CHAPTER XV.

TRAPPING FOR PROOF.

Duncan O'Hara sat perched on the top rail of the Rafter A corral fence, puffing viciously at a burned out briar. He had just finished the most distasteful of the varied tasks that fell to the caretaker of the home ranch, the position to which Major MacDonald had demoted him on return of the family party from Strathconna a few weeks before, when he had been called upon to report the loss of more horse flesh to the rustlers. This task was the care of the orphan colts, of which the ranch harbored half a dozen. The range mare has no instinct of charity and has no mind for adoption, no matter how pitiful the circumstance. The foal which is orphaned must either be destroyed or fed cow's milk by hand. Hence the title of nursemaid, which went with the assignment.

The greenest range rider balked at this job, and Darned Cuss, the regular nurse, endured it only because it enabled him to be near his wife, who was the competent housekeeper of the home ranch.

Assuredly it was no detail for a boss buster, and O'Hara suffered keenly over the humiliation. His dignity would be weeks recovering, for the other hands would not let him forget it, even after Cuss had returned from the lower range to resume his undignified position.

All his life Dunc O'Hara had been "getting even" with somebody for something or other, and he was now engaged, with the aid of his pipe, in studying out the retaliation which this indignity demanded. At first he was puzzled as to whom he should get even with. Fitzrapp had drawn him into the mess and had not shouldered his full share of the responsibility over the winter's loss. For a time the buster's dark thoughts were directed against the handsome ranch manager. But he was aware of the folly of nose smiting. Fitzrapp had been kind to him in the past, and promised greater benefits for the future. Besides it was the major, the widow's uncle, who had issued the order sending Cuss into his saddle and him—O'Hara—to the milk bottle.

He had definitely decided to get even with the gray bearded veteran when his attention was drawn from various forms of possible requital by the sound of horses loping up the rise from the creek trail. He looked up to see Fitzrapp and Cuss returning, accompanied by Season's Greetings, a misnamed half-breed wrangler who had been riding the ranch limits to search for strays.

Greetings, as was his uproarious habit, covered the last hundred yards at a dead run and dashed into the yard with a "Whoop-la-la!" worthy of his Comanche ancestors on his mother's side of a rather indefinite house.

Knowing what to expect from the breed, Duncan O'Hara was discreet and offered no salutation.

"Well, if here ain't old Mother O'Hara!" cried the wrangler, as though suddenly aware of his presence on the fence. "Am I in time to help with the milkin', ma?"

Darned Cuss was but a moment behind, and his query, though possibly honest, was no less disquieting.

"How are the orphans, Dunc?" he asked, with a serious face, even before he dismounted. "I've been a-worryin' some about that little brindle feller."

"The colts is all right, Darned," said O'Hara sulkily, "though as a truthful gent I've got to admit they been whinnyin' for their regular bottle holder."

Fitzrapp merely nodded to him and went on to the stable with his horse. When he came out a few minutes later O'Hara was still hunched on the fence like a sick crow. The ranch manager went over to him and put a friendly inquiry. O'Hara grunted some unintelligible reply.

"Come out of the dumps, old topper," said Fitzrapp persuasively, "I'm bringing the major around in good shape and have talked him out of his rage. He's convinced you did the best you could under the circumstances and with the small force we left you. He's sorry he fell on you so hard, and if he doesn't make it up to you, I assuredly will. Anything new?"

"Nothin' much." O'Hara looked a shade more cheerful.

"No strangers about the ranch?"

"Only that feller from Montana you was tellin' me about—the one what rides the silver stallion."

Fitzrapp started. "You don't mean it! When was he here? Has he gone?"

O'Hara took his time about relighting the crusted briar. "Oh, he didn't show up here at the ranch," he said; and then he told in detail about the new settler over in the cup.

"How did you happen to stumble on this?" Fitzrapp asked after a moment in which he was engaged trying to work out a cross-word puzzle of his own.

"Well," drawled the chief buster, "you tells me to keep an eye on our widow, didn't you? The other day she gets sort of restless and sends for her cayuse. I gives her a good start and then trails, not because I think she's up to anything, but just to get away from them confounded bawlin' colts."

"Up to anything, O'Hara?" demanded Fitzrapp, instantly disturbed. "What do you mean, man?"

The disgruntled buster seemed not to note his chief's annoyance. "Well, Mrs. Andress sure was up to somethin'," he continued. "She rides straight across the range to the bluff that looks down into his cup o' hills, just as if meetin' him was all cut and dried and tied up with blue ribbons. She stands the cayuse there for quite a bit, and I makes cover farther along the bluff. She was watchin' the man trim an outlaw, she was, and I'm here to say he done it proper."

"And then?" urged Fitzrapp, glancing nervously toward the house, where no one seemed to have noticed their return.

"Oh, then she slides the cayuse into the basin and enjoys a nice friendly visit with his nibs. When she starts home, he goes to playin' with a hound-dog as though he was tickled pink."

The ranch manager was frowning now, but not at Duncan O'Hara. "How do you know he's the man I told you of? Are you absolutely sure?"

"He wore all the marks that you'd calculate on seein' from my distance, but I'm countin' more, on the stallion what was staked out near the cabin he's buildin'. Never seen a finer chunk of horse-flesh. He's him, all right, unless you shuffled in the discard when picturin' of him to me."

"Say nothing of this to any one, O'Hara. I'll see you after supper." Fitzrapp strode off toward the house muttering to himself. "So Ethel rode over to see this railroad nester, did she? And she just didn't think to mention it after we saw him yesterday at Gallegher's. Now, Childress, you upstart, I'll have to get the goods on you!"

When he entered the living room the place seemed deserted. "Oh, I say, Ethel!" he called out cheerily. "Where are you?"

The girl started up from a reclining chair behind the curtains of a deep bay window, where she had been sitting in the warmth of the afternoon sun, now dipped behind the Rockies.

"Hello, Tom," she greeted him. "I didn't hear any one ride in. Must have been nodding over this impossible book."

"What have you been doing with your precious self?"

"Except for our interesting ride to Gallegher's, mighty little, I must admit. The ranch is about as exciting as an irrigation project with you all away. I slept—you caught me at that; I read, and I rode a little. If this rustler scare is going to depopulate the home ranch, one of two things is going to happen to Ethel. Either I get in on the fighting or I'll go up to Strathconna and visit somebody."

"Didn't run across any strangers on your rides?" he asked, and waited with no little concern for her answer. If she told him, even thus belatedly, of her visit to Childress' "hole in," his alarm on her account well might be unfounded, he argued. If she kept silent, then he was not alarmed enough.

