The days were getting noticeably shorter, and the advance breath of the long, tight winter was beginning to add a new snap to the air. The noises of the camp drifted up over the grade fitfully, dreamily; some new hunger that might have been called homesickness was urging a new tone into the evening sounds.

 

Torrance, the stability of his work assured, imagined that he was supremely happy. But life had lost a fraction of its zip, though he refused to acknowledge it.

 

But Tressa knew it. Idleness was worse than medicine to her father, and for days he had been fuming with impatience for the opening of the last operation, more than a little irritable. She knew it as she watched the smoke breathe more slowly from his lips and the pipe grow cold. Presently, without opening his eyes, he dropped the pipe on the table and nestled his head against the cushion. Tressa smiled, for she was happier than her father--and Adrian would be up shortly.

 

She heard the familiar whistle break out far down the sloping path beyond the grade. Higher and higher it mounted, and with hand held she listened with smiling eyes. She would keep on with her mending as if she had not heard; and the whistle would grow more impatient as it approached, calling her to reply.

 

Now he was half way up the slope--now only a few yards beyond the grade. She grabbed her mending and began to work industriously. Now he was on the grade--he would see her sitting there working as if she had forgotten there was an Adrian Conrad.

 

But just then the whistle ceased abruptly. That was not part of the formula, but she would not raise her eyes; he would break out in a moment more impatiently than ever, and she would look up as if she had just heard--

 

She looked up sooner than she reckoned, for the silence continued. Yet she anticipated only by a second Conrad's flying entrance, his face tense with a sudden alarm. Without a word he seized the rifle from its rack beside the door and dashed to the kitchen. Torrance blinked himself awake at the scurry.

 

"Wha-at-what--"

 

Conrad turned in the kitchen doorway and pressed finger to lip. They found him kneeling on the floor beside the kitchen window, the rifle pointing over the sill past the side of the stable.

 

Torrance, still blinking with sleep, looked along the rifle barrel. For several seconds he could see nothing but the dead grey grass. Then a dim movement focussed his eyes. A hundred yards away the Indian was creeping toward them.

 

At intervals the redskin raised his head to peer across the grade. Not until he was close to the stable did he appear to notice the three watchers, then he lifted a hand and disappeared behind the stable. As he wormed his way to cover Torrance spoke eagerly.

 

"Let him have it, Adrian. I've always had my suspicions. It's some devilish trick or he wouldn't sneak up that way. Soon as he saw us he scrambled to cover. Watch for him around the other side."

 

But Conrad shook his head and pushed aside Torrance's extended hand; but he did not lower the rifle.

 

The Indian came round the other side of the stable, as Torrance had predicted, but there was no attempt at secrecy, except that he continued to hug the ground. Torrance grunted. Tressa sighed. Conrad lowered the rifle. The Indian crawled over the back step and lifted himself to his feet. Torrance forgot every suspicion before that smile.

 

"You got a nerve taking a chance like that, Big Chief. If I'd 'a' had the gun you'd 'a' got your blanket full."

 

The Indian looked significantly at Conrad and shrugged his shoulders. "Him no shoot Indian."

 

"You're too blamed sure," replied the contractor pettishly. "What's all the fuss about, anyway?"

 

"Bad paleface mebbe see." The Indian pointed toward the camp.

 

"Not likely! We could hardly see you ourselves. You better drop a postcard next time. I was just in the middle of a dream that the trestle was done and I was cashing the check in Winnipeg in thousand-dollar bills, after polishing off a few bohunks for a real bang-up finale. Then in booms Conrad here and grabs the rifle, and I wake up with the feeling them bohunks are doing the polishing on me. I was mighty near scared. By the way, we wanted you. The Police want you to identify the bohunks in that gang the other night that tried to blow up the trestle. If you'll come down to the camp with me and pick 'em out--"

 

"No good." The Indian shook his head. "You shoot. No save bridge that way. Others blow up. Job never done."

 

Torrance's admiration showed in his grin. "That's thinking, Big Chief. Of course the Police don't give a cuss about the trestle, if they can get some one to hang." His face sobered. "Just the same, when this thing's off my hands and there's nothing to blow up but a pile of dirt, I'm going through the camp with an arsenal on me, and I'll splash blood over the ugly place till it looks like a Chicago beef-cannery. It would save transportation expenses, too. When the last shovel's dumped and the Police gone home to supper I'm going to boil over and roast a dozen bohunks alive--"

 

"Daddy!" chided Tressa. "He'll believe you."

 

"Think so?" asked Torrance delightedly. "Then here goes: Say, I'll eat my last breakfast of bohunk livers, seasoned with bohunk brains--if there are any--and as an appetiser, bohunk tongues steeped in--"

 

"Heap big talk," broke in the Indian wearily.

 

"And that," snorted Torrance, "just about puts the blinkers on that. Even strangers don't believe me. But you put before me bohunk hearts stuffed with bohunk sweetbreads--"

 

The Indian turned up his eyes in disgust. Torrance chuckled.

 

"He knows the belly-ache it wo............