BUST 'EM, BRONCO.
Both Childress and the man with him entered the corral, crawling
under the canvas without regard for dignity. The rope fell true at
first cast, and the roan was soon in hand and blindfolded for the
saddling, which was accomplished without throwing, despite vigorous
protests from the animal.
The widow could see that the horse was of mixed breed, which is
likely to produce the worst buckers. It was evident, too, that he
had been saddled before, so that it was safe to set him down as an
outlaw who would not stay "broke." It was exactly the sort of
proposition a man of Childress' daring and strength would enjoy
tackling, thought Ethel, as she quieted the filly and settled back
into her comfortable saddle to watch every move in the battle for
supremacy which she felt certain would be worth while.
The roan snorted a note of defiance as Childress on the nigh side,
hung his stirrup for a quick mount.
The widow saw him run his hand over the saddle, give the cloth a tug
to assure himself that it was well set, and pull the cinch a couple
of holes tighter for luck. The horse stood still, his hind legs well
under him, his head, with ears flattened, sinking lower and lower,
his tail between his legs.
Seizing the checkstraps of the bridle in his left hand, and taking a
firm grip upon the pommel with his right, Childress thrust his boot
into the iron stirrup and swung easily to the saddle. They were off,
quite as though the outlaw had been a trained actor and had heard his
cue.
Squealing and bawling like a mad thing, the horse made a frantic rush
for the far side of the corral, pounding the hard ground with his
hoofs. As the stretch of canvas loomed up before his eyes, a more
impenetrable barrier than a stockade of wood, the beast pulled up
with a stop that must have thrown a less expert rider. There
followed a spasm of twisting, turning, and bucking in circles,
through which the man remained seated, as though a leather part of
the ponderous saddle.
"That nag's a sunfisher!" Ethel murmured, as the bronco repeatedly
leaped into the air, trying to twist his rider from his back. "And
that man Childress is some rider!" His horsemanship was superb.
A cry of alarm escaped her lips as the horse, maddened by the failure
of his previous efforts, deliberately reared and threw himself down
backward. But her concern for Childress' safety proved uncalled for.
At exactly the right second he slipped from under, saving himself,
evidently, from even a bruise. As the surprised horse scrambled to
his feet, the man flung himself back into the saddle, where he sat
prepared for the next series.
Then, after several minutes of further fighting, Ethel saw Childress
go hurdling over the roan's head, but only to land on his feet a
dozen yards in front. She knew by the ease with which he alighted
that he had not been thrown actually, but used a trick of dismounting
known to the most skilled "busters," usually resorted to when the
rider is tired and the outlaw not yet unwound.
"Whatever else you may be, John Childress," she commented to herself,
"you are certainly a past master of busting a bronc!"
She gave the restless pony rein and sat her with skill on a slide
down the slanting face of the bluff. Cantering across the meadow
toward the corral, she pulled up outside the canvas before Childress
was aware of her approach.
"May I congratulate you on a most finished performance, Mr.
Childress?" she called.
One amazed glance brought recognition, and he strode across the
corral toward her.
She had a moment to study him in the undress of range garb. His silk
neckerchief hung like a bib over his gray shirt; a strap supported
his corduroy trousers; and these, in turn, tucked into boots with
high heels and short vamps. His head wore no covering. First the
lower part of his face held her attention, its determined chin and
elongated upper lip, with no red showing, striking her as unusual.
She realized now that she had not really looked at the man that day
on the reservation. But, as he drew nearer, his eyes held her, eyes
full of merriment; while the smile on his face bespoke a welcome that
she scarcely had expected.
"A sure-enough surprise, Mrs. Andress," he said, as he neared the
canvas wall. "Wasn't expecting company this afternoon, so you'll
have to excuse the workaday rig. I've been some engaged these last
few minutes. Have you been here long?"
"I watched your--your engagement from the bluff yonder," the widow
returned with an over-shoulder gesture. "What did you think you were
doing? Not going into the Wild West show business, I hope?"
"I was trying to convince that young tornado over there that he just
thinks he's an outlaw." Childress broadened his smile. "But he seems
to have a single-track mind, and it's going to take several
treatments."
Neglecting to leave the corral as he had entered, crawling, the
sergeant walked slowly toward the gate, the widow on the pony keeping
pace with him outside.
