The Bail Jumper Part 15

"When then? Set a limit to my uncertainty."

"Not until after the trial."

"Burton's trial. If he should be acquitted?"

"You will know your answer."

"And if convicted?"

"Then I will take time. Oh, please don't force me to be unkind. I cannot give myself-you would not take the gift-without love. I must a.n.a.lyse my own heart, and I cannot do that while this cloud hangs over-us. When it has dispersed, or settled, I will know."

He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. "You are kind," he said, "and fair."

CHAPTER XI-A FRIEND IN NEED

"Oh, I take 'em from the counter, the factory, the mine, They are rough-and-ready rascals till I lick 'em into line; They are coming, coming, coming, from the land of Who-Knows-Where, Black and white and many-tinted, brown and yellow, dark and fair; They are coming from the valley, from the prairie, from the hill, They are coming from the 'May I?' to the country of 'I will!'

And for some the smart of failure, and for some Achievement's crown, As I roll 'em out Canadians-all but the yellow and brown."

_The Empire Builders._

Burton looked cautiously through the window. A little fire was burning on the wet floor, and between him and the fire stood Gardiner, facing the corner in which Miss Vane sat, pale and troubled. With a gasp he sank to the earth. What tragedy was this, enacted before his eyes? Why were these two here, in such a place, at such a time? Could not revengeful Providence spare him even this? Why had he been led through that howling night to this spot, to this scene, of all the places on the great prairie?

His first impulse was to rush in, throttle Gardiner, and escort Miss Vane home. He stole back to the window with this determination in his heart, but a second look at the girl made him pause. Whatever the explanation of her presence here she was evidently not a prisoner. She was talking with Gardiner, talking in a low voice which he could not hear for the din of the night. But there was no anger in her eyes, rather a deep sorrow, and the sympathetic quiver of her lip, which pa.s.sed across it even more quickly than the uncertain flicker of the fire, brought a lump to the boy's throat and banished every thought of forcible intrusion. After all, Gardiner had been a good friend to him.

Had he withdrawn his bond after the discovery of the money, as most men would, Burton at this moment would not have been at liberty. And, while he could not understand their presence here at such a time and in such a manner, it might be that after all a satisfactory explanation could be given. Certainly he could not improve the situation by intruding.

They were talking earnestly, in short, tense sentences. Then Miss Vane spoke at a little greater length, kindly, as he thought, as one may do who does not wish to wound a friend, and Gardiner took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.

Burton waited for nothing more. He drew away from the window as quietly as he had come and started his tramp through mud and water back to town.

He had now one thought only, to get away, to escape, to forget Plainville and Plainville people for ever. The last thin, silvery, cord, stronger in its slender weave than any cable of steel, which had bound him to the place was broken, snapped at the distant end. It still wound round his heart and would deepen and tighten there forever, but its other anchorage was gone. The pain was there but the restraint was removed; Plainville was now less to him than any town of the great new West. And to that great new country he would take himself, as quickly and as cunningly as he knew. They would think he had crossed the line, that would be the natural conclusion; instead, he would beat his way into one of the new provinces and lose himself in the desolation of a homestead far from the furthest edge of civilisation.

Burton thought these things out as he tramped the muddy road, guided by the incessant lightning which still played in the heavens, although the force of the storm had pa.s.sed to the eastward. The revival of a purpose was as a rudder to his life; again he threw back his shoulders and drank in the night air, purified and vitalized by the hundred million volts of electricity shot through it in the last few hours. He was tired and wet, but his mind had been revived from its stupor, and he tasted the strange delight of the hunted man-the joy of matching his wit against the united wit of society and the machinery of government. As the fox who eludes the hounds may well be conceived to glory among his fellows over his accomplishment, so hunted man glories in his ability to outwit his pursuers, and in addition can take the heroic att.i.tude of the one against the million.

As he approached the town he left the main road and swung down toward the river, where was a water-tank beside the railway bridge. It was the custom of the west-bound freights to take water at this tank, and he trusted to a happy chance that such a train might come along before daylight.

As though to encourage him in his new resolve he had scarcely reached the tank when he heard the whistle of an approaching train. He walked back along the track, keeping well into the shadow of the cut-bank. The engines on that division did not use electric lights, and he had little fear of being seen by the crew as they swept past.

The train pulled up slowly, the engineer having allowed for a wet rail and shut off steam well down the line. He slid a little past the tank on his first stop and was obliged to back up a rail-length; meanwhile Burton had located a car with a thres.h.i.+ng separator and engine on it, and had little difficulty in getting on board while the tender was receiving water. Feeling cautiously about the separator, he soon found an open trap-door with a s.p.a.ce inside large enough to accommodate him, and here he concealed himself. It was dry in there, and the night was still warm with lightning; he huddled himself up and almost before the train was in motion had fallen asleep.

When he awoke he was sore in every joint, and at first he stared in bewilderment at the slats and pulleys about him. But he soon recalled that he was a fugitive, a hunted man, a man who dared not travel under the name his mother gave him, and the thought brought less enthusiasm than he had felt the night before. He was conscious, also, of hunger, and feeling in his pockets found some broken biscuits and a few crumbs of cheese. These he ate eagerly and settled back again to wait for the train to resume its journey.

