* * * * *Dave had not left the LaFrance cabin far behind when he pulled up with an oath and after a short period of consideration, turned back, riding at fair speed. He found cause to congratulate himself in starting early: it gave him time to go back to Rose and furnish her money in case of need. He saw her sooner than he expected. Turning a slight bend in the trail, he had full view of the Goat, not two hundred yards away, and saw him bound forward like a racer as the spurs ripped into him; Dave gripped a shout in his throat at sight of this act: why was Rose in such a hurry? Suspicion ebbed and flowed in his mind. If she were in such a hurry, why was n't she on Swallow? But the spurring had been for speed, not for punishment. Maybe she was saving Swallow for the longer journey. But if content to tell her father by letter of her going, who in Twin River needed a personal call? She could not be going farther than Twin River—to the Double Y, for example: there was not time for that. And why should she want to go there, either? Dave shook his head impatiently. Either she was square or she was n't. If she was n't, there would be a group of hard-riding boys pounding along the trail in time to cut off Schatz at the bank. He decided to ride to within a short distance of town, lay off the trail, and wait. If no one showed up, he would stick to the original plan. If Rose played crooked, he would take a train East. If too hard pressed, he could use the relays south in place of Denver Gus. Denver might put up an argument but he had one answer to all arguments that had always silenced opposition the moment he produced it. "Get on, bronc," he commanded, heading for Wayback.* * * * *Buck had got farther south than Whitby suspected; so far, that Whitby was beginning to hope he had not struck off from the trail, when he sighted him. Buck was riding head on shoulder, as if he had heard the coming of his pursuer, and he pulled up at the other's wild gesture. "What's eatin' him?" said Buck, smiling for the thousandth time at Whitby's manner of riding; it was a constant wonder to Buck that a man could sit a horse like that and stick to the worst of them as Whitby did. "He shore ain't meanin' to swim the Black Jack to get to the Fort." The smile faded as he suddenly realized the appeal in the Englishman's frantic waving; he rode forward rapidly and they were soon near enough together for Whitby to be sure his words would be heard and understood."Twin River, Buck! Twin River! And ride like h—l!"Buck's quirt bit into his pony's flank. Never before had he known the Englishman profane; it must be serious. Whitby turned and raced ahead of him, rapidly over-taken by Buck who rode a fresher and speedier mount. As they ran side by side, Whitby rapidly repeated Rose's news."I can make it, Whit," declared Buck. "They won't try to work th' game till closin' time at th' bank. Train bound west is due at Wayback about then. Wish I had Allday under me. So long."Whitby slowed to a lope and Buck drew away rapidly. His duty accomplished, the Englishman's thoughts turned to the puzzling expression on Margaret McAllister's face, as he had last seen it. He tried in vain to analyze it and unconsciously pressed his tired horse into a faster pace in his anxiety for an explanation.Buck did not spare his pony. Hemustbe at the bank before the money was paid over. The stringing up of Schatz by Judge Lynch would not bring the money back; and Buck had grave doubts of his ability to accomplish this retribution. Schatz appeared to grow stronger the more he knew of him. Nobody but a man very sure of himself and his power would dare such deviltry. Well, it would come to a personal straightening of accounts. Buck's grim face was never sterner. But first he must get to the bank. Resolutely putting aside all other considerations he gave his whole mind to his horse. Presently he shook his head: "Never make it," he muttered; "have to relay at Twin." Even as he said it he saw ahead of him another rider approaching at an easy lope; an expression of gratified pleasure appeared on Buck's face as he saw the other dismount and begin to lengthen the stirrup leathers. It was Rose. "By G—d! What a woman!" exclaimed Buck. "She thinks as quick as Cassidy an' never overlooks a bet."He urged his pony to its best speed. With a fresh mount in sight, his object was practically assured. As he drew near, Rose called out: "Horse wait for you at Two Fork Creek."He pulled short beside her in two jumps. "Rose, I love you," he declared, his eyes sparkling with pleasure; "you 'd oughta been a man!" He sprang to the ground while speaking and was astride the Goat at a bound, turning in his saddle to call back to her: "But I 'm most mighty glad yo 're not." A wave of his hand and he faced about, settling in his seat for the run to Two Fork, five miles beyond Twin River.The crimson flood that burned in her face at his first remark, to recede at his second, returned in full tide as she stood with lips apart and eyes wide, watching him ride away. A trembling seized her, so that she clung to the saddle for support. The moving figure became blurred as the tears gathered in her eyes; she brushed them away impatiently with the back of her hand. "He is not mean it that way," she murmured; "it is only that he is glad I think about the horse."She mounted and rode soberly toward Twin River. The pony, awaiting the customary notice to attend to business and finding it long in coming, began to entertain a sneaking affection for skirts, which until then he had regarded with suspicious hostility.CHAPTER XXIPICKLES TRIES TO TALKMary sat at the window sewing—a continuous performance with her these days. The sound of a horse approaching caused her to glance up just as a faint call for "Buck" reached her. One look and the sewing fell to the floor as she sprang to her feet, crying out for Jake as she ran. With Swallow nuzzling at her dress, she supported Pickles until Jake came to aid; he lifted the boy from the saddle and carried him into the house.Mary hastily got out the whiskey and Pickles gulped down a mouthful before he realized what it was. He choked, and pushed away the cup. "Don't want it," he declared, weakly; "ain't never goin' to drink.""Good boy," encouraged Mary, patting his head. "You stick to that.""Where 's Buck?" asked Pickles."He ain't come back yet," answered Mary."Where is he?" insisted Pickles."I don't know," was the patient reply."I gotta find Buck," the boy declared, starting to rise.Mary pushed him back. "How can you find him when you don't know where he is?""Ain't he som'er's on th' range?""No; him an' Whit rode off Twin River way this mornin' an' they ain't neither of 'em back yet.""Well, I gotta find him, an' I gotta find him now," declared Pickles. "Lemme go.""What's eatin' you?" demanded Jake. "Youain't fitten to ridenoplace an' I 'm mortally certain you can't walk.""Shut yore trap, Woolly-face. What's a sheep like you know, anyhow? Nothin'! Can't even dig holes less 'n yo 're prodded with lead. Lemme go."The whiskey was having an effect on Pickles or he never would have shown malice like this. Besides, it was not true and Pickles knew it. To all questions he had but one answer and Mary was in despair when Hopalong strode into the room. Hoppy wanted to know things—"Where'd you get that horse?" he asked, sharply."Huh?" queried Pickles."Where 'd you get that horse—that horse you was ridin'?""That's Rose's horse—where 's Buck?""Rose who?""Huh? French Rose. Say, where's Buck?""French Rose, hey? Say, Mary, that's th' horse got away from me with that cow-killin' screech-owl th' other night.""That horse? Rose LaFrance's horse? Oh, Billy!"It seemed that Mary was deeper in Buck's confidence than his old friend Hopalong, in this matter, at all events."Say you, blast you! Where's Buck? Lemme go! What's eatin' you? Ah, h—l!" Pickles relaxed under the grasp of Jake's hands and limply essayed to retrieve his reputation. "I asks yore pardon, ma'am. I promises Buck I won't never swear afore a lady an' here I goes an' does it, first time I 'm mad."Hoppy eyed the penitent keenly. "Say, Bud; what's wrong?" he asked, quietly. "Buck ain't got no better friend than me and I 'll find him for you; but there ain't no good huntin', less 'n I got somethin' to say when I get there.""Will you? Bully for you! Tell Buck th' Dutchman 's goin' to get all th' money—then Dave 's goin' to get it—it's in th' bank—on'y Schatz don't know who it is—nobody catches Dave runnin' into a blin' trail thataway—then Dave takes th' money to th' Dutchman—but right here 's where he fools him—he don't take it—he keeps it—an' he marries Rose on th' train to Helena—Rose rides Swaller to Jackson to get th' train—on'y she has got to get another horse 'cause I rode Swaller here. D 'you get me?" Pickles stared expectantly at Hopalong, who turned to Jake."Put that horse in th' barn. Saddle Allday. Rope a cayuse an' set that smoke a-rollin'—take a blanket an' ball th' smoke three times at th' end o' every minute—go through th' Gut an' up th' north side.Pronto!"Jake went out of the door on the jump. He moved fast for Buck on occasion—rare, it is true—but there was a volcanic danger in Hopalong's eye that put springs in Jake's boot-heels."That's th' way to talk," sighed Pickles, happily. Hopalong