"Our trails seem bound to cross in unexpected places," she observed
by way of giving him an opening. "I was sorry that you could not
accept my uncle's invitation to dine with us in Strathconna."
"Acceptance happened to be impossible," said he quickly. "I was
sorry not to have seen you again, but there were compensations."
"The Gallegher brat," thought the widow, but said not a word.
"I had hoped to run across you people down here, but scarcely so
soon," he went on. "I've just driven in."
So he was aware of the fact that he was on the edge of the Rafter A
range, thought Ethel. And he had hoped to run across them! If this
stranger was what Tom Fitzrapp suspected, certainly he was brazen
enough.
She decided further probe would be advisable. "Do you expect to camp
here long?" she asked.
Childress smiled at her over the improvised gate. "I'm not camping,
Mrs. Andress, though it may look that way. This is my ranch--six
hundred and forty acres--so long as I keep my contract with the
railroad, and I reckon I'll be able to keep it unless the bottom
falls out of the horse market."
Her eyes widened with surprise at this statement. "You're going to
become a Canadian?"
Childress could not tell her that he was Canadian born, any more than
he could explain his lack of uniform. He was there in the Fire Weed
country particularly to solve her losses of stock, although other
breeders had lost in lesser degree. She was the sort of woman to
whom a real man does not care to lie. There was a "white" way out.
"Possibly I can make a go of this proposition," he answered, ignoring
the question of nationality. "You've heard of the rolling stone and
its lack of moss. Well, I've proven to my own satisfaction that
there is truth in the adage. At least temporarily, I've quit hitting
strange trails."
Looking across the canvas into the corral, Ethel noticed that the
other man who was short and stout and wore a bristling red mustache,
had unsaddled the roan and was in the act of crawling under the
improvised fence on the opposite side.
"Who's that?" she asked with a gesture a trifle disdainful.
Childress looked, saw the effort to escape, and suppressed a chuckle.
"That's Padraic Mahaffy, my outfit. He's sort of woman-shy, which
accounts for the get-away."
The widow felt her suspicions returning. Under all the
circumstances, the wrangler might have another reason for being shy
of any one from the Rafter A.
"You're a bit shy yourself, aren't you?" she asked. "I remember that
although my uncle offered you the choice of evenings that time, in
Strathconna, you were not in the least hungry."
"That situation was beyond my control--my small experience with women
had nothing to do with refusing to dine with you. And right now,
won't you dismount and rest a bit? I can't offer much in the way of
hospitality, but such as we have is yours."
"I'm quite comfortable in the saddle, thank you, and I have but a
moment," she said. "Do you think, Mr. Childress, that you've done
wisely settling in this particular basin? There is no open range
near here, and----"
"Oh, I'm going in for intensified breeding," said Childress, as Ethel
paused, "if I may use an adjective which the farmer seems to have
preempted. I'll fence in my section presently and attempt only the
raising and training of thoroughbreds. There's still a good market
for the right sort of horses on both sides of the line."
"But I was speaking of this particular section," she continued
gravely. "You know the situation here--the trouble we've been having
on Fire Weed range."
"With the rustlers?" he suggested.
She affirmed with a nod and had a thought of admiration for his cool
manner under her significant gaze.
"They had better not trouble me," he declared, his lean face going
suddenly grave. "I have the advantage over range breeding and
grazing. Here, my stock will be always under my eye, and there'll be
no stampeding it without my knowledge. If the rustlers persist in
coming--well, Mrs. Andress, a man has the right to protect his own
property, even to the extent of drawing a gun and using it. You
wouldn't hesitate, yourself, would you?"
Either this was pure effrontery, coupled with finished acting, or it
was the speech of an honest man. The widow was unable to determine
which, but either, it left her more eager to warn him. If he was a
rustler chief, she would serve her own interests could she persuade
him to leave the vantage point of the ranch in the basin. If he was
innocent, she would repay her small debt to him by warning him of a
danger which he doubtless underestimated.
At that moment old Poison came bounding up to them, evidently
returned from some hunting expedition of his own. She envied the
hound the confidence he was able to throw into his greeting and the
honest affection with which he attempted to paw his master. Then the
dog turned his attention to her, evidently fixing her identity with
one preliminary sniff. He essayed to lick her hand with a series of
eager leaps which set the mustang cavorting and stamping her feet.
