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I shall come here again soon. Good-bye, little woman." That evening as Robb Chillingwood rode back to Ainsley he thought of many things, but chiefly he reviewed the details of that last disastrous journey when he and Grey had traversed the snow-fields of Alaska together.
And," as the younger man rose and stretched himself, "food is good on occasions. What does Mr. Zachary Smith say?" "Ay, let's sample some white-man's grub. Gentlemen, this is a fortunate meeting all round." Chillingwood passed out of the hut. As he opened the door a vindictive blast of wind swept a cloud of snow in, and the frozen particles fell crackling and hissing upon the glowing stove.
His question was merely the result of his own train of thought. He had not been speaking of any one in particular. "Who? Robb Chillingwood?" "Yes, of course. I've not heard of any one else's coming." "We've asked him for a fortnight to-day. Why?" Hervey ran the cleaning-rod through a couple of the chambers of the pistol before he spoke again.
"Prudence, my girl," went on the farm-wife, as soon as Alice's back was turned, "just open that other," pointing to a blue envelope. "The postmark reads Ainsley. I take it, it's from young Robb Chillingwood. Maybe it's to say as he'll be along d'rectly." Prudence picked the last letter up. "It is hot in here, mother; I wonder you can stand it." Her mother looked up over her spectacles.
At that moment Chillingwood returned bearing two small brass-bound chests. The Indian followed him bringing a number of packages of tinned food. Smith glanced from the chests which were as much as Chillingwood could carry to the angular proportions of the Indian's burden, then back again to the chests.
It grows hereabouts and isn't likely to give out. Guess I won't smoke now." Grey shrugged and lit his pipe. If any man could be fool enough to reject tobacco, Leslie Grey was not the sort of man to press him. He was intolerant of ideas in any one but himself. Chillingwood sucked luxuriously at his pipe and thought big things.
"My name's Chillingwood Robb Chillingwood. This is Mr. Leslie Grey, Customs officer. I am his assistant." The long man glanced slowly at his guests. His great eyes seemed to take in the details of each man's appearance with solemn curiosity. Then he twisted slowly upon the upturned box on which he was seated and crossed his legs. "I'm pleased to meet you, gentlemen.
Look at the way some of the clowns around here carry on with their girls. When Mr. Robb Chillingwood takes up his abode here, I shall depart, I tell you straight. I think mother should have consulted me first. But, there, I suppose that little vixen Alice arranged it all. I hate that chum of yours."
And slowly the grey mist on the hills was obscuring the sun. Robb Chillingwood was a man of some experience on the prairie, although, as his companion had said, he was new to this particular mountain trail. To his trained eye the outlook was not encouraging. "Storm," he observed shortly. "That's my opinion," said Grey definitely.
"Surplus stock, eh? Well, I think I can offer him all the stock he needs at a price which will meet with the approval of even a canny Scot. I'll write him at once." He seated himself at his table and wrote a long letter asking Chillingwood to come out and see him, and, at the same time, offering to dispose of the stock of Lonely Ranch.
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