CHAPTER XXIV.

OUT OF THE NEST.

The days added themselves into several weeks at Crow's Nest, in the course of which Jack Childress improved upon the good impression which he had made the exciting afternoon of his entry. Delores had learned her lesson and caused him no further trouble, under strict orders from Crowe himself. Twice the branded man had left the outlaw resort for trips down into the State. No one asked him where he had gone or why. One of these departures was after Duncan O'Hara, already well known as a rustler who had won his spurs, had loped into the haven of the lawless. If he had been surprised to find Childress there, he managed to conceal the fact, and had accepted readily the stranger's invitation to share the individual hut which he had rented from Crowe.

Childress had been away on some mysterious mission when Smiling Dick Murdock arrived with a small bunch of Lazy G stock and was welcomed as a proven companion in crime. It chanced that no one thought to tell him that the hard-hitting Childress had won his right to consider himself one of them.

The next afternoon following Murdock's arrival, the sergeant rode in, superbly mounted and without the nondescript horse on which he had departed. As the white flag was flying from the pole on the cliff behind the ranch at the entrance gap, his arrival had caused no excitement in the Nest and did not delay a single dance at the main establishment. For a couple of hours, Childress was busy within his own cabin. When he went over to the saloon-dance-hall, after giving his new mount a careful grooming, he saw a strange horse with dropped rein standing out front—a strange horse, lathered from hard riding, yet an animal which he thought he had seen before. Apprehension gripped him, hastening his stride into the almost deserted barroom and on to the dance floor beyond.

And there, sure enough, she was!

Flame of Fire Weed—little Flame with the freckle-bridged nose—with her back up against the tin-piano and a gun in her hand.

Childress paused just a moment to take stock of the surprising situation. Plastered against the wall were the women "regulars," the harpies of the outlaw camp; the two who composed the orchestra, the bartender and several outlaw "guests."

But the figure who particularly claimed Childress' attention was the bow-legged one of Smiling Dick Murdock, evidently under the influence of hooch, who stood confronting the girl who was at bay.

"So, my little firecracker, got some sense when her sweetie rode away—when her sweetie rode away," he was saying, his famous smile a triumphant leer. "Couldn't stand the thought of separation, could you, Bernie dear?" He lurched toward her.

"Stand back!" she cried. "Stand back or I'll separate you from life! You know I didn't follow you here, you horse thief."

Murdock's laugh set Childress' blood on fire, but, his presence in the doorway as yet unnoticed, he held in for the moment.

"That's the girl—that's the red-head!" chortled Murdock. "Scratch and claw to the very end. Over on the ranch, t'other side of the line I was willing to give you the benefit of all the clergy you could round up. Now that you've followed me here to Crow's Nest, we'll dispense with the ceremony. Come hither, that me tender arms may crush you to me manly breast. You're mine——"

"Quite enough of that, Murdock!" The command from Childress gained stress from its surprise. He strode out on the floor, ready to do battle for the only woman he had ever loved. Why she was there, evidently unattended, in this ribald heart of the outlaw camp, he did not know. He was sure, however, that she had not followed her father's ranch foreman from any heart impulse. He feared, indeed, that she had come out of anxiety over himself, to bring him warning of impending danger or to cast her lot with his in the solving of the rustling mystery, the answer to which already was in his keeping.

Murdock spun half around at the sound of Childress' voice. His instant recognition showed in the flush of hate that suffused his face. For a moment he was speechless.

"You—you here?" he cried when he had thrown off his tongue the shackles of surprise.

"Yes, he's here!" shrilled the girl. "I came to meet him. With Jack and no one else I'll go away."

Murdock, in his self-satisfied, alcoholic vanity, had paid small attention to Flame's automatic. But now he drew and with lightning speed threw down upon the sergeant, already advancing upon him. The report of his Colt roared like a cannon in the low roofed room. But his wonted skill was lacking. The bullet caressed Childress' cheek, tingled the tip of his ear and thudded into one of the timbers that framed the doorway.

Next second Childress' gun spoke. This time there was no miss. Murdock clutched at his breast, spun half around and crumpled upon the calk splintered floor.

At once the sergeant gained the side of the girl who had dared so much in his behalf. His revolver waved both threat and promise to the humans who plastered the walls. It advised them to hold their places and the advice was well understood.

To get Flame out of the place was his first thought and the regular exit, through the bar, seemed too fraught with danger. Behind the piano was an open window. To this he waved Flame and covered her exit. Then he dived after her, just as Murdock recovered sufficiently from lead shock to gain a sitting posture.

