"Nothing," Angus replied. "I'll be going." Getting up he walked to the door, his anger replaced by shame and disgust. At the door he turned. "I am sorry," he said, "and ashamed of myself. To prove it I will say what I never thought to say, meaning it: Will you come back to the ranch?

Jean wants you. Maybe we can make a fresh start."

Turkey stared at him in amazement for a moment.

"You didn't come here to say that, did you?"

"No," Angus admitted. "But Jean wanted me to."

"Oh, Jean!" said the younger man. "I get on with Jean all right. But you're doing it not because Jean wants you to, but to square yourself with yourself. You always were a sour, proud devil, so I know what it costs you. I won't crowd you, though. I'm getting along all right this way, and so are you. No, I won't go back."

"Suit yourself," said Angus. Turkey nodded.

"I wouldn't go back on a bet. Some day you can buy out my share of the ranch cheap--that is if I have any share. That's up to you."

"When I can afford it, I will pay you what your share is worth," Angus told him. "Father left me all he had, because I was the eldest and he knew I would deal fairly. I think it would be fair if we took a third each. That is what I have always intended."

"More than fair," Turkey admitted. "You have done most of the work. I'll hand you that much. So when the time comes, split my third two ways.

I'll take one, and you and Jean can take the other."

"You can do what you like with your share," Angus told him, "but of course I will not touch one cent of it. Meanwhile the ranch is increasing in value."

"I know all that," Turkey replied. "Don't tell me you're working for me."

"I will tell you this," said Angus, "anything that injures the ranch injures you."

Turkey eyed him for a moment.

"Well?"

"Well--remember it."

"I'll try," said Turkey. "We don't get along well together. Best way is not to be together. So after this you keep plumb away from me, and I'll keep away from you. Does that go?"

"Yes," said Angus. "And mind you keep to that, you and your friends. Let me alone, and let the ranch alone!"

Turkey stared at him, frowning, and half opened his mouth in question, but let it go unuttered. Without another word Angus left him and rode home through an overcast night. As he turned in at the ranch gate a drop struck his hand. As he stabled Chief it began to rain softly and steadily. Angus Mackay turned his face to the sky, and out of the bitterness of his heart cursed it and the rain that had come too late.

CHAPTER XXIII

FAITH'S FARM

Angus was riding fast for Faith Winton's ranch. Rain had fallen steadily for two days, and was still falling. The hills were veiled to their bases in low clouds. Mists hung everywhere, rising from little lakes, hanging low over the bottoms, clinging to the tree-tops of the benchlands. The rain would do good, undoubtedly, but it could not repair the damage of the drouth.

Angus had not seen Faith for a fortnight. As he rode, head down against the rain, half unconsciously he began to picture unimportant details. Of course, on such a beastly day, she would be at home. There would be an open fire, and perhaps music. Music and an open fire! The combination suited him. Perhaps--

A live bomb landed beneath Chief's feet with an explosion of barking.

The big horse, taken by surprise, bounded and kicked. And as Angus caught him hard with the rein and a word picked at random from a vocabulary suited to the comprehension of western horses, he saw Faith Winton.

She was cased against the rain in a long slicker, and a tarpaulin hat protected her fair head. Beneath the broad brim of it her face, rosy and clear-skinned, laughed up at him as he brought Chief up with a suddenness which made his hoofs cut slithering grooves in the slop.

"Jehu, the son of Nimshi, rideth furiously. Also he useth vain words to his steed."

Angus reddened, for a man's remarks to his horse are in the nature of confidential communications.

"I didn't see you," he said, dismounting beside her.

"Melord of many acres honors the poor ranch maiden. Methought he had forgotten her existence."

"You know better than that."

"Well, perhaps I do. I hope your flume is all right now. But of course this rain--"

He did not undeceive her.

"I never expected to see you out on a day like this."

"Like this? Why, I never could stay in, on a rainy day. I must get out.

Good for the complexion."

"I can see the complexion part of it. I wonder if you know how becoming that slicker hat is?"

She laughed up at him. "Of course I know. Do you think I'd wear it if I didn't?"

"I never saw one on a girl before."

"No? They're supposed to be purely masculine, I know." She c.o.c.ked the hat on one side and sang:

"If it be a girl she shall wear a golden ring, And if it be a boy he shall fight for his king, With his tarpaulin hat, and his coat of navy blue He shall pace the quarter-deck as his daddy used to do."

Her rich contralto rang down the misty aisles beneath the dripping firs.

"Fine!" Angus applauded. "That's a great old song." She nodded and swung into the old, original refrain, her voice taking on the North Country burr:

"O-ho! it's hame, lads, hame, an' it's hame we yet wull be-- Back thegither scatheless in the North Countree; Hame wi' wives an' bairns an' sweethearts in our ain countree-- Whaur the ash, an' the oak, an' the bonnie hazel tree, They be all a-growin' green in our ain countree."

"I like those old songs," Angus approved.

"So do I. Modern songs seem to me cheap things, written just to sell.

But the old ones--the real, old songs that were the songs of generations before us--weren't really written at all. Somehow, when I sing them I feel that I am almost touching the spirits of those who sang them many years ago." She stopped abruptly. "And now you'll think I'm silly!"

"Not a bit. Spirits! Old Murdoch McGillivray--"

"Who was he?"

"A friend of my father's. He had the gift."