As time wore on and the train did not start the boy became impatient, and at last ventured to look out. The car on which he had concealed himself stood alone, on a side track at a flag station where it had been set off in the early morning. He was not more than forty miles from Plainville, and in a country where he might easily be identified. He saw a farm house about half-a-mile away, and as the sun was approaching the zenith he doubted not that inside were a pot of boiling potatoes and a roast of beef, with the best the good wife's garden could produce. He had only a few cents in his pocket, but a good muscle in his arm, and was not afraid to work for a meal, but he feared to reveal himself lest it might later lead to his identification. After thinking it over he decided to remain in his hiding place until dark, when he would steal to the farmer's garden and ward off starvation with his vegetables.

He had settled back to put in the time as best he could when another thought occurred to him. This thres.h.i.+ng outfit had evidently been consigned to some farmer of the district, and was likely to be unloaded that very day. True, it was a little early in the season for thres.h.i.+ng mills, but the companies were anxious to get as many as possible placed before the real rush of harvest was upon them, and there was no reason to suppose that this car would be taken any further until unloaded. And, if he should be found concealed in the separator, then explanations _would_ be required.

Having turned this matter over in his mind for a short time he let himself out by the trap-door as stealthily as possible, although quite sure that there could be no one within half-a-mile; sprang to the ground on the side of the car furthest from the farmer's house, and presently commenced to walk unconcernedly across the prairie to the north-west.

The country was not closely settled, and he soon ventured to follow a trail leading away from the railroad. The walking was not bad here, as the district seemed to have been out of the direct path of the storm, and he soon found himself swinging along the road at a good rate. He knew that ten or twelve miles to the northward was another line of railway, and it occurred to him that it would be good policy to walk across and divert his patronage to the other company. It would at least make him less easily followed.

The sun was high and the day was warm, and white, blocky clouds floated in the sky like icebergs in a sea of blue. The gophers played along the trail, and, far above, a hawk, pinioned on motionless wings, spied the plain for the more unwary. The memory of the night before, of the experience of the past thirty-six hours, hid itself behind a mist of unreality; but there was a vacant soreness, a sensation of pain as from some deep wound now healing, a pain so keen that it was part pleasure. A frost-bite and a burn are similar in their nature and their effect, and there is a point at which joy can scarce be distinguished from pain. A sense of loss may in itself become an a.s.set; adversity and rejection, instead of crus.h.i.+ng some men down, force them forward and upward. Such a spirit was Burton's; as he walked along the prairie trail a resolution took shape in his heart that he yet would show "them"-meaning his little world-the stuff of which he was made.

His reverie was broken by a blast of a horn which caused him to jump clear of the roadway. Looking hurriedly around, he saw behind him an automobile with only the driver on board, and the broad smile on the latter's face indicated his amus.e.m.e.nt at the young man's nervousness.

Burton's first thought was that he had been followed; that his bail had been withdrawn, and he would be taken back and thrown into jail. But there was no menace in the kindly eye of the automobilist, as he brought his car to a stop.

"Jump in," he called, "we are going the same way, let us travel together."

Burton found no excuse for refusal, and obeyed.

In a moment the car was again in motion, but the driver, a man of fifty or thereabouts, found time to catechize his guest.

"Going far?" he demanded.

"Yes, quite a distance."

"Live hereabouts?"

"No, down the line."

"Perhaps you know me. I am Doctor Millar."

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Burton, looking him in the face for the first time. "I have often heard my father speak of you."

"Yes?" said the doctor. "And what is your name?"

"Raymond Burton." The words were out before, with a gasp of surprise, he realised that he had revealed his ident.i.ty. But it was now too late to recall them, he must face it through.

"Not a son of John Burton's, of Plainville?" asked the doctor, a new interest leaping into his eyes.

"The same-the only son."

"Well, well. I knew John Burton when I was a shanty doctor on the Ottawa, and have known him ever since. In the earlier days here, when doctor's drives were longer than they are now, and we didn't ride on rubber either, I have been at his house more than once-but you won't remember. But-let me see-I hope you won't think me too personal-I am your father's friend-you had some-some misunderstanding, did you not?

The papers get things so wrong, but--"

There was something in the man's manner, in his frank, open face and clear, genial eyes that commanded Burton's confidence. He resolved to make a clean breast of it.

"Yes, I'm in trouble," he admitted. "A package of two thousand dollars disappeared from my employer's safe, and I was suspected. I was committed for trial although the evidence against me was very vague. But detectives were put on my trail, and the money was found in my trunk.

How it got there you know as well as I, Doctor. But it swept my feet from under me, and now I am beating my way west. I hope to lose my old life entirely, and make a fresh start where this shadow will not follow me."

The doctor drove furiously for a full mile. Then he slowed up.

"Its pretty hard to lose one's old life," said he. "You will find acquaintances wherever you go, just as you found me. But there must be an explanation to this thing. You must have enemies?"

"No, at least, only one, and he's a farmer living out of town, with no means of doing me this injury."

"You can never tell. I'd have him shadowed, if I were you. You are sure there is no one else?"

As though it had risen before him at that moment, Burton saw a black, keen eye through the crack of a door, but he answered, "No, there is no one else."