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"IN AN INSTANT SHE WAS OUT OF THE SADDLE AND BENDING OVER 
 THE PROSTRATE FIGURE." (Page 261) 
 
 From the drawing by Belmore Browne. 
 
THE SMITING OF 
 THE ROCK 
 
 A TALE OF OREGON 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE PALMER PUTNAM 
 
 "Ht smote the rock and water came forth abundantly. " 
 
 Numbers XX: 11. 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
COPYRIGHT, IplS 
 BY 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 Second Impression 
 
 This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
.Bancroft Library 
 
 DEDICATED TO 
 L. M. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. DAVID KENT, HOMESEEKER . . i 
 
 II. A BISHOP FROM OREGON . . n 
 
 III. CONCERNING PIGS . . 25 
 
 IV. ON THE ROAD TO FAREWELL . . 33 
 
 V. KENT GETS A JOB ... 42 
 
 VI. SUNDAY AT LITTLE EGYPT . . 60 
 
 VII. HONEYMOONS, PERFECT AND OTHER 
 WISE 72 
 
 VIII. THE HORSE CAVE ... 79 
 
 IX. "UNTIL THE RESURRECTION" . 86 
 
 X. ON HEAVEN AND HELL . . 93 
 
 XI. THE SETTLERS' MEETING . . 97 
 
 XII. POOR LITTLE LUCY . . .113 
 
 XIII. LOST LAKE 120 
 
 XIV. NEWS EXTRAORDINARY . . 130 
 
 i 
 
 XV. ARRIVAL UNEXPECTED . . . 144 
 
 XVI. ACCIDENT UNFORTUNATE . . 156 
 
 XVII. FIRST AID 168 
 
vi Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XVIII. A CASUAL QUESTION . V . 176 
 
 XIX. KING DAVID'S QUEEN . V 187 
 
 XX. Pi . . . 7 . 198 
 
 XXI. CRETE HAS A PLAN . 7 .207 
 
 XXII. ON THE TRAIL, AND OFF V . 216 
 
 XXIII. THE BRAIN STORM . . . 231 
 
 XXIV. LOST AND FOUND .... 252 
 
 XXV. "ONLY A DRAW" . . . . 257 
 
 XXVI. NATURE TAKES A HAND . . 274 
 
 XXVII. AT THE RANGER'S CABIN . . 290 
 
 XXVIII. THE TRIAL 304 
 
 XXIX. WELCOME WATER . . . 313 
 
THE SMITING OF THE ROCK 
 
The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 DAVID KENT, HOMESEEKER 
 
 A MAY morning found David Kent gazing from 
 his window as the train moved westward along 
 the Oregon bank of the Columbia River. Beyond 
 the great stream rose the rounded hills of Washing 
 ton, soft as velvet in the sparkling distance. A 
 breeze flecked the water cheerfully, mountainous 
 snowy clouds dragged grotesque shadows across 
 the countryside, and overhead a sunny blue sky 
 framed the broad panorama. 
 
 The refreshing spirit of this pleasurable outlook 
 infused the traveler, filling him with carefree con 
 tent. Just then, if Chance had sought to make 
 capital of his optimistic good nature he might 
 have been bent to almost any purpose. But Chance 
 left him so undisturbedly drinking in the visual 
 magnificence of the Columbia country that shortly 
 he was satiated with the very glory of it, and 
 sought something less overwhelming to look upon. 
 
2 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 From his pocket he extracted a much-handled 
 map, and spreading it out upon his knees, for the 
 twentieth time delved into its allurements. 
 
 It was a normal folder, with the United States 
 ironed out encouragingly and so fashioned that 
 the red-printed route of the railroad whose name 
 it bore was by all odds the straightest and shortest 
 between the two oceans. Railroad map makers, 
 he mused, long since discarded the copybook 
 axiom that a straight line is the shortest dis 
 tance between two points, substituting there 
 for the ukase that their own roads must always 
 appear as the shortest, whatever their actual in 
 directions. 
 
 What most interested Kent, however, was not 
 the ingenious alignment of the great transconti 
 nental, but a blank space as large as his palm, 
 right there in Oregon, across whose threshold he 
 had just come. Not a single railroad appeared 
 in this typeless barren. Nowhere on the entire 
 map could he find another neglected area nearly 
 so large as this one into which a plain-faced 
 Bishop, a superlatively pretty girl, and a hasty 
 resolution were thrusting him. 
 
 A dot in the middle of the white space bore the 
 title " Fare well Ford," and had for companions 
 two isolated lines of letters, one spelling " Desert " 
 anct the other "Timber." 
 
 The young man's finger traced the route he was 
 then following along the Columbia, whence a 
 stubby half -inch of railroad reached south toward 
 
David Kent, Homeseeker 3 
 
 Farewell Ford, ending just within the radius of 
 the barren void at a dot inscribed "Shaniko." 
 
 "Coin* in?" asked the conductor. 
 
 "In where?" 
 
 " Oh, it's new to you, eh? I meant up yonder." 
 An official thumb indicated regions behind the 
 hills. "Know that country pretty well. How 
 far you goin'?" 
 
 Kent indicated his ticket. 
 
 " Sure, I know it reads Shaniko, but no one stops 
 there unless it's a case of sudden death." 
 
 The traveler laughed. 
 
 "Is it as bad as that?" 
 
 "Yep. Fact is, there's only one place worse'n 
 Shaniko, which is Biggs, and here we are now." 
 
 And forthwith the Easterner, still pondering 
 this cheering recommendation of Biggs, was de 
 posited in its midst together with a mail sack and 
 his own trunk. Sitting on the latter, he leisurely 
 took stock of the surroundings as the train deserted 
 him. 
 
 Between the tracks and cliffs which tumbled 
 down nearly to the water's edge, was Biggs itself, 
 nestling hotly among soiled, ruffled dunes of sand. 
 
 Single story buildings occupied one side of the 
 lonesome street, whose corrugated drifts attested 
 its innocence of traffic. At each end of the 
 "block" was a saloon, efficiently located so that 
 it was impossible to come or go without running 
 temptation ' s gauntlet . B ef ore a hotel of unpainted 
 lumber occupying the center of the line, a white- 
 
4 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 aproned individual ding-donged a brazen triangle 
 by way of urging the public to eat. And there 
 were several erstwhile pretentious structures with 
 lofty and deceitful clapboard pompadours, bear 
 ing faded inscriptions of dealers in other people's 
 real estate. Bottles, cans, and sundry souvenirs 
 of hungers and thirsts long since satisfied fringed 
 the human habitations. 
 
 "Must get hot in summer," Kent ventured to 
 the agent, who came for the mail pouch. 
 
 "Yep. A hundred an' ten most of the time. 
 But it's better 'n that," accurately winging a 
 congealed eddy with an excess of tobacco juice, 
 "the sand makes most trouble. When it breezes 
 a bit, you've gotter wear goggles, and when she 
 honest-ter-God blows you've just gotter quit. 11 
 
 On the way to the eating place, which he un- 
 blushingly recommended, the agent recounted 
 how a few "reg'lar" sandstorms would cut down 
 telephone posts, by the incessant drive of the sharp 
 particles against the wood. 
 
 Shortly, the two-car train rattled in from behind 
 the hills and by the time it was headed around 
 on the "Y" the limited from the West, emerging 
 from a cloud of dust on the main line, stopped, 
 deposited a handful of passengers, and again sped 
 on its way. The human deposit included two 
 drummers, a rancher, an individual with a glass 
 eye, and a young lady. The four men sprinted to 
 the food dispensary, where one of the drummers, 
 greeting the proprietor with cordial profanity, 
 
David Kent, Homeseeker 5 
 
 hoped that "Charley wouldn't pull out till they 
 stowed some hash." 
 
 " Charley, " who was the conductor of the Shan- 
 iko train, showed more gallantry than the herd 
 at the trough. 
 
 "Beg pardon, Miss, but there's ten minutes to 
 get a bite to eat, if you wish." 
 
 The lone young lady, so addressed, assured 
 Charley that she would go without. "I'm not 
 hungry," she added, smiling thanks for his in 
 terest. 
 
 Kent, overhearing, all at once felt sure that it 
 was not lack of appetite but disinclination to brave 
 the rigors of the eating house that kept the girl 
 from luncheon. So forthwith he found himself 
 exchanging cash for jet coffee in a cup and mega- 
 lithic ham sandwiches in a flyspecked paper 
 bag. 
 
 "Waste of time, my frien'," proffered a fishy- 
 eyed drummer between mouthfuls. "She won't 
 thaw. I've tried." 
 
 Despite the pessimistic counsel, the young man 
 plowed back through the sand to the depot, to 
 find that the girl was already on the Shaniko train. 
 So he climbed aboard, balancing the coffee, now 
 rather worse than lukewarm, and commencing to 
 feel foolishly self-conscious after the fashion of 
 mankind detected in chivalry. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, but . . . won't you please 
 take these?" He was standing in front of her. 
 "I thought you were . . . hm . . . that is, of 
 
6 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 course, you couldn't go up to that hole so I took 
 the liberty of ... "his embarrassment got the 
 better of him, and further words balked. 
 
 There is no slightest doubt that if the worldly 
 drummer had laid a luxurious repast upon the 
 altar of acquaintanceship, the result would have 
 been disaster to the drummer. But Kent's 
 worldliness was somehow of a different world. 
 The blue eyes appraised the knight of the coffee 
 cup evenly. Evidently they were satisfied with 
 what they saw, as forthwith the drummer who 
 said there was no thawing was proved a liar. 
 
 "It's good of you. I really might have starved 
 to death." 
 
 There was no affectation in that spontaneous 
 smile with its array of white teeth, and Kent, 
 who hitherto had noticed next to nothing about 
 the girl, found himself wondering if perhaps her 
 "curly" upper lip might be a trifle too short. 
 Certainly her teeth were square and firm, for a 
 
 woman; and her chin, that too 
 
 "How can we get the cup back?" The coffee 
 gone, the housewifely problem at once struck her. 
 "Throw it away ! It's paid for." 
 "Which reminds me how much was it all?" 
 "Nothing. You see they gave it to me!" 
 But the fib availed not at all against the in 
 sistence of the blue-eyed girl who had no slightest 
 intention of permitting chance young men even 
 if they were respectful to pay for her meals. 
 Finally he said, "A quarter." 
 
David Kent, Homeseeker 7 
 
 ''Two bits," she corrected, and forced his ac 
 ceptance of the coin. "Thank you, again." 
 
 With that she began to study the country, and 
 Kent took the hint. Looking back from the 
 smoking car the drummer grinned and went 
 through the pantomime of shaking his own hand 
 in congratulation. 
 
 "Dirty beast," thought Kent, and succeeded 
 in concentrating most of his. attention on the 
 landscape. 
 
 For an hour the diminutive train panted up 
 oppressive grades, the track meandering through 
 crooked canyons and along gullies where winter 
 rain had washed away the adobe, leaving brick- 
 colored chasms and piles of rounded rock. Stunted 
 sagebrush and chemise clothed the hillsides 
 scantily, and trails of cattle serried every slope, 
 as evenly as the contour lines on a map. Then, 
 the rim of the Columbia's hills reached, the train 
 rattled southward with more directness and some 
 pretense of speed, across a rolling plateau of 
 stubblefields, golden with wheat at harvest time, 
 but at that season richly toned with browns and 
 wakening green. Ranch houses and little towns 
 alone broke the pleasant monotony of the wide 
 country. Beyond the drab foreground and the 
 blue haziness of the middle distance, the Cas 
 cade mountains silhouetted against the western 
 sky, with Mount Hood, cloaked in the white of 
 everlasting snow, marshaling an array of lesser 
 peaks. 
 
8 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 As the afternoon wore on Kent devoted himself 
 to a cumulative letter which had commenced 
 east of Chicago and was to be mailed nowhere 
 short of Oregon. The autobiographic narrative 
 reached Biggs and the hungry girl simultaneously, 
 and somehow there hung fire. 
 
 Consideration of that incident brought a smile to 
 the idling author. Could one imagine his lady 
 accepting provender from a total stranger? One 
 could not. As a matter of fact, the very idea of 
 aristocratic Valentine being either unescorted or 
 hungry was untenable. So, dismissing the un 
 likely comparison from his mind, for lack of better 
 ammunition he tore the map from the folder, 
 sketched himself racing across the fruitless bar 
 ren toward Farewell Ford, and placed his artistic 
 effort with the corpulent letter in an envelope. 
 
 Looking up from his accomplished task, Kent's 
 eyes encountered those of the erstwhile hungry 
 girl, unexpectedly enough to surprise an amused 
 twinkle. Immediately the observer's eyes re 
 treated to her magazine, leaving Kent resentfully 
 aware that he was blushing unreasonably. 
 
 As they neared Shaniko the drummers, with the 
 hope of making up an automobile load, inquired 
 his destination. 
 
 "Farewell. But let's leave plans until we get 
 there." Having no alternative, they agreed. 
 
 "Will you go through to-night?" 
 
 The girl's question followed the exit of the 
 drummers. 
 
David Kent, Homeseekcr 9 
 
 "I really don't know. You see, it's all new to 
 me. What does one do, anyway?" 
 
 "There's the choice of stage or automobile," 
 she replied. "The autos are new on the run, 
 and of course cost more. The stage starts to-night, 
 and the auto leaves in the morning. Both of them 
 get to Farewell about the same time to-morrow 
 evening." 
 
 "It's a case of riding all night on the stage, 
 then?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. It's really not as bad as it sounds 
 quite fun, in fact, if you like that sort of thing." 
 She was talking very easily now. 
 
 " You do, I suppose." He had hit upon the 
 shade of her eyes cornflower blue. 
 
 "Yes, I really do, in a way," she seemed to 
 ponder the matter. "And then this is the longest 
 stage ride left, I believe, and it's somehow rather 
 bully to get this last taste of what used to be every 
 where in the West. But, of course, it's awfully 
 tiring, and the dust is getting bad again now." 
 
 Dust! That was it; gold with dust over it 
 the very fittest description of her hair, thought 
 Kent, who had a habit of wording ideas. 
 
 " I'm going to Farewell, too, " the girl continued. 
 "The auto fare is twenty dollars and the stage 
 ten, so of course I go by stage." 
 
 "Of course," Kent's echo quite surprised him. 
 
 When the girl spoke of the auto he had decided 
 on it quite automatically. Now, however, the 
 unaccustomed consideration of cost was leveled 
 
io The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 full in his face by a young lady who made nothing 
 heroic of choosing an all-night ride in preference 
 to a ten-dollar extravagance. 
 
 "Money is very scarce in a new country," the 
 girl offered. 
 
 "And other places, too. The auto fare does 
 seem horribly high . . . quite out of sight for a 
 poor" he fumbled for a word, and found one 
 "homeseeker. The stage for me of course." 
 
 For the remainder of the journey the volunteer 
 homeseeker furtively clasped the letter he had 
 written while his mind wandered far away whither 
 that letter was to go. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A BISHOP FROM OREGON 
 
 IN retrospect, as the train bore him nearer 
 Shaniko, David Kent recalled the events which 
 had embarked him on his present quest. The 
 commencement of it all, he remembered well, 
 dated from a dinner at the home of Mrs. Alton 
 Pennoyer, mother of the girl to whom his first 
 Oregon letter had just been addressed. 
 
 But behind that dinner, and as such the actual 
 key to the entire adventure, lay a newspaper 
 article which had signaled the social unearthing, 
 or at least rehabilitation, of a certain missionary 
 Prelate of the West. 
 
 "OREGON BISHOP BACK FROM FRONTIER THRILLS 
 NEW YORK AUDIENCE 7 ' 
 
 was the heading which caught the attention of 
 Mrs. Pennoyer as she glanced through her paper 
 one April morning. 
 
 "The address of the Right Rev. Robert Rudd, 
 Bishop of Eastern Oregon, was the principal 
 feature of yesterday's session of the National 
 
 ii 
 
12 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Settlement Workers Association. Bishop Rudd, 
 who at one time was himself prominent in local 
 settlement activity, has for several years been 
 engaged in what is practically missionary work in 
 a far western territory aptly described by him as 
 'the largest railroadless area in the United States/ 
 With his strong personality, unique experiences, 
 and decidedly advanced theories, this militant 
 worker from the West created something of a 
 furore." 
 
 Mrs. Pennoyer read no further. That first 
 paragraph was enough. For she had known Rob 
 ert Rudd's "people," and the Bishop of to-day, 
 in the yesterday of knickerbockers, had more than 
 once encountered her disapproval with his full- 
 blooded pranks. 
 
 "Val, do you remember Robert Rudd?" said 
 Mrs. Pennoyer to her daughter, whose entrance 
 coincided with the enveloping of a note to Rudd 
 himself. 
 
 It required close to six seconds of concentration 
 which became her very prettily for Valentine 
 to rescue the memory of Bob Rudd from a brain 
 stocked with recollections of many males. 
 
 "Yes, Mummsie, I remember quite well. 
 He was awfully ugly and awfully nice. What 
 about him?" 
 
 "He is a Bishop now." 
 
 And Mrs. Pennoyer, handing her daughter the 
 envelope which she had just addressed, explained 
 that she was asking the Bishop to dinner, which 
 
A Bishop from Oregon 13 
 
 surprised Valentine not at all as her mother was 
 constantly on the alert for itinerant lions who 
 might be induced to roar acceptably as her guests. 
 
 "You are going out, I see, so please mail 
 it. And Val, " Mrs. Pennoyer's hesitancy be 
 trayed her half -certainty of the answer even before 
 she put the question," where are you going?" 
 
 "Oh, just out!" 
 
 " My dear ," Mrs. Pennoyer cleared her throat. 
 "My dear " then, rather lamely " please sit 
 down." 
 
 Being a young lady of decision, Valentine took 
 the conversational bull by the horns. 
 
 "Please, Mummsie, listen. You're right. I 
 am going walking with Mr. Kent. I think I like 
 him very much, but I haven't the least idea of 
 marrying him." 
 
 " Girls never have." The abrupt onslaught left 
 Mrs. Pennoyer just enough breath and brains to 
 slip that in it was the very best she could do. 
 Valentine laughed, all at once quite enjoying the 
 shift of affairs. Spurred by spring morn madness, 
 she raced on. 
 
 "If you're anxious for the news, Da that is, 
 Mr. Kent wants to marry me, and I told him 
 . . . " a dramatic pause evidenced Valentine's 
 appreciation of the value of suspense "... that 
 I would let him know . . . after a while." 
 
 Again a halt. 
 
 "So this morning I am going to give him my 
 decision isn't it mean, Mummsie, that there 
 
14 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 is always something to be decided? I loathe 
 decisions." Pause number three. "Shall I tell 
 you?" 
 
 Mrs. Pennoyer gasped, but contrived to nod. 
 
 "Well, Mummsie, I am not going to marry 
 him . . . yet!" 
 
 The corners of the mother's mouth trembled. 
 
 "Listen, Mummsie." Now, it was the little 
 girl recounting her troubles, and no longer the 
 clever debutante playing hide-and-go-seek with 
 a distressed parent. "There really isn't anything 
 to tell. I like David a lot. But I haven't the 
 slightest idea whether I really love him. I 
 know you and Dads don't approve and ..." 
 
 "Not that either, my dear," her mother inter 
 rupted. "We like Mr. Kent well enough. I am 
 sure he is a very worthy young man. . . . ' 
 
 "Well, then, it's money. Oh, yes it is ! No use 
 pretending. He's acceptable as a guest, but 
 you'd not urge him as a son-in-law. I know. 
 Haven't I heard Dads thresh it all out? 'A 
 pleasant fellow, but one who doesn't seem to get 
 anywhere, ' is the way Dads catalogues him. ' My 
 only daughter must marry a leader, a man who 
 does things.' Oh glory, I know it by heart! 
 Jerry Whitemore is eligible; he's 'successful' 
 a broker what David calls a gentleman gambler. 
 Then there's that little peanut Forsythe: a born 
 diplomat, Dads calls him, and perhaps it's true 
 he can't help being a big Ambassador or some- 
 thing-or-other some day. Imagine Mrs. Gail For- 
 
A Bishop from Oregon 15 
 
 sythe " She pursed her lips tastefully over the 
 experimental phrase. 
 
 "His family, Valentine " 
 
 "Lordy, yes, I know! it's older than a Swiss 
 cheese, and no member of the illustrious tribe 
 ever did anything to be ashamed of since leaving 
 the Ark, unless you count marrying for money!" 
 
 The conversation just then was punctuated by 
 the discreet cough of the superbly discreet butler 
 bearing the card of Mr. David Kent. 
 
 Valentine ordained she would "be there in a 
 minute," and then took five rearranging details 
 of her personal appearance, which, judging from 
 its nicety, seemingly already had been brought to a 
 state of perfection. 
 
 Completing her leisurely devotions at the 
 shrine of beauty, she abandoned the mirror, 
 regained her gloves and the Bishop's invitation, 
 and smiled like a sunrise. 
 
 "Don't worry, Mummsie. Remember, I am 
 practical. ' ' With that enigmatical farewell, Youth 
 sought waiting Man, leaving Middle Age sighing 
 concernedly. 
 
 "Well, I'll do what I want anyway." The 
 daughter unburdened herself of this very probable 
 axiom as she approached the library and her 
 suitor. "Only what do I want to do?" 
 
 The plan to make Bishop Rudd the social piece 
 de resistance of a considerable gathering did not 
 materialize, for the answer to Mrs. Pennoyer's 
 invitation was politely determined in its regret- 
 
16 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 fulness. Acceptance was impossible, it appeared, 
 because the Bishop was to deliver an address 
 upon the opportunities of the West before a remote 
 organization of which his would-be hostess had 
 never heard. 
 
 The upshot was that Bishop Robert Rudd and 
 David Kent were the sole guests at what their 
 hostess called a "simple family dinner/' which, 
 to accommodate the Bishop's appointment, com 
 menced and ended early. 
 
 At the outset of the meal Mrs. Pennoyer per 
 sonally conducted the conversation, drawing from 
 her guest tales of his frontier experiences. But 
 while the Bishop's reminiscences came freely 
 enough, the personal element in them was dis 
 appointingly subdued. It was not of himself and 
 his deeds which he cared to talk, but of the big 
 half -tamed country where his work held him. Of 
 that, and its people, he enthused with heartfelt 
 warmth. 
 
 "That's all extremely interesting, Bishop, but 
 honestly now," Miss Pennoyer smiled daz- 
 zlingly, "wouldn't it be nicer back here where 
 things are . . . well, where everything is more 
 comfortable . . . and cultured?" 
 
 The exponent of Western enthusiasm regarded 
 her gravely. 
 
 " I dare say it would be nicer, " he replied dryly. 
 
 "But Bishop," Kent sought to give the con 
 versation a safer turn, "do you really believe that 
 West of yours is a better country than this? " 
 
A Bishop from Oregon 17 
 
 "No . . . it's worse!" 
 
 " Is that why you like it ? " Kent laughed. 
 
 "Or is it the necessity of reforming it that 
 appeals to you?" added Miss Pennoyer. 
 
 "Neither . . . and both. I went out there 
 prejudiced against the West and I've come back 
 prejudiced in its favor. It's a very virulent dis 
 ease, this love of the country, I assure you . . . 
 and highly contagious. So far as reforming goes, 
 I hope to Heaven it may never be reformed . . . 
 there's lots more need for reformation right here 
 in New York. Anyway," he chuckled at some 
 recollection, "the only really sophisticated sinning 
 we have is imported ... by Easterners ! Where 
 there's plently of out-of-doors and sky and moun 
 tains the misdeeds of men aren't very reprehen 
 sible. They're apt to be primal and rather clean 
 and big . . . almost commendable, if you know 
 what I mean." 
 
 Kent thought he knew. In fact, the more 
 he heard this Bishop talk and his outlook on 
 life seemed extraordinarily unbishoply the more 
 warmly rekindled his old admiration, taking 
 him back to the time when he, a schoolboy, had 
 idolized Rudd, the college man, heroically return 
 ing home between terms. By the time dinner 
 was over, a half resolve had formed in the young 
 man's mind. 
 
 Shortly, and somewhat to his own surprise, 
 Kent was unburdening himself to the Bishop. 
 He was dissatisfied with his life, its idleness and 
 
i8 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 lack of purpose. He wanted to make good, to do 
 something on his own initiative, somehow, some 
 where. That he made clear, and intentionally. 
 He also made reasonably clear, although without 
 intention, that some compelling reason had lately 
 arisen for this new and creditable resolve. And 
 the Bishop, in his wisdom, and glancing casually 
 in the direction of Valentine Pennoyer, gleaned 
 a far better comprehension of the situation than 
 his companion imagined. 
 
 "Your trouble, old chap, is that you've been 
 boiling long enough . . . you need to jell now," 
 said the Bishop. 
 
 "Jell?" 
 
 "Exactly. Ever see a New England cook 
 make jelly? Remember what fine firm material 
 comes from the restless mass in the kettle . . . 
 after it's boiled enough and got a chance to settle 
 down?" 
 
 Kent laughed aloud. 
 
 "Jell . . . that's just the word! I need to 
 jell. But do you suppose I've been on the stove 
 too long?" 
 
 The Bishop eyed him squarely. "No," said 
 he. 
 
 "Long enough?" 
 
 "That's hard to say. Each brand requires a 
 different recipe. Possibly you'd better stew for a 
 time at a lower temperature, or have some new 
 ingredients added." 
 
 "Or try a new stove?" 
 
A Bishop from Oregon 19 
 
 "Perhaps. However, my observation is that 
 it's the cook which counts most ... a good 
 cook can get results anywhere. And of course 
 you realize" the little Bishop's deep-set eyes 
 twinkled behind their thick lenses "that girls 
 make the best cooks!" 
 
 Just then Miss Pennoyer joined them. 
 
 "What is all this confab? " she asked. 
 
 "We've been discussing cooking . . . and 
 cooks." 
 
 "A deadly dull text, I'm sure." 
 
 "We were especially concerned with jelly," 
 he added, to her further mystification. "Don't 
 you find men who have 'jelled* the most worth 
 while?" 
 
 But Miss Pennoyer was spared the exertion of 
 further progress along this conversational byway 
 through the advent of her mother, who sallied 
 forth into the outer hall, where they stood, to 
 speed the parting guest with additional farewell. 
 
 "And David," the Bishop shook Kent's hand 
 as they parted on the steps, "if you do want to 
 try transplanting for a while, remember, Oregon's 
 the place. You'd never regret it." 
 
 The little Bishop swung off down the sidewalk 
 to his meeting of lowly young men concerned 
 with occidental opportunities, and David Kent 
 returned to the sumptuous Pennoyer drawing- 
 room, with a plan formulating within him. 
 
 " If I make good will that settle the matter?" he 
 said to Valentine later. 
 
20 [ The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Oh, David, don't be silly! Things like . . . 
 like getting married aren't settled that way. ..." 
 
 "Well, how is it done, then?" He took her 
 two hands in his, forcing her to regard him, and 
 the issue, squarely. "You said only yesterday 
 you loved me and the only reason you'd not 
 promise was because I didn't seem to be steady 
 ... to know what I meant to do. And your 
 father ... oh yes, I know all about that " he 
 smothered her protest " he throws a fit on the 
 floor whenever I'm considered as a possible son- 
 in-law. Now, isn't that true ?" 
 
 She nodded, with a challenging smile. It was 
 true enough, and she knew it. 
 
 "Dads won't have me marry a failure . . . 
 and I don't want to. I'd ... like to have you 
 succeed, David." 
 
 "That's very businesslike and practical," he 
 replied good-humoredly. "You see, Val, I don't 
 blame your father ... at least I won't hold it 
 against him! And while it's inconvenient, it's 
 reasonable enough for you to want me to try my 
 hand at something beside spending my modest 
 income. So I've a business proposition to make 
 to you . . . it's a bit out of the ordinary and 
 entirely unromantic, I suppose." 
 
 "Well? "said she. 
 
 If Valentine Pennoyer had been a shade less 
 beautiful, and the spell she had cast over David 
 Kent a shade less irresistible, the coolly selfish, 
 passionless poise of her might well have shattered 
 
A Bishop from Oregon 21 
 
 his quixotic notions and the yearning warmth 
 beneath them. But the young man was too 
 much in love for critical appraisement. 
 
 " Bishop Rudd made a great hit with me . . . 
 also Oregon, as he describes it. Right now, I 
 suppose, he's telling about those 'opportunities 
 for young men ' out there. Well, Val, I'm one of 
 the young men who intends starting a still hunt 
 for success out Oregon way, provided only" 
 he paused impressively "it's distinctly worth 
 while." 
 
 "How about me?" Valentine's words echoed 
 her first thought. 
 
 "That's just the point. You're the beginning 
 and the end of it all. I'm going out there to show 
 you I can make good. And if I do," this time 
 he loosed one hand to raise her chin so he could 
 look into her eyes, "will you promise to marry 
 me?" 
 
 "Making good," she parried, "is so much a 
 matter of comparisons." 
 
 "All right, then. I'll leave the deciding to 
 you . . . and your practical father. And no 
 promises asked. Only I'll tell you what I'm 
 going to do. Just as soon as possible I start 
 for that country the Bishop raves about. . . . 
 Farewell's the name of the town. I'll need some 
 steers from him as to how to get there, and aside 
 from that I'll not discuss the matter with a soul. 
 I won't even take any money . . . just enough 
 to land me there. What else I have I'll tuck 
 
72 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 away where it won't be touched. We're to play 
 this little game for a year, Val . . . does that 
 suit?" 
 
 "You mean you'll stay away a year? Oh, 
 David! . . . " 
 
 "Not necessarily. But I'm going to put in 
 twelve months absolutely on my own resources. 
 I'll start on the dead level when I get out there 
 . . . broke. I may be still broke when the 
 year's over but at least I'll manage to get through 
 it and show your estimable parent I can support 
 myself." 
 
 Valentine smiled as he unfolded his plan. And 
 beneath the smile was a sense of genuine satis 
 faction. The novelty, the unique practicability 
 of it, pleased her. 
 
 "No cheating?" she chided. 
 
 " None. The game's to be played square. And, 
 Val ... I thought first I'd ask you to make a 
 bargain ... a promise. Perhaps that wouldn't 
 be fair. But if this is to be an honest-to-goodness 
 business deal, why, I ought to have . . . well, 
 say an option." 
 
 "What's [that? ... it sounds depressingly 
 legal." 
 
 "It's a sort of testimonial of prior right, I guess. 
 The idea is that Oregon is a long way off . . ." 
 
 "You chose it, not I!" 
 
 "True enough. But even at that, Val, I'm 
 going into this party for you ... to get you 
 anyway . . . and it's only fair my . . . ahem 
 
A Bishop from Oregon 23 
 
 . . . rights should be protected in my absence. I 
 don't want . . . well, you shouldn't allow any 
 poaching." 
 
 " So that's it ! Shall I hang a ' No Trespassing ' 
 sign around my neck?" 
 
 He assured her it would be an excellent idea. 
 
 " David, dear, " she announced finally, "it strikes 
 me there is a lot of nonsense about all this . . . 
 it's sort of ... well, storybookish and fanciful." 
 She frowned. Romancing held little appeal for 
 this modern princess. 
 
 "And yet, " she continued, "it's really common- 
 sense and reasonable. It's quite true, David, that 
 Dads doesn't enthuse over you as a do-nothing. 
 He's always been a doer himself, and a successful 
 one, and it's natural he'd have little respect for a 
 man who has never . . . well, never made his 
 own way." 
 
 "And you precious near share the paternal 
 viewpoint, " put in the subject of the appraisement, 
 ruefully. 
 
 "Yes, to a degree . . . but fortunately" a 
 delighting smile replaced her thoughtful look 
 "fortunately I think somewhat more of you 
 than Dads does . . . fortunately for you, at 
 least. But I want you to succeed, David . . . 
 you must succeed. . . . No, keep away, please! 
 
 . . you haven't made good yet, remember . . . 
 and I do like this idea of yours, even with all its 
 foolishness . . . it's so much better than working 
 around in a circle, the way we've been doing for 
 
24 .The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 f 
 
 so long now. As the Bishop says, it will give you a 
 chance to find yourself . . . and it ought to let 
 me find out what I really want, too. Of course 
 it's a gamble. . . ." 
 
 "Call it a flier in success, " he interjected. 
 
 "Or failure. Anyway, Dads says even a good 
 business man takes a flier now and then. So 
 I'll take this one, David. Yes, I'll agree to 
 keep footfree until the end of the year. I'll try 
 not even to run risks of getting engaged. And 
 you're to live up to the rules of the game too . . . 
 go out there all on your own hook and sink or swim 
 without calling for help. That's a bargain." 
 
 " Honesttogod " said Kent. 
 
 They shook hands quite solemnly. But instead 
 of "releasing her hand in a businesslike manner, 
 the male party to this quixotic contract drew the 
 party of the second part to him, abruptly and 
 strongly, while the seal was affixed. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 CONCERNING PIGS 
 
 AT the Shaniko hotel a chemically-blonded 
 waitress bawled orders for beans, ham, and coffee 
 into an aperture at one end of the dining-room, 
 whence in time issued the culinary products ac 
 companied by a fragrance not exclusively their 
 own. The drummers consumed their supper 
 loudly. The girl of the train was at another 
 table, conversing with an eager little man, whom 
 she had affectionately greeted as "Dad." In the 
 tooth-picking lull, following pie, when everyone 
 backed up against the stove in the lobby, Kent 
 gleaned from the clerk that the little man's name 
 was Trumble. 
 
 "Miss Trumble, eh? At least I know some 
 one at Farewell, " he thought. 
 
 It was the same "Dad" who held the reins 
 when they climbed into the stage, the girl tucked 
 beside him, while Kent shared the inside with a 
 horse buyer who speedily exhausted the contents 
 of a pint bottle without any apparent effects, ill 
 or otherwise. 
 
 ^During the cold night Kent slept scarcely at all, 
 25 
 
26 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 although his companion, to judge by his snoring, 
 contrived considerable slumber. Another mem 
 ber of the party contributed also to the night 
 revels. This one was a small pig traveling in a 
 crate fastened in the rear beside Kent's trunk, 
 sundry boxes of California fruit, and other varie 
 gated cargo. 
 
 Finally, the mud and rocks of Shaniko Flats 
 and the steep grades of Cow Canyon were negoti 
 ated, and about two o'clock the stage stopped. 
 
 "What's matter?" The horse buyer lurched 
 into wakefulness, automatically reaching to make 
 sure his glass eye was in place. 
 
 "Nothin' special, 'cept breakfast. This is 
 Heisler's." The little driver's lantern illuminated 
 the after end of his craft with a glow more dim 
 than religious, whereat the pig resumed his 
 squealing. " How's all the live stock riding?'* 
 The query was addressed indiscriminately in the 
 direction of pig and passengers. 
 
 The two men got out stiffly and the girl, swing 
 ing down from her seat, wished them a good 
 morning. 
 
 A lantern appeared from somewhere, a couple 
 of shadow men led the horses off, and the lower 
 windows of a house close at hand showed golden 
 squares of light. 
 
 "Hello, Dad ! " a woman's voice called. "Back 
 at it, eh?" 
 
 "Yu betcha. S'like old times." The driver's 
 cheery voice warmed the arctic night. All at 
 
Concerning Pigs 27 
 
 once not coffee and a stove seemed possible attain 
 ments and not mirages of the roadside. 
 
 " Don't forget to water the pig, Dad," the girl 
 reminded, as she went to the house. 
 
 "Ain't that just like her never forgets noth 
 ing"; the driver's friendly voice was full of 
 admiration. "Well, suppose it's gotter be done 
 the bygod pig's paying first-class fare 'n must be 
 'tended." With a sigh of good-natured protest, 
 Trumble, placing the lantern on the ground, 
 fumbled with the stiff cords binding the crate 
 while Kent and his fellow passenger stamped 
 some semblance of warmth into their feet. 
 
 "Hey, one of you, help me here quick!" 
 
 But succor came too late. In the dark some 
 thing slipped and with a clatter trunk, fruit boxes, 
 and crate tumbled over, extinguishing the lantern 
 and knocking Trumble into the dust, whence a 
 remarkable offering of diversified profanity as 
 cended. The light crate splintered as it hit the 
 road, and the panicky porker scuttled away into 
 the blackness. 
 
 A door opened and the girl's voice floated 
 through the night. 
 
 " What is the matter?" 
 
 The swearing subsided. 
 
 " Nothin'. Oh, nothin' at all" Withering sar 
 casm was in that announcement. "'Ceptin' 
 only" a laborious grunt as the little man gathered 
 himself up "a half ton lit square on top o' me 
 an' I'm ... all ... busted . . . up." The last 
 
28 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 words came with the deliberation of excessive 
 suffering. 
 
 "Not really hurt, Dad?" She had hurried to 
 his side through the blackness, and spoke with 
 tender concern. 
 
 "No o, reckon I ain't . . . ain't dead, any 
 way." The admission came begrudgingly. "But 
 I might ha' been." 
 
 The girl laughed, and the little man, his per 
 sistent good humor restored, joined her, while 
 Kent chorused in heartily. But gloom returned 
 as Trumble remembered the pig. 
 
 "TV bygod pig's lit out. Well, we'll have to 
 catch 'im if it takes all night, he bein' so special. 
 Discoverin' pigs in the dark is some entertainin'." 
 
 The experience justified the description. With 
 two lanterns commandeered from the barn the 
 quest commenced. The shadows and nooks along 
 the picket fence were searched, and every lurking- 
 place behind sagebrush or rock became a center 
 of investigation. But no pig. 
 
 "Well, it's tough. Humsoever, what must be 
 can't be helped. In the mornin'," this to the 
 native volunteer, "you'll find the beggar, a 
 likely lookin' young boar. Now just slip down 
 to the barn with me an' we'll find a twin brother to 
 stick in this bygod crate. What th' honor'ble 
 Sprunk'd do himself is none too bad for me . . . 
 and beside, we don't particularly delight in playin' 
 hide an' go seek in the dark with any of Jim Fail 
 ing's stray property." 
 
Concerning Pigs 29 
 
 Trumble and the grinning boy were starting 
 for the barn when an ill-advised squeak in the 
 shadow directly beneath the stage disclosed the 
 whereabouts of his porkship, devouring California 
 fruit with evident relish. 
 
 "Ain't that just what you'd expect o' Failing?" 
 Yanking out the offending pig by a hind foot, the 
 little man proceeded to lay its perversity at its 
 owner's door. "An' expensive fruit, too. Well, th* 
 hon'ble Jim '11 have ter pay." 
 
 "Who's this blackguard Failing?" Kent asked 
 laughingly. 
 
 " How'd you know he was a black'ard? " Trum- 
 ble's attitude displayed suspicion mingled with 
 pleased anticipation. "Do they know it on the 
 outside?" 
 
 "Great Scott, no." Kent hastened to with 
 draw from deepening water. "I don't even 
 know who the man is just gathered you're not 
 fond of him. And of course any pig who'll be as 
 mean as this one shows the effects of contaminating 
 influence." 
 
 The girl laughed, but the little driver clearly 
 was disappointed. 
 
 A half hour later, when the edges of appe 
 tites were turned, Kent came back to the pig 
 episode. 
 
 "Who's Failing if it's a fair question?" 
 
 "Puffec'ly fair. He's the meanest man in 
 Oregon and there's heaps o' competition." More 
 definite information from the girl established 
 
30 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 James Failing as Manager of the Bonanza Irriga 
 tion Company, with headquarters at Farewell. 
 
 "Who's your friend Sprunk the fellow you 
 intimated exchanged pigs? what I really need is 
 a 'Who's Who in Central Oregon'!" 
 
 "I don't intimate at all with Sprunk. He's 
 no frien' o' mine." Trumble's reply was chilly. 
 However, the girl came to the rescue. 
 
 "Oh, Dad, please tell him the judge's hog story. 
 You see," this to Kent, "Mr. Sprunk is judge of 
 the county. It's because he and Mr. Failing are 
 cronies that Dad dislikes him." 
 
 "Well, sir, it's like this," commenced the stage 
 driver after appropriate urging. "This here 
 Judge Sprunk's a Democrat, but of course in these 
 days t'aint right ter hold that agin him not 
 unreasonable, anyway. It's just last year he 
 landed in office, after about six tries, an* then he 
 only made the grade on a flivver. This here hog 
 indigent happened afore he was judge jes an 
 onery officeseeker. Sprunk always was ace high 
 on stock raisin' and went hard after the blue 
 ribbons at the county fair, but somehow he never 
 scored much in the hog line, which riled him, 
 because he's about as conceited as he's onery. 
 So he sent to the outside for a full blood Polin 
 Chiny boar. Well, th' bygod boar got to Shaniko 
 all right. I was there myself when he arove." 
 
 Trumble's ruddy cheeks quaked with laughter 
 at the recollection. 
 
 "It was a dirty trick quite ^graceful, sir." 
 
Concerning Pigs 31 
 
 The twinkle in the blue eyes belied the heavy 
 tragedy air of the confession. "It happened 
 same's to-night, only up at Shaniko; the blame 
 boar got away. We went over the town with a 
 fine tooth comb but never found him. Well, sir, 
 that there piece o' pork had kum clear from 
 loway by express an* was all kinds of a high roller 
 with a reg'lar bygod family tree and all them 
 trimmin's. If Sprunk got just an empty crate, 
 it'd break him all up, not ter mention us boys 
 what with damages to pay. So nacherly, we 
 turned to, roped a scummy runt of a boar with no 
 more pedigree than a coyote, back of Frenchy 
 Estebenet's saloon, and tacked him up neat and 
 sweet in that lovely empty crate. An' at that he 
 didn't look much different from number one." 
 
 "Was Mr. Sprunk pleased?" Kent inquired. 
 
 " Never asked him. His receipt was all I 
 wanted." The speaker devoted a minute's atten 
 tion to pie. " Well, sir, we'd most forgotten about 
 Sprunk's boar until two seasons later th' sequel o' 
 the story, as they say, sort o' oozed out at the 
 county fair. Sprunk was strong on hogs that 
 season, and had a pen full o' Polin Chinys that'd 
 put your eye out. That breed, yer know, has a 
 considerable pepperin' of black spots down the 
 back, and Sprunk's were spotted to the queen's 
 taste. When the judges came along there was 
 nothin' to it ; those Polin Chinys showed up exagly 
 by the book, and the blue ribbons was slapped on 
 'em immediate. But I reckon the Lord must 
 
32 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 have been lookin' an* felt sort o' sad for the other 
 hogs, for all ter wonct he opened up a tarnation 
 big thunder shower right over the fair grounds." 
 
 "What's that got to do with the Judge's hogs?" 
 Kent asked. 
 
 "Oh, jus* that stove blackin' nacherly will run 
 when it gets wet I An' by the time Sprunk came to 
 rescue his bygod pets, half th' folks in the county 
 was crowding around th' pen in the rain watchin' 
 the black splotches wash clean on them Polin 
 Chinys an' laughin' their heads off. Sprunk 
 kinder retired for a while after that, alt ho' he did 
 talk o' suing the stage company for libel or arson 
 orsomethin'." 
 
 The story teller lit his pipe. 
 
 "Well, girls an' boys, it's mos' three o'clock. 
 Le's pretend we've had a night's sleep an* keep 
 going." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 ON THE ROAD TO FAREWELL ' 
 
 DAYLIGHT came, a third relay of bony nags took 
 their places at Shallow Creek, and as the sun 
 thawed the travelers, the road climbed over the 
 broad back of Bear Mountain and down its pine- 
 covered southern flanks. Again they emerged 
 into lowlands, where occasional fields were inter 
 spersed among the sagebrush flats, and shortly 
 after noon reached Roundville, in the wide bot 
 tom where the creeks of Alamo and McCree join 
 Winding River. 
 
 Thirty-five miles westward lay Farewell Ford, 
 half the distance another climb from the valley 
 to the shoulder of Long Butte, whence the water 
 shed of Welcome River sloped westerly. Beyond 
 the river, on whose banks nestled Farewell, the 
 timbered foothills of the Cascades clamber up 
 ward and westward, merging into the mountains 
 whose snowy summits form a barrier dividing 
 the semi-arid hinterland of Central Oregon from 
 the Willamette Valley and the damp coastal 
 regions. 
 
 The afternoon was waning when the stage gained 
 3 33 
 
34 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 the summit of the last divide, and by mutual 
 consent of driver and driven came to a standstill 
 in the shade of a gnarled juniper tree. 
 
 Where a fringe of dark green marked the edge 
 of the timber a single hill stood out in the plain, 
 like a sentinel guarding the approach to its fellows. 
 
 "Over yonder 's Farewell, just at the foot of the 
 butte." The driver indicated the solitary cone. 
 "In the old days immigrants headin' for the 
 Ford steered by it, so it come to be called th* 
 Pilot. We always feel sorter better when we see 
 it agin 's like gettin' home.'* 
 
 "And true enough, there's no place quite so 
 good as home, " the girl added. 
 
 " Be it ever so humble, " Kent offered, smilingly. 
 
 "The right word, I fear." There was pathos 
 in the girl's answering smile as her eyes wandered 
 over the familiar solitudes of her brown homeland. 
 "It's all pretty humble, isn't it, Dad?" 
 
 "Humble? Why, that's too purty a name." 
 Old man Trumble admonished Kent with a 
 stubby forefinger. "It's dirt ter admit it, but 
 this here's the godawfulest country that ever 
 slipped by the Creator. There's humbleness same 
 as in all new countries, only here we've got hum 
 bug beside." 
 
 "Why, Dad, you're a knocker" Real reproach 
 was in the words. To admit that one's chosen 
 land falls short of perfection is to play traitor in a 
 region where flagrant optimism is religion. 
 
 "No such thing." The pessimist defended 
 
On the Road to Farewell 35 
 
 himself with the self -certainty of positive inno 
 cence. "It's only a little truth leaking through 
 the chinks of righteousness this here sunlight 
 opens 'em up. Jus' take them little books th' 
 company puts out, chock-ablock with nifty 
 pictures. You can read all about this garden of 
 Eden an' how water's all that's needed to make 
 it blossom like the rose and more highfalutin' 
 stuff of the same brand." Despite his indignant 
 words, even a stranger could guess that deep down 
 in his heart the little driver half believed it all 
 was actually as desirable as Eden. "The country 
 might be worse, but it doesn't get no show with a 
 nest of bunco artists milking it and the settlers 
 dry. Why, this gal here 
 
 "Hush, Dad," the "gal" interrupted. 
 
 "Won't! It's gospel, an* he might as well hear 
 now as later, " he insisted. " She's just back from 
 the State capital down ter Salem. Tried to get 
 the Land Board to understan' what's going on in 
 here how they're selling land before they're 
 able to deliver water and then selling more to 
 pay for getting it to the first afore the settlers 
 starve to death. Why, sir, it's it's a crime!" 
 The little man's blazing indignation sank sud 
 denly as if oppressed by the hopelessness of the 
 case. There was no fire left as he continued. 
 "Last year dozens of ranchers who'd cleared 
 land and even put crops in never got a drop of 
 water, so's their whole season's work went for 
 nothin'!" 
 
36 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Didn't they complain?" Kent asked. 
 
 "Complain? Yu betcha! One of 'em got 
 throwed out of Failing's office took a piece of 
 the door with him he complained so hard. Yes, 
 they got th' State officials in, too, but that just 
 meant rides around in ortermobiles, a luncheon an' 
 booze with Failing, and what they advertised as a 
 'settlers' meeting' where no one had a chance to 
 speak 'cept friends o' the company. Oh, it's 
 rotten enough! 
 
 "It's the same old fight for a living of the first 
 ones in a new country." The driver pursued his 
 vein of thought. "I've seen it a dozen times this 
 side of the Missouri. It's a hard country, but 
 it'll come out all right in th' end." He took up 
 the reins. "But say," there was a gleam in the 
 old blue eyes and a tightening of the wrinkles 
 about them, "I wouldn't swap it for any country 
 in this little old world nor'd you, after six 
 months." 
 
 The young Easterner smiled. The words 
 brought to his mind the picture of a dinner in 
 New York, where another loyal enthusiast had 
 defended the reputation of this adverse country 
 with positive affection and a tall, gray-clad girl 
 had listened as to a voice from strange lands, not 
 entirely comprehensible. 
 
 "Why, that's exactly what Bishop Rudd says." 
 
 "Sufferin' cats! Do you know the Bish? 
 You do, eh? Well, if that ain't the bygodest 
 luck." The little driver exuded pleasure. 
 
On the Road to Farewell 37 
 
 ''You see, the Bishop is a special friend of 
 ours," the girl explained. "Dad here swears by 
 him and at most other people, as perhaps you've 
 noticed!" 
 
 After they had heard what seemed best of 
 Kent's acquaintanceship with Rudd and of the 
 New York meeting which started his feet on the 
 road to Farewell Ford, the stage rolled on towards 
 Welcome River with a fine air of briskness. 
 
 The young man rode with only his thoughts 
 for company, the horse buyer having remained 
 at Roundville, and dust-framed glimpses of silvery 
 juniper trees, sagebrush, and brown earth as a 
 background for his mental excursioning. Despite 
 the first blush of barrenness which the land of his 
 self-made adventure presented, Kent was superbly 
 satisfied. New York seemed a part of another 
 world (which indeed it was), and he was all at 
 once shocked in realizing that the intimate per 
 sonal element had somehow gone from his con 
 sideration of Valentine Pennoyer by a curious 
 sudden mental trick, the girl in gray became a 
 queen in a realm of luxury totally foreign to his 
 surroundings, and strangely beyond reach. That 
 detail annoyed him. He was tired, he knew, and 
 not unnaturally the fresh breath of new sur 
 roundings would temporarily unmesh the cogs of 
 memory. He tried to picture Valentine beside 
 him there, and for some reason failed, which dis 
 turbed him vaguely, until he explained to himself 
 that of course she was far too fine for such rough 
 
38 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 environment no, not quite that rather say lack 
 of environment. At all events, it would be 
 grossly unfair to drag such a girl as Valentine 
 down he thought the word "down" very specifi 
 cally to such as this. Clearly he must find 
 success quickly and return a conqueror to claim 
 his reward! 
 
 From such pleasant contemplations Kent pres 
 ently aroused, stretched comprehensively, and 
 laughed aloud; the infernal cheek of supposing 
 himself a conqueror tickled his healthy sense of 
 humor. And with that modest conclusion his 
 thoughts returned across the continent from his 
 own gray girl, and, by way of contrast, focused 
 upon the driver's daughter. The blue boyish 
 eyes alone rescued her he decided in his idle 
 inventory from the dead level of prosaic plain 
 ness. 
 
 The embers of the day were sunset red behind 
 the purple mountains when the stage stopped 
 again, some six miles from Farewell Ford, and the 
 girl alighted. Kent was out, too, seeking explana 
 tion. 
 
 "Why, what's all this? Not deserting the ship, 
 surely?" 
 
 She nodded acquiescence and a reason all at once. 
 Following the direction indicated, he spied a cabin 
 set at the edge of a plowed field, a hundred yards 
 or so from the road. 
 
 "There's no place just like it!" She laughed 
 bravely, catching up the -thread of their last 
 
On the Road to Farewell 39 
 
 conversation. "At least, there'll be none better 
 when the alfalfa blooms. " 
 
 It seemed altogether wrong to leave her there, 
 alone. As for the shack, Kent made out a door 
 and a double window in the unpainted front then, 
 across a furrowed field, there appeared another 
 house, with an outbuilding or two and a friendly 
 wreath of smoke showing bluely against the shell- 
 pink evening sky. 
 
 "At least you have neighbors," he said for the 
 sake of saying something reasonably cheerful. 
 
 "Oh, yes, indeed. They keep my pony over 
 there. It's really very pleasant." She spoke 
 defensively. "And isn't my mountain beautiful? 
 He's down on the map as The Chief, but I call 
 him Brother Bill ... it sounds more homey and 
 we're really great friends. " 
 
 "Well, don't get lonely," admonished Trumble, 
 preparing to move on. Kent climbed up beside him. 
 
 "No indeed, Dad. Why, the old Pilot there 
 is the best company in the world. " The long 
 shadow of the butte lay across her little ranch. 
 "Good-night." 
 
 The horses plodded on as she turned into the 
 field before her shack. 
 
 "Got 'erchew?" 
 
 Kent admitted being chewless, adding that he 
 didn't happen to use tobacco. 
 
 "An' don't eat grass neither, I s'pose?" 
 
 "No. " Kent was innocent of the time-honored 
 jest. 
 
40 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "So then yer ain't fit company for man or 
 beast," Trumble concluded sourly, and immedi 
 ately, to show he didn't in the least mean it, be 
 gan pleasant inquiries concerning Bishop Rudd, to 
 whom he always referred as the "Bish," and as 
 often as not with profane embellishments of his 
 own peculiar blend. 
 
 "By the way, the Bishop gave me letters to a 
 couple of men at Farewell I've got the names here 
 somewhere." The passenger fished a notebook 
 from some pocket, found the page, and deciphered 
 the memorandum by the afterglow. "Do you 
 know a Mr. Jones and a Mr. Colton?" 
 
 "Know Fair Jones 'swell's know my pipe he 
 runs th' paper at Farewell. But tother one 
 Mister Colton, you say? Blasted if I knew 
 there was a he of that brand loose, an' I cum 
 blame near knowin' every bygod critter in the 
 county." 
 
