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Updated: May 6, 2025
She could not credit bloodshed, death. Always in her life both had been things remote. And as the real significance of Lefty Howe's story grew on her, she shuddered. It lay at her door, equally with her and Monohan, even if neither of their hands had sped the bullet, an indirect responsibility but gruesomely real to her. God only knows to what length she might have gone in reaction.
That was the ultimate, the culmination, which would leave her forever transfixed with remorseful horror. The fact that already the machinery of the law which would eventually bring Monohan to book for the double lawlessness of arson and attempted homicide must be in motion, that the Provincial police would be hard on his trail, did not occur to her.
Fyfe loved her in his deliberate, repressed fashion and possessed her, according to the matrimonial design. And although now his possession was a hollow mockery, he would never give her up not to Walter Monohan. She had that fatalistic conviction. How would it end in the long run? She leaned forward to speak. Words quivered on her lips.
Up around the mouth of the Tyee spread the vast checkerboard of Abbey-Monohan limits, and beyond that, on the eastern bank of the river, a single block, Fyfe's cedar limit, the camp he thought he would close down. Why? Immediately the query shaped in her mind. Monohan was concentrating his men and machinery at the lake head.
"You're It." Monohan pivoted, and rushing, swung right and left, missing by inches. Fyfe's mocking grin seemed to madden him completely. He rushed again, launching another vicious blow that threw him partly off his balance. Before he could recover, Fyfe kicked both feet from under him, sent him sprawling on the moss. Stella stood like one stricken. The very thing she dreaded had come about.
Well, I guess it's been tough on everybody. He turned out to be some bad actor, this Monohan party. I never did like the beggar. He was a little too high-handed in his smooth, kid-glove way. But I didn't suppose he'd try to burn up a million dollars' worth of timber to satisfy a grudge. Well, he put his foot in it proper at last.
For a few seconds he busied himself with a cigar, removing the band with utmost deliberation, biting the end off, applying the match, his brows puckered slightly. "It's very unwise of you to meet Monohan like that," he uttered finally. "Oh, I see," she flashed. "Do you suggest that I met him purposely by appointment? Even if I did " "That's for you to say, Stella," he interrupted gravely.
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.
With that he turned and went back the way he had come. Fyfe stood silent, hands resting on his hips, watching until Monohan pushed out a slim speed launch from under cover of overhanging alders and set off down the lake. "Well," he remarked then, in a curiously detached, impersonal tone. "The lightning will begin to play by and by, I suppose." "What do you mean?" Stella asked breathlessly.
She foresaw, watching the odd combat with a feeling akin to fascination, that it was a losing game for Monohan. Fyfe was his master at every move. Yet he did not once attempt to strike a solid blow, nothing but that humiliating, open-handed slap, that dexterous swing of his foot that plunged Monohan headlong.
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