XVII HANK FOYLE, UNEXPECTED GUEST

Three weeks later Edward Pullar was sitting up for the first time since his unfortunate visit to Pellawa. The scars of his terrible exposure were losing their virulence and strength was creeping back into the emaciated limbs.

No conversation touching the lamentable adventure had taken place. Once only had the father referred to it in broken and pathetic apology that was instantly hushed by the son. With the gentle assiduity of a mother Ned had nursed his patient and nobody in the settlement was aware of the disgrace of Edward Pullar, or of his narrow escape from the White Death of the northern trails.

For Ned, the lapse was after all only one in many. It was the latest, only a little more disappointing, more unfortunate and with the addition of tragedy barely avoided. To the father it was all this and more, infinitely more. There was a fear at his heart. He was penitent as usual, with an almost childish contrition. The debauch was mysteriously clouded. All he could remember was the fact of draining Nick's flask. This was clear. After that he had faint intimations of a hellish thirst—some effort to satisfy it. Through all his secret musings there ran a fear, a vague foreboding, but he could not define it. Memory would not work. He dwelt in a state of suspense, the victim of an intangible but real Nemesis. He expected something inimical to strike. Ned could see that something unusual was preying upon his father's mind and it troubled him deeply.

One thing that surprised Ned was the fact that his father had never referred to The Red Knight. He seemed to have utterly forgotten this darling of his life. Another week passed and the old man was about. Though correspondence was pouring in relative to the planting and culture of the new wheat, Edward Pullar evinced no interest in the matter. The heavy task of writing fell upon Ned. All efforts to rouse his father failed. He seemed unaware of the existence of the thing that had so lately made life new for him. At times an unspeakable fear swept over him as he realized how hopeless was this condition of disinterest.

Late one afternoon Ned was busy at his desk in diligent effort to reduce the piles of unanswered letters when a knock sounded upon the door. On opening, a strange face presented itself.

"Come in!" said Ned courteously.

"Is this Edward Pullar's ranch?" queried the man as he stepped in.

"It is," said Ned. "Have a chair."

The stranger seated himself and glanced about inquisitively.

"My name is Hank Foyle," said he. "I live up to Athabasca Landing. I was out on a hike in the timber limits when the letter got to me telling me about the deal. That is why I am a month late. I toted along last night and wrote my name into the papers this morning. Thought I'd take a squint at the farm and buildings before moseying back to the Landing. You've shore got a comfy joint here. Buildings first-rate."

Ned looked at his visitor with a puzzled face. Into the old man's eyes leaped a fear, vacillating and furtive, but real.

"I hardly understand," said Ned with an apologetic smile.

The other grinned.

"Naturally you don't know me," said the man, with a series of nods. "I am the guy that made the swap with you. Hank Foyle's my name—Foyle of Athabasca Landing."

The stranger paused, confident that the reiteration of his name would clear up matters. But Ned still looked at him with a nonplussed expression. His father's face had grown white while the nails of the old man's clenched hands dug into the flesh.

"Sorry I'm so dense," said Ned, with a good-natured laugh. "Would you mind going into detail a little?"

Foyle looked at him keenly, studying the firm mouth and chin and the direct eyes. There was something fearless in that face that hinted the possibility of a serious hitch.

"You ain't changed your mind?" said Foyle, with a narrowing of his eyelids. "You're a month late, farmer. The deal's salted away long ago, all regular signed and witnessed. You are no soft come-back, are you?"

Ned still smiled his perplexed smile.

"Very well!" said he affably. "What is the deal to which you refer? I'm open to rather detailed explanation, for I have heard of no such project."

The man rose and stepped up to Ned, looking curiously into his face.

"Say, Pard," said he quizzically, "are you Edward Pullar or just plain hired man?"

"There is Edward Pullar," said Ned, pointing to his father. "He is owner of this farm."

"You mean the man as was owner," corrected Foyle. "This half section belongs to me now."

As he spoke he looked at the old man.

"You're the Edward Pullar person what's scratched his name on them agreements?" was his observation as he studied the other contemplatively. "What's eating you now?"

Ned was surprised to see a look of terror dart from his father's eyes. There was a confusion about the manner of the old man that caused a little alarm in Ned himself.

"I—I don't understand," said Edward Pullar helplessly.

At his words an angry flush darkened Foyle's face.

"Like the hired man, here, you ain't wise to the deal, eh?" There was a note of derision in his voice. "Better put it straight," said he, with a shutting of his jaws. "You mean you don't want to understand. Getting foxy, old boy? It won't do, farmer. You can't string Hank Foyle. You'll have to tumble to facts. Hank Foyle shuts up like a clam; sticks like a leech. Noted for it. Your farm's mine and mine's yours, and you are due in Athabasca Landing agin the crops are in. That's what the paper says. You plant the crop here. I plant it at the Landing. Then we swaps farms and hikes for home. You'll have a whole section a scrub to wander through a-lookin' fur the cows."

