HOME OF FLAME.
The range was a study in green and yellow this day that Sergeant Jack
Childress set out, despite warning, to ride to the home of the Flame.
The visit was part of the program he had mapped for himself--an
intensive and personal study of all resident ranchers in the hope
that something might "drop" to show collusion, if such existed, in
the mystery of the "lifted" horse bands. Silver, the magnificent,
snorted at part of the going, that which lay through the weed no
animal is known to eat, even under the most pressing conditions.
Of this little green plant there was enough in evidence to give name
to the range, but it served rather as a frame to rich growths of
buffalo and other grasses. Had it been everywhere, the stockmen
would have foraged somewhere else.
Other names has this parasite--snakeweed, turpentine weed and, to the
scientist, _Guttierrazia_. It generally grows to a height of ten
inches, and is a bushy plant with small yellow flowers, never red
ones. The colorful name of fireweed comes from the fact that in the
winter the plant dries and the flowers bear little white seeds filled
with a resinous substance which makes it burn like tinder.
With eyes accustomed to the wonders of the sub-Arctic, the "bark" of
sun dogs and the colorful sheen of Northern Lights, the "Mountie"
paid little attention to this comparatively drab scenery. He did
make note that he was near the undrawn line which, with occasional
"monuments" of stone, marks the boundary between the Dominion and the
States. It occurred to him as strange that the fireweed stopped on
the side of the beaver and that the timber began on the leagues of
the eagle. He had foraged into that American forest for logs with
which to build the walls of the shack that Mahaffy resented as no
post for even a sergeant-constable detachment of the Royal Mounted.
And he realized the possibilities of concealment and cover that lay
among the pines for the pestiferous stock-raiding gang. He intended
to go there again and for more than timber, unless the rustlers
earlier came to him. But he was not hurrying that or any other
detail of this run-'em-down game to which he had been particularly
assigned. Hurried raids on both sides of the border had in the past
failed signally, netted no prisoners and stopped not a drop of the
leakage from Canadian ranches. His plan of campaign was slow in its
tempo, but he hoped it would be sure. That it might be dangerous to
the official pair engaged in it was not worth consideration;
assignments in the service which were not dangerous were hopelessly
monotonous, as he well could testify.
On the farther side of a long roll of prairie, he rode into a marshy
section unusual to the region. It was one that would have required
the services of "bog riders," from March until the end of May when
cows are weak, had the range been devoted to cattle. But the
sergeant was sure that he was on the Gallegher ranch which, like the
Rafter A, specialized in horses whose sense of danger is so acute as
to make it unnecessary to guard them from quicksand danger. It was
with surprise, therefore, that he sighted presently a lone puncher
trying to drag a bogged-down cow to safety. With the idea of aiding
the Samaritan of the Plains, he changed his course and put Silver
into a gallop.
While still some distance away he recognized the bog-rider as Flame
Gallegher, and on approach saw that she had her rope around a
situation that was somewhat beyond her.
"Hold up a moment, Miss Gallegher," he called. "You'll break that
cow's neck before you get her out that way."
Evidently she had been so intent upon her rescue work that she had
not heard the approach, the stallion's hoofs padding softly upon the
buffalo turf. She checked her cayuse and looked up, flushing vividly
on recognition.
"You!" she cried. "You and the silver beast riding our range in
broad daylight?"
"Why not?" he asked. "My visit is friendly enough. Merely a
get-acquainted call upon your father."
"But I warned you not----" she began.
Childress ignored her frown. "Let's see what we have here. Perhaps
the committee of two from the Open A can help along your work of
mercy."
Evidently the cow had gone into the quicksand bog to drink, burdened
herself with several gallons of water and found her feet fast in the
grip of the sand. She was well down and thoroughly frightened, the
suction holding the feet as if in a vise. The girl had her rope
about the beast's horns, with the other end attached to saddle horn.
She was attempting salvage by a straight-pull method, but so far with
nothing more in the way of success than bellows of pain from the
bogged one.
