There was a dominant, compelling note in the voice of Peters. It was so unexpected in its assertiveness that every one in the room was startled. His washed-out blue eyes fenced aggressively with the snapping black eyes of Markham.
“Skates or skis!” repeated Markham, his upper lip curling. “Why, it’s all of thirty miles to Roscommon, if you follow the crooks o’ the river! And how much would you figure it by skis, if you crossed Bear Butte instead of going around it? Talk sense, if you know how, Nix! Don’t forget the fellows who rustled our stock have three hours the lead.”
“How far will three hours of driving in this snow get the stolen herd?” returned Peters. “The thieves will have a tough job of it. They——”
Bailey twisted his flushed face from under the ministering hands of Mrs.Morton. “The varmints are goin’ north by the Long Knife Dry Wash,” he said, his voice shaking with the pain of his wound. “That’s only three miles west of Roscommon. If you boys could get word to the sheriff somehow, I reckon he might head off the raiders with a posse. But if you do anything, you’ll have to do it quick. Porter,” and his eyes swerved to Markham, “I’m lookin’ to you—Uncle Si Goddard is lookin’ to you. Nigh on to five thousand dollars’ wuth of horses are being pushed to’rds the border, and here I’m helpless to do a thing.”
“It don’t seem possible to do a thing, Reece,” returned Markham. “If we could round up a crowd of men in short order, and take after the thieves on fresh horses, like enough we might overhaul ’em. But where’s the riding stock? Why, Morton’s nearest neighbor is ten miles away!”
Peters flashed a disapproving glance at Markham, pulled off his bearskin gloves, and slumped down in a chair by the stove. From the pockets of his overcoat he took his skates, also a new strap he had secured in Devil’s Lake City. Quickly he replaced the broken strap with the new one.
“You going to try and get to Roscommon by river, Nix?” Morton inquired.
“I figure the chances are better that way than going over Bear Butte on skis,” Peters answered. “The river’s clean of snow, and mostly the ice is like a lookin’-glass. I’m going to do my best to get word to the sheriff and to start a Roscommon doctor this way to look after Bailey.”
“You’re locoed!” growled Markham. “It s all right to get a doctor for Reese, here, but there ain’t a chance to save the stock this side of the line. Let the raiders get it across the boundary, and then take the matter up with the Canadian Mounted Police. That’s my advice.”
“If you wait till the stock is out of this country,” put in the rancher, “there won’t be a chance.”
“Not a chance on earth,” agreed Bailey. “That outfit o’ thieves knowed exactly what they was about. Everything was cut and dried, and somebody sure tipped ’em off regardin’ the layout here. I’ll bet a thousand ag’inst a chink wash ticket that them bronks will be took care of across the line so’st they can’t be located by nobody. Them thieves picked a time when I was alone at the shelter sheds and Porter and Nix was to the winter sports at the lake. They dropped me out o’ my saddle without any whys or wherefores, and then made off with my mount and sent a man to the stable for Peters’ and Markham’s ridin’ horses. By the time I covered the mile back to the ranch house the stock was well on the way north. I—I——”
He broke off abruptly, clenching his teeth hard as a spasm of pain ran through his body.
“I’ll get another coat,” remarked Peters, rising from his chair and starting for the door that led to his room. “It won’t be possible to make any kind of time in a long overcoat like this.” He disappeared.
Markham came to the side of the couch. “If Peters has a chance, Reece,” said he, “he’ll make a bobble of some kind and spoil it all. That’s his way. I better go to Roscommon myself. Peters can use his skates, and take the river trail, and I’ll use my skis and go over the butte. I don’t think we have a ghost of a show to head off the stock, but it’s up to us to see what we can do.”
“That’s the talk!” exclaimed Morton approvingly. “The thieves had help from this ranch,” he added darkly, tossing a significant glance toward the door through which Peters had just passed, “and I haven’t got a whole lot of confidencein at least one man around here.”
