The Range Boss Part 17

"I reckon she's takin' her time about comin' in," he said. "Mebbe her cayuse has broke a leg--or somethin'." He grinned at Uncle Jepson. "I expect there ain't nothin' to worry about. I'll go look for her."

He climbed slowly into the saddle, and with a wave of the hand to the elderly couple rode his pony down past the bunkhouse at a pace that was little faster than a walk. He urged Patches to slightly greater speed as he skirted the corral fence, but once out on the plains he loosened the reins, spoke sharply to the pony and began to ride in earnest.

Patches responded n.o.bly to the grim note in his master's voice. With stretching neck and flying hoofs he swooped with long, smooth undulations that sent him, looking like a splotched streak, splitting the night. He ran at his own will, his rider tall and loose in the saddle, speaking no further word, but thinking thoughts that narrowed his eyes, made them glint with steely hardness whenever the moonlight struck them, and caused his lips to part, showing the clenched teeth between them, and shoved his chin forward with the queer set that marks the fighting man.

For he did not believe that Ruth's pony had broken a leg. She had gone to see Chavis' shack, and Chavis--

One mile, two, three, four; Patches covered them in a mad riot of recklessness. Into depressions, over rises, leaping rocks and crashing through chaparral clumps, scaring rattlers, scorpions, toads, and other denizens to wild flight, he went, with not a thought for his own or his rider's safety, knowing from the ring in his master's voice that speed, and speed alone, was wanted from him.

After a five mile run he was pulled down. He felt the effects of the effort, but he was well warmed to his work now and he loped, though with many a snort of impatience and toss of the head, by which he tried to convey to his master his eagerness to be allowed to have his will.

On the crest of a hill he was drawn to a halt, while Randerson scanned the country around him. Then, when the word came again to go, he was off with a rush and a snort of delight, as wildly reckless as he had been when he had discovered what was expected of him.

They flashed by the ford near the Lazette trail; along a ridge, the crest of which was hard and barren, making an ideal speedway; they sank into a depression with sickening suddenness, went out of it with a clatter, and then went careening over a level until they reached a broken stretch where speed would mean certain death to both.

Patches was determined to risk it, but suddenly he was pulled in and forced to face the other way. And what he saw must have made him realize that his wild race was ended, for he deflated his lungs shrilly, and relaxed himself for a rest.

Randerson had seen her first. She was sitting on the top of a gigantic rock not more than fifty feet from him; she was facing him, had evidently been watching him; and in the clear moonlight he could see that she was pale and frightened--frightened at him, he knew, fearful that he might not be a friend.

This impression came to him simultaneously with her cry--shrill with relief and joy: "Oh, it's Patches! It's Randerson!" And then she suddenly stiffened and stretched out flat on the top of the rock.

He lifted her down and carried her, marveling at her lightness, to a clump of bunch-gra.s.s near by, and worked, trying to revive her, until she struggled and sat up. She looked once at him, her eyes wide, her gaze intent, as though she wanted to be sure that it was really he, and then she drew a long, quavering breath and covered her face with her hands.

"Oh," she said; "it was horrible!" She uncovered her face and looked up at him. "Why," she added, "I have been here since before dark! And it must be after midnight, now!"

"It's about nine. Where's your horse?"

"Gone," she said dolorously. "He fell--over there--and threw me. I saw Chavis--and Kester--over on the mesa. I thought they would come after me, and I hurried. Then my pony fell. I've hurt my ankle--and I couldn't catch him--my pony, I mean; he was too obstinate--I could have killed him! I couldn't walk, you know--my ankle, and the snakes--and the awful darkness, and--Oh, Randerson," she ended, with a gulp of grat.i.tude, "I never was so glad to see you--anybody--in my life!"

"I reckon it _was_ kind of lonesome for you out here alone with the snakes, an' the dark, an' things."

She was over her scare now, he knew--as he was over his fears for her, and he grinned with a humor brought on by a revulsion of feeling.

"I reckon mebbe the snakes would have bothered you some," he added, "for they're natural mean. But I reckon the moon made such an awful darkness on purpose to scare you."

"How can you joke about it?" she demanded resentfully.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said with quick contrition. "You see, I was glad to find you. An' you're all right now, you know."

"Yes, yes," she said, quickly forgiving. "I suppose I _am_ a coward."

"Why, no, ma'am, I reckon you ain't. Anybody sittin' here alone, a woman, especial, would likely think a lot of curious thoughts. They'd seem real.