 Kent looked again. 
 
 "Yes, it's Colton, all right." 
 
 Trumble appeared puzzled. 
 
 "Maybe that gal's been deceivin' me," he 
 growled in the direction of the off wheeler. 
 
 "That's funny. Why, the Bishop said Col 
 ton was one of his best friends. In fact, now I 
 remember he used the words 'my most useful 
 helper.'" The young man ruminated over the 
 mystery. "Anyway," he added, "whomever it 
 belongs to, it's a bully name Crete Colton. 
 I don't think I ever " 
 
On the Road to Farewell 41 
 
 "Crete Colton?" Trumble's explosion cut 
 him short. After a full minute of apoplectic 
 guffawing, the young man, more mystified than 
 ever, demanded explanation. 
 
 "Why, Crete Colton" the name acted on the 
 little driver like a pinch of snuff, and his mirth 
 burst forth anew "she ain't no man no more'n 
 I'm a girl" good-natured guffaws "she's a 
 woman." 
 
 Kent felt crestfallen. On consideration, he per 
 ceived that "Crete" did have a feminine sound, 
 after all. 
 
 "So you're introjuiced to Miss Crete, be yer 
 an' by th' Bishop?" Trumble considered the 
 matter gravely. "Then I reckon yer all right." 
 
 "Thanks. But who is Miss Colton and where 
 will I find her?" 
 
 For some unaccountable reason the inquiry 
 projected his companion into another spasm of 
 laughter, this one resented by Kent, who was 
 tiring of his humorous blunders. 
 
 "What's the joke now?" he asked testily. 
 
 "Oh, of course I hadn't ought ter laugh like 
 this." The old man dried his eyes. "But yer 
 see, we've left Mister Colton on the road back " 
 
 "Passed him that is, her?" 
 
 "Yes'n no. Not passed her jist left her. 
 Yer see, Crete Colton's sat here on th' seat with 
 me clear in from Shaniko!" 
 
 Kent was speechless. The dusty haired trav 
 eler the hungry girl of Biggs Crete Colton! 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 KENT GETS A JOB 
 
 FAREWELL started life with a firm resolve to 
 attain greatness. While fulfillment of this right 
 eous ambition came slowly, ample preparation, 
 at least, had been made for its attainment in 
 the ambitious generosity with which the town 
 had been " laid out." 
 
 At the time of David Kent's advent, Farewell's 
 empty avenues were girded principally by rows of 
 white lot stakes marching toward the four points 
 of the compass in measured procession, the entire 
 civic hollow square of optimism and progress be 
 ing hemmed round about by persistent sage 
 brush, junipers, and sand. 
 
 The broad expanse of "Main Street" was 
 banked by one- and two-story buildings, with the 
 exception of a solitary structure, whose triple- 
 tiered pretension had earned for its owner the 
 lasting sobriquet of Three Story Olsen. Nearly 
 all the buildings were contemporaneous, for 
 Farewell, born without premeditation, coincident 
 with the timber rush some six years previously, 
 had been weaned with almost indecent haste. 
 
 42 
 
Kent Gets a Job 43 
 
 David Kent strolled along one of Main Street's 
 wooden sidewalks. The mid-morning sun was 
 pleasantly warm, and the shadows pleasantly 
 cool. A mob of chattering juniper jays rioted 
 among the needles of a pine whose erect brown 
 trunk was as colorful as burnished copper. Be 
 neath the branches a glimpse of laughing river, 
 timbered slopes, and snow-crowned mountains 
 offered grateful contrast to the dusty street. 
 
 In the open door of what purported to be a 
 furniture store, an individual with short red hair 
 and amazingly wide, lilac suspenders sat reading 
 a newspaper. A symmetrical brown arc on the 
 sidewalk, centering at his chair and some five 
 feet distant, witnessed the infallibility of his 
 range. Kent blundered full into the circle's dan 
 ger zone at precisely the instant when the red- 
 haired reader lowered his paper long enough to 
 sight and fire. 
 
 "Gosh, I'm sorry never seen you," The 
 furniture man, profuse in apology, removed traces 
 of the accident with a hectic bandana. 
 
 Kent shouldered the blame, and, having nothing 
 else to do, accepted a proffered chair. An auto- 
 introduction ensued, disclosing the owner of the 
 lilac braces as Jeb Watterson, furniture dealer 
 by vocation and deputy sheriff through politi 
 cal virtue, which is by way of saying he always 
 voted the ticket straight. 
 
 "Looking for investments?" The inevitable 
 question came in due course; in a new country 
 
44 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 everyone has something to sell and every stranger 
 is regarded as a "prospect." 
 
 "No, indeed. I'm looking for a job." 
 
 Jeb was disappointed, and showed it. "What 
 kind?" 
 
 "Oh, any kind." He didn't mean it to sound 
 toplofty, but it did. 
 
 "Huh!" a segment of the mahogany-colored arc 
 was reinforced. "Jes' as lief as not handle John 
 D.'s business or be Taft's secretary, I suppose." 
 
 The young man, unwithered by the sarcasm, 
 laughed good-naturedly. 
 
 "No. They tried to get me but the salary 
 didn't suit. What I want is something speeded 
 pretty modestly. You see, I think I'm going to 
 like it here, so I want to stay, if it's possible to 
 make a living. " 
 
 Jeb mollified visibly. 
 
 "Tried the company th* irrigation layout? 
 It's two fifty per." Kent shook his head. "Or 
 th'mill?" 
 
 "Not yet. But I'll manage not to starve 
 to death, somehow. " 
 
 "Hope so." The speaker's face expressed no 
 lively concern, however. Then, as Kent moved 
 off, he added calmly : " If you should, jes remember 
 I've got a cracker jack line of coffins warranted 
 handmade, all sizes and styles, and terms to 
 suit." 
 
 The office of the Pioneer stood at the end of 
 Main Street. Not actually at the end of the street 
 
Kent Gets a Job 45 
 
 itself, of course (that was half a mile farther on), 
 but like an architectural rear-guard stationed well 
 beyond the last rank of the sprawling buildings 
 if not a finis to its story of development at least 
 a "to be continued" marking the close of a first 
 chapter. The building was a square box of 
 unpainted boards. A high false front gave the 
 impression of two stories, if regarded head on, 
 but the deception was apparent from any other 
 viewpoint. An ambitious sign announced the 
 name of the paper, and, in letters more modest, 
 that Pharaoh Jones, in addition to being "Prop." 
 was a notary public, while a flyspecked placard in 
 a front window offered these further particulars: 
 "Real Estate, Hunting and Fishing Licenses, 
 Insurance. " 
 
 Pharaoh Jones was tall, with a large head, and 
 a body thin beyond belief. His most prominent 
 feature was an abnormally bulging forehead, its 
 remote borders fringed with wisps of colorless 
 hair. Below this dome, a face peculiarly small 
 and webbed by scores of tiny wrinkles regarded 
 life with a gentleness all too mild for a country 
 printer, who needs be a steely hearted cynic to 
 survive successfully the pangs and arrows of his 
 calling. 
 
 "Mr. Jones?" 
 
 "At your service." 
 
 "My name is Kent David Kent. Bishop 
 Rudd told me to look you up; here's a note from 
 him." 
 
46 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Again the young man found the Bishop's friend 
 ship an open sesame; the emaciated editor grasped 
 his hand, ushering him to the best there was the 
 editorial swivel chair. 
 
 "Put your weight a mite to the left," the host 
 advised. "It's out of order, that chair needs 
 doctorin'." 
 
 It was apparent to Kent that the chair's owner 
 might well begin his doctoring at home. But of 
 himself Pharaoh Jones said nothing, rambling 
 into ardent recollections of Bishop Rudd, to whom, 
 he stated with winning sincerity, he now owed 
 another debt of gratitude. The younger man 
 returned the compliment, and each found himself 
 liking the other increasingly. 
 
 "I want to stay here, at least for a year, " Kent 
 finally stated. 
 
 Pharaoh Jones nodded approval. With him 
 Farewell was a religion, but one more vitally 
 personal than the usual theological variety is apt 
 to be. 
 
 "Couldn't do better," he agreed. "The town 
 has a grand future, and the opportunities for 
 investment are marvelous. With timber, water 
 power, irrigation, wheat lands, and " but there 
 the swelling list was checked by Kent's smiling 
 interruption. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, I've heard a lot about the re 
 sources. The only one omitted so far is your 
 own optimism that's worth at least a thousand 
 horsepower to a community! Why, I'm sure 
 
Kent Gets a Job 47 
 
 you and the Pioneer could make a city anywhere ! " 
 The praise, playful as it was, warmed the sallow 
 cheeks with color. 
 
 "It's kind to put it that way. " 
 
 Kent was building upon a groundwork of white 
 lies, having never seen a copy of the Pioneer. 
 
 "By the way, may I see your last issue? " 
 
 ' ' Certainly. ' ' There were a number of pyramids 
 of Pioneers beneath a counter facing the entrance, 
 with dust of varying thickness upon them, ac 
 cording to their longevity. From a pile that 
 was scarcely gray, the visitor received one of last 
 Wednesday's papers. 
 
 The Pioneer's front page was not innocent of 
 advertising; in one corner the Farewell Bank of 
 Commerce blossomed, surrounded by an enticing 
 border of corpulent money bags, and in the other 
 P. A. McPherson addressed an eager public con 
 cerning "town and country property." The six 
 modest "heads" lured readers to the details of a 
 school picnic, a rumored railroad, a new home 
 stead law, the satisfactory crop outlook, the county 
 court proceedings, and the development plans of 
 the Bonanza Irrigation Company. The back page 
 was occupied exclusively by an advertisement of 
 the "exceptional opportunities offered settlers on 
 the rich segregation" of that same company. 
 The land, one learned, was free "absolutely 
 free" was in two-inch blackface type payment 
 being only for the water right under the munifi 
 cent provisions of the Carey Act. 
 
48 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 On page two was the Pioneer's one luxury, an 
 editorial column. To be sure, it was sometimes 
 occupied by boiler plate, when the editor "didn't 
 get 'round" to filling it, but the words "Editorial 
 Column" were always there, a monument to men 
 tal travail and journalistic pride. 
 
 Below the notice that produce would not be 
 accepted in payment for subscriptions, there 
 appeared the couplet, "Read by all, believed by 
 some, cussed by a few, hated by none. " Motley 
 advertisements (among them Jeb Watterson's) 
 divided the honors of pages two and three with 
 boiler plate "news of the world in brief," mostly 
 seven weeks old, and a column or two of ' ' locals ' ' 
 and country correspondence. 
 
 Under the caption "Important Debate at 
 Cloverhurst" Kent read far enough to learn the 
 subject of discussion: "Resolved, that money 
 does more harm than drink." His hearty laugh 
 rattled the editorial chair to the verge of 
 collapse. 
 
 "Do they often pick subjects like that?" he 
 asked. Pharaoh nodded, gently smiling. 
 
 "Well, money isn't likely to injure me irrepar 
 ably just now but as I don't happen to drink 
 there's no ground for comparisons!" Kent 
 chuckled. 
 
 The mention of money reawakened thoughts 
 which had occupied him earlier on this first day in 
 Farewell. He wanted neither work nor money 
 especially, but the latter he needed, if he were to 
 
Kent Gets a Job 49 
 
 follow out fully the conditions of his financially 
 disenfranchised venture. 
 
 ''Mr. Jones, I'm broke." He delivered himself 
 squarely. 
 
 There is not the slightest doubt that Pharaoh 
 Jones had heard similar declarations before. The 
 pained cloud that darkened his sympathetic face 
 intimated perplexity. 
 
 "Oh, don't worry! all I want is advice," the 
 young man added hastily. 
 
 ' ' Please don't think of it that way. ' ' There was 
 real distress in the editor's tone. "A friend of 
 Bishop Rudd's ... a friend of mine, sir ... 
 anything I have is at your ..." 
 
 1 ' Lorsy me ! There you go again ! ' ' 
 
 The interruption came from a motherly woman, 
 built squarely and with a bonny face, who emerged 
 from behind the type cases. 
 
 "Pharaoh, what are you giving away now?" 
 
 "But, Mother ..." 
 
 "But me no buts!" The command brought 
 the editor up abruptly on the threshold of his 
 explanation so abruptly that he coughed again. 
 
 Kent anticipated a stormy scene, but the ex 
 pected did not happen. Instead, Pharaoh's better 
 half all at once melted from a domestic dictator 
 into a very womanly helpmate. Her arm was 
 on his thin shoulder when she continued. "Pha 
 raoh, dear, excuse me now. I didn't mean to 
 interrupt, only I got listening and thought some 
 one was borrowing money from you." 
 
50 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Pharaoh needed no mollification. At his wife's 
 words the smile returned to the pale, grave face. 
 He introduced Kent. 
 
 "You came in the nick of time. Your husband 
 was on the point of giving me the Pioneer! ' ' Kent 
 laughingly asserted. 
 
 "Th' measles'd be less trouble, and about as 
 profitable. I have to watch him like a baby." 
 Mother Jones harped back to her original theme. 
 "I'm usually back there in the shop setting type, 
 and every time there's a caller I'm in fear and trem 
 bling lest he'll get taken in on some scheme. 
 Give him a chance an' he'd have his life insured 
 or try it once a week. But book agents is 
 his bait newer, as the French say. The dear 
 man'll buy anything if they keep after him hard 
 enough just like he'll let these patent medicine 
 houses talk him into cutting advert isin' rates in 
 half." 
 
 "Now, Mother, please don't," Pharaoh, fore 
 seeing what was coming, pleaded resignedly. 
 
 "But that's just what I will, Fair dear. It's 
 right for Mr. Kent to see all your wickedness at 
 the start. " The biggest sort of a dimple deepened 
 in one cheek, well above the chubby curve of her 
 double chin. "He looks like a decent moral man, 
 doesn't he?" 
 
 Kent nodded. Pharaoh assuredly did. 
 
 "But he isn't. Oh, don't interrupt!" She 
 smothered signs of protest from the embarrassed 
 editor. "There's no use denying it when the 
 
Kent Gets a Job 51 
 
 proof is right here." She indicated a bulky box, 
 prodigally nailed, lying beneath a desert of dust in 
 an obscure corner. 
 
 "You see, Mister Kent," the mystery wrecker 
 continued, "one day when I was out at the ranch 
 a book agent corralled Pharaoh. He's never 
 explained how it was done, but when I came back 
 he had contracted to buy a set of books on the 
 installment plan, at four dollars a month for ten 
 months. That was last October, and we're still 
 paying, though we haven't enough money to get 
 alfalfa seed." 
 
 "And the books? Did they suit?" Kent 
 asked. 
 
 "They'd have suited him all right, only I saw 
 them first!" Indignation blazed in her motherly 
 face. "What do you suppose those books were?" 
 She put the query breathlessly, answering it 
 herself: "The complete Writings of Guy du Mau 
 passant!" 
 
 Kent, who was familiar with the racy raconteur, 
 gurgled, heroically suppressing his inclination to 
 laugh aloud. 
 
 "And me a member of the church!" 
 
 "But, Mother, I've told you, I didn't know," 
 Pharaoh put in. 
 
 "It's the first time I've ever doubted his word, 
 Mister Kent. " The good woman showed signs of 
 real distress. ' ' Oh, it was cruel hard ! He told me 
 they was all about French life, like a history, you 
 know, and as he'd signed for the set and paid some- 
 
52 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 thing I let 'em come. The first story I read was 
 called In the Conservatory. I thought perhaps 
 I'd got a wrong book, so I looked into some of the 
 others . . . and they were worse! As for the 
 pictures, why, land _sakes, the clothes in all of 
 'm wouldn't make covering enough for one decent 
 woman! The whole thing was a living scandal! 
 So I gave Pharaoh his choice me or the books. 
 And . . . and . . . well, when I showed him the 
 poison he'd bought, he nailed 'em tight in that 
 box . . . it'll never be opened. " 
 
 * 'Never," echoed Pharaoh. It might be his 
 tone was faintly tinged with regret. 
 
 4 'We're paying for them yet," she continued. 
 "They're so terrible we don't dare let folks here 
 know we have 'em. The disgrace ... oh, dear, 
 dear . . . forty dollars ' worth of scandal with us 
 so poor! . . . And we can't even give them to 
 the library!" 
 
 Mother Jones's description of her spouse's 
 encounter with the book agent was scarcely com 
 pleted when an automobile drew up in front of the 
 Pioneer office. 
 
 "It's Mister Failing, " Miranda ejaculated un 
 easily. 
 
 Forthwith the floor creaked beneath the weight 
 of a big, square-bodied man, and into the office 
 came the manager of the Bonanza Irrigation 
 Company. 
 
 "I'd like to talk with you, Jones, " he announced 
 curtly. 
 
Kent Gets a Job 53 
 
 Failing's voice was extraordinary. Instead of 
 the deep boom somehow expected from such a bull- 
 like build, the words came forth in a staccato 
 reminiscent of the hero at a Punch and Judy per 
 formance. The contrast of the littleness of the 
 voice with the bigness of the man was ludicrous. 
 
 Good nature is normally a fat man's prerogative, 
 and whatever his mission the manager contrived 
 to appear no exception to the rule, so far as con 
 cerned outward appearances. But behind the 
 smiling mask of his broad pink face lurked hints 
 of things less pleasant. The small, wine-colored 
 eyes were moist and apt to evade direct encounters. 
 The wide brow sloped back quickly. The heavy 
 broadness of the lower face contrasted oddly with 
 the rather skin-drawn appearance of cheekbones, 
 nose, and brow. An inconsiderable amount of un 
 healthy hair added further to the impression of 
 a structure massively founded but slighted by 
 architect and builder as it rose. 
 
 On Failing's hint, Mother Jones and Kent 
 retired to the printshop, whither the manager's 
 queer voice penetrated more than once as he talked 
 with Pharaoh. That shop, Kent observed, offered 
 a notable contrast to the "front office. " Absolute 
 spotlessness reigned in the realms of type, for the 
 Pioneer's workroom was as amazingly clean as its 
 sanctum was dirty. The rail was the dividing 
 deadline. 
 
 "It's Pharaoh's idea," she explained. "He's 
 editor, and I'm only assistant, you see. I'm not 
 
54 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 supposed to interfere in the office. He says he 
 knows where everything is and if I clean up it 
 bothers him, so he takes care of that side of the 
 rail himself. But in here I just naturally like to 
 keep things neat. " 
 
 "It's quite remarkable,'* Kent said truthfully. 
 The floors of printships normally are cluttered 
 outrageously but the Pioneer was as clean as a 
 Dutch kitchen. The leads, slugs, and reglets 
 were stored neatly in remodeled cigar boxes, even 
 the type cases were dustless, the Gordon jobber was 
 as resplendent as the nature of job presses permits, 
 and the polish of the windows would shame the 
 untidy instincts of any predatory fly. 
 
 In due course Pharaoh joined them. 
 
 "Well, I've got 'em. Two months' work, 
 Mother." The editor methodically assorted a 
 sheaf of papers, and impaled them upon the hith 
 erto naked job hook. 
 
 "The contracts?" asked Mother Jones. 
 
 Pharaoh nodded. "And a lot beside . . . 
 more work than we've seen since the timber 
 rush." 
 
 Yet the editor sighed, and his wife showed no 
 elation over this avalanche of prosperity. 
 
 "What did he say . . . ?" 
 
 Instead of answering, the tired-eyed editor 
 communed with himself for a full minute, until 
 Kent suddenly remembered these were private 
 matters. 
 
 "Well, I do hope everything's all right. I must 
 
Kent Gets a Job 55 
 
 be going now . . . pressing engagement, you 
 know!" 
 
 Pharaoh regarded him silently, with specula 
 tive eyes, evidently occupied by some disturbing 
 problem. 
 
 "If there's anything I can do . . ." Kent, 
 about to go, held out his hand. 
 
 "Busy?" Pharaoh showed no desire to speed 
 the parting guest. 
 
 "Lord, no!" 
 
 "Then sit down. I'm not . . . well, quite 
 comfortable. I'd like to ... er ... it' d be a 
 real favor to talk things over with you . . . you 
 being fresh from the outside, a stranger and all 
 that, could give good advice. And besides, you'll 
 know all about it later." 
 
 A synopsis of the editor's narrative, which in 
 cluded most of Farewell's biography, impressed 
 itself upon his listener. James Failing practically 
 supported the Pioneer. For two years the Bonanza 
 full-page advertisement had proved a veritable 
 windfall to the little paper, while the irrigation 
 office provided more than half of the job work. 
 To be sure, this latter in the past had chiefly 
 applied on the payment for a forty-acre ranch 
 bought by Pharaoh from the company, but this 
 particular batch of work meant cash. And cash, 
 explained practical Mother Jones, implied means 
 of planting alfalfa and "lots of other things. " A 
 crisis had been pending ever since the Pioneer 
 voiced criticism of the company ten days ago, 
 
56 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 and they had momentarily expected Failing's 
 wrath to fall upon them. 
 
 4 'Oh, I hated it, all right." Worry made 
 Pharaoh cough. 
 
 "Never mind, Fair dear," his wife comforted 
 him. "We're spoiled, that's all, because we have 
 so little trouble." 
 
 "As soon as you were gone Failing opened up in 
 that idiotic voice of his. He didn't threaten much 
 or fly off the handle if he had, I'd have told him 
 to take his dirty business and be damned!" 
 
 "Sh! Why, Pharaoh!" But despite her admoni 
 tion, one imagined Mother Jones secretly gloried 
 at the rare rebellion. 
 
 "Well, I would." He was quite grim for 
 him. "Of course, he was mad about the settler's 
 letter, and when I wouldn't tell him who wrote it 
 he nearly blew up. The letter, Mr. Kent? Oh, 
 you see we published a letter signed 'A Settler/ 
 which protested because the Irrigation Company 
 was trying to sell more land before it had delivered 
 water to the people who'd already bought." 
 
 "Great Scott, that isn't allowed, is it?" 
 
 "Oh, isn't it? I should say so! It's rotten, 
 but it's being done every day. Take the Federal 
 Southern, for instance." He referred to a well- 
 known irrigation fiasco of a dozen years since. 
 "Land was sold there and money collected. 
 Settlers moved in and started clearing. Then it 
 was discovered there wasn't enough water to care 
 for half the acreage. Of course, the company 
 
Kent Gets a Job 57 
 
 went bankrupt after it had been milked dry by 
 the promoters and the settlers were left on their 
 backs." 
 
 "That letter must have been rather fine, then? 
 Who wrote it?" 
 
 Pharaoh hesitated. 
 
 "Oh, I beg pardon. Of course, that's a secret. 
 But can't the settlers get justice . . . from the 
 State . . . or somebody?" 
 
 The editor smiled a bit wearily. 
 
 "Apparently not. You see, they choke off all 
 complaints. Mighty little ever becomes public 
 when it's a case of a few busted settlers against a 
 big corporation. Why, even the papers down 
 in th' City won't print anything about settlers' 
 troubles . . . pretend it hurts development and 
 all that." 
 
 Next, it appeared, Failing had told the editor 
 that thereafter he did not expect to see any 
 criticism of the company in the Pioneer. "If 
 you can't find something good to print, don't print 
 anything," was exactly the way he phrased it. 
 
 "Then he went on to say his advertising was 
 nothing but a meal ticket for us, intimating we'd 
 probably starve to death without it. He said the 
 ad. did them no real good and our job prices were 
 away above th' City's which is true I know it. 
 Why, even the meal ticket part's correct charity 
 from such a source it's just hell." The tall 
 wasted man bowed down beneath the unkind- 
 ness of it all. His shabby suit seemed more ill 
 
58 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 fitting than ever, his face more pinched, his eyes 
 wearier. 
 
 "Yes, I took them. It was that ... or war." 
 Pharaoh's voice was husky. "And now I suppose 
 we're gagged . . . the poor settlers . . . and sir, 
 what hurts worst is / know we're right. " 
 
 Mother Jones, with face averted, was suspi 
 ciously quiet. 
 
 "Shall I send 'em back?" 
 
 If the editor's wife had nodded, James Failing 
 would shortly have received an instructive surprise. 
 But in due course she looked around and did not 
 nod. Instead she said, with a brave effort at a 
 smile : 
 
 "Fair dear, we'd like to, but we can't . . . just 
 yet. Some day, when the ranch is in crops and 
 the Pioneer's a daily, we'll show him! . . . And 
 now we've a very great deal to do, and Wednes 
 day's paper not all in yet. " 
 
 Saturday was nearly half gone. Mother Jones, 
 fortified with a long gray apron, took a stick of 
 type from the forms on the stone, and once more 
 the soft click-click of the lead letters, scattering 
 into the cases as her skilled hand distributed line 
 after line, made printer's music in the shop. 
 
 "You wanted a er, that is occupation?" As 
 "job" sounded harsh, the more polite word was 
 substituted. 
 
 The young man with seven dollars and thirty- 
 five cents nodded a vigorous affirmative. 
 
 ' ' We'll need help. ' ' Emerging from his abstrac- 
 
Kent Gets a Job 59 
 
 tion, the gaunt man delivered himself like an 
 oracle. 
 
 And thereafter, with no ceremony at all and a 
 deal of good-natured haggling (each party bargain 
 ing against himself) a pact was entered into 
 whereby David Kent, volunteer camper on the 
 trail of success, assumed the high office and modest 
 duties of general assistant to the staff of the 
 Pioneer. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 SUNDAY AT LITTLE EGYPT 
 
 ON a morning of a Sunday in June, David Kent 
 journeyed toward Little Egypt, as Pharaoh Jones 
 had inexplicably named his ranch adjoining Crete 
 Colton's, some four miles from Farewell. Agamem 
 non, Pharaoh's mature horse, furnished leisurely 
 motive power for the buggy whose seat the young 
 man shared with the neighbor landlord, or lady, of 
 the Little Egyptians. 
 
 It- was not until Agamemnon evidenced over 
 whelming sleepiness on the outskirts of town that 
 Kent abandoned conjecturing the contents of a fat 
 letter from Valentine, which now metaphorically 
 burned in his coat pocket with the pleasurable 
 mystery of all unopened envelopes. Their steed's 
 somnolent tactics, however, returned the young 
 man's wandering attention and his manners. 
 Whipping the horse, he began talking to the girl. 
 
 "Aggie isn't a very successful sleep walker," he 
 observed. "And, speaking of sleep, I suppose 
 you're pretty tired yourself?" 
 
 She was. Yesterday the school term had ended 
 in that function whimsically called commence- 
 
 60 
 
Sunday at Little Egypt 61 
 
 ment. The responsibilities of directing her charges 
 through recitations, of greeting their parents tact 
 fully, and of looking attractive, and yet not too at 
 tractive to be efficient (in the estimation of the 
 School Board) still weighed upon her. Laugh 
 ingly, she recounted the complex difficulties of 
 eighth grade pedagogy. 
 
 " And the worst of it is, I like it, " she added. 
 
 "There it is again!'' 
 
 "There is what? I don't understand.' 
 
 "Oh, you and the Bishop and Pharaoh are all 
 the same. You like your work." He turned to 
 her in a burst of confidence. "The Bishop gave 
 me a bully sermon along those lines. You see, I 
 never did much of anything back East, and I 
 didn't like what I did. Everything was a beastly 
 bore. Then along came Rudd and told me it was 
 all my fault, and through him I came out here. " 
 
 She nodded. "Do you like it?" 
 
 "Tremendously. That's the funny part. I 
 haven't found much to do yet, except potter 
 around the paper, but that suits me down to the 
 ground ... if there was only more of it." The 
 sunshine seemed to have filtered into the young 
 man's heart. His words were buoyant, like his 
 eyes. "You see, Miss Colton, I simply must 
 make good." 
 
 "Everyone feels that way ... on June morn 
 ings," she laughed. "But who put the novel 
 idea in your head?" 
 
 "Rudd." 
 
62 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "And what will the Bishop do if you disappoint 
 him?" 
 
 "It isn't him I mind. It's" But there sud 
 den embarrassment halted Kent. 
 
 "Oh!" said Crete Colton. 
 
 "Engaged. I thought so," was the girl's men 
 tal comment. 
 
 1 ' After all, I'm not engaged. Wish I were, ' ' was 
 the man's thought. 
 
 Each of them was quite impersonal, so far as 
 consideration of the other was concerned. To the 
 girl, the man wore the badge of another woman 
 and therefore was satisfactorily safe. As Kent 
 believed, he was Valentine's, and Valentine he 
 hoped was to be his, and so the field of femi 
 nine attraction was filled. Nurtured in this neu 
 tral security their acquaintanceship had ripened 
 pleasantly. 
 
 The gray-tinted juniper trees hung heavy with 
 clusters of berries, old blue and opal in color, and 
 about their branches frolicked juniper jays, the 
 blues of their backs and wings harmonizing with 
 the tones of their namesake trees. A pair of newly 
 wedded nuthatches alternately preened then- 
 feathers and bathed in the brown dust . The straight 
 columns of pine trees here and there contrasted 
 with the gnarled junipers, lifting needled greenery 
 against the morning sky. The scent of sage 
 was poignant and countless thousands of tiny 
 white starflowers twinkled in the sand, out-smiling 
 the bright sun itself, and defying its parching rays. 
 
Sunday at Little Egypt 63 
 
 'Agamemnon proceeded to the center of the flat 
 lying between Farewell and the Pilot and there 
 halted without apparent cause. 
 
 " Force of habit," was Miss Colton's answer to 
 Kent's look of inquiry. ' ' Did you notice how Jeff 
 Bayley's horse always stops in front of Anderson's 
 saloon?" 
 
 Kent had; an historic story related that when 
 Jeff's horse was stolen it subsequently deserted the 
 thief and one morning two weeks later appeared of 
 its own volition at the accustomed post before 
 Anderson's, bringing back to Jeff an excellent 
 saddle he had never before seen. 
 
 ''Yes. But what has that got to do with it?" 
 
 "It's habit with Aggie, too. These lots belong 
 to Pharaoh, and he always stops here to build 
 castles in the air ... that is, cities in the dust. " 
 
 "Good Lord! So Pharaoh owns these! Why, 
 we're a mile and a half from town. I hope they 
 didn't cost him much. " 
 
 "Oh, I consider them very good property." 
 The girl was on the defensive at once. "You 
 know, when the town has 25,000 people, or even 
 10,000, these will be worth a lot of money. " 
 
 ' ' When. ' ' He emphasized the adverb. ' ' Why 
 not*/?" 
 
 She shook her head in mock despair. 
 
 "Don't be a pessimist. It's against the law in 
 Oregon ! Some day you'll have to eat your words. 
 Besides they didn't cost Pharaoh much of any 
 thing, as he took them for advertising. " Then she 
 
64 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 added gravely. "I do hope he will be able to sell. 
 Poor people, they need money so badly. " 
 
 "And how about ranchers without water for 
 crops young lady ranchers, for instance?" 
 , The pointed inquiry brought a flush to her face. 
 
 "That's different. I'm er ranchers are 
 strong and if they are young, there's plenty of 
 chance later to make up for lost time. . . . Go 
 along, Agamemnon. " 
 
 Thereafter Agamemnon concentrated on his 
 task, and conversation languished. 
 
 Upon their arrival at Pharaoh's they found him 
 seated upon the doorstep, where the sun warmed 
 his gaunt frame and the Pilot and the mountains 
 behind it offered a cheerful outlook. His atten 
 tion, however, was focused upon a paper, while 
 his forlorn expression seemed in keeping with the 
 poverty-stricken appearance of the paintless 
 shack at his back. 
 
 Greetings exchanged and Agamemnon disposed 
 of, the two men set to talking while Crete "ran 
 over" to her own shack a quarter of a mile along 
 the lateral ditch. On the morrow she moved out 
 from town for the summer ranching, and she must 
 "see about things," an indefinite and everlasting 
 feminine prerogative in household affairs. 
 
 "A bonny lass," said Pharaoh. 
 
 "Very attractive," Kent assented, thinking 
 more of his letter, still unread, than of his words. 
 
 ' ' She should be married. " Good Mother Jones, 
 emerging from the house, voiced the universal 
 
Sunday at Little Egypt 65 
 
 verdict of the court of womankind, that tribunal 
 without appeal. Like wives the world over her 
 instincts were a matchmaker's. Whether the 
 motive be charity or spite, the commandment 
 seems to be: "Do unto others as has been done 
 unto you." 
 
 "Are there prospects?" Kent put the ques 
 tion discreetly. 
 
 "There are and there aren't," Mother Jones 
 compromised, with a trace of embarrassment. 
 
 "Worse luck!" Whoever, or whatever, was at 
 the bottom of it evidently riled the editor. He 
 sputtered: "The thing I can't understand is what 
 a girl like her sees in a man so doggon hateful as 
 
 TJ\ 
 
 "Sh-h! For shame, Fair!" Miranda's hand, 
 capably applied to his mouth, stifled her spouse's 
 outbreak. 
 
 "Women," said Pharaoh, seizing the luxury of 
 the last word when his wife had departed, "are 
 beyond all understanding." 
 
 Kent subscribed to the sentiment with a chari 
 table smile and betook himself to the shade of a 
 juniper tree and his letter. 
 
 The epistle contained four pages of routine news 
 (through which Kent hurried), two pages of self- 
 doubting (read with restive frowns), a page and 
 a half of lover-like loneliness (reread thrice, with 
 tender delight), and half a page of announcement 
 extraordinary. 
 
 The first section was humdrum, concerning such 
 
66 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 items of everyday metropolitan life as new frocks, 
 matinees, and a contemplated visit from Cousin 
 Cecile who lives in Baltimore. The second, 
 whose penmanship hinted distress, hinged upon the 
 difficulties of constancy to the lover far away, 
 indicating a belief that after all perhaps absence 
 does not make the heart grow fonder. Also, it 
 appeared that for once Mamma and Dads were - 
 entirely agreed, their meeting ground the mutual 
 belief that she, Valentine, would do well to forget 
 her sentimental bargain with young Mr. Kent. 
 "Aren't they too horrid for words, David dear?" 
 this portion of the letter concluded. To which 
 David added a fervid "Amen," and one or two 
 other things. The loneliness and David-want 
 portion of the letter requires no comment; mil 
 lions of men and women in the ante-betrothed, 
 post-betrothed, and early married stages have 
 written similarly. 
 
 "You may remember that Dads is interested 
 in an irrigation company," the announcement 
 extraordinary proceeded. "An irritation com 
 pany, I call it, for that is all he seems to get from it. 
 Somehow there's a horrid muddle and poor Dads, 
 instead of making a lot of money, may lose some. 
 He is quite angry and of course it's a dreadful 
 shame that after all he has done they'd treat him 
 so. And David, the wonderful news is that 
 Dads says he must go out and see about it. I 
 haven't told him yet, but Tm going with him! 
 Don't laugh I'll just make him take me. " 
 
Sunday at Little Egypt 67 
 
 "Lovingly" was scratched out not so thor 
 oughly as to be indecipherable, and the letter 
 ended ' ' Affectionately, Valentine. ' ' Then : ' ' P. S. 
 I'm not sure, but I think the irritated company is 
 in California. That is next door to Oregon so you 
 can come and see me. Are you keeping the rules ? 
 I am. V." In very small letters on a margin 
 was this malicious afterthought: "Max Welton 
 will go too." 
 
 "Damn," said Kent, at the post-postscript. 
 The rest of it set his heart to beating dance time, 
 and back to the house he went, treading the thin 
 air of daydream paradise. 
 
 "What's the trouble, Chief?" Kent had 
 adopted that name for Pharaoh. 
 
 "Water rent," was the laconic reply. "Two 
 years of it. " 
 
 "Oh, you didn't pay last season, then?" 
 
 "No. And Crete's in the same boat." Pha 
 raoh whistled Loch Lomond through his teeth, 
 contemplating further confidences. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Kent," he had not yet reached 
 plain "David,"- -"you're learning much of our 
 affairs, so you may as well know more. In a nut 
 shell, we're not paying for what we haven't had. " 
 
 "They've not delivered the water, then?" 
 
 "Exactly. Our contract calls for one and eight 
 tenths second feet an acre, and their own measure 
 ments of the water in the canal show there isn't 
 enough to supply the sold lands, let alone what 
 they expect to sell. Of course, the water is to be 
 
68 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 had from the river, and it's simply a matter of en 
 larging the canal so it can handle greater flow. " 
 
 " Surely you had some water? " he asked. 
 
 "Some, yes. But not enough . . . too little 
 for the crops and certainly a lot less than my con 
 tract calls for. As for her," he nodded towards 
 Crete Colton's home, "she was just naturally 
 busted last August. During the early summer, 
 when there wasn't a big demand, they turned a fair 
 amount of water down this ditch so she went ahead 
 and sowed about twenty acres of clover and alfalfa. 
 Then just when the stuff was getting in good shape, 
 and needed water the most, there wasn't any more. 
 So the entire crop burned up. " 
 
 "She complained?" Kent thought of nothing 
 better to say. 
 
 "Complained? God! If it had been me, I'd 
 have used a shotgun." Pharaoh regarded the 
 blue sky gloomily. "Complain?" he repeated. 
 "Say, what's the use of kicking to the Lord when 
 the weather's bad? None, eh? Well, it's just 
 about the same with Failing 'the settlers be 
 damned, ' says he, and boosts his salary as mana 
 ger another hundred. " 
 
 "It gets you, Mr. Kent." In the pale eyes 
 there burned a something deep of rebellion and 
 sadness, like a child struggling hopelessly against 
 bullying. "Disaster and injustice at close range 
 aren't pleasant. Take Crete. There was about 
 five hundred dollars coming to her from that 
 clover . . . the saving of a year. And it dried 
 
Sunday at Little Egypt 69 
 
 and dried and burned brown and went to nothing 
 before your eyes. And what do you suppose she 
 said? 'Better luck next year/ . . . Can you 
 beat that?" 
 
 Kent pondered the problem. 
 
 " Failing admits there's not enough water?" he 
 asked presently. 
 
 " Practically. He promises improvements in the 
 system, though." 
 
 " I thought you said there was no more money? " 
 
 "There isn't, except the maintenance charges, 
 which go chiefly for salaries and upkeep. Of 
 course, we don't know, but it's fairly sure no more 
 capital will invest with things as they are. It's 
 all been going out and nothing coming in. Sales 
 are at a standstill; in fact, there's little land left 
 to sell. The only hope is the South Canal unit." 
 
 This solution, Kent knew, contemplated the 
 reclamation of another body of land adjoining the 
 present segregation. The scheme, while skillfully 
 sugared over with plausible advantages, in its 
 naked simplicity was nothing more than a des 
 perate stopgap to redeem the failing fortunes of 
 the Bonanza Company. The new lands were to 
 be watered and sold or, perhaps, as in the past, 
 first sold and then watered provided the funds held 
 out and with this fresh revenue the needs of the 
 original segregation could be cared for, scandal 
 turned into success, and (more important in the 
 eyes of the eastern bondholders) interest payments 
 met and sinking funds fattened. 
 
70 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 The three-year contract with the State under 
 which the B. I. C. controlled the South Canal 
 segregation would lapse that September, unless 
 an extension of time was granted. Technically, 
 as the company had done absolutely no reclama 
 tion, the contract should be annulled at the time 
 limit. But technicalities in the past had received 
 small consideration and it was well understood 
 that an extension could be expected. In view of 
 the heavy investments and losses of the company 
 Failing sought permission to place a higher lien, 
 probably fifty-five dollars an acre, on the new 
 segregation, and as the actual reclamation cost 
 was extremely low, enormous profits seemed 
 assured. Extension of the South Canal contract 
 with the State was therefore the immediate goal 
 of Failing's endeavors. 
 
 But in the meantime the Bonanza Company was 
 in perilously deep water, and not a few settlers had 
 sunk for the third time. A vigorous push might 
 bring the tottering structure about the ears of its 
 dictator manager. Whether or not the settlers 
 then would fare worse than ever was an unsolved 
 riddle. As it was, with their annual maintenance 
 fees they virtually were supporting the Failing 
 machine. 
 
 "We've decided not to pay our water rent.'* 
 
 "If everyone does it, that will wreck them." 
 
 "I reckon." Pharaoh's eyes glinted. "Us or 
 
 them. Perhaps both. And this summer we'll 
 
 get enough water if we have to . " His serious 
 
Sunday at Little Egypt 71 
 
 glance focused in the direction of the head- 
 gate. 
 
 " We'll get it, Pharaoh." Crete Colton, un 
 noticed by the two men conversing on the door 
 step, had returned. "Mr. Failing told me so." 
 
 The walk across the plain had heightened the 
 girl's color. Kent resented his suspicion that the 
 manager's name added even a rosier tint. That 
 name, coming when and whence it did, struck her 
 hearers with odd discomfiture. 
 
 "Damn Failing," growled the editor, as Crete 
 went indoors. 
 
 "Amen, " said the young man from the East. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 HONEYMOONS, PERFECT AND OTHERWISE 
 
 THE setting of that Sunday dinner was simpli 
 city itself a healthy American simplicity. 
 
 White curtains and radiantly red geraniums 
 adorned the windows of the shack. Gray building 
 paper neatly covered the walls and ceiling, its 
 chaste expanse unsullied by the usual jaundiced 
 calendars and picture postals. One of Steven 
 son's gems of optimism had an entire wall to itself, 
 framed with a narrow strip of gray and in its spirit 
 encompassing an eternity of courage. A Reuter- 
 dahl sea sketch, in large lines and vivid colors, con 
 trasted with a gracious print of the world-known 
 "Portrait of the Artist's Mother. " 
 
 "I never saw the ocean, " Miranda Jones sighed. 
 " I know I would love it." 
 
 "Your mountains are better. " 
 
 Crete Colt on laughed. 
 
 "As a rule a man's a fool; when it's hot he wants 
 it cool. And when it's cool he wants it hot, always 
 wanting what is not," she quoted, mocking his 
 gallantry. 
 
 Kent took up cudgels. 
 '72 
 
Honeymoons, Perfect and Otherwise 73 
 
 "Well, Miss Colton, which do you want?" 
 
 "Both!" 
 
 "Dear me, that's a large order. Why so grasp 
 ing?" 
 
 The girl became serious approximately so, that 
 is. 
 
 "Because I've never had either. The nearest 
 I've come to the salt water was on a book voyage 
 to Treasure Island and another with Captains 
 Courageous. The mountains I've seen, at 
 least." 
 
 Instinctively the four of them regarded those 
 mountains, their crests crisply white just then, 
 with undisciplined cloud halos poising overhead, 
 and below pine-clad foothills, billowing upward 
 to the snowy skyline. 
 
 "As for me, I'll never get there. Horses aren't 
 made stout enough," said Mother Jones, good- 
 humoredly, and went to fetch another plate of hot 
 biscuits. 
 
 "Nor me." Pharaoh coughed depreciatingly, 
 with the wistfulness that stalks the smiles of the 
 bravest of the sick. 
 
 Crete Colton sighed profoundly. 
 
 "It's a man's world," said she, wagging a sun- 
 browned finger of scorn at the two males. "De 
 fenseless maidens can do nothing alone " 
 
 "Except work, " qualified Mother Jones, return 
 ing with the biscuits. 
 
 ' ' Of course. I was going to say teach school or 
 ranch. But wait! The time is coming when 
 
74 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 woman's vote will split man's world in two like 
 that I ' ' Dramatically she divided a steaming 
 biscuit, buttered one half, and ate it. 
 
 "Was it the man's half you left ? " queried Kent, 
 laughing. 
 
 "It was" buttered biscuit delayed the girl's 
 diction "not. Women prefer men . . . poor 
 things! Beside, as I was saying, we can't do a 
 thing alone we're actually driven into masculine 
 arms." 
 
 Just then Kent could conceive of no better 
 occupation for arms of man than but what folly 
 of a June moment! . . . There was Valentine 
 . . . Could one imagine her in such a madcap 
 mood? Indeed, could butter or hot biscuit be 
 considered in the same mental breath as Central 
 Park West? No. . . . Dignity, elegance, woman 
 ly reserve, daintiness ... At that point, however, 
 catching the eye of the merry militant, he laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 "And anyway, Mister Kent," she continued 
 with a twinkle in her blue eyes, "I understand 
 you insisted on making a man of me. . . . " 
 
 "Heaven forbid! That would spoil 
 
 "A perfectly good schoolmarm!" she cut in. 
 
 "I was going to say something much nicer, " he 
 insisted. 
 
 "Then I'm sorry I interrupted. But you will 
 admit you thought I was a man, won't you?" 
 
 Kent pleaded guilty to the charge. Dad Trum- 
 ble had given too generous publicity to that inci- 
 
Honeymoons, Perfect and Otherwise 75 
 
 dent of his arrival at Farewell, when he had 
 thought Crete a man's name, to permit denial. 
 
 "Well, you're forgiven . . . even if you do 
 think there are nicer things than schoolmarms. 
 And as you really seem contrite I'll admit the mis 
 take has been made before ... I suppose 
 'Crete' really is a rather queer name." 
 
 "It's original, anyway. How did you fall heir 
 to it?" 
 
 "A sort of process of elimination . . . say 
 survival of the fittest, " she explained. "You see, 
 my mother's name was Lucretia. When I hap 
 pened along she set her heart on naming me 
 Lucretia too. But dad objected ... he said it 
 was altogether too fancy and highfalutin' . . . 
 too much of it for one snub-nosed baby. . . . Dad 
 was a good deal of a Puritan, anyway, and always 
 balked against putting on dog. He wanted to call 
 me plain Mary. Well, of course, I don't exactly 
 remember all the details, but the incident is histori 
 cally accurate, as the encyclopedia says. Finally 
 they compromised and called me Crete. . . . That 
 pleased mother, because she got most of what she 
 wanted, and satisfied dad, as it seemed neat and 
 simple. So Crete I've always been, and, so far 
 as I know, the only one in captivity." 
 
 "Anyway, it gives me a first-class alibi. Also" 
 there was a wicked glint in David Kent's eye 
 "it reminds me of another extraordinary name 
 I once heard near Newport News. There was 
 a little darky down there called Fertilizer. " 
 
76 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 The expectant silence was an invitation to pro 
 ceed. 
 
 "Queer name, wasn't it? Couldn't under 
 stand it, so I hunted up the kid's mother and asked 
 her how she happened to give her child such an 
 outrageous name. 'Lawsy, that's a mos' lovely 
 name,' she told me. 'It's jus' as simple an' 
 reasonable as can be. You see, Honey, my hus 
 band's name is Ferdinand and my name's Elizah, 
 so we jus' combined 'em when that there first 
 baby come along and called it Ferdilizah.' I 
 agreed with her that it was a lovely name . . . 
 and unique. But to this day I don't know the 
 child's sex." 
 
 When the laughter had subsided Kent essayed a 
 return to the former topic of conversation. 
 
 "But to get back to the mountains ..." 
 
 "The very thing I most want to do ... get 
 to those mountains," interrupted Crete. "If I 
 weren't a poor miserable woman, " the young man 
 smiled to the point of laughter, and received a 
 grimace for his pains, "a miserable woman, I say 
 don't interrupt I'd put a pack on my back and 
 tramp up into those hills. Some day you'd see me 
 waving to you from the top of the Chief. Oh, I 
 could do it, all right and I'd love it. " A wistful 
 smile crinkled the corners of her mouth. "Prob 
 ably the only way I'll ever get such a trip is by 
 marrying someone so there'll be a guide and 
 protector for little me." She was silent for a 
 minute, considering the possibilities of the bargain. 
 
Honeymoons, Perfect and Otherwise 77 
 
 Then suddenly she rushed on, impelled by some 
 secret daydream vision. "Remember how The 
 Virginian ends? . . . the wedding ... no fuss 
 or folderol . . . and then away they went 
 into the hills on horseback, out into the open with 
 just each other and the trees and the stars that 
 was perfect." She stopped there, and the light 
 shifted from her eyes to her cheeks, where it burned 
 prettily. 
 
 "That," said Kent, "would be a perfect honey 
 
 moon. ' 
 
 Just then, perhaps fortunately, interruption 
 came in the shape of James Failing's automobile. 
 
 Miss Colton was ready for the drive? Miss 
 Colton was not but would be in two minutes. 
 Moreover, this she actually contrived, and in little 
 or no time the car had left the dust of Little Egypt 
 behind it, and three faces in which disapproval was 
 written largely. 
 
 As Kent composed page after page of a letter 
 to Valentine, his mind wandered now and again 
 from the task at hand, each time his eyes straying 
 from the letter, and the pocket picture of the 
 proud-faced girl beside it, to the mountains in the 
 West. 
 
 "A perfect honeymoon." He repeated the 
 phrase musingly. Scent of pines, music of run 
 ning water, the stir of the trees, the tang of snow- 
 fields, the fragrance of mountain meadows . . . 
 all, in pleasurable imagining, surged through his 
 mind. 
 
78 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Poor girl,'* he said, but the compassion 
 sounded hollow, weakened somehow by a suspicion 
 that hers was an affluent poverty. 
 
 His eyes caressed the portrayed girl in the dainty 
 frame before him a face of fine features, calmly 
 aristocratic; deep-eyed, dark-haired, to him the 
 most beautiful face in the world. 
 
 So he wrote many pages descriptive of that 
 mountain journey he planned for Valentine and 
 himself, entitling it a perfect honeymoon, and 
 enlarging its details fondly. With a twinge of 
 regretful uncertainty he wound up: "What is your 
 idea of a perfect honeymoon?" . . . Twelve 
 days later came the reply: "Rough camping at 
 such a time ugh! . . . David, in the first place, 
 remember that we are not regularly" (he smiled 
 at the word) " engaged. Of course, you were jok 
 ing ... if there's one time in a girl's life when 
 she wants to wear her nicest things, and look her 
 prettiest, and be proudest, it's then. A 'perfect 
 honeymoon,' dear, with only stars and trees 
 for company . . . goodness me, that doesn't 
 sound a bit entertaining. " 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE HORSE CAVE 
 
 PRESSING Agamemnon into service as a riding 
 horse Kent started for town toward evening, with 
 the letter just written to Valentine in his pocket. 
 
 The west, faced by the rider, was already warm 
 with the preliminary glow of the sunset, like some 
 potter's oven slowly firing. 
 
 "The Embers of the day are red, beyond the murky 
 
 hill, 
 
 The bed in the darkling house is spread; 
 The great sky darkens overhead and the great woods 
 
 are shrill. 
 
 Thus far have I been led, Lord, by Thy will 
 Thus far have I followed, Lord, and wondered still." 
 
 "That," said Kent, regarding those dying 
 embers before him, "is perfect." 
 
 He repeated the stanza. Agamemnon ambled 
 on, his thoughts occupied, if at all, with his supper. 
 His rider having found in Crete Colton a fellow 
 disciple of the gentle genius of the South Seas, felt 
 grateful to the girl, as though they two had hit 
 
 79 
 
8o The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 upon a dear mutual friend, and as he pursued his 
 way fragments of Stevensonia ran through his 
 mind. 
 
 "The friendly cow, all red and white, 
 
 I love with all my heart ; 
 She gives me cream with all her might 
 
 To eat with apple-tart. " 
 
 There he was obliged to laugh immoderately at 
 the effect of his declamation upon a jackrabbit, 
 who stood petrified at the roadside, with long ears 
 astonishingly erect. 
 
 Having laughed at the rabbit, he laughed at 
 himself, and forthwith became reasonably serious. 
 In which mood the magnet of Valentine again 
 captured his thoughts, and mingling with hair- 
 brained plans for hill-land honeymoons there 
 evolved the question, "Does Val know Steven 
 son?" Probably, he decided, she did not, for 
 reading was ' ' out of her line. ' ' Anyway, Val knew 
 so many other things. The last reflection was 
 distinctly satisfying. 
 
 The road to Farewell wound interminably, 
 following the whims of an old cattle trail from 
 which it had developed. So, to save distance and, 
 like the bear who went over the mountain, to "see 
 what he could see, " Kent struck off 'cross country 
 in the direction of the town, Agamemnon stalking 
 stiffly through the sagebrush and here and there 
 making detours around outcroppings of lava rock. 
 
 And in the lea of one of these, they suddenly 
 
The Horse Cave 81 
 
 came upon an unoccupied automobile. It was 
 Failing's car, halted where a depression gave en 
 trance to an underground cave. 
 
 All at once Kent found himself distinctly ill at 
 ease. The last thing he wanted was to be found 
 seemingly playing the part of shadow to these 
 two. 
 
 ' ' Hard a starboard ! ' ' Kent tattooed with his heels 
 iron-sided Agamemnon. "We'll get out of this. " 
 
 Horse and rider swung to the right. As they 
 executed the flank retreat, he recalled hearing of 
 the Horse Cave, chanced upon some years pre 
 viously when a band of horses coming from the 
 range had disappeared miraculously ; the buccaroo 
 finally found them in this cavern, which could 
 shelter two hundred head. 
 
 Scarcely was Agamemnon under way when Kent 
 found himself upon the edge of a great hole, per 
 haps forty feet across, and well hidden by a fringe 
 of sagebrush. Traversing the roof of the cave, 
 they had blundered upon this circular "skylight" 
 where the rocky ceiling had fallen in of its own 
 weight. 
 
 Kent dismounted to investigate. And as he 
 stood on the edge of the open cup, suddenly the 
 sound of voices filtered up from among the 
 shadows. 
 
 "My idea of a honeymoon" . . . That much 
 Kent heard distinctly; what followed was blurred. 
 The voice was Failing's. 
 
