CHAPTER VII
THE STAMPEDE
The remainder of the night passed in quietness. That there really hadbeen a marauder about the Bar-T ranch-house could not be doubted; for aslate was found upon the ground in the morning, and the place in theroof where it had been broken out was plainly visible.
Captain Rugley sent one of the men up with a ladder and new slates torepair the damage. He reported that the marks of the grappling-hook inthe roof sheathing were unmistakable, too.
Although her father had expressed himself as doubtful of the goodintentions of Pratt Sanderson, Frances was glad to see at breakfast thathe treated the young man no differently than before. Pratt slept lateand the meal was held back for him.
"The attentions of that old mountain lion bothered me so that I did notsleep much the fore part of the night," Pratt explained.
"How about that bird you heard on the roof?" the Captain asked, calmly.
"I don't know what it was. It sounded like big wings flapping," theyoung fellow explained. "But I really didn't see anything."
Captain Rugley grunted, and said no more. He grunted a good deal thismorning, in fact, for every movement gave him pain.
"The rheumatism has got its fangs set in me right, this time," he toldFrances.
"That's for being out of your warm bed and chasing all over the housewithout 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 toride away on an errand to a distant part of the ranch. She rode off withPratt 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 rodetogether the night before. Pratt found it hard to get into conversationwith her on any but the most ephemeral subjects.
For instance, when he hinted about Captain Rugley's adventures on theBorder:
"Your father is a very interesting talker. He has seen and done somuch."
"Yes," said Frances.
"And how adventurous his life must have been! I'd love to get him in astory-telling mood some day."
"He doesn't talk much about old times."
"But, of course, you know all about his adventures as a Ranger, and histrips into Mexico?"
"No," said Frances.
"Why! he spoke last night as though he often talked about it. About thelooting of---- Who was the old Spanish grandee he mentioned?"
"I know very little about it, Pratt," fluttered Frances. "That's justdad's talk."
"But that gorgeous girdle and bracelet you wore!"
Frances secretly determined not to wear jewelry from the treasure chestagain. She had never thought before about its causing comment andconjecture in the minds of people who did not know her father as well asshe did.
Suppose people believed that Captain Dan Rugley had actually stolenthose things in some raid into Mexico? Such a thought had never troubledher before. But she could see, now, that strangers might misjudge herfather. He talked so recklessly about his old life on the Border that hemight easily cause those who did not know him to believe that not alonethe contents of that mysterious treasure chest but his other wealth wasgained by questionable means.
Fortunately, a herd of steers, crossing from one of the extreme southernranges of the Bar-T to the north where juicier grass grew, attracted theattention of the guest from Amarillo.
"Are those all yours, Frances?" he asked, when he saw the mass of darkbodies and tossing horns that appeared through rifts in the dust cloudthat accompanies a driven herd even over sod-land.
"My father's," she corrected, smiling. "And only a small herd. Not morethan two thousand head in that bunch."
"I'd call two thousand cows a whole lot," Pratt sighed.
"Not for us. Remember, the Bar-T has been in the past one of the greatcattle ranches of the West. Daddy is getting old now and cannot attendto so much work."
"But you seem to know all about it," said Pratt, with enthusiasm. "Don'tyou 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. I'm just errand girl for thewhole ranch."
But Pratt knew better than that. He saw now that she was watching theoncoming mass of steers with a frown of annoyance. Something was goingwrong and Frances was troubled.
"What's the matter?" he asked, curiously.
"I thought that was Ratty M'Gill with that bunch," Frances answered,more as though thinking aloud than consciously answering Pratt'squestion. "The rascal! He'd run all the fat off a bunch of cows betweenpastures."
She pulled Molly around and headed the pinto for the herd. It was not inhis way, but Pratt followed her example and rode his grey hard after thecowgirl.
Not a herdsman was in sight. The steers were coming on through the dust,sweating and steaming, evidently having been driven very hard sincedaybreak. Occasionally one bawled an angry protest; but those in frontwere being forced on by the rear ranks, which in turn were beingharassed by the punchers in charge.
Suddenly, a bald-faced steer shot out of the ruck of the herd, dartingat right angles to the course. For a little way a steer can run as fastas a race-horse. That's why the creatures are so very hard to manage onoccasion.
To Pratt, who was watching sharply, it was a question which got intoaction first--Frances or her wise little pinto. He did not see the girlspeak to Molly; but the pony turned like a shot and whirled away afterthe careering steer. At the same moment, it seemed, Frances had her hairrope in her hand.
The coils began to whirl around her head. The pinto was running like thewind. The bald-faced, ugly-looking brute of a steer was soon runningneck and neck with the well-mounted girl.
Pratt followed. He was more interested in the outcome of the chase thanhe was in where his grey was putting his feet.
There was an eerie yell behind them. Pratt saw a wild-looking, hatlesscowboy racing a black pony toward them. The whole herd seemed to havebeen turned in some miraculous way, and was thundering after OldBaldface and the girl.
Pratt began to wonder if there was not danger. He had heard of astampede, and it looked to him as though the bunch of steers was quiteout of hand. Had he been alone, he would have pulled out and let theherd go by.
But either Frances did not see them coming, or she did not care. She wasafter that bald-faced steer, and in a moment she had him.
The whirling noose dropped and in some wonderful way settled over a hornand one of the steer's forefeet. When Molly stopped and braced herself,the steer pitched forward, turned a complete somersault, and lay on theprairie at the mercy of his captor.
"Hurray!" yelled Pratt, swinging his hat.
He was riding recklessly himself. He had seen a half-tamed steer ropedand tied at an Amarillo street fair; but _that_ was nothing likethis. It had all been so easy, so matter-of-fact! No display at allabout the girl's work; but just as though she could do it again, and yetagain, as often as the emergency arose.
Frances cast a glowing smile over her shoulder at him, as she lay backin the saddle and let Molly hold Old Baldface in durance. But suddenlyher face changed--a flash of amazed comprehension chased the triumphantsmile away. She opened her lips to shout something to Pratt--somewarning. And at that instant the grey put his foot into a ground-doghole, and the young man from Amarillo left the saddle!
He described a perfect parabola and landed on his head and shoulders onthe ground. The grey scrambled up and shot away at a tangent, out of thecourse of the herd of thundering steers. He was not really hurt.
But his rider lay still for a moment on the prairie. Pratt Sanderson wascertainly "playing in hard luck" during his vacation on the ranges.
The mere losing of his mount was not so bad; but the steers had reallystampeded, and he lay, half-stunned, directly in the path of the herd.
Old Baldf
ace struggled to rise and seized upon the girl's attention. Sheused the rope in a most expert fashion, catching his other foreleg in aloop, and then catching one of his hind legs, too. He was secured assafely as a fly in a spider-web.
Frances was out of her saddle the next moment, and ran back to wherePratt lay. She knew Molly would remain fixed in the place she was left,and sagging back on the rope.
The girl seized the young man under his armpits and started to drag himtoward the fallen steer. The bulk of Old Baldface would prove aprotection for them. The herd would break and swerve to either side ofthe big steer.
But one thing went wrong in Frances' calculations. Her rope slipped atthe saddle. For some reason it was not fastened securely.
The straining Molly went over backward, kicking and squealing as therope gave way, and the big steer began to struggle to his feet.
Frances of the Ranges; Or, The Old Ranchman's Treasure Page 7