"She's in a bad way," said the sergeant with experience as his
authority. "I'll have to go in after the beast."
He dismounted, dropping rein on Silver. Squatting on the solid
prairie that edged the bog, he unlaced his boots and rolled his
trousers above his knees. This last process was applied to the
sleeves of his flannel shirt.
"I don't suppose you carry a shovel," he remarked. "All bog-riders
should."
"I'm not a bog-rider," she flared. "I was out gunning for horse
thieves and happened on this poor critter. She happens to wear my
own personal and private brand--Circle G--but I'd have tried to save
her even had she worn an Open A."
Childress shrugged competent shoulders. "So, Flame of Fire Weed is
also humane," he remarked, offering her again that whimsical smile
that invited her own lips even as she resented the assurance of it.
"Did you imagine for a moment I wasn't human?" she demanded
indignantly.
"I merely remarked your _humaneness_," he said to set himself right
with her, and he started to wade into the bog.
"Have a care, man!" she cried. "Some of these bogs are sure enough
sink-holes. They'll swallow people as well as cattle. This fool cow
isn't worth the risk. Besides, I haven't another rope to put around
your neck."
"Glad you didn't say 'horns,' Miss Flame. Although I'll guess you're
not certain that I don't deserve a rope around me--my neck. Your
interest in me shows that I should have said that the lady was
merciful. Don't worry. I'm only going to dig out and loosen her
forefeet with my hands; then I'll lift and boost while you and the
cayuse pull on the rope. Perhaps, between us, we can work her to the
bank."
The task of mercy to which he had assigned himself was hard and
disagreeable, but he persisted. And the Fire Flame girl lent expert
aid in her management of her mount. Between them, they did drag the
"fool cow" to firm ground. There, Childress tailed her up and got
her to her feet, too dazed from her experience even to bellow her
resentment for treatment that she did not understand.
"Bet she does not live to raise her calf," remarked the girl owner of
the bovine in question.
"One out of five does," was all the reassurance Childress could
offer. "Maybe she's the lucky fifth."
Flame Gallegher nodded her agreement with this adage of the range.
"Bog-riding isn't profitable to us cowmen," she said, "but it seems
too dreadful to let them die in the water without at least trying to
do something for them. I'm greatly obliged, Mr. Childress. Never
could have dragged her out without help."
The reason he suddenly stopped lacing his boot was because, all at
once, she smiled at him. Slowly, delightfully, the smile started in
an unsuspected dimple in one cheek, parted her ripe lips over teeth
of dazzling whiteness, lit her whole face like a glory of electricity
after twilight in a room. Never, the "Mountie" assured himself, had
he seen so luring a smile. And her voice, when she spoke to him thus
directly, had the appealing vibration of a cello string.
"If you think you must meet my dad and the outfit," she said, "I'll
show you the way."
His hat was off, as due the best moment of their acquaintance. But
he found himself, as they rode westward together, mentally assorting
reasons--possible reasons--for the two warnings that had come to him.
After all, there was some recompense to the Arctic patrol; one did
not have two fair women to worry about up there where the igloo
belles were greasy with blubber and reeked with the odor of dried
fish. At that, so long as he might occasionally draw forth that
dimpled smile, he'd never ask Commissioner Jim to send him back to
the Frozen North.
But their ride together this glorious afternoon had rude
interruption, and that, alack, just as the two were beginning to feel
the getting-acquainted thrill of this third contact. In one
way--possibly two ways--it was unfortunate that the sergeant's roving
eyes were attracted by a pair of buzzards cutting the blue a mile or
so to the right of their direct course to the Gallegher home ranch.
To him the slow-winged spirals of these black scavengers of the air
signified that they were flying a death watch over man or beast in
trouble and nearing the end. Professional instinct and training
dictated a detour that he might determine who or what had attracted
the attention of the hawks.
