CHAPTER IV
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE NIGHT
Frances looked through her barred window, out over the fenced yard, anddown to the few twinkling watch-lights at the men's quarters. All thesecond-story windows of the ranch-house, overlooking the porch roof,were barred with iron rods set in the cement, like those on the firstfloor. The Bar-T ranch-house was a veritable fort.
There was a reason for this that the girl did not entirely understand,although her father often hinted at it. His stories of his adventures asa Texas Ranger, and over the Border into Mexico, amused her; but theyhad not impressed her much. Perhaps, because the Captain always skimmedover the particulars of those desperate adventures which had so spicedhis early years--those years before the gentle influence of Frances'mother came into his life.
He had mentioned his partner, "Lon," on this evening. But he seldomparticularized about him.
Frances could not remember when her father had gone into Arizona andreturned from thence with a wagon-train loaded with many of the mostbeautiful of their household possessions. It was when she was a verylittle girl.
With the other things, Captain Rugley had brought back the old Spanishchest which he guarded so anxiously. She did not know what was in thechest--not all its treasures. It was the one secret her father kept fromher.
Out of it he brought certain barbarous ornaments that he allowed her towear now and then. She was as much enamored of jewelry and beautifuladornments as other girls, was Frances of the ranges.
There was perfect trust between her father and herself; but not perfectconfidence. No more than Pratt Sanderson, for instance, did she knowjust how the old ranchman had become possessed of the great store ofIndian and Spanish ornaments, or of the old Spanish chest.
Certain she was that he could not have obtained them in a manner towrong anybody else. He spoke of them as "the loot of old Don MiloMorales' _hacienda_"; but Frances knew well enough that her goodfather, Captain Dan Rugley, had been no land pirate, no so-called Borderruffian, who had robbed some peaceful Spanish ranch-owner across the RioGrande of his possessions.
Frances was a bit worried to-night. There were two topics of thoughtthat disturbed her.
Motherless, and with few female friends even, she had been shut awaywith her own girlish thoughts and fears and wonderings more than mostgirls of her age. Life was a mystery to her. She lived in books and inromances and in imagination's pictures more than she did in the workadayworld about her.
There seems to be little romance attached to the everyday lives we live,no matter how we are situated. The most dreary and uncolored existence,in all probability, there is in the world to-day is the daily life of areal prince or princess. We look longingly over the fence of our desiresand consider all sorts and conditions of people outside as happier andfar better off than we.
That was the way it was with Frances. Especially on this particularnight.
Her unexpected meeting with Pratt Sanderson had brought to her heart andmind more strongly than for months her experiences in Amarillo. Sheremembered her school days, her school fellows, and the differencebetween their lives and that which she lived at present.
Probably half the girls she had known at school would be delighted (orthought they would) to change places with Frances of the ranges, rightthen. But the ranch girl thought how much better off she would be if shewere continuing her education under the care of people who could placeher in a more cultivated life.
Not that she was disloyal, even in thought, to her father. She loved himintensely--passionately! But the life of the ranges, after her taste ofschool and association with cultivated people, could not be entirelysatisfactory.
So she sat, huddled in a white wool wrapper, by the barred, open window,looking out across the plain. Only for the few lights at the corrals andbunk-house, it seemed a great, horizonless sea of darkness--for therewas no moon and a haze had enveloped the high stars since twilight.
No sound came to her ears at first. There is nothing so soundless asnight on the plains--unless there be beasts near, either tamed or wild.
No coyote slunk about the ranch-house. The horses were still in thecorrals. The cattle were all too far distant to be heard. Not even thesong of a sleepy puncher, as he wheeled around the herd, drifted to thebarred window of Frances' room.
Her second topic for thought was her father's evident expectation thatthe ranch-house might be attacked. Every stranger was an object ofsuspicion to him.
This did not abate one jot his natural Western hospitality. As mark hisopen-handed reception of Pratt Sanderson on this evening. They kept openhouse at the Bar-T ranch. But after dark--or, after bedtime atleast--the place was barred like a fort in the Indian country!
Captain Rugley never went to his bed save after making the rounds, armedas he had been to-night, with Ming to bolt the doors. The only way amarauder could get into the inner court was by climbing the walls andgetting over the roof, and as the latter extended four feet beyond thesecond-story walls, such a feat was well-nigh impossible.
The cement walls themselves were so thick that they seemed impregnableeven to cannon. The roof was of slates. And, as has been pointed outalready, all the outer first-floor windows, and all those reached fromthe porch roof, were barred.
Frances knew that her father had been seriously troubled to-night by theappearance of the strange and unseen tramp in the yard, and the factthat the arrival of that same individual had not been reported from themen's quarters.
Captain Rugley telephoned and learned from his foreman, Silent SamHarding, that nobody had come to the bunk-house that night asking forlodging and food.
Frances was about to seek her bed. She yawned, curled her bare toes upcloser in the robe, and shivered luxuriously as the night air breathedin upon her. In another moment she would pop in between the blankets andcuddle down----
Something snapped! It was outside, not in!
Frances was wide awake on the instant. Her eyelids that had been sodrowsy were propped apart--not by fear, but by excitement.
She had lived a life which had sharpened her physical perceptions to afine point. She had no trouble in locating the sound that had sostartled her. Somebody was climbing the vine at the corner of theveranda roof, not twenty feet from her window. She crouched back, wellsheltered in the shadow, but able to see anything that appearedsilhouetted between her window and the dark curtain of the night.
There was no light in the room behind her; indeed every lamp in theranch-house had been extinguished some time before. It was evident thatthis marauder--whoever he was--had waited for the quietude of sleep tofall upon the place.
Back in the room at the head of Frances' bed hung her belt with theholster pistol she wore when riding about the ranges. In these days itwas considered perfectly safe for a girl to ride alone, save thatcoyotes sometimes came within range, or such a savage creature as hadbeen the introduction of Pratt Sanderson and herself so recently. It wasthe duty of everybody on the ranges to shoot and kill these "varmints,"if they could.
Frances did not even think of this weapon now. She did not fear theunknown; only that the mystery of the night, and of his secret pursuit,surrounded him. Who could he be? What was he after? Should she run toawaken her father, or wait to observe his appearance above the edge ofthe veranda roof?
A dried stick of the vine snapped again. There was a squirming figure onthe very edge of the roof. Frances knew that the unknown lay there,panting, after his exertions.
Frances of the Ranges; Or, The Old Ranchman's Treasure Page 4
