It was nearly midnight when Edgar returned from the settlement and saw, to his surprise, lights still burning in the homestead.  Entering the living-room, he found Grierson sitting there with Jake, and it struck him that they looked uneasy.

“What’s keeping you up?” he asked.

“I thought I’d wait for the boss,” said the Canadian.  “He went over to Grant’s after supper, and he’s not come back.”

“That’s curious.  He said nothing about going.”

“A note came by the mail.  It’s lying yonder.”

Edgar picked it up and brought it near the lamp.  The paper was good and printed with Grant’s postal address, which was lengthy.

“I figured I’d go and meet him,” Jake resumed, “Took the shot-gun and rode through the bluff.  Didn’t see anything of him, and it struck me Grant might have kept him all night, as it was getting late.  He’s stayed there before.”

Edgar examined the note, for he was far from satisfied.  George had only twice spent a night at Grant’s, once when he was driving cattle, and again when it would have been risky to face the weather.  The paper was undoubtedly Grant’s, but Edgar could not identify the farmer’s hand; the notes that had come over had been written by Flora.  Then he remembered that George had bought some implements from Grant, and had filed the rancher’s receipt.  Edgar hurriedly found it and compared it with the letter.  Then his face grew troubled, for the writing was not the same.

“I’m afraid Mr. Lansing never got to Grant’s,” he said.  “I’ll ride over at once.”

“Then I’m coming,” Jake said shortly.  “I’ll bring the gun along.”

Grierson lifted a clenched brown hand.

“So am I!  If Mr. Lansing’s hurt, somebody’s got to pay!”

Edgar was stirred by something in their looks and voices; George had gained a hold on these men’s loyalty which the regular payment of wages could never have given him.  He merely signified assent, and, running out, sprang into the saddle.  The others had evidently had their horses ready, for he heard them riding after him in a minute or two, though he was galloping recklessly through the bluff when they came up.  The homestead was dark when they reached it, and they shouted once or twice before Grant came down.

“Is George here?” Edgar asked.

“No,” said Grant, “we didn’t expect him.”

“Then get on your clothes quick!  There’s work on hand!”

Grant brought him in and struck a light, then hurriedly left the room; and Flora came with him, fully dressed, when he reappeared.  Edgar supposed she had heard his sharp inquiry at the door, and he noticed that her expression was strained.  He threw the note on the table.

“After what you said, I needn’t ask if you wrote that.”

“I didn’t,” Grant told him.  “It’s not like my hand.  I suppose Lansing started when he got it and has not come back?”

“You have guessed right.  Where are they likely to have waylaid him, and where will they probably take him?”

“The bluff, sure.  They might head north for empty country, or south for the frontier.”

“The frontier,” Flora broke in.

“It’s what I think,” said Edgar.  “Shall I send a man for Flett, or will you?”

“That’s fixed, anyway,” said a voice outside the open door.  “We’re not going.”

It was obvious that the hired men had followed them as far as the passage, for Grierson, entering the room, explained: 

“He means we’ve made up our minds to look for Mr. Lansing.”

Grant nodded in assent.

“Then my man goes.  Turn out the boys, Jake; you know the place.  I want three horses saddled, quick.”

“Four,” said Flora, firmly.  “I’m coming.”

Grant did not try to dissuade her.

“Write to Flett,” he said.

He went out hastily in search of blankets and provisions, and when he returned, his hired men had gathered about the door and the note was finished.  He threw it to one of them.

“Ride with that as hard as you can,” he said, and called another, “You’ll come with us.”

“We’re a strong party already,” Edgar broke in.  “You’re leaving the place poorly guarded, and the rustlers may have counted on something of the kind.  Suppose they finish their work by driving off every beast that’s left as soon as we have gone.”

“I’ve got to take my chances; we’ll want the boys to make a thorough search.”

Grant swung round toward the remaining men.

“You two will watch out behind the woodstack or in the granary.  No stranger’s to come near house or stable.”

