CHAPTER X.

HOME OF FLAME.

The range was a study in green and yellow this day that Sergeant Jack Childress set out, despite warning, to ride to the home of the Flame. The visit was part of the program he had mapped for himself--an intensive and personal study of all resident ranchers in the hope that something might "drop" to show collusion, if such existed, in the mystery of the "lifted" horse bands. Silver, the magnificent, snorted at part of the going, that which lay through the weed no animal is known to eat, even under the most pressing conditions.

Of this little green plant there was enough in evidence to give name to the range, but it served rather as a frame to rich growths of buffalo and other grasses. Had it been everywhere, the stockmen would have foraged somewhere else.

Other names has this parasite--snakeweed, turpentine weed and, to the scientist, _Guttierrazia_. It generally grows to a height of ten inches, and is a bushy plant with small yellow flowers, never red ones. The colorful name of fireweed comes from the fact that in the winter the plant dries and the flowers bear little white seeds filled with a resinous substance which makes it burn like tinder.

With eyes accustomed to the wonders of the sub-Arctic, the "bark" of sun dogs and the colorful sheen of Northern Lights, the "Mountie" paid little attention to this comparatively drab scenery. He did make note that he was near the undrawn line which, with occasional "monuments" of stone, marks the boundary between the Dominion and the States. It occurred to him as strange that the fireweed stopped on the side of the beaver and that the timber began on the leagues of the eagle. He had foraged into that American forest for logs with which to build the walls of the shack that Mahaffy resented as no post for even a sergeant-constable detachment of the Royal Mounted. And he realized the possibilities of concealment and cover that lay among the pines for the pestiferous stock-raiding gang. He intended to go there again and for more than timber, unless the rustlers earlier came to him. But he was not hurrying that or any other detail of this run-'em-down game to which he had been particularly assigned. Hurried raids on both sides of the border had in the past failed signally, netted no prisoners and stopped not a drop of the leakage from Canadian ranches. His plan of campaign was slow in its tempo, but he hoped it would be sure. That it might be dangerous to the official pair engaged in it was not worth consideration; assignments in the service which were not dangerous were hopelessly monotonous, as he well could testify.

On the farther side of a long roll of prairie, he rode into a marshy section unusual to the region. It was one that would have required the services of "bog riders," from March until the end of May when cows are weak, had the range been devoted to cattle. But the sergeant was sure that he was on the Gallegher ranch which, like the Rafter A, specialized in horses whose sense of danger is so acute as to make it unnecessary to guard them from quicksand danger. It was with surprise, therefore, that he sighted presently a lone puncher trying to drag a bogged-down cow to safety. With the idea of aiding the Samaritan of the Plains, he changed his course and put Silver into a gallop.

While still some distance away he recognized the bog-rider as Flame Gallegher, and on approach saw that she had her rope around a situation that was somewhat beyond her.

"Hold up a moment, Miss Gallegher," he called. "You'll break that cow's neck before you get her out that way."

Evidently she had been so intent upon her rescue work that she had not heard the approach, the stallion's hoofs padding softly upon the buffalo turf. She checked her cayuse and looked up, flushing vividly on recognition.

"You!" she cried. "You and the silver beast riding our range in broad daylight?"

"Why not?" he asked. "My visit is friendly enough. Merely a get-acquainted call upon your father."

"But I warned you not----" she began.

Childress ignored her frown. "Let's see what we have here. Perhaps the committee of two from the Open A can help along your work of mercy."

Evidently the cow had gone into the quicksand bog to drink, burdened herself with several gallons of water and found her feet fast in the grip of the sand. She was well down and thoroughly frightened, the suction holding the feet as if in a vise. The girl had her rope about the beast's horns, with the other end attached to saddle horn. She was attempting salvage by a straight-pull method, but so far with nothing more in the way of success than bellows of pain from the bogged one.

"She's in a bad way," said the sergeant with experience as his authority. "I'll have to go in after the beast."

He dismounted, dropping rein on Silver. Squatting on the solid prairie that edged the bog, he unlaced his boots and rolled his trousers above his knees. This last process was applied to the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

"I don't suppose you carry a shovel," he remarked. "All bog-riders should."

"I'm not a bog-rider," she flared. "I was out gunning for horse thieves and happened on this poor critter. She happens to wear my own personal and private brand--Circle G--but I'd have tried to save her even had she worn an Open A."

Childress shrugged competent shoulders. "So, Flame of Fire Weed is also humane," he remarked, offering her again that whimsical smile that invited her own lips even as she resented the assurance of it.

"Did you imagine for a moment I wasn't human?" she demanded indignantly.

"I merely remarked your _humaneness_," he said to set himself right with her, and he started to wade into the bog.

"Have a care, man!" she cried. "Some of these bogs are sure enough sink-holes. They'll swallow people as well as cattle. This fool cow isn't worth the risk. Besides, I haven't another rope to put around your neck."

