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FRANCES PULLED BACK ON MOLLY'S BRIDLE REINS. Frontispiece(Page 125).]
FRANCES OF THE RANGES
OR
THE OLD RANCHMAN'S TREASURE
BY
AMY BELL MARLOWE
AUTHOR OF
THE OLDEST OF FOUR, THE GIRLS OF HILLCREST FARM, WYN'S CAMPINGDAYS, ETC.
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1915, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Frances of the Ranges
CONTENTS
Chapter Page I. THE ADVENTURE IN THE COULIE 1 II. "FRANCES OF THE RANGES" 11 III. THE OLD SPANISH CHEST 19 IV. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT 34 V. THE SHADOW IN THE COURT 41 VI. A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION 49 VII. THE STAMPEDE 57 VIII. IN PERIL AND OUT 65 IX. SURPRISING NEWS 75 X. THE MAN FROM BYLITTLE 87 XI. FRANCES ACTS 98 XII. MOLLY 109 XIII. THE GIRL FROM BOSTON 115 XIV. THE CONTRAST 125 XV. IN THE FACE OF DANGER 131 XVI. A FRIEND INSISTENT 140 XVII. AN ACCIDENT 151 XVIII. THE WAVE OF FLAME 160 XIX. MOST ASTONISHING! 171 XX. THE BOSTON GIRL AGAIN 182 XXI. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 192 XXII. WHAT PRATT THOUGHT 204 XXIII. A GAME OF PUSS IN THE CORNER 212 XXIV. A GOOD DEAL OF EXCITEMENT 223 XXV. A PLOT THAT FAILED 229 XXVI. FRANCES IN SOFTER MOOD 242 XXVII. A DINNER DANCE IN PROSPECT 253 XXVIII. THE BURSTING OF THE CHRYSALIS 271 XXIX. "THE PANHANDLE--PAST AND PRESENT" 283 XXX. A REUNION 295
FRANCES OF THE RANGES
CHAPTER I
THE ADVENTURE IN THE COULIE
The report of a bird gun made the single rider in sight upon theshort-grassed plain pull in her pinto and gaze westerly toward thesetting sun, now going down in a field of golden glory.
The pinto stood like a statue, and its rider seemed a part of the steed,so well did she sit in her saddle. She gazed steadily under herhand--gazed and listened.
Finally, she murmured: "That's the snarl of a lion--sure. Get up,Molly!"
The pinto sprang forward. There was a deep coulie ahead, with a lowrange of grass-covered hills beyond. Through those hills the lions oftencame down onto the grazing plains. It was behind these hills that thesun was going down, for the hour was early.
As she rode, the girl loosened the gun she carried in the holster slungat her hip. On her saddle horn was coiled a hair rope.
She was dressed in olive green--her blouse, open at the throat, dividedskirts, leggings, and broad-brimmed hat of one hue. Two thick plaits ofsunburned brown hair hung over her shoulders, and to her waist. Her greyeyes were keen and rather solemn. Although the girl on the pinto couldnot have been far from sixteen, her face seemed to express a seriousmind.
The scream of that bane of the cattlemen--the mountain lion--rang outfrom the coulie again. The girl clapped her tiny spurs against thepinto's flanks, and that little animal doubled her pace. In a minutethey were at the head of the slope and the girl could see down into thecoulie, where low mesquite shrubs masked the bottom and the littlespring that bubbled there.
Something was going on down in the coulie. The bushes waved; somethingrose and fell in their midst like a flail. There was a voice other thanthat of the raucous tones of the lion, and which squalled almost asloudly!
A little to one side of the shrubs stood a quivering grey pony, its earspointed toward the rumpus in the shrubs, blowing and snorting. The riderof that empty saddle was plainly in trouble with the snarling lion.
The cattlemen of the Panhandle looked upon the lion as they did upon thecoyote--save that the former did more damage to the herds. Roping thelion, or shooting it with the pistol, was a general sport. But caught ina corner, the beast--unlike the coyote--would fight desperately. Whoeverhad attacked this one had taken on a larger contract than he couldhandle. That was plain.
Urged by the girl the pinto went down the slope of the hollow on a keenrun. At the bottom she snorted and swerved from the mesquite clump. Thesmell of the lion was strong in Molly's nostrils.
"Stand still, Molly!" commanded the girl, and was out of the saddle withan ease that seemed phenomenal. She ran straight toward the thrashingbushes, pistol in hand.
The lion leaped, and the person who had been beating it off with theshotgun was borne down under the attack. Once those sabre-sharp clawsgot to work, the victim of the lion's charge would be viciously torn.
The girl saw the gun fly out of his hands. The lion was too close uponits prey for her to use the pistol. She slipped the weapon back into itsholster and picked up the shotgun. Plunging through the bushes she swungthe gun and knocked the beast aside from its prey. The blow showed thepower in her young arms and shoulders. The lion rolled over and over,half stunned.
"Quick!" she advised the victim of the lion's attack. "He'll be back atus."
Indeed, scarcely had she spoken when the brute scrambled to its feet.The girl shouldered the gun and pulled the other trigger as the beastleaped.
There was no report. Either there was no shell in that barrel, orsomething had fouled the trigger. The lion, all four paws spread, andeach claw displayed, sailed through the air like a bat, or a flyingsquirrel. Its jaws were wide open, its teeth bared, and the screech itemitted was, in truth, a terrifying sound.
The girl realized that the original victim of the lion's attack wasscrambling to his feet. She dropped to her knee and kept the muzzle ofthe gun pointed directly for the beast's breast. The empty gun was heronly defense in that perilous moment.
"Grab my gun! Here in the holster!" she panted.