“The woodpile,” said Flora, with a hard white face and an ominous sparkle in her eyes.  “You would command the outbuildings there.  If anybody tries to creep up at night, call once, and then shoot to kill.”

Edgar saw that she meant her instructions to be carried out; but he forced a smile.

“And this is the Canadian wheat-belt, which I was told was so peaceful and orderly!”

“It looks as if you had been misinformed,” Flora rejoined with a cold collectedness which he thought of as dangerous.  “One, however, now and then hears of violent crime in London.”

They were mounted in a few minutes, and after a hard ride the party broke up at dawn, dispersing so that each member of it could make independent search and inquiries at the scattered homesteads.  Meeting places and means of communication were arranged; but Flora and her father rode together, pushing on steadily southward over the vast gray plain.  Little was said except when they called at some outlying farm, but Grant now and then glanced at the girl’s set face with keenly scrutinizing eyes.  In the middle of the scorching afternoon he suggested that she should await his return at a homestead in the distance, but was not surprised when she uncompromisingly refused.  They spent the night at a small ranch, borrowed fresh horses in the morning, and set out again; but they found no trace of the fugitives during the day, and it was evening when Edgar and Grierson joined them, as arranged, at a lonely farm.  The two men rode in wearily on jaded horses, and Flora, who was the first to notice their approach, went out to meet them.

“Nothing?” she said, when she saw their dejected faces.

“Nothing,” Edgar listlessly answered.  “If the people we have seen aren’t in league with the rustlers ­and I don’t think that’s probable ­the fellows must have gone a different way.”

“They’ve gone south!” Flora insisted.  “We may be a little too far to the east of their track.”

“Then, we must try a different line of country tomorrow.”

The farmer’s wife had promised to find Flora quarters, the men were offered accommodation in a barn, and when the air cooled sharply in the evening, Edgar walked out on to the prairie with the girl.  She had kept near him since his arrival, but he was inclined to believe this was rather on account of his association with George than because she found any charm in his society.  By and by, they sat down on a low rise from which they could see the sweep of grass run on, changing to shades of blue and purple, toward the smoky red glare of sunset on its western rim.  To the south, it was all dim and steeped in dull neutral tones, conveying an idea of vast distance.

Flora shivered, drawing her thin linen jacket together while she buttoned it, and Edgar noticed something beneath it that broke the outline of her waist.

“What’s that at your belt?” he asked.

“A magazine pistol,” she answered with a rather harsh laugh, producing the beautifully made weapon,

“It’s a pretty thing.  I wonder whether you can use it?”

“Will you stand up at about twenty paces and hold out your hat?”

“Certainly not!” said Edgar firmly.  “I wouldn’t mind putting it on a stick, only that the shot would bring the others out.  But I’ve no doubt you can handle a pistol; you’re a curious people.”

He thought the last remark was justified.  Here was a girl, as refined and highly trained in many ways as any he had met, and yet who owned a dangerous weapon and could use it effectively.  Then there was her father, an industrious, peaceable farmer, whose attention was, as a rule, strictly confined to the amassing of money, but who was nevertheless capable of riding or shooting down the outlaws who molested him or his friends.  What made the thing more striking was that neither of them had been used to alarms; they had dwelt in calm security until the past twelve months.  Edgar, however, remembered that they sprang from a stock that had struggled sternly for existence with forest and flood and frost; no doubt, in time of stress, the strong primitive strain came uppermost.  Their nature had not been altogether softened by civilization.  The thought flung a useful light upon Flora’s character.

“If the trial’s a lengthy one and these fellows hold him up until it’s over, it will be a serious thing for George,” he resumed, by way of implying that this was the worst that could befall his comrade.  “The grain’s ripening fast, and he hasn’t made his arrangements for harvest yet.  Men seem pretty scarce around here, just now.”

“It’s a good crop; I’m glad of that,” said Flora, willing to avoid the graver side of the topic.  “Mr. Lansing was anxious about it, but this harvest should set him on his feet.  I suppose he hasn’t paid off the full price of the farm.”

