POOR BRANDED MAN!
Flame's clock did not fail her. Next morning she was up with the
cook who, at that season of the year, was not perpetrating any of the
half-past-four roars. She slipped out of silken "nighterie" and into
the rougher clothes of the range. Without disturbing her father in
his quarters across the living-room, she crossed the quadrangle and
entered the chuck-shack to the unblinking surprise of Chan.
"Coffee and cakes, Chan," she ordered with a grin as cheerful as
though she had slept the clock around instead of only a quarter of
it. "And you needn't say that I had so early a breakfast should any
one ask for figures."
"Cheerio--I mean righteo," returned the Chinaman. To him these white
ranch people were a queer lot, but Gallegher a good boss, and the
young lady less troublesome than the housewives for whom he had
worked in several towns. "Chan keep sleclet much better 'an Mister
Murdock."
She gave him a quick look, followed by sharp demand: "Just exactly
what do you mean by that, you heathen."
Chan grinned broadly, as he always did when she called him "heathen."
She had been the object of his most respectful worship from the time
of a near tragedy of the winter before. The cook had returned from a
vacation in Strathconna, which boasted a considerable Chinatown.
There he had acquired a new idol or joss, a dreadful-looking dragon
figure, which he enshrined upon a shelf in the dining compartment of
the chuck-house. Rusty, the buster, came in for supper, saw the new
decoration and proceeded to ring it with his sombrero instead of
using the regular hat-and-gun rack. At the very moment the Stetson
settled over the emblem of Buddhism, Chan appeared in the doorway of
the kitchen partition, in hand the carving knife with which he was
about to slice roast beef. He saw the desecration, and seeing, saw
red. With a yell that would have done credit to the most
supernatural banshee, he started after the bow-legged horseman,
brandishing the knife in religious frenzy. When almost within reach
of the thoroughly frightened Rust, who had entered upon a
life-or-death marathon around the long table, not daring to pause to
open the door for the refuge of the yard, Flame had entered. Taking
in the tense situation at a glance, she tripped the knife-man for a
heavy fall.
After forcing Rust to remove his hat from the Celestial's sacred
object, and insisting that he apologize to the cook, she had
convinced Chan that her ready tripping probably had saved his life.
The outfit undoubtedly would have "eaten him alive" had the carving
knife reached its mark. Thereafter Chan swore by her, and for her,
but never at her.
"Murdock, he clazy about Missie Flame--so much clazy he can kepp that
sleclet away from nobody but she--you."
"Well," she returned after a moment of pondering on the Chink's sage
observation, "you'll keep my early departure this morning a 'sleclet'
from all hands or I'll--I'll feed you to the buzzards!"
Still grinning, Chan went about the cooking of a hurried breakfast,
sorry that there were so few culinary touches that might be added to
an early morning meal that was calculated particularly to "stick to
the ribs."
Breakfast finished, she leathered her own particular black; paused a
moment to stroke the cold muzzle of Silver, the strange visitor; then
she mounted and was off in an easterly direction at a pace calculated
for long distance travel. She congratulated herself that she was up
and away before any of the outfit was stirring. Even on ordinary
occasions she was adverse to answering questions about her proposed
movements, but never had been able to persuade her father and the
older busters of the fact; moreover, this was no ordinary occasion.
To herself, Flame did not apologize for the unwonted interest she was
taking in the affairs of a comparative stranger. No more did she try
to explain this interest. The fact that it came from the heart, not
the brain, did not alarm her. There had been so little heart
interest in her life thus far that she found a sort of thrill toying
with this one.
Her chief concern, as her horse brushed through the fire weed and
over the stretches of rising grass, was whether or not she could pick
the pass he would take on his ride into Montana and, picking it,
would she arrive before he had gone through. Admittedly she was
worried about what had happened on or about the home ranch.
