



Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
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HARDING OF ALLENWOOD




[Illustration: "'PICK UP YOUR SKIRT,' HE SAID BLUNTLY; 'IT GETS
STEEPER.'"--Page 32]




HARDING OF ALLENWOOD

BY HAROLD BINDLOSS

AUTHOR OF PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN,
WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE, ETC

WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR

[Illustration]

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS  NEW YORK

Copyright, 1915, by
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

All rights reserved




CONTENTS

 CHAPTER                                          PAGE
       I  THE PIONEERS                               1
      II  PORTENTS OF CHANGE                        14
     III  AT THE FORD                               26
      IV  THE OPENING OF THE RIFT                   36
       V  THE SPENDTHRIFT                           48
      VI  THE MORTGAGE BROKER                       56
     VII  AN ACCIDENT                               67
    VIII  AN UNEXPECTED ESCAPE                     79
      IX  A MAN OF AFFAIRS                          92
       X  THE CASTING VOTE                         103
      XI  THE STEAM PLOW                          118
     XII  THE ENEMY WITHIN                         132
    XIII  THE TRAITOR                              145
     XIV  A BOLD SCHEME                            156
      XV  HARVEST HOME                             169
     XVI  THE BRIDGE                               182
    XVII  A HEAVY BLOW                             192
   XVIII  COVERING HIS TRAIL                       203
     XIX  THE BLIZZARD                             215
      XX  A SEVERE TEST                            225
     XXI  THE DAY OF RECKONING                     236
    XXII  THE PRICE OF HONOR                       245
   XXIII  A WOMAN INTERVENES                       255
    XXIV  A GREAT TRIUMPH                          264
     XXV  THE REBUFF                               276
    XXVI  DROUGHT                                  287
   XXVII  THE ADVENTURESS                          298
  XXVIII  FIRE AND HAIL                            308
    XXIX  A BRAVE HEART                            318
     XXX  THE INHERITANCE                          326





HARDING, OF ALLENWOOD




CHAPTER I

THE PIONEERS


It was a clear day in September. The boisterous winds which had swept
the wide Canadian plain all summer had fallen and only a faint breeze
stirred the yellowing leaves of the poplars. Against the glaring blue of
the northern sky the edge of the prairie cut in a long, straight line;
above the southern horizon rounded cloud-masses hung, soft and white as
wool. Far off, the prairie was washed with tints of delicate gray, but
as it swept in to the foreground the color changed, growing in strength,
to brown and ocher with streaks of silvery brightness where the withered
grass caught the light. To the east the view was broken, for the banks
of a creek that wound across the broad level were lined with
timber--birches and poplars growing tall in the shelter of the ravine
and straggling along its crest. Their pale- branches glowed among
the early autumn leaves.

In a gap between the trees two men stood resting on their axes, and rows
of logs and branches and piles of chips were scattered about the
clearing. The men were dressed much alike, in shirts that had once been
blue but were now faded to an indefinite color, old brown overalls, and
soft felt hats that had fallen out of shape. Their arms were bare to the
elbows, the low shirt-collars left their necks exposed, showing skin
that had weathered, like their clothing, to the color of the soil.
Standing still, they were scarcely distinguishable from their
surroundings.

Harding was thirty years old, and tall and strongly built. He looked
virile and athletic, but his figure was marked by signs of strength
rather than grace. His forehead was broad, his eyes between blue and
gray, and his gaze gravely steady. He had a straight nose and a firm
mouth; and although there was more than a hint of determination in his
expression, it indicated, on the whole, a pleasant, even a magnetic,
disposition.

Devine was five years younger and of lighter build. He was the handsomer
of the two, but he lacked that indefinite something about his companion
which attracted more attention.

"Let's quit a few minutes for a smoke," suggested Devine, dropping his
ax. "We've worked pretty hard since noon."

He sat down on a log and took out an old corncob pipe. When it was
filled and lighted he leaned back contentedly against a friendly stump.

Harding remained standing, his hand on the long ax-haft, his chin
slightly lifted, and his eyes fixed on the empty plain. Between him and
the horizon there was no sign of life except that a flock of migrating
birds were moving south across the sky in a drawn-out wedge. The wide
expanse formed part of what was then the territory of Assiniboia, and is
now the province of Saskatchewan. As far as one could see, the soil was
thin alluvial loam, interspersed with the stiff "gumbo" that grows the
finest wheat; but the plow had not yet broken its surface. Small towns
were springing up along the railroad track, but the great plain between
the Saskatchewan and the Assiniboine was, for the most part, still a
waste, waiting for the tide of population that had begun to flow.

