WHAT PRATT THOUGHT
The party of visitors to the Edwards ranch tired of jack-shooting and
jack-running before noon. Jose Reposa had cached a huge hamper of lunch
which the Bar-T cook had put up, and he softly suggested to Mrs. Edwards
that the company be called together and luncheon made ready, with hot
coffee for all.
"But where's Pratt?" cried somebody.
"And Miss Rugley?" asked another.
"Oh, I guess you'll find them together somewhere," snapped Sue Latrop.
She had felt neglected by her "hero" for the last hour, and was in the
sulks, accordingly.
Pratt, however, came in alone. He had bagged several jacks. Altogether
Silent Sam and the Mexican had destroyed more than a score of the pests,
and the dogs had torn to pieces two or three beside. The canines were
satiated with the meat, and were glad to lie down, panting, and watch
the preparations for luncheon.
"I have not seen Miss Frances since she caught the antelope," Pratt
declared.
Sue began to laugh--but it wasn't a nice laugh at all. "Guess she got
mad and went home. You, letting that animal go the way you did! I never
heard of such a foolish thing!"
Pratt said nothing. He sat down on the other side of the fire from the
girl from Boston. He took it for granted that Frances _had_ gone
home.
For, remembering as he did, that Frances was a range girl, and had lived
out-of-doors and undoubtedly among rough men, a good part of her life,
the young fellow thought that, very probably, Frances had been utterly
disgusted with him when he showed so much tenderness for the innocent
little antelope.
Since that moment of weakness he had been telling himself:
"She thinks me a softy. I am. What kind of a hunter did I show myself to
be? Pooh! she must be disgusted with my weakness."
Nevertheless, he would have done the same thing over again. It was his
nature not to wish to see dumb creatures in pain, or to inflict pain on
them himself.
Killing the jack-rabbits was a necessity as well as a sport. Even
chasing a poor, unfortunate little fox, as Sue had done in the East,
might be made to seem a commendable act, for the foxes, when numerous,
are a nuisance around the poultry runs.
But by no possible reasoning could Pratt have ever excused his killing
of the pretty, innocent antelope. They did not need it for food, and it
was one of the most harmless creatures in the world.
To tell the truth, Pratt was glad Frances was not present at the
luncheon. He cared a good deal less about Sue's saucy tongue than he did
for the range girl's opinion of him.
During these weeks that he had known Frances Rugley, he had come to see
that hers was a most vigorous and interesting character. Pratt was a
thoughtful young man. There was nothing foolish about his interest in
Frances, but he _did_ crave her friendship and liking.
Some of the other men rallied him on his sudden silence, and this gave
Sue Latrop an opportunity to say more sarcastic things.
"He misses that 'cattle queen,'" she giggled, but was careful that Mrs.
Edwards did not hear what she said. "Too bad; poor little boy! Why
didn't you ride after her, Pratt?"
"I might, had I known when she went home," replied Pratt, cheerfully.
"I beg the Senor's pardon," whispered Jose, who was gathering up the
plates. "The _senorita_ did not go home."
Pratt looked at the boy, sharply. "Sure?" he asked.
"Quite so--_si, senor_."
"Where did she go?"
"_Quien sabe?_" retorted Jose Reposa, with a shrug of his
shoulders. "She crossed the river yonder and rode east."
So did the party from the Edwards ranch a little later. Silent Sam
Harding had already ridden back to the Bar-T. Jose gathered up the
hamper and its contents and started home on mule-back.
Pratt had curiosity enough, when the party went over the river, to look
for the prints of Molly's hoofs.
There they were in the soft earth on the far edge of the stream. Frances
had ridden down stream at a sharp pace. Where had she gone?
"It was odd for her to leave us in that way," thought Pratt, turning the
matter over in his mind, "and not to return. In a way she was our
hostess. I did not think Frances would fail in any matter of courtesy.
How could she with Captain Dan Rugley for a father?"