“As a matter of fact, he hasn’t paid anything at all.”

“Then has he only rented the place?”

There was surprise and strong interest in the girl’s expression and Edgar saw that he had made a telling admission.  However, he did not regret it.

“No,” he said; “that’s not the case, either.  The farm is still Mrs. Marston’s.”

“Ah!  There’s something I don’t understand.”

Edgar was sorry for her, and he felt that she was entitled to an explanation.  Indeed, since George was strangely unobservant, he thought it should have been made earlier; but the matter had appeared too delicate for him to meddle with.  Now, however, when the girl’s nature was strongly stirred, there was a risk that, supposing his comrade was discovered wounded or was rescued in some dramatic way, she might be driven to a betrayal of her feelings that would seriously embarrass George and afterward cause her distress.

“George,” he explained, “is merely carrying on the farm as Mrs. Marston’s trustee.”

“But that hardly accounts for his keen eagerness to make his farming profitable.  It strikes one as springing from something stronger than his duty as trustee.”

Edgar nodded.

“Well, you see, he is in love with her!”

Flora sat quite still for a moment or two, and then laughed ­a little bitter laugh; she was overstrained and could not repress it.  A flood of hot color surged into her face, but in another moment she had recovered some degree of composure.

“So that is why he came out?” she said.

“Yes; he was in love with her before she married Marston.  At least, that’s his impression.”

“His impression?” echoed Flora, keenly anxious to cover any signs of the shock she had received and to learn all that could be told.  “Do you mean that Mr. Lansing doesn’t know whether he is in love with her or not?”

“No, not exactly!” Edgar felt that he was on dangerous ground.  “I’m afraid I can’t quite explain what I really do mean.  George, of course, is convinced about the thing; but I’ve a suspicion that he may be mistaken; though he’d be very indignant if he heard me say so.”

He paused, doubtful whether he was handling the matter prudently, but he felt that something must be done to relieve the strain, and continued: 

“George has the faculty of respectful admiration highly developed, but he doesn’t use it with much judgment; in fact, he’s a rather reckless idealist.  There are excuses for him; he was never much thrown into women’s society.”

“You think that explains it?” Flora forced a smile.  “But go on.”

“My idea is that George has been led by admiration and pity, and not by love at all.  I don’t think he knows the difference; he’s not much of a psychologist.  Then, you see, he’s thorough, and having got an idea into his mind, it possesses him and drives him to action.  He doesn’t stop to analyze his feelings.”

“So he came out to look after Mrs. Marston’s property because he felt sorry for her, and believed her worthy of respect?  What is your opinion of her?”

“I’ll confess that I wish she hadn’t captivated George.”

Flora’s face grew very scornful.

“I haven’t your chivalrous scruples; and I know Mrs. Marston.  She’s utterly worthless!  What is likely to happen when your comrade finds it out?”

Then she rose abruptly.

“After all, that’s a matter which chiefly concerns Mr. Lansing, and I dare say the woman he believes in will be capable of dealing with the situation.  Let’s talk of something else.”

They turned back toward the farm, but Edgar found it difficult to start a fresh topic.  All the workings of his mind centered upon George, and he suspected that his companion’s thoughts had a similar tendency.  It was getting dark when they rejoined the rest of the party, and the next morning Flett and another constable rode in.  They had discovered nothing, but as they were ready to take up the trail, Grant left the task to them and turned back with his men.

Flora long remembered the dreary two day’s ride, for although she had borne it with courage, Edgar’s news had caused her a painful shock.  She had, from the beginning, been strongly drawn to George, and when he had been carried off the knowledge that she loved him had been brought home to her.  Now, looking back with rudely opened eyes, there was little comfort in recognizing that he had made no demands on her affection.  Bitter as she was, she could not blame him; she had been madly foolish and must suffer for it.  She called her pride to the rescue, but it failed her.  The torturing anxiety about the man’s fate remained, and with it a humiliating regret, which was not altogether selfish, that it was Sylvia Marston he had chosen.  Sylvia, who was clever, had, of course, tricked him; but this was no consolation.  It was, however, needful to hide her feelings from her father and assume an interest in his remarks, though, when he spoke, it was always of Lansing and what had probably befallen him.