"Strangers—out in this wilderness? What a chance!" she evaded easily. "Who did you think I might have seen?"

It seemed to him that her eyes narrowed as she asked. He closed his own that they might not tell of his disappointment. "Didn't know but that some scout of the horse thieves had been pestering around," he returned, with an easy manner he was far from feeling. "I'm fagged out, Ethel. I'll have a tub and if you can persuade Mrs. Cuss to advance dinner half an hour my appetite will thank you. Your uncle has ridden to Preston's and won't be home until sometime to-morrow."

Once in the privacy of the hall his face took on a haggard look. His disappointment in Ethel was staggering. Her evasion revealed a state of feeling toward him which he did not care to contemplate. Unless he could hold her, unless he finally won her consent to marry him, all the effort of these years in the province would count for little.

What did it all mean? She had deliberately refrained from telling him of her visit to the Open A. Had she and Childress, by any chance, met before that day on the reservation? Could she be so openly under the spell of Childress' undoubted fascination as to be willing to overlook the suspicion, freely expressed by himself, that he was the leader of the rustlers from Montana?

As he entered his own room a jealous rage swept over him. A chance glance into the mirror on his bureau showed him the anger that blazed in his eyes, and he recognized in the look the passion that drives men to kill.

He drew himself up quickly. "Here, old man," he said to himself, "this will not do. Keep cool and get this interloper. You've got to get him!"

As he changed from dusty riding clothes to loose flannels he decided on his course of action. Ethel Andress was playing some sort of a game, but just what sort it was he could not guess. Very well; he, too, could disguise his hand. He would give no hint that he suspected any dissembling on her part. Then he would seek out Dunc O'Hara and between them they would bait a trap that Childress would certainly spring. Once in his clutches there would be no escape for his rival so far as the widow was concerned. And if the major took the law into his own hands with the American's life as a forfeit—well, he had to win Ethel Andress, that was all. There was quite too much at stake for him to be squeamish over the means by which he won her.

CHAPTER XVI.

CLEAN AS A HOUND'S TOOTH.

Having sent Constable Mahaffy with the team to the railroad for supplies and a small shipment of furniture, Sergeant Childress slept in the half-roofed cabin alone, except for the hound. He had been slumbering for hours when the restless movements and low whining of the dog awakened him. Where his master was concerned, Poison never asserted himself without reason. This his owner had learned to consider, although sometimes he failed to fathom it. Half rising from out his blankets, he struck a match and looked at his watch. The hour was nearly one in the morning, and the light of the half moon poured in through the unfinished portion of the roof.

"Whimpering at the moon, you blithering old alarm clock?" he demanded; but, as he grew more fully awake, he realized that Poison was far too wise to be disturbed by Luna, even when she appeared in all her splendor. Pulling on his corduroys and boots, Childress slipped a .45 into his belt and went out to investigate, the hound licking his heels in approval of the move.

His first interest was Silver, picketed up the creek. As he approached the animal which, with association, was winning his increasing interest, he heard a whistling snort. The sergeant recognized in this not a sound of fright or defiance, but the beast's invitation to its kind. In the moonlight he saw that the horse's ears were pointing toward the upper rim of the cup in an attitude of eager listening, and that he pawed the prairie with an impatient forefoot. The possibility that strays, seeking a change of grass, had headed into his fertile basin was the first supposition. Under ordinary circumstances this need not have kept him longer from his blankets, as their dislodgment could have awaited the daylight. But he knew the horse bands that ranged thereabouts bore either the Andress or the Gallegher brand. In view of the double warning that he was under suspicion, he did not care to have them found on his newly-acquired property.

Taking up a rope that was looped over the firmly planted post to which the stallion was picketed, he strode toward the upper basin, the hound at his heels.

The dozen mares, with their colts, which he had bought and driven in as the foundation of the Open A herd, were grazing peacefully in the upper pasture, and his count showed the presence of no outsiders. He was about to turn back, in the belief that for once the hound had yielded to canine aversion for moonlight, when his nostrils detected a foreign odor in the air of the soft Chinook wind that blew.

He sniffed and sniffed again. "Plug cut!" he murmured under his breath. "Plug cut blazing in a pipe! Somebody's enjoying a smoke up that ravine."

At this time of night no other human should have been within miles of the spot. Indeed, at any hour the presence of a stranger in that side ravine, far removed from any trail, would demand explanation. As rapidly as possible he got out of the moonlight.

Under cover of the shadows thrown by the creek's cottonwood fringe, he advanced with cautious, noiseless tread to the edge of the ravine, which was really a miniature basin connected with the main one by a narrow gap. There he saw twelve or fifteen horses, most of them cropping the luxuriant growth underfoot.

At first his eyes discerned no human figure, though the scent of tobacco could be accounted for only by the presence of man. Then he detected a movement in the shadows on the far side of the ravine, near its mouth. The next moment a short, spare figure, which he did not recognize, stepped into view.

Childress saw the intruder tie a rope around a slender birch, run a line to its neighbor, and then start across the ravine, paying out the rope as he progressed. It was evident that he was improvising a corral for the strange stock in the gully; but why the animals were there was as much a mystery as the stranger himself.

The sergeant was puzzled as to his procedure. There might be a plausible and satisfactory explanation for this strange action, in which case he would regret shooting a trespasser. On the other hand, he did not wish to be shot down himself, which was possible, if he stopped to ask questions which might require embarrassing answers. Moreover, there was that never-fire-first rule of the Mounted. The short man was coming rapidly toward him, and he had but a moment for decision.

His shooting hand was reaching for his gun when he recalled the quieter and most effective method of capture used on himself only a few days before. His aim with the rope was as sure as that of his revolver. Not for nothing had he patroled the Cypress Hills in his younger service days. Silently he adjusted the running knot into a sizable loop and shook out the strands.

When the oncomer was within a dozen yards of him he made his cast, the rope cutting through the air with a hiss that was startling in the nocturnal quiet. It settled over the intruder's shoulders before he realized what was happening, and a sharp jerk, into which Childress threw all his strength, drew the noose taut and effectively pinioned the other's arms, making it impossible for him to draw a weapon.

With the strike, Childress shouted: "Easy there, stranger, and you won't hurt yourself!"