went to the rack and took down his rifle. "Reckon yo 're goin' to want that?" asked Pickles."Reckon I might," admitted Hopalong, gravely. "You see, after I find Buck I 'm a-goin' to look for Dave an' th' Dutchman.""Jiggers! I shore hopes you find 'em. I 'd sooner you get Dave than any man I know, 'ceptin' me.""Well, I sorter count on gettin' Dave. So long, Pickles.""So long," echoed the boy.Mary followed her husband outside. "Don't get hurt, Billy-Red," she warned him."That sort o' vermin never hurt me yet, Mary. When th' boys get here send 'em after me to Wayback. Tell Ned, rifles. Let me have all th' money you got; if I miss Buck I might want it."Mary watched him until he rode by on Allday, waving to him from the corner of the house. Then she went indoors to Pickles."That's a bully man, that Hopalong, ain't he?" was his enthusiastic greeting."He shore is; an' you 're a bully boy, Pickles," replied Mary. She took up her sewing again. The boy watched her curiously and was about to ask a question, when Sleep floated past and Pickles forgot to ask it.CHAPTER XXII"A MINISTERING ANGEL"Mrs. Blake surveyed her surroundings with the surface calm which comes from seeing and disbelieving. These were depths to which she never had expected to descend. She allowed herself half a moment of speculation on the possibility of there existing, somewhere in the world, a real lack of accommodations as appalling as her imagination could now conceive. "I have often thought Mr. Blake somewhat careless in his choice of a hotel during our wanderings, but the worst of them never even suggested—Margie, did you ever in your life imagine such a room could exist?""It is only for an hour or so," returned Margaret, listlessly."Oh, I don't complain, my dear. You are an equal sufferer. And I am distinctly relieved at the thought of removing some of this terrible dust before we—before—we—"Her voice trailed off into silence as she caught sight of a motto over the door; it was one of those affairs worked in colored worsted over perforated cloth; the colors had been chosen with less regard to harmony than is usually exhibited by an artist; perhaps it was contrast that was sought; as a study in contrasts it was a blasting success. Mrs. Blake glared at it with the fascinated interest of a spectator within the danger zone of a bursting bomb. "'God bless our home,'" she read, in awed undertone. "Perhaps He will, but it is more than it deserves." She mounted laboriously onto a chair and turned the motto to the wall, hastily facing it about again with a suppressed scream: if the front were chaos the back was a cataclysm. In a spasm of indignation she jerked it loose from its fastening and dropped it out of sight behind the evil-looking washstand. In this position her glance fell on the crude specimen of basin provided. She picked it up doubtfully and struck it against the side of the washstand. "Tin!" she exclaimed. "A dishpan!" and went off into peals of laughter, banging the pan and calling "Dinner!" in an unnaturally deep voice, when she could speak from laughing.Margaret turned a sullen face from the window. She had seen the French Rose in animated conversation with a tall, good-looking man in flannel shirt and overalls, who had ridden away up the road, evidently in obedience to her orders; while Rose, herself, rode in the direction taken by Whitby. The soft, broad-brimmed hat, the waist but little different from the flannel shirt of the man, the ill-fitting skirt, the mannish gloves and clumsy boots—the superb health of the splendid figure proclaimed itself through all these disadvantages. The woman was a perfect counterfoil for Whitby, and Margaret hid the ache in her heart under a sullenness of demeanor that a less astute companion might have attributed to the annoyances and inconveniences of the journey."For heaven's sake, Aunt, don't make such a noise," she insisted; "my head aches as if it would split.""Your head aches! I 'm sorry, my dear. Still, there are worse things than head-aches, now are n't there?"Margaret stared. "No doubt," she admitted, tartly; "but it is the worst I have to submit, at present. When a greater evil befalls me I will tell you.""Why, that's honest," said Mrs. Blake, cheerfully; "and as long as we are to be honest, you are sure it is not your conscience that is at fault?""My conscience?" asked Margaret. "What has my conscience to do with a head-ache?""First class in Physical Geography, rise. Jessie, what is the origin of the islands of head-aches that vex the pacific waters of the soul? They are due to volcanic action of bad conscience.""Oh, Aunt! how can you be so absurd?""I would rather be absurd than unjust, Margaret.""I don't understand you.""You understood me very well. Because you see Whitby talking to a pretty woman, is that a reason to condemn him?""Talking! He kissed her before my very eyes, in the public street.""You cannot say that, Margaret. I saw the meeting as plainly as you did.""How could you? You were inside! Why has he never mentioned her in his letters?""Has he ever mentioned anything but business? He would scarcely mention her to George, and you know he has not written to you.""No, he had something better to do. This is an unprofitable discussion. I am utterly indifferent to Mr. Booth's actions, past, present, and to come, as well as the reasons for them. If you intend to use that basin for something other than a dinner-call, do so. I 'm not hungry, but we might as well get it over with. We have a long drive before us.""With all my heart, my dear; unless the water is on a par with the other—er—conveniences."* * * * *"Seems like Buck Peters might be in a hurry," observed Slick Milligan, sufficiently interested to come from behind the bar and walk out onto the porch. "Which it's th' first time I see him use a quirt.""None o' thea punchers think aucht o' a horse," was Sandy's opinion, based on a wide experience.If Margaret had chanced to overhear Slick's remark it would have explained much. Mrs. Blake was resting, preparatory to sallying forth on the last stretch of their journey, and Margaret was about to make inquiries regarding a conveyance, when the rapid drumming of a horse's feet drew her to the window as Buck went past. Margaret had never met Buck but she was far too good a horsewoman to fail to recognize the pony. She had noted every detail when she had first seen Rose and you may be sure no point, good or bad, of the Goat as a saddle pony, had escaped her critical judgment. Her first thought, as the Goat went past, was one of surprise that he should make so little of the weight of his rider, a full-grown man and no light-weight, either; lean and hard as Buck was, Margaret's estimate of the number of pounds the pony carried was very near the mark; and then, in a flash, she knew him: the very animal that the French Rose had ridden. Margaret knew it to be out of the question that he had travelled to the Double Y ranch and back; they must have exchanged horses on the road. But, why?The consideration of this enigma and the many possibilities it offered as collateral questions, occupied her fully, to the very grateful content of Mrs. Blake, who was genuinely tired and ashamed to say so. It was a consideration so perplexing that Margaret was prepared to allow Whitby to explain, when he was so unfortunate as to appear in company with Rose. He had overtaken her, a half-mile down the trail, but Margaret could not, of course, know this. They remained in earnest conversation for two or three minutes, when Rose went on and Whitby went around to the shed to put up his pony. Margaret ran down stairs and went out onto the porch. She felt better able to face him in the open.It was thus that Whitby, coming in at the back door, was directed out through the front one. Rapidly as Margaret moved, she was too great an attraction to escape instant notice. Whitby advanced with outstretched hand. "Ripping idea, taking us by surprise, Miss McAllister. Awful journey, you know, really.""We wished to avoid giving trouble. You are looking very well, Mr. Booth.""Fit as a fiddle, thank you. But—I say—you 'll excuse me,—but are n't you feeling a little—ah—seedy, now? I mean—""I quite understand what you mean. Am I looking a little—ah—seedy, Mr. Booth?""No, certainly not! Very stupid of me, I'm sure. I—ah—rather fancied—but of course I 'm wrong. This confounded dust gets in a chap's eyes so—""Do you mean that my eyes look dusty, Mr. Booth?""Oh, I say! Now you 're chaffing me. As if—""Not in the least. Chaffing is an art in which I fail to excel. But if you mean that I look a little pale and dragged with the journey, you must remember that I do not pretend to have the vitality of a cow-girl.""Ah! Just so. And Mrs. Blake—she is with you, I presume.""The presumption is justified. Aunt's vitality was even less equal to the journey than my own. She is resting and begs to be excused until she can say 'How do' at the ranch.""Why—ah—how did Mrs. Blake know I called in?"Margaret bit her lip. "I happened to be looking from the window as you rode up," she explained, carelessly."Ah! Just so. Miss McAllister, you don't know me very well, not really; perhaps no better than I know you. I 'm no good at this sort of thing, this fencing with words, you know; I discovered