Strong-Hand Saxon E-Book

T.C. Bridges

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The boy knew all too well that his father was fighting to preserve the farm. The land was poor and they had three bad seasons. Unable to even pay for the labor, the farmer Holt and his seventeen-year-old son did almost all the work themselves, and sometimes it was hard work. They would not have known their neighbors, but the beasts themselves in the stables and stables lived better than Holt and his son.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE MEN WITH THE TWANG

II. IN THE CELLAR

III. THE CHASE BEGINS

IV. TREACHERY

V. A LESSON IN WOODCRAFT

VI. SAXON'S STRATAGEM

VII. WHEN THE ICE WENT OUT

VIII. THE LONELY HUT

IX. HANDS UP!

X. PRISONERS OF THE N.W.M.P

XI. TREED BY A GRIZZLY

XII. HOT ON THE TRAIL

XIII. THE GREAT BOILING

XIV. SAXON'S SACRIFICE

XV. TWO TO ONE

XVI. ALONE WITH THE ENEMY

XVII. THE VALLEY OF ROCKS

XVIII. THE SIGNS BY THE BROOK

XIX. THE SECRET PASS

XX. AT THE LADDER-HEAD

XXI. BEARDING THE LION

XXII. TOM REFUSES TO SIGN

XXIII. IN THE PIT

XXIV. TOM IS OBSTINATE

XXV. THE BATTLE IN THE PASS

XXVI. SAXON AT BAY

XXVII. THE LAST OF STARK

I. THE MEN WITH THE TWANG

“BUCK up, Dandy,” said Tom Holt, smacking the old plough-horse on his quarter, “we’ve done a hard day’s work, but you’ll get the best dinner o’ the three. Sweet corn an’ good chaff for you, but nothin’ but potatoes and salt for me and dad.”

Tom broke into a cheery whistle as the farmstead was neared, and the plough-horse stepped out more briskly at the sight of his stable. The boy was sitting sideways on Dandy’s broad back, and the chain traces and roller-bar were trailing behind the horse.

“Taters and salt!” repeated Tom, with a chuckle. “I read somewhere in a newspaper that the British farmer lived on the fat of the land and did no more work than he could help. I wish the chap who wrote that’d take Berrymead Farm an’ try it.”

Tom whistled again. Things were never so black but that he could whistle, and they were often black enough at Berrymead, in all conscience.

The boy knew too well what a struggle it was for his father to keep the farm going. The land was poor, and they had had three bad seasons running. Unable even to pay for labour, Farmer Holt and his seventeen-year-old son did nearly all the work themselves, and bitter toil it was at times.

They would not have had their neighbours know it, but the very beasts in the byre and stables lived better than Holt and his son. Without good corn and fodder the horses could not work, but potatoes, home-made bread, and an occasional rabbit snared in the spinney were all the farmer could allow himself. And even rabbits were scarce at Berrymead.

As for ready money, Holt had had to thresh out new wheat and sell one of his carts to pay the last half-year’s rent, a month overdue. It was lucky for John Holt that he had a son whom no work could tire, and who kept up the strength and cheerfulness of a young Hercules, even on potatoes and salt.

“Hullo!” said Tom, as the ramshackle old farmhouse and cattle- yard were neared. “Strangers!”

A high dog-cart stood at the front gate, the horse unattended and hitched rather carelessly to the palings by the reins. Tom recognised the cart–it was one that a jobmaster in the nearest market town let out for hire. But few visitors ever came to Berrymead, and Tom wondered who they could be.

“Not bailiffs, I hope,” said the boy to himself. “Poor old dad, he’s got trouble enough without that!”

As Dandy’s hoofs crunched on the gravel, Farmer Holt himself appeared at the door of the house. He was a strongly built man of fifty, with a simple face, much lined with worry, and kindly grey eyes. He seemed strangely excited–a very rare thing with him.

“Hitch up the old hoss and come in quick, Tom,” he said. “I want you.”

John Holt dived into the house again, and Tom, wondering what was in the wind, stabled Dandy and went indoors.

