T.C. Bridges

Strong-Hand Saxon

A Boy’s Adventure With a Canadian Scout in the North-West

Warsaw 2019

Contents

I. THE MEN WITH THE TWANG

II. IN THE CELLAR

III. THE CHASE BEGINS

IV. TREACHERY

V. A LESSON IN WOODCRAFT

VI. SAXON'S STRATAGEM

VII. WHEN THE ICE WENT OUT

VIII. THE LONELY HUT

IX. HANDS UP!

X. PRISONERS OF THE N.W.M.P

XI. TREED BY A GRIZZLY

XII. HOT ON THE TRAIL

XIII. THE GREAT BOILING

XIV. SAXON'S SACRIFICE

XV. TWO TO ONE

XVI. ALONE WITH THE ENEMY

XVII. THE VALLEY OF ROCKS

XVIII. THE SIGNS BY THE BROOK

XIX. THE SECRET PASS

XX. AT THE LADDER-HEAD

XXI. BEARDING THE LION

XXII. TOM REFUSES TO SIGN

XXIII. IN THE PIT

XXIV. TOM IS OBSTINATE

XXV. THE BATTLE IN THE PASS

XXVI. SAXON AT BAY

XXVII. THE LAST OF STARK

I. THE MEN WITH THE TWANG

“BUCK up, Dandy,” said Tom Holt, smacking the old plough-horse on his quarter, “we’ve done a hard day’s work, but you’ll get the best dinner o’ the three. Sweet corn an’ good chaff for you, but nothin’ but potatoes and salt for me and dad.”

Tom broke into a cheery whistle as the farmstead was neared, and the plough-horse stepped out more briskly at the sight of his stable. The boy was sitting sideways on Dandy’s broad back, and the chain traces and roller-bar were trailing behind the horse.

“Taters and salt!” repeated Tom, with a chuckle. “I read somewhere in a newspaper that the British farmer lived on the fat of the land and did no more work than he could help. I wish the chap who wrote that’d take Berrymead Farm an’ try it.”

Tom whistled again. Things were never so black but that he could whistle, and they were often black enough at Berrymead, in all conscience.

The boy knew too well what a struggle it was for his father to keep the farm going. The land was poor, and they had had three bad seasons running. Unable even to pay for labour, Farmer Holt and his seventeen-year-old son did nearly all the work themselves, and bitter toil it was at times.

They would not have had their neighbours know it, but the very beasts in the byre and stables lived better than Holt and his son. Without good corn and fodder the horses could not work, but potatoes, home-made bread, and an occasional rabbit snared in the spinney were all the farmer could allow himself. And even rabbits were scarce at Berrymead.

As for ready money, Holt had had to thresh out new wheat and sell one of his carts to pay the last half-year’s rent, a month overdue. It was lucky for John Holt that he had a son whom no work could tire, and who kept up the strength and cheerfulness of a young Hercules, even on potatoes and salt.

“Hullo!” said Tom, as the ramshackle old farmhouse and cattle- yard were neared. “Strangers!”

A high dog-cart stood at the front gate, the horse unattended and hitched rather carelessly to the palings by the reins. Tom recognised the cart–it was one that a jobmaster in the nearest market town let out for hire. But few visitors ever came to Berrymead, and Tom wondered who they could be.

“Not bailiffs, I hope,” said the boy to himself. “Poor old dad, he’s got trouble enough without that!”

As Dandy’s hoofs crunched on the gravel, Farmer Holt himself appeared at the door of the house. He was a strongly built man of fifty, with a simple face, much lined with worry, and kindly grey eyes. He seemed strangely excited–a very rare thing with him.

“Hitch up the old hoss and come in quick, Tom,” he said. “I want you.”

John Holt dived into the house again, and Tom, wondering what was in the wind, stabled Dandy and went indoors.

In the little parlour stood his father, looking strangely bewildered, and two other men. It was to these that Tom directed his gaze.

