They talked for a few minutes about a sheep dog that had been given to Lance; and then, during a slight pause, the boy closed his eyes with a sigh. Harding looked at him keenly.

"I'm told you're not sleeping well," he said; "and you don't look as fit as you ought. I guess lying on your back gets monotonous."

"Yes," Lance answered listlessly. "Then I'm worried about losing my horse."

"One feels that kind of thing, of course; but it wasn't an animal I'd get attached to. Hard in the mouth, I guess, a bad buck-jumper, and a wicked eye. On the whole, you're better off without him."

"Perhaps you're right, and I meant to sell him. I'd had offers, and the Warrior blood brings a long price."

"Ah! That means you wanted the money?"

Lance was silent for a few moments, and then he answered half resentfully:

"I did."

It was obvious to Harding that delicacy was required here. Mrs. Mowbray was right in her suspicions, but if he made a mistake Lance would take alarm. Harding feared, however, that tact was not much in his line.

"I am an outsider here," he said with blunt directness; "but perhaps that's a reason why you can talk to me candidly. It's sometimes embarrassing to tell one's intimate friends about one's troubles. Why did you want the money?"

Lance flushed and hesitated, but he gathered confidence from Harding's grave expression.

"To tell the truth, I'd got myself into an awkward mess."

"One does now and then. I've been fixed that way myself. Perhaps I can help."

"No; you can't," Lance said firmly. "All the same, it's a relief to take somebody into my confidence. Well, I owed a good deal of money; I'd been playing cards."

"Do you pay debts of that kind at once?"

"Of course. It's a matter of principle; though the boys wouldn't have pressed me."

"I'd have let them wait," said Harding. "But I don't play cards. I suppose you borrowed the money from somebody else, and he wants it back. Now the proper person for you to go to is your father."

Lance colored and hesitated again.

"I can't!" he blurted out with evident effort. "It's not because I'm afraid. He'd certainly be furious – I'm not thinking of that. There's a reason why it would hit him particularly hard. Besides, you know, we're far from rich."

Having learned something about Gerald Mowbray, Harding understood the lad's reticence. Indeed, he respected his loyalty to his brother.

"Very well. If you'll tell me what you owe, and where you got the money, I may suggest something."

He had expected Lance to refuse; but, worn by pain and anxious as he was, the boy was willing to seize upon any hope of escape. He explained his affairs very fully, and Harding made a note of the amount and of a name that was not unfamiliar to him.

When Lance finished his story and dropped back among his pillows with a flushed face, there was a short silence in the room.

Harding was not, as a rule, rashly generous; but he liked the boy, and Lance was Beatrice's brother – that in itself was a strong claim on him. Then, Mrs. Mowbray had been gracious to him; though he was a stranger and in a sense an intruder, she had taken him into her confidence, and he felt a deep respect for her. There was in his mind, however, no thought of profiting by the situation; indeed, he was frankly reluctant to part with money which could be better employed than in paying gambling debts.

"So you went to Davies, of Winnipeg – a mortgage broker?" he remarked. "Who told you about him? These fellows don't lend to people they know nothing about."

"A man introduced me," Lance said awkwardly; and Harding again suspected Gerald.

"When you signed his note for the sum you wanted, how much did you really get?"

Lance smiled ruefully as he told him.

"You seem to know their tricks," he added.

"Some of them," Harding replied dryly. "Now, if you'll give me your word that you won't stake a dollar on a horse or card again, I'll take up this debt; but I don't want your promise unless you mean to keep it."

Lance's eyes were eager, though his face was red.

"I've had my lesson. It was the first time I'd really played high, and I was a bit excited; the room was hot and full of smoke, and they'd brought in a good deal of whisky." Then he pulled himself up. "But I can't let you do this; and I don't see – "

"Why I'm willing to help?" Harding finished for him. "Well, one's motives aren't always very plain, even to oneself. Still – you can take it that I've a pretty strong grievance against all mortgage brokers. They've ruined one or two friends of mine, and they're going to make trouble in this country. I'll give you a few instances."

