The Heart of Cherry McBain: A Novel

Douglas Durkin

The Heart of Cherry McBain

A Novel

Published by Good Press, 2022

goodpress@okpublishing.info

EAN 4064066094591

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

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CHAPTER ONE

Although it was late afternoon it was very hot—hot even for August. The horse ambled sleepily up the dusty trail, his head low and his eyes not more than half open. The rein hung loosely over his neck where it had been tossed by the rider who sat dozing in the saddle, his two hands folded across the pommel in front of him. The only alert member of the group, for there were three of these companions of the road, was the dog, a mongrel collie that trotted ahead with tongue hanging, or waited panting in the middle of the trail for the horse and rider to come up.

Suddenly the horse stumbled clumsily and the rider came to himself with a start.

Steady up, you fool! he said, and then, as if he regretted the tone in which he had spoken, he leaned forward slightly and passed his hand along the hot neck shining with sweat, and brushed away the big brown flies that clustered about the horse's ears.

He picked up the rein and looked about him. A few yards ahead the trail dipped slowly away to the east in a long winding curve that circled the brow of a little hill. Bringing the horse to a stand, he turned and glanced behind him. To the west the trail fell away and lost itself in a wide valley out of which he had ridden during the afternoon. He got down from the saddle, and tossing the rein over the horse's head to the ground, snapped his fingers to the dog and scrambled up the side of the little hill on his right to where a pile of tumbled tamaracs lay just as they had fallen during a fire that had scorched the hills a year or two before. In a minute he had clambered upon the topmost timber and stood hat in hand looking down into the valley.

As he stood there in the full light of the late afternoon sun anyone catching a glimpse of him from a distance would have been impressed most with the bigness of the man. But with all his bigness he was not heavy-footed nor awkwardly poised. The ease with which he had sprung up the side of the hill, and had leaped from one fallen timber to another until he had reached the spot where he stood, was only possible where strong muscles are well co-ordinated and work together in perfect harmony. And yet as he drew himself up to his full height there was but little there that bespoke agility. He looked heavy except, perhaps, about the hips. His broad shoulders appeared too broad, partly because of the slight stoop forward that seemed to lengthen the line that marked the curve from shoulder to shoulder across the back. His face was the face of a youth—but of a youth grown serious. There was a set to the jaw that seemed to hint at a past in which grim determination had often been his sole resource, and there were lines about the mouth that told of hard living. His eyes were the eyes of a man who has wondered much about things—and was still wondering.

For it had occurred to King Howden—as it has probably occurred to every man sometime or other—that the game was not worth the candle. The significant thing about King's wondering, however, was the fact that it had gone on for months without leading to any other conclusion. In a little less than a month he would be twenty-eight, and he couldn't help feeling that life should be taking shape. Ten years ago, when he had struck out into the world alone, a serious-faced boy whose heart swelled at the prospect of living a great free life in the open places of the world, he had thought that by the time he reached twenty-eight he would have seen some of his dreams, at least, approaching realization. Now as he thought it over, he knew that he had failed, and the knowledge had a strange effect upon him.

Down there where the valley lay filled with the blue haze of late summer, a haze that was touched with silver from the sun—a little village stood hidden among the trees that lined the banks of a small creek that chattered noisily over its shingly bed. It was an odd kind of a village, that. To begin with it had no name. It was known simply as The Town, having sprung into being in a single season as the gathering place of the scores of new settlers from the outside, the vanguard of the army of nation-builders, eager to secure desirable locations before the railroad should enter and link up the valley with the world at large. For months the settlers had gone in over a hill trail of a hundred and twenty-five miles or more. Gathering their equipment together, they had hitched their teams of sleepy-eyed oxen to prairie schooners and had poked toilsomely along for days over a trail that only the bravest hearts would ever have followed for its entire length. But the reward was a worthy one—a generous plot of virgin soil as fertile as anything the prairies of Western Canada could show.

And so the town had sprung into being at a spot chosen by the men who had blazed the trail. There was a certain native beauty about the place, in its pretty stream that brought the cool, fresh water from the springs in the hills, and in the full-bosomed elms and rustling silver poplars and fragrant balm-o'-gilead that dappled with shadows the surface of the creek, and made a cool retreat for weary travellers coming in hot and dusty from the long trail. Some day—it could not be long now—the steel ribbons of one of Canada's great transcontinental railways would bind the village to the world that lay beyond the hills and then The Town would be no more. Its proud successor would rise up somewhere along the line, and the old place would be forgotten.

