THE STAMPEDE
The remainder of the night passed in quietness. That there really had
been a marauder about the Bar-T ranch-house could not be doubted; for a
slate was found upon the ground in the morning, and the place in the
roof where it had been broken out was plainly visible.
Captain Rugley sent one of the men up with a ladder and new slates to
repair the damage. He reported that the marks of the grappling-hook in
the roof sheathing were unmistakable, too.
Although her father had expressed himself as doubtful of the good
intentions of Pratt Sanderson, Frances was glad to see at breakfast that
he treated the young man no differently than before. Pratt slept late
and the meal was held back for him.
"The attentions of that old mountain lion bothered me so that I did not
sleep much the fore part of the night," Pratt explained.
"How about that bird you heard on the roof?" the Captain asked, calmly.
"I don't know what it was. It sounded like big wings flapping," the
young fellow explained. "But I really didn't see anything."
Captain Rugley grunted, and said no more. He grunted a good deal this
morning, in fact, for every movement gave him pain.
"The rheumatism has got its fangs set in me right, this time," he told
Frances.
"That's for being out of your warm bed and chasing all over the house
without a coat on in the night," she said, admonishingly.
"Goodness!" said her father. "Must I be _that_ particular? If so, I
_am_ getting old, I reckon."
She made him promise to keep out of draughts when she mounted Molly to
ride away on an errand to a distant part of the ranch. She rode off with
Pratt Sanderson, for he was traveling in the same direction, toward Mr.
Bill Edwards' place.
Frances of the ranges was more silent than she had been when they rode
together the night before. Pratt found it hard to get into conversation
with her on any but the most ephemeral subjects.
For instance, when he hinted about Captain Rugley's adventures on the
Border:
"Your father is a very interesting talker. He has seen and done so
much."
"Yes," said Frances.
"And how adventurous his life must have been! I'd love to get him in a
story-telling mood some day."
"He doesn't talk much about old times."
"But, of course, you know all about his adventures as a Ranger, and his
trips into Mexico?"
"No," said Frances.
"Why! he spoke last night as though he often talked about it. About the
looting of---- Who was the old Spanish grandee he mentioned?"
"I know very little about it, Pratt," fluttered Frances. "That's just
dad's talk."
"But that gorgeous girdle and bracelet you wore!"
Frances secretly determined not to wear jewelry from the treasure chest
again. She had never thought before about its causing comment and
conjecture in the minds of people who did not know her father as well as
she did.
Suppose people believed that Captain Dan Rugley had actually stolen
those things in some raid into Mexico? Such a thought had never troubled
her before. But she could see, now, that strangers might misjudge her
father. He talked so recklessly about his old life on the Border that he
might easily cause those who did not know him to believe that not alone
the contents of that mysterious treasure chest but his other wealth was
gained by questionable means.
Fortunately, a herd of steers, crossing from one of the extreme southern
ranges of the Bar-T to the north where juicier grass grew, attracted the
attention of the guest from Amarillo.
"Are those all yours, Frances?" he asked, when he saw the mass of dark
bodies and tossing horns that appeared through rifts in the dust cloud
that accompanies a driven herd even over sod-land.
"My father's," she corrected, smiling. "And only a small herd. Not more
than two thousand head in that bunch."
"I'd call two thousand cows a whole lot," Pratt sighed.
"Not for us. Remember, the Bar-T has been in the past one of the great
cattle ranches of the West. Daddy is getting old now and cannot attend
to so much work."
"But you seem to know all about it," said Pratt, with enthusiasm. "Don't
you really do all the overseeing for him?"
"Oh, no!" laughed Frances. "Not at all. Silent Sam is the ranch manager.
I just do what either dad or Sam tell me. I'm just errand girl for the
whole ranch."
But Pratt knew better than that. He saw now that she was watching the
oncoming mass of steers with a frown of annoyance. Something was going
wrong and Frances was troubled.
"What's the matter?" he asked, curiously.