"After him, boys," Childress heard the cry. "He's an officer—a spy. The brand's a fake."

With his arm half supporting the girl, he hurried her through the timber of the "park" and gained the cabin which he had rented, in the lean-to of which was the wonder horse which he had brought back to camp from his latest ride to the south. For the moment they had respite, but the sergeant knew that it only was for the moment. Murdock would be able to convince the outlaws in camp that Crowe had made a mistake in taking him in. Just how much the handsome crook knew of the truth was problematical, but the mere fact that Childress had taken up arms in defence of the daughter of a rancher as well known as Sam Gallegher would be enough. They two were in for a battle—one in which no quarter would be given. That a woman was involved was her own look out; the outlaws would argue that she should not have butted into the enemy's country. Their lives, liberty and the integrity of this last haven of refuge were at stake. Nothing else would count.

"Why did you come, Flame?" he asked in the moment that was left them before the siege would begin.

"Day before yesterday, out on the range, Murdock played all his trumps, demanding that I run away with him," she returned, leaning close to him, as if the contact assured protection. "Roper and Rust helped me save myself. They're on the level, those busters, despite what they once tried to do to you. From them I learned that Murdock knew that in some way you were allied with the law. I feared that he was coming here when he shook the ranch with a small herd of dad's blacks. I was—was afraid for you and came to warn you. Found you'd ridden south and stumbled into Murdock before I could take the back track."

"Gamest little pal a man ever had—especially an undeserving, ungainly old roughneck like me," he murmured.

"You're not any of that, Jack," she whispered back. There were none near enough to hear, so the only excuse for the whisper must have been that it seemed more appropriate to the sentiment of the moment.

"We're in a tight hole, Flame," he said with more emotion than his voice usually carried. "Likely we'll get out. Luck ought to be with us. But if worst comes, I want you to know that I love you and that you're the first woman I ever said that to, you dearest of firebrands!"

Then came the first shot of the offence, a rifle bullet that flattened itself against the stout door. Childress threw the blankets from his bunk.

"The base logs of the cabin are thicker," he said. "Lay down as close to the wall as possible and be, out of the way of stray bullets. This cabin was built for defence, even if not for our sort of defenders. If we can stave them off until dark, we'll make a run for it."

"But I want to help," she protested.

"You can help best by keeping out of danger. There's just one rifle and our revolvers are good only for close quarters. Let me try my best——"

A patter of shots thudding into the walls of the cabin interrupted with the word that the fight was on in earnest. One stray bullet found a loophole and crashed against the opposite wall.

"Please, precious o' mine!" Gently he urged her to the blankets on the floor, where she lay under the protection of the heavy foundation logs.

For once Flame obeyed. From somewhere in the mystic maze of memory came comforting thought. Someone, perhaps a poet, had written and she had read that a woman is greatly loved to whom a man speaks with tenderness at a time of desperate peril. Their peril was, to say the least, desperate. And her Jack had spoken with more tenderness than she ever expected to hear him express. She thrilled with love for him, as he picked up the Winchester, which he had stood beside the door on his return from the trip south. When he had made certain that the magazine held its limit of cartridges, he sent some random shots from several of the loopholes.

Calm as was Childress externally, he felt within the sick fear of a child, because he knew himself to be but inadequate protection for the girl who shared the grave peril with him. But this feeling he was able to banish by activity with the rifle; and when that grew heated, with his revolver.

"Got one of 'em that time!" he chuckled after some minutes of random firing. "Guess that'll tell the bunch not to rush this shack; at least not until after dark, and then we won't be here for the reception."

He did not tell her that "one of 'em" had got him through the shoulder, a wound that was painful but not crippling.

"But how can we both get away?" she asked, handing him a rifle she had been reloading. "I left my horse down at the main dive."

"I have another wonder horse in the lean-to back of the cabin," he said. "The beast won't consider you extra weight, little Flame. As soon as it's dark, we'll bust out and give them a run for their money, my life and something more than life for you."

There came a lull in the firing and he slipped out through the back door to saddle the magnificent piece of horseflesh which he had acquired somewhere to the south. The girl followed him, noticed the difficulty he had swinging the heavy cow saddle into place, and then saw the crimson stain upon his shirt between collar-bone and shoulder.

"They hit you," she whispered. "Let me see—how bad."

He waved her back.

"Oh, Jack, if anything should happen to you after—after this afternoon, I don't want to live." This, he realized, was the offering of excess emotion, but he fully appreciated it.

