Kitabı oku: «Frances of the Ranges: or, The Old Ranchman's Treasure», sayfa 10
CHAPTER XXIII
A GAME OF PUSS IN THE CORNER
The reckless cowpuncher, Ratty M’Gill, riding up the bank of the narrow stream through the cottonwoods, and singing a careless song at the top of his voice, was what gave Pratt Sanderson the final suggestion that there was something down stream that he ought to look into.
Frances had gone that way; Ratty was riding back. Had they met, or passed, on the river bank?
Of the cavalcade cutting across the range for Mr. Edwards’ place, Pratt was the only member that noticed the discharged cowpuncher. And he waited until the latter was well out of sight and hearing before he turned his grey pony’s head back toward the river.
“Where are you going, Pratt?” demanded one of his friends.
“I’ve forgotten something,” the young man from Amarillo replied.
“Oh, dear me!” cried Sue Latrop. “He’s forgotten his cute, little cattle queen. Give her my love, Pratt.”
The young fellow did not reply. If the girl from Boston had really been of sufficient importance, Pratt would have hated her. Sue had made herself so unpleasant that she could never recover her place in his estimation–that was sure!
He set spurs to his pony and raced away before any other remarks could be made in his hearing. He rode directly back to the ford they had crossed; but reaching it, he turned sharply down stream, in the direction from which Ratty M’Gill had come.
Here and there in the soft earth he saw the marks of Molly’s hoofs. But when these marks were no longer visible on the harder ground, Pratt kept on.
He soon pulled the grey down to a walk. They made little noise, he and the pony. Two miles he rode, and then suddenly the grey pony pointed his ears forward.
Pratt reached quickly and seized the grey’s nostrils between thumb and finger. In the distance a pony whinnied. Was it Molly?
“You just keep still, you little nuisance!” whispered Pratt to his mount. “Don’t want you whinnying to any strange horse.”
He got out of the saddle and led his pony for some rods. The brush was thick and there was no bridle-path. He feared to go farther without knowing what and who was ahead, and he tied the grey–taking pattern by Frances and tying his head up-wind.
The young fellow hesitated about taking the shotgun he had used in the jack-rabbit hunt. There was a sheath fastened to his saddle for the weapon, and he finally left it therein.
Pratt really thought that nothing of a serious nature had happened to his girl friend. Seeing Ratty M’Gill had reminded him that the cowpuncher had once troubled Frances, and Pratt had ridden down this way to offer his escort to the old ranchman’s daughter.
He had no thought of the man who had held them up at the lower ford, toward Peckham’s, the evening of the prairie fire; nor did he connect the cowpuncher and that ruffian in his mind.
“If I take that gun, the muzzle will make a noise in the bushes, or the hammer will catch on something,” thought Pratt.
So he left the shotgun behind and went on unarmed toward the place where Frances was even then sitting under the keen eye of Pete.
“You keep where ye are, Miss,” growled that worthy when Ratty rode away. “I will sure tie ye if ye make an attempt to get away. You have fell right into my han’s, and I vow you’ll make me some money. Your father’s got a plenty – ”
“You mean to make him ransom me?” asked Frances, quietly.
“That’s the ticket,” said Pete, nodding, and searching his ragged clothing for a pipe, which he finally drew out and filled. “He’s got money. I’ve spent what I brought up yere to the Panhandle with me. And I b’lieve you made me lose my wagon and that other horse.”
Frances made no rejoinder to this last, but she said:
“Father may be willing to pay something for my release. But you and Ratty will suffer in the end.”
“We’ll risk that,” said the man, puffing at his pipe, and nodding thoughtfully.
“You’d better let me go now,” said the girl, with no display of fear. “And you’d better give up any further attempt to get at the old chest that Mr. Lonergan talked about.”
“Hey!” exclaimed the man, startled. “What d’ye know about Lonergan?”