The man who had been lassoed made no response, but began to thrash about in an effort to free himself. Resenting this struggle, Poison dashed into the open and assailed the captive with ferocious growls. Not being a man hunter, he refrained from closing in, as he would have done had the rope held a bear or a cougar, but he aided his master by diverting the attention of the struggler from the rope.

Childress began to work up on the string hand over hand, as he would have done had some outlaw horse been at the other end, not for one instant slackening the tie of the noose. It can't be said that his lessons in man roping were long past history, considering the way in which the Lazy G outfit had taken him. In his present effort he was abetted by the fact that his captive seemed anxious only to get away, and made no forward rush in attack. He was soon close enough to throw a fresh loop about the intruder, and then another which determined the issue of the capture. Reaching out he slipped the other's gun from its hip holster and was ready for parley.

He turned the pinioned one around until the moon lighted his face, and then started back in surprised recognition.

"You—O'Hara!" he exclaimed. "What the devil brings you across my trail?"

He knew the man—scarcely could have forgotten him since some years before, at no little risk to the integrity of his own hide, he had saved him from an enraged mob at end of steel on the Trans-continental railroad.

"I never knowed it was you, pard," the captive said huskily, "or I'd 'a' gone on a scout before tryin' to jam you. Call off your hound and slack the rope. I'll put you wise to something you'd ought to know."

Having the full measure of the man he had snared, from past experience with him, Childress did not hesitate to order Poison to heel, and then he loosened his lariat.

Duncan O'Hara stretched his arms and rubbed his shoulders and chest, where the rope had cut. "You shore sprung a surprise snappin' that string around me, pard. When did you bust off from the straight and narrow?"

"I don't get that question," declared Childress, "any more than I do your midnight corral making."

"I mean when did you get outside the law?"

"So far as you're concerned in this deal, I'm not outside the law," returned the sergeant. "What's the game?"

O'Hara found a seat on a tree stump and relighted his faithful pipe.

"This here's a plant," he began, "and as pretty a one as a jealous four-flusher ever worked out. You listen to me and I'll spill it to you on the level. I ain't forgettin' what you done, pullin' me out of that skin-tight hole of a necktie party down in the States."

"I'm listening," said Childress shortly. "Give me all of it."

"For a runnin' start then, I've become range boss for the Rafter A outfit, and I'm wise to everything. They're convinced that you've been runnin' their stock down to the 'Medicine Line' and gettin' away with it. Naturally you're too plumb wise to let them get the goods on you, so Fitzrapp is in for manufacturin' the evidence and puttin' the hawse-thief brand on you for fair. I'm just drawin' good wages and takin' bad orders.

"Tom Fitzrapp says," Duncan O'Hara continued, "'Take a bunch of our two-year-olds and corral them in that there Yankee's ravine. A rope will do the corralin' trick.' There are the beauties." He gestured to the shadowy forms of the horses. "All of them rope-wise and saddle-broke, worth a big roll of anybody's money. I was makin' the corral with my lariat when you came snooping along at an hour when you had ought to been doin' nothing more strenuous than snorin'. Early in the mornin', it's writ on the program, Fitzrapp and MacDonald and a witness are goin' to swoop down on the Open A cup, uncover the evidence and nab you dead to rights. You'll get twenty years, if the old man doesn't shorthorn your term by lendin' you the loads of his gun."

"Is Maj. MacDonald in this?" Childress asked sharply, recalling the pleasant ride he had enjoyed with the veteran the morning of their first and only meeting.

"Not in the plant, I reckon, 'cause he's square and through with young love. But once he sees the evidence, you can bet your ace he'll be ready to shoot the lights out of you. 'Twas Tom Fitzrapp what planned the sanded deck."

"Could expect it of him," muttered the sergeant.

There was admiration in the grin that played about O'Hara's mouth once the pipe was removed.

"Say, pard, you're packin' a powerful heavy jag o' nerve to hole in here right under their noses," he declared. "I plumb admire to know you. But why did you make the doggie break of hobblin' yourself with that skirt?"

Childress' hand clamped upon O'Hara's lean shoulder roughly. "What do you mean by 'that' skirt?"

"Why the gal—the major's niece," said the range boss hastily, cringing under the clutch. "I mean the widow—Lady Ethel. Wasn't you wise that Fitzrapp had cut her out for hisself? I was scoutin' from the bluff the day she rid over here. Was too far away to recognize your face, and never havin' seen you bustin' broncs before I didn't know you by yore tricks. Not knowin' you was you, I spills it to his nibs about the girl's little excursion. If it hadn't been for that, I doubt if he'd have found the nerve to frame this on you. He's plumb set on marryin' the girl."

"Which he'll never do," Childress murmured under his breath. For O'Hara's benefit he forced a laugh. "Leave the woman out of this. If they're going to raid me in the morning, it's time I was getting shut of the evidence."

"I'll sit in that game and draw cards cheerful," declared O'Hara eagerly. "The old major has set me nursemaidin' colts and I'm plumb ready to quit. Here's a picked bunch of hawses, and I present them to you gratis. Bunch them up with your own and run them across the line. You can turn them over quick at Crow's Nest, and make a clean get-away. Hawse thieves ain't goin' to be folks in this here province for a spell.

"And what's more——" O'Hara hesitated, torn between his native greed and a desire to do a whole-souled, handsome thing in repaying the debt he owed. "And what's more," he resumed, with a leer for conquered avarice, "I'll help you drive them and ask nary a cut of the clean-up."

Childress stood hesitating, seemingly pondering over this daring proposal. "I'm not ready to pull up stakes yet," he said finally. "There's more than one skirt, as you call the ladies fair, in the Fire Weed country."

"You're still thinkin' of that there widow," said O'Hara, with an air of conviction. "Forget her. You couldn't never show a pedigree that'd pass muster."

The sergeant did not mention the possibility that he had been thinking of Flame Gallegher the last moment. Instead he suddenly demanded to know how many horses made up the "plant."

"Fifteen—first graders, every one."

Again Childress considered, and this time he seemed to reach a decision. "It's not a big enough haul. When I clean up I want to do it proper. We'll drive these long-tails back to their own range before daylight and I'll bluff it out."

"Then it's yours truly, D. O'Hara for the long scout," said the professional buster mournfully.

"Not if you really want to square our little account."

"You sure did save my worthlittle hide," admitted O'Hara. "What's the ante this time?"

"Go back to Rafter A and manage to keep me posted without letting any of them, not even the widow, know that we're acquainted. They're not going to stop with this attempt to get me. When I'm ready to strike hard and for the last time, I'll declare you in on the game and with a fair share of the pot."

