The hired man ceased his efforts at once, glad to be done with the savage. Hervey then ran up to the infuriated husky, and dealt him two or three terrible kicks.

The dog turned round instantly. His fangs were dripping with blood, and he snarled fiercely, his baleful eyes glowing with ferocity. But he slunk off when he recognized his a.s.sailant, allowing the second dog to run for its life, howling with canine fear.

Andy went over to the dog that was stretched upon the snow.

"Guess 'e's done, boss," he said, looking up at Hervey as the latter came over to his side. "Say, that's about the slickest sc.r.a.pper round these parts. Gee-whizz, 'e went fur me like the tail end o' a cyclone when I took your plug to the barn. It was they curs that kind o'

distracted his attention. Mebbe thar's more wolf nor dog in him.

Mebbe, I sez."

"Yes, he's a devil-tempered husky," said Hervey. "I'll have to shoot him one of these days."

"Wa'al, I do 'lows that it's a mercy 'e ain't got no more'n three shanks. Mackinaw! but he's handy."

The four women had watched the scene from the kitchen door. Hervey came over to where they were standing.

"I'm sorry, mother," he said. "Neche has killed one of your dogs. He's a fiend for fighting. I've a good mind to shoot him now."

"No, don't go for to do that," said his mother. "We oughtn't to have sent Andy to take your horse. I expect the beast thought he was doing right."

"He's a brute. Curse him!"

Prudence said nothing. Now she moved a little away from the house and talked to the dog. He was placidly, and with no show of penitence, lying down and licking a laceration on one of his front legs. He occasionally shook his great head, and stained the snow with the blood which dripped from his fierce-looking ears. He paused in his operation at the sound of the girl's voice, and looked up. Her tone was gentle and caressing. Hervey suddenly called to her.

"Don't go near him. He's as treacherous as a dogone Indian."

"Come back," called out her mother.

The girl paid no attention. She called again, and patted her blue ap.r.o.n encouragingly. The animal rose slowly to his feet, looked dubiously in her direction, then, without any display of enthusiasm, came slowly towards her. His limp added to his wicked aspect, but he came, nor did he stop until his head was resting against her dress, and her hand was caressing his great back. The huge creature seemed to appreciate the girl's att.i.tude, for he made no attempt to move away.

It is probable that this was the first caress the dog had ever known in all his savage life.

Hervey looked on and scratched his beard thoughtfully, but he said nothing more. Mrs. Malling went back to the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge alone had anything to say.

"Poor creature," she observed, in tones of deep pity. "I wonder how he lost his foot. Is he always fighting? A poor companion, I should say."

Hervey laughed unpleasantly.

"Oh, he's not so bad. He's savage, and all that But he's a good friend."

"Ah, and a deadly enemy. I suppose he's very fond of you. He lets you kick him," she added significantly.

"I hardly know--and I must say I don't much care--what his feelings are towards me. Yes, he lets me kick him." Then, after a pause, "But I think he really hates me."

And Hervey turned abruptly and went back into the kitchen. He preferred the more pleasant atmosphere of his mother's adulation to the serious reflections of Sarah Gurridge.

CHAPTER VI

THE PROGRESSIVE EUCHRE PARTY

The Mallings always had a good gathering at their card parties. Such form of entertainment and dances were the chief winter amus.e.m.e.nt of these prairie-bred folks. A twenty-mile drive in a box-sleigh, clad in furs, buried beneath heavy fur robes, and reclining on a deep bedding of sweet-smelling hay, in lieu of seats, made the journey as comfortable to such people as would the more luxurious brougham to the wealthy citizen of civilization. There was little thought of display amongst the farmers of Manitoba. When they went to a party their primary object was enjoyment, and they generally contrived to obtain their desire at these gatherings. Journeys were chiefly taken in parties; and the amount of snugness obtained in the bottom of a box-sleigh would be surprising to those without such experience. There was nothing _blase_ about the simple country folk. A hard day's work was nothing to them. They would follow it up by an evening's enjoyment with the keenest appreciation; and they knew how to revel with the best.

The first to arrive at Loon d.y.k.e Farm were the Furrers. Daisy, Fortune, and Rachel, three girls of round proportions, all dressed alike, and of age ranging in the region of twenty. They spoke well and frequently; and their dancing eyes and ready laugh indicated spirits at concert pitch. These three were great friends of Prudence, and were loud in their admiration of her. Peter Furrer, their brother, was with them; he was a red-faced boy of about seventeen, a giant of flesh, and a pigmy of intellect--outside of farming operations. Mrs. Furrer accompanied the party as chaperon--for even in the West chaperons are recognized as useful adjuncts, and, besides, enjoyment is not always a question of age.