He meant to frighten the lad, but there was no need to overstate the truth, and his face grew stern as he related how struggling farmers had been squeezed dry, and broken in spirit and fortune by the money-lender's remorseless grasp. Lance was duly impressed, and realized how narrow an escape he had had.

"Are you willing to leave the thing entirely to me?" Harding concluded. "You must understand that you're only changing your creditor."

"I can trust you," Lance said with feeling. "I can't tell you what a relief it is to get out of that fellow's hands! But I ought to warn you that he's tricky; you may have some trouble."

Harding laughed as he stood up.

"Oh, I can deal with him. Now you go to sleep and don't worry any more."

After he left, Lance lay for a while thinking over the conversation. He was puzzled to know what had prompted Harding to come to his rescue. The Allenwood settlers had certainly been none too friendly to the prairie man, who was considered an outsider because he believed in work and in progress. Lance thought that there was no selfish motive in Harding's offer. What, then?

He suddenly shook off the thoughts and, reaching out to a table by his bedside, rang a small handbell there. Beatrice answered it.

"I want something to eat," he said petulantly. "Not slops this time; I'm tired of them."

His sister looked at him in surprise.

"Why, you wouldn't touch your lunch!"

"All the more reason I should want something now. You ought to be glad I'm getting better!"

Beatrice laughed.

"It's a very sudden improvement," she said. "Mr. Harding must be a magician. What has he done to you?"

"Harding knows a lot," Lance answered somewhat awkwardly; then added impulsively: "In fact, I think he's a remarkably fine fellow all round."

Beatrice opened her eyes wide. Such an opinion from the son of Colonel Mowbray was pure heresy; but she made no comment. She kissed Lance lightly on the forehead and tripped off downstairs to order some food for him.

Somehow, she was inclined to agree with her brother in his opinion of the prairie man.

CHAPTER IX
A MAN OF AFFAIRS

The warmth of the big stove, which glowed a dull red in places, had melted holes in the frost that obscured the double windows of Davies' office, but icy draughts flowed round the room, and the temperature of the passage outside was down to zero. From where the stove-pipe pierced the wall, drops of a black distillate trickled down, and the office was filled with the smell of tar and hot iron. Rents gaped in the pine paneling, and the door had shrunk to a remarkably easy fit. The building was new, pretentious, and supposed to be centrally heated, but Winnipeg was then passing through the transition stage which occurs in the history of most Western towns: emerging from rude disorder with bold but badly guided striving toward beauty and symmetry. Civic ambition was poorly seconded by builder's skill, and the plans of aspiring architects were crudely materialized.

From where Davies sat he could look into the snowy street; the view was far from pleasing. The blackened wreck of a burnt-out store confronted the office block, and behind it straggled a row of squalid shacks. Farther on rose a wall of concrete with rusty iron framing sticking out of it; and a mound of cut stone and sawed lumber, left as it lay when the frost stopped work, encroached upon the plank sidewalk. Davies, however, was not engrossed in the view, though he had lent money upon some adjacent building lots. A survey map of the Allenwood district lay on his table, and he alternately studied it and gazed out of the window with a thoughtful air.

The Allenwood soil was good, consisting, as it did for the most part, of stiff black gumbo; it was well watered and fairly well wooded; and it occupied the center of a fertile belt. Its position had other natural advantages, and the configuration of the country made it probable that with the first railroad extension a line would run past the settlement to the American frontier. Davies had reason to believe that his view was shared by far-seeing railroad directors; but, whether the line were run or not, the Allenwood farms would rise in value. Davies wanted a hold on the settlement; and he had, to some extent, succeeded in getting it. He held a mortgage on Gerald Mowbray's homestead; it seemed possible to get the younger brother into his power; and he was negotiating with another embarrassed settler. On the other hand, money was tight just then, and Davies' schemes were hampered by a lack of capital. He had written to Lance Mowbray, pressing for some interest that was overdue, and when the lad begged for time had curtly summoned him to Winnipeg. Now he was expecting him, for the east-bound train had arrived.