O'Hara had but one objection to offer. If anything went wrong with the "plant," he had promised to return and advise Fitzrapp, who would not bring the major to search the basin that comprised the Open A. In that event Childress would lose the opportunity of appearing innocent. The buster feared, if he delayed his return until after the raid had failed, he would himself be under suspicion and his ability to aid his debtor handicapped.

"We can wipe that difficulty off the slate, old topper," was the sergeant's quick return. "If you get careless with your mount after we've driven these horses back to the main band, you'll have to walk home, won't you? Can't catch a range horse without a rope, and yours will be carried away on your saddle. It's fifteen miles across the range to the home ranch, and traveling on shank's mare you can't possibly cover the distance in time to do any effective warning that'll bother me."

"I begin to see," said O'Hara without elation, and the cause of his gloom easily may be surmised by any one who knows why the average puncher's legs are more or less bowed.

Childress started to saddle Silver, entirely confident that Duncan O'Hara could be trusted to liquidate his debt along the lines he had laid down. More than once were his heart throbs of satisfaction at the opportunity thus presented to foil the trick of one who meant more to him than a rival for any woman's hand.

CHAPTER XVII.

CALLING A BLUFF.

Riding together as they crossed the range in the early morning, Maj. Ivan MacDonald and Thomas Fitzrapp conversed with sobered faces and in a tone that did not carry back to Darned Cuss, who brought up the rear, as became his subdued nature and the rôle of witness, which had been assigned to him. All three were well mounted and all armed for serious business, which their visit to the Open A Ranch promised to be.

"Lord Harry, Major, but won't it be a relief to be freed of this rustler pest?" Fitzrapp was saying as they drew near to the gap which served as the entrance to Childress' ranch.

"Time enough to congratulate ourselves when we've turned the trick, Thomas," said MacDonald, stroking his close-cropped beard. "I've been disappointed so many times that this discovery of O'Hara's seems too good to be true. By the way, the buster didn't come in during the night, did he?"

"Wasn't expected to unless the situation in the basin underwent a change. If this morning's work results as I expect it to, we'll have to reward that young range rider handsomely for his scouting."

MacDonald nodded agreement. "Yet it scarcely seems reasonable that the scoundrels would try so raw a deal," he said doubtfully.

"They probably expect to win out through their very daring," argued Fitzrapp. "What could be bolder than taking up a ranchhold on the very edge of our range, the nearest section that's for sale? That fellow Childress has nerve enough for anything. Signed that round-robin asking the Mounted to send a patrol here—signed it, as I told you without crinkling an eyebrow."

"What a pity the man isn't honest, Fitzrapp," remarked the pioneer. "It's just his sort of nerve, ridden on a straight track, that makes for big success. And what's the reward for all this criminal activity? A few thousand easy dollars that have to be divided seven ways, and in the end the surety of being caught either by a parcel of lead or a tie-rope strangle or years in prison. God knows I'm no saint any more than I am a preacher, Thomas, but that honesty-the-best policy lingo is not foolish chatter. Someway I can't believe Childress a crook. That day riding in from the Whitefoot he looked and talked too sensibly to follow any such fool trail as rustling."

"I've seen more of him than you have, Major," said Fitzrapp. "I only wonder he hasn't applied for board at the Rafter A or tried to hire on as a contract buster."

Although the ranch manager undoubtedly did not intend it to be anything of the sort, this last item of surprise was quite a compliment. A "contract buster" is an expert rider who undertakes the breaking of horses at so much a head, and signs off all employer's liability before he draws his first cinch.

"I'm more surprised," Fitzrapp continued, "that he's made such an impression upon our wonderful Ethel. I happen to know on undoubted authority—"

"Dunc O'Hara?" cut in the major.

Fitzrapp nodded. "I happen to know that she's seen him alone since he came into the Fire Weed. And the other day over at Gallegher's she actually begged that he make his next social call in the direction of the Rafter A."

"Jealous again, Tom," said the handsome old major with a smile. "When you're as old as I am you'll have learned that there's no accounting for the freaks of winds, wives or widows."

They rode on in silence, increasing their speed as they entered the draw. They came up to the half-finished cabin at a lope, to find Childress in the act of finishing his breakfast. Neither surprise nor restraint showed in his greeting, although he looked mildly curious.

"You're riding early this morning, Major MacDonald," he remarked, when they had declined his invitation to dismount.

"Mayhap you've heard what the early bird catches," Fitzrapp put in, for which he received a frown of caution from the veteran.

"There has been some straying from my niece's two-year-old band," returned MacDonald, his manner courteous, his tone casual. "I didn't know but that they might have wandered into your basin. Fitzrapp and I thought to have a look."

"More than welcome," Childress assured him. "If there are any two-year-olds on the Open A, they don't belong to me. A few mares with colts, the stallion over there, and the team that's now on a trip to the railroad are the extent of my horse stock at present. Later on I hope to branch out a bit, but always there must be a beginning."

The sergeant's attention was diverted by the old hound, which was making extravagant efforts to express his approval of MacDonald by leaping against the horse in an obvious attempt to lick the rider's hand. Evidently the performance was decidedly objectionable to the rangy bay which the stockman rode.

"Hyah, you Poison, quit being a variegated nuisance!" Childress shouted. "That hound-dog certainly is violent in his fancies," he remarked as the beast returned to him with a reluctant whine. "If you'll wait until I throw a saddle on Silver, I'll ride along with you."

A smile of satisfaction crossed Fitzrapp's face. Because of the fact that O'Hara had not returned with any alarming word, he felt certain that the trap could be sprung according to program.

As Childress strode off, Fitzrapp said in an undertone to MacDonald: "We've got him, Major. He's running a bluff thinking we won't look into that side ravine where he's hidden the stolen stock. Watch him try to head us off when I suggest looking there, and be prepared to listen to some glib excuses when we uncover the lifted blacks. This is going to be as good as a drama."

There was no question about the ranch manager's expectations. Obviously he was prepared to enjoy to the utmost the discomfiture of this unknown who had dared arouse the interest of the incomparable Ethel, long the object of his own devotions. He believed that nothing could now save Childress from exposure and disgrace.

The four reached the upper pasture; Darned Cuss, still silent and watchful, riding in the rear to cover Childress on his first move toward his gun. There the suspect drew rein. With a wave of his hand he indicated a dozen mares and some young colts which stared with up-pointing ears at the party interrupting their breakfast.

"No strays here, Major MacDonald, as you can see for yourself," he remarked, with a smile that seemed a trifle too bland.