“He will be at the ranch in a few days, and if there is any more treasure than you found in that old trunk you stole from me, he will get his share and there will no longer be any treasure chest. Make up your mind to that.”
“You know who I am and what I come up yere for?” demanded Pete, eying her malevolently.
“Yes. I know you are the man who tried to steal in over the roof of our house, too. If you make my father any angrier with you than he is now, he will prosecute you all the more sharply when you are arrested.”
“You shut up!” growled Pete. “I ain’t going to be arrested.”
“Both you and Ratty will be punished in the end,” said Frances, calmly. “Men like you always are.”
“Lots you know about it, Sissy. And don’t you be too sassy, understand? I could squeeze yer breath out!”
He stretched forth a clawlike hand as he spoke, and pinched the thumb and finger wickedly together. That expression and gesture was the first thing that really frightened the girl–it was so wicked!
She shuddered and fell back against the tree trunk. Never in her life before had Frances Rugley felt so nearly hysterical. The realization that she was in this man’s power, and that he had reason to hate her, shook her usually steady nerves.
After all, Ratty M’Gill was little more than a reckless boy; but this older man was vile and bad. As he squatted over the fire, puffing at his pipe, with his head craned forward, he looked like nothing so much as a bald-headed buzzard, such as she had seen roosting on dead trees or old barn-roofs, outside of Amarillo.
Pete finally knocked the ashes out of his pipe on his boot heel and then arose. Frances could scarcely contain herself and suppress a scream when he moved. She watched him with fearful gaze–and perhaps the fellow knew it.
It may have been his intention to work upon her fears in just this way. Brave as the range girl was, her helplessness was not to be ignored. She knew that she was at his mercy.
When he shot a sideways glance at her as he stretched his powerful arms and stamped his feet and yawned, he must have seen the color come and go faintly in her cheeks.
Rough as were the men Frances had been brought up with–for from babyhood she had been with her father in cow-camp and bunk-house and corral–she had always been accorded a perfectly chivalrous treatment which is natural to men of the open.
Where there are few women, and those utterly dependent for safety upon the manliness of the men, the latter will always rise to the very highest instincts of the race.
Frances had been utterly fearless while riding herd, or camping with the cowboys, or even when alone on the range. If she met strange men she expected and received from them the courtesy for which the Western man is noted.
But this leering fellow was different from any person with whom Frances had ever come in contact before. Each moment she became more fearful of him.
And he realized her attitude of fear and worked upon her emotions until she was almost ready to burst out into hysterical screams.
Indeed, she might have done this very thing the next time Pete came near her had not suddenly a voice spoken her name.
“Frances! what is the matter with you?”
“Oh!” she gasped. “Pratt!”
The young man stepped out of the bushes, not seeing Pete at all. He had been watching the girl only, and had not understood what made her look so strange.
“You haven’t been thrown, Frances, have you?” asked Pratt, solicitously. “Are you hurt?”
Then the girl’s frightened gaze, or some rustle of Pete’s movement, made Pratt Sanderson turn. Pete had reached for his rifle and secured it. And by so doing he completely mastered the situation.
“Put your hands over your head, young feller!” he growled, swinging the muzzle of the heavy gun toward Pratt. “And keep ’em there till I’ve seen what you carry in your pockets.”
He strode toward the surprised Pratt, who obeyed the order with becoming promptness.
“Don’t you make no move, neither, Miss,” growled the man, darting a glance in Frances’ direction.
“Why–why – What do you mean?” demanded Pratt, recovering his breath at last. “Do you dare hold this young lady a prisoner?”
“Yep. That’s what I dare,” sneered Pete. “And it looks like I’d got you, too. What d’ye think you’re going to do about it?”
“Isn’t this the fellow who robbed us at the river that time, Frances?” cried Pratt.
The girl nodded. Just then she could not speak.
“And that fellow Ratty was with him this time?”
Again the girl nodded.
