CHAPTER XXIII.

COMING A CROPPER.

Clothes, summer clothes--or rather the lack of them had taken Ethel Andress to Strathconna a few days after Childress departed on his Montana visit. Her uncle, the devoted old major, had gone with her, leaving Tom Fitzrapp in charge of the ranch and outfit. None of them knew of their neighbor's departure, or they might not have been so confident that rustling had been halted for a time, at least.

But before Ethel was through with her dressmaker a strange foreboding of range trouble harassed her. Not that any disturbing news had come from Fitzrapp, as should have been the case in the event of any unwonted happening at the ranch. Major MacDonald tried to argue against a hurried return to the Rafter A. Hadn't the horse bands been driven to the upper ranges, where they must be safe? But the fair owner's whim persisted. After they had arrived at the nearest railroad station and retrieved their buckboard team from the livery barn, she had crowded the horses over the home trail.

Old Man Cuss alone greeted the returning owner and her nearest relative when the team finally had covered the prairie miles. His face was always gloomy, so his expression told nothing.

"Everything all right on the range, Darned?" asked the widow as she unbuckled the reins and flung one to either side.

"Mostly," returned the home guard.

"Where is Mr. Fitzrapp?" she inquired.

"Up to the house, nursin' a hurt arm."

Both Mrs. Andress and the major knew Cuss's disinclination to waste any more language than was absolutely necessary. Leaving the steaming team to his mercies, they hastened their steps toward the ranch house. There they found the handsome manager stretched out on a couch in the living-room, his left arm in a sling. Ethel hurried to him anxiously.

"What in the world has happened to you, Tom?" she asked in a voice replete with sympathy.

"I came a bad cropper, Ethel, and, of course, at a decidedly inconvenient moment," returned Fitzrapp gloomily. "I'm more worried about the loss to you than about anything physical that has happened to me. I ought to be fired for the mess I've made of things."

Woman-like, she scorned interest in her own misfortune until she had satisfied herself about his physical one. "Arm broken?" she asked.

The major had thrown off his coat and now approached with the semi-professional air of one skilled by long practice in the crude surgery of the plains, where operations from bringing children into the crowded world to necessary amputations generally are conducted without aid of an M.D.

"Oh, don't make such a fuss over me," said Fitzrapp, gesturing lightly with his free arm. "The wing's only sprained, I guess; I can move my fingers."

The major made a hurried but thorough examination, proving to his satisfaction that no bones were broken, and deciding, from the absence of inflammation, that the injury was trifling.

"That arm needs a good rubbing more than a sling," was the unprofessional verdict delivered, but not unkindly. "Shook you up some when you lit, I reckon. How came it?"

"Yes, how came it, Tom--and what's the new loss? I had a hunch up in 'Conna that I was in for one."

"I've been an awful fool, folks," said Fitzrapp, his face showing a disinclination to recite the details. "If you want to kick me out for this blunder you won't hear a whimper, for I deserve it."

The explosion which the younger man seemed to fear from this forecast of disaster and failure did not follow. With a control that was at variance to past bursts of temper, MacDonald drew up a chair, and his niece, the real loser, still worried over the super-employee's physical condition, stood near by.

"It'll never be a case of kick-out, Tom," said the widow, who never was more attractive than when smiling under difficulties. "How many did they get this go?"

"Thirty-odd of the two-year-olds," murmured Fitzrapp.

"The racing stock," grunted the major. "Damn them!"

"Almost out of our front yard, too. The nerve of them! Did they leave Mrs. Cuss the kitchen stove, or was it too hot to move?" This came from Ethel, at last aroused to anger.

But Fitzrapp had more in the way of news. "And--and they stole Canada, Ethel!" He called out this startling addendum with an agony of voice that reflected his great affection for the splendid black stallion.

For a moment both Ethel and her uncle sat speechless. The fleet-footed Canada was Fitzrapp's personal property, but that did not lessen their keen regret. They fairly boiled with indignation at this crowning outrage, for the horse must have been taken from his box stall in the stable behind the ranch house.

"Wonder they didn't take the porch chairs while they were about it," blazed the major. "Let's have the whole story, Tom."

"If I hadn't been a blooming, blasted idiot," was Fitzrapp's halting start; "if Duncan O'Hara hadn't been in league with the cut-throat band from the States----"

"Dunc O'Hara!" interrupted the major. "Where in hell is that rascal? He didn't show up at the stables when we drove in."

