SEALED LIPS.
Sergeant Jack Childress found himself in an exceedingly difficult
position, but one from which there seemed no honorable escape. The
transfer papers to the section he had claimed were not yet returned
from the official desk to which they had been taken for signature.
He could not leave the land office without them, even had it been in
his nature to run from trouble.
No great strain on the imagination was required to account for the
land agent's unspoken summons. Probably he, too, had felt the pathos
in the flame lady's voice. The sergeant was about to be asked to
select another section, thus adding his own meed of tribute to the
chivalry of the West.
Had it been a man who wished to contest his luck in the ranch
lottery, Childress would have welcomed the issue. But a woman--so
young a woman, with such dangerous hair, brought draft upon a sort of
courage he seldom had been called upon to use.
He did not hesitate, at least not to any perceptible degree. His
advance was slow, as if in doubt that the land agent really had
summoned him. On the way he studied this new and unexpected problem.
Even as untrained in femininity as was he, certain deductions were
possible.
Her dress, he was inclined to believe, wasn't really a dress at all,
but a skirt attached to a waist of French flannel, possibly out of
respect to Strathconna, the city. Well-worn riding-boots which
showed beneath the hem told him that much. Through the combination
her figure showed that it was of the slender, curveless strength
which comes from a life of activity in the open. Easily might she
have been prettier; yet she might have been a whole lot worse. He
had a thought-flash contrasting this unknown with the dashing
brunette beauty of the Indian reservation race the previous morning.
What had got into Fate to throw him twice within twenty-four hours
out of his wonted man's man groove?
"As long as you two strangers happen to be interested in the same
section of our wonderful Dominion," the agent opened urbanely, "it
occurred to me that you ought to meet." He glanced for reference at
the girl's application blank and then at the completed one originally
offered by the man. "Miss Bernice Gallegher, of Fire Weed, permit me
to present Mr. John Childress, of--of Montana."
There seemed nothing to do but offer his hand. The girl took it, but
the shake was of the "pump-handle" variety. As soon as possible she
broke the clasp. But her eyes remained upon him, puzzled,
questioning. The sergeant knew she saw a resemblance to some one in
her past life--that she was trying to place him. He breathed a
prayer that the change from bright uniform to somber mufti would
prove a sufficient disguise.
Had he heard the agent aright, no little illumination had come to the
sergeant. "Miss Gallegher, of Fire Weed!" Only a few hours before
he had been wondering why this particular section, key to one of the
easiest outlets across the international boundary, had not been
claimed, either by Gallegher or the Rafter A interests. And now this
surprising young woman had been sent to buy it in and had arrived a
moment too late!
There was a period of mutual embarrassment. The considerate land
agent had turned to some files within the railing. The situation was
theirs to do with as they might. But which one of them should open?
Childress felt the danger of those freckle-colored eyes, the freckles
of which had escaped his notice that night at the border. Although
well trained in the edict of the Mounted--"never fire first"--he
considered that as applying to gun-fire rather than speech.
"I'm sorry we happened to pick upon the same section, Miss
Gallegher," he said. "Of the countless others that are loose in the
Dominion, isn't there one that would suit you as well?" With purpose
well defined, he changed his voice from normal cadence.
"Beat me to it again," she mourned.
For the first time she laughed, but mirthlessly and without a smile.
"Again?"
"That very same question was on my lips--or just behind them. Isn't
there any other section of land in all Canada that would suit you as
well? If it is humanly possible I must take title to this one back
to my father."
There was a troubled, considering quality in her tone; a naive
suggestiveness in the lift of her long bronze lashes.
The difficulty of Sergeant Jack was approaching the acute stage.
There was no other section of land in all Canada that suited his
purpose; yet he could not tell this strangely appealing young
creature why this was the key acreage. It was vital that none should
know him for what he really was. So clever, so daring had been the
operation of the rustlers of this prize Canadian horse stock that no
one could be trusted. He felt the need of verbal fencing now,
especially as a possibility that their former meeting might be
disclosed to further handicap him.
"How long has your father lived in Fire Weed?" he asked suddenly.
"Ten years. But what has that to do with it?"
"And all these ten years this particular section has been open to
purchase. How comes it that you only want it now that someone else
does?"
Bernice drew up with scorn, her nose taking an increasingly
impertinent tilt. "I can see that it's hopeless to treat with you,
but I don't mind answering your question. It was plumb carelessness
on our part, once we had enough money to buy it. We thought the
Rafter A owned it. Reckon they thought we did. It takes a greener
to come along and get at the truth of no-man's land. Now, then, Mr.
Childress, will you tell me why you covet this particular gap in our
glorious hills?"