“Then they shall both be arrested and punished,” declared Pratt. “I never heard of such effrontery. Do you know who this young lady is, man?” he demanded of Pete.
“Jest as well as you do. And her pa’s going to put up big for to see her again–unharmed,” snarled the man.
“What do you mean?” gasped Pratt, his face blazing and his fists clenched. “You dare harm her – ”
Pete was slapping him about the pockets to make sure he carried no weapon. Now he struck Pratt a heavy blow across the mouth, cutting his lips and making his ears ring.
“Shut up, you young jackanapes!” commanded the man. “I’ll hurt her and you, too, if I like.”
“And Captain Dan Rugley won’t rest till he sees you well punished if you harm her,” mumbled Pratt.
Pete struck at him again. Pratt dodged back. And at that moment Frances disappeared!
The man had only had his eyes off her for half a minute. He gasped, his jaw dropped, and his bloodshot eyes roved all about, trying to discover Frances’ whereabouts.
He had not realized that, despite her fear, the girl of the ranges had had her limbs drawn up and her muscles taut ready for a spring.
His attention given for the moment to Pratt Sanderson, Frances had risen and dodged behind the bole of the tree against which she was leaning, a carefully watched prisoner.
She would never have escaped so easily had it been Ratty in charge; for his mental processes were quicker than those of Pete.
Flitting from tree to tree, keeping one or more of the big trunks between her and Pete’s roving eyes while still he was speechless, she was traveling farther and farther from the camp.
She might have set forth running almost at once, and so escaped. But she could not leave Pratt to the heavy hand of Pete. Nor could she abandon Molly.
Frances, therefore, began encircling the opening where the fire burned; but she kept well out of Pete’s sight.
She heard him utter a bellow which would have done credit to a mad steer. That came when he saw Pratt was about to escape, too.
The young fellow was creeping away, stooping and on tiptoe. Pete uttered a frightful imprecation and sprang after him with his rifle clubbed and raised above his head.
“Stand where you are!” he commanded, “or I’ll bat your foolish head in!”
And he looked enraged enough to do it. Pratt dared not move farther; he crouched in terror, expecting the blow.
He had bravely assailed Pete with his tongue when Frances seemed in danger; but the girl had escaped now and Pratt hoped she was each minute putting rods between this place and herself.
Pete suddenly dropped his rifle and sprang at the young man. Pratt’s throat was in the vicelike grip of Pete on the instant. Both his wrists were seized by the man’s other hand.
Such feeble struggles as Pratt made were abortive. His breath was shut off and he felt his senses leaving him.
But as his eyes rolled up there was a crash in the brush and a pony dashed into the open. It was Molly and her mistress was astride her.
Frances had lost her hat; her hair had become loosened and was tossed about her pale face. But her eyes glowed with the light of determination and she spurred the pony directly at the two struggling figures in the middle of the hollow.
“I’m coming, Pratt!” she cried. “Hold on!”
CHAPTER XXIV
A GOOD DEAL OF EXCITEMENT
Pete twisted himself around to look over his shoulder, but still kept his clutch on the breathless young man. However, Pratt feebly dragged his wrists out of the man’s grasp.
Frances was riding the pinto directly at them. Under her skillful guidance the pony’s off shoulder must collide with Pete, unless the man dropped Pratt entirely and sprang aside.
The man did this, uttering a yell of anger. Pratt staggered the other way and Frances brought Molly to a standstill directly between the two.
“You let him alone!” the girl commanded, gazing indignantly at the rascally man. “Oh! you shall be paid in full for all you have done this day. When Captain Rugley hears of this.
“Quick, Pratt!” she shrieked. “That rifle!”
Pete was bent over reaching for the weapon. Frances jerked Molly around, but she could not drive the pony against the man in time to topple him over before his wicked fingers closed on the barrel of the gun.
It was Pratt who made the attack in this emergency. He had played on the Amarillo High football eleven and he knew how to “tackle.”