Harding was a born pioneer, and his expression grew intent as he gazed
across the wilderness.

"What will this prairie be like, Fred, when those poplars are tall
enough to cut?" he said gravely, indicating some saplings beside him.
"There's going to be a big change here."

"That's true; and it's just what I'm counting on. That's what made me
leave old Dakota. I want to be in on the ground-floor!"

Harding knit his brows, and his face had a concentrated look. He was not
given to talking at large, but he had a gift of half-instinctive
prevision as well as practical, constructive ability, and just then he
felt strangely moved. It seemed to him that he heard in the distance the
march of a great army of new home-builders, moving forward slowly and
cautiously as yet. He was one of the advance skirmishers, though the
first scouts had already pushed on and vanished across the skyline into
the virgin West.

"Well," he said, "think what's happening! Ontario's settled and busy
with manufactures; Manitoba and the Dakotas, except for the sand-belts,
are filling up. The older States are crowded, and somebody owns all the
soil that's worth working in the Middle West. England and Germany are
overflowing, and we have roughly seven hundred miles of country here
that needs people. They must come. The pressure behind will force them."

"But think what that will mean to the price of wheat! It's bringing only
a dollar and a half now. We can't raise it at a dollar."

"It will break the careless," Harding said, "but dollar wheat will come.
The branch railroads will follow the homesteads; you'll see the
elevators dotting the prairie, and when we've opened up this great
tableland between the American border and the frozen line, the wheat
will pour into every settlement faster than the cars can haul it out.
Prices will fall until every slack farmer has mortgaged all he owns."

"Then what good will it do? If the result is to be only mortgages?"

"Oh, but I said every _slack_ farmer. It will clear out the incompetent,
improve our methods. The ox-team and the grass trail will have to go.
We'll have steam gang-plows and graded roads. We'll have better machines
all round."

"And afterward?"

Harding's eyes sparkled.

"Afterward? Then the men with brains and grit who have held on--the
fittest, who have survived--will come into such prosperity as few
farmers have ever had. America, with her population leaping up, will
have less and less wheat to ship; England will steadily call for more;
we'll have wheat at a price that will pay us well before we're through.
Then there'll be no more dug-outs and log-shacks, but fine brick
homesteads, with all the farms fenced and mechanical transport on the
roads. It's coming, Fred! Those who live through the struggle will
certainly see it."

Harding laughed and lifted his ax.

"But enough of that! If we're to get our homesteads up before the frost
comes, we'll have to hustle."

The big ax flashed in the sunshine and bit deep into a poplar trunk; but
when a few more logs had been laid beside the rest the men stopped
again, for they heard a beat of hoofs coming toward them across the
prairie. The trees cut off their view of the rider, but when he rounded
a corner of the bluff and pulled up his horse, they saw a young lad,
picturesquely dressed in a deerskin jacket of Indian make, decorated
with fringed hide and embroidery, cord riding-breeches, and polished
leggings. His slouch hat was pushed back on his head, showing a handsome
face that had in it a touch of imperiousness.

"Hello!" he said, with a look of somewhat indignant surprise. "What are
you fellows doing here?"

Harding felt amused at the tone of superiority in the youngster's voice;
yet he had a curious, half-conscious feeling that there was something he
recognized about the boy. It was not that he had met him before, but
that well-bred air and the clean English intonation were somehow
familiar.

"If you look around you," Harding smiled, "you might be able to guess
that we're cutting down trees."

The boy gave an imperious toss of his head.

"What I meant was that you have no right on this property."

"No?"

"It belongs to us. And logs large enough for building are scarce enough
already. As a matter of fact, we're not allowed to cut these ourselves
without the Colonel's permission."

"Haven't met him yet," said Devine dryly. "Who's he?"

"Colonel Mowbray, of Allenwood Grange."

"And who's Colonel Mowbray? And where's Allenwood Grange?"

The boy seemed nettled by the twinkle in Devine's eyes, but Harding
noticed that pride compelled him to hide his feelings.

"You can't cut this lumber without asking leave! Besides, you're
spoiling one of our best coyote covers."

"Kyotes!" exclaimed Devine. "What do you do with 'em?"

The youngster stared at him a moment in disdain.

"We have a pack of hounds at the Grange," he then condescended to
answer.

"Hunt them! Well, now, that's mighty strange. I'd have thought you'd
find arsenic cheaper. Then if you were to lie out round the
chicken-house with a gun----"

The boy cut him short.

