HIS BIGGEST DEBT.
There was some grumbling on the part of the punchers, but their
feeling for Bernice Gallegher, popularly known as Flame, was akin to
worship. To them her word was law. Moreover, Rust had the old-time
puncher's regard for his "string." The sheep look was surely on his
face as he threw down the red-hot running iron and helped Roper
unwind the prisoner.
Childress had said nothing throughout this providential interruption.
At first the shock of the unexpected deliverance was too much for
him. Then, feeling at a loss for suitable words before an audience,
he let his eyes speak for him.
As the last coil was loosened he arose and spent a few vigorous
moments exercising life back into his numbed arms. His powerful
hands opened and shut as though itching to lay hold of one of his
tormentors. The punchers edged away in apprehension; the foreman
stood his ground, shifting weight from boot to boot like some school
boy awaiting teacher's punishment.
The sergeant then took out his revolver, and with expert movements
filled the cylinder with cartridges from his belt. They had caught
him napping once. He was determined that it never should happen
again and he would take no chances on any overruling of the woman's
verdict.
He looked up to find Flame smiling at him, and again realized the
fullness of her auburn-crowned beauty. And that first day in
Strathconna he had pronounced her "none too pretty!" Oh, well,
second sight was often best! To-day every freckle looked a beauty
mark.
"You'll hardly need that--now," she smiled, with a gesture toward the
gun.
So far not a word had been said about their meeting on the range the
previous day, the salvage of the bogged cow and their forked lines of
pursuit after the heartless skinner of the unfortunate steer.
Childress was determined to say nothing, whatever Flame's interest in
keeping the meeting a secret. If anything was said, she would have
to do the talking.
The charge he had flung at Murdock was not sheer bluff, but based on
something he had learned over in Montana when preparing for his entry
into the province as a rancher. The expression of the Lazy G foreman
had told him much that probably would be of use later on. There had
been a double lynching over in the Bitter Root and the guilt of at
least one of the victims later had been found exceedingly doubtful.
That crime, of course, was entirely beyond the jurisdiction of the
Mounted, but the "mistake" probably accounted for the presence of
Murdock on the Lazy G and would be something to look into when he
threw off the rôle of ranchman and donned the uniform of the service
that is feared even as it is respected.
"If you knew the evidence we had against this rustler, Flame," began
Murdock, his manner tense over the sudden change in a situation which
he had thought entirely under his control, "you'd show less feeling
for----"
"And if you knew what I knew," the girl cut in, "you'd have escorted
Mr. Childress to the home ranch instead of tricking him into this box
canyon and trying to put a brand on him. Let me tell you one or two
things that happened yesterday. He came riding across the range from
his own ranch to ours. He found me trying to snag one of my cows out
of a bog where the fool bossy had sanded herself in. My misdirected
efforts would have hung the cow in a minute or two if our
neighbor"--she accented this for the benefit of the trio and to the
glad surprise of the sergeant--"hadn't happened along. He waded into
the bog and used his own hands as a shovel. Then he pushed and I
pulled until we had her out. She'll probably be a total loss, but at
least she'll pass out more naturally. Then a pair of buzzards
attracted us and we came upon that poor steer--hided alive."
"We found the hide on this rustler's cayuse," inserted Murdock.
"He's not a rustler," flared Flame. "We both went after the brute
who did that skinning--one on either side of the ridge that cuts in
from the States. I rode to the line seeing nothing suspicious, then
went home. Mr. Childress evidently got everything but his man. I'll
bet he was headed for our ranch house when you scatter-brained
roughnecks fell on him."
"Ain't this one hell of a mess?" muttered Rust to Roper as he coiled
his string.
"You'll think you're in one hell of a mess for sure if you make any
more mistakes," declared the girl. "Now take yourselves down to the
lower ranch and see if you can't find some honest-to-goodness
trouble." She turned to Childress. "I wish you would ride back with
me; father's at home and I'd like you two real men to meet."
There was something of a groan from the handsome foreman, and she
threw him a reproving look. Then she mounted and the two were off,
Childress again leading the cayuse that had been stolen. They were
well into the open, the regal Silver and her well-groomed bay mare
jogging in friendly fashion side by side on the trail to the home
ranch, before he spoke.