"I'll breeze over and see what it is those birds are about to hold a
wake on," he suggested. "If you please, ride ahead and I'll overtake
you when I've learned."
But Flame demurred. She would ride with him, her curiosity as well
founded as his own. There was, it seemed, a cut-off trail in that
direction which they could take that would bring them to the
ranch-house as quickly as the track they were following.
Feeling that he still was under suspicion, Childress acquiesced; but
a moment later had reason to regret that he had not insisted on his
original proposition. The scene which they rode down upon was too
horrible for freckled eyes to gaze upon, even though the owner was
prairie-bred and hardened to the tragedies of the range. From his
vantage of saddle seat upon a higher horse and his own greater
height, he determined the situation before it came within her range
of vision. Used as he was to horrors of the wild, the mere thought
of what lay before them sickened him. Again he tried to spare her.
"You'd best not come any further, Miss Gallegher," he suggested,
drawing rein. "I can attend to whatever is to be done."
"I'm no parlor pet," she declared. "I'm used to being in at the
finish of anything that happens on this ranch. Ride on!"
This was one occasion when even a Russian realist well might spare
the details. In the out-of-way bog hole lay a steer, its hide peeled
from its back down to the mud-line, and still alive! The proof of
the last was evident to both in the moving eyes and gritting teeth of
the helpless, hopelessly tortured beast.
"Injin stuff," he muttered. "The fiends!"
"Some wandering Sioux from over the line wanting hides for moccasin
soles," she amplified. "We caught a pair once red-handed and sent
them up for killing live stock unlawfully. Now the reds try to
escape by skinning the boggies alive. It was fear of something like
this that brought me out to-day."
"One minute," said Childress with quick decision.
His revolver was out and a mercy-shot sounded. The steer was out of
its misery.
"Thank you," breathed Flame who had turned away, her eyes searching
the prairie. "If I could throw a sight on the brute who did that
horror, there'd be a dead----"
"Let me take care of this, girl," said Childress, deeply aroused.
"The skinning happened not long ago; the buck who did it can't have
gone far. If you'll ride home and keep out of danger, I'll do my
best to run down the Indian and bring him back alive. Then you can
punish him under the cruelty to animals law."
The auburn-haired nymph of capricious impulse straightened in her
stirrups, and the dimple which was so enticing disappeared as
completely as though it never had been. "Has anyone asked you to
fight Circle G's battles?" she demanded indignantly.
"No--not exactly," he admitted, secretly admiring her spirit and
perhaps openly looking some of his admiration. "But this is more
than a Circle G affair. It's my duty as--as----" almost had he made
a fatal slip that would have disclosed his service to the King--"as a
human being to bring this red dog to punishment. I'll drag him in if
it's within my power."
"Two draggers are better than one," she persisted. "You needn't be
squeaky about me; I can shoot some and I'm not afraid of any Indian
that ever lived. Shall we ride together or spread out?"
Childress had been studying the topography as best he might from the
saddle. They were perhaps five miles from the border and the
beginning of the timber belt. Directly between lay one of those
rocky buttes that crop up willy-nilly in the prairie provinces, as if
the Rockies had tried to start farther east and then thought better
of it. Already he had decided that they would spread out. His delay
was only in an effort to determine which "spread" would be the safer
one for her. The crack of a rifle startled him, coming as it did
almost from under his ear. He turned to look.
Flame had unlimbered her Winchester and used it with effect. One of
the buzzards had executed his last graceful, if heavy spiral, and was
in a nose dive to death.
"One meal that bird won't get," muttered the ranch girl through set
lips.
"A pretty shot, Flame--Miss Circle G!" he exclaimed.
He saw just a trace of the dimple as she began a smile at the quick
correction of his slip.
"Shall we ride together or spread?" she demanded again.
Childress had decided. "If you'll take the west side of the butte,"
he suggested, "I'll ride the east side. The distance there is
greater, but Silver undoubtedly is swifter than your cayuse."