Childress' leaving of the silver stallion was a queer proceeding at
least. She did not doubt her father's statement that their big
neighbor had brought the horse over and ridden away toward his
one-section ranch on a led animal. But the general demeanor of the
boys, particularly of Smiling Dick Murdock, had alarmed her as to
what might have happened when Childress had rounded the lake and
ridden beyond the vision range of Sam Gallegher. It was more to
satisfy herself on this point than to attempt to pry into the big
ranchman's affairs that had led her afield so early.
And if she were lucky enough to encounter him jogging southward into
the State of Trouble, what should she say to him, what ask, how
explain her early-morning presence so far from home? With the thrill
of a school girl engaged on some momentous undertaking in behalf of
love's young dream, she asked herself, answered herself--then
discarded her answers.
In case Jack--Mr. Childress proved entirely unmolested, in good
health and in his right mind, riding about his own private business,
Flame realized she would need to take care lest she make herself and
her impulsive action seem ridiculous. That would be simply
insupportable! He might think of her worse than the situation really
warranted--that she was in love with him; when, of course, she was
but "mildly interested." Yes, she would need to take care,
unless--and she almost hoped that something in the way of mild
discipline had been administered. What a chance that would give for
her to show sisterly interest and sympathy!
Meantime her mount had been throwing the miles behind fleet heels.
They had reached a point on the range where she must choose her pass
for the "hold-up." Would he take the narrow, rocky one that gave way
across "Medicine Line" directly south of his own place, or would he
swing around to the valley farther east. She decided that all
depended on where in the States he was headed. As she was totally
without information on this point, she accepted the first chance that
offered and eased her black down into a rocky defile that afforded a
direct gateway to Crow's Nest, a settlement of ill-repute, as well as
to law-abiding towns farther south.
Once on the trail she dismounted and examined it closely for traces
of any recent passage. Two nights before there had been a downpour
which washed clean the earthy portions of the road. She could see no
hoof marks and was satisfied that none had passed in either direction
since the rain. If the owner of the Open A intended to use that gap
to the States, she was in time.
Around a sharp bend, she halted her horse in mid-trail, having
thought of a subterfuge that might lessen his suspicion that she was
laying in wait for him. Loosening the cinch on her cow-saddle, she
waited with the patience of a feminine Job. And presently she was
rewarded. The scrape of an iron shoe upon a rock came to her ears
from beyond the pinnacle that hid her presence. At once she busied
herself with the saddle straps, and so Jack Childress found her,
engaged in a commonplace operation of the trail.
Flame did not look up until he was almost upon her, and then with
well feigned surprise. This changed quickly to real anxiety when she
saw the peep of a white bandage beneath the brim of his hat. She
took full advantage of the moment afforded her for speculation.
Something, then, had happened to him the day before--some injury that
required the use of a gauze dressing! Noting the position of the
injury, she recalled that other morning when she had discovered Dick
Murdock, Roper and Rust about to do a dreadful thing with a red hot
running-iron. It required no great strain on her lively imagination
to figure out what had happened.
Not for a second did she doubt her father. Samuel Gallagher never
had lied to her, and she did not believe that he would begin in this
twilight stage of their close acquaintance. This thing that had been
done to Childress had been perpetrated after he had deposited the
silver stallion and started back to his own little ranch. For just a
second she was disappointed in him that he should have permitted a
second attack to succeed. A man as upstanding as he seemed to be
should not have been caught napping twice, should at least have left
his mark upon the enemy. She had seen no trace of conflict upon any
of the outfit about the home-ranch board the night before. They must
have sprung some new-fangled surprise upon him. She could not bring
herself to believe that Jack--_her_ Jack as she whispered to
herself--was a man afraid to fight. Should he prove to be that sort,
of course, her interest must end; but he would not! She knew he
would not.
By this time he was upon her, pulling his mount to a halt in a state
of surprise, the genuineness of which could not be doubted.
"Our trails do cross, Flame of Fire Weed!" he exclaimed gladly.
"Although yesterday, when I did not find you in your own corral, I
feared my luck was slipping."
He had pulled off his hat, in utter disregard of the bandage about
his forehead.
"What--what has happened to you, Jack Childress?" she cried, sweeping
a hand in gesture across her own fair forehead.
