CHAPTER XII.

BY SINGLE STRAND.

After anchoring the severed trunk of the hemlock upon the shelf with such bowlders as he could move, to prevent, if possible, its turning, Sergeant Childress sat down on the brink, his legs dangling. He gripped the hemlock tightly, then lowered his body overside. That end of the tree, at least, supported his weight. With six-inch reaches, he began to move out from the ledge.

He dared not hurry; nor could he ease his progress by wriggling--the hold upon the fir of the hemlock was too uncertain. His body hung as a dead weight, the strain upon his arms, hands, and fingers increasing with every slow move.

One stout, out-flung branch, depending from the lower trunkside, soon impeded his progress; indeed, threatened the success of his venture. Fear of dislodging the frailer end of his support prohibited his trying to swing his body around it.

In an almost insupportable pause he decided on a way. With Jack Childress, thus far, there always had been a way.

Linking his left elbow around the diminishing hemlock to relieve his tortured fingers and the more surely support his weight, he slipped the blazer from his belt and performed an amputation upon the limb. Having difficulty in returning the ax to its sheath, he dropped it. The clank of its fall upon the rocks sent a shiver through his racked frame.

Reminded thus of the alternative fate, he returned to his hand-over-hand performance, receiving in the effort an unexpected scalp wound from the stump of the branch he had removed.

The remaining yards entailed mental and physical torture, for his bridge began to bend. But at last he felt the needles of the fir brush his face; soon his body pressed gratefully in among the branches. One last reach, and he gained hold upon the main trunk. The ordeal was ended.

As down a shaky flight of stairs, he descended the older tree and with caution other than for his footing. Although it was highly probable that the skinner was by now far away and going farther, the fact was not established. Having overcome so many teeth of the trap, he did not wish to be caught by a last one. Seeing and hearing nothing, however, he took the short jump to the ground from the lowest branch.

For several minutes he lay upon a bed of fir needles at the foot of the tree which had formed his stairway, listening for sound of his quarry. Scarcely did he expect to hear any such, but he was taking no chances. Judging from the fact that no shots had been fired at him while he was overhanding the hemlock, during every moment of which ordeal he had presented a fair target, it was reasonable to assume that the unknown, red or white, was on his way.

A stranger to the region, Childress was at loss which way to turn for the easiest crossing of the ridge. They had crossed from north to south, so his choice must lay to east or west. As a matter of fact, he had no choice, at least nothing tangible on which to base one. He tossed a coin, heads west, tails east, and followed its dictation away from the sun that was sinking discouragingly low in the west.

As he traveled along the base of the ridge, thrown up by some prehistoric convulsion of nature and remindful of a scar, his tread was soft as any Indian's. His eyes were ever watchful for sign of the enemy, but his mind was elsewhere.

His thoughts were most of all upon the Gallegher girl of colorful wonder. What a spirited nymph of the ranch she was! Probably she had found no one either suspicious or alarming on the course he had sent her, and by now she was riding homeward. He was glad that she had not come with him, for she probably would have insisted on entering the brush and climbing the ridge. What could he have done with her had she followed him down to that trap of a ledge? How could he have brought her to safety on the forest floor? Supple as she was and undoubtedly strong from her life in the open, it was incredible that she could have overhanded on the hemlock bridge. And had he crossed to safety, leaving her on the ledge? While one man could throw down the improvised tree-trunk ladder, only a Sampson, singly, could have replaced it.

Presently he began to wonder at himself that he thought so much about her. That he had kept her out of trouble, as was his duty both as a man and a "Mountie" should have been sufficient. What was the use of speculating on the might-have-beens? Was it possible that---- He laughed at himself. Of course it wasn't possible that a hard-boiled sergeant of the Royal had developed a sentimental interest in a ranch or any other sort of girl.

Then he came to a gap in the ridge and upon a clearly blazed trail to the other side. He speeded his pace, one that was tireless from long mushing practice behind the dog teams of the Frozen North. An hour before the sun went out he was back at the starting point, where he found Silver and the skinner's cayuse on terms of grazing amity. Evidently his quarry had not cared to return even for his horse, perhaps fearing that his pursuer had a rear guard.

