"No, of course not. But that is the situation. Now young Angus is a well-grown boy. I think he can run the ranch fairly well. The other children are going to a school which is good enough for their present needs. Angus feels very strongly about the matter. In fact I think he would ask me to oppose any endeavor to rent the place."

"Are you threatening me with a lawsuit?"

"Not at all. There can be no action unless there are grounds for one, and of course a wise trustee walks very carefully. That's all I have to say. Good morning, Braden."

Mr. Braden from his window looked after the bulky, square-set figure of the old lawyer as he made his way down the street.

"You will, will you, you old b.u.m!" he muttered. Then his gaze shifted to a large map of the district which hung on the wall. For some minutes he contemplated it, and then his pudgy finger tapped the exact spot which represented the Mackay ranch. Then half aloud he uttered an eternal truth. "There's sev'ral ways," said Mr. Braden, "of skinning a cat."

CHAPTER V

ANGUS IN LOVE AND WAR

The judge merely told Angus that if he could work the ranch properly it would not be rented; and thus encouraged he buckled into the work. The responsibility thrust on him changed his outlook even more than he himself realized.

Jean felt her responsibilities as much as he. She was fond of books, but she grudged the time spent at school, and from before daylight till long after dark she was as busy as a young hen with a brood of chicks. The boys helped her with the hard tasks, and on the whole she got along very well.

But though Angus and Jean felt their responsibilities and endeavored to live up to them, young Turkey did not. He was a curious combination, with as many moods and shifts as an April day. By turns he was headstrong and impulsive, and then coldly calculating. If he felt like it, he would be industrious; but if not, he would be deliberately and provokingly idle. In the days of Adam Mackay these qualities had been not so apparent; but with the pa.s.sing of his father he recognized no authority and he resented bitterly the least suggestion of control.

He would soon have gotten completely out of hand had Angus permitted it.

Matters came to a show-down one morning when Turkey, snug between his blankets, delivered a flat ultimatum to his brother's command that he get up and help pick potatoes.

"You go plum!" said Turkey. "Sat.u.r.day's a holiday, and I'm goin'

fishin'. Pick spuds yourself!"

The next moment he was yanked out of his nest by the ankle and, fighting like a young wildcat, was thrown on the floor.

"Will you pick those spuds?" Angus demanded.

"No!" Turkey shouted, and Angus whirled him over on his face and reaching out acquired a leather slipper.

"Get this straight," he said. "You'll pick spuds, or I'll lick you till you do."

"You lick me, and I'll kill you," roared Turkey, emphasizing the threat with language gleaned from certain teamsters of his acquaintance, but which was cut short by the slipper.

"Will you come to work now?" Angus asked after a heated interval.

"No!" yelled Turkey, sobbing more with rage than with pain, "no, I won't, you big--"

But again the slipper cut him short, and this time his brother put his full strength into it. Finally, Turkey recognized the old-time doctrine of force, and gave up. That day he picked potatoes with fair diligence, and though he would not speak to Angus for a week, he did as he was told.

And so that Fall the young Mackays were very busy, and the threshing was done, and the roots dug and got in, and some fall plowing, before the frosts hardened the earth and the snow came to overlie it.

With winter the work of the ranch lightened--or at least its hours shortened. But still there was plenty to do.

But there were the long evenings, when all the work was done, and supper over and the lamps lit, and they sat by the big, airtight heater, and Angus at least enjoyed the warmth the more because, well-fed and comfortable himself, he knew that every head of his stock was also full-bellied and contented in pen and stable and stall and shed, and the wind might blow and the snow drift and not matter at all.

A year pa.s.sed uneventfully. The ranch paid its way, though Angus could not meet the mortgage interest. In that year Angus had grown physically.

Adam Mackay had been a strong man, and his son was beginning to show his breed, and the results of the good plain food and open air and hard exercise which had been his all his life.

He was yet lanky and apparently awkward, being big of bone, but long ropes of muscle were beginning to come on his arms and thighs, and bands and plasters of it lay on his shoulders and along his back and armored ribs. He took pride in the strength that was coming upon him, rejoicing in his ability to shoulder a sack of grain without effort, to lift and set around the end of a wagon, to handle the big breaking plow at the end of a furrow, and he was forever trying new things which called for strength and activity. At nineteen he could, though he did not know it, have taken the measure of any ordinary man. And about this time an incident occurred which nearly turned out disastrously.

