The Spoilers of the Valley Part 19

"Good night, Mr. Ralston!" she said, scrutinizing him in slight perplexity.

"Good night!" returned Phil, still keeping to the shadows.

CHAPTER VIII

Like Man, Like Horse

With the pa.s.sing days, Phil found Sol Hanson a man of rugged simplicity, as full of fun and frolic as a child; a man strong as a lion, an excellent blacksmith and, what was more to Phil's advantage, a kind and unselfish teacher who was willing to impart to his willing pupil--as John Royce Pederstone had been--all he knew of his ancient, n.o.ble and virile calling.

Phil, with a natural apt.i.tude and a delight in at last doing work of a practical nature, was soon able to shoe a horse, temper and weld iron, bolt and rivet a gate and mend broken farm implements with considerable skill, much to the open-minded and childlike Hanson's pleasure and astonishment.

Phil gloried in the knowledge of returning vigour and in the steadily increasing size and power of his biceps. His bones no longer showed an anxiety to burst through his skin. The tired ache, after a little exertion, was no longer with him. His chest broadened by inches and his body took on the buoyancy and elasticity that were his real birthright, but of which the close confinement of Ukalla had almost robbed him for good.

Jim Langford delighted in this physical change even more than did Phil himself. He insisted on sparring and wrestling with Phil in the evenings; and, when the latter began more and more to hold his own, Jim chuckled and chuckled to himself in antic.i.p.ation of some amusing future event he knew was sure to come along sooner or later. When these amus.e.m.e.nts palled, they threw their latent energies into the roping of a post in the long-suffering Mrs. Clunie's orchard, and later the moving and more elusive objects on the ranges.

All this time, Phil saw little or nothing of Mayor Brenchfield, for his were busy days, and Brenchfield's fields of operation were seldom within the confines of the blacksmith shop.

Only once had Eileen Pederstone visited the forge since her father had gone on his electioneering campaign, and that was one afternoon during Phil's dinner hour when she had run in hurriedly to have her horse shod. She was just mounting to ride off as Phil returned, Hanson having attended to her needs. But her bright smile of remembrance and the wave of salutation with her riding crop left something pleasant with Phil that lingered near him till closing time.

The next day he heard casually that she had joined her father on his tour of the Valley. And he heard something else that disturbed him more; although, why it should do so, he could not really understand, for it was no affair of his. He heard that Mayor Brenchfield had been invited--and had accepted the invitation--to attach himself to the Royce Pederstone party in order to give the candidate the support of his fluent tongue and widespread influence.

Somehow Phil resented Brenchfield's apparent friendliness with the Pederstones. To his mind, Eileen Pederstone was too trusting, too straight, and honest, and pure-minded to be even for a little time in the company of a man of the stamp of Brenchfield.

He often wondered at the tremendous wall of protection which Brenchfield seemed to have raised about himself, and he puzzled as to where the breach in that wall might be--for of a breach somewhere he was certain. He wondered who would be first to find it, when it would be likely to be widened and carried. And after his wondering came the hope and the determination that he would be there to lend a hand at the storming of the stronghold.

But these were not consuming desires with Phil. He had a life of work ahead of him; he had lost time to make up; he had ambitions to fulfil; great things to do; there were fortunes to be won by determination, shrewdness and ability, and he was not going to be behind in the winning of one of them.

That was the day Sol Hanson was called out to repair some machinery belonging to The Evaporating Company, leaving Phil alone to run the smithy as best he could.

He had been only a few hours at work when Mayor Brenchfield flung himself from his gigantic thoroughbred and came forward into the shop, smiling amiably.

"Well, Phil!--so you're learning to be a blacksmith. Pretty hard work--isn't it, old man?"

Phil stopped and looked across at him.

When Brenchfield was most pleasant, he knew that was the time for him to be most on his guard.

"It is more honest than some work I could name."

"Poof!--any fool can be a smith. Why don't you get into something worth while?"

"This suits me!"

"You're devilish snappy, Phil. What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you, anyway? Can't you be civil to Royce Pederstone's customers? Do you want to turn away business?"

"Stick to business and it will be all right. There is nothing outside of that that I want to talk to you about."

Brenchfield threw out his bulky chest and smiled, as he walked toward the back door. Suddenly he wheeled round, put his fingers into his vest pocket and pulled out a piece of blue paper.

"Phil,--aren't you going to let bygones be bygones? I'll make it well worth your while. There's going to be big things doing here and I can put you wise."

To show how little he thought of the suggestion, Phil commenced hammering on his anvil and so drowned Brenchfield's voice.

The latter came over and laid his hand on Phil's arm.

"If you can't stop being foolish, you might at least be mannerly," he commented.

"Yes?"

"Here,--take this!"

"What is it?" asked Phil.

"Look and see!"

Phil took the paper and opened it out. It was a cheque for fifteen hundred dollars.

"What's this for?"

Brenchfield threw out his arm casually. "Just to let bygones be bygones!"

"No other tags on it, eh?" asked Phil dubiously.

"Not a d.a.m.ned tag!"

Phil held it in his hand as if weighing the matter over, while Brenchfield watched him narrowly.

"Here's its twin brother, Phil!"

He handed another cheque over. It was for fifteen hundred dollars also.

"And this one? What's it for?"

"That's to get out of here on to-morrow's train and to stay out."

"Uhm!" answered Phil. "That makes three thousand dollars."

Brenchfield's face took on a little more confidence. He knew the temptation proffered money held for the average man. Only, he forgot that he was not dealing in averages with Phil Ralston.

"I've one more--a sort of big brother!" he remarked, handing over cheque number three.

Phil opened it up and whistled.

"Pheugh! Seven--thousand--dollars! Coming up, eh? This must be the price of suicide or a murder, Graham."