that long ago; and I long ago adopted the only other method: to smash right through the guard. My presumption does n't presume so far as to imagine you are jealous; I am not seeking causes; all I know is, you made me a promise when I came West, a conditional promise, I grant you: I was to make good. Well, I have n't done half bad, really. I fancy Mr. McAllister would admit as much. Buck Peters admits more; and one has to be something of a man, you know, to merit that from Peters. He 's the finest man I ever knew, myself, bar none. It is very good of you to hear me so patiently. I 'm coming to the kernel of the difficulty just now:"Rose LaFrance, the cow-girl you mentioned, is the right sort. She brought word this morning that will save Peters a goodish bit of money; incidentally Mr. McAllister, also. Buck had to be in Wayback at the earliest possible moment and I was fortunate enough to overtake him. Miss LaFrance not only was thoughtful enough to ride to meet Buck and give him a fresh mount and to send a man ahead with whom Buck will change again, but she insists that we follow him, which is a jolly good idea; these fellows are very careless with their fire-arms and he might require help. If the blackguard he is after succeeds in withdrawing the entire deposit from the bank and it is given to him in cash, before Peters gets there, he will certainly require help. I leave you to reflect on these facts, Miss McAllister. Give my kindest regards to Mrs. Blake."He stalked back the way he had come, in the characteristic wooden manner which precluded any appeal, if Margaret had felt like making one; but her mind was too fully occupied with what she had heard to understand that he was actually leaving. He was splashing through the ford before she realized the significance of this part of his defence. Thoughtful, and without resentment, she went to rejoin Mrs. Blake.Whitby pushed his horse sufficiently to overtake Rose who, he knew, was riding slowly. Just outside the town he met Cock Murray, astride the Goat; the Goat was a very tired pony and showed it."My dear man! Why are n't you following Peters?" asked Whitby, in surprised remonstrance."My dear Brit! I sorta allowed it was n't healthy," answered Cock. "I tells you th' same as I tells th' French Rose: 'When Buck says "Scoot for th' ranch an' tell Cassidy to hit Waybackprontoan' he 'll get news o' me at th' bank,"' it 'pears like, to my soft-boiled head, that's what I oughta do.""I beg your pardon. Of course. Rather odd Peters didn't tell me.""He meant to. I 'm sorry he did n't. So long.""So long," echoed Whitby, mechanically. He pulled up to shout after Cock: "You won't get far on that horse; he 's done, you know.""I ain't goin' far on that 'oss," Cock shouted back; "an' they 're never done till they 're down, you know.""Impudent beggar, but a good man. They grow 'em good out here. I fancy the bad-plucked ones don't last." And Whitby hastened on to overtake Rose.He had left Two Fork Creek four miles behind him before sighting her; in her impatience she had gone faster than she knew. Whitby had almost caught up, when he saw Rose bend forward, wave to him, and then dash away, as if she were inviting him to a race."Buck!" exclaimed Whitby, with intuitive conviction. "It's Buck as sure as little apples Kesicks." Fifty yards' advance showed him that he was right. The figure lying huddled in the road was certainly Buck, and beside him was his dead pony. Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him; and Whitby, wearing the terribly savage expression of the man slow to anger, was not far behind. Together they laid the unconscious figure at full length.[image]Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him"It is there," said Rose, dully, pointing to the right thigh."Ah," breathed Whitby, in a sigh of relief. He cut the cloth but forbore to tear it away, the coagulated blood having stopped the bleeding. "Drilled through!" he exclaimed. "Why, the swine must have been near enough to do better than that. How ever did he miss? We 'll bandage this as it is, Miss LaFrance, and do it properly at—now, should you say take him to the doctor at Wayback?""No. He is a drunken beast. I will nurse him.""Very well. A good nurse is better than a drunken doctor. Just cut this sleeve from my shirt, will you?"Rose took the knife and cut, instead, a three-inch strip from the bottom of her skirt, Whitby meanwhile producing a flask, from which he carefully fed Buck small quantities of whiskey. Rose tendered him the bandage. "Well rolled, Miss LaFrance! Have you been taught this sort of thing?" Rose silently nodded her head. "My word! Buck is in luck. You apply the bandage then, while I give him this. You 'll make a better job of it than I should."Buck slowly opened his eyes to see Whitby's face bending over his. "Got away, Whit," he whispered, weakly; "ambushed me, by G—d," and relapsed into unconsciousness."Much blood! He have lose much blood," murmured Rose."Yes," assented Whitby. "How shall we carry him? He can never ride.""Travois," said Rose. "I show you."Buck again regained consciousness and his voice was distinctly stronger. "Get after him, Whit. He must n't get away.""Oh, nonsense, Buck. They know the cat's out of the bag by this time and they will never be such asses as to try it on now. As for Dave, he can't get away. The agency will be jolly glad to do something for the money they have had by turning over Dave if I ask it of them. And McAllister will think you are worth a good bit more than the money, I lay. I know I do."Buck was attempting feeble remonstrance when Rose returned from her survey of the timber available and swiftly placed her hands over his lips. "Do not talk," she commanded. "It is bad to talk, now.""What price the nurse—eh, Buck? Oh, you lucky beggar!""Rose," murmured Buck. "Why, that's right kind."Admonishing him with raised forefinger, Rose gave instructions to Whitby and he hastened away to gather material for the travois.* * * * *When Margaret returned to Mrs. Blake she was carrying a pair of driving gloves and a jaunty sailor hat which Mrs. Blake knew had been packed in one of the trunks. "Are we going to start, Margie?" she asked, with languid interest."Iam going to start but I am going the other way. We shall not be able to leave for the ranch before morning, probably."Mrs. Blake sat up with a suddenness that surprised even herself. "The morning!" she echoed. "If you think that I shall stay in this horror of a room until morning, Margaret, you are mistaken. I will go, if I walk.""It's a long walk," commented Margaret, carelessly."And may I ask why you are going the other way and when you purpose to return?""I am going to Wayback to telegraph. Some thief has planned to get all of papa's money from the bank there, and of course he will try to escape on the train. We shall catch him by telegraphing to the officers at the next town.""If you do he is a fool. And who are 'we'? How did you learn all this?""Whitby told me.""When?""Just now.""Was Whitby here?""Yes.""And never asked for me?""I told him you begged to be excused.""You told him I—now see here, Margaret. There is such a thing as going too far, and this is an example of it. 'Beg to be excused'! What will he think of me? Where is he now?""He has gone on to Wayback. But he never will have the sense to telegraph. That is why I am going.""Did you quarrel?""Well—we were n't exactly friendly.""Oh!—oh!—oh!" The three exclamations were long-drawn, with pauses between them and in three different keys."Aunty!" cried Margaret, furiously, stamping her foot. "How dare you insinuate—I said I was going totelegraph!""All right, my dear. Have it your own way. I 'll immolate myself on the altar of friendship: in this case, a particularly uncomfortable bed. Please remember, Margaret, as you speed away on your errand of avarice, I said aparticularlyuncomfortable bed."Margaret went out and slammed the door. Mrs. Blake chuckled until she laughed, and laughed until she gasped for breath and was obliged to loosen her corsets. "I am as bad as Margie," she sighed; "I don't know when I am well off. Now I shall have to stay marooned in this pesky room until Margie returns. I never can fasten these outrageous things without help."In her fetching gown of figured brown cloth, bordered with beaver fur, with slanting drapery of plain green, above which a cutaway jacket exposed a full vest, and topped by a high beaver toque—with flush due to the recent passage-at-arms still in her cheeks and the fire of indignation in her eyes—Margaret presented achicdaintiness that met with the entire approval of the burly Sandy, who hastened from the bar-room at the sound of her descent."I want a hitch of some kind," requested Margaret; "something with speed and bottom, and the sooner the better.""A hitch?" queried Sandy. He had ominous visions of the dainty figure being whirled to destruction behind a pair of unruly bronchos."A horse, a team, a rig, something to drive, and at once," explained Margaret, impatiently."Oh, ay! I ken ye meanin' richt enough. I ken it fine; but I hae doots o' yer abeelity.""Very well, then I will buy it, only let me have it immediately.""It's no' th' horses, ye ken. What would I tell yer mither, gin ye 're kilt?""Bosh!" said Margaret, scornfully. "I