CHAPTER IX.

BUST 'EM, BRONCO.

Both Childress and the man with him entered the corral, crawling under the canvas without regard for dignity. The rope fell true at first cast, and the roan was soon in hand and blindfolded for the saddling, which was accomplished without throwing, despite vigorous protests from the animal.

The widow could see that the horse was of mixed breed, which is likely to produce the worst buckers. It was evident, too, that he had been saddled before, so that it was safe to set him down as an outlaw who would not stay "broke." It was exactly the sort of proposition a man of Childress' daring and strength would enjoy tackling, thought Ethel, as she quieted the filly and settled back into her comfortable saddle to watch every move in the battle for supremacy which she felt certain would be worth while.

The roan snorted a note of defiance as Childress on the nigh side, hung his stirrup for a quick mount.

The widow saw him run his hand over the saddle, give the cloth a tug to assure himself that it was well set, and pull the cinch a couple of holes tighter for luck. The horse stood still, his hind legs well under him, his head, with ears flattened, sinking lower and lower, his tail between his legs.

Seizing the checkstraps of the bridle in his left hand, and taking a firm grip upon the pommel with his right, Childress thrust his boot into the iron stirrup and swung easily to the saddle. They were off, quite as though the outlaw had been a trained actor and had heard his cue.

Squealing and bawling like a mad thing, the horse made a frantic rush for the far side of the corral, pounding the hard ground with his hoofs. As the stretch of canvas loomed up before his eyes, a more impenetrable barrier than a stockade of wood, the beast pulled up with a stop that must have thrown a less expert rider. There followed a spasm of twisting, turning, and bucking in circles, through which the man remained seated, as though a leather part of the ponderous saddle.

"That nag's a sunfisher!" Ethel murmured, as the bronco repeatedly leaped into the air, trying to twist his rider from his back. "And that man Childress is some rider!" His horsemanship was superb.

A cry of alarm escaped her lips as the horse, maddened by the failure of his previous efforts, deliberately reared and threw himself down backward. But her concern for Childress' safety proved uncalled for. At exactly the right second he slipped from under, saving himself, evidently, from even a bruise. As the surprised horse scrambled to his feet, the man flung himself back into the saddle, where he sat prepared for the next series.

Then, after several minutes of further fighting, Ethel saw Childress go hurdling over the roan's head, but only to land on his feet a dozen yards in front. She knew by the ease with which he alighted that he had not been thrown actually, but used a trick of dismounting known to the most skilled "busters," usually resorted to when the rider is tired and the outlaw not yet unwound.

"Whatever else you may be, John Childress," she commented to herself, "you are certainly a past master of busting a bronc!"

She gave the restless pony rein and sat her with skill on a slide down the slanting face of the bluff. Cantering across the meadow toward the corral, she pulled up outside the canvas before Childress was aware of her approach.

"May I congratulate you on a most finished performance, Mr. Childress?" she called.

One amazed glance brought recognition, and he strode across the corral toward her.

She had a moment to study him in the undress of range garb. His silk neckerchief hung like a bib over his gray shirt; a strap supported his corduroy trousers; and these, in turn, tucked into boots with high heels and short vamps. His head wore no covering. First the lower part of his face held her attention, its determined chin and elongated upper lip, with no red showing, striking her as unusual. She realized now that she had not really looked at the man that day on the reservation. But, as he drew nearer, his eyes held her, eyes full of merriment; while the smile on his face bespoke a welcome that she scarcely had expected.

"A sure-enough surprise, Mrs. Andress," he said, as he neared the canvas wall. "Wasn't expecting company this afternoon, so you'll have to excuse the workaday rig. I've been some engaged these last few minutes. Have you been here long?"

"I watched your--your engagement from the bluff yonder," the widow returned with an over-shoulder gesture. "What did you think you were doing? Not going into the Wild West show business, I hope?"

"I was trying to convince that young tornado over there that he just thinks he's an outlaw." Childress broadened his smile. "But he seems to have a single-track mind, and it's going to take several treatments."

Neglecting to leave the corral as he had entered, crawling, the sergeant walked slowly toward the gate, the widow on the pony keeping pace with him outside.