 In spite of himself the involuntary eaves- 
 
 6 
 
82 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 dropper almost laughed aloud. It seemed as if he 
 had heard, and thought, and written nothing but 
 "honeymoon" all day! But it was annoying to 
 find Failing setting himself up as a connoisseur in 
 such matters. 
 
 "That's disappointing. " It was Crete Colton's 
 low-pitched voice. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, you see, I've made other arrangements." 
 Then followed a peal of jolly laughter, drowning 
 whatever Failing said. 
 
 ' ' Someone else ? No, indeed ! I simply referred 
 to the kind of honeymoon. . . . Tastes differ, 
 you see." 
 
 Then he said something about her seeking the 
 man to fill the place . . . just what Kent could 
 not catch, for Failing's peculiar voice had slight 
 carrying power. But whatever the words they 
 roused her. 
 
 "I seek no man, Mr. Failing!" she said angrily, 
 stepping out into the open. 
 
 Kent was struck by the sudden sternness of the 
 girl. Evidently so also was her companion, for 
 apology gushed forth quickly. 
 
 Visibly the girl melted, half hypnotized, it seemed 
 to Kent, by the driving insistency of the man. To 
 see her apparently so pliable left him alternately 
 hot with resentment and clammy cold with 
 apprehension. . . . Stealthily he edged away 
 from the opening, ashamed of having seen and 
 overheard ashamed, and sorry for Crete Colton. 
 
The Horse Cave 83 
 
 The two in the cave acted out their little scene, 
 unconscious of the audience they had lost. 
 
 "Won't you call me Jim?" Failing was very 
 close to her, but well in leash. 
 
 The blue eyes faltered before the insistent 
 sherry-colored ones dull, as rich old sherry should 
 be, but just then with a glint of fire in their 
 sophisticated depths. 
 
 "Well . . . Jim?" 
 
 Failing launched into words then . . . impa 
 tient, eager words, telling his love and need for 
 her, with a passionate undercurrent of brutality 
 none too deeply hidden beneath the veneer of his 
 self-control. 
 
 Then for long seconds they stood silent, face to 
 face, eye to eye, each taking the measure of the 
 other. The girl saw the male strength, the power, 
 even the latent deviltry of the man; he was 
 bluffly handsome when on his mettle, despite his 
 overlargeness. The man drank in the attractions 
 of the feminine figure before him, the soft hair, 
 the level eyes, the self-possession of the strong 
 inviting mouth; and because she was not a girl 
 to trifle with he craved her the more. . . . 
 
 "No, "said she. 
 
 "Why?" He put the query bluntly. 
 
 "Because I don't care to." 
 
 He kept his smile. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 The doggedness of the tone, of his look, com 
 pelled her. 
 
84 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Are you sure you want to know?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "It's the things you do. " 
 
 ''You mean ?" The sherry-colored eyes 
 narrowed. 
 
 "The irrigation troubles." Then, all at once, 
 she broke down lost, at least, her poise. "Jim 
 Failing," she was close, almost touching him; 
 her hands were before her, perhaps defensively, 
 perhaps in supplication, "Jim Failing, I know 
 that there isn't water enough for the South Canal, 
 and you know I know it. What is it to be 
 more broken-hearted settlers ? ' ' 
 
 The big manager's ruddy face darkened. 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 "Isn't it true?" That was her only answer. 
 
 James Failing was deadly still. Slowly the 
 blood surged into his face then swiftly, until it 
 purpled. 
 
 Crete, her head hanging, saw nothing of the 
 danger signal. 
 
 "What about the settlers? Please ... oh, if 
 you'll only give them a square deal ..." 
 
 "The settlers be damned!" Failing blazed 
 with wrath. Would those scurvy settlers forever 
 be cast in his face ? 
 
 Then, as suddenly as it came, the hot anger 
 left him, and the big face smoothed out. 
 
 Failing's eyes focused full upon the trim figure, 
 drinking in its girlish lines with a long, hungering 
 look. Suddenly he stepped close beside her and 
 
The Horse Cave 85 
 
 boldly, almost triumphantly, he turned the girl's 
 face upward from beneath its protecting crown of 
 pale hair. . . . With his two great hands pressing 
 against her cheeks the manager smiled down into 
 Crete's eyes, seeking in them an answering smile, 
 or, at least, a signal of submission. ... So he 
 poised tensely over her. 
 
 The blue eyes neither smiled nor faltered, but 
 met his steadily, and neither fear nor invitation 
 was written in their depths. 
 
 For an instant they stood thus, and then the 
 muscles of James Failing's body all at once re 
 laxed, the smile faded from his face, and his hands 
 fell to his side. 
 
 "I beg your pardon. . . . Please . . . forget." 
 
 The quiet acceptance, the sudden extinction of 
 his inner fire, came most unexpectedly of all. 
 And as Crete Colton silently followed the manager 
 to the car, she felt queerly grateful. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 "UNTIL THE RESURRECTION" 
 
 "HARD TIMES" was the password as summer 
 ripened. While the rainbow of the future beck 
 oned as brightly as ever, the pot of gold at its foot 
 seemed securely beyond the reach of even Fare 
 well's indomitable optimists. Irrigation develop 
 ment was at a standstill, railroad rumors were few 
 and far between, and even the usual bickerings of an 
 isolated community lagged as the dusts deepened. 
 
 As Kent's apprenticeship wore on he became 
 more and more an integral part of the Pioneer's 
 little family and increasingly familiar with the 
 duties of his adopted calling. Nor did the familiar 
 ity breed contempt. He even learned to respect 
 the superlative importance of "locals," those 
 golden nuggets of country journalism. Dog fights, 
 country shoppers, and all the multitudinous inci 
 dents of everyday life became grist for his pencil, 
 ultimately appearing as "Bits About Town," 
 interspersed with "reader ads." declaiming the 
 universal virtues of Somebody's Bitters or the fact 
 that Mrs. Olsen desired to sell a calf of approved 
 ancestry and winning personality. 
 
 86 
 
" Until the Resurrection" 87 
 
 By degrees the young Easterner came to know 
 the people of Farewell and through them the 
 irrigation story unfolded. Gathering its various 
 threads, sifting and piecing fragments together, 
 Kent gradually constructed in his mind a clear 
 outline of the situation. Then one night in his 
 tent (a happy-thought summering shelter close 
 to the river) he put his findings in words, set 
 ting down the history of the project in un 
 varnished detail. 
 
 On the following morning the young man placed 
 the fruit of his labor on the editor's desk together 
 with some tidbits of minor town news. 
 
 It was a Tuesday, and Wednesday was publi 
 cation day for the Pioneer. In the shop the soft 
 clicking of type as Mother Jones marshaled them 
 into the stick was more rapidly determined than 
 upon an easy-going Saturday when the left-overs 
 from the preceding issue were set up. 
 
 Pharaoh sat in the erratic swivel chair cor 
 recting galley proofs and in the due course of 
 his labors his attention fell upon Kent's offering. 
 The "locals" he slapped on the copy hook with a 
 grunt of approval and turned his attention to the 
 irrigation article. 
 
 Pharaoh read, then, the story of the Bonanza 
 Irrigation Company which he already knew so 
 well; how the reclamation started with a blare 
 of trumpets and golden promise; how the first 
 water was taken from Welcome River and dis 
 tributed out upon the thirsty soil through canals 
 
88 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 and ditches; how sales commenced and thousands 
 of acres were deeded to settlers before either 
 ditches or water were within miles of the land ; how 
 unforeseen obstacles and expenses were encoun 
 tered, the costs far exceeding the estimates; and 
 how finally, the funds had all but run out and still 
 there were scores of settlers who had purchased, or 
 made partial payment upon, tracts and received 
 contracts for water service, and who now could not 
 get that very water for which they had contracted 
 and upon which their entire fortunes depended. 
 Then, as Kent outlined, had come charges that 
 there was not enough water available in Welcome 
 River to supply the lands which the State had 
 authorized for sale, even if the necessary ditches 
 could be built. But this accusation was speedily 
 exploded when an official investigation and 
 measurement of the water flow disclosed the fact 
 that not only was there sufficient water for the 
 original segregation but for the South Canal 
 segregation as well. This latter contained 80,000 
 acre? nnd the company proposed to reclaim it 
 forthwith. 
 
 There was a glitter in Pharaoh's eye as he turned 
 to the last page, and a martial fervor, strangely 
 foreign to it, warmed his gentle face. 
 
 "Good Lord!" said Kent to himself, "I wonder 
 if he'd dare publish it ? " And thinking of Failing, 
 he grinned. 
 
 Pharaoh read on: "The company cannot ful 
 fil its contracts with settlers who have bought land. 
 
" Until the Resurrection " 89 
 
 Many of them have not received water and the 
 State cannot, or will not, compel its delivery. The 
 company now proposes to secure more lands from 
 the State, saying that the cash returns from the 
 new project will enable it to complete the delivery 
 system of the first unit. That may be true. Per 
 haps the cash from sales on the new unit will be 
 used to save the settlers on the present segrega 
 tion. But if that is permitted, what of those new 
 purchasers? Will they in turn be cast adrift and 
 ultimately left with contracts which cannot be 
 fulfilled and acreage which cannot be watered? 
 
 ''Emphatically we say this must not happen. 
 And emphatically we declare that if the present 
 plans are followed out, and the company is per 
 mitted to develop the South Canal segregation in 
 the way it proposes, those who purchase South 
 Canal land will reap another harvest of tragedy. 
 
 "Our duty is clear. We must all strive to pre 
 vent the company obtaining the State's permis 
 sion to exploit the South Canal segregation at the 
 expense of the settler. That development must be 
 permitted only when the interests of the present 
 land owners, and the new land buyers, are abso 
 lutely safeguarded. 
 
 "Unalterably the Pioneer will oppose the 
 South Canal unit plan, as that plan is now pre 
 sented. We ask that the citizens of Farewell and 
 the settlers of the segregation join with us in this 
 stand." 
 
 With the points of his long thin fingers pressed 
 
90 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 together, Pharaoh contemplated the pages before 
 him, while their author in turn watched. Com 
 posedly one bony hand captured a scrap of copy 
 paper while the other secured the stumpy pencil 
 from above his right ear. 
 
 "The Story of Our Disgrace/' was the caption 
 he wrote. Below it he penciled this introduction: 
 "For two years the Pioneer has been silent, a 
 silence of bondage. The Irrigation Company has 
 held the whip hand and stifled criticism from this 
 or any other quarter. However, here for once 
 are the true facts; the history of the Bonanza 
 Irrigation Company what it has done and what 
 it seeks to do." 
 
 Pharaoh handed his companion the paragraph. 
 
 "It's well done," was all he said. 
 
 Kent, having read this Declaration of Independ 
 ence, regarded the tall spare man admiringly, and 
 his admiration was tempered with pity. For the 
 little Pioneer to attack Failing seemed sure suicide. 
 If only they were powerful enough to fight the B. I. 
 C. in the open! . . . All at once he thought of 
 his own dollars, idling three thousand miles away ; 
 how better could he utilize that renounced income 
 than in such a fight? 
 
 "It would take the roof off, " said Pharaoh, 
 tapping his lean fingers. 
 
 Kent scarcely heard him. He was thinking of 
 the Quixotic rules. He, Valentine, and the Little 
 Bishop had agreed to them ... he, and his 
 editor friend, must sink or swim as they were. 
 
" Until the Resurrection" 91 
 
 "I'm sorry. I guess we can't." There was 
 infinite apology in the simple statement. 
 
 " Plenty more chances," Kent replied cheerily. 
 
 "Yes . . . the time will come." The editor 
 took from a disorderly drawer a sheaf of papers 
 tied with twine. "We'll keep it with these. 
 You never saw 'em, did you?" Kent shook his 
 head. 
 
 "My graveyard," Pharaoh explained, unfasten 
 ing the string. ' ' Buried alive. ' ' He showed some 
 scores of sheets thick with penciled words. "If 
 you don't object, we'll add another corpse until 
 the resurrection." 
 
 The literary cemetery was peopled by defunct 
 articles, most of them two-fisted editorials dealing 
 uncompromisingly with compromising subjects. 
 As the meaning of it dawned upon him, Kent 
 laughed aloud, so infectiously that its proprietor 
 chimed in. 
 
 "Excuse me ... as a chief mourner I suppose 
 it's indecent to laugh, but I can't help it. The 
 graveyard's a fine idea . . . sort of a safety 
 valve." 
 
 "Exactly. Most every week something turns 
 up that doesn't suit me. Perhaps it's politics, or 
 county affairs, or local matters; often enough it's 
 this irrigation squabble. So I just turn loose and 
 write a red-hot roast, saying exactly what I think 
 as near the way I'd like to as the Lord'll let me. 
 Somehow it sort of makes me feel better." 
 
 "It cools one off," Kent agreed. 
 
92 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Pharaoh nodded. It pleased him mightily not 
 to be misunderstood. 
 
 " If I published half of this, there'd be no end of 
 trouble. I want to . . . most of it . . . like every 
 thing. But it isn't as if we had money . . . we've 
 got to watch out, Mother and I." He sighed. 
 11 And then I'm not exactly strong and if anything 
 should happen . . . well . . . it's best to play 
 safe. And these things," his thin hand lay 
 on the discarded writings, and, as he hesitated, 
 his eyes seemed to say, " Please don't laugh," 
 " somehow, after I've written 'em and tucked 'em 
 away, it's easy to pretend they've been published 
 ... I actually feel as if they had . . . perhaps 
 it's childish, but this way . . . why, they don't 
 do any harm.' 1 
 
 Therein, unwittingly, Pharaoh gave a true 
 measure of his mind and heart. 
 
 " Some day we'll run a bunch of 'em in a special 
 edition," said Pharaoh finally, chuckling. "We'll 
 print it in red ink. " 
 
 "And send a marked asbestos copy to Jim 
 Failing," added Kent. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 ON HEAVEN AND HELL 
 
 PHARAOH JONES received two dollars and 
 seventy-five cents cash for printing five hundred 
 posters one Monday in June. They were on what 
 printers call one-eighth stock, as Pharaoh explained 
 to Leon Callier, who gave the order, offering the 
 observation to cover his astonishment that Fail 
 ing's man should be interesting himself in a 
 settlers' meeting. 
 
 "It would be as reasonable for the condemned 
 to drum up attendance at a lynching bee, " he 
 observed to Kent, when the customer had left. 
 "As a rule Failing's chief delight is suppressing 
 settlers' meetings. They and he don't agree for 
 a cent." 
 
 "The exception proves the rule, you know," 
 replied the amateur assistant. 
 
 "But why in the name of all that's holy should 
 he want a meeting of the settlers?" the editor 
 persisted. 
 
 "Who said it's a settlers' meeting?" 
 
 "This blamed copy ... as plain as the nose 
 on your face." Pharaoh read aloud the penciled 
 
 93 
 
94 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 words, heavily underlined: "Important Meeting of 
 Settlers. To-night at the Grange Hall. " 
 
 "Oh, yes, that's plain enough." Kent's skep 
 tical tone showed no conviction. "But who's 
 calling the congregation, why are they calling it, 
 and when the hat's passed who'll get the collec 
 tion? That's what / want to know. " 
 
 For a space of several seconds Pharaoh's mild 
 eyes observed Kent. Then they took inventory 
 of the "copy" for the poster, following the 
 scrawled lines from top to bottom with the preci 
 sion of long-suffering practice. Then all at once 
 the many wrinkles of the small face and its over- 
 jutting forehead visibly deepened and crackled, 
 marking the spread of a mirthless smile. 
 
 "You think ?" 
 
 "I know!" 
 
 Kent's ejaculation turned the lines into a 
 genuine smile. Such a positive fellow, this young 
 Easterner ! 
 
 "Oh, perhaps I'm going too strong on it, " Kent 
 added. "But what's the unholy reason behind 
 this sudden interest in settlers' meetings? And 
 why on earth do they spring a meeting on six 
 hours' notice?" As Pharaoh offered no explana 
 tion he answered himself. "Because they want 
 to run the works their own way. They're calling 
 it a settlers' meeting so there'll be no comeback. 
 And as you can't get the posters out until the mid 
 dle of the afternoon, an' the meeting's at eight, of 
 course the chances are slim for much of a crowd 
 
On Heaven and Hell 95 
 
 . . . other than the company folks who'll be 
 ordered on deck. Am I right?" 
 
 Pharaoh nodded. 
 
 "Well, it's not my party, but I intend to take 
 a hand, anyway. While you're printing the bills, 
 I'll drum up attendance for Mr. Failing's privately 
 conducted settlers' meeting . . . without his ask 
 ing me to take the trouble, and no extra charge for 
 the advertising." 
 
 Kent slammed out, and Pharaoh turned to the 
 case. 
 
 "The services, I fear, won't be according to 
 schedule," sighed the editor, who scented trouble. 
 And as he slipped the big wooden type into the 
 stick anyone observing his vagrant smile might 
 reasonably have concluded the outlook was not 
 entirely displeasing to the gentle printer. 
 
 In the meantime, an automobile floundered on 
 its way from Shaniko, bearing John E. Sanborne, 
 State Water Master, an individual slight of 
 figure, pale of eye, and inclined to baldness and 
 pessimism, the last named state of mind aggra 
 vated just then by the recurrent discomforts of 
 the journey. 
 
 At the third oiow-out of the afternoon the little 
 man who rode with the driver seemed as jovial as 
 ever. His good-natured bantering, as he helped 
 pump up the new tire, annoyed Sanborne. 
 
 "You seem to enjoy work. " The bald engineer 
 addressed the little optimist testily. His answer 
 was a smile of assent. 
 
96 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "And being delayed, too, I suppose?" persisted 
 Sanborne sourly. ' * Gives us so much opportunity 
 to enjoy this grand country. " 
 
 "It's a good country." The little man said it 
 with conviction. 
 
 "Good as hell!" 
 
 "Oh, better!" 
 
 The little man laughed, the driver chuckled, and 
 Sanborne felt further aggrieved. 
 
 "From an engineering standpoint," he cleared 
 his throat sententiously, "the country is hopeless. 
 It is undermined with faults. Irrigation is a 
 gamble; the water you have to-day may vanish 
 into the ground to-morrow. Ugh! Dust, sage 
 brush, and juniper! Irrigation is rotten 
 
 "It is." Sanborne scarcely caught the low- 
 voiced agreement. 
 
 "Eh? Yes, it certainly is. Oh, it's hell all 
 right as an engineer, I ought to know. " 
 
 "Yes, you ought to. But it isn't hell. You're 
 up on irrigation, but not on hell, sir. As a church 
 man, such things are my specialty, and this is not 
 hell. In fact " the little man turned his back 
 on the State Water Master and his face to the 
 western skyline "to me it's a lot like heaven. " 
 
 An hour later the car broke down entirely, and 
 the softly swearing driver, the vexed engineer, 
 and the heaven -seeing Bishop set out on foot for 
 Farewell, a matter of six dusty miles. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 THE SETTLERS' MEETING 
 
 AT a quarter to eight James Failing was as un 
 comfortable as he ever permitted himself to be. 
 In the first place, Sanborne, whom he wanted, had 
 not put in an appearance. Secondly, a great many 
 people whom he did not want were arriving. 
 Judging from the lines of farm wagons and buggies 
 hitched about town, and the knots of men cluster 
 ing on the edge of the sidewalks, the meeting was 
 to be eminently successful from the standpoint of 
 attendance. Yet its sponsor was anything but 
 pleased. The little snowball he had started 
 was rolling up altogether too unwieldy a bulk. 
 
 Tex Darling, the ditch rider, loped down the 
 street, dismounted, and delivered a message to 
 Failing. 
 
 "It's all right, boys," the big manager an 
 nounced to the group about him. "They broke 
 down a few miles east of town, and Dad Trumble's 
 stage'll pick 'em up. You'd better get inside. 
 We'll be starting up soon now." 
 
 So the "Company crowd," as they were called, 
 filed up the narrow outside stairs and through the 
 7 97 
 
98 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 only entrance to the Grange Hall above Jeb Watter- 
 son's furniture store. There was sleek Callier, 
 the sales manager, Hartpool, who ran the com 
 pany's Z X ranch, the office force, and a score of 
 huskies from the camps who got their pay with 
 reasonable regularity and were disposed to do as 
 directed, whether it was a matter of repairing 
 ditches or breaking heads. 
 
 The benches filled then with settlers, sunbrowned, 
 unprosperous men with tired, determined faces, 
 and most of them young, as is the way of a new 
 country. There were women, too. One of them 
 brought her latest baby, because there was nothing 
 else to do with it. None of them were old in years, 
 yet none seemed so young as the men, because life 
 in shacks and tents and cooking over sagebrush 
 fires and grubbing with a mattock when there is 
 time for it, and mothering another generation 
 of pioneers, routs Youth prematurely. With the 
 women were Mother Jones and Crete Colton. 
 Pharaoh and Kent, who came in late, found seats 
 near the door. 
 
 Shortly the stairs creaked beneath the ponder 
 ous steps of the manager, with the State Water 
 Master in his wake, resembling, as Kent thought, 
 a moose breaking trail for a sleek coyote. 
 
 Asahel Brush, president of the Water Users' 
 Confederation, occupied the platform with Failing 
 and Sanborne. Brush was an old fellow with a club 
 foot and no love whatever for the company and 
 its methods. But he owed two years' water rent. 
 
The Settlers' Meeting 99 
 
 "You preside," said Failing to him. 
 
 "Preside yourself," was Brush's gruff reply. 
 "It's your funeral." 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed," Failing purred. "This is 
 the settlers' affair . . . you do the honors. " 
 
 And old Brush did, with extremely bad 
 grace. 
 
 Sanborne, after his habit, spoke interminably. 
 He told the old story. The company deserved 
 help, not hindrance; pioneer capital in a virgin 
 field merited protection. But of pioneer settlers 
 he said little. He advised patience. It was per 
 haps true, he admitted, that the canals just then 
 could not serve all the lands of the original segre 
 gation, but this would be cared for in due course. 
 For the present the settlers should be willing to 
 receive less than the amount of water for which 
 their contracts called. So far as he was con 
 cerned, there would be little consideration for com 
 plaints until the company had been given time to 
 enlarge the ditches. 
 
 "When will that be?" 
 
 The query came from the back of the room. 
 
 "That, " replied Sanborne, with a flush showing 
 through his sallowness, "I shall leave for Mr. 
 Failing to explain." And he sat down. 
 
 "You have called this meeting " 
 
 "You called it yourself!" As the interruption 
 punctuated Failing's first sentence, there was a 
 stir of satisfaction among the settlers. 
 
 "Who's that?" growled Hartpool beneath his 
 
ioo The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 breath. "The damned anarchists! If I had my 
 way I'd shut 'em out. " 
 
 "The 01' Man had a good hunch, anyway," 
 Callier whispered to the ranch foreman. "If so 
 many of 'em hadn't got wind of it we'd have been 
 all right. As it is we'll slip it over anyway. " But 
 Hartpool, a man of action, thought the outlook 
 darker than did Callier, the man of plans, and 
 shook his head. For his part he would clean the 
 room and be done with it. 
 
 "The meeting was called, anyway, " Failing 
 corrected himself with a smile that was intended 
 to be conciliating, "to discuss matters of interest 
 to the settlers. Mr. Sanborne and I have the good 
 of the man on the land closely at heart, and we've 
 worked out a scheme that I am sure will appeal 
 to you all. With your cooperation it can be 
 made a success, and all of us profit. " 
 
 Failing talked hard and earnestly, and perspired 
 fluently. He admitted the existing canals were 
 not large enough to care for all the lands that had 
 been sold under them. 
 
 "It is simply a matter of getting more water 
 from the river and enlarging our canals and 
 ditches. " There he paused, as if he had developed 
 a conclusion entirely original. 
 
 "Wall," drawled old Asahel Brush, "we're 
 glad you agree with us, Mister Failing. That's 
 exactly what we've been saying for more'n two 
 years. But what are you goin' to do about 
 it?" 
 
The Settlers' Meeting 101 
 
 "That's just it. " Failing smiled benignly upon 
 the chairman. 
 
 The big man looked quite triumphant. Al 
 though Kent had always distrusted if not actively 
 disliked him, just then, as the manager set forth his 
 case and played his cards boldly, even though 
 realizing that they were not stacked in his favor as 
 he had planned, the young Easterner could not 
 help but admire him. 
 
 Failing's scheme was simple. Briefly, he pro 
 posed to open up the new South Canal segregation, 
 which could be watered at slight cost, sell the water 
 rights there at a generous figure, and devote some 
 of the profits to putting the original segregation 
 in good shape. 
 
 "What we want is your endorsement of the 
 South Canal unit. Our contract with the State 
 covering it expires in September. With your 
 support we can have it renewed, and by next 
 summer we can start the work there and get 
 enough money to enlarge your canals." 
 
 The minute Failing sat down Hartpool was on 
 his feet with a resolution in which the settlers 
 went on record endorsing an extension of the 
 contract. 
 
 "All in favor of the motion " someone up 
 in front shouted. 
 
 "Ain't no motion put to vote," a hostile voice 
 roared, and half a dozen others added their quota 
 of dissension. Pandemonium was gathering head 
 way, when the door opened and Dad Trumble 
 
102 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 bounced into the room, with the dust of the road 
 still thick upon him and his horsewhip in his hand. 
 Behind the old driver another figure entered, a 
 small thick man in a black suit and leggings. 
 
 The interruption caught the attention of the 
 crowd, momentarily calming the rising uproar. 
 
 "Let's hear from Dad Trumble. He knows 
 what's what! " 
 
 Good-naturedly the cry was taken up, for the 
 old man was a prime favorite. While they jostled 
 him to the front, the stocky newcomer peered 
 around the room, caught sight of Kent, and tried 
 to edge through the crowd to his side. But he 
 could not reach him, so scrawling a few words on 
 the back of an envelope, he passed it down the line. 
 
 "Land Board probably won't grant extension 
 South Canal contract unless settlers O. K. it. Ask 
 Failing why he wants this endorsement. RUDD. " 
 
 Kent reached the signature with astonishment. 
 The last he had seen of the Bishop was at the 
 Pennoyer dinner in New York, and here suddenly 
 he was turning up with the key to the puzzle! 
 Looking along the crowded bench he caught the 
 little Bishop's eye and signaled his thanks. Then, 
 on an impulse, he was on his feet demanding 
 recognition so vehemently there was no denying 
 him. It was Kent's first gun in the local hostili 
 ties, and although the settlers had no idea what 
 he wanted, they knew him as a friend of Pharaoh 
 and indefinitely scented more trouble, which was 
 becoming dear to their hearts. 
 
The Settlers' Meeting 103 
 
 "Let's hear him!" they howled. And old 
 Asahel announced the floor was his. 
 
 11 Mr. Failing, why do you want the settlers to go 
 on record for an extension of your South Canal 
 contract?" 
 
 Failing, outwardly as cool as blue steel, was on 
 his feet smilingly. 
 
 "For the good of the settlers themselves yes, 
 and the company's too, I admit. The South 
 Canal will save us all. And now may I inquire 
 your interest in the matter?" 
 
 The manager's counter question was sharp and 
 cold. But Kent ignored it and came back again. 
 
 " If the settlers refuse to endorse this scheme for 
 robbing Peter to pay Paul, can you get the renewal 
 yourself?" 
 
 " Mr. Kent, "-the manager's words were biting, 
 "this is a question of whether the settlers care 
 to help themselves. And as for you, sir, what 
 right have you " 
 
 But hoots of disapproval interrupted him there, 
 and the next anyone knew, old man Trumble had 
 annexed the floor. "Gentlemen," said he, "and 
 Mr. Failing," an historic witticism which pro 
 voked peals of mirth, " I jes' want ter say a word 
 or two about this here matter. As my frien's 
 explain the doin's ter me, the company wants 
 something from us poor devils of settlers. Now, 
 I ask yer, whenever we wanted something, didn't 
 we have to pay for it ... usually about twice?" 
 
 "Yes! Yes!" shouted a dozen, with mixed 
 
104 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 anger and laughter, while "Sit down,'* "Throw 
 him out," and less complimentary phrases gruffly 
 emanated from the front benches. 
 
 " An* what are they handin' us? So far as I can 
 see, nothin' at all. We've got contracts for water 
 and the company says it can't fill 'em. For why? 
 Because they're broke, they say. And we all 
 know why they're broke because" Failing 
 was on his feet threateningly "yes, Mr. Failing, 
 I'm talking about you and the other by god offi 
 cers ! ' ' Little old Dad Trumble blazed up full blast 
 directly in the big manager's face, and there was 
 something about the way he grasped his whip 
 which kept Failing from coming close. The driver 
 was white with anger, Failing white with some 
 thing that was not entirely anger, and the crowd 
 tensely still. 
 
 "It's true, boys . . . true as gospel! This 
 here pirating manager and his gang have sucked 
 the company dry. Oh, we all know it, so why not 
 speak out in meetin'? It's their high salaries 
 and sich that have taken all the cash. That's why 
 there ain't enough money to build the ditches to 
 bring us the water we've paid for! An' now they 
 come wanting us to help 'em start another steal." 
 
 The old man stopped for a minute, apparently 
 meditating. Yet he was not interrupted. No 
 one would, or could, have broken in on him just 
 then, for his sudden fierce fire carried with it the 
 spirit of the entire meeting. 
 
 "Are we sure we're to get any good out of the 
 
The Settlers' Meeting 105 
 
 new unit? That's what I'd like to know? Sup 
 pose they get the contract extended and sell the 
 lands. Will they spend the money in saving us, 
 or will they grab it and leave us holding the sack? " 
 
 There Failing contrived to slip in a sentence. 
 About all the crowd heard of it was the words 
 "guarantee bond." 
 
 ' ' Another bygod guarantee ! ' ' Dad's voice was 
 bitter with scathing contempt. " We've seen 
 contracts, which is guarantees, until weVe got 
 the blind staggers studying 'em. The State don't 
 help us get our rights under them, and why should 
 we expect more out of any other kind of bond. 
 Guarantee hell ! What's they worth to a man who'd 
 skunk a girl!" 
 
 The last phrase the old man delivered meas- 
 uredly, word by word. Every syllable of it pene 
 trated throughout the room. And everyone 
 there knew what he meant; knew that Failing's 
 company, through breaking its contract and not 
 delivering water, had wiped out all of Crete 
 Colton's crop and most of her savings. 
 
 The utter silence broke. Tension gave way in 
 suppressed "ahs. " Someone swore. 
 
 "It's God's truth," said a man in little more 
 than a whisper, and was heard by all. 
 
 Then a lank rancher was on his feet. 
 
 "Mr. Chairman, let's hear from the lady her 
 self. While we're at it, let's have all the truth. " 
 
 There was Dad Trumble at the platform's edge, 
 with his threatening whip, and his white wrath. 
 
io6 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 The sallow engineer wilted in his chair. Failing 
 stood at the side of the platform, red of face and 
 then suddenly white. The look of him fascinated 
 Kent; abruptly the enraged expression turned 
 to fear, and then, curiously, there was neither 
 anger nor dread, but a supplication astonishingly 
 out of place a subdued, almost feline appeal in 
 the ruddy eyes, softening the hard face until 
 its masculinity seemed somehow to have slipped 
 away. And in wonder Kent turned from the 
 manager to where the manager's suddenly soft 
 eyes were looking. 
 
 "Yes, let's hear from her!" 
 
 The cry went up for Crete Colton. And because 
 all were looking at her, or toward her, none but 
 Kent caught that expression and that mute mes 
 sage written on Failing's face for Crete Colton's 
 own interpretation. 
 
 The girl's mouth opened as if to speak, but she 
 only wet her lips. It seemed as if she were about 
 to rise, but instead she settled all at once more 
 firmly in her seat. And instead of looking to the 
 eager men and women about her, the blue eyes 
 gazed steadily to the stage. . . . 
 
 Crete Colton did not speak. Instead after a 
 space she smiled and shook her head. And be 
 cause she was loved more or less personally by 
 nearly every man and woman in the room, she was 
 urged no further. 
 
 Disorder returned. For a minute it looked as if 
 the meeting would break up. Then Dad Trumble 
 
The Settlers' Meeting 107 
 
 made himself heard again. This time he had 
 climbed to the platform, and as he spoke the fire 
 seemed gone out of him. 
 
 "There ain't no use in a row," he counseled. 
 "I might be wrong. I dunno. Anyway, it's up 
 to all o' us now to get right ca'm agin, and I 
 don't know anyone who can make more headway 
 when it comes to puttin' kerosine on the scrappy 
 waters, so ter speak, than our good frien* Bishop 
 Rudd." 
 
 Catching the drift of Dad's remarks heads 
 craned around to locate the Bishop. Everyone at 
 Farewell knew Bishop Rudd, and most of those 
 who knew him liked him. 
 
 "So, ladies an' gents, I'm a-goin' to ask the 
 Bish to talk to us, with the permission of the 
 honorable chairman." 
 
 Bishop Robert Rudd, whose diocese was a rail- 
 roadless territory vaster than several eastern 
 States, spoke simply and with strong straight 
 forward words which won prompt attention. He 
 said that in disputes both sides usually had a 
 measure of right, and counseled full investigation. 
 
 "And as we're here, " he continued, "let us take 
 the opportunity to thank the Almighty for what he 
 has done for us, and to pray for his aid and forgive 
 ness ... I am sure you are all willing. " 
 
 So the "little Bishop," who had conducted 
 services before the light of sagebrush fires at cattle 
 camps, and in saloons commandeered for the 
 occasion on Sabbath mornings, offered a simple 
 
io8 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 prayer. He asked that strength be given to make 
 more pure the language of those who supplicated, 
 and especially that the taking of the Lord's name 
 lightly should cease. And all joined with him in a 
 resounding ' ' Amen. ' ' 
 
 It was late. Restless scraping of feet signaled 
 approaching disbandment of the "settlers* meet 
 ing." But ere the scraping grew louder the 
 company crowd played their last card, following 
 up the previous lead. 
 
 "Mr. Chairman," it was devil-may-care Hart- 
 pool speaking. "A while back I put a motion. 
 It was never withdrawn, and I'd like a vote on 
 it." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "Question," shouted someone. 
 
 Asahel Brush chewed his mustache and finally 
 called the vote. 
 
 There was a full-throated chorus of ayes. 
 
 "Contrary minded." 
 
 "No, " roared the settlers, and the sound of it 
 sent red blood racing to Failing's face, and delight 
 to the heart of Kent. 
 
 Asahel scratched his head. Parliamentary pro 
 cedure and himself were far from intimate. Rudd, 
 leaning over, coached the puzzled presiding officer. 
 
 "Them in favor of the resolution rise, " said the 
 chairman. The company crowd to a man stood 
 up. 
 
 Laboriously old Asahel counted those standing. 
 "Forty-six, "said he. 
 
The Settlers' Meeting 109 
 
 ' ' The noes will stand. ' ' The settlers unlimbered 
 their legs. 
 
 "Th' baby don't count," said someone, but 
 without getting a laugh. 
 
 The chairman stabbed the air in the direction of 
 each voter with his burly forefinger. " Forty, 
 forty-one, forty- two, forty- three eh, what's that ? 
 Forty-four, forty-five " there he halted there 
 were no more voters standing. 
 
 " Licked, by God!" Dad Trumble's ejacu 
 lation rang out in the momentary silence. And 
 then, as the chairman was about to pronounce the 
 result of his count, the little old stage driver 
 again became the central figure of the gathering. 
 
 ' ' Lookyhere ! ' ' His tone commanded full atten 
 tion. Before, he had been defiantly passionate; 
 now he was coldly passionless. "Jes' one word, 
 folks afore we go further. It's about this South 
 Canal. What's the use of the new segregation 
 when there ain't water enough for it?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" Hartpool barked at 
 him, ready to bound onto the platform. 
 
 "Mean? Jest exactly what I say. There ain't 
 enough water in Welcome River to irrigate the 
 new unit, an' I know what I'm talking about I " 
 
 "Why, you old fool," Failing's voice sounded 
 ridiculously small, and his lips were lead colored 
 as he licked them, "the engineer's measurements 
 show there's plenty of water for both segre 
 gations." 
 
 "Whose measurements, Mister Failing? Your 
 
no The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 engineer's, eh? An' how much did you pay him 
 to make 'em? An' how much will you give 
 me not to tell what I know? There ain't the 
 water, folks, an* lean prove it! Three years ago 
 when " 
 
 "Dad!" 
 
 The word came sharp, beseeching from the pale 
 lips of Crete Colt on. 
 
 Then the company men commenced hooting, 
 while the settlers howled for more information 
 about the water. Suddenly in the midst of the 
 uproar there was a crash near the door a lamp 
 was down a flicker of red flame, a scream, and 
 the terror-cry, "Fire!" 
 
 The thought of the two slits of windows and the 
 door with its narrow wooden stairs struck three 
 men simultaneously. Two of them acted upon 
 the same impulse; with scrambling jumps, exe 
 cuted almost before the slower-witted realized 
 what transpired, Kent and Rudd were beside 
 Crete Colton, and each, in the instantaneous 
 mental record of that moment, realized a swift 
 satisfaction at the other's action. The third 
 man was James Failing. When the lamp fell the 
 manager had been poised on the edge of the plat 
 form. On the instant of the warning cry the big 
 man catapulted toward the door, scattering those 
 who blocked his path like a mad bull charging 
 among sheep. 
 
 In a moment the uproar was uncontrolled. 
 Few knew what had happened. The one thought 
 
The Settlers' Meeting in 
 
 was of the door. Swift panic had turned a roomful 
 of sane humans into a den of trapped maniacs. 
 
 There in the midst of the pandemonium, Bishop 
 Rudd stood on one side, and David Kent on the 
 other, and between them was Crete Colton, safe 
 for the moment from the rush of those whose 
 fear of self hurt was driving them to worse. In 
 stinctively, the girl's arms were about one of the 
 men it was Rudd. For the space of a second 
 or two they stood, Crete making no move or out 
 cry, while the men warded off the rush. 
 
 Then into the compact human mass about them 
 bolted the manager of the Bonanza Irrigation 
 Company, a man gone mad with fear for himself. 
 And seeing him and his madness, the little Bishop 
 did that which neither Crete Colton nor David 
 Kent ever forgot. 
 
 In one fierce swift flash the little man was at 
 the big one and had him out of the crowd where he 
 was smashing for his own life and imperiling a 
 score of others; had him out, gasping, frothing, 
 purple with rage and fear ; out, on his back, literally 
 thrown into a corner. 
 
 Quicker than words was it all. So sudden, so 
 unexpected, so audacious that it seized the at 
 tention of those close at hand, and so for a mo 
 ment saved them from themselves and their fear. 
 Bishop Rudd had their attention. And the little 
 Bishop seized his opportunity. 
 
 "God damn cowards to hell!" 
 
 He was on a bench. A dozen regarded him 
 
ii2 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 open-mouthed. The words shocked them, held 
 them astounded, fascinated. 
 
 "/ say God damn cowards all to hell!" 
 
 The little Bishop spoke not loudly, but the voice 
 of him was cool, penetrating, bell-like. And all at 
 once the group which heard and noted enlarged, 
 and suddenly the magnetic interest somehow spread 
 and others in the swirling human whirlpool, more 
 distant, turned to see the nature of this new storm 
 center, and saw and heard him, and their minds 
 became struck with the stupendous phenomenon 
 of a Bishop blaspheming so mightily. 
 
 Then someone laughed. 
 
 In six seconds the panic was over. The incipi 
 ent fire was out, and shamefacedly those who had 
 smothered it by their very impact drew apart. 
 
 "Thank God for our Bishop," said the mother 
 of the little baby. "Amen" echoed a burly 
 rancher, who a minute before had been crazy with 
 unreasoning fear. 
 
 "An* a while ago he was a-praying against 
 profanity," muttered Dad Trumble, with moist- 
 eyed approval. "The bygoddest Bishop ever I 
 
 see/ 1 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 POOR LITTLE LUCY 
 
 "IT'S the best way of travelin* there is," 
 declared Dad Trumble, lighting his first pipe of 
 the day as he crooked one stubby leg around the 
 saddle horn to face Rudd the more comfortably. 
 "It's the acumen of comfort, as they say. This 
 way we can go jest where we like 'thout being 
 bound by roads and trails, and the whole blame 
 shebang's right there on the pack-horse when it 
 comes to eatin' an' sleepin'. Yer can't beat it!" 
 
 Behind Trumble and the Bishop rode Kent, he 
 having volunteered to lead the pack-horse on this 
 first stretch of their vacation journey, which, to 
 the satisfaction of all three, had been extemporized 
 a few days after the settlers' meeting. 
 
 By sun-up they were well out of town, abandon 
 ing the dusty road for the needle-carpeted floor of 
 the forest, with the copper-colored trunks of the 
 great trees on either hand, massive pillars lining 
 marvelous nature-made aisles. Here and there a 
 blaze, gashed in the thick alligator-like bark of 
 the pines, marked the trail which was to lead them 
 up into the mountains. 
 
 8 113 
 
1 14 /The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 The sheep had not yet reached the forest re 
 serves, so the bunch grass still showed brownish 
 green, the manzanita, chemise, and snowbush 
 retained their foliage, and the broad parklike 
 reaches beneath the trees were unsullied. A fort 
 night later, when the herders drove their wooly 
 bands to the upland summer pastures, while bob- 
 tailed dogs ran hither and thither doing the bid 
 ding of their Basque masters, and the whole 
 forest was a welter of dust and a babel of witless 
 bleating, the perfection of the pinelands would be 
 banished. 
 
 But in June, when the last spring showers were 
 gratefully fresh in memory and the sheep had not 
 yet come from their winter feeding grounds in the 
 alfalfa valleys to the east and north, the timbered 
 country was perfection. The tree trunks stood 
 gold and brown and copper. Olive green the lofty 
 needles glinted and above their transparent pa 
 vilion glowed a brillant sky of pure blue, with 
 never a cloud to mar its infinite depth. The 
 glossy lacquered leaves of the manzanita danced in 
 the sunbeams, reflecting their rays like myriad tiny 
 mirrors. The air was an elixir of the very love of 
 life; perfume of pines, pleasant tang of neighbor 
 snowfields, rareness of oxygen bracingly thin with 
 goodly altitude, all made a blend whose breathing 
 was enviable intoxication. 
 
 "It's a sacrilege to smoke," said the Bishop, his 
 lips smilingly encircling the stem of a battered 
 corncob. 
 
Poor Little Lucy 115 
 
 "And a sacrifice not to!" Kent added. 
 
 They nooned at the shady edge of a little 
 meadow, where a spring bubbled capriciously from 
 under the sod. The horses rolled and munched 
 their fill, while the men ate and smoked and 
 then resaddled. 
 
 The big pines gave way to scrubby timber, 
 mostly thickets of " black jack" or lodgepole pine, 
 poor scrawny stuff clustering together so closely 
 that there was no passage other than the cut-out 
 trail. Then all at once, coming out upon a ridge 
 top, they looked across a gray barren upland 
 valley where a forest fire had left the tragic scar 
 which woodmen call a burn. Beyond the valley 
 were towsled hills, the real foothills, with the great 
 pile of the Chief with its gleaming snowfields 
 towering seemingly just above them. 
 
 A leisurely afternoon they made of it, ending 
 early at Little Lake, where the grass was green 
 and high for the horses and the trout displayed a 
 healthy interest in the flies which ever and anon 
 met swift disaster as they flitted too carelessly 
 across the quiet water. 
 
 " There isn't the remotest doubt," said Rudd 
 that evening as he removed the backbone of his fifth 
 fish, "that Dad is the finest trout cooker extant." 
 
 Kent, equally busy as a trencherman, agreed 
 heartily. 
 
 "And speaking of trout, this feed wouldn't be 
 complete without a fish story. Dad has a world 
 beater . . . tell it to the Bishop, Dad. " 
 
H6 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Dad Trumble eyed the young man coolly. 
 
 "Fish stories, as sick, " he opined, "are one thing 
 . . . an* gospel truth is another." 
 
 "I take it this one has a gospel guarantee then, " 
 offered the Bishop unsanctimoniously. ''For my 
 part I always believe fish stories anyway . . . 
 especially if they're good ones. " 
 
 "Like that Jonah whopper?" Dad put in with 
 a mischievous twinkle. 
 
 Rudd nodded good-naturedly; he sought no ec 
 clesiastical argument. 
 
 "Wall, " the story-teller started, with a thought 
 ful pull on his pipe, "th' first year I came to 
 Farewell that was way back yonder almost before 
 th' lavy flows had cooled down I caught a most 
 awfully nice healthy lookin' trout jes' below the 
 big eddy where th' power dam's now. He was sich 
 a right smart appearin' fish I didn't have the heart 
 to kill him so I packed him home careful as could 
 be an' rigged up a big pan o' water for him. At 
 fust he seemed as content and cosy as a worm on 
 a wet morning. " 
 
 The old man puffed his pipe seriously, his face 
 clouding with the awakened memory of that pis 
 catorial tragedy. 
 
 "But he was young, that trout . . . th' boys 
 called him Lucy, although she really was a he ... 
 there's something so feminine-like about a real 
 gentle affectionate fish, ye jes' can't help of us 
 ing girl cognobles . . . perhaps you've noticed 
 that?" 
 
Poor Little Lucy 117 
 
 The Bishop acquiesced. "Of course heaven 
 bless the ladies!" 
 
 "Lucy was young an* pert, an* purty soon she 
 seemed to sort o' tire of her restricted district, 
 so ter speak. At least, she got po'ful impatient for 
 more room to move around in, like as if she craved 
 to see something of the world, same as lots o' in 
 nocent young things." Dad blew his nose ve 
 hemently. "An' she fretted around so she that 
 is, he sloshed all the water out of the pan most 
 every day. At first I kept filling it up until I 
 began to notice Lucy seemed to enjoy himself 
 most when he was clean out of water. Wall, sir, 
 would you believe it, that bygod fish got ter living 
 so much out of water that pretty soon he jes' 
 naturally couldn't stand the feel of wet on him at 
 all. Onct, when he got rained on good and proper, 
 he took down with a most alarmin' chill . . . had 
 ter keep him by the stove for a week before he 
 properly got over it. Breathe? Mos' absolutely 
 he could breathe . . . jes' th' same's me or you. 
 It's all a matter of habit, breathin' is, jes' like 
 whisky or politicks . . . yer kin get used to most 
 any brand if yer try. " 
 
 "I suppose Lucy lived to a ripe and happy old 
 age?" asked the Bishop. 
 
 "I reckon not," Dad replied, again using his 
 veteran bandanna generously. "It's a plumb 
 sorrowful yarn. Yer see, Bish, little Lucy an' I 
 got ter be th' best kind o' pals . . . me havin' no 
 folks an' batchin' that way. As he got bigger 
 
ii8 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 an* more aklemated, as it were, that bygod friendly 
 little cuss'd follow me all around like a dog. How ? 
 Why, ain't yer never seen a fish flop? Lucy was 
 the prizedest spryest flopper ever I set eyes on, an* 
 like the breathin', the more he practiced the 
 abler he got. Of 'en times I'd take him up town in 
 my pocket to do little tricks for the boys on Jeb 
 Watterson's counter. . . . But mostly when I 
 went away I'd leave Lucy in the cabin, com'forble 
 an' cosy on my bunk. " 
 
 Silence. 
 
 The narrator knocked the ashes from his pipe. 
 
 "Then one day I come away in a hurry an' 
 forgot to close th' door ..." 
 
 Again silence, still more tragic. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well," echoed Dad with a heartfelt sigh, 
 "that was th' ruination of Lucy. In them days 
 there was a big foot-log 'cross th' river jes' in 
 front of my shack. When I was most over it, 
 hurrying to town, I heard a sort o' familiar flip- 
 flop behind me . . . an' there was Lucy jes' a 
 bouncing along down the trail from the door to 
 t'other end o' th' log. I hollered fer him to go back 
 but he jes' up and waved that cute spotted tail o' 
 his, contrary wise, 'smuch as ter say, 'No, yer 
 don't go off and leave me, Ol' Timer' . . . that 
 there Lucy was the faithfullest, affect ionest critter 
 that ever was in these parts . . . and brains 11 . . . 
 he paused, pondering Lucy's mental attributes 
 . . . "why, he had brains all over his body!" 
 
Poor Little Lucy 119 
 
 Another pause, to soothe the pains of memory 
 refreshed. "Boon's I see Lucy wouldn't go home 
 I started back 'cross th' log to head him off. "But 
 he was floppin' too fast ... he beat me to the 
 log an' started ker-flippin' out along it to meet me, 
 jes' as smilin' an' happy as ever any fish in the 
 world. Then all to bnct" . . . the old man's 
 voice faltered, as he turned away his head . . . 
 "all to onct little Lucy caught his left fore 
 fin in a sliver and lost his balance. . . . There 
 he tetered for th' time it'd take to snap yer finger, 
 sort o' quivering on th' edge of the log, six feet 
 above the rough water . . . then, jes' as I got 
 there an' was reachin' down to save him ... he 
 plumb lost his grip an' over he went!" 
 
 Dad blew his nose again. 
 
 "The boys found him where he drifted up on the 
 sand below the riffle . . . an' we buried him . . . 
 proper ..." 
 
 "Why, surely he could swim ..." began the 
 Bishop. 
 
 "Not Lucy . . . he'd forgotten all about water 
 . . . poor liV Lucy drowned!" 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LOST LAKE 
 
 WITH leisurely journeying they came the next 
 afternoon to the crest of a bare ridge at the far 
 side of Wickiup Flat whence they looked down 
 upon the curious country surrounding Lost Lake. 
 Persistent snow patches covered the trail here and 
 there despite the warming summer suns, and close 
 at hand greater fields of snow projected down 
 among the barren moraines and scattered tama 
 rack trees. 
 
 While the other members of the party regarded 
 the widespreading view before them, Dad Trumble 
 repaired a cairn of stones marking the trail, mis 
 handled by winter storms. 
 
 "Why the monument?" Kent asked. 
 
 Trumble reinforced the base of the cairn with a 
 heavy rock and wedged a gnarled bit of tamarack 
 branch, whitely weather beaten, into the top of 
 the pile, so that it stood out conspicuously. 
 
 "In Noo York I reckon they label the by god 
 streets, don't they?" was his laconic rejoinder. 
 
 Kent, getting the point, nodded. 
 
 "Ye see, Dave, this here avenoo we're on is 
 
 120 
 
Lost Lake 121 
 
 pretty important leastwise, it used to be. It's 
 the main route of the Ringo Trail which crosses the 
 mountains from Farewell to the Valley. In 
 the old days when everything east of the divide 
 moved on horseback, it was the one big way over 
 to the Welcome River country. An* so" . . . 
 Dad, having given the cairn a finishing touch, 
 swung into his saddle ... "I mos' always try 
 to help keep the old trail well marked. In summer 
 it's easy enough when you can see the landmarks, 
 an' it's always plain sailing in the timber with the 
 blazes on the trees. But give her a foot of snow 
 here near the top, an* a squall so thick ye can't 
 see the hosses' ears, an* the chances of getting 
 lost and freezing up tight is elegant. " 
 
 From their vantage point they all looked at the 
 lake below them, and its queer environs. Seem 
 ingly a satanic force had played fast and loose with 
 the great piles of fire-glazed rock round about. The 
 lake itself was mounted like a gem in a setting 
 of emerald meadow, a tiny gayly colored park- 
 place hemmed in by gray talus slopes and fan 
 tastic heaps of rock, which seemed to have been 
 shot out from the side of the Chief, crashing 
 down about it in million-tonned avalanches. Here 
 and there huge bowlders sprawled in the grassy 
 field at the water's edge, with purple lupin and the 
 tawny Indian paintbrush flower clustering beside 
 them. 
 
 Lost Lake, encompassed by the mountains, lay 
 at the very top of the divide, or, at least, at the 
 
122 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 summit of the pass where the Ringo Trail found a 
 way across the range. From it a deep quick stream 
 started boldly westward through the grassy mea 
 dow, swirled surprisedly around and over some 
 ^agrant bowlders, outposts of the main avalanche 
 and centuries ago wx>rn glassy smooth by the 
 diligent waters, and then, foaming bravely, dashed 
 into the maelstrom of rocks contesting further 
 passage. Here an arm of talus, spilling down 
 from the Chief, reached out across the stream, 
 barring its progress. The waters gurgled and 
 fought and sighed, and then all at once disappeared 
 through cracks and caverns into the shadow lands 
 below. 
 
 That evening, when the Bishop had taken 
 the axe and gone beyond the circle of firelight in 
 search of more boughs for his bed, Kent sought 
 information from Dad Trumble. 
 
 "Most of that settlers' meeting was a rank 
 puzzle to me, " he offered encouragingly. 
 
 "Umph!" 
 
 " I'd like to know what's behind it all. " 
 
 "Cats has been killed by it," the old man 
 remarked dryly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know curiosity sometimes is fatal, " 
 laughed Kent, "but what did you mean when you 
 said there wasn't enough water in Welcome River 
 to care for the South Canal segregation as well as 
 the original contract holders?" 
 
 "I meant " the older man hesitated. "I 
 meant just what I said. There ain't enough 
 
Lost Lake 123 
 
 water, and there never will be until someone pulls 
 off another one of those blamed miracles." 
 
