MOLLY
Frances' secret plans did not interfere with her usual tasks. She
started in the morning to make her rounds. Molly had been resting and
would now be in fine fettle, and the girl expected to call her to the
gate when she came down to the corral in which the spare riding stock
was usually kept.
Instead of seeing only Jose Reposa or one of the other Mexicans hanging
about, here was a row of punchers roosting along the top rail of the
corral fence, and evidently so much interested in what was going on in
the enclosure that they did not notice the approach of Captain Rugley's
daughter.
"Better keep off'n the leetle hawse, Ratty!" one fellow was advising the
unseen individual who was partly, at least, furnishing the entertainment
for the loiterers.
"She looks meek," put in another, "but believe me! when she was broke,
it was the best day's work Joe Magowan ever done on this here ranch.
Ain't that so, boys?"
"Ratty warn't here then," said the first speaker. "He don't know that
leetle Molly hawse and what capers she done cut up----"
"Molly!" ejaculated Frances, under her breath, and ran forward.
At that instant there was a sudden hullabaloo in the corral. Some of the
men cheered; others laughed; and one fell off the fence.
"Go it!"
"Hold tight, boy!"
"Tie a knot in your laigs underneath her, Ratty! She's a-gwine to try to
throw ye clean ter Texarkana!"
_"What's he doing with my pony?"_
The cry startled the string of punchers. They turned--most of them
looking sheepish enough--and gaped, wordlessly, at Frances, who came
running to the fence.
Molly was her pet, her own especial property. Nobody else had ridden the
pinto since she was broken by the head wrangler, Joe Magowan. Nor was
Molly really broken, in the ordinary acceptation of the term.
Frances could ride her--could do almost anything with her. She was the
best cutting-out pony on the ranch. She was gentle with Frances, but she
had never shown fondness for anybody else, and would look wall-eyed on
the near approach of anybody but the girl herself. None but Joe and
Frances had ever bridled her or cinched the saddle on Molly.
Ratty M'Gill was the culprit, of course; nor did he hear Frances' cry as
she arrived at the corral. He had bestridden the nervous pinto and Molly
was "acting up."
Ratty had his rope around her neck and a loop around her lower jaw, as
Indians guide their half-wild steeds. At every bound the puncher jerked
the pony's jaw downward and raked her flanks with his cruel spurs. These
latter were leaving welts and gashes along the pinto's heaving sides.
"You cruel fellow!" shrieked Frances. "Get off my pony at once!"
"Say! she's trying to buck, Miss Frances," one of the men warned her.
"She'll be sp'il't if he lets her beat him now. You won't never be able
to ride her, once let her git the upper hand."
"Mind you own concerns, Jim Bender!" exclaimed the girl, both wrathful
and hurt. "I can manage that pony if she's let alone." Then she raised
her voice again and cried to Ratty:
"M'Gill! you get off that horse! At once, I tell you!"
"The Missus is sure some peeved," muttered Bender to one of his mates.
"And why shouldn't she be? We'd never ought to let Ratty try to ride
that critter."
"Molly!" shouted Frances, climbing the fence herself as quickly as any
boy.
She dropped over into the corral where the other ponies were running
about in great excitement.
"Molly, come here!" She whistled for the pinto and Molly's head came up
and her eyes rolled in the direction of her mistress. She knew she was
being abused; and she remembered that Frances was always kind to her.
Whether Ratty agreed or not, the pinto galloped across the corral.
"Get down off that pony, you brute!" exclaimed Frances, her eyes
flashing at the half-serious, half-grinning cowboy.
"She's some little pinto when she gits in a tantrum," remarked the
unabashed Ratty.
Frances had brought her bridle. Although Molly stood shaking and
quivering, the girl slipped the bit between her jaws and buckled the
straps in a moment. She held the pony, but did not attempt to lead her
toward the saddling shed.
"M'Gill," Frances said, sharply, "you go to Silent Sam and get your time
and come to the house this noon for your pay. You'll never bestride
another pony on this ranch. Do you hear me?"
"What's that?" demanded the cowpuncher, his face flaming instantly, and
his black eyes sparkling.
She had reproved him before his mates, and the young man was angry on
the instant. But Frances was angry first. And, moreover, she had good
reason for distrusting Ratty. The incident was one lent by Fortune as an
excuse for his discharge.
"You are not fit to handle stock," said Frances, bitingly. "Look what
you did to that bunch of cattle the other day! And I've watched you more
than once misusing your mount. Get your pay, and get off the Bar-T.
We've no use for the like of you."
"Say!" drawled the puncher, with an ugly leer. "Who's bossing things
here now, I'd like to know?"
"I am!" exclaimed the girl, advancing a step and clutching the quirt,
which swung from her wrist, with an intensity that turned her knuckles
white. "You see Sam as I told you, and be at the house for your pay when
I come back."
The other punchers had slipped away, going about their work or to the
bunk-house. Ratty M'Gill stood with flaming face and glittering eyes,
watching the girl depart, leading the trembling Molly toward the exit of
the corral.
"You're a sure short-tempered gal this A. M.," he growled to himself.
"And ye sure have got it in for me. I wonder why? I wonder why?"
Frances did not vouchsafe him another look. She stood in the shadow of
the shed and petted Molly, fed her a couple of lumps of sugar from her
pocket, and finally made her forget Ratty's abuse. But Molly's flanks
would be tender for some time and her temper had not improved by the
treatment she had received.
"Perfectly scandalous!" exclaimed Frances, to herself, almost crying
now. "Just to show off before the other boys. Oh! he was mean to you,
Molly dear! A fellow like Ratty M'Gill will stand watching, sure
enough."
Finally, she got the saddle cinched upon the nervous pinto and rode her
out of the corral and away to the ranges for her usual round of the
various camps. She had not been as far as the West Run for several days.