"If you want these logs, you must ask for them. Shall I tell the Colonel
you are coming to do so?"

"Well, sonny," drawled Devine, "you just run along home and send
somebody grown-up. We might talk to him."

"As it happens," the boy said with great dignity, "Kenwyne is in the
bluff. I must warn you not to touch a tree until you see him."

Without another word he turned and rode off.

During the conversation Harding had been studying him closely. The
well-bred reserve in his manner, which, while peremptory, was somehow
free from arrogance, compelled the man's admiration.

"From the Old Country," he said with a laugh, "and a bit high-handed,
but there's sand in him. Do you know anything about Allenwood?"

"Not much, but I heard the boys talking about it at the railroad store.
It's a settlement of high-toned Britishers with more money than sense.
They play at farming and ride round the country on pedigree horses."

"The horse the boy rode was certainly a looker!" Harding commented,
swinging his ax once more.

As it sliced out a chip with a ringing thud, and another, and yet
another, the boy returned, accompanied by a well-mounted older man with
a sallow face and very dark eyes and a languidly graceful air. The man
was plainly dressed but he wore the stamp Harding had noticed on the
youngster; and again there flashed through Harding's mind the
half-indistinct thought that these people were familiar to him.

"I understand that you insist upon cutting this timber," Kenwyne began.

"Yes," Harding replied. "And I was surprised when your friend here said
it belonged to Colonel Mowbray."

"He went too far, but it does belong to him in a sense. The Colonel
founded the settlement when very few other people thought of leaving
Manitoba, and he had the usual option of cutting all the wood he wanted
on unoccupied land. We have always got it here, and as we have done all
the road-making and general improvements in the neighborhood, we have
come to look upon it as our own."

"Is that your bridge across the creek?"

"Yes; and it's not a bad job, I think. We had a good deal of trouble
digging out the grade in the ravine."

"Well, interfering with bridges is not a habit of mine; so we'll let
your trail stand. But I could make you divert it to the proper road
reserve."

"Ah!" exclaimed Kenwyne. "That sounds significant."

"Precisely. This bluff and the section it stands on belong to me; the
transfer was registered at the land office a week ago."

"Then I think there's nothing more to be said."

"Oh," Harding responded with a smile, "you might tell your Colonel that
when he wants any lumber he may cut it if he'll let me know!"

Kenwyne laughed.

"Thanks!" he said. "It's a generous offer, but I can't promise that
Colonel Mowbray will avail himself of your permission. I wish you good
afternoon."

He rode away with his companion, and an hour later Harding and Devine
threw their axes on their shoulders and struck out across the prairie.
The sun had dipped, the air was getting cool, and on the clean-cut
western horizon a soft red flush faded beneath a band of vivid green.

At the foot of a low rise the men stopped.

"I'll be around the first thing in the morning," Devine said.

"Then you're not coming to supper?"

"No," Devine answered reluctantly; "I guess not. I've been over twice
this week, and Hester has enough to do without extra cooking for me."

"As you wish," said Harding, and they separated in a friendly manner.

When he was alone Harding went on briskly, walking with an elastic step
and looking far ahead across the shadowy plain. It was a rich land that
stretched away before him, and a compact block of it belonged to him. It
was virgin soil, his to do with as he liked. He thought that he could
make good use of it; but he had no illusions; he knew all about prairie
farming, and was prepared for a hard struggle.

Crossing the rise, he headed for a glow of light that flickered in the
gloom of a small birch bluff, and presently stopped at a tent pitched
among the trees. Two big red oxen were grazing by the edge of the bluff,
a row of birch logs lay among the grass beside a pile of ship-lap
boards, and some more of the boards had been roughly built into a
pointed shack. In front of this a young girl bent over a fire that
burned between two logs. All round, except where the wood broke the
view, the wilderness rolled away, dim and silent.

Hester Harding looked up with a smile when her brother stopped. She
resembled him, for she had his direct, thoughtful glance and fine
proportions. Her face and hands were browned by sun and wind, but,
although she had worked hard from childhood, she wore no coarsening
stamp of toil. Her features were good, and the plain print dress she had
made in her scanty spare time became her.

"Tired, Craig?" she asked in a pleasant voice.

"Not quite as fresh as I was at sun-up," Harding smiled. "We got
through a good deal of work to-day and I'll soon be able to make a start
with the house. We'll have to rush the framing to get finished before
the frost."