"Nothing's going to happen—at least nothing has happened that a few days and a minister won't remedy," he reassured her.

Fortunately for them the season of long Western twilights had not yet arrived. Night fairly crashed down upon them. An hour later he fired from each of the loopholes in turn, then led her to the improvised stable.

"Just one, before we see whether old lady Fate is with or against us," he said.

She came into his arms without the slightest pressure and with no maidenly excuse that might have sprung to her lips had the situation been less vivid. For one long moment their lips were together. Then he swung into the saddle, perched on the cantle, and, lifting her bodily, placed her in front of him. According to all reasonable expectations, bullets of protest would come from behind. With a word to the brave horse, the dash out of Crow's Nest was on.

CHAPTER XXV.

GRIP OF THE LAW.

Ten o'clock was the hour set down in the articles of agreement for the running of the challenge race, and Major MacDonald himself had arranged for the use of the Strathconna track at that time. The exposition authorities were glad to grant the favor to one who had supported that institution so generously in its early days, when such assistance was badly needed. Two of the judges and the regular starter had consented to serve, eager to take part in anything in which the pioneer, who had done so much for the province, was interested.

With none of these arrangements had MacDonald interfered since his return with Mrs. Andress and Fitzrapp from the Rafter A with the knowledge that Canada had been stolen. It was his idea that they should appear at the track just as though nothing had happened and take no steps that might alarm Childress, in case he was foolhardy enough to attempt to save his thousand and claim Fitzrapp's forfeit.

Accordingly, at half-past nine on the appointed morning, a touring car drew up at the gates, carrying the pioneer, the widow and Fitzrapp in the tonneau, and a stranger in a brown suit and gray derby on the seat beside the chauffeur. The little party went directly to the green before the grandstand, where they were joined shortly by the officials whose services had been requested.

Although the great open-faced stand was practically deserted, there was plenty of life and movement in its immediate vicinity. Next morning the fair would be thrown open to the public, so that the last hour preparations were being rushed. Refreshment tents and canvas catchpenny booths were in process of erection or receiving their finishing touches. Tardy exhibits were being brought to their proper buildings, and an unending stream of blooded cattle and thoroughbred horses passed on toward the stables. On the broad track itself a force of ground keepers were at work, although the great circle already seemed to have attained the proverbial smoothness of a ballroom floor.

"I've an idea that we brought you gentlemen out this morning under false pretenses," MacDonald was saying to the officials. "I'm afraid that one of the horses will not appear and that the challenge will have to go unsettled."

"Always sorry to miss a close match race, Major," returned the starter; "but don't let that worry——" He broke off abruptly and stared toward the paddock gate. "Good heavens! Will you look at that magnificent horse!"

The others turned to see Jack Childress approaching. Behind him strode the silver stallion, and still farther in the rear trailed Mahaffy, burdened with a cow saddle.

Admiring exclamations sprang from several lips, Mrs. Andress' and the major's among them, for although they were acquainted with the fine points of Silver, they never had seen him so finely groomed. Fitzrapp's glance of recognition had brought a start of surprise, for he had confidently expected that Childress would fail to accept this last daring chance. Evidently the man's boldness knew no limits.

As he drew near the owner of the one-section ranch waved a greeting to the men and took off his hat to the widow, who was the only woman in the immediate party. Mrs. Andress had been asked by her uncle not to precipitate matters by showing a changed manner toward the suspect in case he did appear. She forced a smile to accompany her bow; then quickly looked away.

"Well, Fitzrapp, I'm on deck, you see," said Childress, addressing his rival. "Not so good getting back from Montana, but I'm here, and, thanks to Mahaffy's care, Silver is ready to give your beast the run of his life. Suppose you call up your horse, and we'll get ready for the starter's gun."

"You know very well that you——"

The outburst from Fitzrapp was interrupted when the heavy hand of the major fell upon his shoulder.

"Through circumstances beyond his control," the pioneer interposed, "Mr. Fitzrapp's horse, Canada, is not available for racing to-day. As stakeholder, I'm ready to hear your desire regarding the purse to which you both contributed."

The look on Childress' face was so akin to genuine surprise that Ethel Andress had difficulty in disbelieving it, although she knew it could not be real. "He adds fine acting to his many other accomplishments," she reflected bitterly. "What a pity he couldn't have been a real man."