He heard steps in the passage and looked up with some surprise as two men entered his office. Their bronzed faces and their cheap skin coats suggested that they worked upon the land, but there was something in the expression and bearing of the taller man that contradicted this. Davies was a judge of character, and he read that something as a sense of power.

"Good-morning, gentlemen," he said, with a suave smile. "I don't believe I have an appointment with you, but I'm always open for business."

"My name is Harding," said the taller man; "and this is my partner, Mr. Devine. You were expecting Lance Mowbray, of Allenwood; I've come instead."

Davies would have preferred dealing with young Mowbray himself; this substitute made him feel somewhat uneasy. After careful inquiries into Mowbray's affairs, Davies did not expect to get the overdue interest. What he wanted was to renew the loan at a higher rate as the price of waiting.

Harding got down to business at once.

"Mowbray owes you some interest; I've come to pay it."

Davies' eyes narrowed.

"Rather a long and expensive journey, if that was all that brought you," he said with a sneer. "A check would have done."

"You seemed to think an interview needful; and I don't propose to bear the cost," Harding answered quietly. "Anyway, now that I'm here I'll pay up the principal, if we can come to terms."

"There are no terms to be arranged. I'll settle the account on receipt of the sum Mowbray borrowed and the interest."

"I'll give you what he got," said Harding coolly.

Davies pondered a moment. The offer had been a shock to him, for it suggested that Mowbray had found a way of escape. That meant that his hold on Allenwood would be weakened. Harding looked shrewd and businesslike; there was little possibility of hoodwinking such a man.

"Do you expect me to abandon my rights?" he asked.

"I'm here to look after Mowbray's. You charged him what you call expenses, which you didn't incur. Guess you'll have to prove them if you take the case to court."

"One has to make inquiries about the security when lending money."

"As a matter of fact, you knew the security was bad. Mowbray told you that his land was held in trust until he was twenty-one. What you traded on was his fear of the deal coming to his people's knowledge. I guess his brother gave you all the information you required."

Davies' start indicated that the shot, made at a venture, had reached its mark. He grew angry, but he quickly saw that this was no time to lose his temper.

"It's a pretty cool proposition you make," he said.

"It's fair, and I don't press you to agree. Stick to your full claim, if you like, and you'll get your interest on what you actually lent, but on nothing more until payment of the principal is due. Then we'll give you all the trouble we can. But your hold on the boy is gone now that you know the money's ready."

Davies was forced to recognize that his debtor had escaped him; and, as it happened, he was pressed for money.

"Well," he conceded, "it's a small matter, after all. I'll give you a receipt if you'll put down the amount."

"I'd rather my bank paid this; it keeps a record. Then I want Mowbray's note as well as the receipt."

Harding handed him a check, and Davies looked at it in surprise.

"You have made another deduction!"

"Certainly. You demanded an interview, and I've knocked off my fare to Winnipeg. Now where's the note?"

Davies produced it, and then looked at him with an ironical grin.

"It's all straight, and I hope you're satisfied. A farmer, aren't you? May I suggest that you have mistaken your profession?"

Harding laughed good-naturedly as he pocketed the papers.

"I don't know. My belief is that a farmer doesn't lose anything by studying business methods."

When they reached the street, Harding turned to Devine.

"I've learned something I wanted to know," he said. "That fellow has a mortgage on Gerald Mowbray's land. He's playing a deep game."

"I don't see what he's getting after."

"Allenwood. It's worth plotting for."

"I guess he'd find the Colonel a pretty big obstacle. Anyway, it's not our business."

"No," Harding replied with a thoughtful air. "As far as I can see at present, it's not my business… Now we'll look up the steam-plow man."