can drive anything you can harness.""Oh, ay! Nae doot, nae doot. But it willna be ane o' Sandy's, I telt ye that."Here a voice was heard from out front, roaring for Slick and demanding a cayuse, in a hurry."Losh! yon 's anither. They must theenk I keepit a leevery," and Sandy hastened out to the porch to see who was desirous of further depleting his stock. When he saw the condition of the Goat his decision was quick and to the point: "Ma certes! Ye 'll no run th' legs of ony o' my cattle, Cock Murray, gin ye crack yer throat crawin'. Tut, tut! Look at yon!" He shook his head sorrowfully as he gazed at the dejected appearance of the Goat."Won't, hey!" shouted Cock, slapping back the saddle, "then I 'll borrer Dutch Fred's, an' Buck Peters 'll burn yore d—d ol' shack 'bout yore ears when he knows it." A man, watching interestedly from the bar-room, left by the hall exit, running."Buck Peters! Weel, in that case—Slick, ye can lend him yer ain.""I was just a-goin' to," declared Slick, hurrying off; "which yore d—very generous when it don't cost you nothin'."Cock loosened the cinch. "Generous as—Miss McAllister!" he exclaimed, aghast."Why, of all the people! How delightful! What on earth areyoudoing out here?" Margaret ran down to him, extending both hands in warm greeting.Cock took them as if in a dream. "Miss McAllister—Chicago—Oh, what a fool I 've been!"The man who had left the bar-room tore around the corner of the hotel on a wicked-looking pinto which lashed out viciously at the Goat when brought to a stop, a compliment the Goat promptly returned, though with less vigor. "Here y' are, Cock. He 'll think he 's headin' for th' Cyclone an' he 'll burn th' earth." The Cyclone puncher pushed the straps into Murray's hand and led away the Goat to a well-earned rest."I have to go, Miss McAllister. See you at the ranch. I 'm punching for the Double Y. They call me Cock Murray. It—it's a name I took.""I 'll remember. Cock Murray: it fits you like a glove," and Murray mounted to her ripple of laughter. "We shall be out there to-morrow. Aunt is with me," she called to him, while the pinto worked off a little of its superfluous deviltry, before getting down to its work. She watched him admiringly, Cock sitting firm and waiting, until presently the pony straightened out and proceeded to prove his owner's boast. "Tip-top, Ralph," praised Margaret; "but you always could ride." She turned and faced the dour Sandy. "See here! Do youeverintend to get out that rig?""Weel—gin ye 're a relative o' Buck Peters, I jalouse ye 'll gang yer ain gait, onyway," and he went grumbling through the hall to do her bidding.A roaring volley of curses, instantly checked and rolling forth a second time with all the sulphur retained to add rancor to the percolator, drew Margaret curiously to overlook the cause. Seeing, she thought she understood Sandy's reluctance to let his team to her: a pair of perfectly matched bays, snipped with white in a manner that gave to their antics an air of rollicking mischief, they were lacking the angularity of outline Margaret already had come to expect in Western ponies, and their wild plunging seemed more the result of overflowing vitality than inherent vice. Drawn by the uproar, Slick appeared beside her."No team for a lady to drive," he declared, shaking his head."Ridiculous!" asserted Margaret. "Go help them." A devitalized imprecation from Sandy hastened his steps. Margaret was in doubt which amused her most: the trickiness of the ponies or Sandy's heroic endeavor to swear without swearing. She understood him far better than either of the others, who worked silently and with well directed efforts.With Slick's invaluable assistance their object was soon accomplished, the team being hitched to a new buckboard that was the pride of Sandy's heart. "'T is a puir thing," he protested, eying it sourly. "I hae naething better.""Why, it is perfect," declared Margaret, "but I shall want a whip.""Ye 'll want nae whup," denied Sandy, shaking his head ominously.The Cyclone puncher at the head of the nigh horse called to her: "Take 'em out o' th' corral, miss? They 'll go like antelopes when they start."Margaret laughed in gay excitement. "No, no! please don't," she entreated, drawing on her gloves. "I could drive that pair through the eye of a needle."Sandy glanced from her to the team and back again."Havers! I 'll gie ye ma ain whup," he promised. He was back in half a minute with a lash whip whose holly stock never grew in America."What a beauty!'" exclaimed Margaret. She ran down the steps, gathered up the lines, and sprang into the buckboard, bracing herself for the inevitable jerk. "Ready," she warned. "Let go."It was lucky for Mrs. Blake that she had loosened her corset strings and was confined to her room; had she seen the start—and she knew Margaret's skill as well as any one—she certainly would have burst them in her fright. With the three men it was otherwise; they vented their admiration in a ringing cheer. The ponies, gathering speed in the short stretch to the ford, were coaxed over so near the I-Call that Dirty Snow tumbled precipitately from his box and fled around the corner of the saloon; missing the box by a foot, the wheels began a wide arc toward the water through which the rig whirled in an avalanche of spray, to shave the front of the Why-Not as closely as it had the I-Call. To the delighted astonishment of Twin River—by this time the entire inhabitants, excepting only Mrs. Blake, were more or less interested in the proceedings—the team was no sooner going in the straight than Margaret cracked the lash to right and left and the startled ponies bellied to the ground in their efforts to escape an unknown danger. Sandy guffawed in pride of ownership; Slick gazed with his soul in his eyes; the puncher danced up and down in his joy, thumping first one and then the other."Did you see it?" he demanded, "Did you see it?" The others admitted eyesight equal to the occasion. "Say," asseverated the puncher, "if I owned all Montany, from here to th' line, I gives it to get that gal. That's th' kind of a hair-pin I am. You hear me!"* * * * *Margaret's sudden exclamation hastened the speed of the ponies but she drew them firmly in and approached the group on the trail at an easy lope. Whitby ran up from the river bank as she pulled the team to a stand."Who is it, Miss LaFrance? How did it happen?" asked Margaret, guessing the answer to her own questions."It is M'sieu Peters, ma'am'selle. He is wounded," replied Rose."Just in time, Miss McAllister," said Whitby, coming up at that moment. "We 'll commandeer that wagon as an ambulance.""Miss McAllister!" exclaimed Buck, wonderingly. Then, energetically: "Whit, you get after that pole-cat. I can get to th' ranch, now. Get a-goin'.""Buck, I 'm like Jake: 'sot in my ways.' There is no necessity to follow that pole-cat, as you so aptly call him. And you are not going to the ranch, you know. Miss LaFrance has kindly volunteered expert service in nursing and I intend that you shall get it. Miss McAllister, Miss LaFrance, whose services you already know; and Mr. Peters, your father's partner.""You must not think of going on to the ranch, Mr. Peters," persuaded Margaret. "I only hope it is not too far to Miss LaFrance's home. If we could lift you—I 'm afraid these horses won't stand.""Lift! I reckon I got one good laig, Miss McAllister—" he fell back with a grunt."Dash it all, Buck! Do you want to break open that wound? 'Pon my word, I don't envy you your patient, Miss LaFrance. You lie still, you restless beggar. I 've packed more than one man with a game leg and gone it alone. Do you think you can manage those dancing jackasses?" He looked doubtingly from them to Margaret.Margaret dimpled. "Ask Sandy," she advised, demurely."Ou, ay!" quoth Whitby and Margaret broke into bubbling laughter that reflected from Rose's face in the faint shadow of a smile."Too bad of me to be laughing this way, Mr. Peters," apologized Margaret, correctly interpreting the expression of Rose, whose glance had turned to Buck; "but I have so much cause to be merry when I least expected it that I forgot for the moment you are wounded."She resolutely avoided looking at Whitby who, thus unobserved, displayed a grin more fittingly adapted to the countenance of the famous Cat of Cheshire. Rose glanced swiftly from Whitby to Margaret and the two women were already aware of that which the men would never guess in each other."Shucks! I been shot up worse 'n this, Miss McAllister," assured Buck; "if that pig-headed Britisher would on'y take orders like he oughta. He 's obstinater nor a cow with a suckin' calf.""Right-o!" assented Whitby, who had finished his preparations for the lift. "Now, Miss LaFrance."He had managed to pass the blanket under Buck's middle, looping it over his own neck; while this arrangement eased but little weight from Rose, it had the advantage of keeping Buck comparatively straight. Whitby, backing up into the buckboard, his hands tightly grasping Buck beneath the arms, was ably assisted by Rose, who moved and steadied her load without apparent effort. Margaret was genuinely surprised. "How strong you are!" she exclaimed, admiringly."Gentle as rain," commended Buck. "If you got that flask handy, Whit, I 'd like to feel it."