"Glad you didn't say 'horns,' Miss Flame. Although I'll guess you're not certain that I don't deserve a rope around me--my neck. Your interest in me shows that I should have said that the lady was merciful. Don't worry. I'm only going to dig out and loosen her forefeet with my hands; then I'll lift and boost while you and the cayuse pull on the rope. Perhaps, between us, we can work her to the bank."

The task of mercy to which he had assigned himself was hard and disagreeable, but he persisted. And the Fire Flame girl lent expert aid in her management of her mount. Between them, they did drag the "fool cow" to firm ground. There, Childress tailed her up and got her to her feet, too dazed from her experience even to bellow her resentment for treatment that she did not understand.

"Bet she does not live to raise her calf," remarked the girl owner of the bovine in question.

"One out of five does," was all the reassurance Childress could offer. "Maybe she's the lucky fifth."

Flame Gallegher nodded her agreement with this adage of the range. "Bog-riding isn't profitable to us cowmen," she said, "but it seems too dreadful to let them die in the water without at least trying to do something for them. I'm greatly obliged, Mr. Childress. Never could have dragged her out without help."

The reason he suddenly stopped lacing his boot was because, all at once, she smiled at him. Slowly, delightfully, the smile started in an unsuspected dimple in one cheek, parted her ripe lips over teeth of dazzling whiteness, lit her whole face like a glory of electricity after twilight in a room. Never, the "Mountie" assured himself, had he seen so luring a smile. And her voice, when she spoke to him thus directly, had the appealing vibration of a cello string.

"If you think you must meet my dad and the outfit," she said, "I'll show you the way."

His hat was off, as due the best moment of their acquaintance. But he found himself, as they rode westward together, mentally assorting reasons--possible reasons--for the two warnings that had come to him. After all, there was some recompense to the Arctic patrol; one did not have two fair women to worry about up there where the igloo belles were greasy with blubber and reeked with the odor of dried fish. At that, so long as he might occasionally draw forth that dimpled smile, he'd never ask Commissioner Jim to send him back to the Frozen North.

But their ride together this glorious afternoon had rude interruption, and that, alack, just as the two were beginning to feel the getting-acquainted thrill of this third contact. In one way--possibly two ways--it was unfortunate that the sergeant's roving eyes were attracted by a pair of buzzards cutting the blue a mile or so to the right of their direct course to the Gallegher home ranch. To him the slow-winged spirals of these black scavengers of the air signified that they were flying a death watch over man or beast in trouble and nearing the end. Professional instinct and training dictated a detour that he might determine who or what had attracted the attention of the hawks.

"I'll breeze over and see what it is those birds are about to hold a wake on," he suggested. "If you please, ride ahead and I'll overtake you when I've learned."

But Flame demurred. She would ride with him, her curiosity as well founded as his own. There was, it seemed, a cut-off trail in that direction which they could take that would bring them to the ranch-house as quickly as the track they were following.

Feeling that he still was under suspicion, Childress acquiesced; but a moment later had reason to regret that he had not insisted on his original proposition. The scene which they rode down upon was too horrible for freckled eyes to gaze upon, even though the owner was prairie-bred and hardened to the tragedies of the range. From his vantage of saddle seat upon a higher horse and his own greater height, he determined the situation before it came within her range of vision. Used as he was to horrors of the wild, the mere thought of what lay before them sickened him. Again he tried to spare her.

"You'd best not come any further, Miss Gallegher," he suggested, drawing rein. "I can attend to whatever is to be done."

"I'm no parlor pet," she declared. "I'm used to being in at the finish of anything that happens on this ranch. Ride on!"

This was one occasion when even a Russian realist well might spare the details. In the out-of-way bog hole lay a steer, its hide peeled from its back down to the mud-line, and still alive! The proof of the last was evident to both in the moving eyes and gritting teeth of the helpless, hopelessly tortured beast.

"Injin stuff," he muttered. "The fiends!"

"Some wandering Sioux from over the line wanting hides for moccasin soles," she amplified. "We caught a pair once red-handed and sent them up for killing live stock unlawfully. Now the reds try to escape by skinning the boggies alive. It was fear of something like this that brought me out to-day."

"One minute," said Childress with quick decision.

His revolver was out and a mercy-shot sounded. The steer was out of its misery.

"Thank you," breathed Flame who had turned away, her eyes searching the prairie. "If I could throw a sight on the brute who did that horror, there'd be a dead----"

"Let me take care of this, girl," said Childress, deeply aroused. "The skinning happened not long ago; the buck who did it can't have gone far. If you'll ride home and keep out of danger, I'll do my best to run down the Indian and bring him back alive. Then you can punish him under the cruelty to animals law."

The auburn-haired nymph of capricious impulse straightened in her stirrups, and the dimple which was so enticing disappeared as completely as though it never had been. "Has anyone asked you to fight Circle G's battles?" she demanded indignantly.

"No--not exactly," he admitted, secretly admiring her spirit and perhaps openly looking some of his admiration. "But this is more than a Circle G affair. It's my duty as--as----" almost had he made a fatal slip that would have disclosed his service to the King--"as a human being to bring this red dog to punishment. I'll drag him in if it's within my power."

