Marlowe Amy Bell - Frances of the Ranges: or, The Old Ranchman's Treasure стр 9.

Why, Dad! how you talk! she exclaimed.

We can never tell, sighed her father. Treasure is tempting. And it looks to me as though this fellow who climbed over the roof expected to find somebody inside to help him. Thats the way it looks to me, he repeated, shaking his head obstinately.

Dear Dad! you dont mean that you think Pratt Sanderson would do such a thing? said Frances, in a horrified tone.

We dont know him.

But his coming here to the Bar-T was unexpected. I urged him to come. That lion really scratched him

Yes. It doesnt look reasonable, I allow, admitted her father; but she could see he was not convinced of the honesty of Pratt Sanderson.

There was a difference of opinion between Frances and Captain Rugley.

CHAPTER VII

THE STAMPEDE

The remainder of the night passed in quietness. That there really had been a marauder about the Bar-T ranch-house could not be doubted; for a slate was found upon the ground in the morning, and the place in the roof where it had been broken out was plainly visible.

Captain Rugley sent one of the men up with a ladder and new slates to repair the damage. He reported that the marks of the grappling-hook in the roof sheathing were unmistakable, too.

Although her father had expressed himself as doubtful of the good intentions of Pratt Sanderson, Frances was glad to see at breakfast that he treated the young man no differently than before. Pratt slept late and the meal was held back for him.

The attentions of that old mountain lion bothered me so that I did not sleep much the fore part of the night, Pratt explained.

How about that bird you heard on the roof? the Captain asked, calmly.

I dont know what it was. It sounded like big wings flapping, the young fellow explained. But I really didnt see anything.

Captain Rugley grunted, and said no more. He grunted a good deal this morning, in fact, for every movement gave him pain.

The rheumatism has got its fangs set in me right, this time, he told Frances.

Thats for being out of your warm bed and chasing all over the house without a coat on in the night, she said, admonishingly.

Goodness! said her father. Must I be that particular? If so, I am getting old, I reckon.

She made him promise to keep out of draughts when she mounted Molly to ride away on an errand to a distant part of the ranch. She rode off with Pratt Sanderson, for he was traveling in the same direction, toward Mr. Bill Edwards place.

Frances of the ranges was more silent than she had been when they rode together the night before. Pratt found it hard to get into conversation with her on any but the most ephemeral subjects.

For instance, when he hinted about Captain Rugleys adventures on the Border:

Your father is a very interesting talker. He has seen and done so much.

Yes, said Frances.

And how adventurous his life must have been! Id love to get him in a story-telling mood some day.

He doesnt talk much about old times.

But, of course, you know all about his adventures as a Ranger, and his trips into Mexico?

No, said Frances.

Why! he spoke last night as though he often talked about it. About the looting of Who was the old Spanish grandee he mentioned?

I know very little about it, Pratt, fluttered Frances. Thats just dads talk.

But that gorgeous girdle and bracelet you wore!

Frances secretly determined not to wear jewelry from the treasure chest again. She had never thought before about its causing comment and conjecture in the minds of people who did not know her father as well as she did.

Suppose people believed that Captain Dan Rugley had actually stolen those things in some raid into Mexico? Such a thought had never troubled her before. But she could see, now, that strangers might misjudge her father. He talked so recklessly about his old life on the Border that he might easily cause those who did not know him to believe that not alone the contents of that mysterious treasure chest but his other wealth was gained by questionable means.

Fortunately, a herd of steers, crossing from one of the extreme southern ranges of the Bar-T to the north where juicier grass grew, attracted the attention of the guest from Amarillo.

Are those all yours, Frances? he asked, when he saw the mass of dark bodies and tossing horns that appeared through rifts in the dust cloud that accompanies a driven herd even over sod-land.

My fathers, she corrected, smiling. And only a small herd. Not more than two thousand head in that bunch.

Id call two thousand cows a whole lot, Pratt sighed.

Not for us. Remember, the Bar-T has been in the past one of the great cattle ranches of the West. Daddy is getting old now and cannot attend to so much work.

But you seem to know all about it, said Pratt, with enthusiasm. Dont you really do all the overseeing for him?

Oh, no! laughed Frances. Not at all. Silent Sam is the ranch manager. I just do what either dad or Sam tell me. Im just errand girl for the whole ranch.

But Pratt knew better than that. He saw now that she was watching the oncoming mass of steers with a frown of annoyance. Something was going wrong and Frances was troubled.

Whats the matter? he asked, curiously.

I thought that was Ratty MGill with that bunch, Frances answered, more as though thinking aloud than consciously answering Pratts question. The rascal! Hed run all the fat off a bunch of cows between pastures.

She pulled Molly around and headed the pinto for the herd. It was not in his way, but Pratt followed her example and rode his grey hard after the cowgirl.

Not a herdsman was in sight. The steers were coming on through the dust, sweating and steaming, evidently having been driven very hard since daybreak. Occasionally one bawled an angry protest; but those in front were being forced on by the rear ranks, which in turn were being harassed by the punchers in charge.

Suddenly, a bald-faced steer shot out of the ruck of the herd, darting at right angles to the course. For a little way a steer can run as fast as a race-horse. Thats why the creatures are so very hard to manage on occasion.

To Pratt, who was watching sharply, it was a question which got into action firstFrances or her wise little pinto. He did not see the girl speak to Molly; but the pony turned like a shot and whirled away after the careering steer. At the same moment, it seemed, Frances had her hair rope in her hand.

The coils began to whirl around her head. The pinto was running like the wind. The bald-faced, ugly-looking brute of a steer was soon running neck and neck with the well-mounted girl.

Pratt followed. He was more interested in the outcome of the chase than he was in where his grey was putting his feet.

There was an eerie yell behind them. Pratt saw a wild-looking, hatless cowboy racing a black pony toward them. The whole herd seemed to have been turned in some miraculous way, and was thundering after Old Baldface and the girl.

Pratt began to wonder if there was not danger. He had heard of a stampede, and it looked to him as though the bunch of steers was quite out of hand. Had he been alone, he would have pulled out and let the herd go by.

But either Frances did not see them coming, or she did not care. She was after that bald-faced steer, and in a moment she had him.

The whirling noose dropped and in some wonderful way settled over a horn and one of the steers forefeet. When Molly stopped and braced herself, the steer pitched forward, turned a complete somersault, and lay on the prairie at the mercy of his captor.