The prairie was dazzlingly bright, the trail they followed was thick with fine black dust, and most of the day the heat was trying; the girl felt utterly jaded and very heavy of heart, but when it appeared desirable she forced herself to talk.  Her father must never suspect her folly, though she wondered uneasily how far she might have betrayed it to West.  Reaching the homestead at length, she resumed her duties, and anxiously waited for news of George.  Once that she heard he was safe, it would, she thought, be easier to drive him out of her mind forever.

As it happened, George had received only a few bruises in the bluff, and, after realizing that there was no chance of escape for the present, he lay still in the bottom of the wagon.  He blamed himself for riding so readily into the trap, since it was obvious that his assailants had known he was going to visit Grant, and had stretched a strand of fence wire or something of the kind across the trail.  They would have removed it afterward and there would be nothing left to show what had befallen him.  This, however was a matter of minor consequence and he endeavored to determine which way his captors were driving.  Judging the nature of the trail by the jolting, he decided that they meant to leave the wood where he entered it, which suggested that they were going south, and this was what he had anticipated.  Though he was sore from the effect of his fall and the rough handling which had followed it, he did not think he would suffer any further violence, so long as he made no attempt to get away.  The men, no doubt, only intended to prevent his giving evidence, by keeping him a prisoner until after the trial.

When morning came, the wagon was still moving at a good pace, though the roughness of the motion indicated that it was not following a trail.  This was all George could discover, because one of the men tied his arms and legs before removing the jacket which had muffled his head.

“I guess you can’t get up, but it wouldn’t be wise to try,” the fellow pointed out significantly.

George took the hint.  He meant to escape and attend the court, but he had no wish to ruin any chance of his doing so by making a premature attempt.  His captors meant to prevent his seeing which way they were going, but he could make out that the sky was brightest on the left side of the wagon, which indicated that they were heading south.  They stopped at noon in a thick bluff, from which, when he was released and allowed to get down, he could see nothing of the prairie.  Only one man remained to watch him; but as he was armed, and George could hear the others not far away, he decided that his escape must be postponed.

During the afternoon, they went on again, George occupying his former position in the bottom of the wagon, where it was unpleasantly hot; but the strongest glare was now on his right side, which showed him that they were still holding south.  Their destination was evidently the American frontier.  In the evening they camped near a thicket of low scrub, and after supper George was permitted to wander about and stretch his aching limbs.  It was rolling country, broken by low rises, and he could not see more than a mile or two.  There was nothing that served as a, landmark, and as soon as he began to stroll away from the camp he was sharply recalled.  In the end, he sat down to smoke, and did not move until he was told to get into the wagon, where a blanket was thrown him.  So far, he had been permitted to see only one of his captors near at hand.

The next morning they set out again.  George thought that fresh horses had been obtained in the night, because they drove at a rapid pace most of the day; and he was tired and sore with the jolting when they camped in another bluff at sunset.  Two more days were spent in much the same way; and then late at night they stopped at a little building standing in the midst of an unbroken plain, and George was released and told to get out.  One of the men lighted a lantern and led him into an empty stable, built of thick sods.  It looked as if it had not been occupied for a long time, but part of it had been roughly boarded off, as if for a harness room or store.

“You have got your blanket,” said his companion.  “Put it down where you like.  There’s only one door to this place, and you can’t get at it without passing me.  I got a sleep in the wagon and don’t want any more to-night.”

George heard the vehicle jolt away, and sat down to smoke while the beat of hoofs gradually sank into the silence of the plain.  Then he wrapped his blanket about him and went to sleep on the earthen floor.