In the meantime the place had a distinctive existence of its own. In short—as is the manner with small towns the world over—it had a way with it. King Howden, who had been among the first to come, had watched it grow and had come to know it very well. He knew that, young though the village was, it had its secrets, and when a town talks behind its hand, someone must needs feel uneasy. King's face had grown grave on many occasions during his few months of life in this little frontier town. The villagers were evidently concerned about this big, slow-moving fellow who had nothing much to say to anyone, and who, after delivering his weekly bag of mail into the hands of old man Hurley, the kindly old Government Agent in the place, habitually beat a shy retreat to the little cabin he had built on a quarter section of land that lay west of the town.

And King's face was grave now as he shaded his eyes with one hand in an effort to pierce the haze and get a glimpse of the white tents and the roughly-built huts that stood down there among the trees.

He did not know exactly where he should look to find the town, for it was his first trip over a new trail that led from the railway construction camp to the town. Once every two weeks or so during the summer he had gone out by the long trail and returned with a bag of mail slung behind him. On those longer trips he had often perched himself upon some hill overlooking the valley and dreamed away an hour or so as he thought of the future—and of the past.

Now he was on a new trail. The end-of-the-steel had daily crept closer to the valley and at last he had been notified that future deliveries of mail for the settlement would be made at the railway supply camp at the end of the line.

King Howden had loitered during that summer afternoon, and the loitering was not all on account of the heat. There is romance in a new trail that has been freshly-blazed and newly-cleared, and King Howden—though he never would have admitted it even to himself—liked the romance that springs to meet one at every bend in a newly-made roadway.

On a bright day he might have seen the white tents and log cabins of The Town quite easily. But to-day it was quite hidden behind a smoky blue-white curtain that obscured everything beyond a radius of only a few miles.

Too thick to-day, Sal, he said, addressing the dog as he prepared to get down.

At the sound of her name the dog edged up a little closer along the log and rubbed her nose affectionately against his knee. King smiled slowly and then, instead of getting down to the ground immediately, he squatted low and took the dog's ears in his hands.

Sal, you old cuss, he said slowly, look me in the eye. D'you remember the day I took you in? You common old purp, I saved your life when you were nothing but just plain, ornery pup. If I hadn't come along that day and given promises to take you away, gunnysack and all—splash!—you'd been a dead dog, Sal.

He turned the dog's head sideways as he spoke and thrust it downwards violently in imitation of what might have occurred early in the dog's history and so have terminated her career suddenly had he not happened along at the critical moment. The dog blinked her eyes and licked her jaws by way of reply.

And a dead dog ain't worth speaking about, Sal, he continued. But you're a sure 'nough live dog even if you are common stuff and not much account. And I like you, Sal,—sure, I like you. I like you for staying round. I like you because you don't squeal. If you were a squealer now—I'd shoot you in a minute.

He bent over and rubbed his head against the animal's face. Then he sprang up.

Come on, you lazy old cuss, you, he exclaimed quickly. Don't you know there's a long bit o' trail ahead yet? Come on!

In a moment he was mounted again and on his way. About twenty miles of trail lay ahead of before he should come to the end of his journey. Although the afternoon was rapidly wearing away and the westering sun already turning red above the valley there was no special cause for hurry. King loved the trail in the long northern evenings when the scent of spruce and tamarac came down from the hills and mingled with the delicate perfume of the prairie roses that came up from the valley. He loved the changing colors deepening in the twilight. He loved to hear the night voices awakening one after another. Often he had taken the trail late in the evening in midsummer to escape the heat of the day and to watch the arc of daylight growing smaller as it shifted its way round to the north in the early night until it hung like the edge of a huge grey disc just showing above the northern-most point of the horizon. He had often watched the disc move eastward and grow again with the hours until it spread out into the glorious dawn of another day, and in his own way he loved it all—for it made him feel that he was a part of the great scheme of things. For a while then he felt sure of himself—and that was a good feeling for King Howden.

Only a few miles more and he would be out on the right-of-way where stood old Keith McBain's construction camp. It made a convenient place for a pause half-way in the trip, and the camp incidentally boasted the best cook on the line—a fact that might have had some bearing upon King's decision to make camp about supper time.

A short three miles farther on, the trail took a little dip to the left down the slope of a wooded ridge and emerged upon the open right-of-way. It was within half an hour of general quitting time and the teamsters had already begun to leave the grade, their sweating horses hurrying quickly away in the dust, with trace-chains clinking and harness rattling. The rest of the gang were still at work clearing the ground of stumps and logs, and roughly levelling the piles of earth that had been thrown up by the slushers during the afternoon.

King had stood upon right-of-ways before, but the prospect fascinated him as much to-day as it had done the first day he had ever looked along the narrowing perspective of an open avenue canyoned between two rows of trees, and in the centre a long straight line of grey-brown earth heaped up into a grade. He slipped down from the saddle and walked leisurely along the trail that skirted the side of the right-of-way, his eyes upon the men who went about their work quietly and with no more enthusiasm than one might expect from human beings whose thanks to a benevolent Providence found daily expression in the formula, another day, another dollar.