 "But the report . . . Failing's engineers say 
 there's plenty of water. " 
 
 ' ' Report hell ! What's a report 'tween friends ? ' ' 
 grunted Dad. " It's this way, an' you may as well 
 know it now as later. That engineer's report is 
 all bunk . . . plain skuldugery of the rankest sort. 
 Failing brought a kid glove boy out from the 
 a-feet East ter do th' work, and he found right 
 soon there wasn't more than 1800 second feet of 
 water on the average. Now, that's just about 
 what's needed for the present segregation." 
 
 "How do you know all this?" 
 
 "The Lord rewards virtoo, 1 'spose. Anyway, 
 He let me catch them scalawags with an extra 
 ace tucked in their sleeve. It's this way. That 
 summer when they had the engineering gang out 
 I went along as cook. We started in up at the 
 meadows, and worked all the way down to Farewell 
 with measurements and surveys. You see, there 
 never had been any reg'lar dope kept on the river 
 before. That was when they first cooked up the 
 plan for the new South Canal unit, and they 
 wanted to prove that there was water enough to 
 handle it. Well, they proved it right enough. 
 Only the Lord, as I've remarked, was good and let 
 me in on the secret. " 
 
 Dad puffed his pipe and spat largely into the 
 fire. 
 
 "One night we was campin' at Piney Falls, ten 
 
124 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 miles above Farewell. From the down-in-the- 
 mouth worrit look of young Welton that's the 
 boss engineer, you know I suspicioned some 
 thing was plumb wrong. About mess time 
 along comes Jim Failing in his team, looking as if 
 he'd lost his last friend . . . only I don't 'spose 
 he ever did have a reg'lar friend, nohow. When 
 grub was through Failing and Welton got out th' 
 dope sheets an' maps all over the tables, messing 
 up my new oilcloth something scandalous. Then 
 they went to talking, sort of low voiced, to match 
 their spirits, which certainly was about at zero. 
 And oh, well, in course it wasn't egzakly accord- 
 in* ter Doyle, but I stuck tight in the cooktent, 
 which was dark so they didn't think no one was 
 there. Then they got a bit excited and loosened 
 up their language so's I heard it all easy as 
 snaggin' fish. Th' upshoot was that Welton 
 agreed to doctor the records. That night they 
 did an awful lot more than the Lord could get 
 away with, for they boosted old Welcome River 
 about a thousand second feet, which was generous 
 of 'em. I heard the whole shebang, and saw a 
 deal of it. But I never let on a whimper; sort 
 of thought it'd be best to wait for the bygod upper- 
 tuned moment, as the feller said." 
 
 Kent, wondering why the fraud had never been 
 discovered, asked Dad if it were not true that 
 stations were maintained to measure and record 
 the flow of Welcome River. And the old man told 
 him that was true enough, reminding him, however, 
 
Lost Lake 125 
 
 that it was Failing himself who did the measuring 
 at the rapids just above Farewell and one of his 
 men at the up-river station. As for the Govern 
 ment observer twelve miles downstream at Eagle 
 Ferry, it was a well-known local phenomenon that 
 almost a third of the flow was supposed to vanish 
 between Farewell and there, presumably through 
 subterranean fissures, just as a portion of the river 
 above Farewell actually disappeared in the lava 
 fields. 
 
 "Why don't you tell the whole dirty business?" 
 
 "Can't." Dad's brief word cut short the 
 excursion of Kent's puzzled mind. "I jest natu 
 rally can't . . . 'twould break her all up." 
 
 The girl again! Unfathomably she seemed to 
 bob up as a vital factor in all the larger complexi 
 ties of the little world into whose entanglements 
 he had plunged. 
 
 "Who is this Welton, anyway?" 
 
 "He's from the East ... but it shouldn't be 
 held against him, " replied Dad, with a quizzical 
 smile. "Friend of Failing's backers, I under- 
 stan'. A purty good highbrow engineer, too, and 
 fair to middlin' ter look at which fact the by god 
 coot seems to savvy. When it comes ter dollin' 
 up there ain't a Christmas tree as can touch 
 him." 
 
 "But what has he to do with Miss Colton ? " 
 
 Dad Trumble regarded the fire silently, his 
 eyes for once without their twinkle. 
 
 "Girls," said he, "is foolish . . . mostly. 
 
126 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 About this crooked report matter, why, I jest 
 naturally had to tell someone, so I told her, way 
 back I mos' generally do tell her, yer see. " The 
 old man smiled softly. "An' then if she didn't 
 flamboozle her old bygod Dad by up an* tellin' me 
 but say, David, secrets is secrets." 
 
 Thereat the old man straightened to the full 
 majesty of his five feet four inches, loosed a mag 
 nificent flurry of sparks from the back log with a 
 deft kick, and hallooed to the Bishop. 
 
 Shortly Rudd returned, burdened with balsam 
 boughs. 
 
 "Say, Dad, I hope retribution for your sins 
 doesn't overtake you to-night in the shape of an 
 earthquake, for there's an avalanche hanging up 
 there just waiting for a word of encouragement. " 
 
 "I'm in good company if it's coming!" Dad 
 replied with a grin, spreading his blankets, and the 
 others squirmed into their sleeping bags. 
 
 While the dying fire dwindled and the stars 
 gleamed the brighter, David Kent lay cozily, his 
 dreams more of the day than of the night. His 
 experiences since casting in his fortunes with 
 Farewell rehearsed before his mind, and all the 
 details of these Oregon days marshaled themselves 
 in retrospect, as clear and sharp as the night air 
 itself. Curiously, Kent's thoughts were less and 
 less of his own problems. True, Valentine, a joyous 
 ultimate promise, served always as a mental 
 background; his was a pilgrimage, its goal attain 
 ment of the beautiful gray girl. But as he lay 
 
Lost Lake 127 
 
 beneath the night sky, consciously reveling in his 
 aloneness, it was the problems of his new friends 
 which most concerned him. 
 
 Out from the purple plush overhead the legion 
 ary stars smiled intimately. The clean fragrance 
 of dirt and grass clung close to his earthy bed, and 
 the frosty nip of the ageing night made that 
 blanketed couch seem secure and warm beyond 
 belief. From the meadow where the horses 
 browsed there came at lessening intervals the 
 thud of their hobbled forefeet as they moved 
 from one grazing ground to another. As their 
 appetites slaked these predatory excursions waned, 
 until finally even the bell of Lazy Jake, the pack- 
 horse, ceased to tinkle. Persistent through this 
 ultimate calm sounded the swirl of the running 
 water where Lost Lake overflowed in the short 
 lived stream. 
 
 "So there isn't enough water in Welcome 
 River, " he mused. " If they ever do get a square 
 report that'll be discovered and the South Canal 
 scheme goes to blazes. " He realized well enough 
 the result meant no fresh funds from the new unit 
 to put the old in workable shape and save the 
 settlers. A crash must come. And that would 
 mean the canals left as they were, leaking and 
 inadequate; no more laterals to lead the water to 
 the lands of those who had contracted for it; re 
 mote settlers left to their fate, waterless, with 
 next to no recourse, with none of the expected 
 mortgage-lifting crops obtainable and their little 
 
128 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 capital already devoured by initial payments 
 investment small enough, perhaps, reckoned in 
 dollars, but enormously large in the bitter cur 
 rency of wasted years and shattered hopes. 
 
 If only there were some miraculous cure for the 
 sick project, some neglected lever upon Failing, 
 some desperate hold whereby he could be strangled 
 into full justice for his settlers, some untried op 
 portunity to pry loose the contents of conser 
 vative moneybags! And the key of it all, Kent 
 saw clearly, was with the river itself if the fatal 
 lack of water could be remedied ! 
 
 Quiet indeed it was; too quiet even to think, 
 Kent felt, as he tried to ponder. Only thQ 
 sound of the running water disturbed the over 
 whelming hush, a babbling, monotonous under 
 tone. Almost, it seemed to him, there were 
 intelligible words in the everlasting music of the 
 stream. "Find us if you can . . . find 
 us if you can . . . find us if you can " 
 over and over, over and over in his mind the words 
 ran, to the tune of the running water. There 
 seemed an insolence in the measured message 
 a subtle invitation a veritable challenge. . . . 
 
 All at once Kent sat up straight beneath the 
 stars. For a full minute he was silent, his brain 
 racing. Then a wild yell, triumphant, joyous, 
 surged into the silent night. The startled horses 
 snorted and charged away. 
 
 "Whasmatter? A rattler?" The Little Bish 
 op's voice was anxious. 
 
Lost Lake 129 
 
 But Kent only laughed laughed until the 
 sleeping bag fell away from his shoulders. 
 
 "A hell of a joke!" Dad snapped, rubbing his 
 eyes. He had expected nothing less than a ma 
 rauding bear. "I suppose, "he continued with 
 sour facetiousness, "you dreamed of a by god 
 feather bed and woke us up to hear about it?" 
 
 "What is it, Kent?" Rudd looked a bit 
 alarmed. 
 
 The disturber of sleep assumed a serious air. 
 
 "Nothing much," said he, mildly. "Only I've 
 found enough water for all the settlers " 
 
 "Got it with you?" Dad interrupted. Neither 
 practical jokes nor dreams appealed to him at 
 that time of night. 
 
 "No, Dad. Not right here . . . but it's not 
 far away." 
 
 "Remember, the day of miracles is past," ad 
 monished the Bishop. 
 
 But the young man smiled complacently. 
 
 "Watch me!" 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 NEWS EXTRAORDINARY 
 
 "AND did you file on the water?" 
 
 " No, I didn't file. In the first place, there wasn't 
 time, and secondly, it is hardly necessary yet." 
 
 "Well, tell me about it if you care to." Pha 
 raoh was frankly interested. 
 
 "There is nothing to it ... absolutely noth 
 ing ! ' ' Kent spoke with enthused conviction. ' ' All 
 I have to do is to cork up the western outlet 
 and raise the level of the lake a bit, and then the 
 overflow will come this way, just as it did a few 
 hundred years ago." 
 
 Pharaoh, his big brow puckered more thought 
 fully than ever, asked how much water the over 
 flow contained. 
 
 "I asked Rudd and Dad, at different times. 
 The Bishop estimated five hundred second feet 
 he had some engineering training, you know. 
 Dad said over six hundred. Anyway, there's 
 an extraordinary lot of water boiling out of the 
 lake, what with the drainage from the everlasting 
 snow on the Chief and the springs which force up 
 from the bottom." 
 
 130 
 
News Extraordinary 131 
 
 "Well, say there was five hundred feet. That 
 would be all very nice if you could get it to Wel 
 come River, but how much do you 'spose that 
 would cost, and how much would be lost on the 
 way?" 
 
 "I went into that a bit with Rudd ..." 
 
 "Oh, the Bishop knows, does he?" 
 
 "Yes . . . and the Church is about the only 
 institution I'd trust with the secret unless it's 
 the Pioneer!" laughed Kent. "Rudd and I did 
 a bit of rough reconnoisance work, and it looks 
 as if all we'd have to do would be to spill the Lost 
 Lake overflow down from its meadow, and gravi 
 tation would attend to the rest. There's an old 
 natural channel which winds around all the way to 
 Little Lake, and the spring overflow of Little Lake 
 already goes into Welcome River although at 
 present it doesn't amount to anything. In other 
 words," the young man juggled mountain lakes 
 with humorous abandon, "I propose to dump 
 Lost Lake into Welcome River!" 
 
 "Remember about Man proposing and the 
 Lord disposing!" Pharaoh cautioned. "But even 
 if it was all clear sailing you'll have to get your 
 water rights first, and then comes the real work 
 and the right of way which ..." 
 
 "It's all through the Forest Reserve . . . the 
 right of way question is easy. As for the 
 other ..." 
 
 Pharaoh guessed what was in his mind. 
 
 "Cash?" 
 
132 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Kent nodded. 
 
 1 'Got any?" 
 
 "Yes . . . and no!" He had some money, 
 truly enough, but his agreement with Valentine 
 forbade his touching it during this trial year. 
 
 "Well, you better find out whether you have or 
 you haven't. As forme," the editor scratched 
 his thatched dome quizzically, "I don't generally 
 have any trouble determining whether I'm a 
 millionaire or a pauper there's no 'yes-an'-no' to 
 that, even for the assessor. Howsoever" . . . 
 he moved off toward the back shop . . . "there's 
 a bit of a job to be set up, and I'll thank you 
 to read the proofs while I get at the cases. " 
 
 On Pharaoh's littered desk, flanked on one side 
 by a blue Department of Agriculture report 
 (dealing with the Boll Weevil in Louisiana) and 
 on the other by a neat pyramid of seed packages 
 distributed by a provident Congressman, there 
 lay the planer proofs of that week's edition. Kent 
 took up the first of these and immediately his eye 
 encountered an item under a one-line head which 
 banished further thoughts of labor for that day. 
 
 "Capitalist Coming." That was the headline. 
 
 "Accompanied by Max Welton, his engineer, 
 and by his daughter, Miss Valentine, Alton 
 Pennoyer, a capitalist of New York, arrived last 
 night." Kent rubbed his eyes, glancing up as if 
 half expecting to see the Pennoyers. Then he 
 remembered that this item was to appear in the 
 Pioneer of Wednesday, and this was Tuesday; 
 
News Extraordinary 133 
 
 so the "last night" of the proof actually meant 
 that very evening. 
 
 "To-night! Of all the everlasting ..." 
 
 But Kent's amazed exclamation tapered off into 
 a gurgle. The reason for the Pennoyers' advent to 
 Farewell was apparent enough in the words of the 
 proof words that fairly rose up from the smudgy 
 paper and smote him with sudden and complete 
 confusion. 
 
 "Mr. Pennoyer is one of the largest stock 
 holders in the Bonanza Irrigation Company, and 
 is visiting the project not only to see his own 
 investment at first hand, but also as the repre 
 sentative of a group of eastern gentlemen who, it 
 is understood, control the company. According 
 to Manager Failing, the party will remain in Fare 
 well a week or more. Speaking of this country 
 and its prospects, Mr. Pennoyer said " the inky 
 mourning band of an inverted slug at that point, 
 followed by the words "Statement to kom, " 
 indicated that Editor Jones had not deemed it 
 expedient to indite Mr. Pennoyer's utterances 
 for him in advance of their enunciation. 
 
 For thirty long slow seconds the cogs of Kent's 
 brain refused to mesh. 
 
 Then they flew together and the mechanism 
 rushed madly on while a mental moving picture of 
 all the distressing dilemmas of the new situation 
 whirled through his head until it was hot and his 
 hands were cold and that part of his stomach which 
 authors term the pit became unhappily numb. 
 
134 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 For here he had blundered face to face with 
 the astounding fact that Valentine's father was 
 the financial angel of the Bonanza Company 
 and undoubtedly the guiding accomplice of its 
 manager; and here was he plotting war upon that 
 company and pledged to the cause of the settlers 
 in their struggle against the machinations of 
 Failing here he stood, indeed, well branded as a 
 thorn in the side of those who conducted and those 
 who financed the B. I. C. 
 
 "Hell!" said he, whole-souledly. 
 
 A pretty development, he thought, in this 
 Quixotic cross-continent quest of success the sort 
 of success which this very father of Valentine 
 demanded. Not simply a development, but 
 probably enough the very end of it. Surely so, 
 indeed, unless he changed his course . . . and 
 there his racing mind slowed down to consider 
 the new notion. . . . Right-about-face! Why 
 not? ... It had been done before, and with 
 less reason. . . . It would be easy . . . very, very 
 easy . . . infinitely easier than persisting in the 
 present vexatious path. . . . After all, why not? 
 
 Dust and desert and poverty; struggle and 
 disappointment and failure. As Kent rehearsed 
 it all his spirits sank lower and lower. For the 
 settlers and the town the future seemed to him 
 unutterably dark; for himself he foresaw compli 
 cations which seemingly could have no other 
 ending than speedy ruin of all his cherished 
 desires and plans. 
 
News Extraordinary 135 
 
 "What's wrong?" asked the lean editor, return 
 ing from the shop. 
 
 "Everything." 
 
 With the frankness of a troubled mind, he 
 started to pour forth his woes, but the story was 
 scarcely commenced when the door of the Pioneer's 
 office opened upon Crete Colton. There was dust 
 upon her shoulders and on the battered hat which 
 carelessly held captive the mass of pale hair ; while 
 the smile of the blue sky itself seemed in her frank 
 eyes and the brown of the sun-kissed land reflected 
 in the tan of her cheeks. 
 
 "'Morning, folks!" Then, catching the sober 
 look of the two men, the ample mouth pulled down 
 at the corners mock-dolorously. "Oh, excuse me. 
 Where's the corpse?" 
 
 Without waiting for a reply she dropped into 
 Pharaoh's chair, assuming an air of sanctimonious 
 sympathy. ' ' Do you object to another mourner ? ' ' 
 
 "No, indeed," Kent laughed. "We're glad to 
 have you. And as to the corpse, I'm in the heavy 
 role myself. At least," he stated more exactly, " I 
 will be soon enough . . . probably." 
 
 "Oh . . . 'soon enough . . . probably/ That's 
 odd. It sounds like a sacrifice with the hero in 
 clined to bolt at the last minute and disappoint 
 an expectant audience. As for me" . . . Crete 
 pouted gravely ... "I insist upon getting the 
 act as advertised. No rain checks. " 
 
 "But you see I never contracted anything," 
 Kent replied. 
 
136 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Then there's nothing for you to lose." 
 
 "No . . . nothing. Nothing, that is, unless" . . . 
 the young man hesitated . . . "unless oh, well, 
 unless I go ahead." He ended ambiguously. 
 
 Something of his meaning, of what lay behind 
 his words, reached Crete. Walking to the win 
 dow she looked out upon the dismal dustiness, the 
 parched plains and the vacant lots of the city- 
 to-be whose dreams had not come true. Beyond 
 all this she could see the waterless lands of the 
 segregation, the gray sagebrush plains, the fences 
 and shacks of the settlers, the men working on 
 their ditches and the women toiling with their 
 cookstoves and their babies. And still beyond, 
 the impelling background of all the rough new 
 country in the making, the force that spurred 
 forward all the best elements of its pioneering, 
 there was clear to Crete Colton the ultimate 
 end and reward of it all green turf, plowed fields, 
 happy homes, and contented communities. Her 
 eyes, too, saw the splendid mountains; and they 
 seemed a beckoning promise of the future. 
 
 "Are you going ahead . . . or back?" The girl 
 spoke quietly. 
 
 "Ahead or back?" Kent repeated lamely, 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 Turning from the window, she faced him 
 squarely. 
 
 "You know well enough." There was weari 
 ness and disappointment in her tone. "There's 
 a big man's work here the work of pioneers in 
 
News Extraordinary 137 
 
 any new country. You know what there is to 
 be done, and you know that women can't do it all 
 even with the help of dear Pharaoh here. Pro 
 vidence or a guilty conscience or something we 
 don't care what," she smiled through the mis 
 tiness that gathered as her words poured forth, 
 "brought you to deliver us, a Daniel ..." 
 
 "No, a David, as it happens!" he broke in. 
 
 "Well, David, then . . . youVe come to the 
 valley for battle and already the giant has chal 
 lenged you. You, David Kent, are the only one 
 among us who dare answer that challenge. Take 
 your five stones, David, and smite Goliath's 
 brazen helmet ..." 
 
 "He's got plenty of brass, God knows, " growled 
 Kent. 
 
 "And if you don't" . . . she hesitated . . . 
 "well, if you fail us Goliath will crush us all . . ." 
 
 She was standing straight now, beside the 
 window, its light full upon her firm face, and her 
 blue eyes resolutely upon his. "So it's really 
 David's move . . . and what will David Kent 
 do? Go forth and fight or quit? You know 
 just what I meant when I asked if you are going 
 ahead or back . . . ahead into trouble, probably 
 with no profit to yourself ... or back to your own 
 country and your own people . . . back to com 
 fort and refinement, to a land where folks believe 
 there isn't such a thing as pioneering to-day out 
 side of the movies. " 
 
 Pharaoh was genuinely troubled. It seemed 
 
138 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 preposterous to him for Crete to lecture Kent as 
 she was doing; had not he just told him of his plans 
 with Lost Lake plans which, if successful, would 
 solve the whole problem and bring the Irrigation 
 Company to terms? 
 
 "Why, Crete," the editor expostulated mildly, 
 "I can't make out what you're driving at. You 
 talk as if Mr. Kent had thrown up the sponge. " 
 
 "Well, hasn't he? Haven't you, Mr. Kent?" 
 
 For the seconds in which Kent faced Crete 
 Colton silently, poor Pharaoh's heart sank. Then 
 his young assistant shook his head. 
 
 "Of course he hasn't!" Pharaoh ejaculated, 
 infinitely relieved. With an air of triumph, he 
 continued: "The truth is, Crete, Kent here has 
 the company crowd backed off the map . . . he's 
 got those Philistines with their tails between their 
 legs." 
 
 Then the editor proceeded impetuously to con 
 fide to Crete Colton what Kent had just told him. 
 "And it's perfectly feasible," he wound up in a 
 glow of enthusiasm. "All that's necessary is to 
 get the filings safely made and then with that stick 
 over his head it won't be hard to make Failing 
 come to terms hell have to contract to use all 
 the South Canal profits on the old segregation, eh, 
 Kent?" 
 
 "No more contracts. A bird in the hand is 
 worth a flock in the sagebrush. Failing won't get 
 that water, and the chance that goes with it to 
 clean up on the new unit, unless he first makes 
 
News Extraordinary 139 
 
 the present settlers whole, and delivers water to 
 every acre of sold land. " 
 
 "Oh!" said Miss Colton, and that was all. 
 
 "How much water were you short last year, 
 Crete?" asked Pharaoh. 
 
 "Another two days of the lateral would have 
 saved the crop. But I let the Sorensons on the 
 ditch below me have the water then all their 
 alfalfa depended upon it, and with four children 
 and a mortgage they seemed to need it worse than 
 I did. The new people at the end of the ditch 
 burned up entirely." She considered that tragedy 
 thoughtfully. "They were new last year and 
 really didn't have much in crops, but it broke 
 them anyway. They went back to Wisconsin. " 
 
 "Will it be any better this year, as matters 
 stand?" Kent asked. 
 
 "No, probably not. The ditches are the same 
 size but a little more leaky. They haven't spent 
 any money repairing them the company declares 
 there isn't any more money. Down at the Capitol 
 the Land Board says there's nothing it can do to 
 force the company the old story of getting blood 
 from a turnip. But it doesn't make much differ 
 ence to me . . . personally, that is," she cor 
 rected herself with a wry little smile; "even if 
 there was oodles of water I couldn't run the 
 ranch next season. ' ' She studied one tanned wrist 
 thoughtfully. "I'm broke. . . dead broke!" 
 
 "As bad as that?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
140 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "And which way are you going . . . ahead or 
 back?" 
 
 He put her own query to her gently. 
 
 "Oh, I'm ... I'm stationary." 
 
 "It seems to me," he said after a pause, "that 
 you are the one really best qualified as a mourner, 
 at least so far as logical reasons for mournfulness 
 go. ... Although somehow" ... he looked 
 with frank admiration at the girl's sunny face . . . 
 "you never would fill the bill very well, profession 
 ally speaking. " 
 
 "The Lord gave me a sense of humor, anyway," 
 she replied. "That helps. " 
 
 "I reckon He overlooked me when it came to 
 dishing out that asset!" Pharaoh exclaimed with a 
 wry smile. "The situation doesn't strike me as 
 especially damned funny!" 
 
 "Well, if the truth must be told, I wouldn't call 
 you a court jester, " said Kent good-naturedly. 
 
 The girl, seeing deeper into his mood, sensed 
 something radically wrong. 
 
 "We've all gone on the mourners' bench and con 
 fessed," said she. " It's your turn now, Pharaoh." 
 
 And Pharaoh, encouraged, told what he had 
 been withholding from Kent, hesitating, in his 
 inherent kindliness, to so soon oppress the high 
 spirits of the returned vacationist with his own 
 worries. Failing had served notice that unless 
 the Pioneer forthwith got in line approving the 
 South Canal unit there would be no more advertis 
 ing and no more job work. 
 
News Extraordinary 141 
 
 "So he wants you to boost the new segrega 
 tion?" The girl's cool voice broke the silence. 
 
 "Yes. He says one good issue of the Pioneer 
 telling all about it the way he sees it, of course 
 would settle the matter. He's to have maps 
 drawn and plates made and . . . and" . . . the 
 distressed editor actually choked . . . "he's to 
 write it all himself. There's to be a big edition . . . 
 a thousand extra copies. With that says Fail 
 ing he can put the deal over. No one much gets 
 out of here to the Capitol. . \ . " 
 
 "Because they haven't the price," muttered 
 Kent bitterly. 
 
 "So the folks down there'll take the Pioneer 
 about at par they'll believe it says what the 
 people up here think. 'An independent expres 
 sion of the desires of the community ' is what he 
 calls it ... independent . . . my God!" After 
 a minute of silence he continued wearily: "He's 
 reasonably decent on the money end. We owe 
 him five hundred dollars on the land and we're 
 to get a receipt for this, and deed, when it is 
 delivered." 
 
 "It?" The girl's voice sounded very far away. 
 
 "The special edition . . . the boost for the 
 South Canal scheme." 
 
 " Then you're going to ..." 
 
 Pharaoh nodded. 
 
 " It's the only thing to do. It's a losing fight . . . 
 there's no use bucking this . . . this octopus. 
 Oh yes, I know they're a measly lot ; a few strong 
 
142 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 men could clean them up ... but that takes 
 money . . . God! how many things take money! 
 And we're like you Crete, only worse . . . with 
 out the company business the Pioneer'd go to 
 smash in a month . . . we'll have to eat out of 
 it's hand. After all" . . . his voice was more 
 resolute, but there was no ring of conviction in the 
 words . . . "this is simply a matter of business 
 . . . strictly dollars and cents. It's a chance 
 to make a good turn. " 
 
 "A matter of business!" thought Kent to him 
 self. For a space he pondered unpleasantly and 
 then said aloud to Pharaoh: "What will the 
 people say?" 
 
 "Just what I'd say in their place . . . they'll 
 damn me from Hell to breakfast. But I won't 
 care . . . that is, not particularly. What they 
 think of me won't hurt the paper, anyway, be 
 cause . . . because . . . oh, well, you folks may 
 as well know the whole thing. . . . I'm going to 
 sell the Pioneer!" 
 
 Kent and Crete received the announcement in 
 astonished silence. 
 
 "Failing is giving me an agreement to buy the 
 paper, if I want to sell within ninety days. It's 
 a handsome price four thousand dollars more 
 than the plant is really worth and enough to pay 
 off everything and leave us in the clear." 
 
 Crete Colton drew an envelope from the pocket 
 of her mackinaw. 
 
 "Well, Pharaoh," said she quietly, "it looks 
 
News Extraordinary 143 
 
 as if 'retreat' had sounded. A little while ago I 
 asked Mr. Kent whether it was ahead or back with 
 him he evidently being in a cold funk on the 
 country. " Despite the passing smile, the girl's 
 caustic tone cut. "As this seems to have de 
 veloped into an epidemic of confessions I might 
 as well make mine, too. This," she held the 
 letter in her brown hand, "this is an offer to teach 
 in Seattle the best I ever had. " 
 
 Kent, beside the window, caught the full glint of 
 sunshine upon the mountain flanks, and his spirit 
 responded. After all, he had at least found himself 
 in time to prevent an irreparable break with Val 
 entine's father; Pharaoh would attain a measure 
 of financial competency ; and lastly, Crete Colton, 
 the enigma of the play behind whose scenes he 
 had chanced, was afforded a pleasant opportunity 
 to shake the dust of Oregon from her feet, to 
 gether with her present troubles. The clouds 
 seemed all at once lined with silver. 
 
 But something seen just then through the win 
 dow banished every other thought. 
 
 "Good Lord! Here's the stage!" And with 
 that David Kent bolted from the office. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 ARRIVAL UNEXPECTED 
 
 "WELL, I suppose I'll have to let you," Alton 
 Pennoyer had begrudgingly conceded when Valen 
 tine pressed her desire to accompany him on the 
 western trip. 
 
 "And, Dads," continued Valentine, after regis 
 tering her appreciation, "there's another favor. 
 No . . . no!" she laughingly captured her fath 
 er's hands, raised in mock surrender, "it isn't 
 money . . . although of course I will need some. 
 ... It's just that I want you to promise not 
 to tell anyone out there I'm going with you. " 
 
 ' ' Out there ? What do you mean, my dear ? ' ' 
 
 "At Farewell." 
 
 ' ' Umph ! I'd almost forgotten . Young Kent is 
 there, eh? So that's the reason for this sudden 
 interest in your poor old Dad. " 
 
 Pennoyer studied his daughter thoughtfully. 
 
 "What about this fellow anyway, Val?" 
 
 "Nothing especial . . . nothing definite, any 
 way," she replied, her gray eyes returning his 
 glance. 
 
 "Does he know you're coming?" 
 144 
 
Arrival Unexpected 145 
 
 "No. And I don't want him to. " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, I'd just like to happen in and see how he 
 really is getting along. From his letters . . ." 
 
 "Then he writes to you?" 
 
 "Of course. Why not?" 
 
 Pennoyer disregarded the question. 
 
 "You remember, Dads, how he went out there 
 wanted to make good and all that . . . show me 
 he could succeed on his own hook. He selected 
 Farewell because Bishop Rudd talked so much 
 about it. At the time I didn't know you had any 
 interest there and since I discovered it I've never 
 told Da Mr. Kent. You' were sort of mean not 
 to let us know . . . you might have helped him. " 
 
 Pennoyer smiled at the memory of his little 
 deception. 
 
 "No," said he, "it wasn't mean. He wanted 
 to stand on his own feet and I didn't feel like 
 supplying crutches. In fact, " he chuckled dryly, 
 "if my information is correct he's not only on his 
 feet but on my toes as well!" 
 
 "How, Dads?" 
 
 "Oh, the young fool's taken up with a bunch 
 of anarchist settlers who don't understand that 
 investors have any rights and that dividends must 
 be paid if they 're not, development stops short. " 
 Conversationally sidetracked to a business subject 
 Pennoyer 's voice hardened. "I've sunk a lot of 
 good money out there and things haven't gone 
 well no profits and poor prospects of any. In- 
 
146 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 stead, they want me to dump more cash into the 
 damned scheme. The settlers aren't satisfied with 
 what they have and demand all sorts of expen 
 sive improvements. They don't ask they de 
 mand! As if they didn't owe us everything!" 
 
 "But what has Mr. Kent to do with it?" Valen 
 tine asked mildly. 
 
 "Nothing and a good deal. It's absolutely 
 none of his business as he doesn't own an acre 
 or a share of stock. But somehow he's got tangled 
 up with the settlers. According to Failing, the 
 manager, he's in a fair way to raise the regular devil 
 by stirring up a lot of adverse publicity in connec 
 tion with a new deal we're launching." 
 
 Thereupon handsome, elderly Alton Pennoyer, 
 gray of mustache and hair, told handsome young 
 Valentine Pennoyer the main facts of the little 
 universe where irrigation was so nearly the begin 
 ning and ending of all things. He told it from his 
 own standpoint, of course, which was precisely 
 that of countless thousands of well-fed landlords 
 discussing the unreasonable demands of their 
 tenants. 
 
 He was past the ripeness of middle age, and she 
 was scarce full bloomed; the girl was tall and 
 slender, and the man substantially stocky. But 
 the same imperiousness was written in the clean- 
 cut lines of the two faces, the same shrewdness in 
 the cool eyes, the same quick blood richly colored 
 the old and the young cheeks, and the same some 
 thing of selfish determination lurked about the 
 
Arrival Unexpected 147 
 
 two mouths. Father and daughter were credita 
 ble examples of American commercial aristocracy 
 whose inalienable birthrights are competence and 
 prosperity. 
 
 Valentine may not have understood all the de 
 tails of her father's exposition of the affairs of the 
 Bonanza Irrigation Company, but certain salient 
 features she did grasp. Among them was the fact 
 that if the South Canal unit could be launched 
 Alton Pennoyer was certain of a handsome profit, 
 whereas if it were blocked the company seemed 
 fated to flounder further in a deepening mire of 
 debt and difficulty. And crowning it all was the 
 startling realization that her own would-be fiance 
 was the very one whose endeavors, if persisted in, 
 might defeat her parent's efforts. 
 
 "It's all Dads' fault . . . every bit of it !" she 
 pouted at her mirror that evening, uncontradicted. 
 If he had only told her, or David, of his interest 
 in the Irrigation Company there would have been 
 no trouble. 
 
 By the time she was ready for bed she had 
 evolved a plan. It was ridiculously simple; she 
 would call David off and make him work with her 
 father instead of against him provided Alton 
 Pennoyer placed his approval upon a certain life 
 contract which she conceded might as well be 
 entered into now as at any later time between 
 herself and David Kent. It was a fair bargain. 
 As a man of bargains and business, her father 
 must admit its equity. 
 
148 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Ten days later Alton Pennoyer, Valentine, and 
 Max Wei ton, an engineer who had already put in a 
 summer at Farewell on the payroll of the Irrigation 
 Company, started westward. 
 
 Father and daughter were scarcely settled in 
 the latter 's drawing room when the Pullman con 
 ductor appeared with a telegram. After glancing 
 at the typewritten sheet, Pennoyer handed it to 
 Valentine who read : 
 
 "Have assurances favorable action if local pub 
 lic opinion not hostile. If you approve intend 
 to arrange issue special edition newspaper here 
 boosting project. This will cinch matter. Heartily 
 recommend it. Can buy paper outright later if 
 desired and so control situation. Wire. 
 
 'FAILING." 
 
 "Which means?" she asked. 
 
 "That Failing is no fool. And my dear, if we 
 pull this off I don't anticipate much further trouble 
 not even from your devoted admirer!" He 
 smiled grimly. "As a prospective son-in-law (his 
 own prospecting, of course) it strikes me that 
 young man of yours is a good deal of an ass. " 
 
 "What did you say?" Valentine inquired 
 when her father had finished his reply to the tele 
 gram. 
 
 ' ' Just this : ' I approve your plan. ' ' Then, with 
 mock seriousness he added, "Do you?" 
 
 "Yes ... if it works!" and they both smiled, 
 each foreseeing the successful culmination of a 
 different scheme. 
 
Arrival Unexpected 149 
 
 During the next four days Valentine had ample 
 time to analyze her plans and herself (a favorite 
 occupation, never very productive) while she saw 
 from her window the shores of Lake Michigan, 
 the everlasting agricultural reaches of the con 
 tinental midregions, the sagebrush semi-deserts 
 and "bad lands" of the intermountain country, 
 and, finally, the magnificent Columbia. 
 
 To Valentine the trip was tiresome, and the 
 end of it dusty, dirty, and quite lacking the inspi 
 ration she had expected. However, Welton was 
 attentive and amusing. He talked well and never 
 seemed travel stained. Before they crossed the 
 Missouri she had dubbed him "The Life Saver, " a 
 title won by persistent good humor and constant 
 efforts to make the journey as pleasant as possible. 
 Despite the leavening of his presence, however, 
 she was nearly sick of her bargain after the dirty 
 journey from the Columbia south to Shaniko. 
 And at Shaniko everything went wrong. 
 
 "A message for you, " said the clerk at the Co 
 lumbia Southern Hotel, handing Mr. Pennoyer an 
 envelope. ' l It came in by telephone this morning. ' ' 
 
 The communication was from Failing, stating 
 that as the company auto was out of commission 
 with no substitute available he had arranged for a 
 special stage to bring the travelers from Shaniko 
 to Farewell. They were to commence the one- 
 hundred-mile drive at daybreak. With a light 
 rig and frequent changes of horses they should 
 reach Farewell by dark. 
 
150 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 That night was a miserable one for the Penno- 
 yers. The hotel's best rooms were directly over the 
 bar, and the bar was prosperously noisy. It was 
 midnight before Valentine dropped into a fitful 
 sleep. Almost immediately, it seemed to her, 
 someone pounded on her door. 
 
 "Five o'clock!" 
 
 The mirror was cracked, the water in the thick 
 white pitcher was icy cold. The room smelt 
 musty, out-of-doors looked tragically cold and 
 gray, and her feelings corresponded with the en 
 vironment. Worse than that, she seemed unable 
 to appear other than she felt, which made her 
 furious. She was sick of it all. Oregon she hated. 
 Everything connected with the trip she detested. 
 Anyone who enthused over such a country she 
 pitied. 
 
 By the time the stage rattled beneath the 
 juniper trees on the outskirts of Farewell, she 
 was utterly at the end of her tether. Never had 
 she been so weary, so uncomfortable, and so be 
 draggled. And withal she was bitterly resentful 
 because she felt at her worst when she craved to 
 look her best. 
 
 Yet when the stage halted in front of Farewell 
 Inn and the cloud of dust had dissipated Valentine 
 felt curiously disappointed. David was not there 
 to greet her! 
 
 To be sure, so far as she was concerned Kent 
 had no reason to believe her nearer than Man 
 hattan Island, and ten minutes previously she had 
 
Arrival Unexpected 151 
 
 thought herself unwilling to meet him. But all 
 that made no difference just then. After a hun 
 dred miles of eating dust she had no appetite for 
 logic. The fact of the minute was that David 
 had failed her. 
 
 Scarcely had Alton Pennoyer and his daughter 
 been assisted from the vehicle when behind them 
 sounded the strangest voice Valentine had ever 
 heard. It started with an impressive boom, and 
 then abruptly jumped six notes to a vocal altitude 
 ridiculously unmasculine. 
 
 "How do you do! Mr. Pennoyer ah, Mr. 
 Welton glad to see you. Enchanted, I'm sure, 
 Miss Pennoyer . . . this is indeed an honor for 
 Farewell." ' 
 
 As Failing was explaining the difficulties with 
 the automobile, the sound of running footsteps 
 clattering along the wooden sidewalk caused the 
 little group to turn. 
 
 "David!" cried Valentine. And then, as he 
 came nearer, "My goodness! Why, you're . . ." 
 but whatever she intended to say was left unsaid. 
 
 Disregarding the others, David Kent went 
 straight up to Valentine and clasping her two hands 
 looked full in her face. It was a searching look, 
 questioning . . . and then all at once radiant. 
 
 Nor was the girl's sudden silence and the young 
 man's frank adoration lost upon the others. Fail 
 ing, astonished at the unexpected development, 
 showed his perplexity. Welton, who up to then 
 had heard little of Kent, smirked outwardly 
 
152 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 and boiled inwardly. Alton Pennoyer positively 
 snorted. 
 
 Rarely did Valentine Pennoyer lose command 
 of a situation, and her poise, routed temporarily, 
 speedily returned to her. 
 
 She withdrew her hands from Kent's. 
 
 "Yes, you've changed . . . no doubt of that, " 
 her tone was back at normal. She strove to be 
 super-commonplace. 
 
 "Have I?" Kent could not draw his eyes 
 away. "For the better?" he inquired eagerly. 
 
 She laughed, and there was a passing hint of 
 bitterness in the laughter. All at once Valentine 
 recalled how weary she was and how poorly her 
 beauty was prepared for such a meeting by the 
 dust and dirt of the long ride, her soiled and 
 wrinkled clothing, and her lack of rest. It annoyed 
 her. It seemed unfair . . . and on top of that 
 here was Kent attempting to monopolize her, al 
 most to assert proprietary rights. 
 
 "No . . . not for the better." Her patrician 
 head was held high as she appraised him. "You're 
 brown, but I suppose one has to be either that or 
 dirty in this wretched country. Then you look 
 older. And as for clothes" . . . she smiled a 
 trifle cynically . . . "if you want to know, I 
 think they're positively dreadful. You look like 
 . . . why, at home you'd actually pass for a 
 rowdy!" 
 
 "Oh, thank you, thank you!" Kent mocked 
 good-naturedly, but the sunniness left his face. 
 
Arrival Unexpected 153 
 
 Dapper Welton, catching the note of sarcasm, 
 beamed. 
 
 "Ahem!" boomed Alton Pennoyer in a pre 
 paratory way. It was high time to break up this 
 ridiculous tte-&-tte. 
 
 "Glad to see you, Kent," said the financier 
 dryly, stepping forward and taking the young 
 man's hand. 
 
 1 ' Thanks. I hope you are ! " 
 
 "This is Mr. Welton . . . Max, Mr. Kent . . . 
 an old friend of . . ." it was on the tip of his 
 tongue to say "Valentine's" but instead he sub 
 stituted "of the family." 
 
 1 ' How are you ? ' ' Welton put the routine greet 
 ing disinterestedly. 
 
 Something in the natty appearance of the 
 engineer annoyed Kent inexplicably. It was a 
 case of no love at first sight. 
 
 "Oh, I'm pretty rowdyish, thanks." 
 
 Kent grinned. Welton looked surprised, Val 
 entine annoyed. 
 
 "What next, Failing?" inquired Pennoyer, in 
 dicating the luggage. "Oh, I beg pardon . . . 
 of course you know our friend here?" his gesture 
 embraced Kent. 
 
 Failing's countenance bespoke the bubbling en 
 thusiasm of a professional mourner. 
 
 "I have had . . . that pleasure." The man 
 ager rubbed together his beefy hands, the wrinkles 
 deepening about his eyes in what was intended 
 to be a smile. 
 
154 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 As they walked to the Company House, Valen 
 tine chatted with Kent who carried her bags. 
 
 "Mr. Failing doesn't exactly love you, does 
 he?" 
 
 "Not exactly." 
 
 His apparent preoccupation annoyed her. 
 
 "You're not very enthusiastic," she pouted. 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 "Me!" 
 
 " Good Lord. " That was all he said for a space. 
 Then seriously: "You're changed too, Val ... or 
 perhaps it's just I." 
 
 "Do I look badly?" Her words followed her 
 thoughts. Instinctively she coiled back a vagrant 
 lock of hair. 
 
 "Badly?" He looked at her then, from the 
 disheveled dark hair framing her refined face to 
 the tips 'of her well clad feet, and his eyes saw 
 nothing that did not seem perfection. "Badly?" 
 he echoed, and surely the wonder in the word and 
 the expression of the speaker's face must have 
 gratified the eternal feminine thirst for homage. 
 After a long second of silence Kent continued, 
 as if it were difficult to find adequate words to 
 convey his thoughts. "Val, see that mountain 
 ... so white and wonderfully, perfectly beauti 
 ful?" 
 
 They were on the green lawn before the Com 
 pany House, almost at the very edge of Welcome 
 River. Across the water, which was blue with the 
 reflection of the sky, there were fine straight pine 
 
Arrival Unexpected 155 
 
 trees, and thirty miles beyond rose the Chief. 
 With the dark pines before it and the blue sky 
 behind it, the great white mountain did indeed 
 seem perfection. 
 
 "It is attractive, David/' 
 
 "Attractive? Why, to me that's the most 
 beautiful view in the world . . . the most abso 
 lutely perfect thing . . . except one. 11 Turning 
 from the beautiful mountain to the beautiful girl, 
 he looked full at her. He had a queer trick of 
 unexpected seriousness. 
 
 "Now," said he, "I am looking at something 
 more perfect even than my mountain." 
 
 She blushed at this pretty answer to her ques 
 tion, dropping him a mock courtesy to hide it. 
 
 "And perhaps" ... he followed his train of 
 thought to its ending, speaking half to himself . . . 
 "perhaps it's equally unattainable." 
 
 "What did you say? I didn't hear." The 
 low words had escaped her. He laughed shortly. 
 
 "It's a long way to the mountain as the trail 
 goes ..." 
 
 "Very cold, that mountain country!" Max 
 Welton interrupted, just then coming up behind 
 them. 
 
 Turning to the engineer she expressed her 
 agreement with a smiling nod. "It does look so. 
 You know, Mr. Welton, I don't believe I'd like 
 mountains . . . except at a distance. " 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ACCIDENT UNFORTUNATE 
 
 ON the afternoon following her arrival, Kent 
 and Valentine walked leisurely to the base of 
 the Pilot, chatting on the way of trivial things 
 and safely far-away people. 
 
 "Can you make it?" He indicated the climb. 
 
 "Good gracious!" Valentine looked up at the 
 butte and down at her feet. "I'm not keen on 
 mountain climbing," she demurred. 
 
 "When in Rome . . ." he laughed. 
 
 "I don't believe the best families on the Forum 
 climbed the Seven Hills." 
 
 "Well, we haven't any best families out here 
 . . . thank Heaven. " 
 
 "David you sound like a Hull House lecturer 
 or an anarchist ... or something. And be 
 sides" . . . she added more seriously . . . "you 
 talk about 'we* as if you belonged here which 
 of course you don't. " 
 
 "No, I suppose I don't belong, Val," he re 
 plied dryly. "But it's hard not to get the habit 
 out here of talking about 'our' country and 'our' 
 town and boasting about it, too. You see, in 
 
 156 
 
Accident Unfortunate 157 
 
 the West everyone is wonderfully proud of every 
 thing from its grain to its" ... he was going to 
 say "girls" but substituted . . . " to its gophers. 
 It's local patriotism in the n'th degree. " 
 
 "Or conceit?" Valentine interposed disinter 
 estedly. She was bored enough with the West 
 and its ways without having Kent discourse upon 
 them. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Perhaps . . . and I'm getting as bad as the 
 rest. You didn't like my old Roman adage, so 
 how's this? When in Paris be a parasite . . . 
 and I'll feel like one if we don't get a move on. " 
 
 A third of the way up the butte Valentine 
 awoke to the realization that it was about three 
 times higher, and harder to negotiate than she 
 had anticipated. With two thirds of the stony 
 trail behind, she was ready to quit. But encour 
 aged by Kent's reassurances that the sunset view 
 from the top was worth all the effort, and even 
 more effectively aided by his willing arm, the girl 
 scrambled with increasing weariness up the steep 
 trail, thoroughly uncomfortable and rapidly be 
 coming as short of patience as she was of breath. 
 
 "Are those animal tracks, David?" she inquired 
 during a brief halt, pointing to lines which wound, 
 corkscrewlike, around and up the side of the butte. 
 While actually formed by water draining down 
 the soft slopes they curiously resembled trails. 
 
 He nodded gravely. 
 
 "But surely there aren't any wild beasts so* 
 
158 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 near town?" There was a note of alarm in her 
 voice. 
 
 " Don't worry, Val . . . they're not really 
 dangerous. Their scientific name is sambucus 
 pubens but hereabout they're called lava hops. 
 In such cases I always prefer the local no-men-cla- 
 ture!" Here a severe fit of coughing seized the 
 elucidating scientist ; so severe, in fact, that he was 
 obliged to turn his back to Valentine. 
 
 "They're certainly queer beasts," Kent con 
 tinued, his eyes intent on the western sky line. 
 ''Notice how all the trails paths, you know 
 curve around to the right as they climb upward? 
 That's because the lava hops have their right 
 legs longer than their left ones. Curious pro 
 vision of thoughtful old mother nature, that." . . . 
 Again a short spasm of coughing interrupted him. 
 . . . "You see, by always working around to the 
 right as they climb, their right legs being longer, 
 it keeps their bodies level no matter how steep 
 the hill. And of course when they get on flat 
 ground the difference in the length of their legs 
 gives them a sort of hopping gait, and from that 
 and the fact that they are found only in this lava 
 country they get their name 'lava hop." 
 
 It was Valentine's first intimate encounter with 
 the wonders of western natural history. What a 
 capital story to take home for retelling at dinners 
 next season! If she only actually could see one! 
 
 "As to their looks" . . . Kent answered her 
 query . . . "why, they're a bit like a cougar 
 
Accident Unfortunate 159 
 
 when it comes to their hide," . . . she shivered 
 . . . "but not ferocious . . . not very that is. 
 They're larger than a badger and a bit smaller 
 than the average black bear. Why" ... he 
 leaned over a bit of dust beside them ... "a 
 lava hop's been right here!" 
 
 Sure enough, an animal's track showed in the 
 brown dirt. 
 
 "It looks a little like a dog/' Valentine offered 
 sagely. 
 
 "Yes, so it does. But notice this hind pad" 
 with his finger he indicated a part of the track. 
 "There is where the difference comes. But let's 
 get on to the top. Perhaps on the way down we'll 
 meet a sambucus pubens face to face . . . they 
 usually come out after sundown. " 
 
 The Pilot was the show spot, and the showing 
 spot, of Farewell. An obliging providence had 
 placed it as an observation tower whence all the 
 details of the surrounding country might be 
 viewed. Visitors were dragged to its summit 
 to become acquainted with the topography of the 
 region. Timber buyers spied out the lie of the 
 land from its convenient top, determining just 
 where the forests sloped most advantageously to 
 mill sites on the river, and then going forth and 
 buying their timber claims from the settlers for 
 about a third of their ultimate market value. And 
 tight-mouthed railroad engineers, quietly recon- 
 noitering, had spent many an hour on the Pilot 
 studying the far-reaching railroadless land which 
 
160 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 lay stretched in a nature-made map at their feet, 
 and later silently slipping away in the guise of 
 timber cruisers, stock buyers, or land seekers. 
 
 Finally they reached the summit and rested on 
 the western lip of the old crater, with Farewell and 
 a goodly portion of Central Oregon spread out 
 before them, while Kent talked of the various 
 landmarks and told incidents of the country's 
 brief history. West and south from the town, 
 whose scattered roofs they glimpsed among the 
 trees where Welcome River wound like a silver 
 band, the pine lands billowed up from the level 
 country and over the foothills to the white peaks 
 of the mountain range. 
 
 Away from the mountains he showed her the 
 huge plain stretching like a flat gray table for 
 forty miles, and tilted a bit to the east and north, 
 quite perfectly planned for irrigation. To the 
 east, near the Pilot, were many square patches 
 of green, checkerboarding dun squares. The 
 green, he told her, were alfalfa fields, and the dun 
 sagebrush comprised the others, where irrigation 
 had as yet left the land unleavened. The canals 
 and laterals showed like thin white threads wind 
 ing here and there across the country. 
 
 "That is just the beginning," declared Kent. 
 "Beyond that ridge to the southeast there's a 
 country as big as Massachusetts, and to-day there 
 aren't more than five hundred people in it and I 
 don't suppose that many acres of cultivated soil. 
 Nothing but jackrabbits, cattle, and fuzztails. " 
 
Accident Unfortunate 161 
 
 "Fuzztails?" she repeated. 
 
 "That's what they call the range horses 
 scrubby little cayuses hard enough to thrive on a 
 barbed wire diet. And Val," ... his enthusiasm 
 carried him on, ... "don't you see what all this 
 means? It's the story of the frontier all over 
 again. The big chances have not gone. There's 
 a million acres over there beyond Cow Ridge, most 
 of it wheat land as good as the Palouse country." 
 
 But there was no answering chord of enthusiasm 
 in the girl. From Cow Ridge behind which, her 
 companion declared, lay an untouched El Dorado, 
 her eyes returned to the little patches of irrigated 
 land and the larger areas of brown waste untouched 
 by water. 
 
 "David," she sighed whimsically, "I'm afraid 
 you've been bitten by this western booster bug. 
 Don't you think you ought to get away before 
 you're inoculated?" 
 
 "What do you want me to do?" He put the 
 question in a low, serious tone, looking straight 
 at her. 
 
 "Well," she parried, "what do you want to do 
 yourself?" 
 
 "I ... don't know." He was silent for a 
 minute. "Yes; I do know . . . one thing . . . 
 the only important thing, Val dear ... I want 
 to marry you!" 
 
 She laughed lightly. 
 
 "But that's nothing new!" 
 
 She thought him very handsome as he bent over 
 
162 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 her, despite the shabby clothes so brown and 
 strong. Bending still further, suddenly he took 
 the beautiful face in his two hands and pressed his 
 mouth to her red lips in a fiery kiss, crushing her 
 to him for a passionate moment. 
 
 She had been silent, unresisting. Then, as he 
 drew back, indignation surged within her, yet, 
 somehow, subtly tempered with satisfaction. But 
 dominating her tangled emotions was amazement 
 at the impetuous abandon of her lover. Could 
 this surprising man be the same David Kent 
 that patient, trustworthy, always safe David, 
 whose placid nature she had toyed with so often? 
 
 "David!" Her heart suddenly harbored genu 
 ine apprehension. For her transgressed lips some 
 how failed to utter the words of reproach she knew 
 they should, and her cool blood for once raced 
 hotly through her body. 
 
 It was Kent who controlled himself first. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Val," he said, simply. "Just 
 couldn't help it." He was still half drunk with 
 desire to embrace her, and to evade the temptation 
 drew his eyes from the lovely girl, who in her agi 
 tation appeared doubly alluring. "I guess it must 
 be the air out here. I used to be able to behave 
 myself." 
 
 His back was toward her now and her eyes were 
 upon him. Had he turned just then something 
 in those misty gray-blue eyes might have told him 
 that there are times when behaving one's self need 
 not be the ultimate goal of manly ambition. 
 
Accident Unfortunate 163 
 
 " Perhaps, " she ventured, and her voice faltered 
 wistfully, " perhaps it's your clothes . . . Mr. 
 Rowdy! 11 
 
 "You'll forgive me?" 
 
 "No!" The warning note in her voice checked 
 his advance. "No . . . I'm not angry . . . not 
 very, that is! . . . only you mustn't ever do it 
 again. You see," she went on, with regained 
 steadiness, "it's not only . . . well, let's say 
 unseemly, but it's also breaking your contract 
 the rules of the game." 
 