* * * * *
Dave had not left the LaFrance cabin far behind when he pulled up with an oath and after a short period of consideration, turned back, riding at fair speed. He found cause to congratulate himself in starting early: it gave him time to go back to Rose and furnish her money in case of need. He saw her sooner than he expected. Turning a slight bend in the trail, he had full view of the Goat, not two hundred yards away, and saw him bound forward like a racer as the spurs ripped into him; Dave gripped a shout in his throat at sight of this act: why was Rose in such a hurry? Suspicion ebbed and flowed in his mind. If she were in such a hurry, why was n't she on Swallow? But the spurring had been for speed, not for punishment. Maybe she was saving Swallow for the longer journey. But if content to tell her father by letter of her going, who in Twin River needed a personal call? She could not be going farther than Twin River—to the Double Y, for example: there was not time for that. And why should she want to go there, either? Dave shook his head impatiently. Either she was square or she was n't. If she was n't, there would be a group of hard-riding boys pounding along the trail in time to cut off Schatz at the bank. He decided to ride to within a short distance of town, lay off the trail, and wait. If no one showed up, he would stick to the original plan. If Rose played crooked, he would take a train East. If too hard pressed, he could use the relays south in place of Denver Gus. Denver might put up an argument but he had one answer to all arguments that had always silenced opposition the moment he produced it. "Get on, bronc," he commanded, heading for Wayback.
* * * * *
Buck had got farther south than Whitby suspected; so far, that Whitby was beginning to hope he had not struck off from the trail, when he sighted him. Buck was riding head on shoulder, as if he had heard the coming of his pursuer, and he pulled up at the other's wild gesture. "What's eatin' him?" said Buck, smiling for the thousandth time at Whitby's manner of riding; it was a constant wonder to Buck that a man could sit a horse like that and stick to the worst of them as Whitby did. "He shore ain't meanin' to swim the Black Jack to get to the Fort." The smile faded as he suddenly realized the appeal in the Englishman's frantic waving; he rode forward rapidly and they were soon near enough together for Whitby to be sure his words would be heard and understood.
"Twin River, Buck! Twin River! And ride like h—l!"
Buck's quirt bit into his pony's flank. Never before had he known the Englishman profane; it must be serious. Whitby turned and raced ahead of him, rapidly over-taken by Buck who rode a fresher and speedier mount. As they ran side by side, Whitby rapidly repeated Rose's news.
"I can make it, Whit," declared Buck. "They won't try to work th' game till closin' time at th' bank. Train bound west is due at Wayback about then. Wish I had Allday under me. So long."
Whitby slowed to a lope and Buck drew away rapidly. His duty accomplished, the Englishman's thoughts turned to the puzzling expression on Margaret McAllister's face, as he had last seen it. He tried in vain to analyze it and unconsciously pressed his tired horse into a faster pace in his anxiety for an explanation.
Buck did not spare his pony. Hemustbe at the bank before the money was paid over. The stringing up of Schatz by Judge Lynch would not bring the money back; and Buck had grave doubts of his ability to accomplish this retribution. Schatz appeared to grow stronger the more he knew of him. Nobody but a man very sure of himself and his power would dare such deviltry. Well, it would come to a personal straightening of accounts. Buck's grim face was never sterner. But first he must get to the bank. Resolutely putting aside all other considerations he gave his whole mind to his horse. Presently he shook his head: "Never make it," he muttered; "have to relay at Twin." Even as he said it he saw ahead of him another rider approaching at an easy lope; an expression of gratified pleasure appeared on Buck's face as he saw the other dismount and begin to lengthen the stirrup leathers. It was Rose. "By G—d! What a woman!" exclaimed Buck. "She thinks as quick as Cassidy an' never overlooks a bet."
He urged his pony to its best speed. With a fresh mount in sight, his object was practically assured. As he drew near, Rose called out: "Horse wait for you at Two Fork Creek."
He pulled short beside her in two jumps. "Rose, I love you," he declared, his eyes sparkling with pleasure; "you 'd oughta been a man!" He sprang to the ground while speaking and was astride the Goat at a bound, turning in his saddle to call back to her: "But I 'm most mighty glad yo 're not." A wave of his hand and he faced about, settling in his seat for the run to Two Fork, five miles beyond Twin River.
The crimson flood that burned in her face at his first remark, to recede at his second, returned in full tide as she stood with lips apart and eyes wide, watching him ride away. A trembling seized her, so that she clung to the saddle for support. The moving figure became blurred as the tears gathered in her eyes; she brushed them away impatiently with the back of her hand. "He is not mean it that way," she murmured; "it is only that he is glad I think about the horse."
She mounted and rode soberly toward Twin River. The pony, awaiting the customary notice to attend to business and finding it long in coming, began to entertain a sneaking affection for skirts, which until then he had regarded with suspicious hostility.
CHAPTER XXI
PICKLES TRIES TO TALK
Mary sat at the window sewing—a continuous performance with her these days. The sound of a horse approaching caused her to glance up just as a faint call for "Buck" reached her. One look and the sewing fell to the floor as she sprang to her feet, crying out for Jake as she ran. With Swallow nuzzling at her dress, she supported Pickles until Jake came to aid; he lifted the boy from the saddle and carried him into the house.
Mary hastily got out the whiskey and Pickles gulped down a mouthful before he realized what it was. He choked, and pushed away the cup. "Don't want it," he declared, weakly; "ain't never goin' to drink."
"Good boy," encouraged Mary, patting his head. "You stick to that."
"Where 's Buck?" asked Pickles.
"He ain't come back yet," answered Mary.
"Where is he?" insisted Pickles.
"I don't know," was the patient reply.
"I gotta find Buck," the boy declared, starting to rise.
Mary pushed him back. "How can you find him when you don't know where he is?"
"Ain't he som'er's on th' range?"
"No; him an' Whit rode off Twin River way this mornin' an' they ain't neither of 'em back yet."
"Well, I gotta find him, an' I gotta find him now," declared Pickles. "Lemme go."
"What's eatin' you?" demanded Jake. "Youain't fitten to ridenoplace an' I 'm mortally certain you can't walk."
"Shut yore trap, Woolly-face. What's a sheep like you know, anyhow? Nothin'! Can't even dig holes less 'n yo 're prodded with lead. Lemme go."
The whiskey was having an effect on Pickles or he never would have shown malice like this. Besides, it was not true and Pickles knew it. To all questions he had but one answer and Mary was in despair when Hopalong strode into the room. Hoppy wanted to know things—"Where'd you get that horse?" he asked, sharply.
"Huh?" queried Pickles.
"Where 'd you get that horse—that horse you was ridin'?"
"That's Rose's horse—where 's Buck?"
"Rose who?"
"Huh? French Rose. Say, where's Buck?"
"French Rose, hey? Say, Mary, that's th' horse got away from me with that cow-killin' screech-owl th' other night."
"That horse? Rose LaFrance's horse? Oh, Billy!"
It seemed that Mary was deeper in Buck's confidence than his old friend Hopalong, in this matter, at all events.
"Say you, blast you! Where's Buck? Lemme go! What's eatin' you? Ah, h—l!" Pickles relaxed under the grasp of Jake's hands and limply essayed to retrieve his reputation. "I asks yore pardon, ma'am. I promises Buck I won't never swear afore a lady an' here I goes an' does it, first time I 'm mad."
Hoppy eyed the penitent keenly. "Say, Bud; what's wrong?" he asked, quietly. "Buck ain't got no better friend than me and I 'll find him for you; but there ain't no good huntin', less 'n I got somethin' to say when I get there."
"Will you? Bully for you! Tell Buck th' Dutchman 's goin' to get all th' money—then Dave 's goin' to get it—it's in th' bank—on'y Schatz don't know who it is—nobody catches Dave runnin' into a blin' trail thataway—then Dave takes th' money to th' Dutchman—but right here 's where he fools him—he don't take it—he keeps it—an' he marries Rose on th' train to Helena—Rose rides Swaller to Jackson to get th' train—on'y she has got to get another horse 'cause I rode Swaller here. D 'you get me?" Pickles stared expectantly at Hopalong, who turned to Jake.
"Put that horse in th' barn. Saddle Allday. Rope a cayuse an' set that smoke a-rollin'—take a blanket an' ball th' smoke three times at th' end o' every minute—go through th' Gut an' up th' north side.Pronto!"
Jake went out of the door on the jump. He moved fast for Buck on occasion—rare, it is true—but there was a volcanic danger in Hopalong's eye that put springs in Jake's boot-heels.
"That's th' way to talk," sighed Pickles, happily. Hopalong went to the rack and took down his rifle. "Reckon yo 're goin' to want that?" asked Pickles.
"Reckon I might," admitted Hopalong, gravely. "You see, after I find Buck I 'm a-goin' to look for Dave an' th' Dutchman."