The old ranchman was the soul of hospitality. That Frances should seem
to ignore her duty as a hostess stung Pratt keenly. He heard Sue Latrop
speaking about it.
"Went off mad. What else could you expect of a cowgirl?" said the girl
from Boston, in her very nastiest tone.
The fact that Sue seemed so sure Frances was derelict in her duty made
Pratt more confident that something untoward had occurred to the girl of
the ranges to keep her from returning promptly to the party.
Of course, the young man suspected nothing of the actual situation in
which Frances at that very moment found herself. Pratt dreamed of a
broken cinch, or a misstep that might have lamed Molly.
Instead, Frances Rugley was sitting with her back against a stump at the
edge of the clearing where she had come so suddenly upon the campfire,
with her ungloved hands lying in her lap so that Ratty's bright eyes
could watch them continually.
Pete had taken away her gun. Molly was hobbled with the men's horses on
the other side of the hollow. The two plotters had rekindled the fire
and were whispering together about her.
Had Pete had his way he would have tied Frances' hands and feet. But the
ex-cowpuncher of the Bar-T ranch would not listen to that.
Although Pete was the leading spirit, Ratty M'Gill turned ugly when his
mate attempted to touch the girl; so they had left her unbound. But not
unwatched--no, indeed! Ratty's beadlike eyes never left her.
Not much of their conversation reached the ears of Frances, although she
kept very still and tried to hear. She could read Ratty's lips a little,
for he had no mustache; but the bearded Pete's lips were hidden.
"I've got to have a good piece of it myself, if I'm going to take a
chance like that!" was one declaration of the ex-cowpuncher's that she
heard clearly.
Again Ratty said: "They'll not only suspect me, they'll _know_.
Won't the girl tell them? I tell you I want to see my getaway before I
make a stir in the matter--you can bet on that!"
Finally, Frances saw the ex-orderly of the Bylittle Soldiers' Home
produce a pad of paper, an envelope, and pencil. He was plainly a ready
writer, for he went to work with the pencil at once, while Ratty rolled
a fresh cigarette and still watched their captive.
Pete finished his letter, sealed it in the envelope, and addressed it in
a bold hand.
"That'll just about fix the business, I reckon," said Pete, scowling
across at Frances. "That gal's mighty smart--with her trunk full of junk
and all----"
Ratty burst into irrepressible laughter. 'You sure got Pete's goat when
you played him that trick, Frances. He fair killed himself puntin' that
trunk up the river and hiding it, and then taking the punt back and
letting it drift so as to put Peckham's crew off the scent.
"And when he busted it open----" Ratty burst into laughter again, and
held his sides. Pete looked surly.
"We'll make the old man pay for her cuttin' up them didoes," growled the
bewhiskered rascal. "And my horse and wagon, too. I b'lieve she and that
man with her set the fire that burned up my outfit."
Frances herewith took part in the conversation.
"Who set the grass-fire, in the first place?" she demanded. "I believe
you did that, Ratty M'Gill. You were just reckless enough that day."
"Aw, shucks!" said the young man, sheepishly.
"But you haven't the same excuse to-day for being reckless," the girl
said, earnestly. "You have not been drinking. What do you suppose Sam
and the boys will do to you for treating me in this manner?"
"Now, that will do!" said Pete, hoarsely "You hold your tongue, young
woman!"
But Ratty only laughed. He accepted the letter, took off his sombrero,
tucked it under the sweatband, and put on the hat again. Then he started
lazily for the pony that he rode.
"Now mind you!" he called back over his shoulder to Pete, "I'm not going
to risk my scalp going to the ranch-house with this yere billy-do--not
much!"
"Why not?" asked Pete, angrily. "We got to move quick."
"We'll move quick later; we'll go sure and steady now," chuckled the
cowboy. "I'll send it in by one of the Mexicans. Say it was give to me
by a stranger on the trail. I ain't welcome at the Bar-T, and I know
it."
He leaped into his saddle and spurred his horse away, quickly getting
out of sight. Frances knew that the letter he carried, and which Pete
had written, was to her father.