The lion struck against the muzzle of the shotgun, and the girl--inspite of the braced position she had taken--was thrown backward to theground. As she fell the pistol was drawn from its holster.
The empty shotgun had saved her from coming into the embrace of theangry lion, for while she fell one way, the animal went another. Thencame three shots in rapid succession.
She scrambled to her feet, half laughing, and dusting the palms of hergantlets. The lion was lying a dozen yards away, while the victim of itsattack stood near, the blue smoke curling from the revolver.
"My goodness!"
After the excitement was all over that exclamation from the girl seemedunnecessary. But the fact that startled her was, that it was not a manat all to whose aid she had come. He was a youth little older thanherself.
"I say!" this young man exclaimed. "That was plucky of you,Miss--awfully plucky, don't you know! That creature would have torn mebadly in another minute."
The girl nodded, but seemed suddenly dumb. She was watching the youthkeenly
from under the longest, silkiest lashes, it seemed to PrattSanderson, he had ever seen.
"I hope you're not hurt?" he said, shyly, extending the pistol towardthe girl. She stood with her hands upon her hips, panting a little, andwith plenty of color in her brown cheeks.
"How about you?" she asked, shortly.
It was true the young man appeared much the worse for the encounter. Inthe first place, he stood upon one foot, a good deal like a crane, forhis left ankle had twisted when he fell. His left arm, too, waswrenched, and he felt a tingling sensation all through the member, fromthe shoulder to the tips of his fingers.
Beside, his sleeve was ripped its entire length, and the lion's clawshad cut deep into his arm. The breast of his shirt was in strips.
"I say! I'm hurt, worse than I thought, eh?" he said, a littleuncertainly. He wavered a moment on his sound foot, and then sank slowlyto the grass.
"Wait! Don't let yourself go!" exclaimed the girl, getting into quickaction. "It isn't so bad."
She ran for the leather water-bottle that hung from her saddle. Mollyhad stood through the trouble without moving. Now the girl filled thebottle at the spring.
Pratt Sanderson was lying back on his elbows, and the white lids werelowered over his black eyes.
The treatment the range girl gave him was rather rough, but extremelyefficacious. She dashed half the contents of the bottle into his face,and he sat up, gasping and choking. She tore away his tattered shirt ina most matter-of-fact manner and began to bathe the scratches on hischest with her kerchief (quickly unknotted from around her throat),which she had saturated with water. Fortunately, the wounds were notvery deep, after all.
"You--you must think me a silly sort of chap," he gasped. "Foolish tokeel over like this----"
"You haven't been used to seeing blood," the girl observed. "That makesa difference. I've been binding up the boys' cuts and bruises all mylife. Never was such a place as the old Bar-T for folks getting hurt."
"Bar-T?" ejaculated the young man, with sudden interest. "Then you mustbe Miss Rugley, Captain Dan Rugley's daughter?"
"Yes, sir," said the girl, quietly. "Captain Rugley is my father."
"And you're going to put on that very clever spectacle at the Jacklegschoolhouse next month? I've heard all about it--and what you have donetoward making it what Bill Edwards calls a howling success. I'm stoppingwith Bill. Mrs. Edwards is my mother's friend, and I'm the advance guardof a lot of Amarillo people who are coming out to the Edwardses just tosee your 'Pageant of the Panhandle.' Bill and his wife are no endenthusiastic about it."
The deeper color had gradually faded out of the girl's cheeks. She wascool enough now; but she kept her eyes lowered, just the same. He wouldhave liked to see their expression once more. There had been a startledlook in their grey depths when first she glanced at him.
"I am afraid they make too much of my part in the affair," said she,quietly. "I am only one of the committee----"
"But they say you wrote it all," the young fellow interposed, eagerly.
"Oh--_that_! It happened to be easy for me to do so. I have alwaysbeen deeply interested in the Panhandle--'The Great American Desert' asthe old geographies used to call all this great Middle West, of Kansas,Nebraska, the Indian Territory, and Upper Texas.
"My father crossed it among the first white men from the Eastern States.He came back here to settle--long before I was born, of course--when aplow had never been sunk in these range lands. He belongs to the oldcattle regime. He wouldn't hear until lately of putting wheat into anyof the Bar-T acres."
"Ah, well, by all accounts he is one of the few men who still know howto make money out of cows," laughed Pratt Sanderson. "Thank you, MissRugley. I can't let you do anything more for me----"
"You are a long way from the Edwards' place," she said. "You'd betterride to the Bar-T for the night. We will send a boy over there with amessage, if you think Mrs. Edwards will be worried."
"I suppose I'd better do as you say," he said, rather ruefully. "Mrs.Edwards _will_ be worried about my absence over supper time. Shesays I'm such a tenderfoot."
For a moment a twinkle came into the veiled grey eyes; the newexpression illumined the girl's face like a flash of sunlight across theshadowed field.
"You rather back up her opinion when you tackle a lion with nothing butbirdshot--and one barrel of your gun fouled in the bargain," she said."Don't you think so?"
"But I killed it with a revolver!" exclaimed the young fellow,struggling to his feet again.
"That pistol throws a good-sized bullet," said the ranchman's daughter,smiling. "But I'd never think of picking a quarrel with a lion unless Ihad a good rope, or something that threw heavier lead than birdshot."
He looked at her, standing there in the after-glow of the sunset, withhonest admiration in his eyes.
"I _am_ a tenderfoot, I guess," he admitted. "And you were notscared for a single moment!"
"Oh, yes, I was," and Frances Rugley's laugh was low and musical. "Butit was all over so quickly that the scare didn't have a chance to show.Come on! I'll catch your pony, and we'll make the Bar-T before suppertime."
Frances of the Ranges; Or, The Old Ranchman's Treasure Page 1