"Jiggers! I shore hopes you find 'em. I 'd sooner you get Dave than any man I know, 'ceptin' me."
"Well, I sorter count on gettin' Dave. So long, Pickles."
"So long," echoed the boy.
Mary followed her husband outside. "Don't get hurt, Billy-Red," she warned him.
"That sort o' vermin never hurt me yet, Mary. When th' boys get here send 'em after me to Wayback. Tell Ned, rifles. Let me have all th' money you got; if I miss Buck I might want it."
Mary watched him until he rode by on Allday, waving to him from the corner of the house. Then she went indoors to Pickles.
"That's a bully man, that Hopalong, ain't he?" was his enthusiastic greeting.
"He shore is; an' you 're a bully boy, Pickles," replied Mary. She took up her sewing again. The boy watched her curiously and was about to ask a question, when Sleep floated past and Pickles forgot to ask it.
CHAPTER XXII
"A MINISTERING ANGEL"
Mrs. Blake surveyed her surroundings with the surface calm which comes from seeing and disbelieving. These were depths to which she never had expected to descend. She allowed herself half a moment of speculation on the possibility of there existing, somewhere in the world, a real lack of accommodations as appalling as her imagination could now conceive. "I have often thought Mr. Blake somewhat careless in his choice of a hotel during our wanderings, but the worst of them never even suggested—Margie, did you ever in your life imagine such a room could exist?"
"It is only for an hour or so," returned Margaret, listlessly.
"Oh, I don't complain, my dear. You are an equal sufferer. And I am distinctly relieved at the thought of removing some of this terrible dust before we—before—we—"
Her voice trailed off into silence as she caught sight of a motto over the door; it was one of those affairs worked in colored worsted over perforated cloth; the colors had been chosen with less regard to harmony than is usually exhibited by an artist; perhaps it was contrast that was sought; as a study in contrasts it was a blasting success. Mrs. Blake glared at it with the fascinated interest of a spectator within the danger zone of a bursting bomb. "'God bless our home,'" she read, in awed undertone. "Perhaps He will, but it is more than it deserves." She mounted laboriously onto a chair and turned the motto to the wall, hastily facing it about again with a suppressed scream: if the front were chaos the back was a cataclysm. In a spasm of indignation she jerked it loose from its fastening and dropped it out of sight behind the evil-looking washstand. In this position her glance fell on the crude specimen of basin provided. She picked it up doubtfully and struck it against the side of the washstand. "Tin!" she exclaimed. "A dishpan!" and went off into peals of laughter, banging the pan and calling "Dinner!" in an unnaturally deep voice, when she could speak from laughing.
Margaret turned a sullen face from the window. She had seen the French Rose in animated conversation with a tall, good-looking man in flannel shirt and overalls, who had ridden away up the road, evidently in obedience to her orders; while Rose, herself, rode in the direction taken by Whitby. The soft, broad-brimmed hat, the waist but little different from the flannel shirt of the man, the ill-fitting skirt, the mannish gloves and clumsy boots—the superb health of the splendid figure proclaimed itself through all these disadvantages. The woman was a perfect counterfoil for Whitby, and Margaret hid the ache in her heart under a sullenness of demeanor that a less astute companion might have attributed to the annoyances and inconveniences of the journey.
"For heaven's sake, Aunt, don't make such a noise," she insisted; "my head aches as if it would split."
"Your head aches! I 'm sorry, my dear. Still, there are worse things than head-aches, now are n't there?"
Margaret stared. "No doubt," she admitted, tartly; "but it is the worst I have to submit, at present. When a greater evil befalls me I will tell you."
"Why, that's honest," said Mrs. Blake, cheerfully; "and as long as we are to be honest, you are sure it is not your conscience that is at fault?"
"My conscience?" asked Margaret. "What has my conscience to do with a head-ache?"
"First class in Physical Geography, rise. Jessie, what is the origin of the islands of head-aches that vex the pacific waters of the soul? They are due to volcanic action of bad conscience."
"Oh, Aunt! how can you be so absurd?"
"I would rather be absurd than unjust, Margaret."
"I don't understand you."
"You understood me very well. Because you see Whitby talking to a pretty woman, is that a reason to condemn him?"
"Talking! He kissed her before my very eyes, in the public street."
"You cannot say that, Margaret. I saw the meeting as plainly as you did."
"How could you? You were inside! Why has he never mentioned her in his letters?"
"Has he ever mentioned anything but business? He would scarcely mention her to George, and you know he has not written to you."
"No, he had something better to do. This is an unprofitable discussion. I am utterly indifferent to Mr. Booth's actions, past, present, and to come, as well as the reasons for them. If you intend to use that basin for something other than a dinner-call, do so. I 'm not hungry, but we might as well get it over with. We have a long drive before us."
"With all my heart, my dear; unless the water is on a par with the other—er—conveniences."
* * * * *
"Seems like Buck Peters might be in a hurry," observed Slick Milligan, sufficiently interested to come from behind the bar and walk out onto the porch. "Which it's th' first time I see him use a quirt."
"None o' thea punchers think aucht o' a horse," was Sandy's opinion, based on a wide experience.
If Margaret had chanced to overhear Slick's remark it would have explained much. Mrs. Blake was resting, preparatory to sallying forth on the last stretch of their journey, and Margaret was about to make inquiries regarding a conveyance, when the rapid drumming of a horse's feet drew her to the window as Buck went past. Margaret had never met Buck but she was far too good a horsewoman to fail to recognize the pony. She had noted every detail when she had first seen Rose and you may be sure no point, good or bad, of the Goat as a saddle pony, had escaped her critical judgment. Her first thought, as the Goat went past, was one of surprise that he should make so little of the weight of his rider, a full-grown man and no light-weight, either; lean and hard as Buck was, Margaret's estimate of the number of pounds the pony carried was very near the mark; and then, in a flash, she knew him: the very animal that the French Rose had ridden. Margaret knew it to be out of the question that he had travelled to the Double Y ranch and back; they must have exchanged horses on the road. But, why?
The consideration of this enigma and the many possibilities it offered as collateral questions, occupied her fully, to the very grateful content of Mrs. Blake, who was genuinely tired and ashamed to say so. It was a consideration so perplexing that Margaret was prepared to allow Whitby to explain, when he was so unfortunate as to appear in company with Rose. He had overtaken her, a half-mile down the trail, but Margaret could not, of course, know this. They remained in earnest conversation for two or three minutes, when Rose went on and Whitby went around to the shed to put up his pony. Margaret ran down stairs and went out onto the porch. She felt better able to face him in the open.
It was thus that Whitby, coming in at the back door, was directed out through the front one. Rapidly as Margaret moved, she was too great an attraction to escape instant notice. Whitby advanced with outstretched hand. "Ripping idea, taking us by surprise, Miss McAllister. Awful journey, you know, really."
"We wished to avoid giving trouble. You are looking very well, Mr. Booth."
"Fit as a fiddle, thank you. But—I say—you 'll excuse me,—but are n't you feeling a little—ah—seedy, now? I mean—"
"I quite understand what you mean. Am I looking a little—ah—seedy, Mr. Booth?"
"No, certainly not! Very stupid of me, I'm sure. I—ah—rather fancied—but of course I 'm wrong. This confounded dust gets in a chap's eyes so—"
"Do you mean that my eyes look dusty, Mr. Booth?"
"Oh, I say! Now you 're chaffing me. As if—"
"Not in the least. Chaffing is an art in which I fail to excel. But if you mean that I look a little pale and dragged with the journey, you must remember that I do not pretend to have the vitality of a cow-girl."
"Ah! Just so. And Mrs. Blake—she is with you, I presume."
"The presumption is justified. Aunt's vitality was even less equal to the journey than my own. She is resting and begs to be excused until she can say 'How do' at the ranch."
"Why—ah—how did Mrs. Blake know I called in?"
Margaret bit her lip. "I happened to be looking from the window as you rode up," she explained, carelessly.
