RIDING BOOT RIVALS.
Ethel Andress believed she knew the men of her immediate command.
Hers was the assurance of a widowhood that, after two years, had lost
its poignancy over the past for interest in the future. She felt
sure of Thomas Fitzrapp, bachelor manager of her ranch in the Fire
Weed country--more sure of his feelings than of her own. Her
handsome, distinguished uncle was, she thought, an open book to her.
She needed not even to turn down the corner of the page when she left
off reading him. He was his own bookmark.
He was riding into Strathconna with this attractive stranger in order
to try him out without any assistance from her. That was as obvious
as a scare head in the Montreal _Star_. If this Childress man
measured up, probably she would meet him again at the hospitable
board of the winter house which they shared in the wonder town. If,
for any reason, he failed to come up to the pioneer's rough but
obligatory standard, he would ride out of her life on the present
occasion, and the incident of the morning would not again be
mentioned.
In secret, the widow hoped that the unknown would prove sufficiently
sterling for further acquaintance, for, even though she had berated
him, his resource in what he had imagined an emergency had pleased
her. Moreover, she liked the clean-cut, resolute look of him; his
direct, outspoken manner; his appearance of having lived a great
diversity of experience without too much wear and tear, and--this
last count of the indictment essentially feminine--his waving
chestnut hair. She offered no protest to her uncle's unspoken
decision that she should ride with the other members of the club.
There was wisdom, she realized, in his precaution in a land filled
with such a miscellaneous population as had crowded into their
Western province in the last few years.
To the evident satisfaction of Fitzrapp, who had missed the major's
glance of instruction, she ranged the sorrel alongside his mount.
The dogs were under easy control, having lost all interest in any
further close contact with the stranger hound, Poison. That for a
time she was silent, gazing over the wonder panorama of the Canadian
Rockies to the westward, did not trouble the man, for he was
accustomed to her caprices and had forced himself to possess great
patience wherever and whenever she was concerned. Her initial remark
on the ride home, however, was far from encouraging.
"From where--from what port of missing men do you suppose my
attractive rescuer hails?" she asked, her manner so innocent as to
deny a desire to stab him in a tender spot.
"He wasn't your rescuer," grumbled Fitzrapp.
"Would have been had I been in danger. From where, do you suppose?"
Fitzrapp flung back a gesture toward the Montana hills in the purple
distance beyond the border and only a few leagues beyond the limits
of her own Rafter A Range.
"From the States," he said with obvious grouch.
There ensued a quarter of a mile of silence. Tom Fitzrapp knew when
to keep still.
"What makes you think so?"
She asked the question as though coming from the United States was
some sort of a crime.
"I taxed him with it and he didn't deny."
"But I'm certain," protested the widow, "that on the coat tied to the
cantle of his saddle there was one of our own distinguished conduct
ribbons. Wouldn't that indicate----"
"There were many from the States in the Canadian war forces,"
Fitzrapp offered. "Probably he's riding back to cash in on some
bonus or other graft."
"Bonus--more than you'll ever cash," the widow snapped. The war had
cost her a husband and any mention of it still had the lash of a whip
for her.
Again they rode in silence.
That Fitzrapp had avoided war service by clever subterfuge and
ostensibly meritorious home service was one of the things that
continually cropped up between the fair owner of the Rafter A and the
dashing foreman employed on advice of her uncle. The man knew better
than to enter upon that subject. He regretted the slur that had
crept into his tone in discussing the stranger.
But in view of his acknowledged suit for the hand, acres and herds of
the widow Andress he was not inclined to brook interference from any
attractive adventurer, who might, only too easily, became attracted.
As he rode the easy, homeward-bound pace, he considered means of
blocking any growth of interest in the widow should the major be
inclined toward Childress.
Suddenly a startling thought, an inspiration quite in keeping with
the emergency, came to him.
"Did you notice, Ethel, the horse that stranger is riding?"
"Did I notice?" cried Mrs. Andress enthusiastically. "Could I help
noticing when he carried me several of the finest miles I've ever
ridden? And just remember that the number of those miles is large,
considering that my first hobbyhorse was a wall-eyed pinto cow pony,
and that I practiced roping animals by tossing strings around the
kitchen cat as soon as I could tie a knot."
"But I mean--what's the description of the horse?"
"He's a silver-gray stallion, probably a half-blood, but as beautiful
a cross as you'll find in the prairie provinces," answered the widow,
who knew horseflesh with that accuracy which most young women reserve
for the latest fashions.
"And what have we heard about a silver stallion in the past year?"
Fitzrapp asked gravely. "Have those renegades from across the border
ever run any of our blooded stock off Rafter A that we didn't see or
hear of their leader riding such a horse? Didn't I see a silver
stallion myself in a lightning flash that stormy night when I so
nearly ran them down at the boundary?"
Ethel gave him a startled glance. "Just what are you hinting at,
Tom?"
"Don't want to be too hasty in judging any white man, but the
possibility stands out that this chap who calls himself Childress may
well be the head of the rustlers, and that the silver stallion
prancing ahead there may be the one he has ridden on his costly
visits to the Fire Weed range. It won't do our interests any damage
to be on guard."
There was no real reason why she should hold a brief for the
stranger. None, except the feminine one that she liked his looks and
that her lead in the romantic game she played from instinct was to
take issue with Tom Fitzrapp.
"But you have no proof," she protested after a moment's thought. "If
he is a rustler, why is he riding to Strathconna?"
"Of course, the facts against him may be mere coincidence," replied
Fitzrapp, with that deference to her opinion which always had stamped
him as fair-minded in her eyes. "But on the other hand, his coming
to Strathconna may be sheer bravado. Suppose that he hopes to learn
the location and worth of other breeders along the border. Suppose
that he means to inquire into the plans of the Mounted Police. There
could be a dozen reasons, my dear, for a visit to Strathconna, and,
after the way they've run off with our stock, you surely don't doubt
that the leader of the band would be bold enough to venture anything,
do you?"
"He doesn't have the appearance of a horse thief." Ethel Andress
spoke aloud, but with the air of one meditating.
"Your woman's intuition is worth as much as my suspicion; but
remember what your uncle says, that thieves seldom look the part. At
any rate, it won't do any harm for us to guard your susceptible
relative against the undoubted charms of this stranger."
At this the widow's face did not reflect the gravity one might have
expected. Truth to tell, she was more diverted by what she was
pleased to consider her most devoted suitor's jealousy of any
possible rival than interested in his theme.
"Still seeing rivals in every pair of riding boots that come into the
offing, aren't you, dear old grouch?" she said, laughing lightly.
"Wouldn't it have been most awfully awful had the stranger worn
chaps? If I were you, I think I'd try to cheer up. Come, I'll race
you to town!"
Touching her whip to the sorrel, she dashed off toward the city that
was the cow-town of yesterday, the tall buildings and sentinel-like
grain elevators of which were to-day in close perspective.