Bill shrugged gloomily.

"Nothing," he said. "It's me--again." Then he added, still more gloomily, "Pete's one of the whisky gang, and--I'm Charlie's brother.

Say," he finished up with a ponderous sigh. "I've mussed things--surely."

"I'm sorry for that sc.r.a.p, Bill."

Charlie Bryant was leaning against a veranda post with his hands in his pockets, and his gaze, as usual, fixed on the far side of the valley. Bill completely filled a chair, where he basked in the evening sunlight.

"So am I--now, Charlie."

The big man's agreement brought the other's eyes to his battered face.

"Why?" he demanded quickly.

Bill looked up into the dark eyes above him, and his own were full of concern.

"Why? Is there need to ask that?"

A shadowy smile spread slowly over the other's face.

"No, I don't guess _you_ need to ask why."

There was just the slightest emphasis on the p.r.o.noun.

"You've remembered he's one of the gang--my gang. You sort of feel there's danger ahead--in consequence. Yes, there is danger. That's why I'm sorry. But--somehow I wouldn't have had you act different--even though there's danger. I'm glad it was you, and not me, though. You could hammer him with your two big fists. I couldn't. I should have shot him--dead."

Bill stared incredulously at the other's boyish face. His brother's tone had carried such cold conviction.

"Charlie," he cried, "you get me beat every time. I wouldn't have guessed you felt that way."

The other smiled bitterly.

"No," he said. Then he shifted his position. "I'm afraid there's going to be trouble. I've thought a heap since Helen told me."

"Trouble--through me?" said Bill, sharply. "Say, there's been nothing but blundering through me ever since I came here. I'd best pull up stakes and get out. I'm too big and foolish. I'm the worst blundering idiot out. I wish I'd shot him up. But," he added plaintively, "I hadn't got a gun. Say, I'm too foolishly civilized for this country. I sure best get back to the parlors of the East where I came from."

Charlie shook his head, and his smile was affectionate.

"Best stop around, Bill," he said. "You haven't blundered. You've acted as--honesty demanded. If there's trouble comes through it, it's no blame to you. There's no blame to you anyway. You're honest. Maybe I've cursed you some, but it's me who's wrong--always. Do you get me?

It don't make any difference to my real feelings. You just stop around all you need, and don't you act different from what you are doing."

Bill stirred his bulk uneasily.

"But this trouble? Say, Charlie, boy," he cried, his big face flushing painfully, "it don't matter to me a curse what you are. You're my brother. See? I wouldn't do you a hurt intentionally. I'd--I'd chop my own fool head off first. Can't anything be done? Can't I do anything to fix things right?"

The other had turned away. A grave anxiety was written all over his youthful face.

"Maybe," he said.

"How? Just tell me right now," cried Bill eagerly.

"Why----" Charlie broke off. His pause was one of deep consideration.

"It don't matter what it is, Charlie," cried Bill, suddenly stirred to a big pitch of enthusiasm. "Just count me on your side, and--and if you need to have Fyles shot up, why--I'm your man."

Charlie shook his head.

"Don't worry that way," he cried. "Just stop around. You needn't ask a whole heap of questions. Just stop around, and maybe you can bear a hand--some day. I shan't ask you to do any dirty work. But if there's anything an honest man may do--why, I'll ask you--sure."

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE COMMITTEE DECIDE

The earlier days of summer were pa.s.sing rapidly. And with their pa.s.sage Kate Seton's variations of mood became remarkable. There were times when her excited cheerfulness astounded her sister, and there were times when her depression caused her the greatest anxiety. Kate was displaying a variableness and uncertainty to which Helen was quite unaccustomed, and it left the girl laboring under a great strain of worry.

She strove very hard to, as she termed it, localize her sister's changes of mood, and in this she was not without a measure of success.

Whenever the doings of the church committee were discussed Kate's mood dropped to zero, and sometimes below that point. It was obvious that the decision to demolish the old landmark in the service of the church was causing her an alarm and anxiety which would far better have fitted one of the old village wives, eaten up with superst.i.tion, than a woman of Kate's high-spirited courage. Then, too, the work of her little farm seemed to worry her. Her attention to it in these days became almost feverish. Whereas, until recently, all her available time was given to church affairs, now these were almost entirely neglected in favor of the farm. Kate was almost always to be found in company of her two hired men, working with a zest that ill suited the methods of her male helpers.

On one occasion Helen ventured to remark upon it in her inconsequent fashion, a fashion often used to disguise her real feelings, her real interest.

Kate had just returned from a long morning out on the wheat land. She was weary, and dusty, and thirsty. And she had just thirstily drained a huge gla.s.s of barley water.

"For the Lord's sake, Kate!" Helen cried in pretended dismay. "When I see you drink like that I kind of feel I'm growing fins all over me."

Kate smiled, but without lightness.

"Get right out in this July sun and try to shame your hired men into doing a man's work, and see how you feel then," she retorted.

"Fins?--why, you'd give right up walking, and grow a full-sized tail, and an uncomfortable crop of scales."

Helen shook her head.

"I wouldn't work that way. Say, you're always chasing the boys up. Are they slacking worse than usual? Are they on the 'buck'?"

Kate shot a swift glance into the gray eyes fixed on her so shrewdly.

"No," she said quite soberly. "Only--only work's good for folks, sometimes. The boys are all right. It just does me good to work.

Besides, I like to know what Pete's doing."

"You mean----?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter what I mean," Kate retorted, with a sudden impatience. "Where's dinner?"