King found a bit of innocent diversion in the efforts of four grunting and expostulating workmen who had lifted a log from the ground and were stumbling clumsily with it towards the right-of-way. The log was not so large that four men could not have handled it easily. King smiled as he watched them, and thought to himself that two men could have picked it up and taken it away without great effort. Suddenly a veritable torrent of profanity broke upon his ears, and the foreman who had been standing near rushed up, threw his arms about the log and scattering all four of them, carried it off alone and threw it upon a pile of stumps and roots that stood a few feet back from the trail. King found himself all at once wondering what he himself could have done with a log of the same size.

He came to himself suddenly again at the sound of the foreman's voice and looked round just in time to see Sal leap to one side and run towards him to escape a stick that came hurtling along the ground near the dog's feet. King stepped out quickly to protect the dog. As he did so he saw the foreman standing a few yards away, his face twisted into a grin. For a moment the two men eyed each other. Then King spoke.

Quit that, he said in a voice that trembled with rising passion.

The foreman's only reply was a few muttered words of profanity that King did not hear, or hearing did not consider worthy of any account. His concern was for the mongrel collie that had narrowly escaped injury, and was now fawning and whining about his legs.

Don't do that, he said. She's my dog.

The foreman grinned. Your dog—what the devil do I care whose dog it is!

King spoke without moving and his voice was now clear and steady. You don't need to care—you didn't hit her.

Well, I tried, didn't I?

I say you didn't hit her, King replied slowly, and I—I don't want you to.

For a moment the two men stood looking at each other silently without moving. King's face was grave and one corner of his mouth twitched a little in anger. The grin never left the face of the foreman; it was still there when he finally turned away and strode towards the men who were at work on the grade a short distance off.

King watched him closely for a while and then stepped back and passed his hand soothingly along the horse's shoulder. Getting down on one knee he drew the dog towards him and patted her head gently.

Sal, you old mongrel pup, you, he said as if he were on the point of bringing gentle chastisement upon her—but he said no more. Getting up, he threw a backward glance in the direction of the men working on the grade and went on slowly down the trail towards the camp.

When he had gone some distance he stopped suddenly and looked about him as if he feared someone were watching him. On the ground before him was a large, solid tamarac log. He placed his foot upon it and measured it with his eyes from end to end. He kicked the log two or three times to assure himself that it was sound. Then he glanced back again to where the men were working in the distance. When he was sure that no one was watching him he dropped the bridle rein to the ground and bent over the log. Working his great hands under it he closed his arms slowly about the middle and set himself to lift. Gradually he straightened himself till he stood erect, his arms clasped about the log. Then swinging it round till he faced in the opposite direction he carried it steadily to the other side of the trail and dropped it in the underbrush. Measuring it again with his eyes, he kicked it—it was sound to the heart.

I can do it, he said aloud to himself, and I believe—if anything—it's a bigger piece.

Even as he spoke he became aware of someone watching him. Something suspiciously like a chuckle came from the bushes near by and he raised his eyes quickly. Not more than a dozen paces away, half-hidden in the shrubbery, stood a girl knee-deep in the matted vines, a sheaf of wild roses in her arms.

For a moment King was unable to stir. It was as if an apparition had suddenly broken in on his imagination—a riotous apparition of dark hair, laughing eyes and delicate pink roses.

When he came to himself he moved back awkwardly and was in the act of lifting the bridle-rein when he was arrested by a burst of laughter that caused him to turn again and stand looking at her, the bridle-rein hanging loosely in his hand. His look was a question—and her only answer was a laugh as she came out from the cover of the bushes and stood upon the log that King had just moved from the other side of the trail. From this position of advantage she looked at him, her eyes almost on a level with his.

I saw it all, she declared, and King thought the expression on her face was less mischievous now.

What? he asked.

You take a dare from a man and walk away to have it out by yourself with a log.

There was a flash of fire in her eyes as she spoke and King became the victim of mingled anger and self-reproach. While he hesitated to make a reply the girl hopped down from the log and, brushing past him, walked quickly down the trail towards the camp.

When she had gone almost out of easy hearing distance he straightened himself suddenly.

I didn't! he called after her, but she paid not the slightest heed.

A minute later he started off for the camp afoot, his horse following behind him. And as he went he thought over the words in which he found nothing but reproach, and worst of all—contempt.

'You took a dare,' he repeated, and then to himself he said over and over again, I didn't—I didn't!

CHAPTER TWO

A little more than an hour later King left the cook-camp and went to the corral where his horse, well rested from the first half of the journey, stood ready and waiting for him.

He was in the act of throwing the saddle onto the horse when he stopped suddenly and listened. From round the corner of the corral came the sound of voices of men in dispute.

"Any man who tries to call