Evidently a straight-shooter, this Flame of Fire Weed! She was out
with the one question he wished she had not thought to ask. He could
not answer in full truth and he doubted that any half measure would
satisfy one whose eyes were so discriminating.
"I shall graze some stock," he began lamely.
"Horse or cow?"
"Probably both; and we'll be sort of neighbors, won't we?"
She shrugged her thin young shoulders. "Geographically speaking,
yes; but otherwise we're not very neighborly down in Fire Weed,
particularly with a man who's going to graze 'probably both.'"
Bernice was turning to leave the office, admitting defeat, but with
no quiver of lip.
"Just a moment, Miss Gallegher," he begged, something inside him
commanding that he not let her depart in entire despair. After all,
he'd only require that section a few months if luck was with him.
Evidently she had been sent on the long ride to town to corral the
range on some sudden tip that it still was open to purchase. No
telling what sort of a father awaited her at the home ranch--perhaps
a cross-patch, maybe a tyrant. She needn't go back without some
hope, so far as he was concerned. He could promise her something
without jeopardizing his mission. For the first time in his bashful
life he really wanted to promise a woman something.
For a moment he thought she did not intend to turn back. Although
she paused at his suggestion, she kept her eyes fixed upon the
stairway. The sigh with which she at last returned to him might have
been from despair, from resignation--what not.
"I just wanted to say," Childress snapped into it before the impulse
evaded him, "that I may not like ranching in the Fire Weed. If I
find that I don't, or if, for any other reason, I decide to give up
my little ranch--the first I've ever owned, by the way--I promise to
give you ample advance notice, so that you can, if you like, step
into my shoes."
Strangely enough, there was almost venom in the look with which she
now studied him. Suddenly a small gasp of intensity quivered through
her slender, strong body. Gone was her dreaminess, her resignation
or despair.
"I'll promise you, stranger, that you won't like ranching in Fire
Weed," she snapped, "but I'll be damned if I'll step into any man's
shoes." And with that she was gone.
Childress realized that he had spoken his well-meant offer sadly, yet
that scarcely accounted the ill-will of her response. She seemed as
sure that he would not enjoy life in the wonderful hills of her home
country as if she knew a dozen reasons why. A sudden suspicion
caught him. Was it possible that "Pop" Gallegher, her father, was
implicated in the stock stealing which had continued so successfully
for more than a year? Was that why he wanted the gap between his own
range and the Rafter A--wanted it so badly that he sent his daughter
loping to claim it the moment he found it was open to purchase?
Never had he seen the parent, but he had heard of him as "hard." No
more could he answer the questions he had put to himself. But they
would be answered, these questions, even though he dreaded further
contact with the sharp-tongued range nymph who had promised him in
turn. Or did he dread this prospect? Thank Heaven she did not
connect him with that uniformed knight at the border. Declining to
answer even his innermost self, he accepted from the land clerk his
documents of title and took himself off to locate, as soon as
possible, the "Mountie" constable, assigned to act as his aide in the
rôle of ranch hand and instructed to meet him here in Strathconna.
With the sergeant engaged in his search for one of the Force as
equally under cover as himself, suppose the scene and setting changed
to the handsome home of Major Ivan MacDonald, a rambling stucco
structure which with several others, more or less pretentious,
occupied the crest of Strathconna's only hill. It wasn't a Mount
Royal such as Montreal knows, although that was the name they gave
it. It wasn't even a Sherbrook Street, this fashion place of the
town that wouldn't admit to mushroom growth. But to dwell there was
a badge of wealth and the major was keen for badges.
The mansion boasted a spacious dining-room, the walls of which were
decorated with superbly mounted heads of animals--elk, buffalo,
moose, grizzly and mountain goat--every one of which had fallen under
the aim of the old sportsman. He and Fitzrapp were already at table
when Ethel Andress breezed in and greeted them cheerfully. Between
the two men ensued a friendly competition over which one should have
the honor of seating her.
"I tried to have a guest at dinner to-night," remarked the pioneer,
as the meal began.
"Who was he, Major?" asked Fitzrapp. "I didn't know there was any
visitor worth while in town."
"Worth while?" echoed the old gentleman, with twinkling eyes. "Well,
I should say this particular visitor was very much worth while!"
"Quit teasing, uncle," begged Ethel, "and tell us whom you invited."
"Your new young man." The pioneer smiled at her.
"My what?"
"Why, the young chap from the States, Mr. Childress, who saved you
yesterday from death by the prairie-dog route."
Mrs. Andress gave a slight start of surprise, and the lids narrowed
over the turquoise eyes whose contrast with her raven hair formed one
of several attractive details that won her class as a beauty. As her
uncle had not mentioned the man in khaki after their ride together
the day before, she had assumed that the supposed American had not
measured up to her relative's standards.