In the little parlour stood his father, looking strangely bewildered, and two other men. It was to these that Tom directed his gaze.

One was a lean, sharp-faced man, neatly dressed, with long white hands and a professional look. He had a keen, penetrating glance.

The other man was rougher. He was six feet high, loosely built, and a long black coat hung on him awkwardly. His narrow face was disfigured by a scar reaching from the left eye to the corner of the mouth, which gave him a strangely sinister appearance.

Both men stared at Tom as he entered the room. To the boy it seemed that his appearance was a surprise to them. “This is my son Tom,” said John Holt. “Tom, this is Mr. Edward Fulton,” pointing to the lawyer-like man; “and he’s Mr. Lomax,” indicating the other. “They’ve come all the way from Ameriky to see me and tell me–”

Fulton broke in. His voice had a strong American twang. “Mr. Holt,” he said suavely, “this is a private matter of business between us and yourself. Do you think there is need to tell your son anything about it?”

There was a slight sneer in the man’s voice, which Tom instinctively resented. But his father replied at once. “I’ve no secrets from Tom. He looks like a boy, but he’s past seventeen, and my partner, as you may say.” Tom saw the strangers exchange glances, but his father went on: “Tom, poor Jim’s dead–my brother. You remember I told you he went to Canada nigh twenty years ago. It seems he had some land there, and he’s left me his heir. These gentlemen have come about it. They want to buy it.”

“How much land is there?” asked Tom.

“Something like thirty thousand acres. Seems a terrible lot, don’t it? Nigh three times as much as Squire Brand owns.”

“But you can’t compare it with English land,” broke in Fulton hastily. “It’s quite wild and undeveloped, and more than five hundred miles from the nearest railway. Anyone would give a thousand acres there for one in England.”

“What are they offering, dad?”

“Three hundred pounds.”

“I know it doesn’t seem much,” broke in Fulton; “but I think it’s all it’s worth. As I tell you, it’s beyond the edge of civilisation, a lonely spot, quite undeveloped, and no one could do anything with it without capital. There’s no house except a little log shanty, no cultivated ground, no tools or stock, no market near. The winter’s long and hard and the summer short and hot.”

“Then why do you want it?” inquired Tom bluntly, staring straight in the lawyer’s sharp face.

The man smiled. “I don’t. It’s a client of mine–Mr. Glynne, of Winnipeg, a rich man. There’s some timber on the place. That’s what he’s after; but it’ll be probably years before he touches it. It will take a lot of capital to do anything with it.”

“It don’t seem enough to me,” said Tom’s father.

“Nor to me, dad,” echoed the boy.

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “I’d be glad if you’d make up your mind. I may tell you one thing. The taxes are not paid, and in something like a month the place will revert to Government. Maybe it’s no business of mine to offer you advice, and it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other; but if I did make a suggestion I should urge your accepting Mr. Glynne’s offer. This place looks as if it wanted a little money spent on it.” His eyes dwelt on the threadbare carpet and shabby furniture. “You could do a deal here with three hundred.” He pulled a bundle of papers from his inner pocket, unfolded them, and began spreading them on the table.

Tom spoke up. “I wouldn’t take it, dad. What’s the good of our wasting money here on land that isn’t ours, and with a landlord that won’t even mend our roofs for us? I’m sick of this slaving. Let’s go to Canada and try our luck. The work can’t be harder, and we’ll be on our own land, and whatever improvements we make will be ours. Let’s try it.”

The old man stood by the fireplace, looking from one to another, plainly undecided. The scar-faced man sidled up to him and whispered in his ear: “Ask five hundred. I reckon he might run to that.”

The words had a totally different effect upon the farmer from what the other had evidently intended. “No,” he said, with sudden decision. “I agree with my boy here. Mr. Fulton, I won’t sell that land. I’ll go out and live on it.”

Again Tom noticed the two strangers exchange glances. “You mean that definitely, Mr. Holt?” said Fulton.

