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Updated: June 23, 2025
And she could guess why Jack Fyfe kept away. She was sorry for him and for herself. But being sorry a mere semi-neutral state of mind did not help matters, she told herself gloomily. Lefty Howe's wife was at the camp now, on one of her occasional visits. Howe was going across the lake one afternoon to see a Siwash whom he had engaged to catch and smoke a winter's supply of salmon for the camps.
But she could feel through the thin stuff of her dress a quiver in the fingers that rested on her shoulder, and that repressed sign of the man's pent-up feeling gave her an odd thrill, moved her strangely, swung the pendulum of her impulse. "Yes," she said. Fyfe bent a little lower. "Listen," he said in characteristically blunt fashion. "You want to get away from here.
"Aye, aye, I like to hear what his Highness said, that's in the way of counselling," said Mr Jaddua Fyfe. "The Prince," replied Mr Warner, "then spoke to me earnestly, saying,
That, with a roast or two of beef from town, was all the fresh meat she had tasted in two months. There were enough trout to make a breakfast for the crew. She ate hers and mentally thanked Jack Fyfe.
First Billy Dale, now her brother, and, sandwiched in between, the loosed fire furies which were taking toll in bodily injury and ruinous loss. Yet she was helpless. The matter was wholly out of her hands, and she stood aghast before it, much as the small child stands aghast before the burning house he has fired by accident. Fyfe next.
When Fyfe came home, she told him lightly of her rescue. He said nothing at first, only sat drumming on his chair-arm, his eyes steady on her. "That might have cost you your life," he said at last. "Will you remember not to drift offshore again?" "I rather think I shall," she responded. "It wasn't a pleasant experience." "Monohan, eh?" he remarked after another interval.
"Why are we going out again?" Stella asked. "Oh, just for fun," Fyfe smiled. He sat down beside her and slipped one arm around her waist. In a few minutes they cleared the point. Stella was looking away across the lake, at the deep cleft where Silver Creek split a mountain range in twain. "Look around," said he, "and tell me what you think of the House of Fyfe."
Yet the manner of its unfolding was not as she had visualized it when she saw Fyfe near at hand. She saw now a side of her husband that she had never glimpsed, that she found hard to understand. She could have understood him beating Monohan senseless, if he could. A murderous fury of jealousy would not have surprised her. This did. He had not struck a blow, did not attempt to strike.
No, if it comes to a showdown, I'm with you, Jack, as far as I can go. What the hell can he do?" "Nothing that I can see." Fyfe laughed unpleasantly. "But he'll try. He has dollars to our cents. He could throw everything he's got on Roaring Lake into the discard and still have forty thousand a year fixed income. Sabe? Money does more than talk in this country.
"You don't look much different, Jack," his sister observed critically, as the Waterbug backed away from the wharf in a fine drizzle of rain. "Except that as you grow older, you more and more resemble the pater. Has matrimony toned him down, my dear?" she turned to Stella. "The last time I saw him he had a black eye!" Fyfe did not give her a chance to answer.
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