"Out of your own mouth, uncle of mine, you stand convicted of a
trifling misstatement," she inserted quickly, by way of covering any
undue interest her face might have shown. "Were he my young man, new
or old, he wouldn't have refused an invitation to dine here. I'm
surprised that this particular individual did refuse, though, for
yesterday he looked as hungry as one of the reservation braves. What
reason did he give?"
"The best in the world--a previous engagement, both for last night
and to-night. Can it be possible, Ethel, that you're losing your
knack with strange males? Your fatal beauty----"
An unexplained chuckle from Tom Fitzrapp interrupted.
"Is this some joke you two have framed on poor me?" demanded the
widow. "I certainly didn't ask him to rescue me."
"Mr. Thomas Fitzrapp seems to know something about this previous
engagement business," suggested the major.
Again Fitzrapp chuckled. "I did run into the spectacular rescuer
this afternoon. He was striding around Victoria Park as though he
owned the institution, looking wise over the tryouts, and asking all
manner of questions about who bred this or that likely one and where
they ranged."
"Have any talk with him?" asked MacDonald.
"I didn't speak to him, and if he noticed me at all, I don't believe
he remembered me from yesterday. Probably his mental picture-album
retained only one face." He glanced jealously at Ethel who had
colored slightly under the continuing fire. "I got a hint of the
nature of his questions, and as they coincided with certain
suspicions that I formed yesterday, I decided to find out what he was
up to."
"You followed him?" asked Ethel Andress indignantly.
"Yes, I certainly did," returned Fitzrapp brazenly. "I trailed him
to the Chateau Royal. You'll never guess who he met there."
Neither the widow nor her uncle seemed anxious to try, although if
they continued to feel disapproval of their ranch manager's action,
their faces did not show it.
"That bonfire brat of Gallegher's from down on the range!" exclaimed
Fitzrapp with effect.
"Bonfire brat, indeed!" cried Mrs. Andress, rising to the defence of
her sex. "Shame on you, Tom Fitzrapp. It's true that the Gallegher
outfit is something of a pest in the Fire Weed, but you needn't
forget that Bernice has the instincts of a lady. I'll have an
apology in behalf of Mother Eve's whole family."
She received and accepted a makeshift in the form of a "Sorry, Ethel."
"Wonder what Bernice is doing in Strathconna?" the widow mused aloud.
"Was she in breeches, Tom?"
Fitzrapp shook his head. "Dress--black dress. Didn't know she could
look so pretty, the flame lady from Fire Weed."
"Did he--this Childress person--did he seem very attentive?" Mrs.
Andress asked, for once forgetting her line.
"Oh, hell!" muttered Fitzrapp.
The old major stepped into the imminent breach.
"You've considerable native shrewdness, Tom, as well as some
unreasonable jealousy," he observed. "Outside of his meeting up with
Miss Gallegher, what reason can you supply for suspecting a stranger
who did us an exceedingly fine turn?"
"Why, partly intuition and partly something tangible," replied the
ranch manager, seriously and with seeming frankness. "Did you
observe the silver stallion he rode, Major?"
"An exceedingly fine animal, my boy; one I would like to own. What
of that?"
The foreman permitted a dramatic pause.
"You are interested in stopping the rustling of Ethel's horses?" came
sudden inquiry.
"You know how interested I am. The rustling must be stopped! But
what is the connection between rustling from the Rafter A and
following a hard-riding gent around Strathconna as though he were a
criminal?"
"I realize I'm going to make myself unpopular, as you and Ethel both
seem fascinated with the chap; but criminal is exactly what I expect
this Childress will prove to be. Every time we've had a glimpse of
the raiders the leader rode a silver stallion. The creamy beast was
just such a splendid specimen as this Montana man rides. I mean to
learn all I can about him."
"Rubbish!" cried MacDonald warmly. "If he was----"
"That's what I say," interrupted Ethel with considerable scorn, in
the use of which she was an expert when the occasion seemed to demand.
"You're forgetting the flame, Bernice," suggested Fitzrapp.
"And I fear you're letting your jealousy of anyone who looks at Ethel
run away with you, my dear fellow," chided the pioneer. "_You_
forget that the Gallegher outfit has lost stock as well as the Rafter
A."
The widow Andress arose from the table with sudden decision. "My
mind's made up," she said. "I'm fed up on the bright lights of
Strathconna. It's a bit early to quit you, Uncle Ivan, but I'm going
back to the ranch Monday.... And another thing is settled," she went
on after a pause for breath, "the next time there's a raid from the
States, I'm going to be in the saddle."