"Our trails seem bound to cross in unexpected places," she observed by way of giving him an opening. "I was sorry that you could not accept my uncle's invitation to dine with us in Strathconna."

"Acceptance happened to be impossible," said he quickly. "I was sorry not to have seen you again, but there were compensations."

"The Gallegher brat," thought the widow, but said not a word.

"I had hoped to run across you people down here, but scarcely so soon," he went on. "I've just driven in."

So he was aware of the fact that he was on the edge of the Rafter A range, thought Ethel. And he had hoped to run across them! If this stranger was what Tom Fitzrapp suspected, certainly he was brazen enough.

She decided further probe would be advisable. "Do you expect to camp here long?" she asked.

Childress smiled at her over the improvised gate. "I'm not camping, Mrs. Andress, though it may look that way. This is my ranch--six hundred and forty acres--so long as I keep my contract with the railroad, and I reckon I'll be able to keep it unless the bottom falls out of the horse market."

Her eyes widened with surprise at this statement. "You're going to become a Canadian?"

Childress could not tell her that he was Canadian born, any more than he could explain his lack of uniform. He was there in the Fire Weed country particularly to solve her losses of stock, although other breeders had lost in lesser degree. She was the sort of woman to whom a real man does not care to lie. There was a "white" way out.

"Possibly I can make a go of this proposition," he answered, ignoring the question of nationality. "You've heard of the rolling stone and its lack of moss. Well, I've proven to my own satisfaction that there is truth in the adage. At least temporarily, I've quit hitting strange trails."

Looking across the canvas into the corral, Ethel noticed that the other man who was short and stout and wore a bristling red mustache, had unsaddled the roan and was in the act of crawling under the improvised fence on the opposite side.

"Who's that?" she asked with a gesture a trifle disdainful.

Childress looked, saw the effort to escape, and suppressed a chuckle. "That's Padraic Mahaffy, my outfit. He's sort of woman-shy, which accounts for the get-away."

The widow felt her suspicions returning. Under all the circumstances, the wrangler might have another reason for being shy of any one from the Rafter A.

"You're a bit shy yourself, aren't you?" she asked. "I remember that although my uncle offered you the choice of evenings that time, in Strathconna, you were not in the least hungry."

"That situation was beyond my control--my small experience with women had nothing to do with refusing to dine with you. And right now, won't you dismount and rest a bit? I can't offer much in the way of hospitality, but such as we have is yours."

"I'm quite comfortable in the saddle, thank you, and I have but a moment," she said. "Do you think, Mr. Childress, that you've done wisely settling in this particular basin? There is no open range near here, and----"

"Oh, I'm going in for intensified breeding," said Childress, as Ethel paused, "if I may use an adjective which the farmer seems to have preempted. I'll fence in my section presently and attempt only the raising and training of thoroughbreds. There's still a good market for the right sort of horses on both sides of the line."

"But I was speaking of this particular section," she continued gravely. "You know the situation here--the trouble we've been having on Fire Weed range."

"With the rustlers?" he suggested.

She affirmed with a nod and had a thought of admiration for his cool manner under her significant gaze.

"They had better not trouble me," he declared, his lean face going suddenly grave. "I have the advantage over range breeding and grazing. Here, my stock will be always under my eye, and there'll be no stampeding it without my knowledge. If the rustlers persist in coming--well, Mrs. Andress, a man has the right to protect his own property, even to the extent of drawing a gun and using it. You wouldn't hesitate, yourself, would you?"

Either this was pure effrontery, coupled with finished acting, or it was the speech of an honest man. The widow was unable to determine which, but either, it left her more eager to warn him. If he was a rustler chief, she would serve her own interests could she persuade him to leave the vantage point of the ranch in the basin. If he was innocent, she would repay her small debt to him by warning him of a danger which he doubtless underestimated.

At that moment old Poison came bounding up to them, evidently returned from some hunting expedition of his own. She envied the hound the confidence he was able to throw into his greeting and the honest affection with which he attempted to paw his master. Then the dog turned his attention to her, evidently fixing her identity with one preliminary sniff. He essayed to lick her hand with a series of eager leaps which set the mustang cavorting and stamping her feet.

