th a jerk of
the shoulder and a good-natured surprise on his clean-shaven face that
suited well his wide grey eyes and large, luxurious mouth. He had an
estate, half ranch, half farm, with a French Canadian manager named
Vigon, an old prospector who viewed every foot of land in the world with
the eye of the discoverer. Gold, coal, iron, oil, he searched for them
everywhere, making sure that sooner or later he would find them.
Once Vigon had found coal. That was when he worked for a man called
Constantine Jopp, and had given him great profit; but he, the
discoverer, had been put off with a horse and a hundred dollars. He was
now as devoted to Terence O'Ryan as he had been faithful to Constantine
Jopp, whom he cursed waking and sleeping.

In his time O'Ryan had speculated, and lost; he had floated a coal mine,
and "been had"; he had run for the local legislature, had been elected,
and then unseated for bribery committed by an agent; he had run races at
Regina, and won--he had won for three years in succession; and this had
kept him going and restored his finances when they were at their worst.
He was, in truth, the best rider in the country, and, so far, was the
owner also of the best three-year-old that the West had produced. He
achieved popularity without effort. The West laughed at his enterprises
and loved him; he was at once a public moral and a hero. It was a legend
of the West that his forbears had been kings in Ireland like Brian
Borhoime. He did not contradict this; he never contradicted anything.
His challenge to all fun and satire and misrepresentation was, "What'll
be the differ a hundred years from now!"

He did not use this phrase, however, towards one experience--the
advent of Miss Molly Mackinder, the heiress, and the challenge that
reverberated through the West after her arrival. Philosophy deserted him
then; he fell back on the primary emotions of mankind.

A month after Miss Mackinder's arrival at La Touche a dramatic
performance was given at the old fort, in which the officers of the
Mounted Police took part, together with many civilians who fancied
themselves. By that time the district had realised that Terry O'Ryan
had surrendered to what they called "the laying on of hands" by Molly
Mackinder. It was not certain, however, that the surrender was complete,
because O'Ryan had been wounded before, and yet had not been taken
captive altogether. His complete surrender seemed now more certain
to the pub