"Down, you old pest!" Childress ordered. "Down, I say! Go over and
tell Mahaffy to spare you some of his feminine shyness."
The dog seemed to understand. At any rate, he started off on a run,
seeking the wrangler, who could be seen some distance up the creek.
"Poison seems to remember me, even though our meeting was single and
brief," said Mrs. Andress.
"He does," returned Childress, smiling, "and he has a wonderful
talent for forgetting people he don't like."
In the face of these pleasantries, it was not easy to return to the
subject uppermost in her mind, but she forced herself to do so. "I
was thinking rather of the danger to yourself than of the loss of
your stock. I suffered another raid within the week. My uncle and
Mr. Fitzrapp, my ranch manager, are greatly aroused and intent upon
extreme measures. Naturally, any stranger in this section comes
under suspicion. If by any chance indiscretion"--for some reason she
found herself stating the situation more delicately than she had
intended--"if you should be found in any position that was considered
incriminating, I hate to think what might happen. I wish you hadn't
come here, for really it is not safe. Won't you drive on--make wagon
tracks to some other location?"
He was gazing at her in seeming incredulity. "Your uncle will
scarcely suspect me, Mrs. Andress."
"But already you are suspected!" she cried. "You and your silver
stallion there. In most of the raids such a horse has figured, and
there is not a doubt but that the rustlers came from across the
border. I don't want to see more trouble started, but there surely
will be more if Mr. Fitzrapp learns that you have camped here."
"Oh, Tom Fitzrapp!" The exclamation seemed to escape from reluctant
lips and not without a tinge of scorn.
His eyes were directed toward the ground now. His whole attitude was
one of consideration. But this lasted only for a moment. His
confident, attractive smile was again on his face when he looked up
at her. Before he spoke, she knew that her persuasive effort had
been in vain.
"It's mighty good of you to ride over and tell me this," he said,
"but I reckon I'll have to stick it out. I've been suspected
before--that is, deeds that were not pleasant to consider have been
attributed to me, and on stronger circumstantial evidence than the
ownership of a gray stallion. However, I have an equity in this
land, the first I've ever owned, and I hope I know how to defend my
own. I want to stay here, Mrs. Andress; I want to help clear the
Fire Weed of rustlers. I had in mind making you folks a call and
establishing neighborly relations, but from what you say the effort
would be useless. You are welcome here at any time, and so is your
uncle. If you need an extra gun, you've only to call for the best
action I can get out of mine. Perhaps the day will come when--when
we can all be friends."
His manner was at once hesitating and hopeful.
The widow felt a return of her former perplexity regarding the man.
Fitzrapp suspected him, and here he was, neatly holed in with the
skeleton of a horse band on the edge of their range, and here he said
he intended to stay. Appearances certainly were against him and
corrective action seemed beyond her power. If he was the rustler
chief, his safety lay in Fitzrapp's timidity--his fear to get within
target range. She hoped that it would not fall to her lot, suspicion
against John Childress verified, to have to bring him down with her
own gun. That he'd be very careful not to shoot a woman she felt
convinced. That was his handicap and an added reason why he should
have accepted warning.
She gathered up the reins and turned her piebald. "Remember that I
told you the danger of remaining," she said quietly. "I've miles to
ride and must be off."
"Sorry you should consider a warning necessary," he returned. "Life
down here in Fire Weed may not be as dull as one might suspect from
the stage setting. But I'm grateful for your notice-to-leave, even
though I must disregard it. Good-by."
When Ethel Andress gained the top of the bluff, she looked back and
saw him engaged in some sort of a rough-and-tumble game with Poison.
Evidently as a bugaboo she was a decided failure. Anyway, she had
done her best, and they were quits.
As she gave the pony his head for the home ranch, she did not notice
a mounted figure that emerged from a thicket farther up the bluff and
started on a circular course in the same general direction. The
question of honesty set aside, her mind became engaged in a
comparison of the two men most in her thoughts. It had been hard to
choose the man whose name she wore. This second choice, which now
seemed just around the corner, promised to be more difficult. "Why,"
she asked herself--"why do they put such a weight of weeds on
widows?" Then she remembered that report of Fitzrapp's about
Childress' meeting with the "Gallegher brat" and felt somewhat
cheered. This horse thief suspect wasn't worth any woman's worry.