Dennison Grant | Page 4

grading order had left him high and
dry, with a dozen men and as many teams on his hands and hired for
the season. Transley galloped all that night into the foothills; when he
returned next evening he had a contract with the Y.D. to cut all the hay
from the ranch buildings to The Forks. By some deft touch of those
financial strings on which he was one day to become so skilled a player
Transley converted his dump scrapers into mowing machines, and three
days later his outfit was at work in the upper reaches of the Y.D.
The contract had been decidedly profitable. Not an hour of broken
weather had interrupted the operations, and to-day, with two thousand
tons of hay in stack, Transley was moving down to the headquarters of
the Y.D. The trail lay along a broad valley, warded on either side by
ranges of foothills; hills which in any other country would have been
dignified by the name of mountains. From their summits the grey-green
up-tilted limestone protruded, whipped clean of soil by the chinooks of
centuries. Here and there on their northern slopes hung a beard of scrub
timber; sharp gulleys cut into their fastnesses to bring down the
turbulent waters of their snows.
Some miles to the left of the trail lay the bed of the Y.D., fringed with
poplar and cottonwood and occasional dark green splashes of spruce.
Beyond the bed of the Y.D., beyond the foothills that looked down
upon it, hung the mountains themselves, their giant crests pitched like
mighty tents drowsing placidly between earth and heaven. Now their

four o'clock veil of blue- purple mist lay filmed about their shoulders,
but later they would stand out in bold silhouette cutting into the twilight
sky. Everywhere was the soft smell of new-mown hay; everywhere the
silences of the eternal, broken only by the muffled noises of Transley's
outfit trailing down to the Y.D.
Linder, foreman and head teamster, cushioned his shoulders against his
half load of hay and contemplated the scene with amiable satisfaction.
The hay fields of the foothills had been a pleasant change from the
railway grades of the plains below. Men and horses had fattened and
grown content, and the foreman had reason to know that Transley's
bank account had profited by the sudden shift in his operations. Linder
felt in his pocket for pipe and matches; then, with a frown, withdrew
his fingers. He himself had laid down the law that there must be no
smoking in the hay fields. A carelessly dropped match might in an hour
nullify all their labor.
Linder's frown had scarce vanished when hoof-beats pounded by the
side of his wagon, and a rider, throwing himself lightly from his horse,
dropped beside him in the hay.
"Thought I'd ride with you a spell, Lin. That Pete-horse acts like he was
goin' sore on the off front foot. Chuck at the Y.D. to-night?"
"That's what Transley says, George, and he knows."
"Ever et at the Y.D?"
"Nope."
"Know old Y.D?"
"Only to know his name is good on a cheque, and they say he still
throws a good rope."
George wriggled to a more comfortable position in the hay. He had a
feeling that he was approaching a delicate subject with consummate
skill. After a considerable silence he continued--

"They say that's quite a girl old Y.D.'s got."
"Oh," said Linder, slowly. The occasion of the soreness in that
Pete-horse's off front foot was becoming apparent.
"You better stick to Pete," Linder continued. "Women is most uncertain
critters."
"Don't I know it?" chuckled George, poking the foreman's ribs
companionably with his elbow. "Don't I know it?" he repeated, as his
mind apparently ran back over some reminiscence that verified Linder's
remark. It was evident from the pleasant grimaces of George's face that
whatever he had suffered from the uncertain sex was forgiven.
"Say, Lin," he resumed after another pause, and this time in a more
confidential tone, "do you s'pose Transley's got a notion that way?"
"Shouldn't wonder. Transley always knows what he's doing, and why.
Y.D. must be worth a million or so, and the girl is all he's got to leave it
to. Besides all that, no doubt she's well worth having on her own
account."
"Well, I'm sorry for the boss," George replied, with great soberness. "I
alus hate to disappoint the boss."
"Huh!" said Linder. He knew George Drazk too well for further
comment. After his unlimited pride in and devotion to his horse,
George gave his heart unreservedly to womankind. He suffered from no
cramping niceness in his devotions; that would have limited the play of
his passion; to him all women were alike--or nearly so. And no number
of rebuffs could convince George that he was unpopular