"Isn't that a ravine heading into the bluff over there to the right?" queried Fitzrapp, his eyes upon Childress rather than in the direction of his gesture.

"A bit of a one," returned the owner of the Open A easily, "but you'll find nothing there. It's a regular garden patch of fire weed, and you must know that horses won't even nibble at that."

"Tell you better whether there are strays or not after we've looked," said Fitzrapp pointedly, spurring his mount toward the ravine, his heart exultant over the trap that was about to be sprung to the permanent elimination of his rival from the widow competition.

At a more leisurely pace, the others followed; Childress with an inscrutable expression, though offering no further objection. Seeing that Fitzrapp had ridden into the ravine, Cuss nerved himself for the outbreak that might be expected from the interloper when a shout announced the discovery that was promised. He was quite ready to demonstrate that he had not outgrown his proven speed and skill with the gun. The major, too, was watchful.

But no shout came to their ears, and presently Fitzrapp returned, only partly banishing a crestfallen expression that gloomed his face. Under his breath he was muttering maledictions upon the general inefficiency of Duncan O'Hara, and gulping back his regret over the failure of the coup he had planned so carefully.

"The ravine is empty," he remarked, his voice well under control. "Our strays couldn't have come this way."

"We'll have to search elsewhere," said the major, turning his mount toward the mouth of the basin. "Expect to remain here long, Childress?"

"Who knows but that I'll become a fixture if I can make the amount of the payments to the railroad company and a living besides," was the half serious return. "The basin will support a band sufficient to enable me to raise a few high-bred animals each year, rather than many nondescript ones. I believe that is where the money lies in the future."

"And have the rustlers take your profits!" exclaimed Fitzrapp, who was disturbed by MacDonald's interested expression and eager to keep the horse thief idea before his mind.

"They'll have to take me into camp first," the sergeant declared, his eyes glittering dangerously.

"Superb actor," thought Fitzrapp, and he began to cast about for some lead that would break down the reserve of this competent individual whom he had come to hate so bitterly.

The major nodded approvingly. "You've got the right idea, neighbor," he observed to Fitzrapp's increased discomfiture. "The day of range breeding is passing with the advancing wave of wheat and mixed farming. It won't be long until the oldest of us are digging post holes and stringing barb-wire. As I believe I observed once before, that's a fine animal you ride."

The sergeant's face beamed at this tribute to Silver. "He is that! Think I'll have to take him up to Strathconna's industrial exposition next June and show him off. His record shows that he's never been beaten."

Fitzrapp thought he saw a chance. "Then perhaps there was something serious behind that offer to race my horse that you made over at Gallegher's the other day. Have you any money to say that the silver beast can't be made to take the dust?"

The major said nothing, merely looking his disapproval of this boast and counter-boast.

Into Childress's face came a shrewd look as he answered. "I staked my saddle on Silver a few years ago, and I'm still riding the same leather. Suppose I could scrape up a thousand to say that he hasn't forgotten how to run. You have a horse in mind, Fitzrapp?"

"My stallion, Canada, will make yours look like a selling plater," was the eager declaration. "I'll back him for any amount, any distance, any time and any place."

Fitzrapp personally owned the horse of which he spoke, a thoroughbred black which had shown speed and was now at the Rafter A. He had no idea that Childress actually would come to terms and arrange a race, but he hoped to discredit the stranger in the eyes of the major, who had no use for a man who boasted of his horse and then was unwilling to back him.

"Fair enough," murmured the sergeant. "Will you ride him yourself?"

"Gladly," declared the ranch manager, thinking that the other was seeking a loophole of escape.

"That is, of course, provided you ride your own horse."

"Silver would scarcely perform at his best for anyone else," said Childress, smiling. "I'm not a betting man, Mr. Fitzrapp, having had my lesson and memorized it, but I'll contribute a thousand dollars to a purse if you'll do the same, and we'll ride it out, winner take all."

"The amount is small," hedged Fitzrapp.

"Didn't suppose we were out for mere money in this instance," countered Silver's owner. "Thought we were wanting to demonstrate horse supremacy. And you have a bit the edge on me, for you've seen my horse and I've never laid eyes on yours. I mentioned a thousand-dollar contribution, as that happens to be the amount named in the one certificate of deposit I have on a Strathconna bank. Of course, if you've changed your mind——"

"I wouldn't want Canada to race in public for such a small sum," returned Fitzrapp, "but if you'll make it a private race and run it in Strathconna, say the day before the exposition opens, I'll be more than glad to take you on."

This proposition was accepted by Childress with a readiness that did not increase the challenger's peace of mind. At that particular time he could ill afford to lose even the thousand, despite the superior manner with which he had complained over the small amount of the purse. After all, he knew absolutely nothing about the speed qualities of the silver stallion, and, while Canada ran exceedingly well at times, the animal possessed a capricious streak that gave any contest in which he was involved an element of dangerous doubt. Fitzrapp had, however, gone too far to back down before the major.

"Will Mr. MacDonald suit you as purse holder?" he asked.

"I'll ask none better," came ready agreement.

A little later, when they drew up before the half completed cabin, Childress went inside and returned with a certificate of deposit which he endorsed to MacDonald, after setting forth the conditions of the race upon its back.

"I haven't a check book in these riding togs," apologized Fitzrapp, "but I guess the major will take my IOU until I can cover properly."

"Unless Childress enters objection," said MacDonald, "I'll be glad to guarantee your share of the purse. But I would suggest that it would be more satisfactory all around if he can ride over to our place within the next day or two and we'll draw up a formal agreement. To my mind he's entitled to look over Canada so long as you've seen the opposing horse, Thomas. Do you suppose you could get away to-morrow or the next day, Mr. Childress?"

Several things combined to bring forth a ready acceptance from the sergeant. One was the shadow of disapproval that rested on Fitzrapp's face. Another was the hope that the visit would bring about further meeting with Mrs. Andress in whom he felt an interest that refused to be subjugated by any argument of common sense—an interest that would not yield to the more vivid impression made upon him by his debtor, the flame girl from Lazy G.

"Make it day after to-morrow," he said cheerfully. "My outfit—my one wrangler—will have returned from the railroad by that time, and I can get away." And all the time an inner voice kept telling him that he was only making trouble for himself in that a sergeant of the Scarlet had no business cultivating an interest in any woman, much less tantalizing himself with two.

The Rafter A party were on the open range outside Childress' basin when MacDonald spoke.

