Frances of the Ranges; Or, The Old Ranchman's Treasure

by Amy Bell Marlowe

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE GIRL FROM BOSTON

  Cow-ponies are never trained to trot. They walk if they are tired;sometimes they gallop; but usually they set off on a long, swinging lopefrom the word "Go!" and keep it up until the riders pull them down.

  The moment Frances of the ranges had swung herself into Molly's saddle,the badly treated pinto leaped forward and dashed away from the corralsand bunk-house. Frances let her have her head, for when Molly was a bittired she would forget the sting and smart of Ratty M'Gill's spurs andquirt.

  Frances had not seen Silent Sam that morning; but was not surprised toobserve the curling smoke of a fresh fire down by the branding pen. Sheknew that a bunch of calves and yearlings had been rounded up a few daysbefore, and the foreman of the Bar-T would take no chance of having themescape to the general herds on the ranges, and so have the trouble ofcutting them out again at the grand round-up.

  It was impossible, even on such a large ranch as the Bar-T, to keepcattle of other brands from running with the Bar-T herds. A breach madein a fence in one night by some active young bull would allow a Bar-Therd and some of Bill Edwards' cattle, for instance, to becomeassociated.

  To try to separate the cattle every time such a thing happened wouldgive the punchers more than they could do. The cattle thus associatedwere allowed to run together until the round-up. Then the unbrandedcalves would always follow their mothers, and the herdsmen could easilyseparate the young stock, as well as that already branded, from thosebelonging on other ranches.

  Although it was a bit out of her direct course, Frances pulled Molly'shead in the direction of the branding fire. Before she came in sight ofthe bawling herd and the bunch of excited punchers, a cavalcade ofriders crossed the trail, riding in the same direction.

  No cowpunchers these, but a party of horsemen and horsewomen who mighthave just ridden out of the Central Park bridle-path at Fifty-ninthStreet or out of the Fens in Boston's Back Bay section.

  At a distance they disclosed to Frances' vision--unused to suchsights--a most remarkable jumble of colors and fashions. In the Westkhaki, brown, or olive grey is much worn for riding togs by the women,while the men, if not in overalls, or chaps, clothe themselves in plaincolors.

  But here was actually more than one red coat! A red coat with never afox nearer than half a thousand miles!

  "Is it a circus parade?" thought Frances, setting spurs to her pinto.

  And no wonder she asked. There were three girls, or young women, ridingabreast, each in a natty red coat with tails to it, hard hats on theirheads, and skirts. They rode side-saddle. Luckily the horses they rodewere city bred.

  There were two or three other girls who were dressed more like Francesherself, and bestrode their ponies in sensible style. The males of theparty were in the Western mode; Frances recognized one of theminstantly; it was Pratt Sanderson.

  He was not a bad rider. She saw that he accompanied one of the girls whowore a red coat, riding close upon her far side. The cavalcade wasambling along toward the branding pen, which was in the bottom of acoulie.

  As Frances rode up behind the party, Molly's little feet making solittle sound that her presence was unnoticed, the Western girl heard arather shrill voice ask:

  "And what are they doing it for, Pratt? I re'lly don't just understand,you know. Why burn the mark upon the hides of those--er--embryo cows?"

  "I'm telling you," Pratt's voice replied, and Frances saw that it wasthe girl next to him who had asked the question. "I'm telling you thatall the calves and young stock have to be branded."

  "Branded?"

  "Yes. They belong to the Bar-T, you see; therefore, the Bar-T mark hasto be burned on them."

  "Just fancy!" exclaimed the girl in the red coat. "Who would think thatthese rude cattle people would have so much sentiment. This FrancesRugley you tell about owns all these cows? And does she have hermonogram burned on all of them?"

  Frances drew in her mount. She wanted to laugh (she heard some of theparty chuckling among themselves), and then she wondered if PrattSanderson was not, after all, making as much fun of her as he was of thegirl in the red coat?

  Pratt suddenly turned and saw the ranchman's daughter riding behindthem. He flushed, but smiled, too; and his eyes were dancing.

  "Oh, Sue!" he exclaimed. "Here is Frances now."

  So this was Sue Latrop--the girl from Boston. Frances looked at herkeenly as she turned to look at the Western girl.

  "My dear! Fancy! So glad to know you," she said, handling her horseremarkably well with one hand and putting out her right to Frances.

  The latter urged Molly nearer. But the pinto was not on her goodbehavior this morning. She had been too badly treated at the corral.

  Molly shook her head, danced sideways, wheeled, and finally collidedwith Pratt's grey pony. The latter squealed and kicked. Instantly,Molly's little heels beat a tattoo on the grey's ribs.

  "Hello!" exclaimed Pratt, recovering his seat and pulling in the grey."What's the matter with that horse, Frances?"

  Molly was off like a rocket. Frances fairly stood in the stirrups topull the pinto down--and she was not sparing of the quirt. It angeredher that Molly should "show off" just now. She had heard Sue Latrop'sshrill laugh.

  When she rode back Frances did not offer to shake hands with the Bostongirl. And, as it chanced, she never did shake hands with her.

