CHAPTER XX.

POOR BRANDED MAN!

Flame's clock did not fail her. Next morning she was up with the cook who, at that season of the year, was not perpetrating any of the half-past-four roars. She slipped out of silken "nighterie" and into the rougher clothes of the range. Without disturbing her father in his quarters across the living-room, she crossed the quadrangle and entered the chuck-shack to the unblinking surprise of Chan.

"Coffee and cakes, Chan," she ordered with a grin as cheerful as though she had slept the clock around instead of only a quarter of it. "And you needn't say that I had so early a breakfast should any one ask for figures."

"Cheerio--I mean righteo," returned the Chinaman. To him these white ranch people were a queer lot, but Gallegher a good boss, and the young lady less troublesome than the housewives for whom he had worked in several towns. "Chan keep sleclet much better 'an Mister Murdock."

She gave him a quick look, followed by sharp demand: "Just exactly what do you mean by that, you heathen."

Chan grinned broadly, as he always did when she called him "heathen." She had been the object of his most respectful worship from the time of a near tragedy of the winter before. The cook had returned from a vacation in Strathconna, which boasted a considerable Chinatown. There he had acquired a new idol or joss, a dreadful-looking dragon figure, which he enshrined upon a shelf in the dining compartment of the chuck-house. Rusty, the buster, came in for supper, saw the new decoration and proceeded to ring it with his sombrero instead of using the regular hat-and-gun rack. At the very moment the Stetson settled over the emblem of Buddhism, Chan appeared in the doorway of the kitchen partition, in hand the carving knife with which he was about to slice roast beef. He saw the desecration, and seeing, saw red. With a yell that would have done credit to the most supernatural banshee, he started after the bow-legged horseman, brandishing the knife in religious frenzy. When almost within reach of the thoroughly frightened Rust, who had entered upon a life-or-death marathon around the long table, not daring to pause to open the door for the refuge of the yard, Flame had entered. Taking in the tense situation at a glance, she tripped the knife-man for a heavy fall.

After forcing Rust to remove his hat from the Celestial's sacred object, and insisting that he apologize to the cook, she had convinced Chan that her ready tripping probably had saved his life. The outfit undoubtedly would have "eaten him alive" had the carving knife reached its mark. Thereafter Chan swore by her, and for her, but never at her.

"Murdock, he clazy about Missie Flame--so much clazy he can kepp that sleclet away from nobody but she--you."

"Well," she returned after a moment of pondering on the Chink's sage observation, "you'll keep my early departure this morning a 'sleclet' from all hands or I'll--I'll feed you to the buzzards!"

Still grinning, Chan went about the cooking of a hurried breakfast, sorry that there were so few culinary touches that might be added to an early morning meal that was calculated particularly to "stick to the ribs."

Breakfast finished, she leathered her own particular black; paused a moment to stroke the cold muzzle of Silver, the strange visitor; then she mounted and was off in an easterly direction at a pace calculated for long distance travel. She congratulated herself that she was up and away before any of the outfit was stirring. Even on ordinary occasions she was adverse to answering questions about her proposed movements, but never had been able to persuade her father and the older busters of the fact; moreover, this was no ordinary occasion.

To herself, Flame did not apologize for the unwonted interest she was taking in the affairs of a comparative stranger. No more did she try to explain this interest. The fact that it came from the heart, not the brain, did not alarm her. There had been so little heart interest in her life thus far that she found a sort of thrill toying with this one.

Her chief concern, as her horse brushed through the fire weed and over the stretches of rising grass, was whether or not she could pick the pass he would take on his ride into Montana and, picking it, would she arrive before he had gone through. Admittedly she was worried about what had happened on or about the home ranch. Childress' leaving of the silver stallion was a queer proceeding at least. She did not doubt her father's statement that their big neighbor had brought the horse over and ridden away toward his one-section ranch on a led animal. But the general demeanor of the boys, particularly of Smiling Dick Murdock, had alarmed her as to what might have happened when Childress had rounded the lake and ridden beyond the vision range of Sam Gallegher. It was more to satisfy herself on this point than to attempt to pry into the big ranchman's affairs that had led her afield so early.

