Frances of the Ranges; Or, The Old Ranchman's Treasure

by Amy Bell Marlowe

  CHAPTER XVII

  AN ACCIDENT

  It was not until later that Frances was disturbed by the thought thatPratt was suspected by her father of having a strong curiosity regardingthe Spanish treasure chest.

  "And here he has forced his company upon me," thought the girl. "Whatwould father say, if he knew about it?"

  But fortunately Captain Rugley was not at hand with his suspicions.Frances wished to believe the young man from Amarillo truly her friend;and on this ride toward Peckham's they became better acquainted thanbefore.

  That is, the girl of the ranges learned to know Pratt better. The youngfellow talked more freely of himself, his mother, his circumstances.

  "Just because I'm in a bank--the Merchants' and Drovers'--in Amarillodoesn't mean that I'm wealthy," laughed Pratt Sanderson. "They don'tgive me any great salary, and I couldn't afford this vacation if itwasn't for the extra work I did through the cattle-shipping season andthe kindness of our president.

  "Mother and I are all alone; and we haven't much money," pursued theyoung man, frankly. "Mother has a relative somewhere whom she suspectsmay be rich. He was a gold miner once. But I tell her there's no usethinking about rich relatives. They never seem to remember their poorkin. And I'm sure one can't blame them much.

  "We have no reason to expect her half-brother to do anything for me.Guess I'll live and die a poor bank clerk. For, you know, if you haven'tmoney to invest in bank stock yourself, or influential friends in thebank, one doesn't get very high in the clerical department of such aninstitution."

  Frances listened to him with deeper interest than she was willing toshow in her countenance. They rode along pleasantly together, andnothing marred the journey for a time.

  Ratty had not followed them--as she was quite sure he would have donehad not Pratt elected to become her escort. And as for the strangeteamster who had turned into the trail ahead of them, his outfit hadlong since disappeared.

  Once when Frances rode to the front of the covered wagon to speak toMack, she saw that Pratt Sanderson lifted a corner of the canvas at theback and took a swift glance at what was within.

  Why this curiosity? There was nothing to be seen in the wagon but thecorded chest.

  Frances sighed. She could credit Pratt with natural curiosity; but ifher father had seen that act he would have been quite convinced that theyoung man from Amarillo was concerned in the attempt to get thetreasure.

  It was shortly thereafter that the trail grew rough. Some heavywagon-train must have gone this way lately. The wheels had cut deep rutsand left holes in places into which the wheels of the Bar-T wagonslumped, rocking and wrenching the vehicle like a light boat caught in across-sea.

  The wagon being nearly empty, however, Mack drove his mules at areckless pace. He was desirous of reaching the Peckham ranch in goodseason for supper, and, to tell the truth, Frances, herself, was growingvery anxious to get the day's ride over.

  This haste was a mistake. Down went one forward wheel into a hole andcrack went the axle. It was far too tough a stick of oak to break shortoff; but the crack yawned, finger-wide, and with a serious visage Mackclimbed down, after quieting his mules.

  The teamster's remarks were vividly picturesque, to say the least.Frances, too, was troubled by the delay. The sun was now low behindthem--disappearing below distant line of low, rolling hills.

  Pratt got off his horse immediately and offered to help. And Mack neededhis assistance.

  "Lucky you was riding along with us, Mister," grumbled the teamster. "Wegot to jack up the old contraption, and splice the axle together. I gotwire and pliers in the tool box and here's the wagon-jack."

  He flung the implements out upon the ground. They set to work, Prattremoving his coat and doing his full share.

  Meanwhile Frances sat on her pony quietly, occasionally riding aroundthe stalled wagon so as to get a clear view of the plain all about. Fora long time not a moving object crossed her line of vision.

  "Who you looking for, Frances?" Pratt asked her, once.

  "Oh, nobody," replied the girl.

  "Do you expect that fellow is still trailing us?" he went on, curiously.

  "No-o. I think not."

  "But he's on your mind, eh?" suggested Pratt, earnestly. "Just as well Icame along with you," and he laughed.

  "So Mack says," returned Frances, with an answering smile.

  Was she expecting an attack? Would Ratty come back? Was the man, Pete,lurking in some hollow or buffalo wallow? She scanned the horizon fromtime to time and wondered.

  The sun sank to sleep in a bed of gold and crimson. Pink and lavendertints flecked the cloud-coverlets he tucked about him.

  It was full sunset and still the party was delayed. The mules stampedand rattled their harness. They were impatient to get on to theirsuppers and the freedom of the corral.

  "We'll sure be too late for supper at Miz' Peckham's," grumbled Mack.

  "Oh, you're only troubled about your eats," joked Pratt.

  At that moment Frances uttered a little cry. Both Pratt and the teamsterlooked up at her inquiringly.