“I do. We’ll be in the workhouse if we stay here at Berrymead another year or two. I’m not too old to try my luck in a new country. We’ll sell up our sticks here and raise money enough for our passage, and go to this place my brother’s left me. Sunk River you called it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Sunk River. Very good, Mr. Holt. But your passage is my affair. Your brother left the whole matter in my hands.” He pulled out a pocket-book, selected a note from it, and handed it to the farmer, who took it wonderingly. “That’s for immediate expenses,” he said. “Our own passages are booked by the _Arabia_, which sails from Liverpool to-morrow morning. You’ll come with us, for as it is it will be hard travelling to get to Sunk River in time to settle those taxes.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve just an hour to catch the train at Granton. Put what you want for the journey in a bag, Mr. Holt, and we’ll start at once.”

“What about Tom?” inquired his father.

“You’d better leave your son here to look after the farm, and if necessary hold the sale. He can follow you as soon as you are settled.”

The man’s brisk manner had its effect. John Holt turned and left the room. Tom hesitated a moment, then followed. He found his father in his room hurriedly changing into his well-worn Sunday suit.

“Put them shirts in my bag, Tom,” said his father, “We’ll have to hurry to catch that train.”

“Dad, I wouldn’t go alone with those fellows if I were you. You don’t know anything about them, and I tell you straight I don’t like their looks.”

“What–not go, and lose all that land!”

“How do you know what they say is true?”

“Mr. Fulton showed me Jim’s will.”

“A forgery for all you know, and, if not, why was he so precious anxious to buy the land?”

“But he gave me this money–ten pounds it is. He wouldn’t do that if he meant anything wrong. You’ve got a maggot in your head, Tom. Don’t waste time, lad; put them things in. We haven’t too much time to get that train.”

The old man’s jaw was set in the stubborn fashion which Tom knew well. The boy said no more, but all the time that he was rapidly packing the bag he was thinking hard. By the time it was done he had a plan formed in his head, and, lifting the bag, he carried it downstairs and out to the trap, and then, making a round of the house, came in by the back door.

Tom Holt was no fool. He was much older than most youngsters of his years. His mother had died when he was only thirteen, and since then he had sturdily helped his father in every detail of the work and management of the farm. For some time past he had seen quite clearly that Berrymead Farm could not be made to pay. He had told his father so, but the old man, who had spent all his life on the place, had never taken the same view. He had always gone on hoping for better times. So Tom, well aware that the smash must come, had been making his own preparations, and for nearly three years had been hoarding every penny he could lay hands on. He sold rabbit-skins, he spent an odd day mole-catching or loading for shooting parties in Squire Brand’s coverts. He denied himself everything. The consequence was that down in the old cider cellar, hidden behind a loose brick in the far wall, was a wash-leather bag holding nearly nine pounds.

“Not much,” said Tom to himself as he stole cautiously through the kitchen to the door at the top of the cellar steps, “but enough to pay my passage, I reckon. Dad’ll be awful cross when he finds out, but I’m shot if I let him go alone with that pair of beauties. I don’t know what they’re up to, but there’s something fishy about it, I’ll swear. It won’t take me more than fifteen minutes to run over to Honeywood across the fields. Dick Grainger will lend me his bike, and, as it’s all downhill, I ought to manage to catch that train.”

He reached the cellar door, which opened out of one end of the kitchen. It creaked a little, but he slipped through, closed it behind him, and made his way cautiously down the worn steps. There was another door at the bottom, and when he opened this he found himself in an underground place floored with clay–damp, dim, and chilly. There was nothing in it but a few mouldy rotten hogsheads. No cider had been made at Berrymead for many years.

As Tom closed the upper cellar door behind him, the door of the parlour, which also led into the kitchen, was pushed gently open, and Fulton came out on tiptoe. “What’s he after?” he whispered to Lomax, whose tall figure towered behind him.

“Gone to get a drink, I reckon,” answered Lomax. “I wish I had a drop of rye.”

“Drink, not likely! Ben, I don’t trust that youngster. He smells a rat.”