While they ate their simple supper they talked about his building plans,
and he answered her questions carefully; for Hester had keen
intelligence, and had shared his work and ambitions for the past few
years. For the most part, their life had been hard and frugal. Until
Craig reached the age of eighteen, he had helped his father to cultivate
his patch of wheat-soil in an arid belt of North Dakota. Then the father
had died, leaving about a thousand dollars besides his land and teams,
and the lad had courageously taken up the task of supporting his mother
and sister. Two years afterward, Mrs. Harding died, and Craig, at the
age of twenty, set himself to consider the future.

During his management of the farm he had made more money than his father
had ever made, but the land was poor and incapable of much improvement.
On the other hand, Dakota was getting settled and homesteads were
becoming valuable, and Craig determined to sell out and invest the money
in a larger holding in a thinly populated part of Manitoba. Hester went
with him to Canada; and when the advancing tide of settlement reached
their new home, Craig sold out again, getting much more than he had paid
for his land, and moved west ahead of the army of prairie-breakers which
he knew would presently follow him. It was a simple plan, but it needed
courage and resourcefulness. He spoke of it to Hester when he lighted
his pipe after the meal.

"It was a notion of Father's that one should try to anticipate a big
general movement," he remarked. "'Keep a little in front; the pioneers
get the pickings,' he once told me. 'If you follow the main body, you'll
find the land swept bare.' He had a way of saying things like that; I
learned a good deal from him."

"He knew a good deal," said Hester thoughtfully. "He was more clever
than you are, Craig, but he hadn't your habit of putting his ideas into
practise. I've sometimes thought he must have lost heart after some big
trouble long ago, and only made an effort now and then for Mother's
sake. It's strange that we know nothing about him except that he came
from the Old Country."

Craig had often wondered about his father, for the man had been somewhat
of an enigma to him. Basil Harding had lived like his neighbors, who
were plain tillers of the soil, and he never spoke of his English
origin, but now and then he showed a breadth of thought and refinement
of manner that were not in keeping with his environment. Mrs. Harding
was the daughter of a Michigan farmer, a shrewd but gentle woman of
practical turn of mind.

"I wonder," Craig said, "how much Mother knew?"

"She must have known something. Once or twice, near the end, I think she
meant to tell us, for there was something troubling her, but the last
stroke came so suddenly, and she never spoke." Hester paused, as if lost
in painful memories, and then went on: "It was very strange about that
money you got."

Craig nodded. When he was twenty-one a Winnipeg lawyer had turned over
to him five thousand dollars on condition that he remain in Canada, and
make no attempt to communicate with his father's relatives.

"Yes," he said. "And something happened this afternoon that puzzled me."

He told Hester about his meeting with the men from Allenwood.

"The curious thing about it," he added, "is that as I watched the boy
sitting on his fine blooded horse and heard him speak, I felt as if I'd
once lived among high-toned English people and could somehow understand
what he was thinking. But of course I never had a horse like his, and we
were born in a rough shack on a poor Dakota farm. Can one inherit one's
ancestors' feelings and memories?"

"It's very strange," mused Hester.

Harding laughed.

"Well, anyway, I'm a farmer," he said. "I stand upon my own
feet--regardless of ancestors. What I am is what I make of myself!"

He moved off toward the tent.

"It's getting late," he called back to her.

But for a long time Hester sat beside the sinking fire. Her brother,
whom she loved and admired, differed slightly, but noticeably in one or
two respects, from any of the prairie farmers she had known. Though it
was hard to procure books, he had read widely and about other subjects
than agriculture. Odd tricks of thought and speech also suggested the
difference; but she knew that nobody else except her mother had noticed
it, for, to all intents, Craig was merely a shrewd, hard-working grower
of wheat.

Then the girl's face grew gentle as she thought of Fred Devine. He had
proved very constant and had several times made what was then a long and
adventurous journey to see her. Now, when his father had given him a
few hundred dollars, he had followed Craig, and she was ready to marry
him as soon as he could make a home for her. At present he was living in
a dug-out in a bank, and must harvest his first crop before he could
think about a house.

When the fire had died down to a few smoldering coals, Hester got up and
looked about her. The moon hung, large and red, above the prairie's rim;
the air was sharp and wonderfully exhilarating. Behind the tent the
birch leaves rustled softly in the bluff, and in the distance a coyote
howled. There was no other sound; it was all very still and strangely
lonely; but the girl felt no shrinking. On her mother's side she sprang
from a race of pioneers, and her true work was to help in the breaking
of the wilderness.