  "What's the matter, Frances?" asked the young fellow.

  "I--I thought I saw a light, away over there where the sun is goingdown."

  "Plenty of light there, I should say," laughed Pratt. "The sun has lefta field of glory behind him. Come on, now, Mr. Mack! Ready for thisother wire?"

  "Glory to Jehoshaphat!" grunted the teamster. "The world was made in ashorter time than it takes to bungle this mean, ornery job! I got aholler in me like the Cave of Winds."

  "Hadn't we better take a bite here?" Frances demanded. "It will bebedtime when we reach the Peckhams."

  "Wal, if you say so, Miss," said the teamster. "I kin eat as soon asyou kin cook the stuff, sure! But I did hone for a mess of Miz'Peckham's flapjacks."

  Frances, well used to campwork, became immediately very busy. She ranfor greasewood and such other fuel as could be found in the immediatevicinity, and started her fire.

  It smoked and she got the strong smell of it in her nostrils, and itmade her weep. Pratt, tugging and perspiring under the wagon-body,coughed over the smoke, too.

  "Seems to me, Frances," he called, "you're filling the entirecircumambient air with smoke--ker-_chow_!"

  "Why! the wind isn't your way," said Frances, and she stood up to lookcuriously about again.

  There seemed to be a lot of smoke. It was rolling in from the westwardacross the almost level plain. There was a deep rose glow behind it--athreatening illumination.

  "Wow!" yelled Pratt.

  He had just crawled out from beneath the wagon and was rising to hisfeet. An object flew by him in the half-dusk, about shoulder-high, andso swiftly that he was startled. He stepped back into a gopher-hole,tripped, and fell full length.

  "What in thunder was that?" he yelled, highly excited.

  "A jack-rabbit," growled Mack. "And going some. Something scare't thatcritter, sure's you're bawn!"

  "Didn't you ever see a jack before, Pratt?" asked Frances, her tone alittle queer, he thought.

  "Not so close to," admitted the young fellow, as he scrambled to hisfeet. "Gracious! if he had hit me he'd have gone clear through me like acannon-ball."

  It was only Frances who had realized the unexpected peril. She had triedto keep her voice from shaking; but Mack noticed her tone.

  "What's up, Miss?" he asked, getting to his legs, too.

  "Fire!" gasped the range girl, clutching suddenly at Pratt's arm.

  "You mean smoke," laughed Pratt. He saw her rubbing her eyes with herother hand.

  But Mack had risen, facing the west. He uttered a funny little cluck inhis throat and the laughing young fellow wheeled in wonder.

  Along the horizon the glow was growing rapidly. A tongue of yellow flameshot high in the air. A long dead, thoroughly seasoned tree, standing atthe forks of the trail, had caught fire and the flame flared forth fromits top like a banner.

  _The prairie was afire!_

  "Glory
to Jehoshaphat!" groaned Mack Hinkman, again. "Who done that?"

  "Goodness!" gasped Pratt, quite horror-stricken.

  Frances gathered up the cooking implements and flung them into thewagon. She had hobbled Molly and the grey pony; now she ran for them.

  "Got that axle fixed, Mack?" she shouted over her shoulder.

  "Not for no rough traveling, I tell ye sure, Miss Frances!" complainedthe teamster. "That was a bad crack. Have to wait to fix it proper atPeckham's." Then he added, _sotto voce_: "If we get the blamedthing there at all."

  "Don't say that, man!" gasped Pratt Sanderson. "Surely there's not muchdanger?"

  "This here spot will be scorched like an overdone flapjack in half anhour," declared Hinkman. "We got to git!"

  Frances heard him, distant as she was.

  "Oh, Mack! you know we can't reach the river in half an hour, even if wetravel express speed."

  "Well! what we goin' ter do then?" demanded the teamster. "Stay here andfry?"

  Pratt was impressed suddenly with the thought that they were bothleaning on the advice and leadership of the girl! He was inexperienced,himself; and the teamster seemed quite as helpless.

  A pair of coyotes, too frightened by the fire to be afraid of theirnatural enemy, man, shot by in the dusk--two dim, grey shapes.

  Frances released Molly and the grey pony from their hobbles. She leapedupon the back of the pinto and dragged the grey after by hisbridle-reins. She was back at the stalled wagon in a few moments.

  Already the flames could be seen along the western horizon as far as theunaided eye could see anything, leaping under the pall of rising smoke.The fire was miles away, it was true; but its ominous appearanceaffrighted even Pratt Sanderson, who knew so little about such peril.

  Mack was fastening straps and hooking up traces; they had not daredleave the mules hitched to the wagon while they were engaged in itsrepair.

  "Come on! get a hustle on you, Mister!" exclaimed the teamster. "We gotto light out o' here right sudden!"