"Nothing worth worrying about," he assured her. "Are you going far
and headed my way? Can I help you with that saddle?"
She stamped her foot. "I'll not be put off with polite chatter.
Those roughnecks that dad calls an outfit got you and branded you
after you'd left Silver with us as a hostage of your good behavior.
Dick Murdock, the smiling fiend, will answer to me for every inch of
the burn. Does it hurt terribly and have you done everything
possible for the wound?"
Childress grinned reassuringly, pleased beyond measure at her
snap-of-the-hammer sympathy. "I've done everything possible," he
said. "The wound don't hurt. Probably there will be no permanent
scar. But above all else, let me absolve Murdock and his men. They
had nothing to do with this. I did not see any of them yesterday. I
doubt if they knew I had been to the ranch until they found Silver in
your home stable."
"Then it must have been that shifty widow's outfit that got you," she
flared, after a long inquiring look that convinced her he was not
absolving his enemies who rode the Gallegher brand just to save her
trouble. "You'll have to spin an iron-clad excuse, Jack, before I'll
forgive you for letting any of that Rafter bunch catch you napping."
She paused a moment--a pause he did not interrupt, being entirely too
busy identifying the emotions that played across her face.
"Strange," she went on, more to herself than to him, "strange they
should hit on the same ordeal that our busters had. That Tom
Fitzrapp must have been talking to Murdock. Will you climb down off
that horse, brother, and let a woman have a look at what has
happened? Men are worse than babies when it comes to looking after
their wounds."
Sergt. Childress obeyed, already convinced that in the end he would
make a clean breast of exactly what had happened.
"Be careful," he admonished as she started to unwind the bandage.
She frowned at him. "You're worse than a child with a cut finger,"
she chided. "I'm not going to hurt you, son."
"I meant be careful with the bandage--it's all I've got with me."
"I'll take care of that," she assured him and went on removing
clumsily fixed pins, each of which she saved in the sleeve of her
shirt, as though in a pincushion.
At last the bandage was off and she stood back to observe the havoc
wrought his brow. She stared a moment; then transferred her gaze to
the bandage.
"Didn't you have any salve--any ointment?" she demanded.
"Would that have been good for--for what ails me?" he answered with a
cheerful question of his own. "Does the horseshoe effect meet with
your artistic approval?"
Obviously she was puzzled. Who wouldn't have been? The idea of
jesting over as deep a disgrace as can come to a man on the range--a
living degradation than which many would have preferred a merciful
death!
"What's the idea, Jack?" she demanded after a moment. "For a poor
branded man you don't seem as concerned as might be, and if I was
going to put the horse thief brand on any misguided freebooter, I'd
burn deeper than your decorator seems to have done. I don't get this
smear any more than I do your attitude toward it. Suppose you come
across clean."
"Sorry, Flame, that you don't like my artistry with the brush," he
laughed. "I hadn't time to ride over to the Rafter A and show it to
our dashing widow friend."
Shy as a beautiful, speckled trout, she refused to take the bait of
Ethel Andress' mention; but she was quick to demand further
information regarding the brand.
"Your artistry, what do you mean? And what had a brush to do with
it?"
"Recall, if you please, that day not so terribly long ago when you
arrived in the nick o' time to save a certain roped ranchman from the
decorative efforts of Messrs. Rust and Roper, doubtless members of
the impressionistic school and deep burners with the running-iron."
The girl nodded actively and the sergeant went on, changing to the
personal form.
"Perhaps you don't remember that I said as we were riding to your
home ranch something about a valuable idea that had come to me from
the frustrated attempt. This masterpiece of forehead decoration is
the working out of that idea. I sent to Strathconna for a tube of
blister paste and a brush with which to lay it on. I worked hard to
paint an artistic horseshoe and if the effect isn't what it should
be, blame the zig-zag crack which Paddy Mahaffy put in my only mirror
when he dropped it the other day--seven years' bad luck to him! I
didn't put any brand within the shoe, as it is not necessary that the
folks I'm going to visit should know exactly where I acquired the
mark of the thief. It will be enough that they should think me what
I am not--a rustler of horses."