"O'Hara is gone, Major--departed with Canada and the two-year-olds!"

Ethel took this shock stoically; asked Fitzrapp to begin at the beginning and forget the if's.

Fitzrapp pulled himself up on the couch, as though to brace himself for a distressing ordeal, and obeyed.

After the departure of Mrs. Andress and her uncle there had been several quiet days, according to Fitzrapp's account. Then O'Hara had come to him with a report that Childress had left his small ranch on the silver stallion, leaving his man, the silent Mahaffy, in charge. O'Hara had interviewed the Irishman that afternoon and reported him about as communicative as a clam. After dinner that evening, Fitzrapp had discussed the rustling with the head buster; had outlined Ethel's plan of baiting the lower range and then falling upon the thieves in force sufficient to crush them.

Then it was that Duncan O'Hara had broached a daring plan. He had reminded Fitzrapp that they were both more or less in the fair owner's bad graces for their failure at the ford. The disgrace of that could be wiped out and their characters restored for the future by baiting the lower range themselves and cutting down the raiders from ambush. In case any escaped their pot shots they would have their speediest mounts in reserve and go after them for a fight to the death. O'Hara had declared that he would rather be dead than live under a cloud of cowardice.

Fitzrapp mentioned his own chagrin over his previous failures, and said that the plausible buster had finally convinced him that they could turn the trick. They had then cut out between thirty and forty of the best two-year-olds and driven them to the lower range with the aid of a couple of Indian herders. To be certain that there could be no escape, Fitzrapp had ridden Canada as the fastest horse on the ranch. Duncan O'Hara had seemed content with the star-faced half-breed that was his regular mount.

Reaching the lower range, the two whites had left the band in charge of the bucks, who were instructed to put up no fight or objection if white men rode up and demanded the horses. Then they themselves had gone into ambush--one which O'Hara had selected as best covering the ford.

Their waiting was rewarded, Fitzrapp continued, toward the end of the second afternoon, when three well-mounted riders appeared from the south. On O'Hara's argument that they should make their proof complete by withholding fire until the raiders had started to run off the band, they had permitted the three to cross the ford. Then they had witnessed a brief parley between the whites and the Indian herders, who fell back according to instructions. The raiders started the racing-stock band toward the ford and the success of the Rafter A coup seemed assured.

Up to the very moment that it was time to fire, Fitzrapp said, he had not the slightest reason to suspect the buster. But, as he whispered, "Let them have it now!" O'Hara had sprung to his feet, bowled Fitzrapp over with a blow from the butt of his Winchester, and dashed for their hidden horses.

Stampeding his own star-face, O'Hara had mounted Canada and ridden off after the raiders. When Fitzrapp covered him with his own rifle and commanded a halt, the traitor had responded with a jeering laugh. On trying to shoot he had made the tragic discovery that there was no cartridge under the hammer and that the repeating mechanism was hopelessly jammed.

"I emptied my automatic after him, but with no perceptible effect," continued the ranch manager. "At all events, Canada kept on running, and that was the last I saw of either of them."

"And the arm, Tom?" asked the widow, who never seemed able to worry unduly about stock losses.

"Finally I caught the star-faced beast and mounted, intending to go after the traitor and his rustling pals single-handed: but the blasted cayuse began a pitching streak that surpassed anything in my experience on this or any other range. I was thrown, and by the time I got hold of the brute's tie rope again pursuit was hopeless. Examining the saddle, I found a tickler beneath the cinch. That scoundrel, O'Hara, had carried through his preparations to the last detail. You can understand, can't you, Ethel how he accomplished it, in view of the fact that I had not the slightest suspicion regarding him?"

Fitzrapp's eyes were fixed anxiously upon his fair employer.

Mrs. Andress made no effort to hide her disappointment. No more did the major. About the latter's manner there was a calm that seemed ominous. Fitzrapp felt that he could have more easily endured one of the MacDonald flares of temper with which he had had experience. Hastily he flung out the one item of consolation which he had held in reserve for this moment.

"But I did succeed in landing evidence that will convict that Childress upstart as soon as we lay our hands on him," he declared in a tone far more positive and confident than that which he had used in recounting the recent costly raid.

"There is no evidence in what you have told us," said Ethel. "Is there something more?"