  "You ride such perfectly ungovernable horses out here," drawled theBoston girl. "Is it just for show?"

  "Our ponies are not usually family pets," laughed Frances. Yet sheflushed, and from that moment she was always expecting Sue to saycutting things.

  "They tell me it is so interesting to see the calves--er--monogrammed;do you call it?" said Sue, with a little cough.

  "Branded!" exclaimed Pratt, hurriedly.

  "Oh, yes! So interesting, I suppose?"

  "We do not consider it a show," said Frances, bluntly. "It is anecessary evil. I never fancied the smell of scorched hair and hidemyself; and the poor creatures bawl so. But branding and slitting theirears are the only ways we have of marking the cattle."

  "Re'lly?" repeated Sue, staring at her as though Frances were morecurious than the bawling cattle.

  The irons were already in the fire when the party rode down to the sceneof the branding. Silent Sam was in charge of the gang. They had roundedup nearly two hundred calves and yearlings. Some of the cows hadfollowed their off-spring out of the herd, and were lowing at the corralfence.

  Afoot and on horseback the men drove the half-wild calves into thebranding pen runway. As they came through they were roped and thrown,and Sam and an assistant clapped the irons to their bony hips. The smellof singed hair was rather unpleasant, and the bawling of the excitedcattle drowned all conversation.

  When a calf or a yearling was let loose, he ran as hard as he could fora while, with the smoking "monogram," as Sue Latrop called it, theobject of his tenderest attention. But the smart of it did not last forlong, and the branded stock soon went to graze contentedly outside thecorral fence, forgetting the experience.

  Frances had a chance to speak to Sam for a moment.

  "Ratty will come to you for his time. I'm going to pay him off thisnoon. I've got good reason for letting him go."

  "I bet ye," agreed Sam, for whatever Frances said or did was right withhim.

  Pratt insisted upon Frances meeting all these people from Amarillo.There was Mrs. Bill Edwards, whom she already knew, as chaperon. Most ofthe others were young people, although nearer Pratt's age than that ofthe ranchman's daughter.

  Sue Latrop was the only one from the East. She had been to Amarillobefore, and she evidently had much influence over her girl friends fromthat Panhandle city, if over nobody else. Two of the girls had copiedher riding habit exactly; and if imitation is the sincerest flattery,then Sue was flattered indeed.

  The Boston girl undoubtedly rode well. She had had schooling in the artof sticking to a side-saddle like a fly on a wall!

  Her horse curv
etted, arched his neck, played pretty tricks at command,and was long-legged enough to carry her swiftly over the ground if sheso desired. He made the scrubby, nervous little cow-ponies--includingMolly--look very shabby indeed.

  Sue Latrop apparently believed she was ever so much better mounted thanthe other girls, for she was the only one who had brought her own horse.The others, including Pratt, were mounted on Bill Edwards' ponies.

  While they were standing in a group and talking, there came a yell fromthe branding pen. A section of rail fence went down with a crash.Through the fence came a little black steer that had escaped several"branding soirees."

  Blackwater, as the Bar-T boys called him, was a notorious rebel. He wasoriginally a maverick--a stray from some passing herd--and had joinedthe Bar-T cattle unasked. That was more than two years before. He hadremained on the Bar-T ranges, but was evidently determined in his doggedmind not to submit to the humiliation of the branding-iron.

  He had been rounded up with a bunch of yearlings and calves a dozentimes; but on each occasion had escaped before they got him into thecorral. It was better to let the black rebel go than to lose a dozen ormore of the others while chasing him.

  This time, however, Silent Sam had insisted upon riding the rebel downand hauling him, bawling, into the corral.

  But the rope broke, and before the searing-iron could touch the blacksteer's rump he went through the fence like a battering-ram.

  "Look out for that ornery critter, Miss Frances!" yelled the foreman ofthe Bar-T Ranch.

  Frances saw him coming, headed for the group of visitors. She touchedMolly with the spur, and the intelligent cow-pony jumped aside into theclear-way. Frances seized the rope hanging at her saddle.

  Pratt had shouted a warning, too. The visitors scattered. But for onceSue Latrop did not manage her mount to the best advantage.

  "Look out, Sue!"

  "Quick! He'll have you!"

  These and other warnings were shouted. With lowered front the blacksteer was charging the horse the girl from Boston rode.

  Unlike the trained cow-ponies from Bill Edwards' corral, this ganglingcreature did not know, of himself, what to do in the emergency. Theother mounts had taken their riders immediately out of the way. Sue'shorse tossed his head, snorted, and pawed the earth, remaining with hisflank to the charging steer.

  "Get out o' that!" yelled Pratt, and laid his quirt across the stubbornhorse's quarters.

  But to no avail. Sue could neither manage him nor get out of the saddleto escape Blackwater. The maverick was fortunately charging the strangehorse from the off side, and he was coming like a shot from a cannon.

  The cowpunchers at the pen were mounting their ponies and racing afterthe black steer, but they were too far away to stop him. In anothermoment he would head into the body of Sue's mount with an awful impact!