"Two draggers are better than one," she persisted. "You needn't be squeaky about me; I can shoot some and I'm not afraid of any Indian that ever lived. Shall we ride together or spread out?"

Childress had been studying the topography as best he might from the saddle. They were perhaps five miles from the border and the beginning of the timber belt. Directly between lay one of those rocky buttes that crop up willy-nilly in the prairie provinces, as if the Rockies had tried to start farther east and then thought better of it. Already he had decided that they would spread out. His delay was only in an effort to determine which "spread" would be the safer one for her. The crack of a rifle startled him, coming as it did almost from under his ear. He turned to look.

Flame had unlimbered her Winchester and used it with effect. One of the buzzards had executed his last graceful, if heavy spiral, and was in a nose dive to death.

"One meal that bird won't get," muttered the ranch girl through set lips.

"A pretty shot, Flame--Miss Circle G!" he exclaimed.

He saw just a trace of the dimple as she began a smile at the quick correction of his slip.

"Shall we ride together or spread?" she demanded again.

Childress had decided. "If you'll take the west side of the butte," he suggested, "I'll ride the east side. The distance there is greater, but Silver undoubtedly is swifter than your cayuse."

"I'm not so sure; if there was time I'd find out," she began, then laughed. This was no time, she seemed to realize, to show that seldom-give-in spirit that was hers. "We'll settle about our horse-flesh some other time. Just now, it's get that Sioux buck, and if you plant him in a bog and skin him alive--well, almost, that would serve him right. I don't mind the loss of the steer, or the hide, but the torture of the poor dumb thing. There's no telling just what you may be, Mister Jack, but I'm sure you never tortured, did you?"

They were getting on. He felt it and wondered that he was not alarmed. But this was neither time nor place. One promise he managed to exact from her. If she rode to the timber belt, which was the States side of the line, and found no suspect, she was to turn back and make for home without waiting for him or looking for him. In his turn, Childress promised that if he "made" the guilty buck, he'd bring him direct to the Gallegher ranch-house. With this exchange they were off, equally grim in spirit if not in looks and quite equally determined to avenge the suffering of the bogged-down steer.

It was after six when Flame Gallegher rode into the home ranch, flopped from the saddle and handed her tired cayuse to the mercies of one of their punchers. She asked no questions, for that was not according to "Hoyle," but she was unusually silent through dinner, which all of the outfit at the home-ranch ate together in the cook shack. So pronounced and so unusual was this rôle for the "light of the ranch," that her father took notice.

"What's the matter, Firecracker?" the ranchman asked as they sat on the porch after the meal. "Still worrying because that white-horse rider beat you out on buying the basin from the railroad?"

The one parent left to Flame Gallegher--in fact, the only one she really remembered, her mother having died when she was scarcely more than a babe--had contributed little to her charm of appearance, although much, probably, to the steel of her nerve and character. He was aquiline in appearance and, like the eagle, fearless. Nearly bald, he insisted on cutting the fringe of hair which was left to him with one of those patent contraptions which he had bought from a Winnipeg department store. The result was not always an artistic success, but the use of the instrument appealed to Gallegher's sense of independence. He was tall, lean and dark--as dark as his daughter was light. A hard man to work for, was the report among the punchers of the province, but one who'd never ask a "hand" to do what he dared not do himself. "Firecracker" was his nickname for the daughter who had been the love of his life since her mother's death.

Flame Gallegher was worrying about the man who had nosed her out of the basin purchase, but not because she had lost that property. No matter what he had encountered on the other side of the butte, he should have been in long since to report. Her eyes, in the twilight, held straight to the eastward, the direction from which he should come. She even ceased to worry about the reception he would receive from the eagle-father and the outfit once he came. But she wondered why he did not come. The parent's questions, however, always demanded answer.

"I've forgotten that muff," she said with a drawl that was, perhaps, her most effective subterfuge. "I did my best on that run up to town and we Galleghers don't pout over busted flushes. You could have given me a bit more time--would have, if you'd known."

"Then what--the silence?"

"Guess I'm tired, dad," she said. "Had a hard time with a bogged-down cow to-day. Got her out, but she'll lose her calf."

"Hell's tinklers, Fireworks," the parent responded heartily, "don't let a cow and a possible calf silence the joy of your Circle G. I'll stake you to another if this bogged bossy don't get back on her feet. You're taking raising of cattle too seriously for one who shouldn't have anything on her mind but a young horse band of her own. Cheer up!"

"A horse band, yes!" she exclaimed. "And have everybody in the province say you'd staked me to it. This idea of raising cattle was my own, and because everybody knows you wouldn't be troubled with 'em. You might have given me a range that didn't have bogs and quicksand; horses know enough to keep out of trouble. I'm tired out--think I'll turn in."

And turn in she did, but with her window open and her ears wide in the hope--for fear that a probable rogue of the range on a great silver horse would ride into the enemy's camp and might need her protection. To herself, she admitted that she did not savey this attractive gent of the saddle who called himself Jack Childress.