not from a white woman.”
“Mr. Reivers is a remarkable man,” said Campbell, shaking his head.
“Sure,” said Toppy, “and it’s a mistake to look for a remarkable woman up here in the woods.”
“I dunno.” The smith looked a little hurt. “I dunno about that, lad. Yon lass seems remarkably sweet and ladylike to me.”
“Sure,” sneered Toppy, pointing his thumb toward the gate. “That looked like it, didn’t it?”
“As for that, you’ve heard what I’ve told you about the Snow-Burner and women,” said Campbell sorrowfully. “He has a masterful way with them.”
“A fine thing to be masterful over a little blonde fool like that!”
Campbell scowled.
“Even though you have no respect for the lass,” he said curtly, “I see no reason why you should put it in words.”
“Why not? Why shouldn’t I, or any one else, put it in words after that?” Toppy fairly shouted the words. “She’s made the thing public herself. She came creeping up to him right out where anybody who was looking could see her, and there won’t be a man in camp to-morrow but’ll have heard that she’s fallen for Reivers. Apparently she doesn’t care; so why should I, or you, or anybody else? Reivers has got a masterful way with women! Ha, ha! Let it go at that. It’s none of my business, that’s a cinch.”
“No,” agreed Campbell; “not if you talk that way, it’s none of your business; that’s sure.”
Toppy could have struck him for the emphatic manner in which he uttered the words. But Toppy was beginning to learn to control himself and he merely gritted his teeth. The sudden stab which he had felt in his heart at the sight of the girl and Reivers had passed. In one flash there had been overthrown the fine structure which he had built about her in his thoughts. He had placed her high above himself. For some unknown reason he had looked up to her from the first moment he had seen her. He had not considered himself worthy of her good opinion. And here she was flaunting her subservience to Reivers—to a cold, sneering brute—before the eyes of the whole camp!
The rage and pain at the sight of the pair had come and gone, and that was all over. And now Toppy to his surprise found that it didn’t make much difference. The girl, and what she was, what she thought of him, or of Reivers, no longer were of prime importance to him. He didn’t care enough about that now to give her room in his thoughts.
Reivers was what mattered now—Reivers, with his air of contemptuous dominance; Reivers, who had looked on and laughed when Toppy was tugging at the runner of the broken sleigh. That laugh seemed to ring in Toppy’s ears. It challenged him even as it contemned him. It said, “I am your master; doubt it if you dare”; even as Reivers’ cold smile had said the same to Rosky and the huddled bunch of Slavs.
The girl—that was past. But Reivers had roused something deeper, something older, something fiercer than the feelings which had begun to stir in Toppy at the sight of the girl. Man—raw, big-thewed, world-old and always new man—had challenged unto man. And man had answered. The petty considerations of life were stripped away. Only one thing was of importance. The world to Toppy Treplin had become merely a place for Reivers, the Snow-Burner, and himself to settle the question which had cried for settlement since the moment when they first looked into each other’s eyes: Which was the better man?
Toppy smiled as he stretched himself and noted the new life that seemed to have come into his body. He knew what it meant. That strenuous siege of work and a week of fevered sweating had driven the alcohol out of his system. He was making a fresh start. A few weeks at the anvil now, and he would be in better shape than at any time since leaving school. He set his jaw squarely and heaved his big arms high above his head.
“Well, Treplin,” came an unmistakable voice from the doorway, “you’re looking strenuous for a man just off the sickbed.”
CHAPTER X—THE DUEL BEGINS
“I’m feeling pretty good, thank you, Reivers,” said Toppy quietly, though the voice of the man had thrilled him with the challenge in it. He turned his head slowly and looked up from his chair at Reivers with an expression of great serenity. The Big Game had begun between them, and Toppy was an expert at keeping his play hidden.
“Much obliged for strapping up my ankle, Reivers,” he said. “Silly thing, to sprain an ankle; but thanks to your expert bandaging it’ll be ready to walk on soon.”
“It wasn’t a bad sprain,” said Reivers, moving up and standing in front of him. That was Reivers all through. Toppy was sitting; Reivers was standing, looking down on him, his favourite pose. The black anger boiled in Toppy’s heart, but by his expression one could read only that he was a grateful young man.
“No, it wasn’t a bad sprain,” continued Reivers, his upper lip lifting in its customary smile of scorn, “but—a man who attempts such heavy lifts must have no weak spot in him.”
Toppy twisted himself into a more comfortable position in his chair and smiled.
“ ‘Attempts’ is hardly the right word there, Reivers. Pardon me for differing with you,” he laughed. “You may remember that the attempt was a success.”
A glint of amusement in Reivers’ cold eyes showed that he appreciated that something more weighty than a mere question of words lay beneath that apparently casual remark. For an instant his eyes narrowed, as if trying to see beyond Toppy’s smile and read what lay behind, but Toppy’s good poker-face now stood him in good stead, and he looked blandly back at Reivers’ peering eyes and continued to smile. Reivers laughed.
“Quite right, Treplin; obliged to you for correcting me,” he said. “A chap gets rusty out here, where none of the laws of speech are observed. I’ll depend upon you to bring me back to form again—later on. Is your ankle really feeling strong?”
For answer Toppy rose and stood on it.
“Well, well!” laughed Reivers. “Then Miss Pearson’s sympathy was all wasted. What’s the matter, Treplin? Aren’t you glad to hear that charming young lady is enough interested in you to hunt me up and ask me to step in and see how you are this morning?”
“Not particularly,” replied Toppy, although he was forced to admit to himself a glow at this explanation of the girl’s conversation with Reivers.
“What are you interested in?” said Reivers suddenly.
Toppy looked up at him shrewdly.
“I tell you what I’d like to do, Reivers; I’d like to learn the logging-business—learn how to run a camp like this—run it efficiently, I mean.”
“Worthy ambition,” came the instant reply, “and you’ve come to the right school. How fortunate for you that you fell into this camp! You might have got into one where the boss had foolish ideas. You might even have fallen in with a humanitarian. Then you’d never have learned how to make men do things for you, and consequently you’d never have learned to run a camp efficiently.
“Thank your lucky stars, Treplin, that you fell in with me. I’ll rid you of the silly little ideas about right and wrong that books and false living have instilled in your head. I believe you’ve got a good head—almost as good as mine. If, for instance, you were in a situation where it was your life or the other fellow’s, you’d survive. That’s the proof of a good head. Want to learn the logging-business, do you? Good! Is your ankle strong enough for you to get around on?”
Toppy took an ax-handle from the corner and, using it as a cane, hobbled around the room.
“Yes, it will stand up all right,” he said. “What’s the idea?”