George nodded.
"It's pretty bad; quite impossible to get after them. They'll head for
Montana as fast as they can ride."
"Did you see any of them clearly?"
"One fellow looked like Langside, though I couldn't swear to him; but I'd know the man who knifed my horse. Remembered that would be desirable, in case he escaped me; and I got a good look at him. Now, if you feel able shall we make a start? I'm afraid the horse is too lame to carry you."
He picked up the knife. Grant rose, and they set off, leading the horse, which moved slowly and painfully. It had grown dark and the trail was rough, but the farmer plodded homeward, stopping a few moments now and then. The path, however, grew smoother when they had left the sandy ridges behind, and by and by the lights of the homestead commenced to twinkle on the vast shadowy plain. Soon after they reached it, George rode away, mounted on a fresh horse, in search of Constable Flett.