Before Pete could rise up with the recovered weapon in his grasp Pratt had him around the legs. The man staggered forward, trying to kick away the young fellow; but Pratt clung to him, and his antagonist finally fell upon his knees.
Quick as a flash Pratt sprang astride his bowed back. He kicked Pete’s braced arms out from under him and the man fell forward, screaming and threatening the most awful punishment for his young antagonist.
Frances could not get into the melee with Molly. The two rolled over and over on the ground and suddenly Pete gave vent to a shriek of pain. He had rolled on his back into the fire!
“Quick, Pratt!” begged Frances. “Get away from him! He will do you some dreadful harm!”
She believed Pete would, too. As Pratt leaped aside, the man bounded up from the bed of hot coals, his shirt afire, and he unable to reach it with his beating hands!
Pratt ran to Frances’ side. She pulled Molly’s head around and the pony trotted across the clearing, with Pratt staggering along at the stirrup and striving to get his breath.
As they passed the spot where the battle had begun, Pratt stooped and secured the rifle. Pete, in rage awful to see, was tearing the smouldering shirt from his back. Then Pete dashed after the escaping pair.
The rifle encumbered the young man; but if he dropped it he knew the man would hold them at his mercy. So, swinging the weapon up by its barrel, he smashed the stock against a tree trunk.
Again and again he repeated the blow, until the tough wood splintered and the mechanism of the hammer and trigger was bent and twisted. Pete almost caught him. Pratt dashed the remains of the rifle in his face and ran on after Frances.
“I’ll catch you yet!” yelled Pete. “And when I do – ”
The threat was left incomplete; but the man ran for his own horse.
If Frances had only thought to drive Molly that way and slip the hobbles of Pete’s nag, much of what afterward occurred in this hollow by the river bank would never have taken place. She and Pratt would have been immediately free.
It was hours afterward–indeed, almost sunset–that old Captain Rugley, sitting on the broad veranda of the Bar-T ranch-house and expecting Frances to appear at any moment, raised his eyes to see, instead, Victorino Reposa slouching up the steps.
“Hello, Vic!” said the Captain. “What do you want?”
“Letter, Capitan,” said the Mexican, impassively, removing his big hat and drawing a soiled envelope from within.
“Seen anything of Miss Frances?” asked the ranchman, reaching lazily for the missive.
“No, Capitan,” responded the boy, and turned away.
The superscription on the envelope puzzled Captain Dan Rugley. “Here, Vic!” he cried after the departing youth. “Where’d you get this? ’Tisn’t a mailed letter.”
“It was give to me on the trail, Capitan,” said Victorino, softly. “As I came back from the horse pasture.”
“Who gave it to you?” demanded the ranchman, beginning to slit the flap of the envelope.
“I am not informed,” said Victorino, still with lowered gaze. “The Señor who presented it declare’ it was give to heem by a strange hand at Jackleg. He say he was ride this way – ”
The Captain was not listening. Victorino saw that this was a fact and he allowed his words to trail off into nothing, while he, himself, began again to slip away.
The old ranchman was staring at the unfolded sheet with fixed attention. His brows came together in a portentous frown; and perhaps for the first time in many years his bronzed countenance was washed over by the sickly pallor of fear.
Victorino, stepping softly, had reached the compound gate. Suddenly the forelegs of the ranchman’s chair hit the floor of the veranda, and he roared at the Mexican in a voice that made the latter jump and drop the brown paper cigarette he had just deftly rolled.
“You boy! Come back here!” called Captain Rugley. “I want to know what this means.”
“Me, Capitan?” asked Victorino, softly, and hesitated at the gate. With his employer in this temper he was half-inclined to run in the opposite direction.
“Come here!” commanded the ranchman again. “Who gave you this?” rapping the open letter with a hairy forefinger.
“I do not know, Capitan. A strange man–si.”
“Never saw him before?”
“No, Capitan. He was ver’ strange to me,” whined Victorino, too frightened to tell the truth.