 "I only promised not to ask you to marry me 
 until . . . let's see . . . until next May. That's 
 when the year is up." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "And what do you call your recent actions?" 
 
 "Oh, that was simply . . . well, showing my 
 appreciation for the beauties of nature!" 
 
 "Don't do it again, David, that's all." She 
 was serious. "And before we go I want some 
 information." 
 
 "Oh Lord!" said Kent to himself. "Here 
 comes trouble." 
 
 "David, who is the man fighting my father?" 
 
 " I believe his name is . . . Kent." He looked 
 at her gravely. "That is, Val, I understand he 
 has been making a little trouble, and is in a fair 
 way to make more. " 
 
 "You didn't come here to meddle in other 
 people's business." 
 
 She was on her own ground now. Her intense 
 
164 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 loyalty to her father and her belief in the absolute 
 right of all that concerned him was in a way even 
 more fundamental than her own personal selfish 
 ness. So it was small wonder that Kent's lengthy 
 explanation of the situation had slight effect. 
 
 He told the girl what had happened to the 
 water users and what was destined to overtake 
 them. From where they stood the brown level 
 lands of the South Canal segregation were visible, 
 and he explained how the profits of this new unit 
 were sought by the company while at the same 
 time it ignored the rights and almost the very 
 existence of the original settlers who had bought 
 land and were waiting for water. 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't they sell this new land?" 
 she asked when she had heard him through. "You 
 say yourself the profits would be enough to fix 
 up the old ditches and all the rest of it. " 
 
 The chief reason why the extra acreage should 
 not be sold, as Kent was aware, was the lack of 
 sufficient water in Welcome River to care for the 
 new as well as the original segregation. But he 
 doubted whether Alton Pennoyer knew that his 
 engineer's report on the river's flow was crooked, 
 and that sufficient water actually did not exist. 
 So he attempted no answer to her question. 
 
 "Dads is going to be positively wild." Valen 
 tine herself cared little for the paternal anger, 
 being always able to circumvent it, but when 
 directed at others she had the highest respect for 
 its devastating efficiency. 
 
Accident Unfortunate 165 
 
 Kent nodded. "My friend Failing will help 
 that along." 
 
 "But it would be very easy to put him under 
 obligation to you. And I think" . . . she con 
 tinued, regarding him keenly . . . "that would 
 help ... in other directions. " 
 
 "I've considered that," he said, almost sharply. 
 "In fact, that's about all I have thought about 
 since yesterday when I found out who was be 
 hind this blamed irrigating company ..." 
 
 "Yesterday? You only knew it yesterday?" 
 She was genuinely surprised, and still more so 
 when he told her the circumstances of his double 
 discovery of her father's interest in the B. I. C. 
 and her own coming. 
 
 "You'd have me quit? Val, I thought you 
 wanted me to make good ... to stick to some 
 thing until I finished it and came out on top." 
 
 "But where are you getting?" 
 
 "Only into trouble, I suppose," he said bitterly. 
 
 Valentine was annoyed. She had expected 
 to find Kent reasonably ready to fall in with her 
 suggestion to quit Farewell and its vexatious set 
 tlers, especially if by so doing he should win the 
 favor of her father. And instead of jumping at the 
 chance, he inclined to platitudes about making 
 good. 
 
 " It is time we started back, " she declared. The 
 sun was already enveloped behind the purple 
 outlines of the Chief, and the long shadows of the 
 range suddenly engulfed them. 
 
i66 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Before they reached the bottom of the butte 
 the dusk had thickened into near-darkness. But 
 disregarding the difficulties of picking their way, 
 and because it was really easier to go fast than 
 slow, they raced down the final pitch of the descent 
 in regular schoolboy fashion. And just at the 
 end of it the girl's feet tripped over a stone, 
 throwing her headlong down the steep slope. 
 
 She lay so quiet he thought she had fainted. 
 But Valentine was simply fighting for self control. 
 Pride kept her from whimpering, or from speaking 
 until she was sure of herself. 
 
 "Ouch! It's my ankle, David." She twisted 
 in pain. "I turned it on that stone ... oh! 
 but it hurts." 
 
 Kent started to unlace her shoe, and finding 
 the handling too painful, slashed it asunder with 
 his knife. Further than releasing the foot and 
 resting it as comfortably as possible, there seemed 
 nothing he could do as no water was available. 
 So he placed the sweater he had been carrying 
 under and around the girl's shoulders, stripped off 
 his flannel shirt and wrapped the swelling ankle in 
 it, as warmly and restfully as possible. 
 
 " I hate to leave you alone, but it won't take me 
 over half an hour to get a rig, Val, " he said gently, 
 after a moment's thought. " I'll run all the way in." 
 
 Until he spoke she had considered nothing but 
 the pain of the minute. 
 
 "You're not going to leave me?" There was 
 terror in her voice. 
 
Accident Unfortunate 167 
 
 "Yes, Val." He tightened his belt. "It's 
 the only thing to do. We might wait here all night 
 without a soul coming this way. And the longer I 
 keep you from a doctor the worse the ankle will 
 get." 
 
 "Oh!" said she, and that was all. 
 
 "I'm terribly sorry ..." which indeed he was. 
 "Try to be cheerful . . . good-by!" 
 
 With that he was off, in an orderly dog trot, 
 intent upon conserving his energy so as to cover 
 the long mile to Farewell as speedily as possible. 
 
 "Oh! " said the girl again, and this time the word 
 ended in a sob. She looked around at the gather 
 ing darkness, a little wildly, and up at the sides 
 of the butte marked with the strange corkscrew 
 trails. 
 
 "Cheerful!" By now she was crying outright. 
 She wished for David at her side for some 
 protector above everything else. And David 
 was pounding along the dusty road to town. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 FIRST AID 
 
 "!F you tell, it will ruiiTme." The tone was 
 masculine and resentful. 
 
 "If I don't it may ruin hundreds. " It was a 
 woman's voice, pitched low and infinitely troubled. 
 
 "But I did it under orders." The man's voice 
 sounded querulous. "Loyalty is a first rule of 
 business . . . anyone knows that. " 
 
 "How about loyalty to one's self?" 
 
 "Don't preach please." He was curt now. 
 " That's all pretty enough in story books. There's 
 highbrow ethics, and business ethics . . . they 
 generally don't mix worth a cent." 
 
 "Did someone tell you to fake those records?" 
 There was a quiver of hope in the words. 
 
 The answer was a growl and an oath. They 
 were quite near now, and Valentine could hear the 
 light lava gravel crunch beneath the man's shoes 
 as he turned upon his companion. 
 
 "I don't care who did it or how it was done!" 
 he snarled, and to the listening girl the voice 
 sounded oddly familiar. "I stand by my guns 
 
 168 
 
First Aid 169 
 
 and by the Old Man. As for you, young lady, 
 my advice is to keep your precious mouth shut. " 
 
 In the black silence following the outbreak 
 the unsuspected member of the triangle thought 
 she heard a sob, quickly stifled. 
 
 "It was all a mistake between us two," the 
 man's voice was gentler. "Plain folly, that's 
 what it was . . . just like my telling you about 
 the report. It's ended now . . . absolutely ended. 
 That's best for both of us ... we're awake after 
 a fool dream. I'm glad . . . damn glad! Well, 
 I'm off to town. Yes, I know you don't mind 
 the dark. Good-by . . . and remember!" 
 
 For a moment Valentine thought she was 
 deserted again, and would have called as the man's 
 footfalls receded, but all at once the half choking 
 sound of sobs that would not be denied was close 
 at hand. She tried to turn on her side, then to- 
 see something, if possible, of the companion fate 
 seemed to have guided to her. The movement 
 brought a distressing throb in her ankle. 
 
 "Ouch!" she cried as the hot pain shot through 
 it. 
 
 "Oh! What's that?" The other one was 
 startled now. 
 
 "It's me!" called Valentine, with neither logic 
 nor grammar. 
 
 Then the other woman took shape among the 
 night shadows and, coming to Valentine, tended 
 her with efficient gentleness, the while asking her 
 the how and the why of her situation. 
 
170 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Briefly Valentine answered that she had sprained 
 her ankle racing down the butte and that her com 
 panion had left her there while he went to town 
 for aid. 
 
 "Who did you say it was? I wonder if he 
 knows where to get a physician and a rig. " 
 
 "Mr. Kent." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 "Do you know him?" 
 
 "Yes, I know him. " The other girl said it quite 
 colorlessly, yet something in her tone perhaps 
 in its very evenness piqued Valentine. 
 
 "Do you suppose he has enough intelligence to 
 get me out of this fix he got me into?" she asked. 
 
 Instead of answering, the other knelt down, 
 and in a few seconds a tiny blaze of twigs and 
 branches of the oily sagebrush sprang up from 
 beneath her hands. As she turned from the 
 kindling fire, Valentine for the first time saw the 
 open strong face of this one whom chance had sent 
 through the night to her side. 
 
 "Perhaps that will make it a little warmer, Miss 
 Pennoy er . ' ' The fair-haired girl smiled pleasantly . 
 
 "How do you know my name?" 
 
 "I didn't but I guessed it. Most everyone 
 knows that Alton Pennoyer and his daughter are 
 'in these parts. ' ' 
 
 "And yours?" 
 
 " Crete Colton." 
 
 Then a short silence. The fire warmed Valen 
 tine, its glow and the companionship cheered her, 
 
First Aid 171 
 
 and for the moment her ankle was less trouble 
 some. 
 
 "I suppose you and Mr. . . . er, that is, David, 
 have often climbed the Pilot?" The eastern girl 
 tried to say it casually. 
 
 "No, not of ten. " Crete looked full at Valen 
 tine, smiling frankly. "Only twice, I think. You 
 see" . . . she wanted to set at rest then and there 
 further misunderstanding . . . "Mr. Kent has 
 been a good deal at the Jones place, where I stay, 
 so naturally -we've taken a few tramps together." 
 
 Crete was at the point of diplomatically adding 
 that the young man was to her mind extremely dull 
 company because his thoughts always seemed far 
 away, when that perennial defamer of the calm 
 of western nights, the coyote, lifted afar his plain 
 tive voice. At the sudden sound all the terrors 
 of her forsaken loneliness returned to Valentine. 
 She had never heard a coyote howl, and lying 
 there in the sagebrush, with the black night 
 around, the uncanny wail chilled her marrow. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, "what's that?" And then, 
 as silence settled down again, "Was it a lava hop? 
 Is there any danger?" 
 
 "We're as safe as at home only a coyote." 
 Crete's calmness amazed Valentine. Evidently 
 this girl who wandered casually about in the night 
 cared nothing at all for marauding brutes . . . 
 queer indeed were these feminine products of the 
 West! "But," continued Crete, "what was that 
 animal you mentioned?" 
 
172' The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "A lava hop . . . one of those queer beasts 
 which make the paths on the side of the butte. " 
 
 11 Oh, " said Crete. 
 
 "Yes," Valentine continued seriously, "natu 
 rally I thought it was one of them. Before you 
 came I was scared to death thinking what I'd do if 
 a lava hop attacked me. You see, of course I was 
 quite helpless . . . but David said they're usually 
 not dangerous." 
 
 "No, not usually." 
 
 Crete laughed, and her mirth was boyish and 
 hearty. 
 
 "Well?" Valentine was annoyed. 
 
 "Who told you about the lava hops?" 
 
 "David." 
 
 Crete laughed again. Then all at once the 
 truth dawned upon Valentine. But instead of 
 causing her to smile, comprehension of the little 
 hoax kindled her to anger, very suddenly and very 
 hotly. Miss Valentine Pennoyer had been made 
 a laughing stock and before a frowzy -haired west 
 ern wench, at that ! And David had done it ! She 
 bit her lip. 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing," chuckled Crete. "Ten- 
 derfeet are always getting little games put up on 
 them. Why, when David first came he put in a 
 solid day fishing on Lone Butte canal when every- 
 one here knows there's a fish screen at the intake 
 and not a solitary trout in the whole ditch. That's 
 regular. The lava hop yarn, however, " . . . she 
 smiled again, . . . "is newer and more polished 
 
First Aid 173 
 
 ... it really took an ex-tenderfoot to concoct 
 that, and a real one to swallow it!" 
 
 Whereat Miss Pennoyer was still more annoyed. 
 To have David Kent play silly tricks upon her was 
 bad enough, but to be called a tenderfoot by a 
 country girl was worse. 
 
 So Crete was still chuckling and Valentine was 
 fuming increasingly when the sound of horses' 
 hoofs and the distant twinkle of a lantern an 
 nounced the arrival of the malefactor himself. 
 
 "You're all right now," Crete said. "I think 
 I'll go." Suiting the action to the word, she 
 disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 The team drew up. 
 
 "Hallo, Val," called Kent cheerily. "A fire, 
 eh? That's cozy!" 
 
 The very word put Valentine on edge. Cozy! 
 To be deserted for an hour, left lying on the 
 ground in the dark, half perishing from cold 
 and with a sprained ankle save the mark if that 
 was coziness! 
 
 "I couldn't find the doctor but I got someone 
 just as good or a bit better." Kent was down 
 from the wagon with a jump, and beside him the 
 girl saw a stocky figure. "Valentine, you re 
 member Bishop Rudd?" 
 
 She recalled the Bishop clearly. In fact, the 
 recollection which struck her just then was her 
 mother's account of having once spanked this 
 same Bishop when he was a boy, and a bad boy at 
 that. The memory struck her as so absurd she 
 
174 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 commenced laughing, and then all at once the 
 laughter became hysterical and turned to weeping 
 as the reaction of the experience set in. 
 
 "I wanted a doctor!" she sobbed. 
 
 "But I just couldn't get a doctor," Kent 
 interposed gently. "The only one in Farewell 
 was out on a case. However, Val," he added 
 reassuringly, "the Bishop really knows a lot about 
 first-aid work and can handle that ankle just as 
 well as any sawbones." 
 
 Something in the efficient and silent way in 
 which Bishop Rudd went about his task evidently 
 reassured Valentine, for in a few minutes she 
 regained self-control and lay quiet as the amateur 
 physician bathed the injured ankle with cool water 
 from the desert water bag and then wrapped it 
 securely with a gauze bandage. 
 
 In the meanwhile Kent replenished the fire so 
 as to have more light for the Bishop's activities. 
 
 "By the way, Val, who made this fire?" It 
 suddenly struck him that Valentine of course could 
 not have done it herself. 
 
 "Eh, what's that?" The Bishop looked up 
 from his work. 
 
 "Why, when I left there wasn't any fire here. 
 I asked who made it." 
 
 Valentine lay very still now, with her eyes shut. 
 For perhaps half a minute she did not reply. 
 
 "If it hadn't been for the fire I suppose the 
 lava hops might have attacked me?" The girl 
 spoke acidly, her eyes still closed. 
 
First Aid 175 
 
 "Lava hops?" echoed the Bishop inquiringly. 
 
 "Ask Mr. Kent." 
 
 "Good Lord, Val, I forgot all about that . . . 
 that little yarn," he looked down at her as some 
 measure of comprehension stole over him. " Why, 
 you poor little girl! You don't mean to say you 
 lay there worrying about those fool beasts?" 
 
 "Only for a time." Her voice was colder 
 even than she herself had been. "No . . . please 
 don't do that" ... he had knelt and started 
 to slip his arm beneath her head . . . "it was 
 only a little while before I learned you had been 
 lying ... a friend of yours told me." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Who climbed the butte with you last?" Her 
 eyes were open now. 
 
 Kent thought a minute. 
 
 "Why, I guess it was Crete Colton." 
 
 "Exactly!" 
 
 "And she built the fire?" 
 
 Valentine nodded. 
 
 "Where is she now?" Kent looked around. 
 
 "I don't know . . . and don't care. If you 
 want" . . . the color was mounting into Valen 
 tine's cheeks . . . "go find her!" 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A CASUAL QUESTION 
 
 OCTOBER ripened with sunny splendor at Fare 
 well, intoxicatingly bright and crisply clear, the 
 hazes of summer all washed away by the first 
 autumn rains. Distance, measured by the eye, 
 dwindled into nothingness. 
 
 For ten days her sprained ankle kept Valentine a 
 prisoner at the Company House, much of the time 
 ensconced on the porch, and waited on by her 
 limited court, comprising Kent, Welton, Rudd, 
 and Failing. 
 
 The ideal weather availed Valentine not at all. 
 Indeed her inability to utilize its out-of-door 
 invitations no whit abated her fretful discontent. 
 Fundamentally she knew nothing of, and cared 
 less for, such recreation as the Oregon hills, forests, 
 and streams offered ; but now that she was there, to 
 be prevented from even sampling these offerings 
 tormented her. And the more Kent, sitting at her 
 feet, told of the Open, the more rebellious she 
 became. 
 
 "You're positively talking me sick about this 
 country . . . I'm getting to hate it," she would 
 burst forth when Kent enthused too wantonly. 
 
 176 
 
A Casual Question 177 
 
 And her suitor would laugh and try to take her 
 hand in his, often with temporary success. 
 
 "Next year," he would continue gayly, "I will 
 initiate you. See the old Chief? Well, there's 
 the most beautifulest camp site the Lord ever 
 created, just below that long snow slide . . . 
 practically perfect for a honeymoon camp. Once 
 you've had a real taste of the mountains you'll be 
 wild about it." 
 
 Valentine then would say little or nothing, in 
 her heart convinced her lover was absurdly unrea 
 sonable. And after he left she would try to analyze 
 this western madness which had overcome him, 
 considering how best to let him know, once and 
 for all, that she entertained no remote notion of 
 adopting Farewell and its out-of-doors for her 
 own, nor even/ for that matter, of accepting the 
 most alluring honeymoon invitations . . . unless 
 with very different environment. 
 
 "Well, Val dear," Alton Pennoyer declared one 
 noon, after a morning with Failing at the office, 
 "everything is rounding up nicely now. The 
 Land Board seems ready to stand for the new 
 unit, if there's no strong objection up here. 
 They've got political jobs, you know, and keep 
 their ears to the ground for the growls of the 
 dear electorate." 
 
 Valentine, in the hammock on the porch, smiled 
 up at her father. It was refreshing to find him in 
 a cheerful mood for once, for the squabbles of the 
 irrigationists had kept him well on edge. 
 
 12 
 
178 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "There won't be any growls, then, Dads?" 
 
 "No. That is" . . . the speaker smiled as he 
 stroked his crisp mustache . . . "there won't be 
 any you can hear down at Salem." 
 
 She asked him about Failing's plan for a special 
 edition of the Pioneer, of which he had wired when 
 they left New York. 
 
 "That's all fixed. Just went over the last 
 article. Old Pharaoh Jones, the editor, begins 
 setting the type this afternoon. It will be shipped 
 to me at Portland ..." 
 
 "Then you're going to Portland? Oh! Dads 
 
 >t 
 
 
 
 "I have to, Val. But it will only be for a few 
 days and you'll be quite comfortable here. Failing 
 is going to the hotel so you'll have the place to 
 yourself. And by the way, wouldn't it be a good 
 idea to get some woman to stay with you?" 
 
 Valentine considered the proposition for a 
 minute. Then an idea struck her. 
 
 "Yes, that would be best. I'll ask Miss Col- 
 ton." 
 
 "Miss Colton?" The name meant nothing to 
 Pennoyer. 
 
 "She's a girl I met the other day." 
 
 "All right. Better get her promptly as I'm 
 leaving to-morrow. " 
 
 Shortly after lunch, when her father and Failing 
 had appropriated to themselves the big "main 
 room" of the Company House with their heads 
 together over maps and papers, Valentine, upon 
 
A Casual Question 179 
 
 the porch, spied Bishop Rudd. Answering her 
 call he came across the grass, thick chested, 
 tanned, and clear of eye, with the ever-present 
 smile hovering about his generous mouth. 
 
 "A regular old-fashioned girl! " he greeted her. 
 "On the piazza ... in a hammock and . . . no, 
 I see it's not embroidery but a novel, which fills 
 the bill quite as well." He seated himself on the 
 top step, where the sunshine enveloped him and 
 his own sunny smile enveloped her. " You know, 
 I'm afraid I'm a reactionary the old-fashioned 
 dainty hammock girl makes such a hit with me!" 
 
 She was genuinely pleased with the compliment, 
 which had the ring of sincerity. But after all 
 why shouldn't he compliment her? Didn't she 
 look adorably attractive in her negligee creation of 
 chiffon and crpe de chine of palest green? Her 
 own glance, on a roving commission of self ap 
 praisement, even took stock of the shapely mem 
 ber which extended alluringly just over the edge of 
 the hammock displaying an abbreviated expanse 
 of silken ankle, while its bandaged and unsightly 
 mate was banished from observation beneath a 
 gayly oriental shawl. 
 
 "But I'm not old fashioned!" she objected. 
 
 "You don't look old, of course . . . but please 
 don't deny looking old fashioned. Really, it's 
 most becoming." 
 
 "Bishop, which do you like better?" The 
 girl's voice was half joking, half earnest. " The 
 hammock girl or the other kind . . . the out 
 
i8o The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 door well-I-should-say-I-can-take-care-of -myself 
 variety?" 
 
 The Bishop laughed outright. 
 
 "I suppose I mean the so-called typical western 
 girl," Valentine added. 
 
 "I don't go much on types, myself," he replied. 
 "You see, <to my mind, there's no such thing 
 to-day as a 'typical' western woman or man, 
 any more than there is a ' typical' American. 
 We're all composite photographs printed from 
 countless exposures but developed each in an 
 individual solution. " 
 
 "Anyway, you'll admit the girls of the West 
 aren't . . . well, the 'old-f ashioned ' kind you were 
 enthusing over just now?" 
 
 The Bishop was thoughtful for a moment. 
 
 "I see just what you mean," he said, "and it's 
 true enough out here the woods are full of the 
 competent, take-care-of -herself kind, as you put it. 
 And do you know, when I consider the prob 
 lem" ... he paused, pressing his lips together 
 in a quizzical way he had, while his eyes twinkled 
 . . . " I'm totally unable to make a decision . . . 
 I'm neutral. However, my ideal would be a 
 combination of the two. ..." 
 
 "A harem?" 
 
 "Hardly! Say the graces of the drawing-room 
 combined with the attributes of the open. I 
 suppose though," ... he heaved a heavy mock 
 sigh, . . . "such perfection exists only in the 
 dreams of an ageing ecclesiastical bachelor." 
 
A Casual Question 181 
 
 Valentine liked this plain, outspoken churchman 
 almost despite herself. His singular, blunt infor 
 mality contrasted oddly with the graces and mental 
 furbelows of the squires of the cloth with whom she 
 had sipped tea in transcontinental drawing-rooms. 
 
 "What is Mr. Kent's ideal?" She asked it 
 lightly, and then tucked back a disorderly lock 
 spied in the tiny mirror that dangled from a slight 
 golden chain around her neck. 
 
 The little Bishop got up from the step, and 
 when he had his stocky legs firmly beneath his 
 thick strong body he stood for a moment silently 
 until she looked up at him. 
 
 "I think," said the little Bishop meeting her 
 eyes earnestly, "that the easiest way for you to see 
 David Kent's ideal . . . would be to look in your 
 mirror again." 
 
 Valentine blushed prettily, quite consciously 
 contented. 
 
 She changed the subject then, telling Rudd of 
 her father's departure the following day and her 
 desire to secure a companion to share the Company 
 House with her. 
 
 "So . . . for contrast's sake as well as com 
 pany! . . . East is East and West is West, you 
 know ... I want to ask Miss Colton to stay 
 with me until Dads comes back. Won't you 
 please act as my courier?" 
 
 He acquiesced promptly, even insisting that 
 the formality of a written invitation was entirely 
 unnecessary, despite Valentine's protests. 
 
1 82 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "I was going by the Pioneer shop anyway and 
 I'll just drop in and tell her she's pretty sure 
 to be there," he said. "You see, 'jes passin' the 
 word' is quite comme il faut in this neck of the 
 woods." 
 
 "I hope the poor thing has something fit to 
 wear . . . and that she doesn't eat with her 
 knife!" the young lady said to herself when 
 the Bishop had gone. Then, rearranging the 
 pillows and with the passing thought that com 
 parisons often are desirable in the education of 
 masculine appreciation, she assumed the serious 
 contemplation of her novel. 
 
 Alton Pennoyer was in the midst of a cigar and 
 a sentence when he and Failing emerged from their 
 conference. 
 
 Pennoyer was saying, "They must leave Shan- 
 iko Sunday morning. Express 'em direct to me so 
 they'll be delivered first thing Monday morning. " 
 
 Failing nodded. 
 
 "The Board gets in from Salem about noon. 
 We'll have lunch and then adjourn to my sitting- 
 room for cigars and a wee nip. The first thing 
 you know one of 'em will see a copy of the Pioneer 
 lying around casually and he'll pick it up. " 
 
 "And they'll fall all over themselves!" ejacu 
 lated Failing. "Once they find out from the 
 paper that the country is keen for the new unit 
 there'll be nothing to it. It'll tickle 'em, too, 
 because those follows don't want any trouble . . . 
 just the minute they discover the plan has popular 
 
A Casual Question 183 
 
 backing instead of opposition they'll have ner 
 vous prostration in their hurry to sign up the 
 contract. " 
 
 " Maybe, " said Pennoyer. "At least, I hope 
 so and I'll admit it looks reasonable. But 
 there'll have to be another formal meeting at 
 Salem." 
 
 "I wouldn't delay a minute longer than ab 
 solutely necessary," Failing advised. "I know 
 these blamed State boards don't give them a 
 chance to figure much or ask too many questions. 
 They're worse than weather vanes when it comes 
 to shifting around. " 
 
 " Leave it to me!" The financier smiled com 
 placently. 
 
 Dapper young Welton appeared just then, 
 greeting Valentine pleasantly and his employer 
 with a respectfulness which to the girl seemed 
 very appropriate. With a word of cordial saluta 
 tion he took the young engineer by the arm and 
 led him into the house. 
 
 "By Gad, Miss Valentine, he's a wonder!" 
 Failing brandished his thick thumb in the direc 
 tion of the door. "He's got the punch and drive 
 . . . and the ideas." The burly manager en 
 thused oilily. 
 
 "Yes?" said Valentine, absentmindedly. The 
 words conjured up some memory, which she sought 
 to visualize. Then suddenly the conversation 
 overheard at the foot of Lone Butte came back to 
 her. 
 
1 84 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Do they call Dads the 'Old Man'?" she asked. 
 
 The quick question took the manager unaware. 
 "Why yes," he stuttered, "they do call him that 
 sometimes. You see, most always the boss any 
 where out here is called the 'old man* ... no 
 matter how really young he is," he added, as an 
 afterthought, and wound up with a chuckle that 
 was intended to be ingratiating; "it's sort of a 
 term of ... of endearment, you might say." 
 
 It was not Failing anyway, whom she had heard 
 talking with Crete Colt on. 
 
 However, she would try again. It was quite an 
 amusing experiment . . . and she might stumble 
 upon the identity of that nocturnal voice. 
 
 "Who told him to fake the records?" The 
 question was nothing more than a whim, and 
 she was prepared to laugh at his expected mys 
 tification. 
 
 But though mystification suffused Failing's face 
 it was of a quality so extraordinary as to startle 
 Valentine almost as much as her own innocent 
 words had startled the manager. 
 
 "The records?" His voice faltered uncer 
 tainly. 
 
 "Why yes . . . who actually faked them?" 
 The audacity of her r61e astonished Valentine 
 herself. She felt she was playing with gun 
 powder, yet enjoyed the experience in a dubious 
 fashion. 
 
 "Your father had no hand in it, Miss Pennoyer, 
 . rest assured of that. " 
 
A Casual Question 185 
 
 Valentine, thoroughly startled, swung around to 
 face Crete Colton, who stood on the lawn at the 
 edge of the porch. The western girl regarded her 
 steadily, with a kindly smile. 
 
 "I'm sorry I overheard you," Crete continued 
 in her quiet voice. "You didn't notice me coming 
 across the grass and I couldn't help hearing 
 your question ... I'm really glad you know 
 about it." 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 "Why, the records." 
 
 "What records? 11 All at once Valentine felt 
 acutely annoyed. She had capitalized that chance 
 remark about the mysterious records more from a 
 spirit of mischief than anything else, and now, 
 behold, it had created a scene with the manager 
 and elucidated something in the nature of a defense 
 of her own father from this stranger girl. 
 
 It was Crete's turn to be puzzled, and she 
 showed it. 
 
 "Hallo! Sounds like a movie scene looks." 
 Max Welton emerged from the house just in time 
 to catch the last words. "'The fatal records, or 
 who stole the will/ eh?" He saw only Valentine 
 and Failing, Crete being hidden from his view 
 point. "If you want any information, Miss 
 Pennoyer, ask me . . . I'm a regular archive when 
 it comes to records, good, bad, and indifferent, 
 and my motto is satisfaction guaranteed or your 
 
 M 
 
 "* The happy-go-lucky garrulity ended abruptly as 
 
1 86 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 the speaker, stepping out on the porch, spied 
 Crete. 
 
 "Yes, by all means ask him." 
 
 Crete Colton said it very evenly. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 KING DAVID'S QUEEN 
 
 "I BEAR a royal summons," said Bishop Rudd, 
 bowing profoundly. 
 
 "Is it to church?" She smiled. As a matter 
 of fact she always did go on those welcome occa 
 sions when the Bishop visited Farewell. 
 
 " Nothing half so tedious. You're nominated as 
 lady-in-waiting to the Queen." 
 
 "Queen?" Crete was puzzled. "What queen?" 
 
 "King David's queen." 
 
 " Oh ! " Without enthusiasm. 
 
 So the Bishop delivered his message, adding that 
 he thought it would be a specially nice thing to 
 accept it. 
 
 "Perhaps. But personally I don't believe in 
 royalty . . . it's undemocratic and strictly taboo 
 under the Oregon system, you know. And 
 Bishop, wasn't the Queen of Sheba . . . well, 
 wasn't she a rather unreliable person?" 
 
 But Bishop Rudd refused to carry the discus 
 sion into the realms of biblical history, and again 
 urging her to go to the Company House forthwith 
 and accept for herself, went his own way. 
 
 187 
 
i88 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Walking over the soft turf, the while considering 
 whether or not she cared to accept the hospitality 
 of the girl whom she had first seen a few nights 
 previously beside a sagebrush fire at the base of 
 the Pilot, Crete rounded a corner of the log house. 
 And just as she emerged Valentine put her open 
 sesame question about the records of the flow of 
 Welcome River. 
 
 "Failing . . . you, too, Welton . . . come in 
 for a minute." Pennoyer, in the doorway, 
 beckoned his henchmen. Then he turned and 
 went inside, having scarcely seen Crete and with 
 out noticing at all the tenseness of the four there 
 upon the porch. 
 
 Outside the two young women faced each 
 other. 
 
 "Too bad to interrupt the novel!" It was 
 Crete who regained her poise first. 
 
 Valentine felt angry and mystified, in about 
 equal proportions. The latter feeling provoked 
 the former. She was not accustomed to mysteries 
 and one involving her own interests, as this one 
 somehow seemed to do, especially piqued her. 
 
 "Oh, one doesn't have to read novels here to 
 get all the sensations of up-to-date romance," she 
 laughed, with simulated good nature. "You 
 people seem intent upon staging some kind of a 
 mystery play, but for the life of me I can't tell 
 whether it's comedy or tragedy!" 
 
 "Perhaps farce," suggested Crete, sitting on 
 the edge of the porch with her back to a post. 
 
King David's Queen 189 
 
 "But they" . . . Valentine nodded toward the 
 door just closed upon the two men . . . "they 
 don't seem to register undiluted mirth. But to be 
 serious ..." She closed her book briskly. "I 
 hope Bishop Rudd gave you my invitation, and I 
 hope you'll accept it. " 
 
 "Yes. He did . . . and I will, with pleasure. " 
 
 "That's splendid. Really, I'd perish of loneli 
 ness if you wouldn't come. And there's so much I 
 want you to tell me. " 
 
 "And so much I don't intend to tell!" said Crete 
 to herself. 
 
 The next morning, after seeing her father em 
 barked in an automobile for Shaniko, she hobbled 
 back to the hammock, forseeing as the most en 
 tertaining rift in the dull hours before her Crete's 
 arrival later in the day. But another visitor came 
 first. It was David Kent. 
 
 Even when they were spotlessly new Valentine 
 disliked corduroys and flannel shirts, and once they 
 acquired comparative antiquity, as had Kent's, 
 she more than ever disapproved. His corduroys 
 were scandalously ink stained. His flannel shirt 
 was torn and open at the throat because there were 
 no buttons to keep it closed, while one sleeve was 
 rolled up to the elbow and the other ended raggedly 
 midway between elbow and wrist. A decisive 
 smudge of black, evidently more ink, cross- 
 sectioned the tanned forearm, and a lesser smudge 
 of the same brew adorned the young man's brow 
 at the base of his towsled locks. 
 
190 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Heavens! What have we now ... a tramp, 
 street cleaner, or simply a printer's devil?" 
 
 "A devil of a mess, I'll admit," he answered 
 ruefully. 
 
 " Did you fall in the ink this time? Or did your 
 editor friend have you clean the inside of the 
 stove?" 
 
 "Neither. I simply played nursemaid to the 
 press and changed its rollers. You see, I was 
 feeding it . . ." 
 
 "On a bottle of ink?" 
 
 "No," he laughed, "I was feeding the first 
 run . . ." 
 
 "For goodness' sake, talk English." 
 
 "Well," desperately, "while I was putting the 
 papers through the press the clips slipped on one 
 of them and before I could stop the old Babcock 
 she'd wound up tight. Awful mess ... so I took 
 off the rollers and cleaned 'em." 
 
 "And you're the awful mess now." 
 
 She noted with repugnance how black his finger 
 nails were. 
 
 Despite the sulkiness of his reception Kent 
 settled down on the steps near the hammock, with 
 a sigh of satisfaction. 
 
 "That positively feels good," he said. "I've 
 been working like a dog." 
 
 "But it's scarcely time to commence working 
 yet," said Valentine. She was thinking of the 
 nine o'clock opening hour customary in the opulent 
 offices of her friends. 
 
King David's Queen 191 
 
 "Oh, my job began while you were sleeping," 
 her grimy visitor explained. "Poor old Pharaoh 
 is swamped with the extra work of getting out this 
 special edition for your father. He didn't get the 
 forms ready for the first run until two o'clock 
 this morning. Then he woke me up to run them 
 off while he had a bit of rest. I was bunking on a 
 camp couch in the front office." 
 
 It all seemed quite foolish and unnecessary to 
 Valentine, and she said so. 
 
 "Well, it is a bit extraordinary, I'll admit." 
 Just then to Kent the most extraordinary feature 
 of all was the realization that he could feel so 
 healthfully fresh and good natured at eight o'clock 
 in the morning after five solid hours of irksome 
 labor. "But look here, Val, there's no use being 
 cross about it. Of course, I'm beastly sorry about 
 the ankle, and you being interned here in this 
 social wilderness. But a bargain's a bargain, and 
 I'm living up to my end, like a Sunday school hero. 
 The Spartan youth with the wolf in his jeans had 
 nothing on me only my wolf seems to be at the 
 door." 
 
 "It wasn't a wolf ... it was a fox," pro 
 claimed Valentine. 
 
 "The only difference is a fox is smarter, and 
 harder to keep out. But seriously, Val" ... he 
 turned full towards her now and his bantering tone 
 gave way to earnestness . . . "remember what 
 I told you of the Bishop's farewell lecture about 
 'jelling'?" 
 
192 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 She remembered. 
 
 "He said I'd been boiling long enough and 
 needed to 'jell.' You sort of agreed with him. 
 Well, I've jelled a whole lot since I came to Fare 
 well. Seems as if I've settled down and found 
 myself most surprisingly ... at least it surprises 
 me. " He doubled his ink smudged right arm and 
 with the fingers of his left hand felt the muscles. 
 " It isn't just my body that's hardened up, either. 
 It's the rest of me. I've found something to do 
 and I mean to do it." 
 
 "Yes?" said Valentine, with mild interest. 
 
 Then Kent broached the purpose of his early 
 morning call. He told her in a straightforward 
 way of what he had found at Lost Lake, and of 
 what his idea could mean to the segregation, and 
 the settlers upon it. He also told her that he 
 knew there was not enough water in Welcome 
 River to care for the present segregation, let alone 
 the proposed South Unit; and he explained 
 discreetly his confidence that Alton Pennoyer was 
 unaware of the water shortage, having doubtless 
 been misled by crooked flowage reports. The girl 
 readily grasped the main facts that Kent believed 
 there was not enough water in Welcome River for 
 the needs of her father's irrigation enterprise, and 
 that if the flow from this Lost Lake of his could 
 be turned into the river the defect would be 
 remedied. 
 
 "Why don't you tell Dads about it?" she 
 asked. 
 
King David's Queen 193 
 
 He hesitated a moment before replying. 
 
 "There are two reasons. In the first place, as I 
 said, I don't believe your father knows anything 
 about the water shortage ..." 
 
 1 'Who does?" Valentine interrupted. 
 
 "Well, I know that Failing does and I be 
 lieve ..." Again he hesitated. 
 
 "Yes, go on," she insisted. 
 
 "... If you must know, the chap at the 
 bottom of it, to my notion, is that fashion plate 
 friend of yours with the bonny braes, Max Wei- 
 ton . . ." 
 
 "Just because you're jealous is no reason to 
 insult a ... a real friend of mine," Valentine 
 flamed up. 
 
 "Excuse me, " he said quietly. And to himself, 
 "Jealous? Oh, Lord!" 
 
 "You say you don't believe Dads knows . . . 
 why don't you tell him, then?" She repeated her 
 query sharply. 
 
 "I would if it were only he I'd have to deal 
 with. But when a fellow has a good hand he 
 doesn't show his cards until the bets are made. . . . 
 I'm going to file on the water rights at Lost Lake 
 and get them sewed up before I tell what I have. " 
 His jaw squared perceptibly. "Then I'll be in 
 shape to make this blessed B. I. C. come to terms 
 my terms." 
 
 "You mean you'll fight father?" The color 
 in her cheeks heightened. 
 
 "No," he hesitated, "I don't want to ... I 
 
 13 
 
194 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 won't do that ... if he will only meet me half 
 way." 
 
 "Meet you half way!" Valentine's lips curled 
 contemptuously. Her pride was pricked by the 
 absurd notion of this arrogant youth daring to 
 suggest that her father, Alton Pennoyer, should 
 come to him for terms! It was preposterous, and 
 made her all at once thoroughly angry. 
 
 "The point is, Valentine, " he continued matter- 
 of-factly and feeling very sure of himself now, 
 "that to put this thing over the way it must be 
 handled, I have to break my bargain, at least a 
 little bit." 
 
 "It's no bargain of mine, " she said curtly. 
 
 "Call it anything you like at least it's the 
 rules of the game I set out to play for this year, 
 just to see if I could play fair and win out. And 
 now I want to break one of 'em and I've come for 
 your permission. " 
 
 She offered no encouragement. 
 
 "In a few days now I'm going to file on Lost 
 Lake . . . it's a matter of posting some papers up 
 there and taking some others to Salem. That's 
 just the beginning. I'll have to do a lot of improve 
 ment work to keep the water rights, if they are 
 contested, which probably they will be. And it 
 takes money to pay for that sort of thing. The 
 rule I want to break, " he continued quite gravely, 
 "is the one about money. You know I agreed 
 not to use a dollar but what I earned during the 
 year. Now, I want to draw some from the East 
 
King David's Queen 195 
 
 and Valentine, it's to save a bunch of poor devils 
 out there in the sagebrush who don't begin to 
 know the trouble they're getting into. " 
 
 "Well?" Valentine's voice was quite colorless. 
 Inwardly she was boiling, and yet at the same 
 time she had a queer consciousness of a desire to 
 laugh aloud; it was so ridiculously unnecessary 
 for this matter-of-fact everyday young man to 
 take the quixotic "rules" so seriously. 
 
 "Do you mind?" 
 
 His persistency annoyed her afresh. 
 
 "Mind?" she flared. "Certainly not. I don't 
 care what you do it's nothing to me!" 
 
 "Nothing?" 
 
 "David Kent." Her voice shook ominously. 
 "I'm sick and tired of it all." 
 
 "You're sick. True enough ... I'm sorry, 
 Val." 
 
 "I'm not sick. Don't patronize me." Sym 
 pathy only aggravated. . . . "But it's enough to 
 make anyone sick. Why on earth are you putter 
 ing around with all this tomfoolery? Where is it 
 getting you? Is it fair to me? As far as I can 
 see you spent most of the summer with this Crete 
 person ..." The second she said it she wished 
 the words unuttered; but they were gone now, so 
 she plunged on. "You insult my friend; you 
 stir up trouble for my father, and now you actually 
 ask me if I object to your making more trouble 
 for him." 
 
 The girl collected herself. 
 
196 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "I'm going home next week." There was a 
 wealth of meaning, almost of invitation, in the 
 announcement. 
 
 But Kent did not rise to the occasion ; at least he 
 didn't rise in just the way he probably was ex 
 pected to. Getting to his feet he came over to 
 the hammock, looking down upon the girl as she 
 lay there. 
 
 "Valentine, when will you marry me?" She 
 regarded him steadily, too much a thoroughbred 
 to waver. 
 
 "When?" she mocked. 
 
 He nodded, as much as to say, "That's exactly 
 what I mean." 
 
 " When will you give up . . . this?" 
 
 He was tense; all at once it seemed to him he 
 had reached an unexpected crisis. Yet he was 
 able to answer the question with another, and 
 smilingly. 
 
 "Will you ... if I do give up?" 
 
 The gray eyes looked into the brown ones, seeing 
 very little of what was just before them and much 
 of what was hidden far beyond. Then all at once 
 they wavered and dropped. Valentine suddenly, 
 surely realized that a new certainty had been 
 born in her heart from its many uncertainties 
 and that contradictory certainty was that she 
 was uncertain. 
 
 Kent, watching her face and the new doubts 
 written there, intuitively realized that he would 
 get no answer then realized, too, that the girl 
 
King David's Queen 197 
 
 who so long had idled before the gateway of deci 
 sion now found her heart unwilling to go further 
 when finally her foot was placed upon its threshold. 
 And instead of utterly casting him down that 
 realization somehow left him strangely satisfied. 
 A feeling inexplicably akin to relief flashed through 
 him. And subconsciously realizing this, David 
 Kent was sorely puzzled. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 PI 
 
 "I WONDER, " said Miranda, when she and Pha 
 raoh quit their work at the Pioneer shop to go to 
 Farewell Inn for supper, "I wonder where David 
 is." 
 
 It was time for Kent to put in an appearance, 
 for they required his help to make the three 
 remaining runs on the press early that night. 
 Everything was ready for this final step in the pre 
 paration of Failing's special edition. Four pages 
 were already locked up, the two heavy chases, 
 each with its two pages, resting on edge beside 
 the press. The other four pages of type were 
 made up upon the imposing stone, ready to have 
 these same chases fitted around them when the 
 printing of the initial run was completed. 
 
 It was close to seven o'clock when the editor 
 and his "staff" left the building and night had 
 already settled down. 
 
 "B-r-r-r-r!" he chattered, taking Miranda's 
 arm. " It's mighty chilly, Hon. " 
 
 "Yes, and likely to be colder. See how black it 
 looks." 
 
 198 
 
Pi 199 
 
 Through the gathering gloom they still could see 
 the outline of the Cascade Range to the west with 
 an ominous dark mass of clouds hanging close 
 above the mountains. 
 
 "It's snowing up there," said Pharaoh, sighing 
 wearily. "That means the end of the summer, 
 and here we're scarcely into October. It's a 
 God-forsaken short season at best." 
 
 As they sat in the fly-specked dining-room of 
 the inn Failing entered. 
 
 "How's it coming?" he asked curtly. 
 
 "Fine," replied Pharaoh, gulping the dregs of 
 his coffee. "We're going back now to put the last 
 runs on the press. The bundles you want will be 
 ready not much after midnight, I think. " 
 
 The manager grunted his approval. "I'll drop 
 in later, " he said, and rolled away. 
 
 "And now, " said Pharaoh to Miranda, "I'll just 
 take you around to the Company House and leave 
 you with Crete and Miss Pennoyer for a bit of a 
 rest. They'll welcome company, I reckon ... a 
 queer combination those two . . . like a French doll 
 and a Teddy bear 'cept in looks," he chuckled. 
 
 She objected, but for once to no avail, and to 
 the Company House she was taken, whence 
 Pharaoh went on his way to the Pioneer. He 
 could see an uncertain light through the shop 
 windows as he approached. "That's David," he 
 thought, " starting work. " 
 
 When the slight form of the editor and the 
 
200 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 ample outlines of his wife became lost in the 
 gloom as they proceeded toward the inn for their 
 supper, a figure emerged from the shadow of a 
 juniper tree near the Pioneer building. 
 
 Seeing the coast clear the figure advanced 
 quickly and opened the unlocked door of the edito 
 rial sanctum. Once within, the man appeared to 
 be familiar with his surroundings and to know 
 exactly the purpose of his unbidden entrance. 
 On his way to the printshop he brushed by the 
 small safe which Pharaoh had once taken on a bad 
 advertising account and wherein he always firmly 
 intended to lock up each night the cashbook and 
 subscription records of the Pioneer, a laudable 
 intention actually fulfilled with methodical irregu 
 larity. To-night as usual the records and the 
 slim cashbook were on the counter instead of in 
 the safe. 
 
 " Had I better pull a little real robbery to make 
 it realistic?" the marauder questioned aloud, and 
 then after considering this unique proposition 
 for a moment he chuckled and knelt down beside 
 the safe. A few turns of the combination, a few 
 soft metal clicks, and the heavy door swung open. 
 Whereupon the cracksman, instead of taking 
 something from the safe, put something into it, in 
 the shape of a note which he scrawled with cool 
 deliberation, lighting his epistle with the glare of 
 a tiny electric flash. Then this unprofessional 
 Raffles shut the door and turned to the business 
 of his call. 
 
Pi 201 
 
 \ 
 
 The flashlight played for an instant over the 
 Babcock press. Then it focused upon the two 
 forms of type, set on edge in the chases close at 
 hand. 
 
 In the mechanics of printing, type after being 
 set in a "stick" is assembled on large flat stones 
 and the page or form to be printed is "made up," 
 which is by way of saying that it is put into final 
 shape for the printing process. Then a steel 
 frame called a "chase" is laid over the "form." 
 This done, the form is literally wedged into the 
 surrounding chase, finally being "locked" with 
 ingenious contrivances called "quoins, " which are 
 adjusted in such a way as to make a great ten 
 sion from one side of the chase to the other. It is 
 this pressure which keeps all the myriad particles 
 of type in place. Then the heavy form, with 
 its many pounds of lead, is lifted and placed upon 
 the press for printing. It is during this process 
 of moving a form that the greatest printshop 
 tragedies sometimes occur. For if the quoins are 
 not tightened to the n'th degree, or if some portion 
 of the type is not properly put in place or justi 
 fied, or if, for instance, a printer slips and knocks 
 the precious burden upon some corner, or lets it 
 fall, catastrophe superlative ensues with appalling 
 completeness. All at once the orderly flat form of 
 type is a mess of metal upon the floor; the chase, 
 instead of framing a neat plane of type faces, 
 surrounds thin air; and there remains a heart 
 breaking work of hours or even days to put in order 
 
202 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 again the scrambled litter of type, which printers 
 call" pi." 
 
 It was such a form, locked in its chase, that the 
 flashlight fell upon. It was, or would be when 
 printed, four full pages of James Failing's special 
 edition of the Farewell Pioneer. 
 
 Those particular forms, however, would never 
 be printed. For the masked marauder, placing his 
 foot in the middle of the nearest one, pressed 
 against it until the type gave way and the whole 
 mass of metal shattered into a pyramid upon the 
 floor. Thereupon the visitor repeated the pro 
 cess with the second form, giving this one a brisk 
 kick which sent the leaden type clattering out of 
 the chase. Next he turned his attention to the 
 other forms upon the nearby stone. A hearty- 
 shove at one edge and four pages more of Pioneer 
 special edition crashed to the floor in hopeless pi. 
 
 It was that dull thud which Pharaoh heard as he 
 approached the shop. 
 
 Simultaneously with the destruction of the last 
 form the front door of the office opened. The 
 masked man heard it and quickly dodged into the 
 shadow behind a pile of news stock. Footsteps, 
 after a moment of silence, cautiously advanced. 
 The newcomer was now but a half dozen feet from 
 the man in hiding, and the latter could hear the 
 sound of a match being struck, followed by a 
 flicker of light. 
 
 But the match never fully ignited. It fell from 
 Pharaoh's hands when suddenly a dazzling electric 
 
Pi 203 
 
 flash was thrown full in his eyes, for the moment 
 blinding him. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, 11 the voice sounded distinctly 
 relieved. Then the flash was extinguished and 
 with a rush the interloper made for the door. 
 Beside it he paused for an instant. 
 
 "Look at the safe." This time the voice was 
 very gruff. With this enigmatical advice the 
 stranger was lost in the night. 
 
 Afterward, thinking it over, Pharaoh felt sure 
 that he had heard a farewell chuckle. But just 
 then his one certainty was that he would find the 
 safe rifled. However, that troubled him little, the 
 barrenness of its interior striking him as an admir 
 able joke upon the pilferer. 
 
 "Why didn't he try a real safe, instead of a 
 printer's," he smiled to himself, as he groped his 
 way into the press room. 
 
 Standing upon a stool, the editor struck another 
 match and lit one of the hanging lamps which 
 furnished illumination for the shop. All at once, 
 as he stepped down to the floor, a,n astounding 
 sight met his eyes. In one glance he saw the mass 
 of caved-in type beside the press and the other 
 forms in a littered heap beneath the stone. In 
 stantly the meaning of it struck home to him. 
 Seeing and understanding the completeness of the 
 wreck, Pharaoh's heart suddenly went cold with 
 the desolating shock, and he staggered and fell to 
 the floor in a faint. 
 
 The third man that evening to open the Pioneer's 
 
204 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 office door was James Failing who "dropped in" 
 to see how his newspaper progeny was progressing. 
 Puzzled at finding the office dark, he moved toward 
 the light in the rear. In the outer circle of that 
 light, midway between it and the office, he all but 
 stumbled on something which made him start. 
 
 "What the devil . . ." he ejaculated, and then 
 discovered that the dark something was the form 
 of Pharaoh Jones, stretched out upon the floor. 
 
 The sound of Failing's voice startled the editor, 
 who had been lying there for perhaps ten minutes, 
 into semi-consciousness. 
 
 "What's wrong here, anyway?" continued the 
 manager, querulously, leaning over Pharaoh, who 
 in a few seconds was able to sit up. 
 
 "What the devil's wrong? . . . that's what I 
 want to know." 
 
 For answer Pharaoh weakly stretched out his 
 hand, still inarticulate. Following its direction 
 the manager saw the jumbled heaps of metal. 
 
 "What's the idea . . . what's all that litter?" 
 Lacking a printer's eye he did not realize that the 
 leaden piles were the gravestones of his cherished 
 journalistic effort. 
 
 "It's the special edition . . . there on the 
 floor," explained Pharaoh weakly. "The forms 
 have been all smashed up ... there's nothing 
 left but pi ..." 
 
 "You mean," the manager cleared his throat 
 with an obvious effort, "you mean the paper's 
 been wrecked? . . . you can't finish the job?" 
 
Pi 205 
 
 Pharaoh nodded. 
 
 "Hell and damnation!" Failing blazed into 
 fury, then all at once was silent, too bitterly angry 
 even for words. "Who did it?" Pharaoh shrank 
 uneasily. 
 
 "I ... I ..." That was as far as his voice 
 could carry him. 
 
 "You? You don't mean to say you had a 
 hand in it?" 
 
 The impossibility of such a supposition revived 
 the editor. "God, no!" he expostulated. 
 
 "Who was it, then? Do you know . . . out 
 with it!" 
 
 Just then the crisp cannonade of hoofs gal 
 loping across the bridge which spanned Welcome 
 River came distinctly to the ears of the two men, 
 facing each other there in the partial gloom of 
 the pillaged print shop, and the sound brought the 
 same idea to both. 
 
 "That's he," thought Pharaoh. "Why, why 
 did he do it?" 
 
 Failing spoke his thought aloud. "The dirty 
 whelp," he sputtered. "I saw him with a horse 
 at Frost's barn early this evening so he's turned 
 outlaw. Well, we'll cook his goose for sure this 
 time." Then he swung upon Pharaoh. "The 
 paper's gone to hell? No chance to get it out 
 now?" 
 
 "Not for a week, at least." The editor spoke 
 numbly. 
 
 The manager eyed the wreckage and thePioneer's 
 
206 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 owner in turn, and his glance was anything but 
 pleasant. 
 
 "I don't know what's your part in this, but I'll 
 find out soon enough. This much is sure . . . 
 that troublemaking side-kicker of yours, Master 
 Davy Kent, is in for some regular trouble himself. 
 He's responsible and it's going to be easy to hang 
 it on him. You can't break into buildings and 
 destroy property and get away with it ... 
 there's plenty in the Pen at Salem for less crimes. " 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 CRETE HAS A PLAN 
 
 VALENTINE PENNOYER, Crete, and Miranda 
 were grouped about the open fire at the Company 
 House when the manager stormed in upon them. 
 