"Circumstances beyond his control, eh?" repeated Childress. "Well, now, that's sure too bad. Silver and I don't want any runaway money, do we, boy?" He stroked the stallion's satiny neck meditatively. "Tell you what I'll do; I've got another horse down in the paddock that looks as if he'd be a fit match for the silver one here. I'll lend him to Fitzrapp, and we'll have a race anyway, so long as we're all here."

"Rediculous!" cried the Rafter A manager. "Race against a man with his own horse! Who ever heard of such a thing?"

The other horsemen smiled at the odd proposal.

"Wait until you've seen the horse before you decide," urged Childress. "He sure looks like a winner, and I feel this morning as if nothing but a horse race would satisfy my appetite. Running Silver against time isn't ever going to do it."

He turned to the little Irishman. "Mahaffy, suppose you go back to the stable and bring up my new horse."

While they waited, he entered unconcernedly into the conversation, which was centered upon the fine points of the silver beast. Looking at him and listening to him, the widow could not comprehend how he managed to maintain such poise, considering the strain under which he must be laboring. Nor could she see by what possible expedient he hoped to carry off his effrontery.

Standing a little to one side of the group about the stallion, she was the first to sight the horse which Mahaffy was leading from the paddock. For a moment she stared in silence; then an amazed cry sprang from her lips.

"Look, Tom! Look! There's Canada. The man's bringing on your stolen horse!"

They all turned and saw that the wrangler was advancing with a horse they knew—Canada, the prize-winning black stallion that Thomas Fitzrapp had exhibited so often.

An imprecation burst from Fitzrapp's lips. Then he sprang toward the horse. The black recognized him with a delighted whinny, and nosed him when he came within reach. There was no doubt that an affection existed between man and beast. Tears gushed into Fitzrapp's eyes, and as for Canada, had there been any question of original ownership, his behavior would have settled it in the manager's favor in the decision of any unbiased jury.

"Told you to wait until you'd seen the horse," said Childress with a chuckle. "This was my little surprise party. Now we can have an honest-to-goodness race according to agreement."

"How comes it that you bring up Mr. Fitzrapp's mount?" asked the most imposing of the race judges, giving Childress a look of open suspicion.

"Because circumstances beyond his control prevented him from bringing up the beast himself," returned the imperturbable owner of the Open A.

The thought that Childress must have lost his mind rushed into Ethel's brain, and she pitied him. There seemed no other reasonable explanation for this piling of folly upon folly.

A look from the major moved Fitzrapp to speech. "Gentlemen, this horse was stolen from me, and from the first I suspected that Childress was concerned in the theft. Why he brought the animal here is unexplainable, but does not concern us. Officer, you had better take him in charge."

The big man in the gray derby stepped forward importantly and laid a hand on Childress' shoulder. The latter made no effort to throw off the clutch, nor did he protest when the official ran his hands over his body in search of weapons.

"What's all this about?" he inquired, a puzzled expression on his face.

"You're under arrest; that's what it is about," said the policeman. "Here's the warrant if you want to read it."

Childress took the paper, and scanned it rapidly.

"Looks regular enough," he remarked, slipping the warrant into his coat pocket. "So we aren't going to have a race—after all the trouble I've been put to?"

"Not to-day," returned the officer with a grin. "Not so's you'd notice the dust."

There seemed to awaken in Childress a sudden realization of his position. He jerked out the warrant and read it more carefully.

"Is this jolly little document based upon anything more stable than the information and belief of Mr. Thomas Fitzrapp, of Strathconna, the Rafter A Ranch and elsewhere?" he asked.

A thread of defiance in his tone caused Ethel Andress again to look at him searchingly. It seemed impossible that he could be what circumstances proved him to be.

"The warrant has substantial basis," said Maj. MacDonald. "Here for instance is a memorandum book, purporting to be the property of one Jack Childress. It is filled with rustling data and was picked up in the track of the last raid upon our stock."

Childress bowed recognition of the book. "I'll be glad to get you back, old stand-by, when the court is through with you. I dropped you that day I rode to the Rafter A to sign the terms of today's race. Fitzrapp must have picked you up and neglected to return you." He turned to the local officer. "Will you be kind enough to come over to the stables until we put up the horses and I get out of these riding clothes."

"I'll put an officer on guard of the horses," said the policeman as they walked off toward the stables.

None paid any attention to a gestured signal which Childress threw toward the grandstand. There it was picked up and understood by a slender little woman in a blue twill dress and dark mushroom hat. She left the seat which she had occupied alone and approached the group that waited beneath the starter's stand.