Mounting the silver beast, but leaving the flea-bitten cayuse with reins dropped, in the hope of inviting its rider's return, Childress rode slowly over the immediate back trail. His search trail-side for the torture-taken hide was eventually rewarded. He found it in a gunny sack where the pursued had tossed it into a clump of alders. He rode back toward the outlaw's deserted mount.

Night was falling rapidly and what to do became something of a problem. Even if the cayuse would lead at the end of a rope, the strange back trail would prove a problem. It would be midnight before he could hope to reach the Lazy G home ranch, even could he find it in the dark. An arrival at such time must cause a commotion that would not further his purpose of getting an exact grasp of the Fire Weed rustling situation. Moreover, and quite important, there was still the chance that the skinner would regain his nerve and return for the abandoned cayuse.

Changing the hiding place of the sacked hide, he led Silver back to within gun range of the grazing clump that the ugly cayuse seemed to fancy. There he found a cover for both his beast and himself, determined on a night's vigil and a daylight ride to the Gallegher ranch in case nothing developed.

There were a couple of emergency rations in his saddle bag, and he made quite a meal under the circumstances of a camp fire's inadvisability. There was a bare fragment of moon that night, not enough to see with any accuracy. But he knew the keenness of Silver's ears, and that he could depend upon them. If any human approached, the horse would give warning, by snort or by tug upon the rope by which he attached the horse to himself.

"Nothing like a real horse for an alarm clock," he murmured sleepily. "Hope that Flame had sense enough to ride home whatsoever!"

He was more tired than he had realized before throwing himself down upon his improvised couch of brush. Every muscle of his body from gun-belt up ached from the strain of that hemlock crossing. After covering himself with the slicker, carried rolled on the cantle of his saddle, he soon slept.

Next morning, after a night of no alarms, he remembered that he had dreamed. Most unusual for him to remember dreams! These that now came to mind were mixed--of a flame girl and a siren widow. He was not exactly clear about them. He could not be sure just where they had taken him and he possessed no dream-book for their interpretation. But the fact that he had dreamed at all was troubling. He must needs watch his step.

Childress decided that the skinner did not mean to return, either for his cayuse or his cruel booty. He would take both to Galleghers and let the old ranchman do with them as he thought best. They should serve as something of an introduction for his uninvited visit.

Without difficulty he caught the small horse which seemed willing enough to come along. Packing with him the sack-covered hide was a different matter. The blood scent, so distasteful to animals, had grown stronger over night. But finally he succeeded in calming the beasts, and they were off for his destination of yesterday.

Once packed the cayuse led easily enough and good progress was made after they got beyond the "rough." They had passed the scene of yesterday's bovine tragedy, when he saw three horsemen ride out of a draw some distance ahead and quarter in his direction. Without increasing his speed, he held his course, knowing that unless the trio changed their direction they would meet within half a mile. Considering the compass point from which they appeared, it was reasonable to suppose that they were Lazy G riders. While they likely would be curious and ask questions, they scarcely would make trouble for a stranger headed toward their home ranch in the full light of a brilliant prairie morning.

As he neared the point of convergence it did not surprise him to hear a loud whoop from the ranchmen. Nor was he alarmed when they separated, urging their horses into a run, and drove up on either side of him, their ropes swirling in long loops, which hung just clear of the ground. This was not an unusual performance when a group of punchers met a stranger riding alone over their own range. Nine times out of ten the demonstration meant nothing but the outlet of excess spirit. He laughed to himself when he thought of the chance they had of frightening him.

Yet the next moment two of the loops spread and hissed out in twin circles, curving above the punchers' heads. One fell with the swoop of a hawk down over Childress' shoulders. The other whipped over Silver's head, and settled around the beast's arched neck. In a flash both ropes came taut with a jerk that almost pulled the sergeant from his saddle, and nearly overbalanced his horse.