One was a lean, sharp-faced man, neatly dressed, with long white hands and a professional look. He had a keen, penetrating glance.

The other man was rougher. He was six feet high, loosely built, and a long black coat hung on him awkwardly. His narrow face was disfigured by a scar reaching from the left eye to the corner of the mouth, which gave him a strangely sinister appearance.

Both men stared at Tom as he entered the room. To the boy it seemed that his appearance was a surprise to them. “This is my son Tom,” said John Holt. “Tom, this is Mr. Edward Fulton,” pointing to the lawyer-like man; “and he’s Mr. Lomax,” indicating the other. “They’ve come all the way from Ameriky to see me and tell me–”

Fulton broke in. His voice had a strong American twang. “Mr. Holt,” he said suavely, “this is a private matter of business between us and yourself. Do you think there is need to tell your son anything about it?”

There was a slight sneer in the man’s voice, which Tom instinctively resented. But his father replied at once. “I’ve no secrets from Tom. He looks like a boy, but he’s past seventeen, and my partner, as you may say.” Tom saw the strangers exchange glances, but his father went on: “Tom, poor Jim’s dead–my brother. You remember I told you he went to Canada nigh twenty years ago. It seems he had some land there, and he’s left me his heir. These gentlemen have come about it. They want to buy it.”

“How much land is there?” asked Tom.

“Something like thirty thousand acres. Seems a terrible lot, don’t it? Nigh three times as much as Squire Brand owns.”

“But you can’t compare it with English land,” broke in Fulton hastily. “It’s quite wild and undeveloped, and more than five hundred miles from the nearest railway. Anyone would give a thousand acres there for one in England.”

“What are they offering, dad?”

“Three hundred pounds.”

“I know it doesn’t seem much,” broke in Fulton; “but I think it’s all it’s worth. As I tell you, it’s beyond the edge of civilisation, a lonely spot, quite undeveloped, and no one could do anything with it without capital. There’s no house except a little log shanty, no cultivated ground, no tools or stock, no market near. The winter’s long and hard and the summer short and hot.”

“Then why do you want it?” inquired Tom bluntly, staring straight in the lawyer’s sharp face.

The man smiled. “I don’t. It’s a client of mine–Mr. Glynne, of Winnipeg, a rich man. There’s some timber on the place. That’s what he’s after; but it’ll be probably years before he touches it. It will take a lot of capital to do anything with it.”

“It don’t seem enough to me,” said Tom’s father.

“Nor to me, dad,” echoed the boy.

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “I’d be glad if you’d make up your mind. I may tell you one thing. The taxes are not paid, and in something like a month the place will revert to Government. Maybe it’s no business of mine to offer you advice, and it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other; but if I did make a suggestion I should urge your accepting Mr. Glynne’s offer. This place looks as if it wanted a little money spent on it.” His eyes dwelt on the threadbare carpet and shabby furniture. “You could do a deal here with three hundred.” He pulled a bundle of papers from his inner pocket, unfolded them, and began spreading them on the table.

Tom spoke up. “I wouldn’t take it, dad. What’s the good of our wasting money here on land that isn’t ours, and with a landlord that won’t even mend our roofs for us? I’m sick of this slaving. Let’s go to Canada and try our luck. The work can’t be harder, and we’ll be on our own land, and whatever improvements we make will be ours. Let’s try it.”

The old man stood by the fireplace, looking from one to another, plainly undecided. The scar-faced man sidled up to him and whispered in his ear: “Ask five hundred. I reckon he might run to that.”

The words had a totally different effect upon the farmer from what the other had evidently intended. “No,” he said, with sudden decision. “I agree with my boy here. Mr. Fulton, I won’t sell that land. I’ll go out and live on it.”

Again Tom noticed the two strangers exchange glances. “You mean that definitely, Mr. Holt?” said Fulton.