Ten minutes passed when came the return from the stables, a return that added to the day's total of surprises. The two who accompanied the local officer wore the brilliant parade uniforms of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—Childress with the trappings of a staff-sergeant, Mahaffy in the plainer suit of a trooper. Heavy revolvers bristled in ominous black from the hip holsters of each. They strode with the swank of long service, and the local policeman seemed entirely satisfied to toddle along in the rear.

The eyes of all the waiting group were opened wide with surprise, all eyes except the blue ones of Bernice Gallegher, otherwise Flame of Fire Weed.

"No need of further delay," said Sergt. Childress with authority. "Do your duty, Constable Mahaffy."

The veteran constable was so glad to be back in uniform after long service in ranch-hand disguise that he threw unusual feeling into the form of arrest and warning of Thomas Fitzrapp on the charge of horse stealing from the Rafter A and other ranches.

Ethel Andress and her uncle, after a moment of startled silence, turned accusing gaze on their trusted employee. For the moment Fitzrapp seemed stunned by the sudden turn which the case had taken.

"Come, Fitzrapp," said the sergeant in a tone that was persuasive, even though it did not lack in firmness, "you've run your course, and you might as well give up. You sold Canada to Dick Allen in Missoula, and it's one of the few honest sales you ever made. I bought him from Allen and have his bill-of-sale. I have proof that you are the head of the rustling band which has been ravishing the Fire Weed country. Indeed, except for a few miserable tools, you are the whole band. I suppose you thought you needed the dirty money to make good on your suit for the hand of your employer."

Mrs. Andress was turning away when first she noticed the presence of the Gallegher girl. Flame, in full womanly sympathy, sprang to her side to offer comfort.

"Just think what he's saved me from," murmured the widow.

"Yes, and isn't he just—just wonderful!" enthused Sam Gallegher's "firecracker."

"Come across clean, Fitzrapp," Childress was urging. "It will be the better for you. From the moment I had Canada brought out on the track this morning, you must have known that I was sure of my ground."

With a stubborn spirit that had always stood out in his character, Fitzrapp kept his lips closed and his eyes on the ground.

"It looks as though I'd have to send for an interesting witness I've held in reserve down at the hotel," Childress resumed. "I have in mind one Duncan O'Hara, formerly head buster on the Rafter A, the man who brought me word of Canada's new owner. If it had not been for him we might still be beating about the range seeking definite proof of Fitzrapp's duplicity. As it is, we've filled a royal flush."

At last the range manager broke under the weight of evidence. "You won't need O'Hara," he said slowly, a bitter note, which he was unable to banish, creeping into his tone. "If he's double-crossed me, there's no use trying to fight. My hand is all played out."

"Take him to the city prison, Mahaffy," ordered Childress. "I've got to go down to the court house and clear this warrant off the boards."

When the constable and his prisoner had entered a taxi and driven out of the exposition grounds, the sergeant turned to the widow.

"Although you two women never have met, you seem to have found some bond in common," he said with a whimsical grin. "Permit me to present Mrs. John Childress, so new to the part that she'd probably stumble if you'd asked her to name her real name."

"Ah, my hearty congratulations to you both," said the gallant old major effusively.

"A romance of the Fire Weed," murmured Ethel Andress, and embraced the fair neighbor. "When did it happen, my dear?"

"If by it you mean when we were married—that was yesterday afternoon when we rode in from the ranch," said Flame, flaunting furious blushes. "But it wasn't exactly a romance of our Fire Weed range. Seems to me it was all settled one stormy afternoon in Crow's Nest of all places. At least we were certain when we succeeded in riding out through a hail of outlaw lead."

"It's fine to have married into the Royal," said the widow, any past interest she may have had in the enigma of the Open A forgot.

"Jack never told me that he was a Mountie," said the colorful bride, her freckled eyes more alive than usual. "Thanks to a moonlight meeting on a night that was touch-and-go with tragedy, I knew from the first. As long as he was in mufti I pretended blind ignorance. But just because he didn't confide in me, I think I'll marry him out of the Service. We need him down on the range."

"That will be a loss to the service," began the major, "but—"

"But we're trained to obey our superior officers," Childress cut in. "As soon as this case is cleaned, I reckon Ottawa will have a chance to weep over my resignation. I've an idea that I'll complete that cabin, begun as a subterfuge, and even build a dog-house for Poison. Just perhaps I'll come to enjoy ranching in Fire Weed with the Flame thereof."

"You better had—enjoy it!"

Mrs. John Childress blazed the last word.

THE END.