 "Everything going well with your paper, I 
 hope?'* Valentine inquired languidly. 
 
 11 Well?" he fairly snorted, glaring down at 
 the girl. Then he subsided into the nearest chair, 
 with a nervous attempt at laughter. "Not 
 exactly. At least it didn't look so awfully fine 
 when I last saw it ... that is, unless you like 
 printer's pi. " 
 
 "Printer's pie?" echoed Valentine, completely 
 puzzled. 
 
 The sewing dropped from Miranda's hands. 
 "You don't mean to say he dropped the forms?" 
 
 "No indeed," he reassured her sourly. "No 
 body dropped anything. Only an earthquake 
 came along all of a sudden and busted things wide 
 open. The net result is the grandest little mess 
 you ever saw." 
 
 Miranda stared at him, horrified. "Yes," 
 he nodded, singling her out, "the whole thing is 
 
 207 
 
208 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 wrecked . . . the forms were either kicked to 
 pieces or dumped on the floor . . . there isn't any 
 more special edition than a rabbit ..." 
 
 "Poor Pharaoh!" Miranda burst into tears. 
 The hard work wasted, the money earned but now 
 not to be received, the pity of it all that was her 
 first thought. 
 
 "Poor Pharaoh?" The manager's voice broke 
 into a disgusted tremolo. "How about me? . . . 
 that's what I want to know. Where do / get off? 
 What'll the ol'er that is, what'll Mr. Pennoyer 
 think?" Then, almost piteously, he poured out 
 his tale to Alton Pennoyer 's daughter, telling her 
 of the wrecked special edition. 
 
 "Who did it?" Up to then Crete Colton had 
 remained silent. 
 
 Failing started to speak, then halted with his 
 mouth half open, spellbound by a sudden appall 
 ing realization. 
 
 "One of those anarchist settlers, I suppose?" 
 offered Valentine, a bit grandly. 
 
 Failing's objective anger had all at once turned 
 to subjective pity. His immediate ambition was 
 to escape from the presence of his employer's 
 daughter, whose next act, he feared, would be the 
 discovery that her fiance (he supposed Kent to 
 be practically that) was at the bottom of the 
 trouble. 
 
 Which was exactly what Valentine did do. Her 
 curiosity aroused, she meant to know all there was 
 to know. 
 
Crete Has a Plan 209 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Failing . . . tell us who did it," she 
 insisted. 
 
 And Failing miserably cleared his throat: "Da 
 vid Kent!" 
 
 The blood rushed to Valentine's face. Crete's 
 expression changed not a whit, unless she became 
 a shade paler; Miranda stopped her crying. 
 
 "Of course," the manager added, a bit weakly, 
 "it isn't proved yet" . . . Valentine was look 
 ing straight at him, making him feel even more 
 uncomfortable . . . "but . . . well, it's practi 
 cally certain. I saw him get a horse about six 
 o'clock ..." 
 
 "You mean," Valentine spoke deliberately, in 
 a far-away voice, "that you're sure Mr. Kent 
 wrecked the paper?" 
 
 Failing nodded. "Someone rode away on 
 horseback just after I found Jones. On the way 
 over here I scouted around a bit and discovered 
 where a horse had been tied to a tree near by and 
 I also found this." 
 
 From his pocket he took a crumpled empty 
 envelope. Valentine, silently and imperiously, 
 held out her hand, and the manager gave it to her. 
 The envelope bore a typewritten address, "Mr. 
 David Kent, Farewell, Ore." She sat fingering 
 it a moment, silent, looking straight before her. 
 Then the gray eyes returned to the telltale bit of 
 paper and she noticed something else about it. 
 The return card of the State Water Master was 
 in the corner. 
 14 
 
210 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Failing made a move to go. He felt a storm 
 imminent and that he might be the object of its 
 onslaught, not because he deserved it but because 
 he was bearing witness against Kent. The merits 
 of the case didn't matter, he realized. 
 
 But Valentine did the totally unexpected, and 
 the way she did it was characteristic. 
 
 "Do you know where Mr. Kent has gone?" 
 Apparently she had accepted his guilt and felt 
 there was no need for comment. From the 
 tightening of her lips and a certain hardening of 
 the handsome face it could be gathered that the 
 outstanding fact in her estimation was that Kent 
 had turned upon her father in open warfare out 
 lawry existed to be crushed. . . . Crete Colton, 
 alone in that room, read the aristocratic face 
 aright. 
 
 Failing did not know and said so. 
 
 "Well, I do/* Valentine announced coolly. 
 "He's on his way to Lost Lake now, I imagine." 
 
 "Lost Lake?" 
 
 "Yes. Listen." And in a businesslike way 
 the very tones seemed inherited from her father 
 she recounted Kent's plans for securing the water 
 rights at Lost Lake just as he had told her, in 
 confidence, that morning. "Only to-day," she 
 concluded, "he said he intended going up there 
 immediately to post his notices, after which he'd 
 file at Salem. Aren't there certain blanks neces 
 sary?" 
 
 The manager nodded. 
 
Crete Has a Plan 211 
 
 "Well, don't you see?" she held up the en 
 velope from the State Water Master's office, 
 "the blanks came in this. He probably just got 
 them." 
 
 There was absolute silence. 
 
 "The thing to do, " said Failing, "is to swear out 
 a warrant we'll jail him for destroying property. " 
 
 Valentine considered the proposition for a mo 
 ment. 
 
 "Yes, that's right enough . . . but how about 
 the Lake?" 
 
 Failing grinned, a plan unfolding in his mind. 
 
 "Why shouldn't we file on that water, Miss 
 Pennoyer?" The wine-colored eyes warmed. 
 "I'll rush a couple of the boys up there right 
 away . . . they can beat Kent to it, get their 
 filings posted before he's wise to what's going on, 
 and be back here in time for the stage day-after- 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 "But how about Da Mr. Kent?" 
 
 "Don't you see ... when he comes back and 
 starts out for Shaniko we'll nab him . . . the 
 warrant'll be all ready. Even if he dodges Fare 
 well and cuts cross country to Round ville it'll be 
 easy to catch him. Anyway, he couldn't possibly 
 get past Shaniko we'd have 'em ready for him 
 there, sure." 
 
 Valentine joined in these man-hunting plans 
 keenly. She felt very much alive, very coolly 
 determined very much like Alton Pennoyer in 
 action, had she known it. 
 
212 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "But supposing he gets to Salem some other 
 way, and beats us? " She did not propose to have 
 any slip. 
 
 "Impossible. Salem's just about due west 
 across the Cascades. The only way to get there is 
 by the railroad clear up to the Columbia and then 
 around by Portland. As for me, " Failing added, 
 "I'll start for Portland in the morning to tell your 
 father how things are coming. " 
 
 "And I'll sit right down now and write a letter 
 for you to take him," replied Valentine. "After 
 all, it looks as if we'll get something worth much 
 more than that paper our friend smashed up. 
 Will you excuse me, Miss Colt on?" 
 
 But Crete was gone. As the manager was un 
 folding his plans she had slipped out. 
 
 "She's gone over to help Pharaoh," Miranda 
 said. "If you don't mind, I'll stay here until he 
 comes for me." 
 
 "Oh, certainly." And, securing a pad, Valen 
 tine commenced her letter. 
 
 "That's what she calls love!" Out in the cool 
 gloom of the night, Crete aired her indignant 
 opinion. All the generous loyalty in her nature 
 was ablaze with resentment. 
 
 She found Pharaoh seated in the unlighted 
 Pioneer office, his head buried in his arms on the 
 desk. Without a word to him, Crete lit the office 
 lamp, started a fire in the stove, and perched her 
 self upon a stool. 
 
Crete Has a Plan 213 
 
 Presently the editor roused himself, raising eyes 
 suspiciously red. "Well?" he said miserably. 
 
 "Pharaoh, cheer up! ... please. 11 The very 
 tone was steadying. If it were to be a contest of 
 feminine wits there 'd be no emotional weakness on 
 this side. " Now tell me all about it. " 
 
 "There's nothing to tell," he sighed wearily. 
 "It's just all messed up in there everything pied. 
 When I started into the shop " . . .he was getting 
 himself together . . . "someone flashed a light 
 in my face ..." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " 1 don't know, " he lied loyally. 
 
 "Failing does." 
 
 "He suspects . . . he can't be sure. " 
 
 "That's the worst of it he is sure. He found 
 this out by a tree where a horse had been teth 
 ered." She handed him the envelope addressed 
 to Kent which she had quietly pocketed, unnoticed, 
 while the manager and Valentine talked. 
 
 Pharaoh's manner in receiving it showed Crete 
 he already knew who had wrought the mischief. 
 Then the girl picked up the envelope and lifting 
 the stove cover thrust it into the fire. "Exhibit 
 A vanishes!" she announced. "If we must have 
 melodrama let's burn the evidence in the most 
 accepted style. " 
 
 "He said something about the safe ..." 
 Pharaoh just then remembered it. 
 
 "Oh! ... I wonder if he did a little regular 
 burglarizing, for appearance's sake?" 
 
214 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 However, they found the safe fast shut with no 
 evidence of tampering. 
 
 " You're positive he spoke about it?" She was 
 puzzled. 
 
 "Yes. It was something about 'looking in the 
 safe, ' I'm sure. " 
 
 "Well, look then. " 
 
 In the safe they found this message scrawled 
 upon a bit of copy paper: 
 
 "Starting to-night for the Lake to post filing 
 notice. Keep absolutely mum. 
 
 "D. K." 
 
 "All of which is no news over at the Company 
 House," remarked Crete, after reading it. 
 
 "Eh, what's that?" Just then Pharaoh was 
 thinking of the snow squall which he and Miranda 
 had seen sweeping over the mountains. And 
 Kent extraordinary David was headed for the 
 highlands on horseback, alone. 
 
 Crete told him, then, what had happened at the 
 Company House. 
 
 "What's next?" he asked lamely. 
 
 "Easy enough to see," she replied. "As soon 
 as David gets back they'll arrest him he seems 
 not to have figured on that. And in the meantime 
 Failing's men ... I suppose he's starting Callier 
 right now . . . will have posted his notices and 
 probably torn down David's. The rest is simple 
 . . . while they're holding David here for trial, or 
 
Crete Has a Plan 215 
 
 however it's fixed, Callier will dodge down to 
 Salem and . . . well, there you are !" 
 
 " I'm a bit puzzled, " she continued after a brief 
 silence, "as to just what charge they'll bring in 
 connection with David's little house- wrecking bee 
 here . . . but trust them to rig up something 
 that'll stick at least long enough to put him out of 
 the running. That's easy . . . and of course I 
 suppose he did commit a crime. " 
 
 Pharaoh had some notions on that head himself 
 notions which had been fomenting as the girl 
 talked. But he kept silent. 
 
 Then some sudden new angle of the situation 
 struck Crete, causing her to act in unprecedented 
 fashion. Smilingly she balanced on the arm of 
 the precarious editorial chair and putting her 
 strong young arms about the editorial neck she 
 gave astonished Pharaoh the nicest kind of a kiss 
 which it is possible for a sensible girl of twenty-six 
 to give a fatherly invalid close to fifty. 
 
 "Pharaoh, you old dear," she chortled, "it's 
 not going to happen that way at all!'* 
 
 The girl was radiant with some secret inspiration. 
 
 "There's nothing to ... to laugh about." 
 He tried to be gruff. 
 
 "But there will be!" 
 
 And she unfolded a plan to Pharaoh which left 
 the emaciated editor alternately experiencing 
 throes of elated approval and vehemently protest 
 ing against the proposal with a sincerity which 
 was as heartfelt as it was ineffectual. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ON THE TRAIL, AND OFF 
 
 DAWN unfolded slowly that October morning 
 upon a world cold and gray. Underfoot the ground 
 was crisp with frost and a fairy blanket of hoary 
 white overlaid the needle carpet of the forest floor 
 and wove spidery crystal webs among the robust 
 foliage of the manzanita. The pine tops sighed 
 uneasily in their lofty intimacy with the threaten 
 ing skies. Sun-up time came and passed, but no 
 sun appeared and no autumn blue brightened the 
 heavens. Instead, the strengthening daylight 
 showed legionary ragged clouds, frayed by the 
 hastening winds, surging southward. 
 
 That unpromising dawn found two horses with 
 their riders winding slowly along a blazed trail 
 westerly from Farewell. 
 
 At the top of a rise, where the sparsity of trees 
 upon a neighboring rocky ridge afforded a fairly 
 unrestricted view, the first horseman stopped, 
 allowing his companion to range up beside him. 
 From his mackinaw pocket the leader, who was 
 Dad Trumble, extracted his pipe, lit it, and puffed 
 
 216 
 
On the Trail, And Off 217 
 
 deliberately as he took stock of the warnings in 
 the sky. 
 
 "Cold? "he asked. 
 
 His companion looked anything but cold, 
 despite the chill of the hour. A trapper's hat of 
 fur, illegally fashioned from forbidden beaver, a 
 fine thick coat made of sheepskin with the leather 
 out and the wool in, and buccaroo's leather chaps 
 from waist to ankle afforded protection against 
 the elements quite as thorough as could be devised 
 for horseback wear. 
 
 "You look like a bygod sheepherding Basque," 
 laughed Dad, taking in the details of the outfit. 
 "There ain't a sheep dog in the country wouldn't 
 claim you as a friend. But never mind the looks 
 that's the clear quill in rigs when it comes to 
 cold and wet . . . which I reckon it's coming, 
 pronto. " 
 
 "Snow?" Crete Colton's voice was just as 
 freshly comfortable as it had been the preceding 
 evening when she unfolded her plan to Pharaoh 
 in the Pioneer office. 
 
 "Yep and plenty of it." The old woodsman 
 sniffed the air. "Can't you smell it? It's snow 
 ing up above now . . . we'll be into it soon. I'm 
 only hoping it won't come down so plumb hard we 
 can't follow tracks." 
 
 She caught his meaning, and both of them were 
 silent for a space. 
 
 "Isn't it quiet BO wonderfully still!" The 
 girl's exclamation was hushed as if attuned to the 
 
218 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 surrounding silence of Nature. And, indeed, the 
 timberlands were infinitely noiseless, with never a 
 sound to break the dead, pulseless hush except 
 the low moan of the treetops protesting in the 
 upper air, a symphony of soft movement which 
 made the quiet appear even the more profound. 
 
 Dad nodded. "You can actually hear it, she's 
 so Eternally still. That's always how it is in the 
 woods before a storm, 'specially these first fall 
 blows. Well, let's mosey . . . it's a long way. " 
 
 A little later he pulled his horse up in a sandy 
 opening where the dry ground was entirely 
 unfrozen and so suitably receptive for tracks. 
 As the girl came alongside of him the old man 
 pointed out fresh hoofmarks, showing clearly 
 in the sand. 
 
 "It's Dave. He's ahead of us all right. Two 
 or three times down the line I reckoned I seen his 
 trail but I couldn't be sartain sure what with the 
 frozen ground and the bad light. How th' lad 
 managed to keep going in the night I don't see. 
 He couldn't have made much time to speak of, 
 anyway. I callate we've picked up a couple of 
 hours on him, sure . . . and right here is where 
 we gain another, just for good measure. See that 
 bald ridge yonder in line with the hump on the 
 Chief where it shows through the cloud?" She 
 saw the point, probably three miles distant, but 
 separated by a broken, billowing valley of timber, 
 thickets, and rocky outpourings. 
 
 "Lost Lake's over yonder. This trail we're on 
 
On the Trail, And Off 219 
 
 goes way up around the west end of the big draw 
 by Grassy Lake, an' it takes a matter of seven 
 miles or so to get over there, when a crow'd make 
 it in three. We ain't crows, but we'll try the short 
 cut.", 
 
 He added that it would be well to tighten the 
 cinches as the going would be rough. So they 
 dismounted, enjoyed a welcome stretch, ate a 
 sandwich, and readjusted saddle blankets and 
 cinches. 
 
 "Dad, I've been puzzling for the last hour/' 
 Crete announced as they remounted. 
 
 "What's the puzzle what we're going ter do?" 
 
 " No, " she laughed, " I know that all right. " 
 
 "More'n I do, then," he grumbled, quizzically. 
 
 "You promised to sail under sealed orders 
 and obey them," she reminded him directly. 
 "You know the penalty for mutiny?" 
 
 "Yes'm. Reckon I'd be allowed to go back 
 home where I belong and get a reg'lar sleep!" 
 
 She laughed heartily. "Poor old Dad, it's a 
 shame ..." 
 
 "Poor old nothing . . . this bird isn't ripe 
 for an indignant old folks' home yet a while. Dod- 
 gast it, I can work th' legs off any one of the male 
 chickens they raise these days an' when it comes 
 to ... " but he saw she was laughing at him and 
 subsided with a snort. As a parting shot, he added, 
 "What does get my goat is how you can keep 
 agoin' an' never let me in on the plans durn me 
 if you ain't got the tarnation record when it comes 
 
220 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 to women for keepin' a secret ..." inviting 
 silence; then "Well, Boss you're it all right 
 what's the question?" 
 
 "Where's Mr. Callier? He must have left 
 Farewell about the time we did." 
 
 "Reckon I know," he replied, evidently having 
 thought out the problem for himself. "You see, 
 that Callier ain't really acquainted with this 
 country. This here trail we come on is the regular 
 old Ringo Trail but it ain't the one the rangers 
 use to get to th' lake that's over yonder, where 
 we're going now, t'other side of this draw. They 
 cut the new trail to have more ways of fire patrol 
 ling in summer. T'other's the trail that Callier's 
 usin'." 
 
 "And I don't suppose they're hurrying a bit," 
 added the girl, questioningly. "They think all 
 they've got to do is to reach the lake some time 
 to-day and then get back to Farewell comfortably 
 for to-morrow morning's stage." 
 
 " 'Zactly. " Clucking to his horse, Dad led the 
 way down a steep pitch, with Fantan following 
 his leader heroically while Crete leaned far back 
 in her cowboy saddle, her chap-clad legs raised 
 nearly to Fantan's ears in an effort to keep her 
 body reasonably vertical, while her arms hung at 
 her sides, with the loose- jointed ease of western 
 riding ways. 
 
 As they worked their way laboriously down 
 the slopes, skirting now bowlder-strewn slides or 
 forcing their way through tamarack thickets, the 
 
On the Trail, And Off 221 
 
 snow squalls commenced. First came intermit 
 tent gusts of damp-scented wind and then dashes 
 of snow, driven cuttingly by a north wind which 
 shortly steadied down to the business of bringing 
 a blizzard with disquieting zeal. Then, with the 
 freakish mannerisms of mountain storms, the wind 
 abated for a time and the snow came faster in 
 moist fluffy flakes which fell almost straight and 
 so amazingly thick that every sight was blotted 
 out except the blurred, downward-moving wall of 
 whitish gray. That introductory heavy fall con 
 tinued for but a few minutes, when the wind 
 resumed its boreal romping, swirling and tearing 
 the white curtain phantastically. 
 
 Enough descended in the first deluge to coat 
 the ground and laden the branches with moist 
 whiteness which slapped dankly in their faces and 
 smothered horses and riders as they crowded 
 through small growth and low-lying limbs. It 
 became colder, too, and forthwith the moisture 
 upon them froze, so that the thoroughly soaked 
 outer wooliness of Crete's chaps became brittle 
 and crackly, and the pinto's abbreviated mane 
 stuck up icily like a stiff bath brush. 
 
 Seldom could they see more than a hundred 
 yards ahead and even then the view embraced 
 nothing more distinctive than a clump of trees, a 
 thicket, or a rocky ridge exactly resembling scores 
 of neighboring trees, thickets, and ridges. A 
 dozen times, as her guide paused to study the 
 landmarks, Crete felt sure that they were lost; 
 
222 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 and each time, as Dad again plunged forward 
 with cheering assurance, she marveled anew that 
 he could keep his directions. 
 
 Finally they commenced to climb, and soon 
 halted in the lee of a big fallen tree, shattered by 
 lightning. 
 
 "We came out jes egzakly right," Dad an 
 nounced with a measure of justifiable pride. "I 
 was a-headin' for this here down tree. It's only a 
 bit of a lift now up to the other trail. " 
 
 A few minutes later Crete saw a fresh blaze 
 upon a tree trunk the regulation Forest Service 
 marking for trails, one large blaze with two smaller 
 notches below it. 
 
 "Yep," said Dad, when she called his attention 
 to it, "we hit the trail back yonder on that stretch 
 of open ground. Only you didn't notice 'count of 
 the snow coverin' it up." 
 
 "Are there any tracks?" She had been worry 
 ing about Callier. 
 
 "Not on top of the snow, anyway, " Dad replied 
 good-naturedly. "But here's where I get a look 
 at the ground if they went by before the snow 
 set in it'll show here. " 
 
 Dismounting, he examined minutely the trail 
 where for a few feet it was bare of snow beneath the 
 thick branches of a big tamarack. 
 
 "Nothing there for a long spell . . . see how a 
 fresh track shows where the dirt's dry?" He led 
 his horse over the bit of dry ground, the hoofs 
 scuffling up dark clods of telltale brown earth. 
 
On the Trail, And Off 223 
 
 "So our friends is somewhere behind us ... an' 
 not so very far, neither, 'less I miss my guess. 
 That is, unless they're afraid o' gettin' their lovely 
 noses frostbit. " 
 
 Crete considered the possibility. 
 
 "No, they wouldn't turn back," she opined, 
 "it's a rush order and too important for them to 
 dare lie down." 
 
 "An' do yer 'spose Dave perhaps threw up the 
 sponge when the snow commenced gettin' bad? " 
 
 "Certainly not!" the reply came instantly, al 
 most reprovingly. 
 
 "Thasright," he agreed hastily, with a twinkle 
 she didn't see, "he ain't the quittin' kind." To 
 which he added, to himself, "Nor you, neither." 
 
 The timber was behind them now except for 
 scattered stunted stragglers, ghostly forms of white 
 showing grotesquely against the gray middle 
 distance of the ever-falling flakes. Among the 
 trees the storm had seemed less serious and some 
 how less real. Winding through them, indeed, 
 surrounded by the myriad beauties which come 
 with snowtime in the forest, when each turn brings 
 fresh views of f airylandish delight and each gusty 
 squall is the signal for another shift of scenery, 
 Crete had found it all quite pleasantly theatrical, 
 despite the small hardships of their progress. But 
 there in the open, with the chill breath of the Chief 
 blowing directly upon them, the surroundings be 
 came bitterly wintry. The wind howled with an 
 unchecked sweep from the north, chasing recurrent 
 
224 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 squalls of crowding snowflakes across the upland 
 waste. 
 
 They swung the unenthusiastic horses on the way 
 out upon Wickiup Flat which intervened between 
 them and Lost Lake. In summer this is a great 
 rolling bowlder-strewn mountain meadow land, 
 roughly broken up with wide flat surfaces of stone 
 burnished blackly where glaciers of long ago 
 ground across them. Scores of tiny ponds fed by 
 the melting snows of winter and the rains of spring 
 are scattered as chance wills in the cups and 
 depressions of the plateau. They are pretty play 
 lakes in July and August when the summer sky 
 reflects in their surface and brilliant upland flowers 
 bloom about their borders, and the whole expanse 
 of highland is green with coarse mountain grass. 
 But as the horses trudged across the Flat that 
 October day it looked and felt like a bleak Siberian 
 wilderness. 
 
 The storm had broken hours earlier up there and 
 the snow lay deep upon the ground. The going 
 for the horses became increasingly difficult, as did 
 finding and following the trail. Indeed, Dad was 
 guided more by his sixth sense of direction and the 
 general ''lie of the land" than by any specific 
 beacons, for the occasional cairns and other mark 
 ings were already pretty thoroughly hidden. 
 
 As they reached the point where the trail dipped 
 down to their destination, where Dad had intro 
 duced Kent and Rudd to Lost Lake not many 
 weeks before, the old man looked back over the 
 
On the Trail, And Off 225 
 
 way they had come. Already little swirls of snow 
 were obliterating their tracks. 
 
 "I hope ter hell she don't drift bad," he 
 growled. 
 
 "Eh? What's that, Dad?" 
 
 "Oh, I only was thinkin 1 that sometimes it's 
 easier to climb a tree than to get down again. " 
 
 "Is there any danger?" 
 
 "No . . . an' yes. It might be that this here 
 pesky storm'll kick up into a reg'lar whopper . . . 
 but that ain't prob'le this early in the year. 
 More'n likely it'll blow itself out 'safternoon. 
 'Thout she keeps on snowin' good an' proper 
 everything's hunky dory. . . . Most anyone 
 could find his way home. An' now, I 'spose, you 
 want to go down to the bygod lake?" 
 
 " Surely . . . and a bit of fire won't feel badly. " 
 
 "Right you are ... it won't. But say" . . . 
 he peered at what he could see of Crete's face, 
 hidden as it was by the icy fur of her hat . . . 
 "what's the idee anyway? How long is we to 
 rusticate by this bloomin' open fire o' ours ? Don't 
 you think, Skipper, it's 'bout time to loosen up on 
 them sealed orders of yourn . . . even to a bygod 
 . . . well, say a stoker?" 
 
 Crete laughed aloud. Dad's perennial good 
 humor was comforting. 
 
 "There's no great secret and no doubt you know 
 just as well as I do what we've come for ... 
 which is simply to help David file on these water 
 rights he wants." 
 is 
 
226 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Oh sure, " he echoed, "that's simple as shootin* 
 fish. Only couldn't we have 'complished that there 
 laud'ble end, as the feller sez, by jes' stayin' ter 
 Farewell, cozy-like, 'thout mushing away up here? " 
 
 " Oh, of course we might have stayed home . . . 
 and let them arrest David the minute he got 
 back! I'm sure he'd appreciate our help. " 
 
 "How we goin' to stop them pinchin' him?" 
 
 "I'm not sure," the girl replied, "only at least 
 we can warn him. Perhaps he'll be able to give 
 them the slip and beat them to Salem. And I've 
 got another notion. In that saddlebag" . . . 
 she laid a gauntleted hand upon it ..." There are 
 filing papers to post myself. . . . Pharaoh dug 
 them up and showed me just what to do last night 
 before we started. If anything should happen so 
 that David can't post his own notice or if he 
 shouldn't be able to get away to Salem to make 
 the filing himself, why, I thought I'd do some 
 filing on my own hook. " 
 
 As they descended in the lee of the Chief its 
 great bulk effectually broke the fury of the storm, 
 while in the cuplike hollow where Lost Lake 
 cuddled in close at the foot of the talus slopes 
 they found far less snow had fallen than out upon 
 the Flat. 
 
 They skirted the north side of the lake between 
 the shore line and the abrupt mountain whose 
 heights were hidden in the gray mist of the descend 
 ing flakes. Here and there tufts of meadow 
 grass rose above the snow, to the distraction of 
 
On the Trail, And Off 227 
 
 the horses. Most of the lake was frozen, dis 
 tinguishable only as a smooth flat surface of white 
 set in a less regular white mounting. Only near 
 the outlet at the western end where a current 
 moved had the ice failed to form, and there the 
 patch of open water showed jet black, a thin pale 
 mist hanging close over it and the persistent 
 flakes vanishing interminably as they reached the 
 inky water. The tamaracks where Dad and his 
 companions had camped in August now drooped 
 beneath their wintry burden. Their boughs were 
 close and strong, however, and where the clump 
 stood thickest considerable spaces of ground re 
 mained bare. 
 
 In such a spot the riders halted, and in a few 
 minutes a little fire was blazing briskly. From 
 a saddlebag Dad then extracted a battered lard 
 pail quite devoid of shapeliness but, as he forth 
 with ascertained with relieved satisfaction, unleak- 
 ing. The same repository yielded a tiny sack of 
 sugar, a piece of soiled rag tightly tied around 
 something which, it developed, was tea, a loaf 
 of bread esconced in a copy of the Pioneer, and, 
 lastly, a greasy brown package. There were also 
 two dented tin cups. 
 
 "Tea," said the old woodsman, "is th* clear 
 quill on a trip . . . it's hot an* comfortin' and 
 don't weigh nothing at all. Tastes fine even 
 'thout canned cow an's plenty good enough 
 'thout sugar . . . beats coffee three ways .when 
 you're packing." 
 
228 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "But Dad" . . . she asked, with a chunk of 
 bread poised midway to her mouth . . . " what's 
 the mystery in there?" 
 
 "Mowich," Dad's mouth was literally "too full 
 for utterance " . . . at least of the clearly intelligi 
 ble order . . . "Wansome?" 
 
 "Is it to eat?" 
 
 "Yerbetyer." Unrolling the greasy paper he 
 displayed some slivers of soiled looking dry meat. 
 He held one up; its appearance was midway 
 between that of a smoked herring and a scrap of 
 cowhide. "Jerky can't be beat . . . thetasting- 
 est stuff ever you set yer teeth on and it everlast 
 ingly sticks to the ribs." 
 
 She took a sliver gingerly. Its odor was in 
 keeping with its appearance. But the taste was 
 all that Dad claimed . . . jerked venison is at 
 any time a treat for a healthy appetite, and in the 
 surroundings of that snowbound meal it seemed 
 positively the essence of gastronomic luxury. 
 
 They were eating in comfortable silence when 
 the girl happened to look through the branches 
 along the way they had come. Another horseback 
 figure was advancing up the trail. 
 
 "Dad, look!" she whispered. "Is it David?" 
 
 The old man studied the horseman for a minute, 
 then spat disgustedly in the fire. "No . . . it's 
 that damn Callier." A new thought disturbed 
 him. "Say, Girl, it ain't exactly pomme de tair, 
 as the dagoes say, for you to be galavanting round 
 up here with me . . . even tho' I am old enough 
 
On the Trail, And Off 229 
 
 to be yer grandad . . . leastwise, not for skunks 
 like him ter talk about." 
 
 That sort of thing never troubled Crete in the 
 least, but she saw the point nevertheless. 
 
 'Til hide if you think best . . . there'll be 
 plenty to talk about before this party's through, 
 anyway." 
 
 So before the approaching horseman was near 
 enough to detect anything, the girl and her pony 
 had slipped into the depths of the thicket and the 
 old man had contrived to obliterate the tell-tale 
 tracks so that they were indistinguishable, at least 
 on casual observation. The falling snow beyond 
 the shelter of the trees had already cared for this 
 detail so far as the back trail was concerned. 
 
 "Howdy, Callier." 
 
 The sales manager returned Dad's greeting. 
 Then he sat silently regarding the old man, his 
 face as expressionless as the snowfield behind him. 
 
 "Seen anything of young Kent?" 
 
 "I reckoned you'd be waiting for him," Callier 
 replied dryly, looking around at the snow-burdened 
 trees and frozen lake. "Kind of a cozy place to 
 wait, ain't it? But say, 01' Timer" ... he spit 
 largely upon the snow, "you might as well pack up 
 and beat it. Mister Kent ain't a-going to show up 
 to-day." 
 
 "Thasso?" Dad's expression was as disinter 
 ested as the other's. "'Z fer me, I can't say he 
 made no rendevooz. I was jes' out prospecting a 
 bit and got caught up in this blow." 
 
230 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Then you won't miss him. But as one of his 
 pet friends you'll be interested to know he's locked 
 up at Farewell. At least" ... he compromised 
 with the truth, "he's arrested, safe enough. I'll 
 be going now . . . and here's hoping you enjoy 
 your visit." 
 
 Dad watched Callier as he rode down to the 
 outlet of the lake. He saw him go to a tree stand 
 ing close beside the little stream and unfold 
 something white which he took from his pocket. 
 Then he kicked around in the snow at the water's 
 edge, found a small stone, and using it as a hammer 
 tacked the paper to the tree trunk. That done, he 
 turned eastward and rode back the way he had 
 come. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE BRAIN STORM 
 
 WHEN he started from Farewell after the 
 escapade in the Pioneer shop, Kent had intended 
 to spend the night at Crowder's logging camp, a 
 couple of miles from town. But while there were 
 no stars in the sky it was not excessively dark 
 and the rider found the wood road so easy to 
 follow, the air so pleasantly crisp, his horse so 
 willing, and his own thoughts so exhilarated that 
 by the time the camp was reached he abandoned 
 the plan of sleeping there and decided to push on. 
 
 The notion of riding all night struck his fancy. 
 The sensation of action and adventure the reali 
 zation that he was embarking upon something 
 difficult and a bit dangerous was stimulating. 
 The entire undertaking appeared pleasingly pic 
 turesque. 
 
 Shortly after dawn, while he was walking to 
 get the saddle stiffness out of his legs, a powdery 
 snowflake flecked his hand, and as if at a precon 
 ceived signal, the white downpour commenced. 
 He could see nothing now of the sky above 
 nothing but the blurred haziness of millions of 
 
 231 
 
232 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 falling flakes. In the upper grayness, the tree- 
 tops whined ominously. 
 
 Kent looked over his shoulder at Pedro and 
 Pedro looked at him, with his ears cocked forward 
 inquiringly. The horse whinnied, as much as to 
 say, "It's time to get along preferably home." 
 
 "All right, Peter, my lad!" Brushing the 
 gathering film of snow from the leather he swung 
 into the saddle and to Pedro's sorrow kept his 
 head to the west. 
 
 The further they went the heavier lay the snow 
 upon the ground. Gradually, as the wind awoke, 
 the orderly, lazy fall became an angry white deluge 
 which swirled and whistled through the branches, 
 beating against horse and rider with increasing 
 bitterness. 
 
 "If I thought it would keep up I'd be inclined 
 to quit." Kent talked his thoughts aloud for the 
 company of it. "But it would be a fool shame 
 to go back after getting this far. . . . I'd feel 
 awfully cheap . . . and then, too, it's likely the 
 last chance to reach the Lake before spring. If I 
 don't make the filing now we can't do a thing until 
 heaven knows when." 
 
 If the young man had suspected for an instant 
 that others were already on their way to make 
 filings ahead of him he would have driven on to 
 Lost Lake as fast as Pedro's legs could move, 
 blizzard or no blizzard. But such a possibility did 
 not occur to him. 
 
 He did remember, however, that the barren 
 
The Brain Storm 233 
 
 plateau of Wickiup Flat intervened between him 
 and the Lake, and the more he considered those 
 last few miles in the open the more he realized 
 their difficulties and dangers. It was troublesome 
 enough to keep the trail in the timber and he 
 realized full well how easily it could be lost in the 
 open wastes of the Flat. 
 
 " Sloughing around all night in the drifts out 
 there doesn't appeal to me for a cent," he solilo 
 quized. 
 
 Already the timber was thinning out and he 
 knew he must be close to the edge of the plain, a 
 fact attested by the increasing ferocity of the 
 wind which swept across the open reaches of the 
 Flat with boreal abandon. The storm seemed 
 growing worse. Kent was bitter cold and Pedro's 
 progress was increasingly half-hearted. 
 
 So he compromised with the elements. He 
 neither turned back nor went ahead. Instead he 
 guided Pedro a few rods off the trail to a heavy 
 limbed fir tree towering among a group of lesser 
 neighbors. Beneath its boughs there was shelter 
 from the falling snow, and the thicket partially sur 
 rounding it, in a large measure warded off the wind. 
 
 Having unsaddled and tied Pedro the wayfarer 
 kindled a fire upon a patch of bare ground and 
 extracted some bulky sandwiches from a saddle 
 bag. The other of the two bags, containing 
 sundry purchases whose mysterious nature had 
 roused the unrequited curiosity of the proprietor 
 of the Farewell Hardware Company, he deposited 
 
234 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 carefully in the immediate lee of the large tree. 
 Then he stretched out a saddle blanket, fixed 
 the saddle itself as a back rest and arranged himself 
 as comfortably as possible before the fire to await 
 the developments of the storm. 
 
 Leon Callier and Jeb Watterson did not leave 
 Farewell until nearly five o'clock that morning, 
 an hour after Dad Trumble and Crete had 
 started. Of the departure of these two, Failing's 
 agents knew nothing, and, secure in the belief that 
 their unsuspecting quarry and he alone was 
 somewhere between them and Lost Lake, they 
 made no special effort to hasten. 
 
 All at once Callier, who was in the lead, checked 
 his horse and raised his hand warningly. Through 
 a momentary lull in the storm they heard a man's 
 voice, singing. 
 
 ''That's Kent," said Callier, and then con 
 sidered plans. " How far are we from the Lake?" 
 
 " About three miles, I reckon . . . but from here 
 it is mostly out in the open across Wickiup Flat. 
 It'll be God-awful blowy out there." 
 
 "But it oughtn't to be hard to get across?" 
 Callier questioned. 
 
 "No-o-o . . . that is, 'tain't usually. There's 
 plenty of monuments along the trail and unless 
 they're drifted over she'd be easy to find. It's 
 mostly level and the going's good." 
 
 "Well, look here, Jeb, " said Callier. " It seems 
 to me the thing to do is to grab this guy pronto. 
 
The Brain Storm 235 
 
 It's just a question of which one of us stays with 
 him, while the other goes ahead and does the filing 
 ... do you think I could find my way all right?" 
 
 Jeb, getting the point with unusual celerity, 
 assured his companion he should have little 
 difficulty in reaching the Lake. When it came to a 
 question of which one of them was to stay in com 
 parative comfort with the prisoner-to-be, while the 
 other dared the arctic rigors of Wickiup Flat, Jeb 
 had no hesitation in choosing the post he preferred. 
 
 Kent was suddenly disturbed from his reveries 
 by a whinny from Pedro. Looking up he saw 
 two mounted figures just beyond the edge of 
 the sheltering branches. Their noiseless advance 
 through the snow had been unnoticed. 
 
 "Howdy," he called out cheerily. "Come 
 right in, gentlemen . . . plenty of rooms to-day 
 . . . American or European plan, as" . . . The 
 facetious greeting died in his throat, with his first 
 clear glimpse of the leading visitor's face. 
 
 " Collier!" Despite the disquieting fears which 
 welled up within him as he recognized the sales 
 manager, Kent contrived to keep himself well in 
 hand. 
 
 "Howdy," said Callier, dryly. "Receivin' 
 callers?" 
 
 Kent, still lying upon his blanket, his head and 
 shoulders resting on the saddle, nodded as he met 
 the sales manager's glance coolly. 
 
 "That being the case," said Callier, "I'll intro 
 duce our mutual friend, Jeb Watterson . . . who's 
 
236" The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 just now parading about these parts as a deputy 
 sheriff. 1 ' 
 
 As Callier spoke an inkling of their purpose 
 dawned upon Kent. Instinctively he straightened 
 up and was halfway upon his feet when the ditch 
 rider's cold voice checked him. 
 
 "No, you don't! 11 The speaker's hitherto hid 
 den hand had emerged from his mackinaw pocket 
 holding an efficient looking revolver steadily on 
 the young man. 
 
 Kent subsided. He realized he might as well 
 take whatever was coming calmly. 
 
 "That's bad medicine, Callier," he remarked 
 quietly, "threatening a law-abiding citizen with a 
 gun" . . . 
 
 "Law-abiding hell! At present writing you 
 ain't got no more rights than a rabbit. Has he, 
 Jeb?" The deputy sheriff, who had tied the 
 horses near Pedro, now stood beside Callier, his 
 ruddy open countenance in marked contrast with 
 the shifty cunning of the other. He grinned 
 assent. 
 
 "What's the point?" Kent persisted. 
 
 "Tell him, "said Callier. 
 
 "Duty is duty," sighed Jeb, extracting a war 
 rant from his vest. "David Kent, you're under 
 arrest" . . . The official pronouncement was 
 delivered with commendable gruffness, but the 
 subsequent remarks seemed unprofessionally cor 
 dial if not actually apologetic. "And say, Dave, 
 there ain't no use making any fuss. Just surrender 
 
The Brain Storm 237 
 
 peaceable and decent-like. This here warrant's 
 all hunky dory and there ain't no way in the world 
 of beating it ... leastwise there ain't, " he added 
 with a memory of bygone legal maneuvers, "till 
 you get to one of them lawyer guys." 
 
 "But Jeb, what am I being arrested for?" and 
 as an afterthought, Kent added, "and what's 
 Brother Callier's place in the party . . . surely 
 I'm not such a desperate bird it takes two of you 
 to cage me?" 
 
 "I don't mind answering that myself," put 
 in Callier. It was evident from his tone that he 
 not only did not mind, but actually enjoyed the 
 opportunity. "You're arrested for destroying 
 other people's property, and probably there'll be 
 a charge of burglary or housebreakin' waiting 
 when you get back. " . . . 
 
 "But whose property?" interjected Kent. 
 
 "Why, the Pioneer's . . . Pharaoh Jones's, that 
 is ... you're the one that broke into his shop last 
 night and smashed up a whole lot of newspaper 
 stuff." 
 
 "But, man, the Pioneer doesn't be ' . . . 
 Kent's mouth hung open on the incompleted word, 
 and he became abruptly silent. 
 
 " I suppose my precious friend Failing cooked up 
 this little scheme, " he continued. "That explains 
 your presence." 
 
 Callier grinned. "Oh, no," he said, "I'm only 
 assisting Jeb. Knowing it'd be such a plumb 
 lovely day up here on Wickiup Flat I just couldn't 
 
238 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 help coming along." He stopped to arrange a 
 new chew of tobacco, enjoying Kent's suspense. 
 "But my real job is over at Lost Lake" . . . 
 Despite the fact that he had seen what was 
 coming, Kent's face became perceptibly tense. 
 "Ever been there, Mr. Kent?" 
 
 Just at that minute the young man's greatest 
 ambition was to choke the sales manager. Unable 
 to gratify it, he concentrated upon his effort to 
 look unconcerned, and said nothing. 
 
 "Well," drawled Callier, "I thought you had. 
 It's a plumb beautiful lake with plenty of water. 
 You can't have irrigation without water, can you, 
 Mr. Kent?" He was fairly purring now. 
 
 Again his only reply was silence. 
 
 "And it's a freakish bit of water, that, " drawled 
 on Callier. " I'm told you can tip it either way. " 
 He chewed his cud reflectively. "Well, I must 
 be going now. Jeb here'll look after you till I get 
 back." 
 
 Dropping the revolver in his pocket, Callier 
 climbed on his horse. ' ' And say, Mister Kent , j ust 
 a leetle word of advice from a tinhorn gambler 
 . . . Remember how you called me a tinhorn, 
 Mister Kent? . . . When you've got a good hand 
 don't never go and tell no one about it until the 
 bets are made . . . especially a woman !" 
 
 And with that the sharp-faced sales manager 
 started westerly in the teeth of the storm. 
 
 "The dirty skunk!" 
 
 "Uh-uh. " Jed's comment on this characteri- 
 
The Brain Storm 239 
 
 zation of Callier could be interpreted as either 
 negative or affirmative. 
 
 But Kent was too busy with his own thoughts to 
 notice whether or not the deputy agreed with him. 
 The ditch rider 's parting shot had hit home . . . 
 not a straight, manly blow, to be sure, but a foul 
 below the belt, which hurt all the more because it 
 came unexpectedly. 
 
 " When you've got a good hand never tell about it 
 until the bets are made. " 
 
 What did Callier mean? When had he heard 
 that advice before? It sounded oddly familiar 
 . . . Then it came to him ; there flashed back into 
 his mind his talk with Valentine . . . he himself 
 had said almost those very words when the girl 
 had asked why he did not at once tell her father 
 of the Lost Lake plan. 
 
 "Especially to a woman!" 
 
 Callier, with his ugly sneer, had said that, too 
 and what his insinuation meant was as clear as 
 the driven snow. Callier was as good as telling 
 him that the woman to whom he had shown 
 his hand had tipped him off ... that Valentine 
 Pennoyer had betrayed his confidence, abjectly. 
 That was all he comprehended, all that mattered, 
 as he laid his head on his arm there upon the cold 
 ground. For the minute all the warm courage 
 and resolve ran out of him. He felt unutterably 
 broken and actually physically sick, with that 
 sudden numbness at the pit of the stomach which 
 many a brave man has known. It was the girl 
 
240 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 who mattered most, and what the girl had done. 
 Nothing else counted; it was all a weary waste of 
 effort. 
 
 "Never mind, lad, it's not so bad. Them 
 lawyer fellers*!! get you out of it all right. " Jeb 
 misinterpreting Kent's collapse tried to cheer him. 
 
 The deputy was easygoing kindness personi 
 fied, with a disposition of almost childish trustful 
 ness which saw the duty immediately before it but 
 little else. Persistency was his besetting virtue, 
 a very real one in a deputy whose occasional avo 
 cation is man-chasing. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not worrying about your damn war 
 rant," Kent growled testily, pulling himself to 
 gether. "That's the least of my troubles." 
 
 "Uh-uh?" That sounded curious to Jeb. A 
 glimmering suspicion that perhaps his quarry was 
 "wanted" for a bigger crime than simply destroy 
 ing property filtered through his mind. He grasped 
 his revolver more firmly. 
 
 "Say, Jeb," he raised himself on his elbow, one 
 hand beneath him, "where' s Cal ..." 
 
 He stopped in astonishment, looking into the 
 muzzle of the deputy's weapon. 
 
 "Now let's see that other hand" ... the 
 cautious Jeb admonished ... "so ... that's 
 better. And just keep 'em both in sight, please. " 
 
 Kent's sense of humor was stronger than his 
 impulse to be angry. It was the second time in 
 his life he had intimately viewed the business end 
 of a revolver. 
 
The Brain Storm 241 
 
 "Gosh!" he sighed resignedly, " there's more 
 guns out in this blizzard than I ever saw before. 
 Now look here, Jeb, I don't like you to point that 
 cannon at me. It doesn't seem . . . well, exactly 
 friendly." 
 
 The conversation was a bit confusing, but Jeb 
 remained unrelenting. ' ' Gotagun ? ' ' 
 
 " Good Lord, no ! I never carried one in my life. 
 Just take a look and see for yourself." Kent 
 held his hands aloft while Jeb cautiously poked 
 his pockets and other likely abiding places of a six 
 shooter. 
 
 Much relieved, Jeb stepped back. 
 
 "Say, looky here, Dave, I've a proposish for 
 you. I don't want ter be sittin' up here coverin' 
 you like a hoss thief an' I reckon it t ain't needed, 
 but in course I can't take no chances. But if you'll 
 give me your word you won't try to get away it'll 
 be all right with me . . . your sayso's good here. " 
 
 "That's sensible, Jeb. Of course I'll give you 
 my word ... I promise not to try to get away 
 so long as you're with me. " 
 
 "An' you won't try to get my gun?" 
 
 To that Kent also agreed, so prisoner and jailer 
 speedily established an entente cordial under whose 
 beneficent influence Jeb's holster, with its gun, 
 was hung on a knot against the fir tree's trunk 
 while its proprietor replenished the wood supply. 
 
 "And now tell me where Callier has gone?" 
 
 Watterson complied, recounting all he knew of 
 Callier 's plans to file on Lost Lake. Kent took 
 
 16 
 
242 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 the news quietly. He had already anticipated 
 the plans of his adversaries, and what made his 
 blood boil was the realization of how well they 
 were working out. 
 
 He seemed so helpless, so well beaten. And he 
 hated to be beaten! He had determined to win. 
 Was there no way out of it? Again and again he 
 asked himself that question, and could find no an 
 swer. Could he but reach Lost Lake ahead of Callier I 
 
 "If I could only post the notice there'd be some 
 chance of beating them out at Farewell," he said 
 to himself. "At least I could give bail and get 
 down to Salem at the same time Callier did. 
 There I'd have the same chance as he, and perhaps 
 a better one when they heard my story. " 
 
 But why waste energy in hopeless wishing? He 
 was a prisoner, guarded by a friendly jailer to 
 whom he had given his word not to try to escape. 
 He felt certain, without testing the question, that 
 honest Jeb could not be bought off ... he might 
 be circumvented, but never purchased. And 
 Kent, pondering the problem, cursed himself for 
 having promised anything; at least it would have 
 been worth while, and rather exhilarating at that, 
 to have tried physical conclusion with the deputy. 
 
 Round and round the hopeless circle Kent's 
 thoughts wandered, while he cuddled close to the 
 fire and damned the driving snow which had 
 brought on all this trouble. Then suddenly an 
 idea struck him, and he sat very still for many 
 minutes, working out its details. 
 
The Brain Storm 243 
 
 Jeb smoked complacently at the other side of 
 the fire. Noting his companion's long silence, he 
 offered something jocular about not getting the 
 blues. But instead of answering, Kent's teeth 
 began to chatter, and the more he apparently tried 
 to control them the more they shook, until his 
 whole body seemed gripped with ague. 
 
 Kent pointed at his head. Finally he managed 
 to gasp, "It hurts ... my God, how it hurts!" 
 Then the paroxysm passed, and the sufferer quieted 
 and for a time remained rigid and motionless, his 
 eyes closed and his lips convulsively forming 
 unspoken words. 
 
 Jeb was genuinely disturbed. He didn't know 
 what to make of it or what to do. Then Kent 
 .seemed to regain control of himself. His lips were 
 still. His eyes again opened, groping about with a 
 puzzled look. Meeting the troubled gaze of the 
 good-hearted deputy they all at once cleared up 
 as if full understanding had returned to the brain 
 behind them. 
 
 "Oh, Jeb" . . . the voice was shaken, apolo 
 getic . . . "I'm so sorry . . . so ashamed. You 
 see, these" . . . but Kent's feelings overcame 
 him, and burying his head in his hands his body 
 shook with sobs. 
 
 "Now, now, Lad, take it easy," counseled 
 Jeb gently, patting the shaking shoulder. "S'all 
 right . . . everything's all right." 
 
 Bravely the young man nodded, wiping away 
 the tears as he raised his head. 
 
244 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "It's good of you, Jeb . . . good of you." 
 Just what was good of him Jeb didn't know, but 
 he felt appreciative. "You see, Jeb, it's just this 
 I feared . . . it's an old weakness. I ... that 
 is" . . . he hesitated, as if ashamed to make 
 the disclosure, then, seemingly realizing the neces 
 sity of it, plunged on gulpingly. "It's up here, 
 Jeb, old friend. " He tapped his forehead. "Ever 
 since I had typhoid they come on me . . . especi 
 ally when I'm played out. And I suppose it's 
 being up and riding all night with nothing to eat, 
 the cold . . . and . . . and the excitement and 
 the storm and all that which has brought it on 
 now . . . Oh, God!" 
 
 Jeb's arm steadied him as he swayed, moaning. 
 
 "Yes, it's them, all right . . . the second one's 
 due now any minute." 
 
 "Fits?" The deputy had a profound horror of 
 mental derangement. He positively feared the 
 insane. 
 
 "About the same thing," Kent assured him 
 wanly. " Sort of temporary insanity. Only lasts 
 half an hour or so but it's awful while it's on. 
 Head feels all red hot . . . Listen, Jeb. " He 
 grabbed his companion's horny hand in his, and 
 the deputy could have sworn that hand was fever- 
 hot already. "I just hate to make such a mess 
 of things but you've got to know about it know 
 what to do." 
 
 "Do? Me do?" Jeb's echo was weak. Kent 
 raced on in a burning disquieting whisper. 
 
The Brain Storm 245 
 
 "Yes. Pretty soon now I'll go entirely off 
 my head. It won't last long but it's fierce while 
 the spell's on me. And . . . and . . . Jeb, I'm 
 awfully dangerous, they tell me ... For God's 
 sake keep that gun away . . . don't let me see 
 it ... don't you dare touch it. ... There's 
 just one way to handle me, the doctors say" . . . 
 he gasped for breath. Clearly the fit was hard 
 upon him. 
 
 "Yes, yes," Jeb, bending over him, was all 
 anxious eagerness. 
 
 "It's just to humor me . . . don't forget that. 
 ... I'm likely to do anything and want any 
 thing . . . and let me do just what I want to 
 . . . don't argue . . . don't try to stop me. 
 Once" . . . Kent gasped for breath . . . "once 
 when I had one of 'em at a hospital and wanted 
 to get out of bed a fool nurse ... a man, too . . . 
 tried to stop me" . . . there ensued a palpitat 
 ing silence . . . "the . . . poor . . . fellow . . . 
 didn't . . . recover ... for a month ... it 
 was awful the way I ... mangled him." 
 
 The last words came out jerkingly. Then all 
 at once the stricken one screamed in anguish and 
 clapping both hands to his head doubled up upon 
 the ground, rolling about wildly and moaning like 
 a Beduin. 
 
 The details of those early spasms need not be 
 recorded. Suffice to say that shortly they wore 
 off, ushering in the third and most trying stage of 
 the paroxysm. 
 
246 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 In this Kent regained the use of his limbs. His 
 eyes apparently could see, but they were strangely 
 fixed and glassy. He moved and looked and even 
 spoke like a sleep-walker, or, say, a madman in a 
 play. Whatever the style, it was terribly dis 
 concerting to Jeb, who stayed safely out of reach, 
 always contriving to keep the fire between himself 
 and his demented prisoner, and devoutly hoping 
 the convulsion would end speedily. He didn't 
 in the least fancy being left alone there in the 
 wilderness with this epileptic maniac and cursed 
 his luck heartily because he had not gone to the 
 lake and left Callier with Kent. And the thought 
 of Callier out there in the blizzard made his heart 
 sink . . . suppose this lunatic should take the 
 notion to decamp? What could he do? How 
 ever could he hope to control or stop him? . . . 
 He soberly recollected the fate of that nurse who 
 had crossed Kent . . . supposing the madman 
 attacked him, perhaps killed him, and then wan 
 dered away to be lost and die in the storm? Jeb's 
 slow-going mind, once unloosed, performed miracles 
 of dismal foreboding. 
 