"I can't seem to think of words with which to thank you, Miss
Gallegher," he said with feeling.
"Suppose you don't try," she returned. "And while we're by ourselves
out here in the wide-open suppose you call me 'Flame.' All my
friends do and after all we've been through I rather reckon we're
friends."
In this proposal she was as ingenuous as a child and it hit him
hard--mostly around the heart. With uncalled for caution, he tried
to keep from showing how pleased he was.
"I will if you'll swap, Flame of Fire Weed," he offered and wondered
at his nerve in proposing a bargain to such as she.
"Swap--swap what?" she asked.
"Easy names--you call me Jack when we're alone."
"That day up in Strathconna, when you beat me to the section you now
call the Open A, I was prepared to hate you and help the boys make
life in the Fire Weed country miserable. But I've sort of changed
'round, haven't I, Jack. I think you have a way with women, Mr.
Jack."
"You certain have with me--men," he returned quickly. "Your arrival
to-day was an unexpected deliverance, and the source of it beyond my
wildest dreams. I'm going to make something out of that narrow
escape, though. The threatened branding has given me an idea. Can
you keep a secret, Flame?"
"What woman can't?" she taunted.
"Have you any idea how they meant to brand me--I mean with what
ensignia?"
She shook her head.
"The artist was inspired to decorate my forehead with a horseshoe
surrounding a Lazy G. Neat idea, wasn't it?"
The girl flushed with indignation over the outrage which these men of
the Gallegher outfit had contemplated. "I'm ashamed of them. You'd
been branded as a horse thief for life, whether you are----"
"Whether guilty or not," he completed for her, playing his whimsical
grin.
"I wasn't going to say that," she protested, but it was evident that
a dwindling possibility of his guilt still lingered in her mind.
"Come, what is the secret you want me to keep? What is the idea that
you got from the interrupted branding?"
"We won't call it a secret," he said, "but a surprise for you--if the
idea works out."
Flame did not answer at once. Her horse evidently needed all her
attention, though the beast seemed to be behaving. He looked closely
to see if she was pouting, but could identify no such expression.
When she spoke again it was upon an unrelated subject and she kept
the conversation thus until they made the home corrals.
There they found a puncher sitting straddle the top rail, braiding a
horsehair rope--one that would serve as a saddle ornament on his
trips to town, rather than as a practical implement of the range. He
took charge of the captured cayuse and the retrieved hide, while
Flame and the sergeant unsaddled their mounts and stabled them. Then
they walked toward the larger of a cluster of log cabins, looking out
upon a small lake which evidently had determined the location of the
home ranch.
"Reckon we'll find dad out on the front porch," said the girl as they
proceeded. "He's laid up with a bad leg, which isn't hurt as much as
his pride. An outlaw caught him napping the other day and he hasn't
been saddle-fit since. If he isn't exactly friendly, first off,
blame it on his injured feelings. He's not as young as he once was,
but he still wonders how that horse ever managed to throw him, and
wondering, he grumbles and growls."
Childress had no difficulty in identifying the three buildings of the
group--one as cook-shack; the second, a bunk-house for the men; the
third and most pretentious, the home of the owner and of Flame.
Together they rounded the corner of the latter structure, although
they might have gone through to the front porch, the doors standing
open for a spring airing. Possibly, he thought, she did not care for
the responsibility of asking a suspect, even one she had saved from
disfigurement, to enter the Gallegher "mansion" until the head of the
house had passed upon him. But once around the corner, the young
woman stopped short. Standing out front with reins dropped were two
saddle horses.
"Company!" came from her lips in exclamatory whisper.
At first glance Childress recognized one of the beasts. "The widow
from Rafter A," he remarked and received a sharp, enquiring look for
his display of knowledge.
"She never has frightened me," declared Flame. "Come on."
As a matter of fact, they already had been seen and retreat would
have been impossible, even if the girl had desired to avoid a meeting
with her stunning neighbor and to hide the presence of that other
neighbor who was under suspicion.