“Peters is square,” Bailey averred. “Square as a die. He jest don’t seem to have the knack for puttin’ his idees across. The man that saves them bronks, Porter,” he added significantly, “is goin’ to make the biggest kind of a hit with Goddard.”
“If any one connects with the sheriff at Roscommon in time to save the bronks,” Markham returned, “it will be me.” He spoke with a confidence that thrilled every one in the room, and Hesther, if the red in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes were any indication, most of all. “I’ll be ready,” he finished, moving toward the door, “in about two shakes.”
“You must have some hot coffee before you start,” said Hesther, “and I’ll see that it is ready for you.”
Markham was back in the room before Peters had reappeared. He wore a leather coat, and the bottoms of his trousers were laced inside his high shoe tops. Trim and handsome he looked, and ready for a grueling night’s work. Hesther was just placing the coffee on the table, and she lifted her eyes to flash a glance of admiration at the young ski runner.
“I’ll be ready in a minute, Essie,” said Markham, with a nod and a smile.
Taking his skis from a corner of the room, he sat down, laid them across his knees, and proceeded to grease them well from a can which he had brought into the room and had placed on the stove. While he worked, Peters came lumbering in.
Peters had donned a ragged sweater, whose collar came up around his ears. Over this was buttoned a faded and threadbare coat. His old-fashioned skates were under his arm. From beneath the rim of his moth-eaten fur cap his tow hair showed in a sort of fringe. The cap had ear flaps, with strings at their ends. The flaps were loose, and the strings fluttered as he moved his head. His shoes were of cowhide, strong and serviceable, but not at all ornamental. He had tied the bottoms of his trousers to his ankles with pieces of cord.
The contrast between Peters and Markham was very striking. So far as appearances went, Markham had it “on” Peters by about a hundred to one.
“I’m going, too, Nix,” observed Markham, laying his skis to one side. “I’ll go over the butte, and I’ve got a month’s pay that says I beat you into Roscommon.”
“Maybe you will,” returned Peters, starting for the outside door.
There was more bitterness in Peters’ heart. He believed he understood the situation. Markham had won the ski jump and the skating race, and now he wanted to round off his triumphs by being first to carry the news of the horse thieving to the sheriff. Markham was planning a spectacular bit of work, for Uncle Si Goddard incidentally. Mainly, he was thinking of the effect of his night’s success on Hesther Morton.
“Wait, Nixon!” called Mrs. Morton. “Essie has got some hot coffee ready, and you must have a cup before you leave.”
The rancher’s wife was the only one who ever gave much thought to Peters. She considered him now, when the consideration and confidence of the others seemed to center wholly in Markham.
“Much obliged, Mrs. Morton,” Peters answered, “but I don’t reckon I’ll take the time. You see,” he added, as he laid a hand on the doorknob, “it’s a case where every minute counts.”
Before the good woman could answer, the door had closed behind Peters. Markham pulled up his shoulders in a shrug as he lifted the cup of steaming coffee.
“There’s Nixon’s first blunder,” heremarked. “He has a habit of going it blind, and without giving any preparation to the work ahead of him.”
“I hope he won’t meet with any accident,” murmured Mrs. Morton. “That boy’s got a good heart, even if he is a little odd.”
“He’ll always be a blunderer and a saphead,” grunted her husband. “If the stolen horses are recovered, it’ll be Markham who makes it possible.”
Markham did not tarry long over his coffee. Within a few moments after Peters left he was out in the nipping air. Hesther, a shawl over her head, stepped through the doorway to watch while he crossed the trampled snow around the ranch house and then knelt to thrust the toes of his shoes in the Bilgeri binding of the skis and to buckle the ankle straps. He arose presently, and, shouting a farewell to the girl, glided away over the snowy level gracefully, swiftly, with his ski stick biting into the snow and propelling him onward.
“He’s doing a man’s work this night,” murmured Hesther, “and he will win—just as he won at Devil’s Lake City carnival.” Then she went back into the house, to describe in detail how Peters had lost and Markham had won in the winter sports’ contests at the lake.