“What kin he do–a kid like that?” demanded Lomax.

“Trip us up if we’re not mighty careful. I’m going to see what he’s up to. Follow me. Quick, before the old man comes down.”

The only light in the cellar leaked through the rusty bars of a heavy iron grating. Tom had to strike a match to find his hoard. The small flame showed him plainly to the two men who had followed down the steps–showed, too, the hole in the wall and the bag of coin which he took from it.

“Young fox!” hissed Fulton. “So that’s his little game. He means to follow us. Ben, you’ve got to stop him. I must hurry back. I hear the old man coming down–”

Tom, on his knees beside the wall, was holding his precious hoard, when a shadow stooped over him. Before he could turn or cry something heavy and hard thudded on his head, and with one sob he fell forward and lay quiet.

Lomax waited one moment, listening intently; then, unscrewing the stick with which he had struck down the boy, he slipped the two sections into a pocket and tiptoed quietly away across the damp clay floor.

II. IN THE CELLAR

IT was about four in the afternoon when Tom had gone to the cellar. The light which leaked through the grating was dim when he struggled slowly back to consciousness. His head felt like lead. He put his hand up, and found his hair was clotted with dried blood.

“What’s happened?” muttered the boy, sitting up dazedly. At first he could not remember anything. Then suddenly recollection flashed back, and he sprang up, only to topple over again dizzily. But he was dead game, was Tom. In another minute he was up again and staggering towards the door.

It was locked from the other side.

“The blackguards! They did it. And they’ve carried off dad.” Utterly overcome, Tom sank down on an old cask. He was half mad with rage and grief. Here he was, trapped and helpless, while the scoundrels were carrying off his father, Heaven knew where. In the agony of the thought his own plight was forgotten.

But slowly it grew on him. He was in considerable danger of his life. The cellar was below ground. There was no other way out but the door or the grating, and the door was locked, while the grating, also heavily padlocked and rusted into its stone sockets, was out of reach. Knowing every inch of the place from babyhood, Tom was certain there was no escape. It might be days–even weeks–before anyone came to the house. Even if anyone did come, it was a hundred to one they would not hear him. The disused grating was at the east end of the house, opening into a grass-grown yard. It was extremely unlikely that any casual visitor would go round that way.

“Plenty of time for me to starve,” muttered Tom bitterly. “Poor old dad! Think of his being in the hands of brutes who could do a thing like that!”

Tom was not the sort to sit still, and as soon as his head stopped buzzing a little he got out his matchbox, and, cutting some splinters off one of the broken barrels, made a tiny fire, and by its light set to work to try to get out. The door, he knew, was hopeless–an old-fashioned affair of heavy oak, which nothing short of an axe would batter down. He made a pile of the least rotten of the old barrels and painfully climbed up to the grating. It was very nearly dark outside. The tiny patch of visible sky was already set with frosty stars.

Twice the barrels broke down; the third time Tom succeeded in reaching the grating. He shook it, but could not stir it. He forced his hand through and tried the padlock. Rust-coated as it was, the thick metal was still sound.

“I’ll put a signal up, anyhow,” said Tom, and, pulling off his necktie, he tied it to a barrel-stave and thrust it through the bars.

There was nothing more to be done. He dropped back, and, crouching beside his little fire, set himself to wait for daylight. It grew very cold. It was only March, and the night outside was frosty. Tom dared not use much of his wood, and his teeth chattered; also his head ached abominably. But he hardly thought of these things. It was the idea of his father in the hands of these unscrupulous blackguards that nearly drove him mad.

He dimly heard the old grandfather clock in the kitchen striking seven, and the familiar sound somehow gave him a little comfort. Next minute he started sharply, then sprang up, listening intently. A dim rap-rapping came to his ears. It was someone at the back door. He shouted with all his might.

A pause. Again the tapping.

“They haven’t heard!” groaned Tom in despair. Once more he shouted furiously, but he felt it was no use. The enormously thick walls smothered his voice and made him certain that he could not be heard. He seized a barrel-stave and pounded on the door.