Upon the porch, one on either side of the long, lean, dark-visaged
ranchman, sat Ethel Andress and her ranch manager, Fitzrapp. The
latter rose instantly on seeing the daughter of the house and waited
to be introduced. He quite ignored Childress. Sam Gallegher growled
and did not leave his easy chair.
"This is Mrs. Andress of the Rafter and her manager, Fitzrapp," he
said to Flame. "We've been discussing this damnable rustling
situation."
"You don't need to introduce us," said the widow in a detached sort
of way. "We've met before."
"Yes, we've met--the Lady Fair and the Gallegher Brat," returned
Flame pleasantly enough. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Fitzrapp.
Not often we have two distinguished callers at one and the same time.
To-day we have three. Permit me to introduce Mr. Childress, of the
Open A--Fire Weed's newest and smallest ranch."
Fitzrapp was making his best bow to the young woman of the ranch; the
widow's expression clearly was one of amusement. So far as social
experience was concerned, she was somewhat in command of the
situation.
"No need of introducing me to Mr. Childress," she trilled. "He saved
my life the very first time he set eyes on me and in spite of all my
protests."
"I thought those protests to be cries for help," put in the sergeant,
never to be entirely "cut down," regardless of the situation.
"Yes--yes," mumbled Fitzrapp, twisting his silken mustache. "Most
unfortunate--that break of yours on the Whitefoot reservation.
Shouldn't have made it, old top."
Sam Gallegher seemed puzzled about much of this exchange, knowing
nothing of the events that lay behind.
To Childress the two women presented a striking contrast as they
stood facing each other, the outer advantage to her in the "latest"
of city-made habits. Yet there was a certain calm, like that of the
prairie's sweep, in the red-head that should have cheered the crusty
parent. The fact that she rose superior to the drawbacks of a range
upbringing--held up her head, in fact, as though the wrapped braids
about it were a crown of red gold--lifted her above the class so
often in error derisively called "ranch bred."
Probably Ethel Andress did not mean to be patronizing--indeed her
smile and graceful advance seemed essentially friendly--but even
before she spoke directly to Flame there was something in her manner
which Childress did not approve.
"We've just been discussing with your father," she began, "the
advisability of asking the Royal Mounted to send some specials down
here to put an end to this running our horse stock across the line to
disappear in the American market. At just the right moment you ride
in from somewhere with the only other ranchman in the Fire Weed
country." She favored Flame with one of her most exclusive smiles.
"It would seem possible that we could make the appeal to Ottawa
unanimous, if your friend----"
Flame was quick, as always. "I'm sure we can count on Mr. Childress
to join in any unified action," she said. "He just rode in with one
of our horses that was stolen last Fall and packed on it was the
mud-line hide of one of my steers. You're for sending for the
Mounted, aren't you, Jack--Mr. Childress?"
"Oh--Jack!" The widow was quick.
"Don't want any outsiders in on this," grumbled Fitzrapp. "You
shouldn't have spilled the beans, Ethel."
"About all from you, Tom!" The widow was smiling. "Don't mind him,"
she said to Childress. "The only suspicion against you, so far as
I've been able to learn, has been that beautiful horse you ride and
the fact that you picked upon a section of land each of us thought
the other owned. Glad you've made friends with Miss Gallegher." She
turned to Flame. "You're supposed to be rather difficult, you know."
"Oh, we're not exactly friends," said the girl, laughing her richly
modulated, mirthless laugh.
"Just happened to brush stirrups," supplied the sergeant readily.
"But this idea of sending for the Mounted sounds well to me. What
are the formalities?"
All this time there had been nothing more than a nod of greeting from
Sam Gallegher, who sat in his chair, puffing with less content than
usual at a clay pipe, the stem of which had been broken close to its
blackened bowl. Now he straightened up, with a wince from the pain
in his injured leg, and by the mere movement commanded the attention
of all.
"Don't know what the Mounted can do when we don't seem to be able to
do anything for ourselves," he began, his voice grumbling. "But I'll
sign in on any application you want to make. We don't seem to be
getting far on our own protection account, and I'm thinking of
something desperate, once this leg of mine gets saddle wise."
"What have you in mind, Gallegher?" asked the manager of Rafter A.