"I'm afraid you were a bit rash in that challenge, Thomas. The silver beast is a runner or I'm no judge of horse flesh, and that chap will ride him to the last kick. It's not going to help you any with Ethel to have Childress trim you. Already she's showing an interest in him that's not so good."

"I've confidence in Canada and I'm used to track racing," returned the ranch manager, still chagrined over the unexpected invitation which the major had extended. "But, hell, we need not trouble our minds over any race with that rustler! He'll never dare show up at the track. We'll surely have the evidence against him by that time."

"We've secured a fine lot of evidence this morning," retorted MacDonald, in a sarcastic vein which he seldom used. "What do you suppose became of those horses O'Hara saw in that ravine?"

"Heaven only knows!" exclaimed Fitzrapp.

"Wonder if O'Hara is really on the level," mused the major audibly. "His looks are against him, and he hails from over in the States, where all our troubles come from."

Fitzrapp entered a prompt defence of the head buster, and MacDonald dropped the subject with the remark that he would make another tally of the two-year-old band that afternoon.

"How did you ever come to invite Childress to visit the home ranch?" Fitzrapp's disturbed meditations finally forced the question.

"Why not? I asked him to the house up in Strathconna and there's been nothing proven against him since."

"But to open your door to one under such a cloud."

"You opened the door yourself, Fitzrapp, by challenging him to a gentleman's race," said the older man with an air of finality. "You needn't be around when he comes if you're so finical about your associates. I can show him your black and act as your representative in the matter of terms."

Fitzrapp's further grumblings were wisely mental and addressed to fate, which of late had been playing him sorry tricks. The one thing he had gained from the morning's effort was a renewed determination to press his suit for the hand of Ethel Andress with all the vigor he dared.

CHAPTER XVIII.

RUSTLED TO A FINISH.

Reclining on a steamer chair, Ethel Andress sat upon the porch of her log ranch house and gazed with an anxious expression down the wide valley toward the United States. From time to time she transferred her gaze to a scrap of paper, evidently torn from some memorandum book, which she held in her slender hand. The writing on it was hurried, but the chirography familiar. The intermittent repetition of the reading eventually attracted the attention of her uncle, who sat beside her in a rustic rocking-chair, pretending to be interested in the latest copy of an Ottawa newspaper that had reached Rafter A.

"Haven't you memorized Fitzrapp's message by this time?" he asked in a bantering tone. "You've read it through often enough since the Indian hiked home with it."

For answer, she read the note again, this time aloud:

Band of five, well mounted, have just crossed the ford. Seem to be making for the two-year-olds. Unquestionably the old rustling outfit. Season's Greetings and I are going after them and won't spare lead. Promise our best to land them this time. My love to you, Ethel.

This disturbing missive had been brought to the ranch house the evening before by an Indian boy who declared that he had been riding hard since early afternoon, to the truth of which statement the drooping ears, limp tail and hard breathing of his pony bore mute evidence. The messenger had been unable or unwilling to add any details, except that the white bosses, one of whom was Fitzrapp, had made smoke riding toward the invaders.

"If Tom was so desperately anxious to land the rustlers, he might have left off the last five words," remarked the widow.

Her uncle looked his disapproval. "You're peeved again with poor Fitz? Seems to me you're pretty hard on him lately, considering all his devotion." And then the handsome old pioneer turned away to enjoy a smile. He had lived his loves in his day and knew the price that must be paid by a mere male with aspiration, ambition, and a pain in his heart.

"There is a time for everything, uncle," was her return. "I'll give him the high sign when—if ever—I'm ready to hear further on that love-to-Ethel subject."

Uncle Ivan was too wrought up over the news of a new raid upon his fair relative's stock for his mind to be troubled long over the widow's capriciousness. A menacing look came into his eyes as they followed the creek trail to the south.

"Isn't it just my confounded luck to be laid up here in a rocking-chair when those mangy coyotes get busy again?" He spoke this ferociously. "If I hadn't been so plumb stubborn against 'squeezing Lizzie,' I'd have ridden that bronc."

The week before he had gone to Corn Cob Basin to look over the band of yearlings which had been wintered there under hired herders from the Indian reservation. He had become disgusted at their clumsy efforts to break an "outlaw," and, forgetting his years, had taken the beast in hand. Ethel knew his horror of "pulling leather," which is range argot for seizing any part of the saddle. From his remark about "squeezing Lizzie," she understood that he might have saved himself a fall and the sprained knee which at present disabled him by laying hold on the saddle horn.

She had a tolerant smile for his equestrian vanity, and replied sympathetically: "Anyway, you defended your faith once more, and that's something! The boys ought to give a good account of themselves in this brush. They seem to have had warning enough."

"If they'll only shoot!" exclaimed the major.

"Aversion to pulling a trigger is one of several things I don't understand about Tom Fitzrapp," said Ethel thoughtfully. "I wonder if he's gun shy. I've long been convinced that Season's Greetings is an old four-flusher, although he looks capable of any atrocity. They've both had chances at these horse thieves before, but we never hear of any casualty list. Sometimes I'm afraid that Tom is too soft-hearted for a real man."

"Men aren't what they used to be, Ethel," the pioneer replied. "Even the Indians and most half-breeds of to-day are more streaked with yellow than red. When I was young—— Well, I'm not too old to show them yet. If the boys come back this time without a scalp, I'm going down into Montana after the scoundrels myself."

The weeks had passed swiftly since the men of Ethel Andress' outfit had returned empty-handed from their raid on the Open A. Despite her hatred of rustlers, the widow had not found it in her heart to grieve that the evidence of stolen horses was wanting. For one thing, she was not displeased that Thomas Fitzrapp should occasionally be disturbed from the pedestal of self-sufficiency upon which she thought him too prone to climb. Again, as her relative and her ranch manager had enforced the handicap of her sex by insisting that she remain at home, a proceeding which she always resented, she was glad that their sortie had proved a failure.

With a fresh tingling of nerves, she recalled now her surprise when John Childress had ridden into the yard a few days after the raid, and gravely saluted her as she sat alone on the porch. She still felt that her uncle or Fitzrapp might have warned her that the stranger was expected. But this they had not done, and she had been forced to make the best of her least becoming frock and a disarray of the hair that was far from what she would have wished. She had set down to his credit the fact that he seemed not to notice these defects in the least, but had spent an hour with her in animated converse, until the return of the men revealed the real reason behind his call.