The knocking came a third time, then stopped. Tom shouted till his voice failed him, then waited in agonising suspense. All was silent. In the frosty air outside the grating not so much as a leaf stirred. He pressed his ear against the wall, but could hear nothing. Flinging himself down on his face on the floor, for the first time he gave way to utter despair.

“Hulloa! Hulloa! Anyone there?” The voice came down through the grating. Almost believing that he was dreaming, Tom sprang up once more and gave a piercing yell.

“All right, partner. Don’t you worry. How in thunder do ye get into this shebang?”

Bewildered and hardly understanding, Tom said: “What?”

“Where’s the way in? If you’re any thicker than this stick of mine you didn’t get down this way. Which is the other way?”

Tom had his wits about him again. “If the back door’s locked, break the window next on the left. That lets you into the sitting-room. Through that, and you’re in the kitchen. The door opposite leads to the cellar, where I am.”

“Right oh! Sit tight. I’ll be along in a brace of shakes.”

Tom couldn’t sit. He stood by the door, positively shivering with excitement. The last three hours had played the mischief with his nerves.

But his new friend did not fail him. Tom faintly heard a tinkle of glass, then a firm step in the kitchen above, and the upper door of the cellar was tried.

“The key’s gone, partner. Wait a jiffy. I’ll bust it.” Another pause, then a crashing blow–another and another. “That chap’s got arms,” muttered Tom. A panel splintered, and the pieces came rattling down the steps. “That’s one done,” came the cheery voice again. “Oh, so they’ve left the key in this one!”

The key turned in the lock, the door swung open, and a man with a candle in his hand stepped down into the cellar–a square-shouldered man of middle height, about thirty, with a clean-shaven, capable face. “Hulloa, partner! Is this where you usually spend your evenings?” he said in a gently bantering tone.

Tom began to explain, but, what between worry and exhaustion and the ugly blow on his head, he became quite unintelligible. The other cut him short. “Come up out of this, boy,” he said. “Someone’s been using you pretty bad. What you need is a glass of something hot inside and a little cold water out. Then you’ll feel heaps better.”

Now that the suspense was over Tom felt as weak as a rag. He reeled and almost fell. The other put an arm round him and half led, half carried him up the stairs and put him in the big red- cushioned arm-chair by the kitchen fire. “Now just you sit there and wait till I tell you to move,” commanded the new-comer.

“But I can’t. I’ve got to find my dad. They’ve taken him,” protested Tom.

“I reckoned as much,” quietly replied this amazing man. “But it ain’t going to help him or you either, sonny, to go charging after him this hour of the night. You do as I say, and it’ll be all right.”

The man had a wonderful way with him. Tom sank back, and leaned his aching head against the cushions. He felt almost content. Quietly, and yet as quickly and deftly as if he had done nothing else all his life, the stranger coaxed the fire into life again, put a kettle on to boil, and while the water was getting hot set the table. He seemed to know by instinct just where everything was to be found. As soon as the kettle began to sing he took out a flask, poured some of its contents into a tumbler, filled it up with water, and gave it to Tom. “Drink that,” he said. “It’s old Bourbon, none of your ‘tangle-foot.’” Tom obeyed, and a grateful warmth ran through his veins.

“Now for that head of yours.” He got a bit of sponge and some rag, and with fingers gentle as those of a woman washed and bound up the cut on Tom’s head. “Nothing serious,” he said consolingly. “You’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

Next minute he was frying bacon from a cherished flitch which hung on the rack, and which Tom and his father only cut from on Sundays. The savoury smell made Tom realise that he was fearfully hungry. The other made tea in the old brown pot, and toasted bread. “Pull up, boy,” he said, “and eat hearty. You need it.”

Although Tom felt as if it was wrong for him to be feasting while his father was in the hands of Fulton and Co., yet he made an excellent meal. When it was over the other filled and lit a corn-cob pipe and pushed back his chair. “My name’s Saxon,” he said, “Walter Saxon, if you want it all. Yours, I reckon, is Holt, though I don’t know your front one.”