 But fortunately the afflicted young man seemed 
 possessed with no homicidal intentions. 
 
 "Good old Jeb!" he muttered time and again, 
 smiling sillily and apparently seeing nothing at 
 all. "Good old Jeb . . . Godbless'm." 
 
 Swaying, with arms stiffly outstretched before 
 him, he moved to the tree where his saddle-bag 
 hung and groped in it. Seemingly he found what 
 
The Brain Storm 247 
 
 he wanted, for all at once he commenced gibber 
 ing inanely half whimpering . . . and when he 
 turned Jeb's heart sank in his boots, for the poor 
 fellow's mouth was now foaming and frothy. 
 
 Still, however, he was safe. At least, Kent paid 
 no attention to him. His one thought seemed to 
 be the package he had taken from the saddle bag. 
 This he hugged ardently in his arms, crooning a 
 gibbering lullaby with his horrible frothing lips as 
 he took it back to the fire and sank to the ground, 
 cross legged. Slowly, carefully, tenderly he undid 
 the fastenings. 
 
 Jeb's eyes followed every movement, wide and 
 staring. But this apprehensive suspense was as 
 nothing to the good deputy's consternation when 
 the contents of that package were disclosed. 
 
 "Mother of God!" he ejaculated. "It's dyna 
 mite!' 1 
 
 Which it was two gray soapy looking sticks, 
 cased in their greasy skins of paper. Why Kent 
 had brought them all that distance, safeguarded 
 from explosive jolts solely by the extra flannel 
 shirt in which the package had been tucked, 
 only Kent, with his unspoken plans concerning the 
 waters of Lost Lake, knew. And Kent, of course, 
 was clear and clean out of his head, beyond the 
 possibility of explanations immediate, or, should 
 the dynamite explode, remote. 
 
 "And caps ! ' ' Jeb voiced his second observation 
 in a horrified whisper. 
 
 For the insane young man also had in his hands 
 
248 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 two copper firing caps, the little "ticklers'* which 
 are rammed down upon the sticks, causing the 
 dynamite itself to detonate when the fire of the 
 fuse reaches them. 
 
 Jeb's knees were actively clanking together by 
 now. Pop-eyed, he watched the operations across 
 the fire, like a bird charmed by a snake. Poor 
 Jeb was hypnotized . . . hypnotized with fright. 
 Cold perspiration, dripping down over his eyes, 
 clouded the details of the impending tragedy. 
 
 And there sat the insane Kent, presumably in 
 the midst of the final paroxysm of his horrible 
 malady, gibbering vacantly and intently fastening 
 a cap to one of the sticks. 
 
 "For the love of God!" The deputy's cry was 
 anguished. 
 
 Kent's hands stopped. His lips ceased moving. 
 For an instant he seemed frozen almost into con 
 sciousness, back to reason. Then a diabolical 
 crafty smile distorted his face, with its slobbering 
 mouth and froth-smeared chin. 
 
 "Ha, ha!" he cackled wildly, then tried to look 
 across the fire at Jeb, but with foolish set eyes that 
 seemed to see nothing, like a sodden drunken man 
 endeavoring to appear soberly dignified. "Jeb, 
 ol* frien', does dynamite freeze?" 
 
 Jeb's terror stricken lips could frame no 
 answer. 
 
 " Br-r-r ! It's bitter cold up here, Jeb ol* friend. 
 I'm frozen . . . that's what makes my head hurt 
 so. And if I'm frozen why" . . . the smile was 
 
The Brain Storm 249 
 
 sly with the logic of insanity . . . "of course 
 the dynamite's frozen too. But it mustn't be 
 frozen, Jeb, ol' friend . . . that wouldn't do at all. 
 So what will David do?" . . . he was holding 
 one stick in his hand now, fondling it like a doll 
 and talking to it. And Jeb, to his infinite horror, 
 saw that he had attached the firing cap which 
 would explode the stick the moment it was struck 
 or ignited. "So David will warm the poor HI* 
 frozen stick. He'll just make a nice warm place 
 here in the fire first." 
 
 With a bit of branch in his free hand the crazed 
 man was patting out a resting place among the 
 red coals. 
 
 Then he lifted the dynamite, leaning forward so 
 as to place it in the fire where it would fall among 
 the hottest embers . . . and Jeb waited to see no 
 more. With a heartbreaking shriek he rushed 
 to his horse, fortunately still saddled, and just as 
 the explosion came, horse and rider crashed off 
 through the low branches, the panic-stricken 
 deputy yelling with horror. 
 
 When Jeb subsequently swore that he had heard 
 the report of the explosion, occurring just as he 
 swept from under the tree, he was adhering strictly 
 to the truth. There was an explosion. It fol 
 lowed immediately the forward toss of Kent's 
 hand. But it was the explosion of a firing cap. 
 
 Thrown in the edge of the embers furthest from 
 him, the cap promptly went off with a startling 
 report . . . enough, coupled with the violent 
 
250 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 departure of Jeb and the other horse, to frighten 
 Pedro out of all sense of discipline ; rearing back in 
 terror he broke his tie rope and galloped off down 
 the home trail. 
 
 Kent wiped the ashes from his eyes, blown there 
 by the miniature explosion. Aside from further 
 soiling his already soap lathered face no damage 
 had been done. 
 
 "Well, I've lost my jailer, " he said to himself. 
 "If he'll only stay lost. It's no joke, though, 
 about Pedro running off ... perhaps he'll come 
 back." 
 
 "Jeb can't say I didn't play square with him 
 anyway." he addressed the fire argumentatively. 
 "I promised I wouldn't run away or grab his gun 
 and I didn't . . . He did the running away." 
 He chuckled at the thought of the deputy's hasty 
 decampment. "But if I loaf around here first 
 thing I know brother Jeb'll be coming back to 
 bury the pieces of his poor insane friend. Ugh! 
 That soap tasted like the devil!" He wiped 
 the suds from his face and removed the taste of his 
 made-to-order froth from the inside of his mouth 
 as best he could. 
 
 "We'll move now, horse or no horse. I'm going 
 to get to that durned lake or know the reason 
 why." And with that he started to replace the 
 two sticks of dynamite in the shirt when a new idea 
 suddenly struck him. After a momentary con 
 sideration he adopted it, chuckling delightedly. 
 
 "I hate to ruin the saddle, and it's a shame to 
 
The Brain Storm 251 
 
 make Callier put on crepe . . . but the job may 
 as well be finished right. " 
 
 Quickly he imbedded another cap in one of the 
 sticks of dynamite. Then from the saddle-bag he 
 took out a small coil of fuse, from which he cut off 
 three feet or so, fastening one end to the cap. 
 Next he burrowed out with his feet and a stout 
 stick a depression close beside the fire where he had 
 been sitting and placing the dynamite stick at 
 the bottom covered it over with as much dirt as 
 he could scrape up, adding all available bits of 
 branches and a few heavy stones. Lastly on top of 
 all he rolled a sizable log, draped the saddle over it, 
 and as a final detail hung Jeb's holster on the horn. 
 
 He fastened up the saddle-bags then, one con 
 taining the remaining stick of dynamite carefully 
 wrapped in the flannel shirt, and arranged them 
 over his shoulders, the straps across and around his 
 neck and chest, the bags themselves hanging down 
 his back. 
 
 "Here goes . . ." The match met the end 
 of the fuse. 
 
 And as David Kent dodged off into the thicket, 
 the flame licked briskly toward the buried dyna 
 mite, and then with a dull roar and a spout of dirt 
 and debris came the explosion. 
 
 " Reqitiat in pace David Kent . . . esquire.'* 
 Kent looked back at the smoking volcano beneath 
 the tree, and hunching his burden into position 
 trudged westerly out upon storm swept Wickiup 
 Flat. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 LOST AND FOUND 
 
 AN hour after he started out afoot in his des 
 perate effort to reach Lost Lake, David Kent was 
 hopelessly lost. Out in the midst of Wickiup 
 Flat where already drifts were driving over the 
 low landmarks and the snow came down so 
 steadily that there was nothing to be seen but the 
 blanket of white on the ground and the slanting 
 flakes in the air, he ploughed forward steadily 
 until somehow, despite the wind which should 
 have been his guide, he became confused and lost. 
 
 Kent trudged along doggedly, all his senses alert 
 to catch any sight or sound which might guide 
 him. By now he was prodigiously tired and under 
 stood fully the gravity of his situation. He was 
 genuinely lost, and to be lost in a snowstorm 
 on this mountain plateau was serious business. 
 And yet he could not comprehend how he had lost 
 himself, for he had exercised every caution to keep 
 the north wind coming directly on his right hand, 
 feeling sure that by progressing westward he 
 would soon strike the draw which lead to Lost 
 Lake. But he had come more than the two miles 
 
 252 
 
Lost and Found 253 
 
 that should have intervened, and there was no 
 sign of any depression only the everlasting gray 
 expanse of the plain. 
 
 Finally the lost man stopped entirely. Unless 
 the storm let up he saw no prospect of finding 
 either the Lake or himself. And the storm did not 
 abate, but instead its gusts swept down upon him 
 with increasing rigor. He was near the point 
 of exhaustion . . . the hard experiences of the 
 last twenty-four hours had sapped his strength 
 and the cold was finishing the work. His mind 
 felt utterly weary . . . determination and com 
 bative power were at a low ebb. It was all he 
 could do to resist the impulse to throw away the 
 saddle-bags and sink down in the snow for a 
 rest . . . a rest . . . yes, that was what he craved 
 ... if he could only rest . . . could escape this 
 damnable snow ... if he could only see some 
 thing anything but the everlasting gray driving 
 flakes. He felt himself slipping . . . losing his 
 grip . . . and dumbly he realized the danger of 
 surrender. He must keep a stiff upper lip. 
 
 " Don't lose your head, lad," he whispered to 
 himself. 
 
 And with a supreme mental effort, which 
 seemed positively to wrack him, he pulled himself 
 together and took stock of the situation. Clearly, 
 the only sensible thing was to try to get back to the 
 timber. He knew that his back track would be 
 swallowed up in the snow, but with the wind for a 
 guide at least he could find the trees somewhere at 
 
254 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 the fringe of the Flat, and thence there would be 
 some hope of regaining the trail or even encounter 
 ing Callier or the deputy. To stay where he 
 was, or persist in the ill-fated effort to reach 
 the lake, was simply to court disaster. He was 
 beaten. That was clear. 
 
 So he turned back. As he did so his eyes 
 detected an irregularity in the snow a dozen feet 
 away, a little rough place just in the lee of a 
 rounded drift, from whose top extended a bit of 
 stick, weather-beaten almost as white as the 
 surrounding snow itself. It struck him as curi 
 ously inexplicable, unless some animal had made 
 it. With dull curiosity he stumbled over to the 
 spot. 
 
 For an instant Kent gazed down dully upon that 
 patch of roughened snow. Then all at once he 
 fell to his knees, better to see the exact nature 
 of the track. And track it was . . . the unmis 
 takable imprint of a horse's hoof, pointing to his 
 left, showed clearly. Apparently it had been 
 kept uncovered through some freak of the wind 
 which syphoned down over the steep little drift 
 keeping almost clear a space just in its lee. 
 
 "It's a fresh track made since the snow 
 started," he argued to himself. 
 
 But whose track ? And whither headed ? Could 
 it possibly be Callier's? If so, his heart sank 
 realizing how hopelessly he was confused, for 
 according to his calculations that track was headed 
 south, while in reality, if it were Callier's, it should 
 
Lost and Found 255 
 
 have been proceeding west. Then it occurred 
 to him that perhaps it was the ditch rider's horse 
 returning from the Lake. But that only made 
 matters worse. Clearly, the wind had played 
 some devilish trick upon him and he was irretriev 
 ably lost. Until the snow lifted, it was useless to 
 try to make his way back to the timber . . . 
 Heaven only knew where even the timber was 
 . . . where the east lay he had no notion ... it 
 was all a ghastly tangle. 
 
 "Why, oh why didn't I bring a compass?" 
 He was at the very end of his tether. There 
 seemed nothing to do but wait where he was . . 
 and ultimately freeze, he thought bitterly. No, 
 he would not give up so easily . . . he'd fight 
 it to a finish ... at least he could try to make a 
 fire. There must be enough shelter to shield a 
 fire somewhere at hand. But wood? There were 
 plenty of bushes out upon the Flat, he remembered, 
 and occasional fallen trees, too, which had given 
 up the hard contest with the elements. During 
 the previous hour he had seen bits of branches 
 sticking up through the snow and once had even 
 stumbled over a log hidden under the white fall. 
 He would find some wood. How good it would be 
 to get really warm and cheat the bitter wind for a 
 time! 
 
 Directly before him, sticking from the top of 
 the neighbor ^ drift, was a gnarled bit of whit 
 ened branch. That would make capital fuel, he 
 thought, stepping forward to grasp it. But his 
 
256 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 outstretching hand stopped in mid-air, a sudden 
 puzzling memory surging up in his brain . . . 
 that weather-beaten stick looked strangely familiar 
 . . . when had he seen it before? 
 
 Subconsciously he wondered if this was an 
 hallucination, some ugly mental symptom of 
 collapse ... a sort of snow-bound mirage tricked 
 into being by his weary brain. 
 
 Then abruptly his mind responded and he 
 recollected with steel-cut clarity just when and 
 where he had last seen that stick. Even Dad 
 Trumble's words came back to him: "In Noo 
 York I reckon they label the bygod streets, don't 
 they?" 
 
 Feverishly he scraped away the snow at the 
 base of the whitened branch. Sure enough, it was 
 wedged between the topmost rocks of the monu 
 ment which Dad had repaired and reinforced with 
 this selfsame guiding branch as they had loitered 
 there in August, looking down upon Lost Lake. 
 
 Kent gave a yell with all the strength of his 
 lungs. And then another, venting his reaction 
 from the despair of the preceding moment. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 "ONLY A DRAW"- 
 
 "WELL," said Dad glumly, "I reckon we're 
 euchered. " 
 
 Instead of answering the girl sat silently beside 
 the fire, her eyes looking far along the trail which 
 Callier had followed, seeing little of the surround 
 ings, whatever mental panoramas may have un 
 folded before them. It was snowing so lightly 
 now that one could see from the tamarack grove 
 almost to the far end of the Lake where the trail 
 mounted. There the edge of the storm still raging 
 on Wickiup Flat lapped over into the hollow and 
 its ragged flurries blotted out the figure of the 
 departing horseman. 
 
 "Euchered . . . and a by god snake-in-the-grass 
 done it!" 
 
 "I'm sorry," the girl roused herself. She 
 looked abjectly tired, but a reviving flush kindled 
 her cheeks. "It looks as if we've been cleaned. 
 But Dad, it's only a draw. " 
 
 "Eh? " The old man was at sea. 
 
 " David held the cards the first game . . . when 
 he put Failing's special edition out of business . . . 
 17 257 
 
258 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 score one for him. Then the others had a run of 
 luck and side-tracked him with this arresting busi 
 ness . . . score one for them. That's a draw, 
 isn't it? And now, Dad, we'll play the rubber!" 
 
 "An* the deck's stacked agin us." Despite his 
 grumbling tone Dad felt the breath of renewed 
 hope. "Got a card up yer sleeve, Honey?" 
 
 "An ace, Dad." 
 
 With that she bombarded him with inquiries 
 about the Ringo Trail across the mountains. 
 
 "Will it be storming over there?" 
 
 "No. What's been snow here probably was 
 rain there . . . and from the looks of it even the 
 snow's due to stop soon. Leastwise, the snow 
 hasn't reached down the west side more than a 
 few miles . . . below it's probably purty as a 
 picture. " 
 
 " If one started out in a hurry, how long would it 
 take to reach the railroad?" 
 
 Then Dad, whose mind was not agile in fore 
 sight, for the first time gathered what was coming. 
 
 "I'll be teetotally goswhizzled ! " The old man 
 considered the possibilities. "Well," he con 
 tinued, after deliberation, "it's only a matter of 
 six or seven miles down to the ranger station at 
 Little Meadow. I could get there to-night . . ." 
 
 "But Dad, you haven't caught the idea. You 
 aren't going at all!" 
 
 The girl returned his bewildered look with a 
 confident smile. 
 
 "Pm the one who is going," she announced 
 
"Only a Draw" 259 
 
 calmly. " What's more, by the time our friend 
 Callier reaches Salem there'll be dust on my filing 
 for the waters of Lost Lake." 
 
 "Lord, child, don't talk such nonsense. It's 
 . . . why, it just ain't right for you to be thinking 
 no such thing. That's no trip for a girl to make 
 by herself at any time, let alone starting out in a 
 snowstorm." 
 
 "But Dad, you'll admit I could beat him to 
 Salem." 
 
 "Prob'ly you'd get there first if you ever 
 got there at all. But it's all plumb foolishness 
 for you to go instead of me. Why shouldn't I 
 go . . .?" 
 
 "And leave me to find my way back to Farewell? 
 No . . . unless I'm mistaken, it will be a harder 
 trip home from here than it would be over to 
 Salem. And besides, Callier knows you're up here 
 and he doesn't know I am. If you are in Farewell 
 to-morrow they'll never dream about the need of 
 hurrying with their filing, and besides, you can tell 
 David what's happening." 
 
 Finally Dad gave up. Crete w r as adamant ; she 
 had decided to go, and go she would. But an 
 other reason for the old man's silence was that 
 he, too, had made a decision, namely to accom 
 pany the girl on the over-mountain trip, whether 
 she wished it or not. 
 
 "It's clearing," Dad announced, "an* what's 
 not so good, it's most three o'clock already. 
 We . . . that is, you'll . . . have to hustle to 
 
260 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 reach Little Meadow before dark. Glad I got 
 my Gov'ment key it'll open the padlock down ter 
 the ranger station." 
 
 "Better let me have it, " she relieved him of the 
 key. "Now, Dad, you get the saddles on and I'll 
 run down and post my filing notice. Then will 
 you ride along to the end of the canyon and tell me 
 about how I'm to find the way?" 
 
 "Sure," he growled, adding under his breath, 
 "and a heap farther, too." 
 
 When she came back from the Lake, having 
 posted her notice on a tree near the one used by 
 Callier, the horses were ready. Dad soused an 
 armful of snow over the fire embers, and they 
 mounted and turned toward the west. 
 
 For an instant they halted by the border of the 
 Lake, the horses sniffing doubtfully at the unbroken 
 snow lying over this new way they were being 
 forced to follow, instead of the home trail. 
 
 Crete's gaze shifted from the flat white expanse 
 to the dark rushing waters of the outlet creek . . . 
 hers! A tingle of satisfaction warmed her . . . 
 she had come to help David win the right to use 
 that water, and now, forsooth, she was acquir 
 ing that right herself! Already she felt the pride 
 of ownership in that snow-bound expanse. 
 
 Then he turned his horse into the knee-deep, 
 virgin snow. Just as she prepared to follow a 
 faint sound bore down to her, carried from afar 
 by the lessening wind. She stopped in her tracks, 
 listening intently. Then it came again, this time 
 
"Only a Draw*' 261 
 
 louder and more prolonged. First she thought 
 it an echo of the storm, some wailing contortion 
 of the wind. Next it seemed the cry of an ani 
 mal, probably a discomforted coyote. All at once 
 her straining ears caught the sound more fully. 
 Unmistakably it was the call of a human! 
 
 "Dad! Oh, Dad!" 
 
 She was poised on Fantan's back, her hand to 
 her ear, straining to hear. 
 
 "Sure it wasn't jest the wind?''* 
 
 "Positive . . . the second time it came quite 
 distinctly from over there." She pointed east 
 ward, where the gray snow shroud still hung over 
 the edge of Wickiup Flat. 
 
 And as they listened, the sound of a voice hal 
 loing came unmistakably to their ears. Then in a 
 sudden lifting of the snow cloud beyond the eastern 
 limits of the Lake, where the home rail mounted to 
 the level of the Flat, they saw a dark object. It 
 moved, came nearer, then stopped, and the halloo 
 echoed again. 
 
 Madly they shouted and waved their arms. The 
 figure seemed to see them ; he lifted his arms as if 
 to wave, and then all at once sank down in the 
 snow. 
 
 Crete was there first. In an instant she was out 
 of the saddle and Fantan stood, with the reins 
 on the snow by his forefeet, curiously watching his 
 mistress. Dad, too, observed, and as he saw the 
 unreserved abandon of the girl, usually so coolly 
 self-possessed, the sight of her bending over the 
 
262 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 prostrate figure and lifting David Kent's head in 
 her arm impressed him far more than did David's 
 plight or the mystery of his presence. 
 
 "Jumpin' jeminy!" he ejaculated to himself. 
 "You never can tell/' 
 
 Having voiced that unanswerable axiom he 
 pretended to busy himself securing Fantan, who 
 really did not need to be secured at all, as he had 
 quite enough manners to stay just where he was, 
 after the way of all good western horses. After a 
 discreet interval Dad drew near. 
 
 Crete was sitting in the snow, still with David's 
 head upon her lap, rubbing his hands briskly, and 
 oblivious of everything but the tinge of color 
 creeping back into his cheeks. 
 
 "Fainted?" 
 
 "Yes . . . exhaustion, I suppose. His pulse is 
 picking up now." 
 
 " It'll pick up faster when he opens his eyes, " he 
 said, half -aloud. 
 
 "Ssh!" she cautioned, "he's coming to." 
 
 But despite the admonition Dad chuckled 
 outright . 
 
 Then the eyes in the pale face flickered and 
 opened. Wonderingly they looked up into the 
 blue eyes just above them. 
 
 " Crete ! " The girl's name came instantly to his 
 lips, which smiled wanly. 
 
 The fire beneath the tamaracks was rekindled 
 and under the invigorating influence of hot tea, 
 bread, and jerky Kent's spirits rose rapidly. 
 
"Only a Draw" 263 
 
 Then, and not till then, they plied him with 
 questions. 
 
 " Callier told Dad you were arrested. Now you 
 tell us just how much he lied. What were you doing 
 trapsing around afoot . . . where's your horse?" 
 
 "To be exact, Mr. Interlocutor," he replied to 
 Crete's questions, " Callier didn't lie at all . . . 
 there's an exception to every rule. I was arrested 
 . . . only I didn't stay arrested!" 
 
 Then he told the whole story. When he re 
 counted the incident of the dynamite and his 
 sudden mental affliction his hearers laughed up 
 roariously. 
 
 " Goshalmighty ! I'd have liked to see Jeb fade 
 away," Dad guffawed. "An* say, won't it be a 
 bird of a yarn he'll tell to Callier! Jes imagine 
 the trimmin's he'll put on it. Wonder if they'll 
 carve a nice neat epigraph on th' tree afore they 
 leave the remains and take the sad news back to 
 Farewell." 
 
 While the old man was considering the manifold 
 possibilities of the situation Crete's thoughts 
 were busy with more practical problems. What 
 next? Her eyes encountered the saddle-bags, 
 which Kent had contrived to keep with him 
 throughout his adventursome day. 
 
 "What is the dynamite for?" 
 
 "Oh, that's a plan I worked out when I was up 
 here before." 
 
 "Then you didn't bring it just to make a grave 
 for yourself?" 
 
264 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Not primarily. But it did come in handy for 
 that . . . and the thorough way the job was done 
 must have impressed friend Jeb when he came back 
 to pick up the pieces/* explained Kent, laugh 
 ing again. "But I've got an even better use for 
 the second stick, in that bag there. I'm going to 
 start the water of Lost Lake flowing in the right 
 direction . . . which is east instead of west." 
 
 "Remember what you said about miracles . . . 
 they're way out of date," she chided. 
 
 ' ' This one will come off O. K. With just a bit of 
 a jolt in the ribs the old Chief will put it over for 
 
 me." 
 
 Then he pointed to the great rock slide which 
 veritably overhung the canyon leading westerly. 
 With the snow piled up upon it, it seemed more 
 than ever poised ready to crash down into the little 
 valley at its base. 
 
 "Don't you see what a shot of dynamite would 
 do up there?" 
 
 It was evident enough that a charge, well 
 placed, would disrupt the entire lower section of 
 the slide from its perilous angle of rest. Crete 
 nodded. "I see . . . it would choke the cany on." 
 
 "And much more," Kent added. "Enough 
 rock to fill the Panama Canal will slide right down 
 just below the foot of the Lake smothering the out 
 let, unless my calculations are away off. When 
 that end of the Lake is dammed of course the water 
 will back up until it finds another outlet. And 
 that's easy . . . it'll only take a couple of feet 
 
"Only a Draw" 265 
 
 rise before it spills over into the old river bed 
 where it used to go before this underground outlet 
 formed." 
 
 Without a reasonable doubt, it seemed to both 
 of them, the plan would work. 
 
 "For the love of Mike let's get a move on, " Dad 
 terminated the discussion. " We'll have to hurry 
 to do this little engineering stunt of Dave's afore 
 it gets dark. Anyway, she's mostly stopped 
 snowing out on the Flat and it won't be hard to 
 get home. " 
 
 The plan was to block the Lake's outlet, after 
 which they would hurry back to Farewell as 
 quickly as possible. Crete, however, would slip 
 into town alone, and as her presence on the trip 
 to the Lake was unknown, she would be able to go 
 on down to Salem, at worst together with Callier 
 and at best perhaps ahead of him. Kent was to 
 surrender himself immediately. Once Callier had 
 him in custody, they agreed, he might delay the 
 trip to Salem realizing that Kent could not get 
 there first. And as a trump card, both Kent and 
 Crete posted separate filing notices, not at the west 
 outlet of the Lake, but at the east end beside the 
 dry streambed. In each notice, and the copies 
 of it, they specified clearly that they were filing 
 on the outlet water of Lost Lake which flows 
 east. Callier's posting, on the tree beside the 
 existing outlet, was, of course, for water flowing 
 "in a westerly direction." 
 
 "If it comes to a showdown at Salem," said 
 
266 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Kent to Crete, "and you and Callier try to file at 
 the same time, they'll have to accept both filings 
 pending an investigation to find out how this bally 
 water really does flow . . . and when the engi 
 neers come up here next spring, Failing and his 
 man Friday will throw a fit on the grass when they 
 discover what's happened." 
 
 "An' I" ... added Dad with devout pro 
 fanity . . . ''dam well 'd like to be in these parts 
 when the glad news soaks in on 'em . . . I'd enjoy 
 that 'bout as much as hearing Jeb tell about 
 Dave's sewercide. " 
 
 Draping his saddle-bags over his shoulder, Kent 
 started along the westerly trail leading from the 
 Lake's outlet down the canyon just below the over 
 hanging rock slide. He meant to work around to 
 the west side of the slide and then climb up it a 
 couple of hundred yards to a point where a wart 
 of giant bowlders projected out from the steep 
 slope. A shot beneath them would start a general 
 upheaval. 
 
 While the amateur dynamiter made the detour 
 and worked his way up the difficult slope, crawl 
 ing and slipping over the snow-covered rocks, Crete 
 and Dad, with the horses, waited at the lakeside 
 where the dark waters of the outlet stream gurgled. 
 Their man-made avalanche, they believed, would 
 bury that stream beneath countless tons of rock, 
 shale, and earth. 
 
 The two watchers saw Kent work around the 
 sides of great rocks which he could not clamber 
 
"Only a Draw" 267 
 
 over. Now and then he slipped, in crossing steep- 
 angled slopes, or sank suddenly when what seemed 
 a solid surface proved soft snow drifted in between 
 bowlders. But little by little he progressed toward 
 the vantage point, always nursing his precious 
 saddle-bags. 
 
 Suddenly for the second time that day, there 
 came to their ears a distant cry. 
 
 "Quick, Dad . . . see who it is. " 
 
 In an instant Trumble was back at her side. 
 
 "It's Callier and Jeb. They're coming this 
 way." 
 
 The girl thought fast. Probably they had 
 learned the truth about Kent's dynamite fake, 
 and certainly if they found him, he would be re- 
 arrested. And if she were discovered too, it would 
 ruin any chance she might have of beating them 
 to Salem for the filing. 
 
 "Dad . . . you go back to them . . . keep 
 them from coming this way if you can . . . try to 
 get rid of them ... I'm going to dodge down 
 the canyon and warn David. " 
 
 Not waiting for a reply, she urged Fantan 
 through the snow where Kent's foot tracks 
 showed. 
 
 Dad swung his horse easterly, and trotted out 
 along the Lake to meet the newcomers. 
 
 Jeb could scarcely wait to reach him, calling 
 out when a hundred yards away, "Seen Kent?" 
 
 "Eh? What's that?" Dad wanted to get in 
 formation, not to give it. To the question, repeated 
 
268 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 by Jeb and Callier in unison, the old man shook 
 his head. 
 
 11 Hardly. How could I see him when you folks 
 got him arrested?" 
 
 Callier looked at Jeb and the deputy looked 
 back at him. The features of both were troubled, 
 and their eyes wandered furtively. 
 
 " What's wrong, gents ... if I might ask? 
 You-all seem consid'ble discombobbled, so ter 
 speak." 
 
 Callier nodded to the deputy, as much as to say, 
 "You tell it." And Jeb licked his lips. 
 
 "That Kent" ... he began, shakingly . . . 
 " he's gone and killed himself. " 
 
 "My God!" The horror of the tragedy was 
 echoed copiously in the old man's exclamation. 
 "Killed? . . . Man, you don't mean to say as 
 David Kent . . . my good friend Dave . . . has 
 killed himself?" 
 
 Then a swift glint of suspicion seemed to pene 
 trate the brain of this good friend of David Kent. 
 With a cold, keen glance frightfully unpleasant 
 to Jeb, he regarded the deputy. 
 
 "You say as how he killed himself? 11 
 
 There was no doubting the implication of that 
 emphasis. Then Callier came to the rescue of the 
 floundering Jeb. 
 
 "That's just it, Trumble. Watterson was look 
 ing after the young fellow back there on the far 
 edge of the Flat, under a tree out of the snow, 
 where I left 'em to come up here. ..." 
 
"Only a Draw" 269 
 
 " Ah! Then he warn't arrested at Farewell? 
 ... as you told me." There was an accusing 
 tone to the old man's words. 
 
 "No . . . I stretched it a bit there. ..." 
 
 "Urn . . . stretched it, eh? Well, go on . . . 
 let 's hear it all." 
 
 Then Callier had Jeb disclose the details of the 
 tragedy, which he did in faithful detail. 
 
 "So he went plumb crazy and fired the dyna 
 mite?" Dad asked in a subdued voice. 
 
 "He did. We've been back and there's nothing 
 but a hole in the ground where we sat ... even 
 the saddle's blown to bits. My God!" ... the 
 poor man put his hands over his eyes as if to shut 
 out the tragic picture . . . "to think how near it 
 come to ketching me!" 
 
 The thought of that narrow escape seemed to 
 unnerve Dad, too. Tears stood in his eyes . . . 
 at least, they were wet ... as he laid his hand 
 upon the deputy's shoulder and said in a shaking 
 voice, "Praise be, you got off, anyway . . . An* 
 Jeb, man, don't take it so to heart." 
 
 "Now," put in Callier, none too steady himself 
 . . . "we've come to get you to go back with us 
 . . . sort of want you to look it all over . . . the 
 place where it happened, you know ... so 
 as . . ." 
 
 "Yeh, I see. Want me for a witness . . . sort 
 of to explain matters . . . corrobber you two, 
 so ter speak." 
 
 "Jusit." Jeb, jabbing at his eyes with the 
 
270 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 back of his hand, seemed relieved. " There might 
 be ... well, some folks might sort of try to talk 
 ugly " 
 
 "They might," Dad agreed dryly. 
 
 "Look here" . . . Callier's manner was sud 
 denly suspicious . . . "What's all these?" He 
 pointed to the horse's tracks along the trail on 
 which Dad had just ridden up to them. 
 
 "What, them? Why, them's horse tracks," 
 replied Dad, his blue eyes widening with honest 
 candor. 
 
 "Hell, yes . . . but whose horse? There's been 
 more than one critter over here. " 
 
 "Yes . . . an' no, Mister Collier. There's only 
 been one horse, so far as I know, which is mine 
 . . . but we've been up and down here a couple of 
 times." 
 
 "And what you been doing waltzing back and 
 forth?" 
 
 "Wall, as I reckon you've guessed already 
 there ain't no harm in telling you. You see, I was 
 planning to work out a leetle power development 
 scheme . . . for some friends of mine . . . they 
 jest wrote for me to get busy . . . " he rambled on, 
 seeking fresh fictional inspiration as he progressed. 
 "So I been getting the measurements they wanted 
 . . . and it's kept me moving about considerable. 
 See?" The guileless eyes regarded the sales 
 manager hopefully. "And now, gents, let's be 
 going ... if we don't move it'll be dark afore we 
 get to where poor old David . . . was killed. " 
 
"Only a Draw" 271 
 
 But instead of acting on his suggestion, Callier 
 was off his horse and studying the tracks in the 
 snow. 
 
 "Not so fast, my friend," said he. "I'm no 
 tracker, by a long shot, but unless you shifted the 
 shoes on your horse there's something here I don't 
 sabe." He had discovered that two sets of hoofs 
 showed going westward, but only one returned. 
 Just at that place the footmarks left by Kent did 
 not show, as Fantan had followed them closely, 
 scuffling up enough snow to hide any trace except 
 to a more experienced eye than Callier's. 
 
 The sales manager mounted his horse, then, and 
 started back along the tracks toward the outlet. 
 "I'll take a look for myself," he said. And as 
 there was nothing else to do, Dad followed, swear 
 ing fluently under his breath and wondering 
 what would be the next turn of this eventful day. 
 
 They came to where Dad and Crete had waited, 
 watching the dynamiter. Casting a furtive glance 
 up to the rock slide, the old man was relieved 
 to find that Kent was just then hidden. But if 
 Callier could not see his ex-prisoner, and as yet 
 entertained no suspicion that he and the deputy 
 had been duped, he could see the horse -tracks 
 which continued along the canyon westward. 
 Dad's eyes, better trained, also saw a footmark, 
 clear cut in the snow, where Fantan's hoofs had 
 failed to cover Kent's track. 
 
 "Whoa! Goldern ye, whoa!" 
 
 Callier turned, attracted by the sudden uproar. 
 
272 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Unaccountably, Dad's horse, until now a beast of 
 model deportment, became momentarily unman 
 ageable. He reared and swung around, the rider 
 tugging at the reins and profanely urging him 
 to be quiet. Before he gained control, however, 
 the fractious animal had stamped the clean snow 
 into a mass of hoofmarks. It happened, too, that 
 the tell-tale footprint was completely obliterated. 
 Then the horse quieted down as suddenly as he had 
 commenced his antics, wondering, probably, why 
 his usually considerate rider had raked his ribs so 
 strenuously with the foot furthest from Callier. 
 
 The sales manager glared with growing sus 
 picion. There was something wrong, but just 
 what he didn't know. His immediate problem 
 was to discover that other horse and his rider. 
 
 "Who is it?" Callier was angry, and showed 
 it. 
 
 "Search me." Dad's manner was frankness 
 itself. "Suppose it might be a ranger ..." 
 
 "Ranger, hell! You can come or stay, just as 
 you like, but I'm going to find out who's been 
 with you." 
 
 Callier turned to beckon Jeb, who had lagged 
 behind them; and was just in time to see the 
 disheartened deputy gazing open-mouthed, up the 
 mountain. Callier followed the direction of Jeb's 
 awe-struck gaze. And suddenly his own jaw fell. 
 
 A matter of three hundred yards up the steep 
 slope, the dark figure of a man was outlined against 
 the snow. He was stooping, at the base of a mass 
 
"Only a Draw" 273 
 
 of rock which rose from the slope beside him. 
 Then the figure straightened up ... unmistak 
 ably it was Kent. 
 
 "Mother of God!" shrieked Jeb. 
 
 Callier was not so readily impressed by things 
 supernatural. It was Kent alive, and not Kent's 
 ghost which he saw and wanted. 
 
 " There'll be no slips this time . . . and no 
 damfool suiciding," growled the sales manager, 
 drawing his revolver. 
 
 18 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 NATURE TAKES A HAND 
 
 As he arranged the dynamite, wedging it deep 
 into a crevice at the base of the overhanging mass, 
 Kent calculated he could readily cross the slide 
 and be out of danger in the interval between firing 
 the fuse and the actual explosion. 
 
 "David, ... Oh, David!" Crete's voice car 
 ried up to him. Turning he saw the girl, who had 
 scrambled up the slide. 
 
 "Quick!" she called, "They're after you." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 He guessed well enough. 
 
 "Hurry! Start the slide!" She was nearer 
 now, panting with exertion. 
 
 "But how ..." 
 
 " Listen to me. " Her tone, breathless as it was, 
 forbade argument. "Fire the dynamite and come 
 down this way. ..." 
 
 "But the slide ... we can't get back" . . . 
 he expostulated. 
 
 "We're not going back. . . . There they come 
 now. " 
 
 Kent, looking down toward the Lake, saw the 
 
 274 
 
Nature Takes a Hand 275 
 
 three riders at the foot of the eastern edge of the 
 slide. As he spied them he himself was seen by 
 the deputy and Callier. 
 
 Just as the latter raised his gun the young 
 man ducked behind the rocks. The next instant 
 the fuse was sputtering industriously, and Kent 
 bounded off across the snow-covered slide to the 
 west, with Crete racing before him. 
 
 The girl had reached the foot of the slope when 
 the explosion came. Kent fared less well. A 
 mighty gust of gravel and splintered rock shot into 
 the air, spattering down all around him as he sped 
 for safety. Just as he neared the foot of the final 
 slope, a fragment of stone struck his head and he 
 wilted in his tracks. 
 
 Crete saw him plunge into the snow where he 
 lay very still. And she saw, too, on the slope 
 above him, a portentious trembling. The main 
 slide, started by the dynamite-loosened bowlders, in 
 its initial rush had shaken and dislodged the masses 
 to the east and west of it, and already the even 
 white slope of snow was pitted by rolling stones 
 and soiled where overhangs of shale and debris 
 were shaking loose. The rumbling of the coming 
 avalanche was in the air. And in the very path of 
 the gathering danger lay the prostrate man. 
 
 Oblivious of the stones which already were 
 hurtling down from the heights, Crete ran back. 
 She scrambled up to where he lay, nearly at the 
 base of the slope, his hair and the snow beneath it 
 darkening with blood; and grasping his shoulders 
 
276 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 dragged him to the level. The slope was steep 
 and his weight slipped readily through the snow. 
 But once at the bottom, the difficulty of the girl's 
 task doubled. First she tried to carry the body, 
 but she lacked strength to get the weight upon 
 her back, try as she would. 
 
 In desperation, she commenced dragging him 
 through the snow. It was a bitterly hard task, but 
 little by little she contrived to move the burden 
 westward toward Fantan. Twenty yards she 
 dragged him, and they were almost out of danger. 
 It was heartbreakingly slow. Her breath came 
 short from hot, hurting lungs, and perspiration 
 dimmed her eyes. Struggling for fresh strength 
 she looked up, and her face went as white as the 
 face of Kent. 
 
 The slide had started. The upper portion of the 
 talus slope quivered, poising in a last undulating 
 shiver. The next instant, shrouded by a smoky 
 cloud of dust and snow, the portion of the slope 
 above thundered down toward them. The ava 
 lanche, Crete saw, reached to the very western edge 
 of the talus. 
 
 With a cry of fear fear not for herself but for 
 the unconscious man she resumed her task, her 
 arms twined beneath Kent's shoulders. Stum 
 bling, panting, half -fainting from exhaustion, she 
 fought on with every atom of courage within her. 
 
 Just as Crete cleared the danger slope, the 
 avalanche of rock and debris hurtled down, all 
 frothy with dirty snow, engulfing the trail behind. 
 
Nature Takes a Hand 277 
 
 The dust of the great slide swept over them, 
 and the cold breath of the air thrust asunder by 
 the rushing mass chilled the girl's hot cheeks and 
 fanned the clotted hair of the still man at her feet. 
 It seemed the very breath of death of death 
 doubly cheated. 
 
 "Thank God! Oh, thank God!" cried out 
 Crete Colton, sinking down beside the man she 
 had saved. 
 
 Shortly the exhaustion of her overwhelming 
 efforts wore off. And at once, as she regained 
 her faculties she thought not of herself but of 
 the injured man. 
 
 Taking off her heavy coat, the girl laid it on the 
 ground beneath David while she examined the 
 wound in his head. It had an ugly look a long 
 gash with bloody gaping lips but it required no 
 surgeon to see that it probably was at worst a 
 deep scalp wound, accompanied, no doubt, by 
 concussion. 
 
 Crete first opened her blouse and tore, with one 
 whole-souled pull, the front portion out of the soft 
 muslin chemise beneath, and with strips of this 
 contrived a crude bandage. But the wound had 
 bled profusely and before bandaging it was neces 
 sary to clear away the clotted mass of curly hair. 
 There was no water, but she remembered the knife 
 carried in the pocket of her divided skirt. 
 
 "Going to amputate?" 
 
 The words, whispered weakly, startled her al 
 most into dropping the knife she was in the act of 
 
278 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 using. Twice that day David's eyes had opened 
 upon this same fair-haired ministering angel 
 bending over him. Only this time her face was 
 averted at its task, and he had had opportunity 
 to gather his senses and consider, in a dazed way, 
 what had happened. Closing his eyes, after that 
 first rift of recollection, a strange feeling of peaceful 
 satisfaction came over him. 
 
 Then, looking again, he saw the knife and spoke : 
 
 "Going to amputate?" 
 
 The words, and the spirit of them, lifted her 
 burden of fear. She had been bravely stoical 
 while she worked, but the silence and the stillness 
 of the man wracked her heart with foreboding. 
 
 "Yes . . . amputation's the only thing!" 
 There was almost laughter in her words; the life 
 in those brown eyes somehow brightened the whole 
 world wonderfully. "Do you object if I perform 
 it just above the shoulders?" 
 
 He contrived to smile, though it was a painful 
 grimace. 
 
 "Go to it! My head hurts devilishly . . . feels 
 's if it had passed through a rock crusher . . . 
 hack it off any way you please." 
 
 "No, I won't do that, either. To tell the 
 truth" . . . the words trailed off into a w^hisper 
 unheard by Kent . . . "I'm afraid I rather like 
 it." Then, aloud: "But I am going to amputate 
 some hair . . . it's the only way to clear away 
 the muss ... I'm afraid it will hurt." 
 
 With that she picked up tufts of the hair near 
 
Nature Takes a Hand 279 
 
 the wound and sawed them off with the knife, 
 doing the best she could to make short work of the 
 petty torture, while Kent gritted his teeth and 
 inwardly prayed for a return of unconsciousness. 
 When the girl wrapped her bandaging over the 
 wound, however, she found the material too light 
 and flimsy to stay in place, and to cure that 
 she ripped a two-inch strip from her khaki skirt, 
 with this stronger cloth binding the bandage 
 securely in place. 
 
 "It looks like an East Indian headdress," said 
 Crete surveying her work, "but at least it will 
 keep your brains from leaking through. " 
 
 "Ugh! I feel flabby, but that's fine . . . 
 everything's fine now," said he, trying to be 
 optimistic, but with his head swimming in circles. 
 
 "Oh, yes, everything is fine!" She repeated 
 dryly. "Except of course that you've just es 
 caped being killed by exactly one eighth of an 
 inch and you're about as useful on a mountain 
 trail as a mummy!" 
 
 "Well, get Dad and the horse and pack me home. 
 Or turn me over to my late jailers and let them 
 accept the responsibility," he suggested weakly. 
 
 "There isn't any Dad and there aren't any 
 jailers . . . not on this side of the divide, David. 
 Your blessed dynamite has fixed things so they 
 won't be getting over for a good long time ... or 
 us back. You and I and Fantan are monarchs 
 of all we survey." She looked around then, at 
 the debris of the great slide, at the torn mountain 
 
280 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 side, and the white expanse to the west of them, 
 hemmed in by cliffs. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Just what I said. We're babes in the woods 
 ... or boobs in the hills. The Ringo Trail has 
 been blown to smithereens. Things happened 
 just as you predicted . . . the Chief sloughed off 
 a whole shoulder down upon what used to be the 
 trail. It's absolutely choked up ... there's no 
 going back and no coming over." 
 
 They were silent then for a space. She, clear 
 headed, considered what was best to do, while the 
 thought uppermost in Kent's clouded mind was 
 realization that now at last all his Lost Lake 
 hopes had gone glimmering. 
 
 "Well," said Crete, finally, "it'll be dusk soon. 
 We'd better be going." 
 
 "Where?" The query came weakly. Kent 
 cared little, just then, what happened to him. 
 His head hurt abominably, his body ached, he was 
 sick with utter weariness and this last discourage 
 ment had all but broken his spirit. 
 
 She told him of the ranger station Dad Trumble 
 had said was six miles distant, and urged him to 
 renewed fight. Buoyed up by the courageous 
 hopefulness of the girl, Kent finally mustered 
 enough strength to find his feet. His head swam, 
 and one arm clung to Crete's shoulder while the 
 other grasped the saddle, Fantan the meanwhile 
 evidencing in every way possible his equine desire 
 to be helpful. 
 
Nature Takes a Hand 281 
 
 At length Kent was in the saddle, where he 
 clung giddily, and they moved off, Crete walking 
 at Fantan's side, her arm steadying the uncertain 
 rider. And frequently, during the long journey 
 down the trail, first through snow, then beneath 
 forests made doubly dark by the night, there was 
 need of the girl's assistance. Time and again, 
 were it not for the strong arm, Kent would have 
 toppled off. Time and again, were it not for her 
 cheery encouragement, he was reacly to give up, 
 craving nothing better than to lie where he might 
 fall, and thereby alleviate the aching of head 
 and body which even their careful gait made at 
 times intolerable. But Crete would not listen to 
 pleas for delay. She knew that if they rested once 
 it would be doubly hard to go on again. And 
 above all she feared that Kent might break down 
 at any minute, and tried to forestall such a possi 
 bility by keeping on the move. 
 
 While she aided him, scolded him, cajoled him 
 and, at times, actually supported him, the girl 
 trudged along beside the horse, stumbling through 
 the dark, tripping over roots and bruising her feet 
 on unseen rocks. During the last half of that 
 unforgetable journey she limped more than walked, 
 and with her free hand hung heavily to the stirrup 
 leather, seeking to lift some of the burden from her 
 poor feet. Indeed, when they found the cabin, 
 the girl was in little better shape than the man. 
 Her physical strength about gone, she was sus 
 tained by pure nerve. But never a whimper 
 
282 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 escaped her, and her companion, wrapt in his own 
 misery, guessed nothing of her suffering and the 
 exhaustion against which she fought so bravely. 
 
 It was typical of western mountain ranger 
 stations, that cabin. One small square room, with 
 log walls and shake roof, was the beginning and 
 the end of it, except for the overhung roof in front, 
 extending in a sort of covered porch for fifteen 
 feet and providing a shelter for stove wood, saddles, 
 and the like. Surrounding the building, which 
 stood in a patch of meadow land, was a neat fence 
 fashioned from lodge pole pine, and various signs 
 proclaimed Uncle Sam the owner and the serious 
 inadvisability of interfering with government 
 property. 
 
 Crete, however, had the Forestry Department 
 key given her by Dad Trumble, and even before 
 helping Kent to dismount she had opened the 
 padlock and swung the door wide. 
 
 Aided by David's flashlight she found a candle 
 and with its assistance was delighted to discover 
 that the cabin appeared reasonably well stocked. 
 A roll of blankets hung from a beam, and the bulk 
 of a gunny sack, suspended nearby out of reach of 
 rats, evidenced that at least some food was on 
 hand. Beside the little rusty iron stove in the 
 corner was a neat pile of split wood, and more, 
 she noted, lay outside beneath the shelter roof. 
 
 "All ready to set up housekeeping!" she cried 
 to David, emerging from her brief inspection. 
 
 "I'm all in." That was all he could say as he 
 
Nature Takes a Hand 283 
 
 sank into a chair fashioned from a packing case^ 
 And, in truth, he was. His last reserve of strength 
 had ebbed away, and he sat there a listless wreck, 
 his head buried in his hands and his body drooping. 
 
 Wasting no time on profitless compassion, the 
 girl cut the rope holding the bedding to the rafter, 
 and spread two of the four blankets upon the 
 boards of the single bunk. 
 
 " Now, David ! " She divested him of shoes and 
 mackinaw, "Bed's ready. " 
 
 With her arm about him, he stumbled to his 
 feet and half-laid himself, and was half-laid, upon 
 the waiting blankets. 
 
 Twenty minutes later two pots steamed on the 
 stove. She propped him up then, and poured a 
 taste of hot coffee into him, until, revived, he: 
 gladly swallowed the rest for himself. 
 
 "Ah!" he sighed sleepily, "that's the best 
 thing of the day." 
 
 "Which isn't saying much, David, when you 
 think what a day it's been. And now we'll try 
 something which won't be so pleasant." 
 
 With that she brought the pan of hot water to 
 the side of the bunk, and some strands of soft 
 muslin which had been her own undergarments a 
 few minutes since. As gently as could be, but 
 painfully at that, the amateur nurse cut away the 
 first bandages and with a soft bit of rag which had 
 been boiled she bathed the scalp. 
 
 Holding the candle close then, she had her first 
 good look at the wound for now that the hair was- 
 
284 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 cut away and the blood cleansed it was possible to 
 see its exact condition. The opening was perhaps 
 three inches long, over the right ear. It com 
 menced as a narrow cut at each end, widening at 
 the middle into an ugly trough, perhaps a quarter 
 of an inch deep extending down to the bone. The 
 lips of flesh folded back as the leaves of a book, 
 opened in the middle, turn back from the binding. 
 Bleeding had nearly stopped, but during the hours 
 since the accident the wound had stretched 
 open, and apparently might widen farther if not 
 checked. 
 
 Crete's choice lay in simply cleansing the wound 
 and waiting for help, or in playing surgeon herself 
 and closing it. Revolving the matter in her mind, 
 she realized that medical assistance might be days 
 in coming. So, tired as she was, she decided to do 
 what seemed to her the safest thing then and there, 
 if she could find something with which to work. 
 
 In ten minutes Crete had what she wanted. 
 At least, she had promising substitutes. Provi 
 dence had been kindly when it endowed the forest 
 ranger who last occupied that cabin with house 
 wifely habits. For her search revealed a couple of 
 needles stuck into the log just beside the cracked 
 mirror, and among the relics of a cigar box she 
 unearthed a couple of casting flies fastened to a 
 fine gut leader. Crete removed the flies, slit the 
 top loop from the leader and ascertained that she 
 could thread the gut through the eye of the larger 
 needle. 
 
Nature Takes a Hand 285 
 
 Locating another candle she reinforced the single 
 light, propping the two, each in the mouth of a 
 bottle, just above Kent's head. That was the 
 illumination of her operating-room. Then, with 
 much water, freshly boiled, she cleaned her hands 
 and arms scrupulously, and threaded up the 
 needle with the leader gut, after first holding 
 the needle itself in the fire flame to disinfect it. 
 The gut she passed through the boiling water. 
 
 "It's the best I can do. " She sighed to herself. 
 "It will hurt, David" . . . her voice was steady 
 enough as she explained her intention . . . "but 
 remember, like the mother spanking the little boy " 
 . . . she choked over her attempted laugh . . . 
 "it will hurt me more than it does you." 
 
 It hurt, truly enough, but he bore it bravely, 
 gripping the side of the bunk with his fingers and 
 swearing deeply now and then as the needle pricked 
 his scalp flesh and the catgut dragged through in 
 its wake. It hurt her, too every bit of it. But 
 she neither spoke nor faltered. One, two, three, 
 four stitches she took, forcing the needle through 
 the protruding edges, pulling the gut after it and 
 drawing the sides of the wound together as firmly 
 as she could. And as she worked with her face 
 hidden above his head, silent tears dropped down 
 upon the curly brown hair and even upon the very 
 wound itself. Perhaps it was those tears, she 
 thought afterward, which disinfected so well and 
 left no ill effects from the operation. 
 
 When it was over she gave her patient more hot 
 
286 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 coffee, which was all he wanted, and wrapped him 
 in the remaining blankets. The last candle was 
 gone now, and she groped her way to the door, 
 where the outer darkness showed less dark than 
 the inner jet. Fan tan, browsing in the grass, 
 heard her and whinnied softly. 
 
 "Good night, pony." 
 
 She found the saddle blanket and with it turned 
 to the cabin again. On the high threshold she 
 paused, motionless for a moment. From the di 
 rection of the bunk came the sound of easy breath 
 ing, the even respiration of comfortable sleep. 
 
 "Thank God." She spoke very quietly, her 
 whole soul in the words. Then she knelt upon 
 the threshold log and the tears which flowed down 
 her tired, stained face were tears of happiness, 
 for Crete Colt on, the schoolmistress whose ac 
 quaintance with good fortune had never ripened 
 into intimacy, somehow found a joyful satisfaction 
 in the peril, hardship, and sacrifice of this adven 
 turesome day. 
 