They found the implement dealer disengaged, and spent the afternoon in his store before Harding, who insisted upon several variations in the standard design, finally ordered a steam gang-plow. The agent was struck by the aptness of many of Harding's suggestions about improvements, and he invited the men to his hotel for the evening. When they parted he frankly admitted that he had picked up some useful hints. He also surmised that Harding had learned all that was worth knowing about new machines.

The two men left Winnipeg the next day, and Devine went to report to Hester while Harding stopped at the Grange to see Lance.

The boy greeted him eagerly, and his eyes glistened with relief when Harding handed him the papers.

"I'll square it off, every dollar, as soon as I can," he said. "In fact, I feel so much about it that I can't express myself – if you'd been in my place, you would understand. I see he didn't claim all my note called for. How did you beat him down?"

"I knew the man I had to deal with," Harding smiled. "What you have to do is to keep clear of debt in future."

"I've given you my word; but I can't get out of debt to you." Lance looked at him with frank admiration. "You beat the fellow at his own game!" he exclaimed.

Harding held out his hand.

"I must go now," he said; "I promised to meet Kenwyne and Broadwood. We'll settle how you're to pay me the next time I come."

Mrs. Mowbray was waiting for him in the hall below.

"I want to thank you," she said to him. "I don't know what you have done to my boy, but he is so very much better."

Harding met the gaze she quietly fixed on him. He saw that she knew there was some secret between him and her son, but had confidence enough to ask no questions.

"For one thing," he answered lightly, "I've given him some good advice, which I think he'll act on."

"He seems to have a respect for your judgment – and I feel he's not mistaken."

"That's very kind," said Harding. "I hope I shall be able to keep your good opinion; though you may find it shaken by and by."

Mrs. Mowbray looked at him keenly, and then laid her hand gently on his arm.

"You have helped my boy to get better and, whatever may happen, that goes a long way," she said.

When Harding left her he felt that in Mrs. Mowbray he would have a staunch ally in his fight for Beatrice.

He returned to the Grange one afternoon about a week later, and found Beatrice alone. Lance, after his long confinement, had gone for his first drive, and his mother had accompanied him to see that he kept the robes properly wrapped about him. The Colonel and Gerald were at a neighbor's.

Beatrice gave him her hand cordially.

"I am glad of this opportunity for seeing you alone, because there's something I want to ask of you," she said.

"I shall do anything I can to please you."

"It's really something I want you not to do."

"Ah!" Harding smiled. "That's often harder."

They had entered a room which Beatrice and her mother used. It was not large, and it was scantily furnished, but most of the articles it contained, though worn and battered, were good. Curtains, rugs, and chairs were of artistic design, and their faded coloring was harmonious. By contrast with the rude prairie homesteads he had lived in, all that Harding saw struck a note of luxurious refinement. What was more, the room seemed somehow stamped with its occupants' character. Colonel Mowbray, he knew, seldom entered it; it was the retreat of the two delicate, high-bred women he admired. He felt it was a privilege to be there. The unusual surroundings reacted upon him, and emphasized in a curious way his companion's grace and charm.

For a few moments after they were seated, Beatrice was silent, gazing thoughtfully before her. Her hair shone where the light touched it, and reminded Harding of the glitter of a prairie lake on a breezy, sunny day; her face was in profile, its fine chiseling forced up by a faded purple curtain behind her, which harmonized agreeably with the straw-colored dress that fell about her figure in graceful lines. As it happened, Beatrice was feeling somewhat embarrassed. She had a favor to ask, and she shrank with unusual timidity from placing herself in the man's debt. She believed that he had saved her brother's life and afterward rendered him some valuable service; but he had done this of his own accord, and it would be different were he to comply with her request.

"You have been urging some plans on Kenwyne and Broadwood," she began.

"You have heard about that! However, they didn't need urging; they agreed with me about the necessity for the thing."