“Tom,” said the boy.

“Son to John Holt?”

“Yes–only son.”

“So those hoodlums bounced your father and corralled you in the cellar. Ben Lomax was one, I reckon. Who was the other?”

Tom stared. Who was this man who knew so much? “Fulton he called himself.”

“Let’s hear all about it,” said Saxon. He saw the doubtful look on Tom’s face, and laughed. “Oh, I ain’t one of the gang, though I don’t wonder you’re suspicious after what they’ve done to you.”

“I’m jolly sure you’re not one of them,” exclaimed Tom hotly. He had known this man less than an hour, yet felt he would trust him with his life.

“As long as you feel that way, it’s all right, sonny; now go ahead and tell me about it.”

Tom gave a brief sketch of the events of the afternoon. Saxon listened attentively. “So they took your dad away, and left you in the cellar.”

“He didn’t even say good-bye,” said Tom.

“That wasn’t his fault, Tom. I’ll lay they filled him up with some yarn about your meeting him at the station. And when they got there they said you’d been delayed, and that he’d miss the boat if he didn’t jump in quick.”

“So they did take him to Liverpool?”

“I reckon so. It’s true enough the _Arabia_ sails early tide to-morrow. We can’t catch her, or I’d have had you on the way by now.”

Tom stared.

“You want to know where I come in? Here’s the facts. Your uncle Jim was my greatest pal. When he died he got me to promise I’d go right away to the Old Country and find his brother John and tell him he was to have Sunk River.”

“Then it’s true?” gasped Tom. He had quite made up his mind that Fulton’s whole story was an elaborate lie.

“About Sunk River? Yes, that’s right enough. He left the whole outfit to your father. Didn’t speak of you. Didn’t ever hear of you, I reckon. You were born since he and your dad quarrelled and Jim left for Canada.”

“What do they want with father, then?”

“To get the place out of him, sure.”

“Why?”

“Now you’ve got me, Tom. I can’t say. All I know is that Stark’s always coveted the place. Of course, it’s mighty pretty grazing. The most sheltered ranche in all that country. Beautiful grass, good water, and cliffs all round.”

“Who’s Stark?”

“The boss of the whole outfit. The biggest, ugliest blackguard in all the North-West. A man that couldn’t run straight to save his life, and yet so infernally clever that he’s dodged the law for twenty years past.”

“Then Fulton and Lomax were sent by him?”

“Aye, and he employs scores more like them. Cattle thieves, moonshiners, fur stealers, shady lawyers–they’re all in his net.”

“And they’re taking dad out to him!” cried Tom.

“Taking him–yes,” said Saxon. “But he ain’t there yet by a long chalk. We’ll be on their trail to-morrow.”

“But the _Arabia_ will have sailed.”

“The German boat leaves Plymouth to-morrow night. She’s a twenty-three knotter. With luck she’ll reach New York the same day as the _Arabia_–may even beat her.”

“Then we may catch them in New York?”

“That’s what I’m hoping to do, sonny.”

“You don’t think they’ll do anything to dad first?”

“Not they. If your father’s anything like his brother he’ll stick to his word, and I reckon they know it.”

“They’ll never get him to sell,” said Tom proudly. “Dad doesn’t change his mind.”

Saxon nodded approvingly.

Tom went on: “Supposing we don’t catch them at New York, Mr. Saxon?”

“Don’t you dare ‘mister’ me! Call me just Saxon. I’m proud of my name. Reckon it’s good enough for everything–Christian name and all. If we should happen to miss them at New York, we’ll just have to follow them for all we’re worth.”

“Where to?”

“West, by Chicago, Winnipeg, and Regina.”

“And after that?”

“If we’re so blamed unlucky as not to catch them before that, I reckon we’ll have to interview friend Stark.”

“You mean they’ll take dad to him?”

“Bound to.”

“And where does Stark hang out?”