I reckon it was your ankle, that kept you from walkin'."

"It hurts terribly," she whispered, and she felt of it, looking at him plaintively. "It is so swollen I can't get my boot off. And the leather seems like an iron band around it." She looked pleadingly at him. "Won't you please take it off?"

His embarra.s.sment was genuine and deep.

"Why, I reckon I can, ma'am," he told her. "But I ain't never had a heap of experience--" His pause was eloquent, and he finished lamely "with boots--boots, that is, that was on swelled ankles."

"Is it necessary to have experience?" she returned impatiently.

"Why, I reckon not, ma'am." He knelt beside her and grasped the boot, giving it a gentle tug. She cried out with pain and he dropped the boot and made a grimace of sympathy. "I didn't mean to hurt you, ma'am."

"I know you didn't"--peevishly. "Oh," she added as he took the boot in hand again, this time giving it a slight twist; "men are _such_ awkward creatures!"

"Why, I reckon they are, ma'am. That is, one, in particular. There's times when I can't get my own boots on." He grinned, and she looked icily at him.

"Get hold of it just above the ankle, please," she instructed evenly and drew the hem of her skirt tightly. "There!" she added as he seized the limb gingerly, "now pull!"

He did as he had been bidden. She shrieked in agony and jerked the foot away, and he stood up, his face reflecting some of the pain and misery that shone in hers.

"It's awful, ma'am," he sympathized. "Over at the Diamond H, one of the boys got his leg broke, last year, ridin' an outlaw, or tryin' to ride him, which ain't quite the same thing--an' we had to get his boot off before we could set the break. Why, ma'am; we had to set on his head to keep him from scarin' all the cattle off the range, with his screechin'."

She looked at him with eyes that told him plainly that no one was going to sit on _her_ head--and that she would "screech" if she chose. And then she spoke to him with bitter sarcasm:

"Perhaps if you _tried_ to do something, instead of standing there, telling me something that happened _ages_ ago, I wouldn't have to sit here and endure this awful m-m-misery!"

The break in her voice brought him on his knees at her side. "Why, I reckon it _must_ hurt like the devil, ma'am." He looked around helplessly.

"Haven't you got something that you might take it off with?" she demanded tearfully. "Haven't you got a knife?"

He reddened guiltily. "I clean forgot it ma'am." He laughed with embarra.s.sment. "I expect I'd never do for a doctor, ma'am; I'm so excited an' forgetful. An' I recollect, now that you mention it, that we had to cut Hiller's boot off. That was the man I was tellin' you about. He--"

"Oh, dear," she said with heavy resignation, "I suppose you simply _must_ talk! Do you _like_ to see me suffer?"

"Why, shucks, I feel awful sorry for you, ma'am. I'll sure hurry."

While he had been speaking he had drawn out his knife, and with as much delicacy as the circ.u.mstances would permit, he accomplished the destruction of the boot. Then, after many admonitions for him to be careful, and numerous sharp intakings of her breath, the boot was withdrawn, showing her stockinged foot, puffed to abnormal proportions.

She looked at it askance.

"Do you think it is b-broken?" she asked him, dreading.

He grasped it tenderly, discovered that the ankle moved freely, and after pressing it in several places, looked up at her.

"I don't think it's broke, ma'am. It's a bad sprain though, I reckon. I reckon it ought to be rubbed--so's to bring back the blood that couldn't get in while the boot was on."

The foot was rubbed, he having drawn off the stocking with as much delicacy as he had exhibited in taking off the boot. And then while Randerson considerately withdrew under pretense of looking at Patches, the stocking was put on again. When he came back it was to be met with a request:

"Won't you please find my pony and bring him back?"

"Why, sure, ma'am." He started again for Patches, but halted and looked back at her. "You won't be scared again?"

"No," she said. And then: "But you'll hurry, won't you?"

"I reckon." He was in the saddle quickly, loping Patches to the crest of a hill near by in hopes of getting a view of the recreant pony. He got a glimpse of it, far back on the plains near some timber, and he was about to shout the news to Ruth, who was watching him intently, when he thought better of the notion and shut his lips.

Urging Patches forward, he rode toward Ruth's pony at a moderate pace.

Three times during the ride he looked back. Twice he was able to see Ruth, but the third time he had swerved so that some bushes concealed him from her. He was forced to swerve still further to come up with the pony, and he noted that Ruth would never have been able to see her pony from her position.