And if she were lucky enough to encounter him jogging southward into the State of Trouble, what should she say to him, what ask, how explain her early-morning presence so far from home? With the thrill of a school girl engaged on some momentous undertaking in behalf of love's young dream, she asked herself, answered herself--then discarded her answers.

In case Jack--Mr. Childress proved entirely unmolested, in good health and in his right mind, riding about his own private business, Flame realized she would need to take care lest she make herself and her impulsive action seem ridiculous. That would be simply insupportable! He might think of her worse than the situation really warranted--that she was in love with him; when, of course, she was but "mildly interested." Yes, she would need to take care, unless--and she almost hoped that something in the way of mild discipline had been administered. What a chance that would give for her to show sisterly interest and sympathy!

Meantime her mount had been throwing the miles behind fleet heels. They had reached a point on the range where she must choose her pass for the "hold-up." Would he take the narrow, rocky one that gave way across "Medicine Line" directly south of his own place, or would he swing around to the valley farther east. She decided that all depended on where in the States he was headed. As she was totally without information on this point, she accepted the first chance that offered and eased her black down into a rocky defile that afforded a direct gateway to Crow's Nest, a settlement of ill-repute, as well as to law-abiding towns farther south.

Once on the trail she dismounted and examined it closely for traces of any recent passage. Two nights before there had been a downpour which washed clean the earthy portions of the road. She could see no hoof marks and was satisfied that none had passed in either direction since the rain. If the owner of the Open A intended to use that gap to the States, she was in time.

Around a sharp bend, she halted her horse in mid-trail, having thought of a subterfuge that might lessen his suspicion that she was laying in wait for him. Loosening the cinch on her cow-saddle, she waited with the patience of a feminine Job. And presently she was rewarded. The scrape of an iron shoe upon a rock came to her ears from beyond the pinnacle that hid her presence. At once she busied herself with the saddle straps, and so Jack Childress found her, engaged in a commonplace operation of the trail.

Flame did not look up until he was almost upon her, and then with well feigned surprise. This changed quickly to real anxiety when she saw the peep of a white bandage beneath the brim of his hat. She took full advantage of the moment afforded her for speculation. Something, then, had happened to him the day before--some injury that required the use of a gauze dressing! Noting the position of the injury, she recalled that other morning when she had discovered Dick Murdock, Roper and Rust about to do a dreadful thing with a red hot running-iron. It required no great strain on her lively imagination to figure out what had happened.

Not for a second did she doubt her father. Samuel Gallagher never had lied to her, and she did not believe that he would begin in this twilight stage of their close acquaintance. This thing that had been done to Childress had been perpetrated after he had deposited the silver stallion and started back to his own little ranch. For just a second she was disappointed in him that he should have permitted a second attack to succeed. A man as upstanding as he seemed to be should not have been caught napping twice, should at least have left his mark upon the enemy. She had seen no trace of conflict upon any of the outfit about the home-ranch board the night before. They must have sprung some new-fangled surprise upon him. She could not bring herself to believe that Jack--_her_ Jack as she whispered to herself--was a man afraid to fight. Should he prove to be that sort, of course, her interest must end; but he would not! She knew he would not.

By this time he was upon her, pulling his mount to a halt in a state of surprise, the genuineness of which could not be doubted.

"Our trails do cross, Flame of Fire Weed!" he exclaimed gladly. "Although yesterday, when I did not find you in your own corral, I feared my luck was slipping."

He had pulled off his hat, in utter disregard of the bandage about his forehead.

"What--what has happened to you, Jack Childress?" she cried, sweeping a hand in gesture across her own fair forehead.