"You are on the wrong farm," said the old man weakly. "We have not entered any such deal."

"You're Edward Pullar, what owned this place?" quizzed Foyle, with an impudent grin. "You haven't said so yet."

"I am Edward Pullar," was the acknowledgment.

"I reckon there ain't two Edward Pullars. Therefore I conclude there ain't any mistake either."

Deliberately Foyle drew a package from his pocket. Drawing out two papers he opened them carefully and, stooping, held them before the old man.

"Them's the real thing," said Foyle casually. "Take a good, long squint. You'll find everything proper."

Edward Pullar examined the documents. They were, indeed, agreements of surrender and exchange signed by Foyle and a signature that was undoubtedly his own. The transaction was duly witnessed by Silas Marshall, magistrate. The old man stared at the papers, striving to catch the flying tags of mystery. Things seemed to clear a little, resulting, however, in deeper depression.

"I did not sign it," said he dazedly.

"Here, hired man," said Foyle, handing the papers to Ned. "Go right through 'em. You'll find them agreements square as an eight-inch bent."

Ned looked. A close study of the documents astonished him. The signature ascribed to his father was clearly his. As to Silas Marshall's there could be no mistake. He had seen it many a time. A seriousness spread over his face, mingling slowly with the amazement in it.

"This seems all right," said he, slowly perusing the papers. "But—but, of course, these papers are simply evidences of some fraud."

The date caught his eye. In a lightning play of thought he associated the mystery with the tragic trip to Pellawa. He straightened up and his chin rounded in a decisive firmness.

"Do you remember having anything to do with Cy Marshall, Dad?" was his quiet question.

"I do not," was the unhesitating reply. "And yet there is something familiar about it all, even those papers. I feel positive I have seen them before."

"Just possible!" commented Foyle insolently. "Probably caught a peep of 'em about the time you scrawled yer name."

"What agent put this through?" demanded Ned of Foyle.

"No kidding," was the fierce response. "You know all right. Sykes is the gent—Chesley Sykes—and a hum-dinger of an agent he is!"

Ned's eyes flamed upon the man.

"It is what I feared," said he, smiling the smile with which he faced McClure and his men in Sparrow's pool-room. "Here, take this rubbish, Mr. Foyle. You are either a crook or a dupe. Reddy Sykes has put through a real Sykes' deal. I want to warn you that it is the fraudulent plot of a clever swindler. This farm is my father's. I am Edward Pullar. There are two of us, and we are going to fight you. My father never signed away his homestead voluntarily. You can gain nothing by pressing the matter. For a stranger, you have been grossly insulting. Take my advice, tear up those papers and hit the trail for Athabasca Landing. You have about two minutes to pack up."

With a savage laugh Foyle folded the papers and deposited them carefully in his pocket.

"Pullar and Son," said he pugnaciously, "you're a pair of dang poor bluffers. But I'll call you. There ain't a flaw in the deal. This farm's mine. Come the time the grain's in you'll find Hank Foyle camping——"

He did not finish, for there was a swift motion on the part of Ned.

"Sorry, Hank!" said he with a grin. "But time's precious. Open the door, Dad."

With a wild laugh Foyle swung for the smiling face. Ned ducked and Foyle missed and continued the swing, the force of his empty blow spinning him around. When he had half completed the circle he felt himself seized by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his trousers and lifted high by the powerful derricks of Ned's arms. Through the door he was carried with arms windmilling and legs kicking, and dropped ignominiously into the cold receptacle of a melting drift. As he scrambled to his feet he heard the door shut. For a moment he hesitated, savaged with rage. But the memory of those steel arms was salutary, and he turned about and walked down the lane. For a mile or more there were mutterings filling the air about him such as would come fittingly from an Athabasca Lander on landing unexpectedly.

For a long time after Foyle's exit there was silence in the room. The two men were thinking hard. The last hour had been one of revelation to them both. Ned looked up about to speak, but desisted, hushed by the sight that met his eyes. His father sat huddled in a rocking-chair, his face buried in his hands. A pang pierced Ned as he realized the pitiable state of his father's mind.

Walking over, he laid his hand gently on the bowed head.

"Never mind, Dad," said he cheerily. "Reddy Sykes is not going to steal the homestead so easily. Of the foul work we are positive. We have only to track it down. We have until June to ferret out the rogues. You made a good fight, Dad. You were drugged. I have known that ever since I found you on the hill."

Raising his head he looked at Ned. Through the misery of grief there was a pathetic eagerness.

"Do—do you believe—I put up a fight, laddie?" was the trembling plea.

"I do, Dad," was the swift response. More Ned could not say, but he enveloped his father in a strong, steady embrace, tenderly holding the gray head that sobbed upon his breast. His eyes were wet. What they wanted just then was Kitty Belaire.