“What did he look like?” shot back the Captain, holding himself in splendid control now. Only his eyes glittered and his lips under the big mustache tightened perceptibly.
“He was beeg man, Capitan; rode bay pony; much wheeskers on face,” declared Victorino, glibly.
The Captain was silent for half a minute. Then he snapped: “Run find Silent Sam and tell him I want him pronto. Sabe? Tell Joe to saddle Cherry, and Sam’s horse, and you get a saddle on your own, Vic. I’ll want you and about half a dozen of the boys who are hanging around the bunk-house. Tell ’em it’s important and tell them–yes!–tell them to come armed. In fifteen minutes. Understand?”
“Si, Capitan,” whispered Victorino, glad to get out from under the ranchman’s eye for the time being.
He was the oldest of the Mexican boys employed at the Bar-T, and he had been very friendly with Ratty M’Gill while that reckless individual had belonged to the outfit.
It was Victorino who had let Ratty drive the buckboard to the railroad station one particular day when the cowpuncher wished to meet his friend, Pete, at Cottonwood Bottom.
Now, unthinking and unknowing, he had been drawn by Ratty into a serious trouble. Victorino did not know what it was; but he trembled. He had never seen “El Capitan” look so fierce and strange before.
CHAPTER XXV
A PLOT THAT FAILED
Captain Dan Rugley seemed to forget his rheumatism. Excitement is often a strong mental corrective; and with his mind upon the dearest possession of his old age, the ranchman forgot all bodily ills.
Victorino was scarcely out of the compound when the Captain had summoned Ming from the dining-room and San Soo from his pots and pans.
“Put off dinner. Maybe we won’t have any dinner to-night, San Soo,” said the owner of the Bar-T. “We’re in trouble. You and Ming shut the doors when I go out and bar them. Stand watch. Don’t let a soul in unless I come back or Miss Frances appears. Understand, boys?”
“Can do,” declared the bigger Chinaman, with impassive face.
“Me understland Clapen velly well,” said Ming, who wished always to show that he “spoke Melican.”
“All right,” returned Captain Rugley. “Help me with this coat, San. Ming! Bring me my belt and gun. Yes, that’s it. It’s loaded. Plenty of cartridges in that box? So. Now I’m off,” concluded the Captain, and went to the door again to meet Silent Sam Harding, the foreman.
“Read this,” jerked out the ranchman, and thrust the crumpled letter into Sam Harding’s hand.
Without a word the foreman spread open the paper and studied it. In perfectly plain handwriting he read the following astonishing epistle:
“Captain Dan Rugley,
“Bar-T Ranch.
“We’ve got your girl. She will be held prisoner exactly twenty-four hours from time you receive this. Then, if you have not made arrangements to pay our agent $5,000 (five thousand dolls.), something will happen to your girl. We are willing to put our necks in a noose for the five thousand. Come across, and come across quick. No check. Cash does it. You can get cash at branch bank in Jackleg. We will know when you get cash and then you’ll be told who to hand money to and how to find your girl. Remember, we mean business. You try to trail us, or rescue your daughter without paying five thousand and we’ll get square with you by fixing the girl. That’s all at present.”
This threatening missive was unsigned. Silent Sam read it twice. Then he handed it back to the Captain.
“Does it look like a joke to you–a poor sort of a joke?” whispered the ranchman.
“I wouldn’t say so,” muttered Sam.
“I’m going after them,” said Captain Rugley, with determination.
“How?”
“Somebody handed Vic this on the trail. He’ll show us where. We’ll try to pick up the man’s traces. Of course it was one of the scoundrels handed the letter to Vic.”
“Who do ye think they are?” asked Sam, slowly.
“I don’t know,” said the worried ranchman. “But whoever they are they shall suffer if they harm a hair of her head!”
“That’s what,” said Sam, quietly. “But ain’t you an idee who they be?”