"Down, you old pest!" Childress ordered. "Down, I say! Go over and tell Mahaffy to spare you some of his feminine shyness."

The dog seemed to understand. At any rate, he started off on a run, seeking the wrangler, who could be seen some distance up the creek.

"Poison seems to remember me, even though our meeting was single and brief," said Mrs. Andress.

"He does," returned Childress, smiling, "and he has a wonderful talent for forgetting people he don't like."

In the face of these pleasantries, it was not easy to return to the subject uppermost in her mind, but she forced herself to do so. "I was thinking rather of the danger to yourself than of the loss of your stock. I suffered another raid within the week. My uncle and Mr. Fitzrapp, my ranch manager, are greatly aroused and intent upon extreme measures. Naturally, any stranger in this section comes under suspicion. If by any chance indiscretion"--for some reason she found herself stating the situation more delicately than she had intended--"if you should be found in any position that was considered incriminating, I hate to think what might happen. I wish you hadn't come here, for really it is not safe. Won't you drive on--make wagon tracks to some other location?"

He was gazing at her in seeming incredulity. "Your uncle will scarcely suspect me, Mrs. Andress."

"But already you are suspected!" she cried. "You and your silver stallion there. In most of the raids such a horse has figured, and there is not a doubt but that the rustlers came from across the border. I don't want to see more trouble started, but there surely will be more if Mr. Fitzrapp learns that you have camped here."

"Oh, Tom Fitzrapp!" The exclamation seemed to escape from reluctant lips and not without a tinge of scorn.

His eyes were directed toward the ground now. His whole attitude was one of consideration. But this lasted only for a moment. His confident, attractive smile was again on his face when he looked up at her. Before he spoke, she knew that her persuasive effort had been in vain.

"It's mighty good of you to ride over and tell me this," he said, "but I reckon I'll have to stick it out. I've been suspected before--that is, deeds that were not pleasant to consider have been attributed to me, and on stronger circumstantial evidence than the ownership of a gray stallion. However, I have an equity in this land, the first I've ever owned, and I hope I know how to defend my own. I want to stay here, Mrs. Andress; I want to help clear the Fire Weed of rustlers. I had in mind making you folks a call and establishing neighborly relations, but from what you say the effort would be useless. You are welcome here at any time, and so is your uncle. If you need an extra gun, you've only to call for the best action I can get out of mine. Perhaps the day will come when--when we can all be friends."

His manner was at once hesitating and hopeful.

The widow felt a return of her former perplexity regarding the man. Fitzrapp suspected him, and here he was, neatly holed in with the skeleton of a horse band on the edge of their range, and here he said he intended to stay. Appearances certainly were against him and corrective action seemed beyond her power. If he was the rustler chief, his safety lay in Fitzrapp's timidity--his fear to get within target range. She hoped that it would not fall to her lot, suspicion against John Childress verified, to have to bring him down with her own gun. That he'd be very careful not to shoot a woman she felt convinced. That was his handicap and an added reason why he should have accepted warning.

She gathered up the reins and turned her piebald. "Remember that I told you the danger of remaining," she said quietly. "I've miles to ride and must be off."

"Sorry you should consider a warning necessary," he returned. "Life down here in Fire Weed may not be as dull as one might suspect from the stage setting. But I'm grateful for your notice-to-leave, even though I must disregard it. Good-by."

When Ethel Andress gained the top of the bluff, she looked back and saw him engaged in some sort of a rough-and-tumble game with Poison. Evidently as a bugaboo she was a decided failure. Anyway, she had done her best, and they were quits.

As she gave the pony his head for the home ranch, she did not notice a mounted figure that emerged from a thicket farther up the bluff and started on a circular course in the same general direction. The question of honesty set aside, her mind became engaged in a comparison of the two men most in her thoughts. It had been hard to choose the man whose name she wore. This second choice, which now seemed just around the corner, promised to be more difficult. "Why," she asked herself--"why do they put such a weight of weeds on widows?" Then she remembered that report of Fitzrapp's about Childress' meeting with the "Gallegher brat" and felt somewhat cheered. This horse thief suspect wasn't worth any woman's worry.