Kindred of the Dust Part 10

"I want some kid's clothing," he announced. "To fit a child of three.

Rompers, socks, shoes--the complete outfit. Charge them to my account and send them over to Nan Brent at the Sawdust Pile. I'll give you a note to enclose with them."

Notwithstanding the fact that she was an employe of the Tyee Lumber Company, the girl who waited on him stared at him frankly. He noticed this and bent upon her a calm glance that brought a guilty flush to her cheek. Quickly she averted her eyes, but, nevertheless she had a feeling that the young laird of Tyee was still appraising her, and, unable to withstand the fascination peculiar to such a situation, she looked at him again to verify her suspicions--and it was even so. In great confusion she turned to her stock, and Donald, satisfied that he had squelched her completely, went into the manager's office, wrote, and sealed the following note to Nan Brent:

Sat.u.r.day night. FRIEND NAN:

Here are some duds for the young fellow. You gave me the right to look after him, you know; at least, you didn't decline it. At any rate, I think you will not mind accepting them from me.

I sent to Seattle for some books I thought you might like. They have probably arrived by parcel-post. Sent you a box of candy, also, although I have forgotten the kind you used to prefer.

Been up in the logging-camp all week, chopping, and I ache all over. Expect to be hard and not quite so weary by next week-end, and will call over for Sunday dinner.

Sincerely, DONALD McKAYE

He spent Sunday at The Dreamerie, and at four o'clock Sunday afternoon boarded the up train and returned to the logging-camp. Mrs.

Andrew Daney, seated in Sunday-afternoon peace upon her front veranda, looked up from the columns of the _Churchman_ as the long string of logging-trucks wound round the base of the little knoll upon which the general manager's home stood; but even at a distance of two blocks, she recognized the young laird of Tyee in the cab with the engineer.

"Dear, dear!" this good soul murmured. "And such a nice young man, too! I should think he'd have more consideration for his family, if not for himself."

"Who's that?" Mr. Daney demanded, emerging from behind the Seattle _Post-Intelligencer_.

"Donald McKaye."

"What about him?" Mr. Daney demanded, with slight emphasis on the p.r.o.noun.

"Oh, nothing; only--"

"Only what?"

"People say he's unduly interested in Nan Brent."

"If he is, that's his business. Don't let what people say trouble you, Mrs. Daney."

"Well, can I help it if people will talk?"

"Yes--when they talk to you."

"How do you know they've been talking to me, Andrew?" she demanded foolishly.

"Because you know what they say." Andrew Daney rose from the wicker deck-chair in which he had been lounging and leveled his index-finger at the partner of his joys and sorrows. "You forget Donald McKaye and that Brent girl," he ordered. "It's none of your business. All Don has to say to me is, 'Mr. Daney, your job is vacant'--and, by Judas Priest, it'll be vacant. Remember that, my dear."

"Nonsense, dear. The Laird wouldn't permit it--after all these years."

"If it comes to a test of strength, I'll lose, and don't you forget it. Old sake's sake is all that saved me from a run-in with Donald before he had been in command fifteen minutes. I refer to that Sawdust Pile episode. You dissuaded me from doing my duty in that matter, Mary, and my laxity was not pleasing to Donald. I don't blame him a whit."

"Did he say anything?" she demanded, a trifle alarmed.

"No; but he looked it."

"How did he look, Andrew?"

"He looked," her husband replied, "like the Blue Bonnets coming over the border--that's what he looked like. Then he went down to the Sawdust Pile like a raging demon, cleaned it out in two twos, and put it to the torch. You be careful what you say to people, Mary. Get that boy started once, and he'll hark back to his paternal ancestors; and if The Laird has ever told you the history of that old claymore that hangs on the wall in The Dreamerie, you know that the favorite outdoor sports of the McKaye tribe were fighting and foot-racing--with the other fellow in front."

"The Laird is mild enough," she defended.

"Yes, he is. But when he was young, he could, and frequently did, whip twice his weight in bear-cats. Old as he is to-day, he's as sound as a man of forty; he wouldn't budge an inch for man or devil."

Mrs. Daney carefully folded the _Churchman_, laid it aside, and placed her spectacles with it.

"Andrew, I know it's terrible of me to breathe such a thing, but--did it ever occur to you that--perhaps--the father of Nan Brent's child might be--"

"Donald?" he exploded incredulously.

She nodded, and about her nod there was something of that calm self-confidence of an attorney who is winning his case and desires to impress that fact upon the jury.

"By G.o.d, woman," cried Daney, "you have the most infernal ideas--"

"Andrew! Remember it's the Sabbath!"

"It's a wonder my language doesn't shrivel this paper. Now then, where in hades do you get this crazy notion?" Daney was thoroughly angry.

She gazed up at him in vague apprehension. Had she gone too far?

Suddenly he relaxed. "No; don't tell me," he growled. "I'll not be a gossip. G.o.d forgive me, I was about to befoul the very salt I eat.

I'll not be disloyal."

"But, Andrew dear, don't you know I wouldn't dare breathe it to anyone but you?"

"I don't know how much you'd dare. At any rate, I'll excuse you from breathing it to me, for I'm not interested. I know it isn't true."

"Then, Andrew, it is your duty to tell me why you know it isn't true, in order that I may set at rest certain rumors--"

"You--mind--your--own--business, Mary!" he cried furiously, punctuating each word with a vigorous tap of his finger on the arm of her chair. "The McKayes meet their responsibilities as eagerly as they do their enemies. If that child were young Donald's, he'd have married the Brent girl, and if he had demurred about it, The Laird would have ordered him to."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence in the McKaye family, Andrew,"

said a quiet voice. "I think you have the situation sized up just right."

Andrew Daney whirled; his wife glanced up, startled, then half rose and settled back in her chair again, for her legs absolutely refused to support her. Standing at the foot of the three steps that led off the veranda was Hector McKaye!

"I drove Donald down from The Dreamerie to catch the up train, and thought I'd drop over and visit with you a bit," he explained. "I didn't intend to eavesdrop, and I didn't--very much; but since I couldn't help overhearing such a pertinent bit of conversation, I'll come up and we'll get to the bottom of it. Keep your seat, Mrs.

Daney."

The advice was unnecessary. The poor soul could not have left it. The Laird perched himself on the veranda railing, handed the dumfounded Daney a cigar, and helped himself to one.

"Well, proceed," The Laird commanded. His words apparently were addressed to both, but his glance was fixed on Mrs. Daney--and now she understood full well her husband's description of the McKaye look.

"I had finished what I had to say, Mr. McKaye," Andrew Daney found courage to say.

"So I noted, Andrew, and right well and forcibly you said it. I'm grateful to you. I make no mistake, I think, if your statement wasn't in reply to some idle tale told your good wife and repeated by her to you--in confidence, of course, as between man and wife."