“I do. We’ll be in the workhouse if we stay here at Berrymead another year or two. I’m not too old to try my luck in a new country. We’ll sell up our sticks here and raise money enough for our passage, and go to this place my brother’s left me. Sunk River you called it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Sunk River. Very good, Mr. Holt. But your passage is my affair. Your brother left the whole matter in my hands.” He pulled out a pocket-book, selected a note from it, and handed it to the farmer, who took it wonderingly. “That’s for immediate expenses,” he said. “Our own passages are booked by the _Arabia_, which sails from Liverpool to-morrow morning. You’ll come with us, for as it is it will be hard travelling to get to Sunk River in time to settle those taxes.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve just an hour to catch the train at Granton. Put what you want for the journey in a bag, Mr. Holt, and we’ll start at once.”

“What about Tom?” inquired his father.

“You’d better leave your son here to look after the farm, and if necessary hold the sale. He can follow you as soon as you are settled.”

The man’s brisk manner had its effect. John Holt turned and left the room. Tom hesitated a moment, then followed. He found his father in his room hurriedly changing into his well-worn Sunday suit.

“Put them shirts in my bag, Tom,” said his father, “We’ll have to hurry to catch that train.”

“Dad, I wouldn’t go alone with those fellows if I were you. You don’t know anything about them, and I tell you straight I don’t like their looks.”

“What–not go, and lose all that land!”

“How do you know what they say is true?”

“Mr. Fulton showed me Jim’s will.”

“A forgery for all you know, and, if not, why was he so precious anxious to buy the land?”

“But he gave me this money–ten pounds it is. He wouldn’t do that if he meant anything wrong. You’ve got a maggot in your head, Tom. Don’t waste time, lad; put them things in. We haven’t too much time to get that train.”

The old man’s jaw was set in the stubborn fashion which Tom knew well. The boy said no more, but all the time that he was rapidly packing the bag he was thinking hard. By the time it was done he had a plan formed in his head, and, lifting the bag, he carried it downstairs and out to the trap, and then, making a round of the house, came in by the back door.

Tom Holt was no fool. He was much older than most youngsters of his years. His mother had died when he was only thirteen, and since then he had sturdily helped his father in every detail of the work and management of the farm. For some time past he had seen quite clearly that Berrymead Farm could not be made to pay. He had told his father so, but the old man, who had spent all his life on the place, had never taken the same view. He had always gone on hoping for better times. So Tom, well aware that the smash must come, had been making his own preparations, and for nearly three years had been hoarding every penny he could lay hands on. He sold rabbit-skins, he spent an odd day mole-catching or loading for shooting parties in Squire Brand’s coverts. He denied himself everything. The consequence was that down in the old cider cellar, hidden behind a loose brick in the far wall, was a wash-leather bag holding nearly nine pounds.

“Not much,” said Tom to himself as he stole cautiously through the kitchen to the door at the top of the cellar steps, “but enough to pay my passage, I reckon. Dad’ll be awful cross when he finds out, but I’m shot if I let him go alone with that pair of beauties. I don’t know what they’re up to, but there’s something fishy about it, I’ll swear. It won’t take me more than fifteen minutes to run over to Honeywood across the fields. Dick Grainger will lend me his bike, and, as it’s all downhill, I ought to manage to catch that train.”

He reached the cellar door, which opened out of one end of the kitchen. It creaked a little, but he slipped through, closed it behind him, and made his way cautiously down the worn steps. There was another door at the bottom, and when he opened this he found himself in an underground place floored with clay–damp, dim, and chilly. There was nothing in it but a few mouldy rotten hogsheads. No cider had been made at Berrymead for many years.

As Tom closed the upper cellar door behind him, the door of the parlour, which also led into the kitchen, was pushed gently open, and Fulton came out on tiptoe. “What’s he after?” he whispered to Lomax, whose tall figure towered behind him.

“Gone to get a drink, I reckon,” answered Lomax. “I wish I had a drop of rye.”

“Drink, not likely! Ben, I don’t trust that youngster. He smells a rat.”

“What kin he do–a kid like that?” demanded Lomax.

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