Saxon shook his head. “That’s one thing I don’t know, sonny. But if need be we’ll find out. Don’t you worry. We’ll come out top dogs. Now I reckon it’s time to turn in. I’ve fed the stock. The old horse was whinnying as I came by. I suppose you can get someone to look after things while you’re away?”

“The Graingers will do that for me,” said Tom, getting up. In another half-hour he was in bed. But it was a long time before he got to sleep, and when he did he had ghastly nightmares of his father tied to a stake, while grim, copper-faced Indians sat round in a ring and sharpened gruesome instruments of torture.

III. THE CHASE BEGINS

NEW YORK Harbour flashed in brilliant sunshine as the huge liner came gliding through the Narrows and headed for her slip in the East River. Tom Holt, leaning over the rail near the bow, stared across the twinkling water at the great statue of Liberty which towered blackly against the pale spring sky.

Saxon followed his glance and smiled grimly. “Rum lot, these Americans, Tom. Sticking that thing up at the gate of the New World. After all, I suppose they’re right, for there’s liberty to do any blamed thing you please, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter, with one only condition.”

“What’s that?” inquired Tom.

“That you can pay, my lad,” replied Saxon rather grimly. “‘Money talks’ is their pet proverb over here, and you’ll find it’s true before you’ve been here a great while.”

Tom was silent a minute, thinking hard. Then he looked up. “That’s put an idea into my head, Saxon,” he said slowly.

“Out with it,” smiled Saxon.

“I’ve been wondering all the time why Stark is so keen about getting hold of Sunk River. I’ve read that there’s lots of gold up in the North-West. Could there be any at Sunk River?”

Saxon shook his head. “Never heard of gold within hundreds of miles of the place. No: I think you’ll have to guess again, Tom.”

There was silence a minute. Then Tom said irritably: “I wish to goodness they’d hurry up. The _Arabia_ must be berthed by now.”

“I expect she is,” answered Saxon philosophically. “But you needn’t worry, Tom. The Chicago Limited don’t leave till 11:50, and Fulton won’t go on before that.”

“They may go some other way.”

“I don’t think they will. Fulton’s not the fellow to waste time, and it’s much the quickest way. They can’t go up the lakes from Buffalo by steamer, for the ice is not out yet.”

“You think we’re likely to catch them at the railway station?”

“I do. But don’t call it a station, sonny. It’s a depot in this country.”

The liner slackened speed still further as she passed through the tangle of traffic at the mouth of the East River. Huge ferries shot at twenty knots across her bows, tugs shrieked and snorted, strings of heavy mud scows blocked the way. Tom was almost dancing with impatience by the time the tug got hold of the ship to swing her into her berth.

The boy’s patience had been pretty severely tried. Heavy head winds had cut their speed all the way across, and they had learned from the pilot that the _Arabia_ had beaten them by nearly three hours.

The Customs came as a finishing touch. Indeed, the delay in the draughty shed was so long, that even Saxon began to look serious, and glanced at his watch more than once. Though neither had more than hand-baggage, they had to wait their turn, the names being taken alphabetically. Half-past ten sounded before they were free, and, grabbing Tom tight by the arm, Saxon steered him across the crowded muddy cobbles outside and into a waiting tram-car.

The pace at which that car whizzed through the roaring streets startled Tom. But even so, it was a long way to the Union Depot, and when they reached the entrance to the enormous station, it was barely thirty seconds to train time.

“She starts right on the minute,” shouted Saxon, and was off at a tremendous pace. Tom had to run to keep up.

The rush of passengers, the clanging of huge engine-bells, the whizzing of steam nearly deafened Tom. But all the same he kept his eyes open. Next moment he found himself alongside an enormous train, composed entirely of long, heavy corridor cars. “Stay here and keep a sharp look out,” Saxon bade him, and darting away down the train, was lost in the crowd.

Tom stared about. No one in the least resembling his father or Stark’s two accomplices came in sight.

“Take your seats,” came a shout. The train was actually moving when Saxon came rushing back. “In you get,” he cried; “they must be aboard.” Before Tom quite knew what was happening he was in the train which was gliding rapidly out of the station.