"Yes. O'Hara told the whole truth when he said that Childress had abandoned his ranch. He was one of the three who rode through the gap and across the ford to roundup our horses. Look over this find. Picked it up on our side of the ford as I was coming home. Undoubtedly it had just been dropped by one of the raiders, for there was rain the night before and the book, as you see, is perfectly dry, and, besides, none but the rustlers passed."

While speaking he tossed the widow a small memorandum book bound in red leather. The fly-leaf bore the name "John Childress."

"All of the entries are interesting," continued Fitzrapp, feeling that this exhibition of concrete evidence against the rustler would turn the scale of decision in his favor. "Some of them have particular bearing upon our case against him."

He reached out for the book, and after a moment's search showed Mrs. Andress and her uncle a page of dates and numbers.

"Here, for instance, is a record of our losses from the rustlers, as accurate as our books would show it." He turned other pages. "And here are the notes he took when deciding on the location of that pretended ranch. They say there's a missing link in every criminal's make-up, and this would seem to be Childress'."

The widow looked disturbed. The major gestured for silence, and slouched down in his chair in an attitude of deep meditation. It was a considerable time before he spoke, engaged the while making a mental review of Fitzrapp's account from beginning to end, weighing the importance of each reported incident.

"Tom, what are you going to do about that race?" he demanded suddenly. "With Canada stolen you can't live up to your agreement and Childress can claim forfeit on your thousand."

"Hell's-bells, man! You haven't an idea that Childress will appear in Strathconna for that race, have you? Why, he wouldn't dare."

"I'm not so sure," returned the major meditatively. "What leads me to believe that he will make an appearance and insist on a race is that his certificate of deposit was good. The bank paid it without a murmur, and I deposited the money to my account to await developments."

The face of Ethel Andress still wore a puzzled expression. "Childress certainly manages to turn many a card in his favor," she said, gazing out through the open window over the range to the south, now gleaming like an emerald under the ministration of the setting sun. "I'll be glad when his exact standing is settled."

"I believed from the first that the scoundrel was bluffing about that race," asserted Fitzrapp, relieved that the main subject, his overconfidence in Duncan O'Hara, was sidetracked, at least temporarily. "You'll remember, Ethel, that it first was broached that day over at Gallegher's, doubtless to impress the brat with his extravagant sportsmanship. I'm surprised at old Sam letting the girl run the range with him. If she were my child----"

Whatever the widow remembered about that day at Gallegher's evidently was not pleasant; what she knew about Flame ranging the Fire Weed with the attractive suspect unpleasing. She left the living-room for her own quarters.

"A thousand dollars is some money, young man," objected the major, following the interruption of Mrs. Andress' departure. "I can see no possible object in his making so expensive a bluff."

"Well, perhaps he did intend to race me----"

"Does intend to race you is more like it," came shrewd interruption. "And there's your opportunity, Fitzrapp. With this notebook as concrete evidence, coupled with an affidavit from Ethel regarding the theft of the horses, there isn't a doubt that we can secure a warrant for his arrest. You can spring that document on him when he appears at the fair grounds to claim your thousand; have him held under prohibitive bail, and give the authorities time to work up a complete case against him."

"But if he doesn't appear at the track----" began Fitzrapp, as though lacking the older horseman's confidence.

"Then we must take up the hunt down in Montana," said MacDonald with eager assurance. "They'll never be able to disguise a horse like Canada, and with him it will not be a case of brand blotting. You'll probably find the stallion in the hands of some innocent purchaser, but we surely can trace back the transfers until we get the proof on the actual thieves. Against Duncan O'Hara, the ingrate, our case is already plain enough for us to ask the police to placard him through the border states. I'll suggest to Ethel that she offer a reward of five hundred dollars for his capture."

"Aren't we, perhaps, well rid of him without wasting Lady Ethel's money on rewards?"

The doughty major was stamping up and down the living-room, as well pleased with his plan of campaign as though personal loss was involved. "Well rid nothing! The guilty must pay. I'll go see if Ethel hasn't a snap-shot of the scamp that we can use on the posters."

Thomas Fitzrapp kept to his couch and wondered if Ethel Andress would be as keen as her fighting uncle to have the guilty pay. What a nuisance this man Childress was! The widow had refused to take the taunt about his success with Flame Gallegher and there was no being certain that she had not some secret understanding of her own with this unhandsome ranch enigma whose personality seemed to sweep ordinarily sensible women off their feet. Yes, the guilty must pay!