"I thought that was Ratty M'Gill with that bunch," Frances answered,
more as though thinking aloud than consciously answering Pratt's
question. "The rascal! He'd run all the fat off a bunch of cows between
pastures."
She pulled Molly around and headed the pinto for the herd. It was not in
his way, but Pratt followed her example and rode his grey hard after the
cowgirl.
Not a herdsman was in sight. The steers were coming on through the dust,
sweating and steaming, evidently having been driven very hard since
daybreak. Occasionally one bawled an angry protest; but those in front
were being forced on by the rear ranks, which in turn were being
harassed by the punchers in charge.
Suddenly, a bald-faced steer shot out of the ruck of the herd, darting
at right angles to the course. For a little way a steer can run as fast
as a race-horse. That's why the creatures are so very hard to manage on
occasion.
To Pratt, who was watching sharply, it was a question which got into
action first--Frances or her wise little pinto. He did not see the girl
speak to Molly; but the pony turned like a shot and whirled away after
the careering steer. At the same moment, it seemed, Frances had her hair
rope in her hand.
The coils began to whirl around her head. The pinto was running like the
wind. The bald-faced, ugly-looking brute of a steer was soon running
neck and neck with the well-mounted girl.
Pratt followed. He was more interested in the outcome of the chase than
he was in where his grey was putting his feet.
There was an eerie yell behind them. Pratt saw a wild-looking, hatless
cowboy racing a black pony toward them. The whole herd seemed to have
been turned in some miraculous way, and was thundering after Old
Baldface and the girl.
Pratt began to wonder if there was not danger. He had heard of a
stampede, and it looked to him as though the bunch of steers was quite
out of hand. Had he been alone, he would have pulled out and let the
herd go by.
But either Frances did not see them coming, or she did not care. She was
after that bald-faced steer, and in a moment she had him.
The whirling noose dropped and in some wonderful way settled over a horn
and one of the steer's forefeet. When Molly stopped and braced herself,
the steer pitched forward, turned a complete somersault, and lay on the
prairie at the mercy of his captor.
"Hurray!" yelled Pratt, swinging his hat.
He was riding recklessly himself. He had seen a half-tamed steer roped
and tied at an Amarillo street fair; but _that_ was nothing like
this. It had all been so easy, so matter-of-fact! No display at all
about the girl's work; but just as though she could do it again, and yet
again, as often as the emergency arose.
Frances cast a glowing smile over her shoulder at him, as she lay back
in the saddle and let Molly hold Old Baldface in durance. But suddenly
her face changed--a flash of amazed comprehension chased the triumphant
smile away. She opened her lips to shout something to Pratt--some
warning. And at that instant the grey put his foot into a ground-dog
hole, and the young man from Amarillo left the saddle!
He described a perfect parabola and landed on his head and shoulders on
the ground. The grey scrambled up and shot away at a tangent, out of the
course of the herd of thundering steers. He was not really hurt.
But his rider lay still for a moment on the prairie. Pratt Sanderson was
certainly "playing in hard luck" during his vacation on the ranges.
The mere losing of his mount was not so bad; but the steers had really
stampeded, and he lay, half-stunned, directly in the path of the herd.
Old Baldface struggled to rise and seized upon the girl's attention. She
used the rope in a most expert fashion, catching his other foreleg in a
loop, and then catching one of his hind legs, too. He was secured as
safely as a fly in a spider-web.
Frances was out of her saddle the next moment, and ran back to where
Pratt lay. She knew Molly would remain fixed in the place she was left,
and sagging back on the rope.
The girl seized the young man under his armpits and started to drag him
toward the fallen steer. The bulk of Old Baldface would prove a
protection for them. The herd would break and swerve to either side of
the big steer.
But one thing went wrong in Frances' calculations. Her rope slipped at
the saddle. For some reason it was not fastened securely.
The straining Molly went over backward, kicking and squealing as the
rope gave way, and the big steer began to struggle to his feet.