"Nothing worth worrying about," he assured her. "Are you going far and headed my way? Can I help you with that saddle?"

She stamped her foot. "I'll not be put off with polite chatter. Those roughnecks that dad calls an outfit got you and branded you after you'd left Silver with us as a hostage of your good behavior. Dick Murdock, the smiling fiend, will answer to me for every inch of the burn. Does it hurt terribly and have you done everything possible for the wound?"

Childress grinned reassuringly, pleased beyond measure at her snap-of-the-hammer sympathy. "I've done everything possible," he said. "The wound don't hurt. Probably there will be no permanent scar. But above all else, let me absolve Murdock and his men. They had nothing to do with this. I did not see any of them yesterday. I doubt if they knew I had been to the ranch until they found Silver in your home stable."

"Then it must have been that shifty widow's outfit that got you," she flared, after a long inquiring look that convinced her he was not absolving his enemies who rode the Gallegher brand just to save her trouble. "You'll have to spin an iron-clad excuse, Jack, before I'll forgive you for letting any of that Rafter bunch catch you napping." She paused a moment--a pause he did not interrupt, being entirely too busy identifying the emotions that played across her face. "Strange," she went on, more to herself than to him, "strange they should hit on the same ordeal that our busters had. That Tom Fitzrapp must have been talking to Murdock. Will you climb down off that horse, brother, and let a woman have a look at what has happened? Men are worse than babies when it comes to looking after their wounds."

Sergt. Childress obeyed, already convinced that in the end he would make a clean breast of exactly what had happened.

"Be careful," he admonished as she started to unwind the bandage.

She frowned at him. "You're worse than a child with a cut finger," she chided. "I'm not going to hurt you, son."

"I meant be careful with the bandage--it's all I've got with me."

"I'll take care of that," she assured him and went on removing clumsily fixed pins, each of which she saved in the sleeve of her shirt, as though in a pincushion.

At last the bandage was off and she stood back to observe the havoc wrought his brow. She stared a moment; then transferred her gaze to the bandage.

"Didn't you have any salve--any ointment?" she demanded.

"Would that have been good for--for what ails me?" he answered with a cheerful question of his own. "Does the horseshoe effect meet with your artistic approval?"

Obviously she was puzzled. Who wouldn't have been? The idea of jesting over as deep a disgrace as can come to a man on the range--a living degradation than which many would have preferred a merciful death!

"What's the idea, Jack?" she demanded after a moment. "For a poor branded man you don't seem as concerned as might be, and if I was going to put the horse thief brand on any misguided freebooter, I'd burn deeper than your decorator seems to have done. I don't get this smear any more than I do your attitude toward it. Suppose you come across clean."

"Sorry, Flame, that you don't like my artistry with the brush," he laughed. "I hadn't time to ride over to the Rafter A and show it to our dashing widow friend."

Shy as a beautiful, speckled trout, she refused to take the bait of Ethel Andress' mention; but she was quick to demand further information regarding the brand.

"Your artistry, what do you mean? And what had a brush to do with it?"

"Recall, if you please, that day not so terribly long ago when you arrived in the nick o' time to save a certain roped ranchman from the decorative efforts of Messrs. Rust and Roper, doubtless members of the impressionistic school and deep burners with the running-iron."

The girl nodded actively and the sergeant went on, changing to the personal form.

"Perhaps you don't remember that I said as we were riding to your home ranch something about a valuable idea that had come to me from the frustrated attempt. This masterpiece of forehead decoration is the working out of that idea. I sent to Strathconna for a tube of blister paste and a brush with which to lay it on. I worked hard to paint an artistic horseshoe and if the effect isn't what it should be, blame the zig-zag crack which Paddy Mahaffy put in my only mirror when he dropped it the other day--seven years' bad luck to him! I didn't put any brand within the shoe, as it is not necessary that the folks I'm going to visit should know exactly where I acquired the mark of the thief. It will be enough that they should think me what I am not--a rustler of horses."