"I'm not so sure; if there was time I'd find out," she began, then
laughed. This was no time, she seemed to realize, to show that
seldom-give-in spirit that was hers. "We'll settle about our
horse-flesh some other time. Just now, it's get that Sioux buck, and
if you plant him in a bog and skin him alive--well, almost, that
would serve him right. I don't mind the loss of the steer, or the
hide, but the torture of the poor dumb thing. There's no telling
just what you may be, Mister Jack, but I'm sure you never tortured,
did you?"
They were getting on. He felt it and wondered that he was not
alarmed. But this was neither time nor place. One promise he
managed to exact from her. If she rode to the timber belt, which was
the States side of the line, and found no suspect, she was to turn
back and make for home without waiting for him or looking for him.
In his turn, Childress promised that if he "made" the guilty buck,
he'd bring him direct to the Gallegher ranch-house. With this
exchange they were off, equally grim in spirit if not in looks and
quite equally determined to avenge the suffering of the bogged-down
steer.
It was after six when Flame Gallegher rode into the home ranch,
flopped from the saddle and handed her tired cayuse to the mercies of
one of their punchers. She asked no questions, for that was not
according to "Hoyle," but she was unusually silent through dinner,
which all of the outfit at the home-ranch ate together in the cook
shack. So pronounced and so unusual was this rôle for the "light of
the ranch," that her father took notice.
"What's the matter, Firecracker?" the ranchman asked as they sat on
the porch after the meal. "Still worrying because that white-horse
rider beat you out on buying the basin from the railroad?"
The one parent left to Flame Gallegher--in fact, the only one she
really remembered, her mother having died when she was scarcely more
than a babe--had contributed little to her charm of appearance,
although much, probably, to the steel of her nerve and character. He
was aquiline in appearance and, like the eagle, fearless. Nearly
bald, he insisted on cutting the fringe of hair which was left to him
with one of those patent contraptions which he had bought from a
Winnipeg department store. The result was not always an artistic
success, but the use of the instrument appealed to Gallegher's sense
of independence. He was tall, lean and dark--as dark as his daughter
was light. A hard man to work for, was the report among the punchers
of the province, but one who'd never ask a "hand" to do what he dared
not do himself. "Firecracker" was his nickname for the daughter who
had been the love of his life since her mother's death.
Flame Gallegher was worrying about the man who had nosed her out of
the basin purchase, but not because she had lost that property. No
matter what he had encountered on the other side of the butte, he
should have been in long since to report. Her eyes, in the twilight,
held straight to the eastward, the direction from which he should
come. She even ceased to worry about the reception he would receive
from the eagle-father and the outfit once he came. But she wondered
why he did not come. The parent's questions, however, always
demanded answer.
"I've forgotten that muff," she said with a drawl that was, perhaps,
her most effective subterfuge. "I did my best on that run up to town
and we Galleghers don't pout over busted flushes. You could have
given me a bit more time--would have, if you'd known."
"Then what--the silence?"
"Guess I'm tired, dad," she said. "Had a hard time with a
bogged-down cow to-day. Got her out, but she'll lose her calf."
"Hell's tinklers, Fireworks," the parent responded heartily, "don't
let a cow and a possible calf silence the joy of your Circle G. I'll
stake you to another if this bogged bossy don't get back on her feet.
You're taking raising of cattle too seriously for one who shouldn't
have anything on her mind but a young horse band of her own. Cheer
up!"
"A horse band, yes!" she exclaimed. "And have everybody in the
province say you'd staked me to it. This idea of raising cattle was
my own, and because everybody knows you wouldn't be troubled with
'em. You might have given me a range that didn't have bogs and
quicksand; horses know enough to keep out of trouble. I'm tired
out--think I'll turn in."
And turn in she did, but with her window open and her ears wide in
the hope--for fear that a probable rogue of the range on a great
silver horse would ride into the enemy's camp and might need her
protection. To herself, she admitted that she did not savey this
attractive gent of the saddle who called himself Jack Childress.