Angus had delivered a load of potatoes at a hotel much frequented by lumberjacks, and, seeking its proprietor, he entered the bar. A logging camp had broken up, and its members, paid off, were celebrating in the good old way. As Angus approached the bar he pa.s.sed between two young men. These, with one telepathic glance, suddenly administered to the unsuspecting youth the rite known as the "Dutch flip." Although the humor of the "flip" is usually more apparent to perpetrators and onlookers than to the victim, Angus merely grinned as he found himself on his feet again, and all would have been well if, in his involuntary parabola, his feet aforesaid had not brushed a huge tie-maker. This tie-maker was a Swede, "bad," with a reputation as a fighter and the genial disposition of a bear infested with porcupine quills. Also he was partly drunk. In this condition he chose to regard the involuntary contact of Angus' heels as a personal affront. With a ripping blasphemy he slapped the boy in the face, and as instantly as a reflex action Angus lashed back with a blow clean and swift as the kick of a colt, and nearly as powerful.

The logger recovered from his surprise, and with a roar sprang and caught him. Strong for a boy, Angus was as yet no match for such an adversary. The weight of the man, apart from fighting experience, made the issue undoubted. But suddenly the Swede was twisted, wrenched loose, and sent staggering ten feet. Straight down the length of the room the big tie-maker shot, landing with a terrific crash, and lay groaning.

"Let the kid alone!" a deep voice commanded.

Angus' rescuer was Gavin French, the eldest of the brothers. The largest of a family of big men, Gavin stood three inches over six feet in his stockings, and tapered from shoulders to heels. He was long of limb, long of sinew, and so beautifully built that at first sight his real bulk and weight were not apparent. His hair, reddish gold, was so wavy that it almost curled, his eye a clear blue, but as hard as newly-cut ice. He nodded to Angus.

"All right, Mackay; I won't let him hurt you."

Gavin French surveyed his handiwork with cold satisfaction.

"Give the boys a drink," he said. And when the drink had been disposed of he walked out without a second glance at his late adversary who was sitting up. Angus followed him.

"Thanks for handling him," he said. "He was too strong for me."

The cold blue eyes rested on him appraisingly.

"You'll be all right when you're older. Better keep out of trouble till then."

"He struck me," Angus said, "and no man will ever do that without getting back the best I have, no matter how big he is. That was my father's way."

Gavin French made no reply. He nodded, and turning abruptly left Angus alone.

This episode, trivial in itself, gave Angus food for thought. For long months the sight of the big Swede hurtling through the air was before his eyes, and he admired and envied the mighty strength of Gavin French.

By contrast his own seemed puny, insignificant. He set himself deliberately to increase it.

The second fall after Adam Mackay's death the school which Jean and Turkey attended had a new teacher. Jean fell in love with her from the start, and even Turkey, who had regarded teachers as his natural enemies, was inclined to make an exception. Jean brought this paragon to the ranch over Sunday. Alice Page was a clear-eyed young woman of twenty-four, brown of hair and eye as Jean herself, full of quiet fun, but with a dignity which forbade familiarity. She was the first person who had ever given Angus a handle to his name. This was at dinner, and Turkey yelped joyously:

"Ah, there, 'Mister' Mackay!" he cried. "A little more meat, 'Mister'

Mackay, and a dose of spuds and gravy, 'Mister' Mackay. I see you missed some of the feathers by your left ear when you was shavin', 'Mister'

Mackay!"

Having just begun the use of the razor, Angus reddened to the ear aforesaid. Like most taciturn, reserved people he was keenly sensitive to ridicule.

"'Meester' Mackay! Haw-haw!" rumbled big Gus through a mouthful of food.

"He's shave hees viskers! Das ban purty good von. Ho-ho!"

Dave Rennie grinned. Angus' black brows drew down, but just then he choked on a crumb of bread which went the wrong way.

"Pat 'Mister' Mackay on the back!" shrieked Turkey.

"I'll pat you, young fellow!" Angus wheezed.