Prescott dismounted and turned loose his horse, short-hobbled, near the muskeg about two o’clock one hot afternoon. He had begun work at four that morning, and, with harvest drawing near, time was precious to him, but he was filled with a keen curiosity to see what progress Curtis had made in his search. He had a strong personal interest in the matter, because it seemed that some suspicion might rest on him; though he was far from sharing the corporal’s conviction that Jernyngham was dead. Stopping at the edge of the ravine, he looked about, taking in the details of the scene.

Though the prairie had lost its greenness and the flowers had died, it stretched away, flooded with dazzling light, a great expanse of silvery gray, flecked with faint lemon and brown. In the swampy hollow, however, the grass grew tall and green among the shining pools, and Prescott noticed to his astonishment a dozen men working assiduously lower down. They had discarded most of their clothing, their brown arms were bare, and the stiff, dark-colored soil they flung up with their shovels cumbered the bank of the ravine, which had narrowed in again. Prescott saw that they were cutting a deeper channel for the creek, with the object of draining the swamp.

Moving farther along the bank, he came upon the two policemen, who looked very hot and somewhat muddy, 68 which, as they were usually fastidiously neat, was noticeable. He felt some hesitation in accosting them, as he recalled the corporal’s attitude when they last met, but he was curious.

“I suppose you have found nothing?” he said, and when Curtis made a sign of negation continued: “How did you get so many of the boys here?”

Putting his hand in his pocket, the policeman gave him a printed circular which announced that a reward of one thousand dollars would be paid for the discovery of Cyril Jernyngham’s remains.

“His people in the old country cabled it over,” he explained.

“Well,” Prescott said thoughtfully, “I don’t believe he’s here; but he was a friend of mine, and I’m as anxious to have the question answered as you are.”

Private Stanton, who was sitting in the grass, looked up with a rather significant smile. Indeed, there was a certain reserve in the manner of both men which exasperated the rancher.

“It’s quite likely you’ll have to wait,” Curtis rejoined. “Even when we’ve run the water out, it may take a long while to search the mushy stuff it will leave, and if we’re beaten here, we’ll have to try the bluffs.” He looked hard at Prescott. “We don’t let up until we find him.”

“Tell me where I can get a shovel and I’ll help the boys.”

Stanton brought him one and for the next two hours he worked savagely, standing knee-deep in water in a trench, hacking out clods of the “gumbo” soil, which covers much of the prairie and grows the finest wheat. When dry it sets like stone, when wet it assumes a glutinous stickiness which makes it exceptionally difficult to deal with. Fierce 69 sunshine poured down on Prescott’s bent head and shoulders, his hands grew sore, and mire and water splashed upon him, but he was hard and leanly muscular and, driven as he was by a keen desire to test the corporal’s theory, he would have toiled on until the next morning, had it been needful. At length, however, there was a warning cry from one of the men nearer the swamp.

“Watch out! Let her go!”

Prescott leaped from the trench. There was a roar higher up the ravine, and a turgid flood, streaked with frothy lines, came pouring down the new channel, bearing with it small nut bushes and great clumps of matted grass. By degrees it subsided, and the men, gathering about the edge of the muskeg, hot and splashed with mire, lay down to smoke and wait, while the pools that still remained grew smaller. They had been working hard since early morning and they did not talk much, but Prescott, sitting a little away from them, was conscious of an unpleasant tension. It was possible that the search might prove Curtis right. The corporal stood higher up the bank, scanning each clump of grass and reeds with keenly scrutinizing eyes. At length, however, he approached the others.

“I guess you’ve made a job, boys,” he told them. “The soft spots ought to dry out in about a week, but we can’t wait till then. You want to remember there’s a thousand dollars for the man who finds him.”