Although Fitzrapp had hinted as openly as he dared that they could dispense with her presence, she had sat through the business session, youthfully thrilled at the thought of a race between these two men. She had found herself comparing them as they sat on either side of the desk at which the major was drawing up an agreement for the contest, and she decided that they would be well matched for a race of another sort had it not been for the handicap of suspicion under which the stranger labored.

The business ended, she had been rather pleased at the way in which he declined her uncle's invitation to have supper with them. His excuse had been that ranch duties called him, but she had gained and retained the impression that the refusal was but the outcropping of a well-bred instinct not to dine at their table while he was under the slightest suspicion.

In the succeeding weeks she had twice met him on the open range and exchanged a few words with him, but on neither occasion had the situation held anything to lend weight to Fitzrapp's continuing suspicion that he was the real leader of the rustlers. For that reason she had said nothing about the meetings on returning to the home ranch. She was quite sure that she was "the master of her soul," accountable to no man and equally convinced that she would be very certain of her own heart and mind before she permitted any change in the state of widowed blessedness.

One of these range meetings with the ranchman of mystery had possessed an angle which disturbed her in spite of herself. In her hard riding for exercise and relief from ranch monotony, she had passed the boundaries of her own range onto that of Sam Gallegher. Emerging from a coulee she had come suddenly 'upon Childress, and riding with him was Flame of Fire Weed. Their stirrups brushed and they were in close converse. Had there been suitable cover at hand she would have taken refuge and permitted them to pass. As there was no chance of getting out of sight, she had ridden up and made the best of it. And she had rather admired that girl of Gallegher's that day. Flame, she decided, was fast budding into the fullness of her womanhood, and would soon be able to hold her own in any company. The way she had kept their brief trail-side conversation angling around the fact that her "dad" had heard from the commissioner of the Royal Mounted and that an inspector on special detail would soon be at work on their troubles had been really a masterpiece of self-possession and social tact.

Only a week before had occurred the momentous incident of her second visit to the Open A. One of her women friends from Strathconna was paying her a visit, and they had started out in the buckboard for a long prairie drive. They were discussing where they should go when Childress and his one-section ranch had come to mind. Her story regarding him had been sufficiently tinted with romance to excite the curiosity of her visitor, so that the heads of the gray team had been turned toward the basin. Fancifully, they had pretended that they were members of a posse running down a band of desperate horse thieves, and they had worked themselves into quite a gay mood by the time they sighted his cabin.

Childress was so frankly glad to see them, and so insistent that they should accept his hospitality to the extent of an improvised luncheon, that they had left the buckboard and spent a merry hour over a meal which he served on the top of an empty packing box in the shadow of the cabin's overhang. A can-opener was responsible for most of the menu, but two large rainbow trout, caught that very morning in the near-by stream, served as a delicious piece de resistance. The widow's guest had been quite captivated, and repeatedly declared on the drive back to the Rafter Ranch that she could never believe him a horse thief. Indeed, Ethel herself had reached the decision that she should require absolutely convincing proof of his guilt before believing.

Just now something in the distance caught the widow's restless eye. Arising, she went to the porch edge and shaded her face against the sun, which was sinking, very red, behind the distant Rockies.

"Dust showing down the valley," she reported. "We'll know how they fared before very long."

Stepping into the house, she returned in a moment with a pair of field glasses.

"How many riders?" demanded her uncle. "How many riders?" he repeated querulously, before she was able to give him an answer.

"Only two."

"That means no prisoners," grumbled the pioneer.

"But——" The significant look of her flashing eyes made it unnecessary to complete the sentence which would not have become her tender lips.

"Yes, possibly they've killed them," he agreed. "Possibly. But I doubt it. Men don't seem to have the nerve to shoot to kill out on the range these days."

It was half an hour before Fitzrapp and the queerly named buster rode into the yard. The two on the porch waited with such patience as they could command while saddles and bridles were stripped off and the soaking wet blankets hung on the fence of the stable corral to dry. Any departure from this program of horse comfort first would have been an unheard of violation of ranch tradition.

Presently the arrivals approached the house. Their expressions told the story, and a single glance was sufficient for the reading. The Rafter A had been despoiled again. It only remained to learn the extent of the loss and the details of the raiders' escape.

"It's bad business, little woman," said Fitzrapp, who looked well-nigh exhausted, sinking into one of the rockers.

Season's Greetings—which undoubtedly was not his real name but the one he had brought with him to the ranch on a Christmas Eve arrival, and the only one to which he ever answered—deposited his lean, undersized frame upon the steps and leaned back against one of the rough, unturned pillars supporting the porch. His plain features were marred by a bristly, undecorative mustache. He had one useless eye that stared straight ahead, while the other, by which he saw, shifted uncertainly. The widow had spoken advisedly in saying that he looked capable of most any atrocity. Fortunately for him he remained in a country where personal appearance counts for very little.

"How deep did they gouge us?" asked the widow, anxious to know the worst.

"Without having stopped for an actual count, I'd say in the neighborhood of seventy-five head," returned Fitzrapp despondently.

"They were fine stock, too. The rustlers got away clean?" The query was sharply put.

"We were up against a quintette of wicked fighters, Ethel. They nearly got us and we hadn't a chance against them."

He tossed his flat-brimmed felt hat to the widow. Through the peaked crown of it a rifle bullet had bored a hole.

"If that had been an inch lower——" he began again, looking up at her as though hoping to enlist her interest. But the widow, with a far-away look in her eyes, was gazing out over the valley.

"'Most nigh got me, too," added Greetings, pointing to a bullet mark in the sleeve of his coat near the shoulder. "I felt that there bird flit past. You can brand me for a slick-ear if it wa'n't plumb discouraging."

The major demanded the whole story, and Fitzrapp nodded to his companion, who looked none too pleased at what he would have termed "passing the buck."

"Mornin' before yesterday all was lovely on the lower range," he began, after a preliminary clearing of his throat, an operation that by no means strengthened his weak voice. "We looks the band over and decides that the thunder an' lightnin' of Monday night had caused some strayin'. So we ambles up Crooked Coulee and back through Feather Bed Meadow, roundin' up a couple of dozen.

"We unlimbers at Breakfast Flat," Greetings continued, "and munches a bit of grub, when up comes young Scar Face with word that the damned rustlers are repeatin' on the lower end of the herd. Mr. Fitzrapp and me climbs into the saddle and sets out hotfoot after 'em and meets the two bucks we'd left ridin' herd a-breezin' away from it as if they had pressin' and important business affairs elsewhere. They'd been told to vamoose, they says, by five angry-lookin' whites, and as the said whites had the drop on 'em, they hadn't hesitated any to do no argument."

