Frances of the Ranges Part 15

"M'Gill! you get off that horse! At once, I tell you!"

"The Missus is sure some peeved," muttered Bender to one of his mates.

"And why shouldn't she be? We'd never ought to let Ratty try to ride that critter."

"Molly!" shouted Frances, climbing the fence herself as quickly as any boy.

She dropped over into the corral where the other ponies were running about in great excitement.

"Molly, come here!" She whistled for the pinto and Molly's head came up and her eyes rolled in the direction of her mistress. She knew she was being abused; and she remembered that Frances was always kind to her.

Whether Ratty agreed or not, the pinto galloped across the corral.

"Get down off that pony, you brute!" exclaimed Frances, her eyes flashing at the half-serious, half-grinning cowboy.

"She's some little pinto when she gits in a tantrum," remarked the unabashed Ratty.

Frances had brought her bridle. Although Molly stood shaking and quivering, the girl slipped the bit between her jaws and buckled the straps in a moment. She held the pony, but did not attempt to lead her toward the saddling shed.

"M'Gill," Frances said, sharply, "you go to Silent Sam and get your time and come to the house this noon for your pay. You'll never bestride another pony on this ranch. Do you hear me?"

"What's that?" demanded the cowpuncher, his face flaming instantly, and his black eyes sparkling.

She had reproved him before his mates, and the young man was angry on the instant. But Frances was angry first. And, moreover, she had good reason for distrusting Ratty. The incident was one lent by Fortune as an excuse for his discharge.

"You are not fit to handle stock," said Frances, bitingly. "Look what you did to that bunch of cattle the other day! And I've watched you more than once misusing your mount. Get your pay, and get off the Bar-T.

We've no use for the like of you."

"Say!" drawled the puncher, with an ugly leer. "Who's bossing things here now, I'd like to know?"

"I am!" exclaimed the girl, advancing a step and clutching the quirt, which swung from her wrist, with an intensity that turned her knuckles white. "You see Sam as I told you, and be at the house for your pay when I come back."

The other punchers had slipped away, going about their work or to the bunk-house. Ratty M'Gill stood with flaming face and glittering eyes, watching the girl depart, leading the trembling Molly toward the exit of the corral.

"You're a sure short-tempered gal this A. M.," he growled to himself.

"And ye sure have got it in for me. I wonder why? I wonder why?"

Frances did not vouchsafe him another look. She stood in the shadow of the shed and petted Molly, fed her a couple of lumps of sugar from her pocket, and finally made her forget Ratty's abuse. But Molly's flanks would be tender for some time and her temper had not improved by the treatment she had received.

"Perfectly scandalous!" exclaimed Frances, to herself, almost crying now. "Just to show off before the other boys. Oh! he was mean to you, Molly dear! A fellow like Ratty M'Gill will stand watching, sure enough."

Finally, she got the saddle cinched upon the nervous pinto and rode her out of the corral and away to the ranges for her usual round of the various camps. She had not been as far as the West Run for several days.

CHAPTER XIII

THE GIRL FROM BOSTON

Cow-ponies are never trained to trot. They walk if they are tired; sometimes they gallop; but usually they set off on a long, swinging lope from the word "Go!" and keep it up until the riders pull them down.

The moment Frances of the ranges had swung herself into Molly's saddle, the badly treated pinto leaped forward and dashed away from the corrals and bunk-house. Frances let her have her head, for when Molly was a bit tired she would forget the sting and smart of Ratty M'Gill's spurs and quirt.

Frances had not seen Silent Sam that morning; but was not surprised to observe the curling smoke of a fresh fire down by the branding pen. She knew that a bunch of calves and yearlings had been rounded up a few days before, and the foreman of the Bar-T would take no chance of having them escape to the general herds on the ranges, and so have the trouble of cutting them out again at the grand round-up.

It was impossible, even on such a large ranch as the Bar-T, to keep cattle of other brands from running with the Bar-T herds. A breach made in a fence in one night by some active young bull would allow a Bar-T herd and some of Bill Edwards' cattle, for instance, to become a.s.sociated.

To try to separate the cattle every time such a thing happened would give the punchers more than they could do. The cattle thus a.s.sociated were allowed to run together until the round-up. Then the unbranded calves would always follow their mothers, and the herdsmen could easily separate the young stock, as well as that already branded, from those belonging on other ranches.

Although it was a bit out of her direct course, Frances pulled Molly's head in the direction of the branding fire. Before she came in sight of the bawling herd and the bunch of excited punchers, a cavalcade of riders crossed the trail, riding in the same direction.

No cowpunchers these, but a party of hors.e.m.e.n and horsewomen who might have just ridden out of the Central Park bridle-path at Fifty-ninth Street or out of the Fens in Boston's Back Bay section.

At a distance they disclosed to Frances' vision--unused to such sights--a most remarkable jumble of colors and fashions. In the West khaki, brown, or olive grey is much worn for riding togs by the women, while the men, if not in overalls, or chaps, clothe themselves in plain colors.

But here was actually more than one red coat! A red coat with never a fox nearer than half a thousand miles!

"Is it a circus parade?" thought Frances, setting spurs to her pinto.

And no wonder she asked. There were three girls, or young women, riding abreast, each in a natty red coat with tails to it, hard hats on their heads, and skirts. They rode side-saddle. Luckily the horses they rode were city bred.

There were two or three other girls who were dressed more like Frances herself, and bestrode their ponies in sensible style. The males of the party were in the Western mode; Frances recognized one of them instantly; it was Pratt Sanderson.

He was not a bad rider. She saw that he accompanied one of the girls who wore a red coat, riding close upon her far side. The cavalcade was ambling along toward the branding pen, which was in the bottom of a coulie.

As Frances rode up behind the party, Molly's little feet making so little sound that her presence was unnoticed, the Western girl heard a rather shrill voice ask:

"And what are they doing it for, Pratt? I re'lly don't just understand, you know. Why burn the mark upon the hides of those--er--embryo cows?"

"I'm telling you," Pratt's voice replied, and Frances saw that it was the girl next to him who had asked the question. "I'm telling you that all the calves and young stock have to be branded."

"Branded?"

"Yes. They belong to the Bar-T, you see; therefore, the Bar-T mark has to be burned on them."

"Just fancy!" exclaimed the girl in the red coat. "Who would think that these rude cattle people would have so much sentiment. This Frances Rugley you tell about owns all these cows? And does she have her monogram burned on all of them?"

Frances drew in her mount. She wanted to laugh (she heard some of the party chuckling among themselves), and then she wondered if Pratt Sanderson was not, after all, making as much fun of her as he was of the girl in the red coat?

Pratt suddenly turned and saw the ranchman's daughter riding behind them. He flushed, but smiled, too; and his eyes were dancing.

"Oh, Sue!" he exclaimed. "Here is Frances now."

So this was Sue Latrop--the girl from Boston. Frances looked at her keenly as she turned to look at the Western girl.

"My dear! Fancy! So glad to know you," she said, handling her horse remarkably well with one hand and putting out her right to Frances.