"Heard the news?" asked Big Jack, glancing around at his companions, promising them a bit of sport.

"What news?" asked Sam warily.

"Your new girl has flew the coop."

"What do you mean?" demanded Sam, scowling.

"Wafted. Vamosed. Fluffed out. Beat it for the outside."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Beattie's wife's sister."

"Miss Mackall?"

"Went back with the bishop this morning."

Sam's face was a study in blank incredulity.

"Didn't you know she was goin'?" asked Jack with pretended concern. He turned to his mates. "Boys, this here's a serious matter. Looks like a regular lovers' quarrel. We ought to have broke it to him more gentle!"

"I don't believe it!" said Sam. "But if it is true, she's got a right to go when she likes without asking me." He made a move to drive on.

"Hold on!" cried Big Jack. "I've got another piece of news for you."

"Spit it out," snapped Sam, scornful and unconcerned.

"Your old girl's come to town. Ring out the new, ring in the old, as the song says. Lucky for you they didn't happen simultaneous."

This affected Sam more than the first item. In spite of him, a red tide surged up from his neck. He scowled angrily at having to betray himself before them. They laughed derisively.

"I suppose you mean Bela," he said stiffly. "The settlement is free to her, I guess. She's no more mine than the other."

"Opened a resteraw in the shack below the company store," Big Jack went on. "We had our dinner there. Six bits a man. Better drop in to supper."

"Not by a d.a.m.n sight!" muttered Sam.

He shook his reins, and drove on to the tune of their laughter.

His feelings were much mixed. He felt that he ought in decency to be chiefly concerned on Jennie Mackall's account, but he could not drive Bela out of his head. He was both angry and terrified at her coming.

Just when he was beginning to feel free and easy she had to come and start up the old trouble in his breast. Just when men were beginning to forget the story which humiliated him, she came along and gave it new point!

Sam had to get mad at something, and, like young persons generally, he concentrated on a side issue. By the time he got into the settlement he had succeeded in working himself up to a great pitch of indignation against the Beatties, who, he told himself, had sent Jennie Mackall home to part her from him.

Reaching the company reservation, he drove boldly up the hill to ask for an explanation. Mrs. Beattie was on the porch sewing, as ever her bland, capable self.

"They tell me Miss Mackall has gone away," said Sam stiffly.

"She was taken sick last night," replied Mrs. Beattie. "We all thought it best for her to go when she had a good chance."

Sam stood undecided.

Mrs. Beattie arose.

"She left a note to bid you good-bye. I'll get it."

This was what Sam read, written in a well nigh illegible scrawl:

DEAR BOY,

I cannot stay here. I am sick. I can't explain further. Can scarcely hold a pen. It's dreadful to have to go without seeing you. But don't try to follow me. I will write you from outside, when I can think more calmly. Oh, it's horrible! Oh, be careful of yourself! Don't let yourself be deceived. I would say more if I dared. Tear this up instantly. Don't forget me.

Ever thine,

JENNIE.

Sam bowed stiffly to Mrs. Beattie, and turned away. The letter mystified and exasperated him. The emotion it breathed found no response in his own breast. The phrasing sounded exaggerated and silly. Why on earth should he follow? He understood the veiled reference to Bela. Little need for Jennie to warn him against her!

At the same time Sam felt mean because he experienced no greater distress at Jennie's going. Finally, manlike, he swore under his breath, and resolved again to have no more to do with women. No suspicion of the real state of affairs crossed his mind.

Returning down hill in his wagon, he had to pa.s.s the little house where they had told him Bela was. Smoke was rising from the chimney. A great disquiet attacked him; he was not thinking of Jennie at all then. He heard sounds of activity from within the shack. Wild horses could not have dragged his head around to look. Urging his horses, he got out of sight as quick as he could. But out of sight was not out of mind.

"What's the matter with me?" he asked himself irritably. "I'm my own master, I guess. n.o.body can put anything over on me. What need I care if she opens a dozen restaurants? One would think I was afraid of the girl! Ridiculous! Lord! I wish she were at the other side of the world!"

There was no escaping her. During the days that followed, Bela was the princ.i.p.al topic of conversation around the settlement. Her place became a general rendezvous for all the white men.

Graves's young men saved the Government their rations, but took it out in horse-flesh riding around the bay to sup at Bela's. The policemen spent their hours off duty and wages there.

Stiffy and Mahooley fired their cook and went with the rest. The shack proved inadequate to hold them all, and Graves sent over a tent to be used as a kitchen annex.

Since Sam was the only white man who did not patronize the place, he had to submit to be held up on the road half a dozen times a day while they forced him to listen to the details of the last wonderful meal at Bela's.

"No bannock and sow-belly; no, sir! Real raised outside bread and genuine cow-b.u.t.ter from the mission. Green stuff from the mission garden. Roasted duck and prairie-chicken; stewed rabbit and broiled fish fresh out of the lake! Pudding with raisins in it, and on Sunday an apricot pie!"

Bela, it seemed, brought everybody under contribution. They told how even Mrs. Beattie, the great lady of the place, was giving her cooking lessons.

It was not only the food that made Bela's place attractive. The men told how agreeably she welcomed them, making every man feel at home.

She remembered their likes and dislikes; she watched to see that their plates were kept full.

When the table was cleared they were allowed to smoke and to play cards. Bela was good for a bit of fun, too; nothing highty-tighty about her. She had a clever tongue in her head. But all fair and above-board, you understand. Lord! if any fellow got fresh he'd mighty soon be chucked out by the others. But n.o.body ever tried it on--there was something about her----A fine girl!

That was how the panegyrics always ended: "A fine girl, sir!" Every man felt a particular grat.i.tude to Bela. It was a place to go nights.

It combined the advantages of a home and a jolly club. Up north men were apt to grow rusty and glum for the lack of a little amus.e.m.e.nt.

All of which evidenced a new side of Bela's character. She was coming on. In such a favourable atmosphere she might well develop. It seemed that she moved like a queen among her courtiers. They scrambled to do her behests.

Poor Sam, after listening to these tales, was obliged to drive past the house of entertainment eyes front, and cook his supper in solitude at Grier's Point. He could no longer count on even an occasional companion, for nowadays everybody hurried to Bela's.