Greetings paused for a moment to roll one, took a couple of puffs, and then resumed: "By the time we dusts over the divide and get a bird's-eye view of said situation, the blotters had cut out what hawses they wants and were driftin' them, comfortable-like, toward the ford. When they see us real he-men a-comin', two of 'em drops back as if to have a conversation party, and t'other three speeds up the cut-outs. The rear guard opens quite prompt before Fitzrapp and I knows we're within range, and the duet them rifle bullets sung wasn't like the music of weddin' bells by a darned sight, was it, boss?"

"But didn't you return their fire?" demanded MacDonald impatiently.

"Sure we returns their fire!" replied Greetings indignantly. "But much good that done us. They must 'a' had some new-fangled sort of irons—long range cannon. They makes the dust fly all around us, but we couldn't seem to make no impression in their neighborhood. We tries to go closer, and they takes to shootin' as if we was targets. Some shootin' it was, too, bet your life!" His comprehensive gesture took in Fitzrapp's holed sombrero and his own perforated coat sleeve. "We follows them clean into the night and plumb up to the line. But to get to the short of it, when daylight comes, there wasn't a sign of the murderin' devils or of the herd."

"Did the silver stallion show this time?" asked the widow, her manner noncommittal.

"They left the white beast behind this time," said Fitzrapp, a shade of impatience in his voice. "Probably he was tired out from activities elsewhere. But his master wasn't."

"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.

"I'm sure I recognized Childress as one of the two who covered the flight."

Ethel Andress stared at him in amazement. "You were close enough to a horse thief to recognize him, and you let him get away?"

"Of course not close enough to see his face, but his general appearance in the saddle, and—Ethel, it seems to me pretty hard hearted of you to be so careless of my life after all I've been through. Is the herd more to you than——"

But the high-tempered young widow had not heard his plea. The sounding of a door sharply closed interrupted him.

The two who had returned from the fray looked at each other. "In the hero market, us two would sell pretty cheap, if the widow was the only bidder," remarked Greetings, with a grin that did not make him any more seemly. "She don't think we're anything because we ain't corpses."

"You might have been more thrilling in detailing the encounter," complained Fitzrapp.

"Never was no good nohow a-gildin' of lilies," remarked the breed, unlimbering himself from the steps and crawfishing in the direction of the bunk house.

CHAPTER XIX.

SURPRISES FOR FLAME.

Dusk was just about to crash into night, as it has a habit of doing on the Canadian plains until summer comes along with its near-midnight daylight, when Flame Gallegher loped up to the small lake that lay in front of the straggly Lazy G establishment. Since sun-up she had been in the saddle, riding hard on the cattle that wore her personal brand, shooting a few coyotes that she found looking for "doggies," helping a cow or two that needed aid in the throes of range motherhood, enjoying the vigorous air, and wondering a lot about what might be going on to the eastward—on the Open A, where the attractive mystery man had settled down with his queer Irish helper, and on the Rafter A where the difficult widow held court.

She was tired, was Bernice, although the flame of her would not admit it. Her horse was tired, a fact that needed no admission, for its rider knew. She guided him into the lake at a point where the gravelly bottom shelved gently and, with her puttee-clad legs draped around the saddle horn, waited until thirst had been slaked. Then she headed to the stable for a hurried unsaddling, realizing from the sounds that came from the cook-shack that she was late for supper and need expect no help.

The first surprise came to Flame when she led her unleathered mount into the barn. There, in one of the comfortable box-stalls reserved for the prize horses of the Lazy G, stood Silver, munching his rations of oats as contentedly as though he belonged.

"What the—what the hell!" she exclaimed, right out loud and regardless.

Silver did not trouble to respond, even if his equine brain held any remembrance of her.

In silence she went about the task of bedding down and feeding her horse; the while her mind was busy. What could have happened to bring John Childress' prize stallion under their roof, not just for a meal, but all tucked in for the night? Was the beautiful beast's master—the elusive, attractive, enigmatic unknown—a guest at the house? Or was it possible that the cogs had slipped, affording a show-down and a capture which left him a prisoner? Not yet was she ready to doubt the man who was more or less under general suspicion; but she did hurry with her chores that she might the sooner get to her place at the oil-cloth covered table where the Galleghers, father and daughter, regularly ate with the men of the outfit.

She entered the long, unfinished room with her usual greeting when she arrived late for the evening meal, the nearest to a formal occasion which the Lazy G Ranch could boast.

"Cheerio!" she cried, and spun her light sombrero to an empty prong on the elk's head that served as hatrack.

"You're late to-night, Firecracker," remarked her father, above the softer-spoken greetings of the several punchers.

"Small matter, if you've left me anything to eat," she countered cheerfully. "I'm hungry as a li'l old brown bear what's just got through a winter's nursing his paw. How about it, Chan Toy, you biscuit-mixing son of a mandarin?" She was the only member of the outfit who ever dared to joke the Chinese who, as cook, swayed no mean sceptre over their ever-hearty appetites.

"If you no like what am left," returned the Chinese with unsmiling countenance, "you know what you can do, Missie Fireworks."

"And what can I do, you heathen Chinee?" she demanded with mock severity.

"You smile and make a face up. Then Chan Toy cook you a beeve-steak special."

"That's the yellow boy," she cheered him, as she pulled back her regular chair and sat down at the table to the right of her father who held the owner's place of honor at the head of the oblong board. "You cook me a beeve-steak special, with mushrooms and bamboo sprouts."

"From a can, the mushrooms," he advised her, and waddled off toward the kitchen which was divided from the dining-room by a partition that ran halfway to the unceiled roof.

Already she had scanned the faces about the oilcloth; all were familiar—regulars. If Jack—Jack Childress had been to the ranch since her departure that morning, either he had not stayed for supper or was under restraint somewhere about the home ranch. She was anxious, yet she scorned to ask questions. Covertly she studied the expression of "Smiling Dick" Murdock who, at his usual table place, had finished his meal and was smoking, his chair tilted back. "Scowling Dick" would have been a better name for him this evening. From the thunder cloud of his expression, she deduced that nothing serious had happened to their mysterious neighbor. Yet any reassurance gained from that source did not help her in solving the mystery in silver hair that the stable sheltered. She'd have to wait until meal's end and the nightly confab with her lonely parent, unless she wished to lay herself open to a show of interest that would have been inadvisable.