"Ah! Just so. Miss McAllister, you don't know me very well, not really; perhaps no better than I know you. I 'm no good at this sort of thing, this fencing with words, you know; I discovered that long ago; and I long ago adopted the only other method: to smash right through the guard. My presumption does n't presume so far as to imagine you are jealous; I am not seeking causes; all I know is, you made me a promise when I came West, a conditional promise, I grant you: I was to make good. Well, I have n't done half bad, really. I fancy Mr. McAllister would admit as much. Buck Peters admits more; and one has to be something of a man, you know, to merit that from Peters. He 's the finest man I ever knew, myself, bar none. It is very good of you to hear me so patiently. I 'm coming to the kernel of the difficulty just now:
"Rose LaFrance, the cow-girl you mentioned, is the right sort. She brought word this morning that will save Peters a goodish bit of money; incidentally Mr. McAllister, also. Buck had to be in Wayback at the earliest possible moment and I was fortunate enough to overtake him. Miss LaFrance not only was thoughtful enough to ride to meet Buck and give him a fresh mount and to send a man ahead with whom Buck will change again, but she insists that we follow him, which is a jolly good idea; these fellows are very careless with their fire-arms and he might require help. If the blackguard he is after succeeds in withdrawing the entire deposit from the bank and it is given to him in cash, before Peters gets there, he will certainly require help. I leave you to reflect on these facts, Miss McAllister. Give my kindest regards to Mrs. Blake."
He stalked back the way he had come, in the characteristic wooden manner which precluded any appeal, if Margaret had felt like making one; but her mind was too fully occupied with what she had heard to understand that he was actually leaving. He was splashing through the ford before she realized the significance of this part of his defence. Thoughtful, and without resentment, she went to rejoin Mrs. Blake.
Whitby pushed his horse sufficiently to overtake Rose who, he knew, was riding slowly. Just outside the town he met Cock Murray, astride the Goat; the Goat was a very tired pony and showed it.
"My dear man! Why are n't you following Peters?" asked Whitby, in surprised remonstrance.
"My dear Brit! I sorta allowed it was n't healthy," answered Cock. "I tells you th' same as I tells th' French Rose: 'When Buck says "Scoot for th' ranch an' tell Cassidy to hit Waybackprontoan' he 'll get news o' me at th' bank,"' it 'pears like, to my soft-boiled head, that's what I oughta do."
"I beg your pardon. Of course. Rather odd Peters didn't tell me."
"He meant to. I 'm sorry he did n't. So long."
"So long," echoed Whitby, mechanically. He pulled up to shout after Cock: "You won't get far on that horse; he 's done, you know."
"I ain't goin' far on that 'oss," Cock shouted back; "an' they 're never done till they 're down, you know."
"Impudent beggar, but a good man. They grow 'em good out here. I fancy the bad-plucked ones don't last." And Whitby hastened on to overtake Rose.
He had left Two Fork Creek four miles behind him before sighting her; in her impatience she had gone faster than she knew. Whitby had almost caught up, when he saw Rose bend forward, wave to him, and then dash away, as if she were inviting him to a race.
"Buck!" exclaimed Whitby, with intuitive conviction. "It's Buck as sure as little apples Kesicks." Fifty yards' advance showed him that he was right. The figure lying huddled in the road was certainly Buck, and beside him was his dead pony. Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him; and Whitby, wearing the terribly savage expression of the man slow to anger, was not far behind. Together they laid the unconscious figure at full length.
[image]Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him
[image]
[image]
Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him
"It is there," said Rose, dully, pointing to the right thigh.
"Ah," breathed Whitby, in a sigh of relief. He cut the cloth but forbore to tear it away, the coagulated blood having stopped the bleeding. "Drilled through!" he exclaimed. "Why, the swine must have been near enough to do better than that. How ever did he miss? We 'll bandage this as it is, Miss LaFrance, and do it properly at—now, should you say take him to the doctor at Wayback?"
"No. He is a drunken beast. I will nurse him."
"Very well. A good nurse is better than a drunken doctor. Just cut this sleeve from my shirt, will you?"
Rose took the knife and cut, instead, a three-inch strip from the bottom of her skirt, Whitby meanwhile producing a flask, from which he carefully fed Buck small quantities of whiskey. Rose tendered him the bandage. "Well rolled, Miss LaFrance! Have you been taught this sort of thing?" Rose silently nodded her head. "My word! Buck is in luck. You apply the bandage then, while I give him this. You 'll make a better job of it than I should."
Buck slowly opened his eyes to see Whitby's face bending over his. "Got away, Whit," he whispered, weakly; "ambushed me, by G—d," and relapsed into unconsciousness.
"Much blood! He have lose much blood," murmured Rose.
"Yes," assented Whitby. "How shall we carry him? He can never ride."
"Travois," said Rose. "I show you."
Buck again regained consciousness and his voice was distinctly stronger. "Get after him, Whit. He must n't get away."
"Oh, nonsense, Buck. They know the cat's out of the bag by this time and they will never be such asses as to try it on now. As for Dave, he can't get away. The agency will be jolly glad to do something for the money they have had by turning over Dave if I ask it of them. And McAllister will think you are worth a good bit more than the money, I lay. I know I do."
Buck was attempting feeble remonstrance when Rose returned from her survey of the timber available and swiftly placed her hands over his lips. "Do not talk," she commanded. "It is bad to talk, now."
"What price the nurse—eh, Buck? Oh, you lucky beggar!"
"Rose," murmured Buck. "Why, that's right kind."
Admonishing him with raised forefinger, Rose gave instructions to Whitby and he hastened away to gather material for the travois.
* * * * *
When Margaret returned to Mrs. Blake she was carrying a pair of driving gloves and a jaunty sailor hat which Mrs. Blake knew had been packed in one of the trunks. "Are we going to start, Margie?" she asked, with languid interest.
"Iam going to start but I am going the other way. We shall not be able to leave for the ranch before morning, probably."
Mrs. Blake sat up with a suddenness that surprised even herself. "The morning!" she echoed. "If you think that I shall stay in this horror of a room until morning, Margaret, you are mistaken. I will go, if I walk."
"It's a long walk," commented Margaret, carelessly.
"And may I ask why you are going the other way and when you purpose to return?"
"I am going to Wayback to telegraph. Some thief has planned to get all of papa's money from the bank there, and of course he will try to escape on the train. We shall catch him by telegraphing to the officers at the next town."
"If you do he is a fool. And who are 'we'? How did you learn all this?"
"Whitby told me."
"When?"
"Just now."
"Was Whitby here?"
"Yes."
"And never asked for me?"
"I told him you begged to be excused."
"You told him I—now see here, Margaret. There is such a thing as going too far, and this is an example of it. 'Beg to be excused'! What will he think of me? Where is he now?"
"He has gone on to Wayback. But he never will have the sense to telegraph. That is why I am going."
"Did you quarrel?"
"Well—we were n't exactly friendly."
"Oh!—oh!—oh!" The three exclamations were long-drawn, with pauses between them and in three different keys.
"Aunty!" cried Margaret, furiously, stamping her foot. "How dare you insinuate—I said I was going totelegraph!"
"All right, my dear. Have it your own way. I 'll immolate myself on the altar of friendship: in this case, a particularly uncomfortable bed. Please remember, Margaret, as you speed away on your errand of avarice, I said aparticularlyuncomfortable bed."
Margaret went out and slammed the door. Mrs. Blake chuckled until she laughed, and laughed until she gasped for breath and was obliged to loosen her corsets. "I am as bad as Margie," she sighed; "I don't know when I am well off. Now I shall have to stay marooned in this pesky room until Margie returns. I never can fasten these outrageous things without help."
In her fetching gown of figured brown cloth, bordered with beaver fur, with slanting drapery of plain green, above which a cutaway jacket exposed a full vest, and topped by a high beaver toque—with flush due to the recent passage-at-arms still in her cheeks and the fire of indignation in her eyes—Margaret presented achicdaintiness that met with the entire approval of the burly Sandy, who hastened from the bar-room at the sound of her descent.
"I want a hitch of some kind," requested Margaret; "something with speed and bottom, and the sooner the better."
"A hitch?" queried Sandy. He had ominous visions of the dainty figure being whirled to destruction behind a pair of unruly bronchos.
"A horse, a team, a rig, something to drive, and at once," explained Margaret, impatiently.
"Oh, ay! I ken ye meanin' richt enough. I ken it fine; but I hae doots o' yer abeelity."
"Very well, then I will buy it, only let me have it immediately."
"It's no' th' horses, ye ken. What would I tell yer mither, gin ye 're kilt?"
"Bosh!" said Margaret, scornfully. "I can drive anything you can harness."
"Oh, ay! Nae doot, nae doot. But it willna be ane o' Sandy's, I telt ye that."
Here a voice was heard from out front, roaring for Slick and demanding a cayuse, in a hurry.