"Then you're going down into Montana on a visit?" she asked, more to gain time in which to ponder the madness of a man who, without compulsion of any sort, would so disfigure himself.

There ensued momentary digression, for he asked her to oblige him by replacing the bandage. He wanted the blistered horseshoe to become well set, and he did not care to exhibit it until he reached his destination.

"This visit?" she reminded him, when she had performed a first-aid effect that would have been a credit to an army nurse.

"I haven't lost any animals yet from this popular out-door sport of rustling in Fire Weed," he returned readily. "But then I haven't many and I haven't been here long. I am tired, though, of the suspicion that hangs over me and my silver horse. I owe at least one of the gang a toasting for that day he marooned me on that ledge and forced me to chin myself out of difficulty on the wriggliest length of hemlock I ever hope to tie to. Moreover, we see nothing of that scarlet patrol that we asked of the Commissioner of the Royal Mounted. Something must be done, and without any fuss, I'm going to attempt to do it."

Sergeant Jack was sorry as soon as he had spoken that he had mentioned the Mounties. That was his one slip into direct prevarication, and it did not come easy from him to lie to Flame of Fire Weed. He tried to excuse himself to himself by the fact that he had used the uniform color scheme in his statement, but realized the evasive poverty of such an excuse. As long as he confessed so much of his plans, why didn't he go the whole way and tell her that Mahaffy and he were the scarlet patrol--very much without the scarlet? He had trusted her with much, trusting without exacting even a nod of promise that she would not reveal his plan; then why not tell her everything? But something tied his tongue on the big secret. He was not sure just what this was, but argued mentally that there would be time enough for disclosures when he had accomplished something on this special detail.

Flame had listened to his revelation with widening lids. These now narrowed as she weighed the proposition.

"Then you're going----"

"To Crow's Nest first, possibly farther into Montana--wherever the trail leads."

"Don't go to Crow's Nest," she begged. "They'll kill you!"

"They're more likely to enfold me like a brother." He raised a hand in mock salute to the forehead bandage.

"It's the hell-hole of the West," Flame continued to voice objection. "I wouldn't send my worst enemy into it. What are a few stolen horses and lifted hides to----"

He was pleased beyond measure at her interest, the thought of which would ride with him no matter what the danger. But he realized that the morning was slipping away. An after-dark entry into the Nest for a stranger was a foolhardy undertaking. Pleasant as it was to tarry here on the safe side of "Medicine Line," studying emotions as portrayed on what was becoming to him the fairest face he had ever seen, regardless of freckles and flare of hair, Childress realized that he must ride on.

"Nothing's likely to happen to a branded man," he reassured her. "By night my forehead will wear what seems to the casual observer to be a real scar."

"But the Crow's Nest!" she cried. "I wish you weren't going into that brimming cup of iniquity alone. Suppose we ride back to the ranch and tell your plan to dad. He'll send Murdock or one of our trusty busters to back you up."

Childress grinned. "My dear----" He caught his breath at the daring phrase of endearment which had popped out so unexpectedly; but she seemed not to have noticed. "Flame, I wouldn't ride into hell brushing stirrups with Murdock. If you'll let me adjust that saddle for you--fix whatever's wrong with the leather, I'll be on the way along the primrose path."

"There's nothing wrong with the saddle, Jack." Her turn for confession had come and she met it gallantly--without a blush. "I slipped a cinch just to have an excuse for laying in wait for you, hoping you'd come this way."

Almost at this moment did he tell her something that he was beginning to feel sure eventually and inevitably would be told; but he held his tongue.

"You guessed the right pass," he parried the danger point. "Take good care of Silver, won't you, Flame?" He swung into the saddle and cantered down into the draw where soon he would leave the land of the beaver for that of the eagle.

"Crow's Nest," Flame murmured almost in a wail. "Crow's Nest! Why did he wish such a task on himself?"