They glanced at the morass hesitatingly. It did not look inviting. In places the reeds grew as high as their heads, and one could not tell what depths they hid. In other spots there were tracks of slimy ooze in which one might sink a long way. None of them, however, was fastidious, and they waded out into the mire, shouting warnings to one another, disappearing now and then 70 among the grass. The search was partially rewarded, for while Prescott and a companion were skirting a clump of reeds they saw part of a soaked garment protruding from the slime. For a few moments they stood looking at it irresolutely; and then Prescott, mustering his courage, advanced and seized the stained material. It came away more readily than he had expected, and he turned to his companion, conscious of keen relief, with a brown overall jacket in his hand. A further examination, shrinkingly made, revealed nothing else, and after marking the place they waded to the bank. The garment was carefully washed in the creek and the men gathered in a ring round Curtis when he inspected it.

“Have any of you seen this thing before?” he asked, holding it up.

None of them would identify it. Thin duck overalls are commonly worn by ranchers and working people, in place of heavier clothing, during the hot weather. Then Curtis turned to Prescott.

“What’s your idea?”

“It isn’t Jernyngham’s,” the rancher said decidedly. “It’s too old, for one thing; looks as if it had been in the water quite a while.”

“Hard to tell,” commented Curtis. “But go on.”

Prescott took the jacket and held it so that the others could see the inside of the collar.

“No maker’s tag,” he continued. “Now Cyril always bought the kind they give you a doll with.”

One of the others laughed and supplied the name of the manufacturer, which was attached to every garment.

“I’ve seen three or four of those dolls and golliwog things in his house,” the man added. “Used to guy him about keeping them, as he had no kids.” 71

“We can fix the thing by inquiring at the dry goods store,” Curtis rejoined.

“Can’t see whose it was, if it wasn’t Jernyngham’s,” another broke in. “There’s no homestead anywhere near the creek and mighty few people come up here!”

The policeman took from his pocket a wet envelope, upon which the blurred writing was still legible.

“Well,” he said coolly, “there’s no doubt about whose this is.” He handed it to Prescott. “Ever see it in Jernyngham’s possession?”

“Yes,” answered Prescott with some hesitation. “I recognize the address, though the English stamp has gone. It was lying near when he was talking to me on the night of the trouble in Sebastian.”

He was filled with uneasiness. The police would certainly attempt to read the letter, which was the one Colston had written announcing his arrival. If they succeeded, they would no doubt wonder why the Englishman had not stayed with Jernyngham, and investigation might lead to a discovery of the part Prescott had played.

“We’ve begun quite satisfactorily,” said the corporal, “and there’s nothing more to be done to-night. I guess you can quit and have supper, boys.”

In a little while trails of gray smoke floated across the ravine, and after a meal with one of his neighbors Prescott rode back to his homestead, feeling much disturbed. For all that, and in spite of the letter, he did not think Jernyngham would be found in the swamp.

On the following evening a commissioned officer of the police, who had made the journey from headquarters at Regina and spent an hour or two examining the scene of the supposititious tragedy, sat with Curtis in a very hot private room of the hotel at Sebastian. Its raw board 72 walls gave out a resinous smell; the opening in the window was filled with mosquito-netting, so that little air crept in. On the table lay a carefully made diagram; a boot, and one or two paper patterns representing footprints were on the floor. The officer’s hair was turning gray and he had a quiet brown face with a look of command in it.

“Taking it for granted that your theory’s right, suspicion seems to fall on the men you mentioned,” he said. “Whom do you suspect?”

Curtis considered. He was reluctant to express a decided opinion in the presence of his superior, who was famous for his acumen.

“So far as we have any evidence, I think it points to Prescott,” he responded. “He saw Jernyngham hide his money; he went on alone with him, and can’t prove when he got home. Then several of the footprints marked on the plan might have been made by him.”

The officer took up the boot and one of the paper patterns.

“There’s a doubt. I suppose he knows you have his boot?”

The corporal’s eyes twinkled faintly.

“I guess he’ll miss it sometime.”

“It’s possible. But what else have you against him?”