CHAPTER II

PORTENTS OF CHANGE


The moon was above the horizon when Kenwyne pulled up his horse to a
walk opposite Allenwood Grange. The view from this point always appealed
to the artist in Kenwyne. The level plain was broken here by steep,
sandy rises crowned with jack-pines and clumps of poplar, and a shallow
lake reached out into the open from their feet. A short distance back
from its shore, the Grange stood on a gentle <DW72>, with a grove of
birches that hid the stables and outbuildings straggling up the hill
behind.

As Kenwyne saw it in the moonlight across the glittering water, the
house was picturesque. In the center rose a square, unpretentious
building of notched logs; but from this ship-lap additions, showing
architectural taste, stretched out in many wings, so that, from a
distance, the homestead with its wooded back-ground had something of the
look of an old English manor house. It was this which made the colonists
of Allenwood regard it with affection. Now it was well lighted, and the
yellow glow from its windows shone cheerfully across the lake.

The foundations of the place had been laid in unsettled times, after the
Hudson Bay fur-traders had relinquished their control of the trackless
West, but before the Dominion Government had established its authority.
The farmers were then spreading cautiously across the Manitoban plain,
in some fear of the Metis half-breeds, and it was considered a bold
adventure when the builder of the Grange pushed far out into the
prairies of the Assiniboine. He had his troubles, but he made his
holding good, and sold it to Colonel Mowbray, who founded the Allenwood
settlement.

On the whole, the colony had succeeded, but Kenwyne saw that it might
become an anachronism in changing times. He had noted the advance of the
hard-bitten homesteaders who were settling wherever the soil was good,
and who were marked by sternly utilitarian methods and democratic ideas.
Before long Allenwood must cast off its aristocratic traditions and
compete with these newcomers; but Kenwyne feared that its founder was
not the man to change.

As he rode slowly past the lake, a man came toward him with a gun and a
brace of prairie-chickens.

"Hello, Ralph!" he said. "Have you forgotten that it's council night?"

"I'm not likely to forget after the rebuke I got for missing the last
meeting," Kenwyne replied. "Do you happen to know what kind of temper
the Colonel is in, Broadwood?"

"My opinion is that it might be better. Gerald Mowbray has turned up
again, and I've noticed that the old man is less serene than usual when
his son's about. In fact, as we have to bear the consequences, I wish
the fellow would stay away."

While Broadwood and Kenwyne were discussing him on the hillside, Colonel
Mowbray sat in his study at the Grange, talking to the elder of his two
sons. The room was small and plainly furnished, with a map of the
territory on the matchboarded wall, a plain table on which lay a few
bundles of neatly docketed papers, and a stove in one corner.
Account-books filled a shelf, and beneath there was a row of
pigeonholes. The room had an air of austere simplicity with which
Colonel Mowbray's appearance harmonized.

He was tall, but spare of flesh, with an erect carriage and an
autocratic expression. His hair was gray, his eyes were dark and keen,
and his mouth was unusually firm; but the hollowness of his face and the
lines on his forehead showed advancing age. He was a man of some
ability, with simple tastes, certain unchangeable convictions, and a
fiery temper. Leaving the army with a grievance which he never spoke
about, and being of too restless a character to stay at home, he had
founded Allenwood for the purpose of settling young Englishmen upon the
land. He demanded that they be well born, have means enough to make a
fair start, and that their character should bear strict investigation.
Though the two latter conditions were not invariably complied with, his
scheme had prospered. Mowbray was generous, and had taken the sons of
several old friends who did not possess the capital required; while the
discipline he enforced had curbed the wayward. For the most part, the
settlers regarded him with affection as well as respect; but he had
failed most signally with his own son, who now stood rather awkwardly
before him.

After serving for a year or two in India as an engineer lieutenant,
Gerald Mowbray met with an accident which forced him to leave the army.
He made an unsuccessful start on another career, and had of late been
engaged upon a Government survey of the rugged forest-belt which runs
west to the confines of the Manitoban plain. He was a handsome,
dark-complexioned man, but looked slacker and less capable than his
father.

"I think five hundred pounds would clear me," he said in an apologetic
tone. "If I could pay off these fellows, it would be a great relief, and
I'd faithfully promise to keep clear of debt in future."

"It seems to me I've heard something of the kind on previous occasions,"
Mowbray returned dryly. "There's a weak strain in you, Gerald, though I
don't know where you got it. I suppose a thousand pounds would be
better?"

Gerald's