“That fellow who took the old trunk away from Frances?”
“Might be. And he must have partners.”
“So I’ve said right along,” declared the ranchman, vigorously. “Where did you leave Frances, Sam?”
“After the jack hunt? Right thar with Miz’ Edwards and her crowd.”
“Was young Pratt Sanderson with them?”
“Sure.”
“That’s it!” growled Captain Dan Rugley, smiting one palm with his other fist. “She’d ride off with him. Thinks him all right – ”
“Ye don’t mean to say ye think he’s in this mean mess?”
“I don’t know. He’s turned up whenever we’ve had trouble lately. If it wasn’t so far to Bill Edwards’ I’d ride that way and find out if the fellow is there, or what they know about him.”
Silent Sam earned his nickname, if ever, during the next hour. He did not say ten words; but his efficient management got a posse of the most trustworthy men together, and they rode away from the ranch-house.
There was no use advising the Captain not to accompany the party. Nobody dared thwart him after a glance into his grim face.
The hard-bitted Cherry which he always rode was held down to the pace of the other horses with an iron hand. The Captain rode as securely in his saddle as he had before rheumatism seized upon his limbs.
How long this false strength, inspired by his fear and indignation, would remain with him the others did not know. Sam and his mates watched “the Old Cap” with wonder.
Victorino’s gaze was fixed upon the doughty ranchman’s back with many different emotions in his trouble-torn mind. He was wondering what would happen to him if Captain Rugley ever learned that he had told a falsehood about that note.
He was so scared that he dared not lead the party to a false trail. He told them just where he had met Ratty M’Gill; but he stuck to his imaginary description of the person who had entrusted the letter to him.
“Going, west, you say?” said Captain Rugley. “It might be to lead us off the trail. And then again, he might be going right back to whatever place they have Frances hidden.
“I fear we’ll have a hard time following a trail to-night, anyway. But Sam says he left the folks after the jack hunt over there by Cottonwood Bottom. I think we’d better search the length of that stream first.”
Sam spoke up suddenly: “Frances asked me if there were any close thickets where a man might hide out, along those banks.”
“She did?”
“Yes. It just come to me,” said the foreman. “When we were beating up those jacks.”
“Enough said!” ejaculated the ranchman. “Come on, boys!”
Through the dusk they rode straight away toward the ford. And although the old Captain could hardly hope it, every moment the horse was bearing him nearer and nearer to his lost daughter.
Dusk had long since fallen; but there was a faint moon and a multitude of stars. On the open plain the shadows of the horses and riders moved in grotesque procession. In the hollow far down the stream, where Pete had made his camp, the shadows were deep and oppressive.
The fellow kept alive but a spark of fire. Now and then he threw on a stick for replenishing. Outside the feeble light cast by the flickering flames, one could scarcely see at all.
But there were two faintly outlined forms near the fire beside that of the burly Pete. Occasionally a groan issued from the lips of Pratt Sanderson, for he lay senseless, a great bruise upon his head, his wrists and ankles tied with painful security.
The other form was that of Frances herself. She did not speak nor moan, although she was quite wide awake. She, too, was tied up in such a way that she could not possibly free herself.
And she was frightened–desperately frightened!
She had reason to be. The ex-orderly from the Bylittle Soldiers’ Home had proved himself to be a perfect madman when he found that the girl and Pratt were really escaping.
Evidently he had seized upon the desperate attempt to hold Frances for ransom as a last resort. She had played into his hands by riding down into this hollow.
Pratt Sanderson’s interference had enraged the fellow to the limit. And when the young man had momentarily gotten the best of him, Pete was fairly insane for the time being.
With his rifle broken the man was unable to shoot, for Frances’ revolver which he had obtained at the beginning of the scuffle was empty. The small gun she had used shooting jacks had been sent back with Sam to the ranch.
The girl was urging Molly through the brush and Pratt was tearing after her, their direction bringing them nearer and nearer to the young man’s grey pony, when suddenly Frances heard Pratt scream.