“Prescott stands to profit by Jernyngham’s death: he has control of the holding until the year’s up, and it’s a pretty good crop. He declares the jacket isn’t Jernyngham’s; he won’t allow the man can be in the muskeg. A day or two after Jernyngham disappeared he bought one of the new wide-swath binders. Paid the money down in new bills, which was what Jernyngham had, though the implement agent didn’t note the numbers.” 73

“Pretty strong points. What’s your private opinion? Out with it.”

The man’s tone was commanding and Curtis complied.

“On the whole, I’m inclined to blame the other fellow, Wandle.”

“Against the evidence?” asked his superior in quiet surprise. “You of course remember your instructions and know what your duty is.”

“Yes, sir,” said Curtis. “Still, I think——” He paused and continued diffidently: “You would have an answer.”

The other leaned back in his chair with a meditative expression.

“We’ll let it go at that,” he said. “Perhaps you had better follow the waiting course you seem to have decided on, but if suspicion gathers round Prescott it won’t be a drawback and you needn’t discountenance it. For one thing, it may divert attention, and after all he may be the right man.”

A look of comprehension shone in the corporal’s eyes. He believed that his superior, who never expressed a strong opinion prematurely, agreed with him.

“Suppose either of the men lights out?” he suggested.

“You’ll have to guard against it. If it happens, apply for a warrant and follow him.”

The officer returned to Regina the next day; and a week or two, during which Curtis and his assistants laboriously searched the drying swamp, passed uneventfully. Then one morning Prescott sat somewhat moodily in the saddle of his binder which a powerful team hauled along the edge of the wheat. The great stretch of grain blazed with color as it swayed with a harsh rustle of warm-tinted ears before the breeze, but now and then 74 broad cool shadows sped across it as the white-edged clouds drove by. Behind him followed two more teams and machines, half covered by falling sheets of yellow grain, while their whirling wooden arms flashed in the dazzling sunlight as they flung out the sheaves. Bare-armed and very scantily attired men came after them, piling the stocks together. Disturbed as he was, Prescott felt cheered by the prospect of harvesting a record crop.

He had turned a corner and was proceeding along another side of the great oblong when he noticed a wagon approaching, carrying two strangers and several large trunks. As their dress differed from that usually worn on the prairie, he wondered who they were and why they were driving toward his ranch. The liveryman, who held the reins, presently pulled up his team and Prescott; stopping his binder, waited to be addressed. An old soft hat fell shapelessly forward over his deeply bronzed face, his neck and most of his arms were uncovered. Before him the four powerful horses stood fidgeting in the heat, a black cloud of flies about their heads. Though not a man of striking appearance, he was in harmony with his surroundings, and formed a fine central figure in the great harvest field: a worthy type of the new nation that is rising in the West.

For a moment or two the strangers studied him carefully from the wagon. The one nearest him was a woman of thirty, he thought, of tall and chastely lined figure, with a colorless and rather expressionless face, though her features were excellent. She wore a tight-fitting dark dress which seemed to have been made all in one piece, and gave an impression of prim coldness and careful restraint. The man in the soft hat was obviously her father. He had gray hair; his face, which was finely 75 chiseled, suggested a formal, decided, and perhaps domineering, character; his gray tweed traveling suit was immaculately neat. There was no doubt that they were English, and Prescott wondered whom they reminded him of, until the truth flashed upon him with a disconcerting shock—they were Jernyngham’s father and sister!

“Mr. Prescott?” inquired the man.

Prescott bowed, and the teamster, jumping down, handed him two cards.

“I understand that you knew my unfortunate son,” the newcomer continued.

“I did,” Prescott replied guardedly.

“Then can I have a word or two with you in private?”

Getting down from the binder, Prescott helped the other to alight from the high wagon; the man was not agile, though he carried himself well. They walked back some distance along the edge of the wheat. Then the rancher stopped and from force of habit felt for his pipe.

“I must be to some extent confidential,” began Jernyngham. “You must guess why I came.”

The strong light fell searchingly on his face, revealing lines on it which Prescott thought had lately been deepened by pain, but his eyes were very keen and hard.