Following closely on the heels of the Furrers came old Gleichen and his two sons, Tim and Harry. Gleichen was a well-to-do "mixed"

farmer--a widower who was looking out for a partner as staid and robust as himself. His two sons were less of the prairie than their father, by reason of an education at St. John's University in Winnipeg. Harry was an aspirant to Holy Orders, and already had charge of a mission in the small neighbouring settlement of Lakeville. Tim acted as foreman to his father's farm; a boy of enterprising ideas, and who never hesitated to advocate to his steady-going parent the advantage of devoting himself to stock-raising.

Others arrived in quick succession; a truly agricultural gathering.

Amongst the latest of the early arrivals were the Ganthorns; mother, son, and daughter, pretentious folk of considerable means, and recently imported from the Old Country.

By half-past seven everybody had arrived with the exception of George Iredale and Leslie Grey. The fun began from the very first.

The dining-table had disappeared from the parlour, as had the rugs from the floor, and somehow a layer of white wax, like an incipient fall of snow, lay invitingly on the bare white pine boarding. And, too, it seemed only natural that the moment she came into the room ready for the fray, Daisy Furrer should make a rush for the ancient piano, and tinkle out with fair execution the strains of an old waltz.

Her efforts broke up any sign of constraint; everybody knew everybody else, so they danced. This was the beginning; cards would come later.

They could all dance, and right well, too. Faces devoid of the absorbing properties of powder quickly shone with the exercise; complexions innocent of all trace of pigments and the toilet arts glowed with a healthy hue and beamed with perfect happiness. There could be no doubt that Prudence and her mother knew their world as well as any hostess could wish. And it was all so easy; no formality, few punctilios to observe--just free-and-easy good-fellowship.

Mrs. Malling emerged from the region of the kitchen. She was a little heated with her exertions, and a stray wisp or two of grey hair escaping from beneath her quaint lace cap testified to her culinary exertions. She had been stooping at her ovens regardless of her appearance. She found her daughter standing beside the door of the parlour engaged in a desultory conversation with Peter Furrer.

Prudence hailed her mother with an air of relief, and the monumental Peter moved heavily away.

"Oh, mother dear, it's too bad of you," exclaimed the girl, gazing at her critically. "And after all the trouble I took with your cap! Look at it now. It's all on one side, and your hair is sticking out like--like--Timothy gra.s.s. Stand still while I fix it."

The girl's deft fingers soon arranged her mother afresh, the old lady protesting all the while, but submitting patiently to the operation.

"There, there; you children think of nothing but pushing and patting and t.i.ttivating. La, but one 'ud think I was going to sit down at table with a King or a Minister of the Church. n.o.body's going to look at me, child--until the victuals come on. Besides, what does it matter with neighbours? Look at old Gleichen over there, bowing and sc.r.a.ping to Mrs. Ganthorn; one would think it wasn't his way to do nothing else. He's less elaborate when he's trailing after his plough. My, but I can't abide such pretending. Guess some folks think women are blind.

And where's George Iredale? I don't see him. Now there'd be some excuse for his doing the grand. He's a gentleman born and bred."

"Ah, yes, mother, we all know your weakness for Mr. Iredale," replied Prudence, with an affectionate finishing pat to the grey old head.

"But then he just wouldn't 'bow and sc.r.a.pe,' as you call it, to Mrs.

Ganthorn or anybody else. He's not the sort for that kind of thing. He hasn't come yet. I'll bring him to you at once, dear, when he arrives," she finished up with a laugh.

"You're a saucy hussy," her mother returned, with a chuckle. Then: "But I'd have taken to him as a son. Girls never learn anything now-a-days until they're married to the man they fancy."

"Nothing like personal experience, lady mother. Did you ask any one's advice when you married father?"

"That I didn't for sure, child, but it was different. Your father, Silas, wasn't the man to be put off with any notions. He just said he was going to marry me--and he did marry me. I was all sort of swept off my feet."

"But still you chose him yourself," persisted the girl, laughing.

"Well, maybe I did, child, maybe I did."

"And _you_ didn't regret your own choice, mother; so why should I?"

"Ah, it was different with me--quite different. Ah, there's some one coming in." Hephzibah Malling turned as she spoke, glad to be able to change the subject. The front door was opened, and a fur-clad figure entered. "It's George Iredale," she went on, as the man removed his cap and displayed a crown of dark-brown hair, tinged here and there with grey, a broad high forehead and a pair of serious eyes.

"Come along, George." Mrs. Malling bustled forward, followed by her daughter. "I thought you couldn't get, maybe. The folks are all dancing and dallying. You must come into the kitchen first and have something warm. It's a cold night."