which was somewhat savage. He showed it in his nervous, impatient movements, in the manner in which he smoked. Jim had seen it at once, and understood. And he, too, was troubled.
They had been silent some time, and eventually it was Jim who spoke.
“Come on, lad. Let’s have it out,” he said, decidedly.
His voice was full and strong, and kindly.
The other stirred, but did not reply.
“This is your busy time, Will,” Jim went on. “You didn’t come away from those hills yonder to pass the time of day with me. You came because something wouldn’t let you rest. I know you, boy; I know you. Something’s troubling that mind of yours in a way that makes it hard for you to speak, even now you’re here. Shall I try and begin it for you?”
20
There was infinite kindness in the man’s tone. There was a smile in his eyes that might well have drawn a responsive smile from even an angry child.
Will removed his pipe, but the responsive smile was not forthcoming.
“I’ll open out, Jim,” he said coldly.
The other waited. The smoke of their pipes rolled up on the still, warm air of the room, upsetting the calculations of a few mischievously busy mosquitoes. The sun shone in through the doorway. The ranch was quiet now. All the “hands” had departed to their work, and only the occasional lowing of a solitary milch cow in one of the corrals, and the trampling feet of the horses waiting to be “broken,” and the “yeps” of a few mouching dogs, afforded any sign of life outside in the ranch yards.
Jim began to grow restive.
“Well, boy: I’ve some ‘breaking’ to do. Maybe you’ll come along. You can talk as we go.”
He half rose, but Will sat up in a moment.
“Not yet, Jim,” he said, almost roughly. Then his tone changed in a way through which his mercurial disposition spoke. “Look here,” he went on, “whatever happens in the future, I’d like you to understand that all you’ve done for me in the past counts for something.”
“Then it’s real serious, lad?” Jim smiled back at him. But he failed to catch his eye. Then he, too, changed his manner, and there was a sudden coolness in it. “You needn’t recite,” he said. “Anything I’ve done has been a––a pleasure to me. Our ways have lain a bit apart for some months, but it makes no difference to my feelings, except to make me regret it. The fortunes of 21 war, eh? And a fair bit of grist is rolling into our separate mills. Honest grist. We’re good friends, lad––so let’s have it. It’s––it’s a woman?”
At the mention of the word, “woman,” Will seemed to utterly freeze up.
“Yes, it’s––a woman,” he said frigidly.
“Eve Marsham?”
“Yes.”
Jim sighed. He knew there were breakers ahead. Breakers which must be faced, and faced sternly.
“You love her?” There was a dryness in his throat.
“Yes. I––I can’t live without her. She is my whole world. She is more than that. God! How I love her!”
“I love her, too.”
Jim’s darkly brilliant eyes were on the younger man’s face. They compelled his gaze, and the two men looked long at each other, vainly trying to penetrate to that which lay behind. It was Will who turned away at last.
“I knew it,” he said, and there was no longer any pretense of cordiality in his tone.
“Well?”
“Well?”
It was a tense moment for both men; and tremendous in its possibilities. There was no shrinking in either now; no yielding. But, as it ever was, Jim took the lead after a few moments’ silence.
“And––does she love you?” he asked slowly.
His words were little above a whisper, but so tense was his feeling that his voice seemed to cut through the still air of the room. Will hesitated before replying. Perhaps he was reckoning up Jim’s chances as compared with his 22 own. Finally, he was reluctantly compelled to make an admission.
“I don’t know––yet.”
The other sighed audibly. Then he mechanically began to refill his pipe. He wanted to speak, but there seemed to be nothing adequate to say. Two men, virile, thrilling with the ripe, red blood of perfect manhood, friends, and––a woman stood between them.
“It’s no good,” Jim said, preparing to light his pipe. “The position is––impossible.”
“Yes.”
Now both pipes were smoking as under a forced draught.
“I’d give my life for her,” the elder muttered, almost unconsciously.
Will caught at his words.
“My life is hers,” he cried, almost defiantly.
They were no further on.
“Can you––suggest–––?”
Will shook his head. The snow on the distant peaks glistened like diamonds in the gorgeous sunlight, and his attention seemed riveted upon it.
“What pay are you making, Will?” Jim inquired presently.
“Eighty dollars a month––why?”
“Ten more than me.” Jim laughed harshly. “You’re the better match. You’re younger, too.”
“She’s got a wad of her own. A thousand dollars,” added Will.
His remark was unpleasing, and Jim’s eyes grew colder.
“That don’t cut any figure. That’s hers,” he said sharply.
23
“But––it’s useful–––”
“To her––maybe.”
The flow of their talk dried up again. They could make no headway in clearing up their dilemma. To Jim each passing moment was making things harder; with each passing moment their friendship was straining under the pressure. Suddenly a thought flashed through his brain. It was a light of hope, where, before, all had been darkness.
“I haven’t asked her yet,” he said. “And you––you haven’t?”
“No.”
“Say, we’re sailing an uncharted sea, and––there’s a fog.”
It was a reluctant