“I suppose the recent calamity brought you,” the rancher ventured.

“Yes; I have come to see justice done. But we will not discuss that yet. We arrived yesterday evening and found it was impossible that my daughter should be comfortable at the hotel; besides which, it is rather too far away. I accordingly determined to look for quarters at one of the ranches, but succeeded in getting shelter for only the one night.”

Prescott felt amused. Jernyngham and his daughter 76 were not the kind of people the somewhat primitive prairie ranchers would welcome; their request for accommodation was more likely to cause astonishment and alarm.

“People are very busy, now that harvest’s coming on, and they’ve extra hands to cook for,” he explained.

“I understand,” continued Jernyngham, “that my son’s homestead is in this neighborhood, and domestics might be hired; but after what has happened, I fear my daughter would find living there a painful strain. That was why I thought of applying to you.”

The announcement filled Prescott with dismay. The presence of the Jernynghams might involve him in further complications.

“I’m sorry, but we live very simply,” he said hastily. “My place is only half furnished; we have no time to make it comfortable—and I’m sure you’d find our cooking barbarous. I’m afraid Miss Jernyngham couldn’t put up with the accommodation we could offer her.”

“We only want quietness, fresh air, and a little privacy, none of which seems to be obtainable at Sebastian. While the question of terms is no consideration, I recognize that I must make my appeal to your generosity.”

Prescott did not answer, and Jernyngham resumed in a more urgent tone:

“I must beg you not to make difficulties; I’m told there is nobody else in the neighborhood who could take us in. We will require very little attention and will promise to give you no trouble.”

Prescott wavered. The man was keenly anxious; it was hard to resist his appeal, and there was, after all, only a small risk that he might hear of Colston’s visit. Svendsen and his wife, who attended to the housekeeping, 77 were Scandinavians, and could scarcely converse in English. When they addressed him by any distinguishing epithet it was always as “Boss.”

“Well,” he said doubtfully, “I can’t refuse you shelter. You can stay for a while, anyway, until we see how we get on. I’ll go up to the homestead with you.”

He had an interview with his housekeeper, who protested in broken English that harvest was a singularly inconvenient time to entertain strangers, but eventually gave away. The extra hands lately hired could be put up in the barn, and there were two rooms that could be spared. Prescott showed his visitors in and afterward watched with some amusement their surprise when they sat down to the midday meal with the lightly clad toilers from the field. During the afternoon and until late in the evening, he worked hard among the grain, but when the light was failing and he leaned on a wire fence, hot and tired after the long day of effort, Jernyngham came toward him.

“We have had very little talk so far,” he said. “My daughter, however, desires me to convey her thanks to you. She believes she will be perfectly comfortable.”

He was irritatingly formal, his tone was precise, but it changed as he added:

“So you knew Cyril!”

“Yes,” Prescott said gravely. “I was fond of him.”

Jernyngham seemed to be struggling with some stirring of his deeper nature beneath the crust of mannerisms.

“Mr. Prescott,” he said, “I may tell you that I now fear I treated the lad injudiciously, and perhaps with needless harshness. I looked upon extravagance and eccentricity as signs of depravity. It was a vast relief when I heard from Colston, whom you may have met; 78 that Cyril had prospered and was leading an exemplary life in Canada.”

The blood crept into Prescott’s face, and Jernyngham glanced at him curiously before he proceeded.

“We were somewhat hurt that he would not come home; but after past mistakes I could not urge him, and it seemed possible that he might change his mind later. Then the dreadful blow fell—crushing and filling me with all the bitterness of useless regret. I had spoken too late; the opportunity I would not use in time had gone.”

He broke off, and his face had grown white and stern when he went on again:

“There is only one thing I can do, but if needful, I will devote the rest of my life to it—that is, to track down the man who killed my son!”

He was silent for the next few minutes, and then, after a few words on indifferent subjects, intended, Prescott thought, to cover his display of feeling, he turned away, leaving the rancher smoking thoughtfully.