"That you'll know, Fitzrapp, when I've finished--or they've finished
me. No less, I'll sign the application. How about you, small
rancher, do you want the Mounted to send a special detail down into
the Fire Weed?"
With difficulty Childress concealed his grin. "Sure," he said.
"I've lost nothing as yet, but I've had nothing much to lose. So
long as they're supposed to police the whole Dominion, we should be
getting our share of their work. I'll sign anything you other owners
will."
"Shouldn't have had everybody in on this," grumbled Fitzrapp. "The
boys in scarlet will come down here and not know whom to suspect."
Childress took advantage of this slip. "So!" he remarked without
bothering to raise eyebrows. "Is there some one under suspicion in
this very delightful section of the province?"
"None but yourself," came promptly and quite aloud from Flame and he
alone heard the softly breathed "Jack."
"They've had a patrol down here, these Royal Mounted fellows," said
the old ranchman, between puffs on a pipe that seemed never to go
out, "but they never got anywhere. Perhaps they'll jack up if we all
join in an appeal. There's nothing against this young fellow except
that he rides a white horse."
"Silver," introduced Childress.
"You should see him, dad," came quickly from Flame. "He's out in the
stable now and more wonderful, probably faster than any of our
blacks."
"Faster?" the question came quickly from Fitzrapp. For the first
time he really turned to Childress. "Do you mean you could and would
race him, my man?"
The sergeant ignored the other's "my man" arrogance. "There's a
track at Strathconna," he said quietly. "The next time we meet
there, I'll match Silver against any horse in your string."
"I'll hold you to that, the next time we meet."
The old horseman recalled them to the matter in hand by asking Flame
to bring writing material and take a dictation. When she was ready
to write, he spoke slowly, but very much to the point. The others
listened, offering no suggestions. Fitzrapp, frowning, twisted his
mustache nervously. Ethel Andress gave several nods of approval as
she listened to the veteran's terse dictation. Sergeant Childress
was secretly amused at the situation. Commissioner Jim up in Ottawa
doubtless would get several chuckles out of one of his staff signing
an appeal for additional patrol; then, probably, he would detail an
inspector to visit the several complainants. None the less, he
determined to hasten in every possible way his own investigation.
When Flame had finished writing and the signatures were duly appended
there was ready for the mail a document of protest which read:
_To the Hon. Commissioner,
Royal Canadian Mounted Police,
Ottawa, Canada._
SIR:--The devil's pot is boiling again in the Fire Weed country.
Already this spring there have been two raids on our horse bands.
Now they have taken to skinning our cattle for the hides.
Can nothing be done for our protection, or do you wish us to take the
law into our own hands? The trouble seems to start and fade out
across the line in the States; but surely we don't need to appeal to
a foreign sheriff for aid. Do we get a patrol detachment, or don't
we?
Respectfully submitted,
ETHEL ANDRESS, (Rafter A brand), _Rafter A_.
BERNICE (FLAME) GALLEGHER, (Circle G brand), _Circle G_.
SAM GALLEGHER, (Lazy G brand), _Lazy G_.
JOHN CHILDRESS, (Open A brand), _Open A_.
As he owned no ranch, no stock and no brand of his own, Fitzrapp
decided against signing the appeal. He intended, however, to ride
the next day to the railroad and would be glad to see that the letter
was posted.
Gallegher shook his head. "I've got a horse and a wrangler that need
exercise," he said. "We'll save a day by sending it over at once."
His bellowed summons brought the "China-boy" who helped the cook. An
order was given. Soon a wrangler rode up from the corrals and the
letter to the Mounted's chief of command was on its way with all the
speed of pony express.
Then Flame Gallegher remembered her rôle of hostess and pressed the
visitors from Rafter A ranch to remain for luncheon. First off, she
thought that the widow was going to accept, but Fitzrapp was so
positive that he must hurry back to the home ranch that both declined.
"And when you ride out again on social bent, Mr. Childress," smiled
Mrs. Andress in parting, "don't forget that hospitality awaits on the
other side of your little buffer ranch. We'll all be glad to see you
at any time."
Flame managed to hide whatever interest she had, but secretly was
none too pleased with Childress' hearty assurance that he would make
his "first call" as soon as he got a roof on his ranch shack.