"Losh! yon 's anither. They must theenk I keepit a leevery," and Sandy hastened out to the porch to see who was desirous of further depleting his stock. When he saw the condition of the Goat his decision was quick and to the point: "Ma certes! Ye 'll no run th' legs of ony o' my cattle, Cock Murray, gin ye crack yer throat crawin'. Tut, tut! Look at yon!" He shook his head sorrowfully as he gazed at the dejected appearance of the Goat.
"Won't, hey!" shouted Cock, slapping back the saddle, "then I 'll borrer Dutch Fred's, an' Buck Peters 'll burn yore d—d ol' shack 'bout yore ears when he knows it." A man, watching interestedly from the bar-room, left by the hall exit, running.
"Buck Peters! Weel, in that case—Slick, ye can lend him yer ain."
"I was just a-goin' to," declared Slick, hurrying off; "which yore d—very generous when it don't cost you nothin'."
Cock loosened the cinch. "Generous as—Miss McAllister!" he exclaimed, aghast.
"Why, of all the people! How delightful! What on earth areyoudoing out here?" Margaret ran down to him, extending both hands in warm greeting.
Cock took them as if in a dream. "Miss McAllister—Chicago—Oh, what a fool I 've been!"
The man who had left the bar-room tore around the corner of the hotel on a wicked-looking pinto which lashed out viciously at the Goat when brought to a stop, a compliment the Goat promptly returned, though with less vigor. "Here y' are, Cock. He 'll think he 's headin' for th' Cyclone an' he 'll burn th' earth." The Cyclone puncher pushed the straps into Murray's hand and led away the Goat to a well-earned rest.
"I have to go, Miss McAllister. See you at the ranch. I 'm punching for the Double Y. They call me Cock Murray. It—it's a name I took."
"I 'll remember. Cock Murray: it fits you like a glove," and Murray mounted to her ripple of laughter. "We shall be out there to-morrow. Aunt is with me," she called to him, while the pinto worked off a little of its superfluous deviltry, before getting down to its work. She watched him admiringly, Cock sitting firm and waiting, until presently the pony straightened out and proceeded to prove his owner's boast. "Tip-top, Ralph," praised Margaret; "but you always could ride." She turned and faced the dour Sandy. "See here! Do youeverintend to get out that rig?"
"Weel—gin ye 're a relative o' Buck Peters, I jalouse ye 'll gang yer ain gait, onyway," and he went grumbling through the hall to do her bidding.
A roaring volley of curses, instantly checked and rolling forth a second time with all the sulphur retained to add rancor to the percolator, drew Margaret curiously to overlook the cause. Seeing, she thought she understood Sandy's reluctance to let his team to her: a pair of perfectly matched bays, snipped with white in a manner that gave to their antics an air of rollicking mischief, they were lacking the angularity of outline Margaret already had come to expect in Western ponies, and their wild plunging seemed more the result of overflowing vitality than inherent vice. Drawn by the uproar, Slick appeared beside her.
"No team for a lady to drive," he declared, shaking his head.
"Ridiculous!" asserted Margaret. "Go help them." A devitalized imprecation from Sandy hastened his steps. Margaret was in doubt which amused her most: the trickiness of the ponies or Sandy's heroic endeavor to swear without swearing. She understood him far better than either of the others, who worked silently and with well directed efforts.
With Slick's invaluable assistance their object was soon accomplished, the team being hitched to a new buckboard that was the pride of Sandy's heart. "'T is a puir thing," he protested, eying it sourly. "I hae naething better."
"Why, it is perfect," declared Margaret, "but I shall want a whip."
"Ye 'll want nae whup," denied Sandy, shaking his head ominously.
The Cyclone puncher at the head of the nigh horse called to her: "Take 'em out o' th' corral, miss? They 'll go like antelopes when they start."
Margaret laughed in gay excitement. "No, no! please don't," she entreated, drawing on her gloves. "I could drive that pair through the eye of a needle."
Sandy glanced from her to the team and back again.
"Havers! I 'll gie ye ma ain whup," he promised. He was back in half a minute with a lash whip whose holly stock never grew in America.
"What a beauty!'" exclaimed Margaret. She ran down the steps, gathered up the lines, and sprang into the buckboard, bracing herself for the inevitable jerk. "Ready," she warned. "Let go."
It was lucky for Mrs. Blake that she had loosened her corset strings and was confined to her room; had she seen the start—and she knew Margaret's skill as well as any one—she certainly would have burst them in her fright. With the three men it was otherwise; they vented their admiration in a ringing cheer. The ponies, gathering speed in the short stretch to the ford, were coaxed over so near the I-Call that Dirty Snow tumbled precipitately from his box and fled around the corner of the saloon; missing the box by a foot, the wheels began a wide arc toward the water through which the rig whirled in an avalanche of spray, to shave the front of the Why-Not as closely as it had the I-Call. To the delighted astonishment of Twin River—by this time the entire inhabitants, excepting only Mrs. Blake, were more or less interested in the proceedings—the team was no sooner going in the straight than Margaret cracked the lash to right and left and the startled ponies bellied to the ground in their efforts to escape an unknown danger. Sandy guffawed in pride of ownership; Slick gazed with his soul in his eyes; the puncher danced up and down in his joy, thumping first one and then the other.
"Did you see it?" he demanded, "Did you see it?" The others admitted eyesight equal to the occasion. "Say," asseverated the puncher, "if I owned all Montany, from here to th' line, I gives it to get that gal. That's th' kind of a hair-pin I am. You hear me!"
* * * * *
Margaret's sudden exclamation hastened the speed of the ponies but she drew them firmly in and approached the group on the trail at an easy lope. Whitby ran up from the river bank as she pulled the team to a stand.
"Who is it, Miss LaFrance? How did it happen?" asked Margaret, guessing the answer to her own questions.
"It is M'sieu Peters, ma'am'selle. He is wounded," replied Rose.
"Just in time, Miss McAllister," said Whitby, coming up at that moment. "We 'll commandeer that wagon as an ambulance."
"Miss McAllister!" exclaimed Buck, wonderingly. Then, energetically: "Whit, you get after that pole-cat. I can get to th' ranch, now. Get a-goin'."
"Buck, I 'm like Jake: 'sot in my ways.' There is no necessity to follow that pole-cat, as you so aptly call him. And you are not going to the ranch, you know. Miss LaFrance has kindly volunteered expert service in nursing and I intend that you shall get it. Miss McAllister, Miss LaFrance, whose services you already know; and Mr. Peters, your father's partner."
"You must not think of going on to the ranch, Mr. Peters," persuaded Margaret. "I only hope it is not too far to Miss LaFrance's home. If we could lift you—I 'm afraid these horses won't stand."
"Lift! I reckon I got one good laig, Miss McAllister—" he fell back with a grunt.
"Dash it all, Buck! Do you want to break open that wound? 'Pon my word, I don't envy you your patient, Miss LaFrance. You lie still, you restless beggar. I 've packed more than one man with a game leg and gone it alone. Do you think you can manage those dancing jackasses?" He looked doubtingly from them to Margaret.
Margaret dimpled. "Ask Sandy," she advised, demurely.
"Ou, ay!" quoth Whitby and Margaret broke into bubbling laughter that reflected from Rose's face in the faint shadow of a smile.
"Too bad of me to be laughing this way, Mr. Peters," apologized Margaret, correctly interpreting the expression of Rose, whose glance had turned to Buck; "but I have so much cause to be merry when I least expected it that I forgot for the moment you are wounded."
She resolutely avoided looking at Whitby who, thus unobserved, displayed a grin more fittingly adapted to the countenance of the famous Cat of Cheshire. Rose glanced swiftly from Whitby to Margaret and the two women were already aware of that which the men would never guess in each other.
"Shucks! I been shot up worse 'n this, Miss McAllister," assured Buck; "if that pig-headed Britisher would on'y take orders like he oughta. He 's obstinater nor a cow with a suckin' calf."
"Right-o!" assented Whitby, who had finished his preparations for the lift. "Now, Miss LaFrance."
He had managed to pass the blanket under Buck's middle, looping it over his own neck; while this arrangement eased but little weight from Rose, it had the advantage of keeping Buck comparatively straight. Whitby, backing up into the buckboard, his hands tightly grasping Buck beneath the arms, was ably assisted by Rose, who moved and steadied her load without apparent effort. Margaret was genuinely surprised. "How strong you are!" she exclaimed, admiringly.
"Gentle as rain," commended Buck. "If you got that flask handy, Whit, I 'd like to feel it."