The Gold Trail | Page 5

altogether unnatural, for hitherto
when Ida Stirling desired anything that her father's money could obtain
her wish was gratified. She laid her hand warningly on her companion's
arm, and drew her back into the shadow of the firs.
"I really don't think we need go away," she said. "They won't notice us,
and you will probably see something that is supposed to be
characteristically western, though I'm not sure that it really is."
The meaning of the scene was tolerably plain to both of them. The little
cleared space formed a natural amphitheater walled in by somber ranks
of pines; and, standing higher, they could see over the heads of the
clustering men. There was no difficulty in identifying the victim, the
persecutor and the champion, for Weston stood stripped to blue shirt
and trousers, with the big ax in his hand and his head thrown back a
trifle, gazing with curiously steady eyes at the expectant faces before
him. Then as two or three of the men drew in closer he raised his free
hand.
"This thing lies between Jake and me, and I'm open to deal with him,"
he said. "Still, I've got the ax here if more of you stand in."
The man scarcely raised his voice, but it was clear that he was quietly
and dangerously resolute. Indeed, his attitude rather pleased some of
the rest, for there was a fresh murmuring, and a cry of, "Give the Kid a
show!"
Then, and nobody was afterward quite certain who struck first, the trial
by combat suddenly commenced. There are very few rules attached to
it in that country, where men do not fight by formula but with the one
purpose of deciding the matter in the quickest way possible; and in
another moment the two had clinched. They fell against the tree stump
and reeled clear again, swaying, gasping, and striking when they could.

It is probable that the Canadian was the stronger man, but, as it
happened, his antagonist had been born among the dales of northern
England, where wrestling is still held as an art. In a few minutes he
hurled the chopper off his feet, and a hoarse clamor went up, through
which there broke a shout:
"The Kid has him!"
Then the two men went down together, heavily, and rolled over and
over, until Cassidy came running down the track and burst through the
ring of onlookers. In one hand he carried a peevie, a big wooden lever
with an iron hook on it, such as men use in rolling fir logs. He
belabored the pair with it impartially, and it was evident that he was not
in the least particular as to whether he hurt them or not. Loosing their
hold on each other they staggered to their feet with the red dust thick on
their flushed faces.
Cassidy flourished the peevie.
"Now," he cried, "is it fighting ye want?"
There was a burst of laughter; and the assembly broke up when Cassidy
hustled the chopper off the field. The cook, with commendable
discretion, had slipped away quietly in the meanwhile, and the two
young women, whom nobody had noticed, turned back among the firs.
The girl in the elaborate draperies laughed.
"I suppose it was a little brutal, and we shouldn't have stayed," she said.
"Still, in a sense the attitude of the one they called the Kid was rather
fine. I could have made quite a striking sketch of him."
Ida Stirling made no direct reply to this, but, as she found afterward,
the scene had fixed itself on her memory. Still it was not the intent men
or the stately clustering pines that she recalled most clearly; it was the
dominant central figure, standing almost statuesque, with head tilted
slightly backward, and both hands clenched on the big ax haft.
"The man they were tormenting must have done something to vex them.

They really are not quarrelsome," she said.
CHAPTER II
THE PACKER
Weston was engaged with several others flinging gravel into a flat car
with a long-hafted shovel the next morning when Cassidy strode up the
track; and, though the men already had been working hard, they
quickened the pace a little when they saw him. He could tell at a glance
whether a man were doing his utmost, and nothing less would satisfy
him. He knew also exactly how many cubic yards of soil or gravel
could be handled by any particular gang. If the quantity fell short, there
was usually trouble. However, he said nothing to the others that
morning, but beckoned Weston aside, and stood a moment or two
looking at him, with a grimly whimsical twinkle in his eyes.
Weston had not suffered greatly during the struggle of the previous
evening, but there was a