"It's possible." There was a touch of haughtiness in Beatrice's tone. "Ralph Kenwyne has always been something of a revolutionary; and we know where Broadwood gets his ideas."

"From his wife? You can't expect me to condemn them. She was brought up as I was and thinks as I do."

Beatrice saw she was not beginning well and changed her ground.

"After all, that's not an important point. I suppose you know my father is bitterly opposed to your plans?"

"I was afraid so. It's unfortunate."

"Then can't you see that it would be better to give them up?"

Harding felt disturbed but determined. He was keenly anxious to please the girl, but to yield in this matter would be to act against his principles. She did not know what she was asking.

"No," he said; "I can't see that."

"Do you consider it good taste to encourage our friends to thwart their acknowledged leader?"

"It looks bad, as you put it," Harding replied. "For all that, a leader's business is to lead. He can't keep his followers standing still when they want to move on. Their wishes must be respected. Despotic authority's out of date."

"What is the use of choosing a ruler if he isn't to be obeyed?" she said haughtily.

"It sounds logical," Harding replied; "but it doesn't always work."

Beatrice was struggling hard with her wounded pride. Although on the whole broadminded, she had inherited some of the convictions of her caste; and, being the only daughter of the head of the settlement, she had been treated with more deference by the men at Allenwood than was perhaps good for her. It had cost her an effort to ask a favor from Harding, but she had not doubted the result, and his refusal was a shock. That the man who now proved obdurate had boldly shown his admiration for her, made it worse. Yet, because she believed her cause was good, she determined to disregard her injured feelings.

"If you persist in your plans, it will hurt Colonel Mowbray, and lead to dissention here," she argued. "Why must you try to bring in these changes? We have done very well as we are."

He rose and stood with his hand on a chair-back, looking steadily at her; and she noticed with half-grudging approval the strength of his figure and the resolution in his quiet, brown face.

"The trouble is that you can't continue as you are. Allenwood's threatened from outside, and I'm not sure it's safe within."

"Is that your business?"

The cold pride in her tone hurt, for it implied that she regarded him as an intruding stranger.

"In a way, yes; but we'll let that drop. If I could have pleased you by giving up a personal advantage, I'd have gladly done so; but this is a bigger thing. It isn't a matter of being content with a smaller crop; it's letting land that was meant to be worked lie idle, wasting useful effort, and trying to hold up a state of things that can't last. If I give way, I'll be going back on all I believe in and betraying a trust."

Beatrice laughed scornfully; and saw him wince.

"I want you to understand what's behind this movement," he continued gravely. "Your people can't keep Allenwood for a place of amusement much longer, and some of those who see this have asked my help. I've promised and I can't draw back. Besides, to break new soil and raise good wheat where only the wild grasses grow is the work I was meant for; the one thing worth while I'm able to do. I'd feel mean and ashamed if I held off and let the waste go on."

"Of course, it would be too great a sacrifice to make for a prejudiced old man, who has nevertheless always placed the good of Allenwood first, and an inexperienced, sentimental girl!"

Harding flushed at the taunt. It was very hard to displease her, but he would not be justified in giving way, and he thought that later, when she understood better, she would not blame him for being firm. Moreover, his temper was getting short.

"That's neither kind nor fair," he said. "Separate or together, your people and I must move on. We can't stand still, blocking the way, and defying Nature and the ordered procession of things. This land was made for the use of man, and he must pay with hard work for all it gives him."

"I am sorry you take that view; but there seems nothing further to be said." She rose as she spoke. "I'm afraid it's impossible that we should agree."

He left at once, and drove home in a downcast mood. No doubt, he had disappointed her badly. He had not even had the tact to make his refusal graceful; she must think him an iconoclastic boor, driven by a rude hatred of all that she respected. Still, he had tried to be honest; he could not shirk the task he was clearly meant to do. The struggle, however, had tried him hard, and he drove with set lips and knitted brows across the great white waste, oblivious of the biting cold.