“We’ve got no tickets,” he gasped.

“Get ’em on the train,” replied Saxon. “Come along. We’ve got to go through every car.” Tom followed his friend through the whole length of the train, from the first Pullman sleeper to the last baggage car. Their search was unsuccessful. Of all the two hundred or more passengers not one was the least like those they were looking for.

When they had passed through the last car, Tom turned to Saxon in alarm. “We must go back,” he exclaimed.

Saxon shook his head. “She don’t stop till she gets to Buffalo. No, Tom, I think we’d best go through to Regina. We’re dead sure to catch them there, for that’s where they’ll leave the train, whichever way they’ve come.”

“But why aren’t they in this train?” asked Tom miserably. He was horribly disappointed.

“I can’t tell for certain,” said Saxon. “Fulton may have had business to keep him in New York, or–and I’m beginning to fear it’s likely–he had a wire from one of Stark’s spies to say I’d gone to England. In that case he naturally suspected that I was hot on his heels and stayed behind on purpose to dodge me.”

“I felt so sure we should find dad in New York,” said Tom.

“I know. But we’ll find him all right, lad; be sure of that.” And Tom, glancing at the strong, resolute face of his friend, took comfort.

Presently Saxon got up to speak to the conductor. A bald- headed, thick-set man, with a beaky nose and heavy black eyebrows and moustache, came down the car. Tom noticed he limped a little. He sat down opposite Tom and in regular American fashion began at once to ask questions.

“You’re English, I guess,” he said.

“I am,” said Tom.

“What do you think of this country?”

“I’ve only been in it about an hour, so I haven’t had much time to think about it,” answered Tom, amused in spite of himself.

“Gosh, that’s pretty slick work! You came by the _Arabia_, I guess. Fine boat, ain’t she?”

“No; by the _Fürst Bismarck_. She got in after the _Arabia_.”

“Sakes! I wonder you caught the train. You must have been in an almighty hurry.”

“I was,” said Tom shortly. But the other was not discouraged.

“Going West?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“California, maybe?”

“No; to Canada.”

The other laughed. “You want to stay British,” he said. “Wal, every man to his taste. The States is good enough for me. Hev a cigar?” and he pulled out a case of big black weeds.

Tom assured him he did not smoke, and just then Saxon came back. The American offered him his case, but Saxon refused. The man asked more questions, but he got so little out of Saxon that he grew discouraged, and at last got up and went off to the dining-car.

“You didn’t tell that man anything?” asked Saxon. Tom thought he spoke rather anxiously.

“Not much,” answered Tom, in surprise. “Only that we came by the _Fürst Bismarck_, and that we were going to Canada. Was that wrong?”

“The less you say to anyone the better,” said Saxon emphatically. “But never mind. There’s no harm done. Come and have some lunch.”

All day the train roared westwards across the great State of New York. When night came they were skirting Lake Ontario, and Tom had glimpses of a vast expanse of hummocky ice and desolate snow-lined shores shining coldly under an Arctic moon. He was surprised at such cold so late in the year. “It’s a sight harder than I ever saw it at Berrymead,” he told Saxon.

“You’ll see it harder yet, my boy. It’s black winter still in the North-West. The ice won’t go out for a couple of weeks yet.”

It was all very new and wonderful to the boy, and, in spite of his worries, he took keen interest in everything, and asked no end of questions. Saxon was glad to see it, and encouraged him. He was getting fond of this lad. “There’s real good stuff in him,” he said to himself. “He’s developing every day.”

Tom met a number of new dishes at dinner. Clam broth, quails on toast, pumpkin pie, and salted almonds. He made a capital meal. At ten o’clock the negro car porters came along and set to work letting down the bunks. Tom and Saxon had a “section” between them. Tom took the upper berth and Saxon the lower. Tom found it so awkward to undress in the cramped space behind the leather curtain that he gave it up as a bad job and merely took off his coat, waistcoat, collar, and boots.