"Then you're going down into Montana on a visit?" she asked, more to
gain time in which to ponder the madness of a man who, without
compulsion of any sort, would so disfigure himself.
There ensued momentary digression, for he asked her to oblige him by
replacing the bandage. He wanted the blistered horseshoe to become
well set, and he did not care to exhibit it until he reached his
destination.
"This visit?" she reminded him, when she had performed a first-aid
effect that would have been a credit to an army nurse.
"I haven't lost any animals yet from this popular out-door sport of
rustling in Fire Weed," he returned readily. "But then I haven't
many and I haven't been here long. I am tired, though, of the
suspicion that hangs over me and my silver horse. I owe at least one
of the gang a toasting for that day he marooned me on that ledge and
forced me to chin myself out of difficulty on the wriggliest length
of hemlock I ever hope to tie to. Moreover, we see nothing of that
scarlet patrol that we asked of the Commissioner of the Royal
Mounted. Something must be done, and without any fuss, I'm going to
attempt to do it."
Sergeant Jack was sorry as soon as he had spoken that he had
mentioned the Mounties. That was his one slip into direct
prevarication, and it did not come easy from him to lie to Flame of
Fire Weed. He tried to excuse himself to himself by the fact that he
had used the uniform color scheme in his statement, but realized the
evasive poverty of such an excuse. As long as he confessed so much
of his plans, why didn't he go the whole way and tell her that
Mahaffy and he were the scarlet patrol--very much without the
scarlet? He had trusted her with much, trusting without exacting
even a nod of promise that she would not reveal his plan; then why
not tell her everything? But something tied his tongue on the big
secret. He was not sure just what this was, but argued mentally that
there would be time enough for disclosures when he had accomplished
something on this special detail.
Flame had listened to his revelation with widening lids. These now
narrowed as she weighed the proposition.
"Then you're going----"
"To Crow's Nest first, possibly farther into Montana--wherever the
trail leads."
"Don't go to Crow's Nest," she begged. "They'll kill you!"
"They're more likely to enfold me like a brother." He raised a hand
in mock salute to the forehead bandage.
"It's the hell-hole of the West," Flame continued to voice objection.
"I wouldn't send my worst enemy into it. What are a few stolen
horses and lifted hides to----"
He was pleased beyond measure at her interest, the thought of which
would ride with him no matter what the danger. But he realized that
the morning was slipping away. An after-dark entry into the Nest for
a stranger was a foolhardy undertaking. Pleasant as it was to tarry
here on the safe side of "Medicine Line," studying emotions as
portrayed on what was becoming to him the fairest face he had ever
seen, regardless of freckles and flare of hair, Childress realized
that he must ride on.
"Nothing's likely to happen to a branded man," he reassured her. "By
night my forehead will wear what seems to the casual observer to be a
real scar."
"But the Crow's Nest!" she cried. "I wish you weren't going into
that brimming cup of iniquity alone. Suppose we ride back to the
ranch and tell your plan to dad. He'll send Murdock or one of our
trusty busters to back you up."
Childress grinned. "My dear----" He caught his breath at the daring
phrase of endearment which had popped out so unexpectedly; but she
seemed not to have noticed. "Flame, I wouldn't ride into hell
brushing stirrups with Murdock. If you'll let me adjust that saddle
for you--fix whatever's wrong with the leather, I'll be on the way
along the primrose path."
"There's nothing wrong with the saddle, Jack." Her turn for
confession had come and she met it gallantly--without a blush. "I
slipped a cinch just to have an excuse for laying in wait for you,
hoping you'd come this way."
Almost at this moment did he tell her something that he was beginning
to feel sure eventually and inevitably would be told; but he held his
tongue.
"You guessed the right pass," he parried the danger point. "Take
good care of Silver, won't you, Flame?" He swung into the saddle and
cantered down into the draw where soon he would leave the land of the
beaver for that of the eagle.
"Crow's Nest," Flame murmured almost in a wail. "Crow's Nest! Why
did he wish such a task on himself?"