 The tears were still undried when she lay down 
 upon the saddle blanket, stretched on the floor 
 opposite the bunk. For pillow she had one of her 
 own saddle-bags, and for covering, her mackinaw 
 and Kent's. 
 
 When David awoke and slowly became entirely 
 conscious, the first dull light of dawn filtered 
 through the open door and single window. Look 
 ing about he recalled the events of the preceding 
 night, some of them seeming ages gone by, and 
 
Nature Takes a Hand 287 
 
 others incidents scarcely completed. His hand 
 went to his head, and he felt the bandages, just 
 as his every sense could feel the inner soreness of 
 the head itself and the bruised aching of various 
 portions of his body. 
 
 "She actually sewed it up God knows how!" 
 He said it half -aloud. And lying there the wonder 
 of the girl's courage bore in upon him, hazily like 
 a good dream. 
 
 Thinking of her he all but dozed off again, until 
 suddenly the thought struck home that something 
 had happened to her that she had left him. 
 That waked him, clearheaded, though weaker 
 than he knew. 
 
 He contrived to turn on his side, each movement 
 rousing throbs of soreness throughout his body and 
 pricks of pain in his head, and was on the point of 
 calling aloud for Crete when his eyes saw in the 
 semi-darkness on the floor a darker mass. 
 
 She lay against the opposite wall, as she had 
 slept throughout the night. Her dusty hair had 
 loosened and tumbled over the saddle-bag in 
 towsled profusion. One arm was extended at 
 length, the other lying across her breast, its hand 
 clasping in place the mackinaw covering. He 
 thought he could see, even through the gloom, 
 a look of contentment upon her features, heavy as 
 they were with sleep and exhaustion. The other 
 coat, his own, which had been over the lower por 
 tion of her body, had slipped partially aside. 
 
 As he looked, full consciousness of his surround- 
 
288 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 ings, and something more, surged up within him. 
 He saw the girl stretched with so little to shield her 
 from the hardness of the floor and the crisp chill 
 of the night. He sensed the instinctive effort for 
 protection and warmth in that arm across her 
 breast, with its hand clasping the mackinaw. 
 From that his eyes fell upon the two blankets so 
 carefully tucked in over his own body, while his 
 hands discovered two more were beneath him. 
 And she had done that ! 
 
 "You damn big cad!" he growled at himself. 
 
 He was wonderfully ashamed just then a shame 
 which actually made him quite sick and dizzy. 
 
 For a time he lay cursing himself wholesouledly. 
 After a bit the resolve swept over him to reach 
 out and take the girl's hand that hand resting 
 upon her breast, grasping the mackinaw and kiss 
 it. But before the notion took shape too definitely 
 in his hot head, he saw its folly. Yes, he wanted 
 to, truly enough . . . wanted to crush that hand 
 and tell its owner oh, so many things ; to lay all his 
 gratitude at her feet . . . wanted to do all this, 
 more, it seemed, than he had ever desired anything 
 before. 
 
 Loosening one of the blankets from around him, 
 he contrived to get from the bunk and lay it over 
 the sleeping girl. It cost a supreme physical 
 effort and sent him back in a spasm of dizziness. 
 But it was worth the price, he thought. He did 
 it with a queer sense of sacredness ... he felt 
 supremely decent. 
 
Nature Takes a Hand 289 
 
 Then he turned to the wall, and before sick-bed 
 slumber banished the pains in his head and the 
 aches in his heart David Kent rehearsed a number 
 of good resolutions. And some of them he kept. 
 19 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 AT THE RANGER'S CABIN 
 
 WHEN David again opened his eyes he was 
 alone, although the changed appearance of the 
 surroundings testified someone's early morning 
 industry. 
 
 The stove, rubbed into an approximation of 
 brightness, radiated a cheerful warmth. A pot of 
 coffee simmered, and in the open oven was visible 
 the brown top of a pan of biscuits. The floor had 
 been swept clean and a gay bunch of Indian paint 
 brush, arranged in a syrup can, decorated the 
 decrepit table. Even the cracked mirror was 
 resplendent, and the five-gallon gasolene tin, 
 extemporized into a bucket, brimmed with clear 
 water. 
 
 As the injured man noted these housewifely 
 reforms their author entered. Her eyes were 
 merry again, and her face glowed with color. The 
 dusty hair, so abandoned when he last saw it, was 
 now disciplined and piled in place. 
 
 ' ' You look as fresh as a daisy. ' ' The hackneyed 
 greeting seemed appropriate. 
 
 "Oh, I feel fine, thanks. I've just tried con- 
 290 
 
At the Ranger's Cabin 291 
 
 elusions with a little creek at the foot of the 
 meadow. " She gave a mock shiver. 
 
 "Cold?" 
 
 "Greenland's tropical in comparison. Perhaps 
 you don't remember everything that happened 
 last night, but it's only about a mile on the back 
 trail to snow. It's just as Dad Trumble predicted 
 snowing up there and rain down here. Only 
 some of the snow has lingered in that water!" 
 
 It was, in truth, raining, in a gray persistent 
 way typical of the western slopes of the Oregon 
 Cascades. Now and then the grayness would 
 gather blacker accompanying a brief downpour 
 and then relapse into intermittent drizzling. 
 Dampness dripped from the eaves and when 
 occasional lazy breezes swayed the nearby trees 
 the swish of dank foliage and spattering of dis 
 lodged water broke the sodden silence. 
 
 "No, I don't remember much about it," he 
 admitted, adding to himself, "but there are some 
 things I'll never forget." 
 
 "Well, how do you like my boarding house? 
 And how is the star boarder himself?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, it's a great place! Everything about it 
 appeals to me, from the landlady to that coffee 
 I see on the stove. ..." 
 
 "You've got the order mixed!" she corrected, 
 laughingly. "The coffee's by far the more impor 
 tant. It was a godsend. As a matter of fact, 
 we're wonderfully lucky because there's about 
 everything needed in the way of grub here, even 
 
292 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 down to baking powder. Witness" . . . she 
 poked the pan in the oven out into full view 
 . . . " they look edible, don't they?" 
 
 "Lord, yes! I'm feeling better already." 
 
 "Well enough to get up? How is the head?" 
 
 He twisted around a bit before answering, 
 gingerly testing out the problem at first hand. 
 The result wasn't altogether satisfactory. 
 
 "Taken all in all I'd say I feel like the end of 
 a misspent life . . . but at that a hundred per 
 cent, better than I did last night . . . thanks to 
 you. And say," he hesitated, " did you . . . that 
 is, I felt like an awful beast . . . after all you 
 did for me ... it ... it ..." He was flounder 
 ing, but apparently the girl was too intent upon 
 getting the biscuits out of the pan to notice. 
 "Well, look here," he finally worked himself up 
 into a similation of self-righteous anger, "it was 
 positively wrong for me . . . that is, for you 
 . . . oh, hang it! What I'm trying to say is I 
 hope you didn't catch cold ... it was a damn 
 outrage for me to hog all the blankets. " 
 
 As her back was toward him he could not see 
 her face, which was just as well. To herself she 
 said, "You didn't take the blankets, bless your 
 heart." But at the same time she was thinking 
 of the miracle whereby that blanket had found its 
 way from his shoulders to hers. 
 
 " Do you think you can get up?" That was all 
 she said aloud. 
 
 He thought he could. 
 
At the Ranger's Cabin 293 
 
 41 Well, then, you try it. Here are water and a 
 basin. I'll be back in twelve minutes and we'll 
 have breakfast. " 
 
 With that she slipped on her mackinaw and went 
 out into the soft drizzle. And in the appointed 
 time she returned, bringing an armful of spruce 
 boughs. 
 
 Kent, sore and shaky as he was, disposed of a 
 goodly amount of cornmeal mush, coffee, and 
 biscuits, and would have eaten more if Crete had 
 permitted. 
 
 " It strikes me that for an invalid there's no end 
 to your appetite," she remarked. 
 
 ' ' Why should there be ? I haven't had a thing to 
 eat, except a couple of sandwiches, for thirty-six 
 hours. I'm as empty as a vacuum cleaner, and 
 it's working now you've turned it on!" 
 
 She noted that when the meal was over 
 Kent was more than willing to get back to the 
 bunk. He tried to make a show of being "all 
 right" and taking a hand in the slight task of 
 cleaning up the tin dishes, but his knees weren't 
 steady beneath him and his head, he admitted 
 regretfully, began to spin. 
 
 "What's the idea?" 
 
 Crete had brought in another armful of spruce 
 boughs. He wondered what she meant to do, and 
 asked. Indeed, he himself had no clear notion 
 what should be done. He realized simply that 
 for the time being he was down and out, with 
 neither disposition nor ability to undertake any- 
 
294 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 thing beyond the confines of the bunk. And in 
 this condition he felt immeasurably dependent 
 upon the girl. 
 
 "The idea?" she repeated. "Why, I'm going 
 to make you comfortable . . . unless you prefer 
 bare boards to a nice mattress of boughs?" 
 
 "No indeed. But, Crete ..." he hesitated, 
 "I ... that is, it would make me feel better if 
 you'd take this bunk and . . . well, fix me up 
 somewhere else . . . that is, if we have to stick 
 around here. It's ..." 
 
 "Yes, I know . . . it's embarrassing. That's 
 what you started to say." She laid the boughs 
 down and looked at him squarely, her level blue 
 eyes frank and serious. "And from my stand 
 point, David, it could be even worse than that . . . 
 no, don't interrupt! We've done the right thing 
 and I've no regrets. But you know, and I know, 
 that it might hurt both of us, hurt us in ways that 
 can't be cured . . . if we stay up here for a day or 
 a night longer than is absolutely necessary. Oh 
 yes, that's true, and there's no harm in being sensi 
 ble about it. That's why I'm going. " 
 
 "Going?" 
 
 She had seated herself on the edge of the home 
 made " arm chair, " facing him where he lay on the 
 bunk. It was all thought out in her mind, and she 
 was ready to discuss her conclusions frankly. 
 
 "Yes, I'm going. It's the best thing to do." 
 
 "How far is it?" He sighed. Those blankets 
 seemed wonderfully comfortable and the thought of 
 
At the Ranger's Cabin 295 
 
 dragging himself along the trail, or being dragged 
 on Fantan, was anything but inviting. "Do you 
 think I can make it?" 
 
 "It's forty miles or so to the railroad, according 
 to Dad. As for your second question, I don't 
 think you can make it ... and what's more, 
 you're not going to try!" 
 
 She smiled broadly at his blank expression. 
 
 "You didn't understand. I'm going to leave 
 you here. I hate to do it ... more than you 
 know." Her voice dropped. "But David, it's 
 the only way. You couldn't possibly make the 
 journey. With one of us walking it would take 
 two days, and so far as I know there is no stopping 
 place on the trail. However, if I ride I can push 
 through quickly and then I'll send help back. 
 That wound would simply open up and all sorts 
 of complications might set in. But if you stay 
 here and rest everything will come out finely 
 and . . ." 
 
 "But couldn't you stay?" It was a small 
 boy's plaint. After all, sick men and children 
 are pretty much alike. 
 
 The blue eyes never wavered from his, but twice 
 as she started to speak she seemingly changed 
 her mind, and remained silent. 
 
 "I've told you, David"; finally she said, very 
 quietly, "I'd do anything . . . anything in the 
 world" . . . she choked a little there, and for the 
 first time the blue eyes wavered . . . "for you. 
 And David" . . . she was explaining like a 
 
296 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 mother now . . . "that wouldn't be best. I've 
 . . . why, I've been trying to think about it from 
 your standpoint, David. Don't you see? You 
 and I are up here at this cabin and . . . and . . . 
 oh, the only thing I can do is to go for help as soon 
 as possible. I don't mind for myself" . . . the 
 curious certainty of the words impressed her hearer 
 . . . "but she would." She stopped then, tears 
 very nearly in her eyes. 
 
 A growing wonderment filled him. Added to 
 what he had already sensed himself, especially 
 in that period of wakefulness at dawn, it sent a 
 curious thrill throughout him, partly of bitter self- 
 arraignment and partly the happiness of a new 
 resolve. David Kent's mind and heart suddenly 
 were wide awake. 
 
 "Valentine?" 
 
 Crete nodded. 
 
 "I don't see ... what you mean," he lied. 
 He did see, and he knew he saw. But on some 
 inexplicable impulse he sought to drag it all out 
 in torturing words. And Crete accepted the chal 
 lenge, giving better than she took. 
 
 "You know your fiance'e wouldn't like it ... 
 she'd never forgive you. She's angry enough 
 already over your interference with her father's 
 affairs, without risking anything more. " 
 
 "But, Crete," he expostulated, "my Lost Lake 
 plan has gone flooey . . . there's no more chance 
 to make trouble for Father Pennoyer, worse luck ! 
 I haven't a thing to show for my pains but this 
 
At the Ranger's Cabin 297 
 
 blame cut, and if it hadn't been for you I'd be 
 neatly buried right now up there under the slide 
 ... a just reward, the Old Man would say, for 
 messing in his affairs. And besides, you're talking 
 like a prospectus of big business. It's unbecoming 
 a lady and a settler." 
 
 The placid blue of Crete's eyes clouded. After 
 all, she was only a girl who had been doing a hero's 
 work. This bantering discussion of things which 
 cut to her very heart was too much. 
 
 "Why, Little Girl," he swung out of the bunk 
 as best he could, laying a hand on her shaking 
 shoulder, "please, please don't. You've saved 
 my life and you've nursed me like a sister and now 
 you're ..." 
 
 "I only want you to get what you want," she 
 sobbed. 
 
 "And God knows I mean to get it." He was 
 beside her now, his arm around her. Her head 
 was bent low, and he kissed the dusty hair so 
 softly she did not know it. 
 
 "Crete dear," he whispered, "don't you know 
 what I want?" 
 
 As she felt him, then, beside her, his arm strongly 
 holding her she cried softly and did not lift her 
 head. And her heart ached more than ever before. 
 
 "Crete," he said again, gently urging her to 
 look up at him, "what I want is you. I want you, 
 dear, just you, more than all the world. " 
 
 But still she was silent. Suddenly a new 
 thought dawned upon him. 
 
298 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Please, Crete, listen." He went back to the 
 bunk then, sinking down upon it, too weak to 
 stand. "I'm a rotter . . . God knows what you 
 must think of me! Only . . . well, I'm going to 
 show you I'm all right. It's . . . oh, I suppose it 
 seems unspeakable to you to have a man you 
 think is engaged turning right around and ask 
 ing you to marry him. It looks rotten ... I'm 
 ashamed . . . ashamed of the looks of it, that is 
 . . . the truth is all right and there's nothing that 
 shouldn't be." 
 
 "You are engaged, aren't you?" The question 
 came very softly. 
 
 "No, I'm not." Kent's own assurance sur 
 prised him. Not long ago he had considered, or, 
 at worst, hoped himself engaged; latterly he had 
 feared he was. "Val . . . Miss Pennoyer never 
 promised me and ..." 
 
 "But you promised her and you've been in love 
 with her. " The girl's words were not reproachful. 
 It was a level statement of fact. Her good self- 
 possession was regained. 
 
 "Look here, Crete," he tried to laugh. "I'll 
 tell you the whole thing. You've been infernally 
 square with me and I'll try to reciprocate. I was 
 in love with Valentine ... at least, I thought so, 
 I'm not now . . . and I haven't been for a long 
 time. I've blundered along, I'll admit, but I 
 never really wanted her . . . only I was too much 
 of a fool to know it or too big a coward to ad 
 mit it. I did make a bargain with Valentine; 
 
At the Ranger's Cabin 299 
 
 she put me on a sort of probation for a year 
 and I haven't made good. . . . What's more, 
 Crete, so far as that end of it is concerned, I don't 
 care now whether I ever do, only .,. . well, the 
 truth is I had set my heart on helping out with the 
 settlers. That seems so awfully worth while. " 
 
 "The Lost Lake plan came pretty near being 
 killed off, didn't it?" she put in. 
 
 "Pretty near? Why, it is killed off as dead 
 as free silver. " The thought deepened his gloom. 
 "Thanks to you and Dad, though, it almost had a 
 resurrection. You might have put it over if I 
 hadn't reappeared on the scene and messed every 
 thing up with that dynamite and the slide 
 including my addle-brained head." 
 
 "You certainly came precious near addling it," 
 she laughed. Evidence of downheartedness on 
 his part seemed a sure signal for the return of her 
 own good spirits. 
 
 "Crete, how did you get in on it?" He had 
 become increasingly curious on that score as he 
 pondered the events of the last day. "What 
 brought you up into the hills?" 
 
 She regarded him quietly for a space, pondering 
 some secret problem. 
 
 "You left a note in the safe, telling Pharaoh you 
 were going, " she said finally. 
 
 "But surely that didn't start you following 
 me into the young blizzard." His interest was 
 thoroughly aroused. "You must have known 
 about the plan to arrest me. " 
 
300 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 She nodded, the color ebbing from her face.' a 
 
 "Come, tell me," he insisted, "it's puzzled me 
 how those highwaymen got wind of it ? So far as 
 I remember Pharaoh and you and perhaps Dad 
 are the only ones who knew about my plans with 
 the Lake." 
 
 But scarcely were the words out of his mouth 
 when he recalled, as vividly as if the conversation 
 had just ended, his talk with Valentine on the 
 porch of the Company House when he had unfolded 
 all the chief details of his Lost Lake enterprise. 
 What is more, the fact that he remembered, and 
 guessed the truth, was written large upon his face. 
 And the girl before him saw and understood, as 
 thoroughly as if he had spoken aloud the bitter 
 thoughts which crowded into his brain. 
 
 "She told them?" 
 
 Crete faced him steadily, in troubled silence. 
 
 "But why should she do it?" He was not 
 completely bitter yet. That would come soon 
 enough. Crete, with the in-seeing way of a woman 
 understood that, too. And she felt curiously sorry 
 for the other girl. 
 
 1 ' It was her father you were fighting. What did 
 you expect?" 
 
 "God knows!" he replied, letting his head fall 
 back upon the blankets, so the throbbing would 
 be gentler and he could, perhaps, think out some 
 salvage from the wrecks about him. 
 
 Crete let him lie there while she worked. First 
 she made dough, and after getting the fire in the 
 
At the Ranger's Cabin 301 
 
 little stove on a substantial basis, where it neither 
 threatened to burn out the oven nor leave its 
 corners chilly, she set about baking as many 
 biscuits as the available pans would hold. Also 
 she found a sack of beans, and put a pot of them 
 to boil. Then she filled the improvised water 
 bucket and replenished the supply of firewood. 
 Lastly she arranged the provisions where Kent 
 could get them readily. 
 
 "Now, David, you'll have to try the chair 
 again. " 
 
 It was the first she had spoken in half an hour, 
 and all the time he had been lying there with his 
 face to the wall. When he had scrambled out she 
 arranged the spruce boughs, which by now were 
 dry, in the bunk, making a springy, sweet-smelling 
 mattress. And upon it she permitted her invalid 
 to climb, still glumly silent, after redressing his 
 wound. 
 
 "Now," said Crete, "Fantan and I'll migrate. 
 It's about noon, I imagine, although my watch 
 gave up the ghost last night. I've arranged every 
 thing here so you will be comfortable and have 
 plenty to eat. There's bread enough, of a sort, 
 and if you'll keep sticking wood in the stove those 
 beans will be edible by evening. And there's 
 bacon, with a pan to fry it in, and all the corn meal 
 you can eat, which only needs to be boiled. 
 There's even sugar in that bag on the table. 
 Altogether, you'll live like a king . . . and I hope 
 you'll be comfortable. " 
 
302 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 She paused for a last look around. She was 
 ready to go, and yet hesitated. 
 
 "Are you feeling all right? Is there anything 
 else I can do?" 
 
 The words were woefully inadequate. They did 
 not they dared not convey the emotion behind 
 them. 
 
 "Crete," he roused himself, "you've made me 
 so comfortable I'm positively ashamed . . .ex 
 cept, " he added ruefully, putting his hand to his 
 head, "this head-piece of mine begins to waltz as 
 soon as it's raised up a bit. " 
 
 "That's to be expected. You've had a slight 
 concussion. So long as you lie quietly it will be 
 all right, and you can get around a little without 
 hurting anything. ' ' 
 
 "That will be exciting," he grinned, or tried to 
 grin, but his face was too drawn to do it success 
 fully. "Anyway, I'll have plenty of time to think 
 what a rotten failure I've made of everything . . . 
 and to consider other matters." He was rather 
 limp now, although still half sitting up. "It's all 
 off with the settlers and my Lost Lake plan 
 and . . . " he did not say it, but his mind thought 
 it, and the girl, watching, read it aright. And that 
 unspoken thought was worded. "It's good-bye 
 to Valentine, too. " 
 
 "Amen," said Crete, almost aloud. 
 
 "Eh? What's that?" 
 
 "Nothing, David. I was just thinking you're 
 too pessimistic. Don't give up. " 
 
At the Ranger's Cabin 303 
 
 "Give up? Why shouldn't I? I'm not far 
 removed from a common failure." 
 
 There seemed little more to say, or to do. 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 The door closed behind her. 
 
 "Good-bye, dear Failure . . ." she was on Fan- 
 tan now, smiling through a mist of tears . . . 
 "dear successful Failure. " 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE TRIAL 
 
 NOT since the settlers' meeting had the hard 
 benches of the Grange Hall accommodated such an 
 audience as gathered to witness the trial of David 
 Kent, charged with the illegal destruction of 
 property. 
 
 Seemingly everyone in and about Farewell knew 
 the young Easterner had returned that morning 
 from his mysterious trip, forthwith surrendering 
 himself and demanding an immediate hearing 
 before Justice of the Peace Asahel Brush, on the 
 warrant issued for his arrest. If guilty, as charged, 
 he would be bound over to the Grand Jury, under 
 bond, and subsequently would undergo trial at 
 the next session of the Circuit Court. If innocent 
 but no one conceived such a possibility. 
 
 "We've got the goods on him sure this time," 
 growled Hart pool with satisfaction. 
 
 "It's a bygod shame, but it looks as if they'd 
 cinch him, " lamented Dad Trumble. 
 
 Thus it went throughout the improvised court 
 room. Everyone was convinced of Kent's guilt 
 . . . indeed, there was no logical possibility of 
 
 304 
 
The Trial 305 
 
 feeling otherwise, for had not Pharaoh Jones 
 admitted the identity of the nocturnal marauder 
 who had wrecked the special edition of the Pioneer? 
 And was not the editor himself to appear as a 
 witness for the prosecution? So the company 
 crowd was elated and Kent's settler friends regret 
 fully pessimistic. 
 
 Wendall, the district attorney from Round- 
 ville, was on hand. Failing had seen to that, 
 gloatingly determined to settle scores once and for 
 all with the meddlesome Easterner. A fat fine or a 
 few months in the county jail, he felt, would have 
 a wholesomely discouraging effect. The wind, 
 which had started out so ill, was; blowing well for 
 him at last. And with everything developing as 
 he wished it, the big manager seemed all smiles and 
 purring good nature as he whispered with the 
 imported attorney. 
 
 Wendall, a hard-headed, catch-as-catch-can cow 
 country prosecutor, wasted no time on prelimin 
 aries. 
 
 "Does the defendant demand a jury?" he 
 asked, as soon as old Asahel had rapped for order. 
 
 The defendant did not, to the astonishment of 
 everyone. 
 
 The problem of selecting a satisfactory jury 
 had been the only fly in the ointment of Failing's 
 oily satisfaction. He foresaw a fight there and had 
 already prepared lists of "ineligibles" for Wen 
 dall 's guidance and coached the prosecutor as to 
 whom should be avoided. So when the prisoner 
 
306 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 waived his right for jury trial the manager's cup 
 of content fairly brimmed over. Things certainly 
 were coming his way. Thinking that, he passed 
 an excellent cigar to Wendall and lit one himself. 
 
 There was another ripple of surprise when it 
 became apparent that Kent had no attorney. 
 Evidently he intended to handle his own case, and 
 seeing that the wise ones who knew WendalTs 
 abilities shook their heads sorrowfully. 
 
 "Why, is he a lawyer?" a rangy settler whis 
 pered hoarsely in Dad Trumble's ear. 
 
 "Nary a bit!" growled that staunch friend in 
 reply, his voice laden with anxious disapproval. 
 "It's a plumb mistake, too. Dave's a bright lad, 
 but he's no match for that bygod persecutor. " 
 
 Dad's feelings were echoed throughout the hall. 
 Even Crete wondered at these developments, 
 regretfully; she expected that Kent would lose, 
 but she also expected him to make a fight for free 
 dom. But most curious of all was the aspect of 
 Pharaoh, who seemed not the least cast down at 
 Kent's apparent apathy; in truth, the usually 
 somber editor appeared positively to twinkle with 
 ill-suppressed gaiety and anticipation. 
 
 The prosecuting attorney stated the charge 
 and outlined the main facts of the case, as alleged 
 by the prosecution. 
 
 "Guilty or not guilty?" asked the justice of the 
 peace. 
 
 Kent rose, then, with his boyish smile. But his 
 face showed pale beneath the piratical looking 
 
The Trial 307 
 
 bandage which cross-sectioned his head with a 
 rakish halo. The wound had left him weak. 
 
 "Guilty as charged" ... an audible and re 
 gretful sigh escaped the audience . . . "and not 
 guilty of any crime I ' ' 
 
 Wendall was on his feet in a flash. 
 
 "I object!" he shouted, scenting a play for 
 sympathy. "Your Honor, the defendant can't 
 plead both guilty and not guilty ... it's impossi 
 ble . . . there's no authority in law for it. . . ." 
 
 "And there's no authority anywhere for arrest 
 ing an innocent man, " shot back Kent. 
 
 "Innocent?" The prosecutor was politely fa 
 cetious. "You just plead guilty. Your Honor, " 
 he turned to Asahel with a depreciating shrug, 
 "there's no use wasting the court's valuable time 
 with this foolishness. ... I suggest the young 
 gentleman secures an attorney familiar with legal 
 procedure to represent him. " 
 
 "One lawyer in the room is all I can stand, " the 
 prisoner retorted grinning impertinently, and a 
 gust of approving titters swept the benches. 
 
 Old Asahel pounded the hammer which did duty 
 as a gavel ; the feeling of authority was reassuring. 
 
 "Guilty or not guilty?" He took refuge in 
 repetition. 
 
 "I'm guilty of wrecking the forms in the print 
 shop. ... I did that all right, only ..." 
 
 1 ' I object ! ' ' roared Wendall again. ' ' He pleads 
 guilty. There's nothing else to it ... no 'ifV 
 and 'and's' about it." 
 
308 -The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 "Exactly," breathed Failing. 
 
 "Oh, aren't there?" Kent's eyes flashed this 
 time. "And who imported you?" 
 
 "As district attorney it's my duty," replied 
 Wendall with dignity, "to prosecute malefactors. " 
 
 "Fair enough! But I'm not a malefactor and 
 just remember that before we get through you'll 
 be prosecuting someone else. " 
 
 However, the informality of these proceedings 
 were here interrupted by Asahel, and the trial got 
 under way. Kent, seeing it all was regular and 
 unavoidable and with next to no ideas himself 
 about legal maneuvering, subsided temporarily, 
 with an amused expression disconcerting to the 
 prosecutor every time his eyes encountered the 
 prisoner's. 
 
 First came Failing, who told of stumbling over 
 the editor in the shop where he had fainted after 
 discovering the wreckage. He also described find 
 ing the envelope addressed to Kent and gave fur 
 ther information tending to establish the prisoner's 
 hostility to the Bonanza Irrigation Company. 
 
 Through this recital the accused sat in bored 
 apathy, but at the end of it, when Wendall was 
 on the point of calling another witness, he roused 
 himself. 
 
 "I object!" His excellent imitation of the 
 prosecutor brought a smile. "As my own attor 
 ney I've a right to do that, haven't I ? " 
 
 With elaborate deference he turned to Wendall, 
 who nodded sourly. 
 
The Trial 309 
 
 ' 'Well, your Honor, I'm like the district 
 attorney here ... I object to wasting time. 
 There's no good reason to drag this out all after 
 noon . . . lawyers don't even get paid by the 
 hour, I'm advised. If it isn't enough for me to 
 plead guilty why not call Pharaoh Jones and be 
 done with it ... he'll swear I did it ... he saw 
 me. I've no witnesses to call . . . only a little 
 statement to make when my legal friend over there 
 has shot his wad. " 
 
 But again it appeared that Kent was out of 
 order. His plea could come at the last, after such 
 cross examination as he cared to make. And in 
 the meantime Wendall proceeded with examin 
 ation of his witnesses. It was perfunctory and 
 hurried, however, for now he was entirely certain 
 that the case was won and the prisoner convicted ; 
 anything else was palpably impossible. Crete, 
 Pharaoh, Miranda, and Frost, the stable man, all 
 contributed their damning quota. Miss Pennoyer 
 alone was absent. The only possible flaw was the 
 non-appearance of that envelope addressed to 
 Kent which Failing said he had found. 
 
 "Now, Asahel that is, your Honor," Kent 
 rose when the testimony was all heard and Wendall 
 had refastened the guilt upon him with logical 
 and scathing completeness, winding up with the 
 demand that he be bound over to the Grand Jury. 
 "Is it in order for me to ... ahem . . . say a 
 few well-chosen words?" 
 
 The J. P. nodded. But he knew it could make 
 
310 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 no difference ; there was nothing for him to do but 
 sustain the charge. 
 
 ''Thanks. I'm no attorney, as my friend has 
 insinuated, but I'll try to make a sort of plea. Per 
 haps throwing myself on the mercy of the court is 
 the legal way to put it ... anyhow, it's by way of 
 setting forth an extenuating circumstance. " 
 
 Failing was smiling at him in an insulting, mock 
 ing way, and he saw it. 
 
 "First, I desire to put a question to the honor 
 able district attorney. " 
 
 Wendall, with a patronizing smirk, signified his 
 willingness to answer. 
 
 "Is it a crime for a man to destroy his own 
 property?" 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "A simple question. " The prisoner cleared his 
 throat, smiling sweetly. "Suppose I own a build 
 ing and I take a notion to wreck its contents, every 
 bit of which belongs to me would that be illegal ? " 
 
 "Certainly not!" the attorney snapped con 
 temptuously, not in the least foreseeing what 
 would follow. 
 
 "Well then, your Honor and friends of Fare 
 well" ... he turned to the audience, and especi 
 ally to James Failing . . . "it's exactly as I tried 
 to say at the start when they choked me off. 
 I did just as they said I did broke up those 
 forms in the Pioneer shop . . . only it wasn't 
 illegal . . . because I own the Pioneer i " 
 
 "Jumpin' Jemima!" Dad Trumble first broke 
 
The Trial 311 
 
 the silence, his delighted whoop echoing like an 
 Apache yell. "If that ain't the bygodest 
 
 But the observation was swallowed in the deluge 
 of cheers, handclapping, and hoots which rocked the 
 hall as comprehension of Kent's statement spread. 
 
 Before the first joyous uproar had subsided the 
 prisoner himself was thrusting into the hands of the 
 district attorney documentary proof of his owner 
 ship, in the shape of a bill of sale duly signed by 
 Pharaoh and dated the day of the alleged crime. 
 
 "And here, " chortled Pharaoh, "is the check he 
 gave me that morning. " 
 
 As Wendall, amazed and disgusted, mechanic 
 ally fingered these proofs positive, James Failing 
 elbowed into the group, his eyes red with anger. 
 
 ' ' It's a bogus sale ... a forgery, ' ' he sputtered. 
 "No money passed . . . don't you see, it's just a 
 fake framed up to clear himP'V;, 
 
 "Your trouble, Failing, is you've gone lame 
 above the shoulders," retorted Kent. "And 
 you're a rotten loser. It wouldn't have mattered 
 if Pharaoh never cashed my check. What counts 
 is that he gave me the bill of sale, for value received, 
 and you know it. I've been the legal owner of the 
 Pioneer since noon that day and so far as you or 
 your district attorney are concerned I could have 
 hammered the whole works into a pulp that night 
 and you couldn't do a thing to me. You didn't 
 own that special edition. You were simply going 
 to pay for it when delivered, and you never turned 
 over a cent." 
 
312 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 He laughed full in Failing's face, and it was not 
 a^pleasant boyish laugh. 
 
 "I just babied you along with this trial to show 
 you up good and proper, and I think I've done it. 
 You started out to 'get ' me, Mr. Manager, and in 
 stead I reckon you've got yourself into a merry 
 little mess. Probably the next legal work I under 
 take will be an action against someone for hav 
 ing me arrested without cause. " He turned to the 
 district attorney. "There's a case for damages, 
 isn't there?" 
 
 Wendall was too old a hand to cry over spilled 
 milk. So he grinned good-naturedly and nodded. 
 
 "I shouldn't be surprised, Mr. Kent. Anyway, 
 I believe it's safer to be on your side than against 
 you!" 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 WELCOME WATER 
 
 ? 
 
 "As trials go, that's an epic, " observed Pharaoh 
 as they made their triumphant exit. 
 
 " Short, sweet, and to the point, anyway, " Kent 
 agreed. 
 
 "But when you get right down to cases," con 
 tinued the jubilant editor, "what's actually the 
 most remarkable feature of the whole business is 
 that I managed to keep mum so long its the only 
 real secret I ever had from Miranda." 
 
 "You'd better hurry and make up with her, 
 then." 
 
 Despite his attempted jocularity the ex-prisoner 
 and new owner of the Pioneer seemed dull and 
 preoccupied. The altogether satisfying outcome 
 of the trial, even, had left him inexplicably 
 somber. 
 
 "You're looking a mite funeraly, Dave. If I'd 
 put over what you've just done I'd be tickled to 
 death." Pharaoh laid his hand on the young 
 man's shoulder. "Nothing wrong, is there?" 
 
 Their feet had turned toward the river and they 
 found themselves now on the lawn before the 
 
 3*3 
 
314 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Company House. Half consciously Kent noted 
 the untidy brown covering of new-fallen needles 
 littering the grass, realizing that the house itself 
 was closed for the winter. That Valentine had 
 gone he already knew, but the deserted barrenness 
 of the place, where he had last seen the girl and 
 where he had told her his plans only to have the 
 confidence abused, depressed him further. The 
 dull misery of those recollections started his head 
 aching again and realizing anew how weak the 
 wound and the shock of it had left him, he gladly 
 rested upon the steps of the deserted porch. 
 
 "Yes, Fair, there's plenty wrong. I'm glad you 
 urged me to come in ta get that fool warrant out of 
 the way before I went East the trial was worth 
 the trip. I'll never forget the look on Failing's 
 face ! That helped, all right, but taken all in all he 
 is the one who comes out on top of the heap . . . 
 I'm done. " 
 
 "Goodness me! That sounds mournful." It 
 was the quiet voice of Crete Colton. 
 
 "Anyway, congratulations!" she hurried on, 
 happily. "Everyone but your friend Mr. Failing 
 is talking about the trial what he says can't 
 be repeated! Really, you're a lot better lawyer 
 than you are dynamiter. " 
 
 He thanked her, and the smile which lit his face 
 made it for the moment genuinely carefree. 
 
 "But tell me" . . . she glanced over her shoul 
 der in mock apprehension . . . "did you really 
 intend Pharaoh to cash that check . . and are 
 
Welcome Water 315 
 
 you going to become a law-abiding newspaper 
 man?" 
 
 "That I refuse to answer ... on advice of 
 counsel." 
 
 "And being your own attorney of course it's 
 good advice ... at least, easy to take ! Anyway, 
 I'll not press the question, and like a good girl 111 
 run along now. ... I'm going over to congratu 
 late Miranda upon having such a discreet hus 
 band, " she added, mischievously. 
 
 "Oh! goodness, please . . . that is ..." the 
 editor's words tangled. Above all things he 
 wished to break the news to Miranda himself. 
 
 "You see the duplicity of the man!" David 
 laughed. "He actually fears you'll make trouble 
 for him with his wife. Pharaoh, take my advice 
 and get to Miranda as quickly as you can. In the 
 meanwhile I'll detain this telltale until you've had 
 a chance to square yourself . . . that is, if she'll 
 stay. Will you?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly," answered Crete. 
 
 When the lean figure of the editor had shuffled 
 off across the lawn beyond earshot, the girl, set 
 tling herself on the steps below David, said to 
 him, without turning her head : 
 
 "Quitting again?" 
 
 Silence for a moment. He recalled how once 
 before she had encountered him on the point of 
 abandoning Farewell. That time he wavered only 
 momentarily. But now everything was different. 
 There was no incentive to push on. Before, he 
 
316 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 had expected to win Valentine over, at least to a 
 realization of the justice of the settlers' cause; and 
 now Valentine was gone, contemptuous of Farewell 
 and of himself. Before, he was buoyed up by the 
 hopeful expectation of solving all the irrigation 
 problems through his plan for capturing the 
 waters of Lost Lake, a remedy overlooked by the 
 engineers themselves with the unimaginative nar 
 rowness so often typical of technical men; and 
 now, thanks to a blizzard, a warrant, and a dyna 
 mite-thrown rock, his scheme had come to melo 
 dramatic ruin. Failing, no doubt, was already 
 in possession of those water rights . . . had them, 
 indeed, because the girl for whom he undertook it 
 all had betrayed him. 
 
 "Quitting again?" This other girl's question 
 sounded in his ear, as he gazed forlornly out over 
 the gray water of Welcome River that chill October 
 afternoon. 
 
 "No, not again . . . still." 
 
 He tried to be jocular, succeeding miserably. 
 Then he recalled that on that other occasion, at 
 the Pioneer office, when Crete had reproached his 
 ebbing resolution, she herself had finally an 
 nounced her intention of quitting Farewell. 
 
 "Why so sad, David? Now that it's all over 
 . . . that awful time up in the mountains, I'm so" 
 . . . she faltered . . . "so happy." Despite the 
 wistfulness of her voice the whole look and spirit 
 of her was radiant. "And it's so good to get back 
 to Farewell. ... Of course, if what you are go- 
 
Welcome Water 317 
 
 ing to do is a secret ..." she sighed whimsi 
 cally and stopped, her eyes, too, studying the 
 steely-cold waters swirling so steadily on their 
 everlasting way. 
 
 Secret? An unreasonable desire surged within 
 him to blurt out that he could have no secrets from 
 her. Memories of the ranger cabin smote him 
 sweetly, and fresh realization of his heart's awaken 
 ing there. But all that was over. He was deter 
 mined to put that behind him. . . . 
 
 "It's no secret, Crete." He found his voice, 
 but it was lifeless and dull. "It's just that I'm 
 through. I'm going back East . . . there's noth 
 ing to stay for now. " 
 
 She caught her breath at that and all the glad 
 ness left her. "Nothing to stay for now. " What 
 a phrase! Each word cut into her heart and her 
 happiness as her lips soundlessly repeated them. 
 She had hoped oh, how wildly she had dared 
 hope! And how foolishly. Valentine was gone 
 . . . gone to that "Back East" where David was 
 now to follow. . . . And that, a cool, comfortless 
 voice within her argued, was to be expected. 
 Curiously little resentment embittered this sub 
 conscious realization; there was no effort, for in 
 stance, to justify David's protestations at the 
 cabin that the other girl meant nothing further to 
 him. The deep sad hurt of it all was glossed over, at 
 least, by the good unselfish generosity of her spirit. 
 
 But what was the man saying? What, at least, 
 was he trying to say, for the words came painfully 
 
318 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 slow, weighted with their own inadequacy to ex 
 press the intangible things within him. 
 
 "It's hard to quit ... to leave Farewell." 
 The words dragged out of him in colorless proces 
 sion, as if he were arguing, sullenly, with himself. 
 His body was sick and weary and his hope and en 
 thusiasm dead. "I came here for a purpose . . . 
 you know about that . . . rainbow chasing, I sup 
 pose. And just as I had my hands on the pot of gold 
 it all melted away . . . at least" . . . he realized 
 that was not the truth of it . . . "at least I found 
 that instead of the expected gold it was only dross 
 . . . and I didn't want it." 
 
 She drew in her breath there, sharply. But the 
 square little shoulders and the crown of dusty hair 
 remained firm and motionless. 
 
 "It's all just as I tried to say to you in the cabin 
 that morning when . . . when the blinders fell 
 from my eyes. I didn't care and I really never 
 cared for ... for ... well, there's no need for 
 names. That's all over. But I had somehow 
 come to care tremendously about this fight here at 
 Farewell, and the way out of it all . . . the way to 
 justice and happiness for these poor people seemed 
 so easy ... so attainable ..." He paused 
 there, rubbing his brow as one banishes memories 
 of unpleasant dreams. "It's just that I didn't 
 quite make good, Crete. So I'm quitting, as you 
 are quitting, too. " 
 
 "I'm quitting too?" She echoed the words 
 wonderingly. "Why, what do you mean?" 
 
Welcome Water 319 
 
 He looked down on her, hungering to lay his 
 hands upon the dusty hair. 
 
 "You told us you'd accepted that teaching job 
 in Seattle. I supposed" . . . some new thought 
 roused him there . . . "I supposed you were leav 
 ing Farewell. . . . Aren't you?" 
 
 Had the girl turned to give her answer she 
 would have seen, and perhaps comprehended, the 
 sudden light which transformed the pale features of 
 the young man who was leaving Farewell. 
 
 But Crete did not turn. Instead, her eyes were 
 very intent upon the leaden waters of Welcome 
 River, and the point where they focused lay just 
 at the water's edge on the opposite bank where a 
 smooth, coiling eddy lapped the flank of a great, 
 straight-sided stone rising sheer from the river's 
 depths. The girl's attention, idly roaming, had 
 unconsciously fastened upon this rock until sud 
 denly the phenomenon of the water's steady rise 
 along its surface roused her. At first she sus 
 pected her eyes of playing a trick, and she rubbed 
 them and fixed her gaze with redoubled concen 
 tration upon the telltale rock. . . . Assuredly 
 there was no illusion; the surface of Welcome 
 River was steadily rising. She focused hard 
 upon a tuft of moss which showed exactly at the 
 water's edge, and as she looked the moss dis 
 appeared. In like manner a dark crack, which had 
 been several inches above the surface, slowly was 
 swallowed. 
 
 ''David! Look!" 
 
320 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 She pointed, but he did not comprehend. 
 
 "Don't you see? . . . The river is rising." 
 
 Even then he did not grasp the meaning of it, 
 until she had shown him how, inch by inch, old 
 Welcome River, whose flow had never been known. 
 to vary, was suddenly and mysteriously gathering 
 volume. 
 
 ' ' It's Lost Lake ! The outlet you dammed with 
 your avalanche has backed up and overflowed to 
 the east, just as you said it would. It must have 
 taken days to fill the lake to the new level and a 
 long time, too, for the water to find its way down 
 the old stream bed to Little Lake and Welcome 
 River . . . and it's just got here . . . just in time 
 to welcome you back. " 
 
 Crete was almost hysterical with joy. She 
 laughed and cried all at the same time, while the 
 man wondered at her. He could not understand. 
 
 Nor could the girl comprehend him. The* com 
 ing of that water from Lost Lake, a thing of his 
 own accomplishment, seemed to mean nothing to 
 him. He appeared almost sullenly indifferent. 
 
 "Why, David" . . . the happy tears adorably 
 became her . . . "your plan worked. It's the 
 key to it all ... and we win ! " 
 
 "We win?" he repeated numbly. 
 
 "Just exactly that. " She wanted to kiss him, 
 he looked so dejected and for other reasons. 
 ' ' There'll be enough water now for the South Canal 
 segregation. " 
 
 "Yep." He was blunt, almost savage. "That's 
 
Welcome Water 321 
 
 fine for Failing. I hope to God it helps the 
 settlers. " 
 
 "But David . . ." she paused, open mouthed. 
 
 All at once she understood. He did not know! 
 He had not even guessed the accomplishment 
 which made her so happy and so sure of success! 
 As that realization dawned, her happiness surged 
 up with a consuming flame which lit her cheeks and 
 made her heart sing. He did not know ; he thought 
 himself beaten. And it was for her to tell him, 
 to explain that defeat was really victory. 
 
 "But David, it isn't Failing's. Your filing on 
 the overflow of Lost Lake has been accepted . . . 
 it's yours. Oh! David, don't you see what a 
 glorious success your plan has been and . . . 
 and ..." she dared not end that sentence. 
 
 "My . . . filing . . . has . . . been ... ac 
 cepted?" he gasped. "How . . . what the dev 
 say, Crete, don't joke with me. " He was stern, 
 even in his bewilderment. "Why, I didn't even 
 make a filing." 
 
 "Of course you didn't!" The girl laughed 
 outright at his puzzled expression. "I did the 
 filing for you." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 "Yes. Little me. After leaving you at the 
 cabin I made up my mind it simply wouldn't do to 
 let you lose out . . . you seemed so pathetically 
 down on your luck ... it must have been pity. " 
 Her eyes twinkled. "Also, I'd a little plan of my 
 own which your resurrection had sidetracked. So 
 
322 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 Fantan and I hurried through to the railroad. 
 Things came out beautifully ... I just caught 
 the morning train. " 
 
 "Good Lord! You don't mean to say you rode 
 all night?" 
 
 "Of course. At that we had exactly twenty 
 minutes to spare for the seven o'clock train to 
 Salem. It wasn't so bad," she reassured him 
 lightly. "Whenever I was nearly ready to fag 
 out something would make me think about the 
 Sorensons when their crops burned up for lack of 
 water last summer, or I'd see Callier making his 
 filing just ahead of me . . . and that would brace 
 me up and we'd keep on plugging along that end 
 less old trail. " 
 
 As she recounted her experiences, Kent, too, 
 summoned up a mental picture. He could see the 
 weary girl urging on the little horse through the 
 black night, with the rain beating down upon them 
 and the inky shadows of the fir trees engulfing them 
 as they wallowed through mudholes and made 
 stumbling detours around fallen logs, while the 
 dank underbrush slapped in their faces, soaking 
 with pent-up moisture. And he thought, also, of 
 what preceded this experience. Of the hardships 
 and strain she had undergone ; of the heart-breaking 
 struggle when she dragged him from the path of the 
 landslide; of the foot-sore weary way down to the 
 cabin; and of the midnight operation, when she 
 sewed up his wound. And on top of all that, while 
 he himself lay there in the cabin in the comfort she 
 
Welcome Water 323 
 
 had provided, miserably abandoning the battle, 
 this self-contained, steady-eyed girl had set out 
 alone to snatch victory from defeat. 
 
 She told him, then, the details of that venture 
 some journey down the long stretches of the Ringo 
 Trail and of how she had found the rangers who 
 subsequently brought him out to the railroad, 
 whence he went to Portland and later, at Pha 
 raoh's urging, to Farewell. And as Crete pro 
 gressed with her story, proud and happy to tell it, 
 the grayness of the waning afternoon seemed to 
 lighten. 
 
 " At Salem, " she wound up, "I intended to make 
 my own filing, thinking that no one but the person 
 who did the actual posting of the notice at the 
 water right location could file. But they told me 
 that isn't true. If there is an affidavit by someone 
 who actually saw the posting done they'll accept 
 the filing of an absentee. As I saw you post your 
 notice I made the necessary affidavit, and your 
 own filing, giving one David Kent the exclusive 
 control of the overflow of Lost Lake, was received 
 and receipted for. And here's the receipt. " 
 
 A little out of breath she stopped to fumble in 
 her skirt pocket for the precious paper. Holding it 
 out to David she added, with a malicious twinkle : 
 "And if you're going back East please turn it over 
 to me ... / intend to stick by Farewell and 
 fight things out to a finish. " 
 
 ''What's that?" This seemed to astonish the 
 young man even more than the news of the 
 
324 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 successful filing. "Why, you said you were going 
 to Seattle." 
 
 "And I was going . . . only remember, women 
 are forever changing their minds. The very min 
 ute I had that receipt and knew the company 
 crowd was beaten, mine changed. To go now 
 would be like leaving a play at the end of the second 
 act. No sir! I want my money's worth. " 
 
 "So you foresee a happy ending?" That took 
 him back to himself. For the settlers, act three, 
 as she put it, might well be Utopian, but for him 
 self he could see no very joyous outcome. 
 
 "Why not? As Dad would say, the rest is 
 simple as shooting fish. With that extra water in 
 Welcome River, and the right to it exclusively 
 yours, it's impossible for the company not to 
 accept any terms you lay down." 
 
 "Yes, it could be worked out readily enough." 
 But he said it wearily. "There wouldn't even 
 need be any State investigation, for there's ample 
 water now for all hands. No need to drag Pen- 
 noyer in ..." 
 
 "But he doesn't know anything about it. " 
 
 "Who ..." A memory of what he had seen 
 at the Horse Cave checked him there, and his 
 spirits sank still further. Likely enough Pennoyer 
 did not know about the crooked fiowage report. 
 But Failing did. And what of her and the man 
 ager? He had almost forgotten that. 
 
 "Crete." He sounded very far away. "Fail 
 ing knows. He is in it all. Once . . . last sum- 
 
Welcome Water 325 
 
 mer, at the Horse Cave, I blundered on you . . . 
 and him. I couldn't help hearing and seeing 
 a little. I'm sorry. I couldn't understand. 
 Crete" ... he paused, seeking words to express 
 the hunger that was in him . . . "you've awak 
 ened me as no one ever did before and . . . and, 
 Crete, I love you . . . desperately. No, don't 
 speak . . . perhaps I should not, but give me 
 a chance. I understand ... at least I try to. 
 I'm not going to ask you again. I know what 
 you may have thought that time, up at the 
 ranger cabin . . . but it's all over there. She 
 never cared for me . . . God knows how well she 
 showed it! I've come to think that kind the 
 pampered butterflies don't know what love and 
 loyalty and . . ." he checked there, but his eyes 
 showed his belief that the girl before him did 
 understand these things as he would have them 
 understood. "Crete, you know I'm sincere . . . 
 you know that this time I know. " 
 
 She sat ever so still on the step below him. 
 Her head was low, now, and she was sobbing. 
 But her heart was glad. She did know. 
 
 "If you really love someone else I'll ... I'll 
 never speak another word like this. If it's 
 Failing ..." 
 
 Then she saw, and the realization left her 
 breathless. She wanted to cry out, to laugh. 
 
 "Shall I quit now, once and for all just as I 
 determined to do half an hour ago? That will 
 make it easier for Failing. " He was relentless. 
 
326 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 She turned her face up to him, then, her eyes 
 starry through their tears. 
 
 "No, no! Don't give up. Stay and make 
 them do what's right. . . . I'll be so proud. " At 
 that she broke down, burying her head in her arm, 
 so that the next words, wrung from the very depths 
 of her, were scarcely audible. 
 
 "I hate Jim Failing! It was just . . . just 
 loneliness and . . . and the bigness of him. I 
 guess I was flattered and let him make love to me 
 ... a little. But that Sunday in the Cave . . . 
 that was the only time ... it ended there. " 
 
 1 ' You love someone else, then ? ' ' His voice was 
 level, laden with torment. 
 
 "Yes . . . I love . . . someone else. " 
 
 Why, why was he so blind ? 
 
 The Bishop! In a flash the thought struck 
 him. And why not? Where could there be a 
 finer or a fitter man? Despite his heartache he 
 was glad, or tried to be. 
 
 There was silence then, he looking out to the 
 river with eyes that did not see, across the sturdy 
 little shoulders and the golden dusty hair. 
 
 "I hope ... I hope you'll stay . . . and 
 help." 
 
 She said it carefully, as if she had thought out- 
 the words in advance, and dared not trust extem 
 porizing. 
 
 He shook himself. 
 
 "I will." Wording that resolution seemed to 
 lift a great weight from him. "I'll stay, if you 
 
Welcome Water 327 
 
 will. Is it a bargain?" He was standing before 
 her now, holding out his hand. "Shake. " 
 
 Crete, seeing the look of renewed resolve, gloried 
 in it. There was sweetness in knowing that she 
 had kindled it, at least, even if he could not compre 
 hend what was in her heart. And her right hand 
 clasped his, manfully, sealing their bargain. 
 
 "Mother of Moses!" he ejaculated wonderingly, 
 more to himself than aloud, and retaining that 
 small, strong brown hand. "What a girl you are 
 . . . and what a stupid fool I've been. " 
 
 Then the man's fingers tightened and this time 
 the tears were in his eyes as he looked down at her. 
 And the question he asked seemed to her extra 
 ordinary beyond understanding. 
 
 "Are you certain you love the Bishop?" 
 
 What did he mean ? Her mystification was com 
 plete. Amazed, she stared at him, wordless. And 
 her hand still lay in his. 
 
 "What . . . what do you mean?" Finally 
 she could speak. 
 
 "Just what I say. " The lines of his face were 
 drawn. "You said you didn't love Failing . . . 
 but that you loved someone else. " 
 
 "Well?" It was the merest whisper. He 
 failed to see the sudden dancing light which suf 
 fused the blue eyes, because they were lowered. 
 
 "It sort of came over me that it must be the 
 Bishop . . . and . . . and I'm glad for your sake 
 because . . . he's a very fine fellow," he ended 
 lamely, and tragically. 
 
328 The Smiting of the Rock 
 
 I 
 
 " David, " she was making not the slightest 
 effort to disengage her hand, and the blue eyes 
 wavered up to his, "it wasn't the Bishop. " 
 
 The dusty-golden crown swayed nearer him. 
 
 "It was ... it is ..." 
 
 Crete never completed that sentence. 
 
 THE END