For the first time in years Jack Childress was genuinely surprised; he was also indignant, but as yet not alarmed. These horse wranglers had gone further than was usual in the rough play of the range, but he had no idea that they would follow up their advantage. At the moment he did not think of the warning that Flame had carried to his little ranch in the cup of Open A--that the Gallegher gang were going to get him. He expected that any moment the pressure which held the ropes taut would cease, and that they would ride up, grinning at his discomfiture, and insolently demand his tribute to their roping accuracy.

He strained his powerful arms against the clutch which bound them to his sides, but the jerk had come just at the right moment to pinion him securely. He could get no leverage against the rope, and was helpless.

Silver, excited by the undreamed of indignity of being roped when he already carried a rider, began to plunge, but quieted down at a word from the man in the saddle.

Childress called out angrily to the punchers, getting a derisive laugh for his trouble. Once more he realized the potency of the uniform of the Royal and the handicap of operating in mufti. This outrage never would have been thought of had he worn the scarlet. He tried to reach his revolver, but his fingers would not carry to its butt, and his arm was powerless to lend any assistance. By a single strand he was held. Bitterly he condemned in his mind the confidence which had led him into this sisal trap.

Then began a performance which at first he did not understand. The wrangler whose rope was around his body began to ride a wide circle, while the one who had caught the stallion held hard. In no time there was a second circle of rope around his body.

It came to him that they meant to make him prisoner by winding him up in the rope. To checkmate this he endeavored to make his horse wheel with the circle of the puncher, but the second rope interfered and he only succeeded in delaying the winding operation. Meantime the third puncher was busying himself capturing the led cayuse which had broken away in the excitement.

In spite of his extremity, he was forced to admire the skill of his captors. More artistic handling of sixty-foot ropes he had never seen. Not for an instant was the original grip around his arms and body loosened, and rapidly the circlets increased in number until he would be bound up like a mummy. Finally he gave up the struggle against the strands, and ceased his effort to throw off the successive loops.

"Got yuh nice and clean and gentle this time, hawse thief," was the greeting of the puncher who handled the body rope, as he made the final circle.

"You seem to have me this time," returned the sergeant, swallowing his rage.

"Yea-bo," chortled the second puncher, who had dismounted to permit the circling and who still held the silver horse. "It'll be the last time on this here range."

"Nice little weapon this," remarked the mounted puncher, whipping Childress' revolver from its holster. He broke the weapon, emptying the cartridges onto the prairie floor. Then he returned the "empty" to its holster, and busied himself tying the helpless non-com to pommel and stirrups.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" Childress demanded.

"This ain't no outrage; it's a party, ain't it, Roper?" advised the dismounted wrangler. "Didn't yuh get yuhr invite? Anyway yuh come along pretty enough an' just at the right time to save us going over into the cup after yuh."

The two settled back into their saddles to await the return of their companion, who was having trouble, not only with the outlaw's cayuse, but also with his own mount, which Childress recognized as one of the famous Black Hawks, a breed in which Sam Gallegher specialized. The two men who stood guard over him were typical punchers, one a ruddy-cheeked youth, the other a grizzled veteran wearing a drooping mustache which he worried when his fingers were not otherwise engaged. They were not so well mounted as the third of the party, which led the captive to believe that this third was either range boss or foreman. He awaited the leader's return with patience, and he held no further converse with the frolicsome pair.

Even to a natural-born optimist, one who had come through a needle's-eye of danger many a time because of undaunted hopefulness, the situation was far from cheerful. He did not fear for his life. Lynching, even of suspected horse thieves, long since ceased to be an outdoor sport of the Canadian ranges. About the worst that would happen to him was the indignity of being dragged into the Gallegher home ranch "all wound 'round" with a puncher's string. But that would be a little bit of too much, he thought, when he considered Flame Gallegher on hand to view his humiliation. Just why he cared so much, when, whatever befell, would be in the line of duty, he hated to admit. But he did care, and the Flame of Fire Weed, whose smile started with a reappearing dimple, was the reason. Again he cautioned himself to "watch his step."