She glanced back, pulling in the excited pinto with a strong hand. Her friend was pitching forward to the ground. He had been struck by her pistol, which Pete had flung with all his might.
The next moment with an exultant cry the man sprang from his horse upon the prostrate Pratt.
“Get off him! Go away!” cried Frances, pulling Molly around.
But the brush was too thick, and the pinto got tangled up in it. Fearful for Pratt’s safety, and never thinking of her own, the girl sprang from the saddle and ran back.
This was what Pete was expecting. Pratt was safe enough–senseless and moaning on the ground.
When the girl came near Pete leaped up, seized her by the wrists, jerked her toward him, and held her firmly with one hand while he produced a soiled bandanna, with which he quickly knotted her wrists together.
No matter how hard she fought, he was so much more powerful than she that the ranchman’s daughter could not break his hold. In five minutes she was tied and thrown to the ground, quite as helpless as Pratt himself.
Pete left her lying where she fell and picked up Pratt first. Him the fellow carried back to the campfire and tied both hand and foot before he returned for Frances.
All the time the man uttered the most fearful imprecations, and showed so much callousness toward the injured young man that the girl begged him, with tears, to do something to ease Pratt.
“Let him lie there and grunt,” growled Pete. “Didn’t he chuck me into that fire? My back’s all blistered.”
He pulled on a coat, for his clothes had been quite torn away above his waist at the back when he was putting out the fire.
Frances suffered keenly herself, for the man had tied her wrists and ankles so tightly that the cords cut into the flesh whenever she tried to move them. Beside, she lay in a most uncomfortable position.
But to hear Pratt groan was terrible. The blow on the head had seriously hurt him–of that there could be no doubt. When she called to him he did not answer, and finally Pete commanded her to keep silence.
“Ye want to make a fuss so as to draw somebody down here–I kin see what you are up to.”
Frances had a wholesome fear of him by this time. She had seen Pete at his worst–and had felt his heavy hand, too. She was bruised and suffering pain herself. But Pratt’s case was much worse than her own just then and her whole heart went out to the young man from Amarillo.
Pete sat over his little fire and smoked. He was evidently expecting Ratty M’Gill to return; but for some reason Ratty was delayed.
Doubtless the two plotters had proposed to themselves that Captain Rugley would be too ill to take the lead in any chase after the kidnappers. Perhaps Pete even hoped that the old ranchman would agree immediately to the terms of ransom set forth in the note Ratty had taken to the Bar-T.
The ex-cowpuncher was to linger around and see what would be done about the message to the Captain; then come here and report to Pete. And as the hours dragged by, and it drew near midnight, with no appearance of the messenger, the chief plotter grew more anxious.
He huddled over the fire, almost enclosing it with his arms and legs for warmth. Frances, lying beyond, and out of the puny radiance of its warmth, felt the chill of the night air keenly. Pete did not even offer her a blanket.
But her attention was engaged by thoughts of Pratt Sanderson’s sufferings. The young man groaned faintly from time to time, but he gave no other sign of life.
As Frances lay shivering on the ground her keen senses suddenly apprehended a new sound. She raised her head a little and the sound was absent. She dropped back upon the earth again and it returned–a throbbing sound, distant, faint but insistent.
What could it be? Frances was first startled, then puzzled by it. Each time that she raised her head the noise drifted away; then it returned when her ear was against the ground.
“It’s a horse–it’s several horses,” she finally whispered to herself. “Can it be – ?”
She sat up suddenly. Pete immediately commanded her to lie down.
“I’m cramped,” said the girl, speaking clearly. “Can’t you change these cords? I won’t try to run away.”
“I’d hurt you if you did,” growled the fellow. “And I ain’t going to change them cords.”
“Oh, do!” cried Frances, more loudly.
“Shut up and lay down there!” ordered Pete, raising his own voice.
